The descent was treacherous; it was one thing to cross broken terrain, and other to clamber through ruins, but to do both whilst descending a twisting maze of shafts that were at times near vertical was an incredibly arduous task. The acolytes moved steadily downwards, managing their descent with sharp picks driven into loose walls, or lines hung from jutting steel beams. Progress was slow, as the stormtroopers moved in shifts to ensure they were keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. The only exception was Luka, who clambered up and down with simian movements, waiting with poorly concealed frustration at the slow pace the Imperials were setting. To her, their expedition seemed to be a great adventure and she was eager, almost hyperactive, to see it continue.

Al’Said, at the top of their human ladder, used his pick to dislodge the highest rung on their rope. He sent the small metal spike down to the next man in line, who slid the rope through before removing the top spike and sending it to the bottom man. The rope would then rest on the next highest spike and the Acolytes would move down. Al’Said, now without a safety rope, manoeuvred himself down with picks and spiked boots, driving the picks deep into the wall of fragmented concrete and dirt before swinging his legs down and gripping on with his spiked soles. As he removed his pick it caught on a stone, and a cluster of walls perhaps a meter across simply slipped out and clattered past the acolytes. His shouted warning gave the men enough time to duck into the wall, but the boulder collided with one of their spikes and bent it completely out of shape. In this way, by fits and starts, they descended into the depths of the old city.

In time, the compacted earth and masonry began to more closely resemble collapsed buildings, as they passed through the layers of soil kicked up by the hive’s construction. The journey was still frightfully difficult, but now they navigated down the broken stories of great towers, and the tunnel began to spin and flatten as it followed the contours and floors of the buildings. They descended at a steadier pace, even if much of the terrain was flatter, and every now and then they could see the signs of ancient life peeking through the rubble. Certain walls were marked with identifying numbers that lay beneath only the faintest layer of dirt and, as their tunnel passed through the atrium of some ancient building, they passed a proud brass plaque that displayed the date 3 152.274.M32. It rested on a great stone archway that might have marked the entrance to some grand government building, or a colossal centre of infrastructure, Beyond this triumphal arch nothing more remained, save the remnants of a mosaic floor that had been consumed by a natural sinkhole and repurposed by the mutants into just another part of their tunnel system.

Amelia could feel the mutants, their tainted minds pulsing indistinctly in the darkness as they moved about in small groups. They were very few, and sometimes Amelia suspected she was misidentifying local wildlife. This far down, the animals themselves bore the same psychic taint as the mutants, and it took Amelia some time to parse through the mutations to find some recognisable element of the human soul. From what she had read of the Ragged Duke, he selected strong or promising mutants and had his followers drag them underground where they were never seen from again, with the exception of the occasional report of heavily armed mutant bands fighting Demons in the distance, or striking out into the surface. Clearly, the Duke had decided quality would serve him better than quantity. Amelia began to feel a presence in her mind, a swarm of bat like creatures were resting on the ceiling of the next cavern and the combined weight of their minds, subtly mutated by the underhive, was like a constant low static.

The static grew as Amelia’s group moved directly under the sleeping swarm. She could still see beyond them, and her fears of ambush seemed to be unfounded as the distant minds continued on their own way. She was utterly unaware as the first mutant dropped from amongst the swarm, a wicked blade of curved metal in his hand, and fell straight for Amelia. All she felt was the harsh impact of one of her Stormtroopers as he tackled her out of the way, in turn taking the blade in his neck. As the remaining mutants dropped, they were joined by the swarm of bats which, startled by the sudden movement, fled the cave in their thousands. Without waiting for clear targets, the Stormtroopers raised their weapons and, for the moments they had before the mutants landed, lit up the cave with beams of incandescent red. There was no way of telling which of the falling figures were corpses, attackers or simply swarms of bats and a fierce blind melee began. Amelia drew her sword with her right hand, all the while clutching onto her staff with the left.

She desperately reached out with her mind to try and find someone, anyone. The Imperials were easy enough to find, their pure minds acting like beacons, but she was still unfamiliar with the intricacies of the mutant mind, and her foe blended into the swarming bats as if they were near invisible. Her sword had barely left her sheath when she registered a mind charging towards her. Her enemy was so close that she barely had time to turn and raise her sword before it met the rotating blade of a long chainsword in a wicked whirring of teeth, the mechanised blade skittering off her sword with a force that felt like the blade would be torn from her hand. Her opponent emerged, a mutant whose bulky musculature was hidden by what looked like flack armour but whose head was entirely exposed, showing unnaturally pointed teeth and a head shaven save for a mohawk of hair jutting up along its length. Leveraging his massive bulk, he drove in for another attack with a shout of ‘slice and dice!’ that bowled Amelia over until she lay flat on the ground before him, her sword chipped and her strength failing.

On the other side of the cavern Corporal Al’Said slammed the bulk of his rifle into the skull of a lithe mutant who had charged at him with two knives that curved back in on themselves. His blow shattered her nose, and his rifle continued its swing, bringing the muzzle up against her skull. With a single, full-power, shot he vaporised a hole in her temple as the bolt burned its way through, and out the other side. His helmet’s machine spirit was struggling to keep up with the sheer volume of moving objects amidst the swarm and the Corporal simply charged for the biggest shape he could see. As he closed with his target one shape became two and he saw the larger drive a blade into the other’s shoulder as they slumped to the ground. He charged forward with a scream of animal rage and, the moment the bare arms of his enemy were clear, he fired a burst of automatic bolts that spread up his target with seemingly no effect.

After a moment, however, he saw the mutant drop to his knees as the heat from his shots boiled his internal organs and he rushed over to the indistinct female figure, now lying on the ground. Keeping his right hand on his rifle, Qaboos Al’Said placed a bloody gauntlet over the golden locks that covered Helena’s neck, and lifted her up towards him. Her breath, already distorted by the rebreather, had taken on a halting quality, proceeding in irregular fits and starters. She stared at him with a look of shock, through eyes that seemed too unfocused to be of any use. The blade had gone through her right shoulder, but had mercifully come out of her back rather than continuing downwards into vital organs. As Al’Said was joined by a second Stormtrooper who, understanding the situation, stood guard over the pair, he reached into his webbing and pulled out the emergency first aid pack.

The mutant stood over Amelia with a sadistic grin on his face. The fall had shocked her, and she couldn’t focus her mind enough to strike him. All she could do was watch helplessly as he reversed his chainsword and raised it over her chest. He raised his arms, thumbing the activation rune, and offered a triumphant cry of ‘slice and dice!’. To Amelia, it seemed as if time had stopped. She could make out each individual tooth on the chainsword and its high-pitched whirr became a deep and sonorous tone. Every part of her was engaged in gathering her psychic might for a last, desperate, struggle. The first flickers had only begun to form around her collar when a small shape darted across the corner of her eye.

His mouth and eyes wide in triumphant extasy, the mutant was caught utterly unawares as a ragged figure leapt onto his shoulders, sending him staggering backwards, and drove a small knife first into one eye and then the other, before plunging the blade into every piece of exposed flesh. In desperation, the mutant moved his arms to swipe at his attacker with his great chainsword, but the frenzied attack continued as the whirring blade was simply ignored, passing less than an inch above its targets back. The mutant was resilient, and held for the first score of blows until his knees finally buckled and he collapsed. Amelia saw Luka continue to drive the blade in and out of the twitching corpse and, casting aside her now useless sword, she placed a comforting hand on Luka’s shoulder until the mutant girl stopped.

The swarm of bats cleared and Amelia found she was three men short, three of her stormtroopers having either died in the initial ambush or fallen in the melee. It was in this headcount that she spotted Corporal Al’Said cradling Helena’s head in his left hand and she rushed over to him. Their squad’s medic had survived the engagement, and the Stormtrooper knelt over Helena’s left shoulder which had been pierced by a nasty looking triangular bayonet. Bandages had been built up around the knife, but Helena’s arm was twitching erratically and her golden locks lay in a slowly-expanding pool of blood.

The medic stood on seeing Amelia approach, and walked over to her so they could talk away from the patient.

‘The wound is bad,’ he began ‘wounds from that sort of knife can’t be closed the normal way; it’s the wrong shape, and the blade went all the way through, so she’s lost some ligaments and several shards of bone.’

‘Is there nothing you can do?’ Amelia worked hard to keep her distress from her voice, but she felt the medical man could see right through her.

‘There is, Ma’am.’ He said, as he pulled out what looked like a small aerosol can with a long tube on the nozzle.

‘This is a chemical we use on battlefields to seal wounds that can’t be treated right now. If I fill the wound with it, then the bleeding will stop and the wound won’t become infected.’

‘Why haven’t you already?’ Amelia snapped at him.

‘The wound location means she would lose the use of her right arm; the chemicals don’t react well to nerves or muscle fibres, and I can’t cripple one of your assets without permission. Normally, this stuff is reserved for chest wounds that are immediately life threatening.’

Amelia’s eyes bulged, and she stared at the medic in shock, but his expressionless helmet was of no help.

‘And if we just stop the bleeding with bandages?’

He shook his head. ‘No, Ma’am, the wound wouldn’t clot right. We might be able to patch her up back on the surface, and she might regain the use of her arm after extensive physiotherapy and minor nerve-splicing, but it’s just as likely that the wound catches some mutated infection while we’re down here. There is a chance for her, but I can’t say it’s viable.’

Amelia’s eyes wandered from the medic’s faceless helmet, and over to her Adjutant’s twitching form. She stepped away and began the grim calculation, the horrific burden of leadership. If they did nothing, Helena was either dead, still crippled, or a fever-stricken burden on their group. On the other hand, she feared the loss of the easy confidence Helena had found and worried that by taking her writing hand she would do her a far greater injury, the kind that leads to a slow death at the bottom of a bottle, or on the end of a rope. For scribes, the loss of their dominant hand was a painful experience in more ways than one, and Amelia might be better off taking whatever measures necessary to preserve her Adjutant’s utility. In the end, her decision was motivated both by the unbearable state Helena was currently in, her mind rapidly descending into agony, and by the ruthless pragmatism that the Inquisitor would expect of her.

As the medic knelt over Helena for a second time, wiping down his canister with an alcohol wipe, Amelia reached out into Helena’s mind and stopped the flow of information from her right arm, temporarily paralysing it. She felt nothing as the medic pulled out the triangular bayonet, prompting the loss of vast quantities of blood, and roughly shoved the nozzle into its place. She felt nothing as the viscous blue chemicals burned their way into flesh and muscles and they sealed the wound. Only when the procedure was complete and Helena had been injected with another chemical cocktail designed to induce the growth of fresh blood cells did she release her grip, opening Helena’s mind to what was now little more than a dull, throbbing pain.

Beneath the glass lenses of her rebreather, Amelia saw Helena’s eyes come back into focus, and her breathing slowly returned to a steady rhythm. Amelia could feel her trying to clench the muscles in her right arm, and she stared at the limp limb in confusion as her exertion had no effect. Amelia saw her face shift from confusion, through grief and anger before settling on mute acceptance as the medic explained to her what he had done, and why he had done it. Amelia offered her own words of comfort, but this was an area she was utterly unfamiliar with, and her words seemed to have no effect. Perhaps Helena didn’t yet comprehend what she had lost, and her face became the picture of stoic determination as the now useless arm was bound to her chest.

One of her Stormtroopers called over to Amleia, and as she turned, she saw his armoured boot was firmly planted on the chest of a mutant, the four-eyed clansman writhing on the floor in agony. Amelia stormed over to him, seeing the scattered lasbolt wounds that covered his gut. He was alive, but his wound rendered him incoherent. Still, this was something Amelia could deal with, and she reached into his mind, severing his connection to everything below his spine, rendering him unable to feel the pain, and unable to move. He was young, perhaps in his late teens, and his face was contorted into a rictus of terror. Amelia loomed over him, and spoke in words laced with psychic suggestions.

‘Where is the Ragged Duke?’ Her voice was level, almost disinterested, but its psychic undercurrent compelled him to speak.

‘Demon!’ He shot back, ‘I don’t snitch!’

‘Demon?’ Amelia’s mouth curved back in a vicious grin. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘Can’t fool me! Warriors from above! Led by women! These are the marks of the Demon.’

Amelia laughed out loud at the absurdity, and her captive cringed back in horror.

‘I should have expected this from primitives. In truth, I’d wager I’ve killed far more demons than you, boy.’

This time she went deeper into his mind, showing him images of herself killing the cultists attacking Magos Zeletrass. She briefly considered showing him the battle at the raptor’s nest but held back, for fear of the sight of the open sky traumatising the wretch. Her captive’s eyes lit up with the light of realisation. Amelia noticed with amusement that this seemed to only increase his terror.

‘Forgive!’ He cried, ‘We didn’t know! Please, spare my life and give me back my body, I will spread word of your approach so that all others know you are not to be harmed. My Lord is in the War Rooms, two miles from here and a few levels down! I can take you there, I know the way.’

‘And now,’ Amelia said as she lifted the information from his surface thoughts, ‘so do I. As for sending word of our advance, you are right. But there are plenty of mutants in this place who can carry my message.’

She turned to the Stormtrooper and gave an almost imperceptible nod. As she walked away, the mutant’s cries were cut short with a sharp crack and the smell of ozone.