Part 3

Purifying fire

Chapter 13

* * *

The march into the darkness of the deep dungeons was not so terrifying as it was dreary and boring. Of course, it is scary to walk on the concrete, slippery with mold, on paths that have not been walked for decades. But the fear does not last long, because if there is no obvious threat, hunger, fatigue and heavy ammunition for the flamethrower on the back quickly come to the fore. At least the flasks with water were hanging on their belts. At the very least, as Olga estimated, she could lick the damp walls, where condensation gathered in large drops.

They were saving batteries. They walked by the light of one lantern and two chemistry sticks. Despite the narrowness of the tunnel, every sound echoed muffled, rolling far ahead. The servitor was especially loud, stomping his feet in knee-high lace-up boots, but there was no way to get the mechanized corpse to not be so noisy.

Every twenty minutes they took a break, and Olga felt sorry for the Holy Man. After all, while the others were at least symbolically 'resting,' the radio operator tried to establish communication. To a reasonable objection about an obstacle, he answered something about metal structures and old relay outputs. However, it was impossible to communicate all the same.

"Wires are important," the Holy One muttered, twisting the cogs of the settings. "You can make the Gretchin work at a remote location, but in the central hubs, where several relay lines converge. People refuse. Come to think of it, you're sitting at a location where you have several points reaching you, and five or six stations on the same frequency are coming out. Somewhere they broadcast 'unit destroyed,' and when the message reached the receiver in the node, he from several sides synchronously so 'UNIT DESTROYED! And due to the craftiness of the stations, they croak and speak differently, so that the whole chorus is screaming directly into the ears. It's unpleasant in and of itself, and if it's an otherworldly whisper, you might as well put a diaper in your pants."

Olga didn't understand anything, and the radio operator didn't need to. He just needed a silent listener.

"Nothing, silence," muttered the Holy Man. The five minutes of rest were over, and the squad moved on in another march.

The strange journey seemed endless. Olga quickly fell into a heavy, agonizing trance, filled with pain in her back and strained legs. All the time she wished that the straps of the cylinder would finally rip, relieving her of her burden. On the other hand, Bertha could expect her to haul the ammunition. The extreme monotony all around made the sense of time as well as space confused. At times it seemed that many kilometers were left behind and salvation awaited literally in a couple of steps. Then, on the contrary, when we thought that we had probably covered a hundred or two meters, no more.

"And on machinery, it's mandatory to wire communication, like in tanks, when you don't know how to get on the radio. It works, it's proven," the Holy Man kept muttering.

The tunnel went down a slight but noticeable slope the whole time. In the middle, there was a chute with a single rusty rail. Olga walked and remembered the terrifying roar with which the volley of 'Radial' hit the house. Fortunately, at that moment the purifiers had already descended quite deeply. They had only gotten away with ringing in their ears, fear, and a feeling of staggering helplessness. Above, fiery arrows scorched everything, crushing the concrete slabs, and below ground, a handful of deathly frightened people fled from imminent death.

Olga felt very cold, the girl shook her skinny shoulders, despite the weight of the straps.

Fuck the adventures.

Bertha, the Priest, and Kryp were talking about what might have happened in the house, despite the weight. They had to speak in time with their steps, with pauses for breathing in and out. In addition, everyone listened regularly to the underground noise, so the conversation didn't go fast. Fidus quite authoritatively repeated and supplemented the earlier version. Olga did not understand much, because the inquisitor spoke in some professional jargon, well understood by his companions. But the basis was more or less understood.

According to Kryp, some cultists had decided to set up an astral gateway to Immaterium. Here Bertha argued; in her opinion, it was a teleport to some point on the planet. But Fidus was quick to refute the opinion, referring to some very confusing precedents and nuances, so the mentor agreed, albeit with obvious reluctance.

In order to make it work, the villains organized something like a Faraday cage in reverse. They treated the entire house from bottom to top with unholy spells, 'weakening' its anchoring in Materium. And then they used a three-dimensional antenna, filling the plumbing of the house with some kind of substance. It was essentially the same teleport, only it threw everyone in the house not to some other place, but straight into the local hell, beyond reality.

Oh, my God, thought Olga, in the rhythm of her steps and the bouts of pain in the muscles of her thighs. How do they even have the strength and desire to talk...? It would be better if they take the heavy burden from the poor weak girl; chatterboxes, and lazy assholes. The servitor stomped behind her, turning his head as usual with the mechanical precision of a radar.

"All right, the fire won't follow us," said the Wretched Man. "There's nothing to burn here. And the tunnel is long, a draught to the other side."

The disputants, meanwhile, were again polarized. This time the Priest was Fidus' opponent. The monk believed that the purpose of the ritual was to release some kind of energy, some kind of compensation in the style of 'abyss take, abyss give in return. Kryp, on the other hand, insisted that it was a sacrifice. The difference Olga did not understand. To her mind, it was all the same whether it was a shovel of coal or an offering. The result was the same - some useful (for the cultists) output. But the inquisitor and the monk saw the difference, so they argued heatedly. The argument, protracted, interrupted by heavy breathing and sniffling, looked rather pathetic, like a duel of the crippled. But the disputants were adamant, each on his own opinion.

"And everyone also asks why I have knitted doormats with Saint Sororitas on them." The Holy Man muttered softly to himself. "And I said to them, 'hang around the walls'. And they said, 'What for?' And I say to them, 'Echo, you fools, in an empty room or vehicle - an echo'. And imagine three radios for three voices, with echo and fading. The Larsen effect, fuck it. You can't tell who's whispering in your ears, if it's alive or if it's not... That's why I've been doing vox alone for the third year. The replacements don't fit in... Do you want to try?"

Olga did not immediately realize that the radio operator had spoken to her. And when she did, she twisted her head in mute denial. On the one hand, the radio was lighter than the cylinder. On the other hand, she was sure that at the critical moment she would be sure to mistake the levers so that later she would certainly be shot for sabotage. And there was not enough voice to shout into the talker constantly and intelligibly in the course of the operation.

"No one wants to," the Holy Man sighed dejectedly. "Well, if you change your mind, just ask."

Here Olga thought that if Kryp was right, and all the inhabitants of the house had passed into the other world, then the toys would no longer find their old masters. How bad! And sad... The unknown, incomprehensible evil in the form of cultists who revere the non-Emperor suddenly became very apparent, took on a real incarnation. A cultist is not an abstraction, but one who drags children to hell. Accordingly, a cultist is very, very bad!

"Someone walked here," Crybaby suddenly interrupted the debate and Olga's sadness. He took a few more steps, then added. "And dragged."

"Take a break," Bertha announced, a minute and a half ahead of schedule. "Show me what you've spotted."

"Here," the flamethrower pointed with his hand in a black, darned glove. "Scratches. And marks."

Indeed, if you looked closely, you could see faint traces on the time-darkened floor. It was as if something heavy had been dragged over the edge, or even angled. And if you looked even more closely, which Berta immediately did by turning on her strongest flashlight. A certain irregularity was apparent. Over the years of desertion, water and mold had left a distinctive film on the floor, but in some places, it seemed smudged, scuffed.

Bertha stepped back ten meters, just in case, to look over the untouched area and compare. The group somehow picked up at once, shrugging off the tired relaxation that had clouded their minds.

"Yes, they did," Berta summarized as she rose from her squat. "Not often, but pretty regularly. A whole trail of footsteps. Or the opposite, a big group of them walked at once."

She turned off the lantern and with a long, wicked look looked on, to where everything lurked in the inky darkness.

"At first they tried to use..." Fidus pointed to the rail. A close look made it clear that a section three meters long had rusted off and exposed dull metal.

"But something must have gone wrong," Kryp stretched thoughtfully, looking up for a change as if he were trying to find a clue there. "Then they dragged it by hand, dropping it occasionally."

"Well, it looks like we know how the heretics break-in," the Priest thought aloud, rubbing his throat.

"They didn't break into it," said Fidus, and then, upon coming to his senses, added more executive deference to his voice. As befits an ordinary novice. "It would take months of work to paint the floors like that. So heretics lived in the house, and the other inhabitants apparently averted their eyes. But all sorts of unseemly things seemed to be delivered to them that way, yes. That's why we opened the hatch easily enough."

"Well, let's go," said Bertha.

And everyone moved on, silently, pulling up. Trying to make less noise and listen very carefully. Olga stared at the cylinder of the Plax flamethrower looming ahead. And, to somehow concentrate, began to imagine in her mind how the ammunition should be changed, step by step. First with a complete change, then a simplified version, when there was no time, with a flip of the hose to a spare cylinder.

Step-by-step. And a little bit more.

The tunnel began to expand noticeably. The ceiling rose to five meters, and then even higher. From time to time there were branches along the sides, fringed by old rusted shoals of brown rust. All of them were carefully piled so that the stones and rubble formed long 'tongues' crawling out of the empty doors.

"Exploded," Kryp reported confidently as he surveyed several such rubbles.

"Obviously," the monk agreed. He wasn't treading as lightly as before. Apparently, the heavy chemical cannon was wearing out even the square and strong man.

"Halt," Bertha ordered again.

Crybaby again emerged as the herald of the new. He slobbered his finger and raised it above his head, then twirled his head, closing his eyes and exposing his face to the intangible streams of air.

"The draft. There's water ahead," he said. "Salt."

"Interesting," muttered the Priest. "A path out to the sea?"

"No," Bertha shook her head. "It's too far. More like an exit to some deep caves that communicate with the ocean. Or even..."

She didn't finish, and no one asked. Olga felt sad. She wondered what it could be, if not a cave. But asking directly was somehow... a rather scary thing to ask directly. What if everyone here was supposed to know it? And the hell with it, in any case, she'd have to see it anyway.

"Let's eat," Bertha ordered. "Plus two minutes to break for a snack. And everyone shut up."

An eloquent glance in the direction of the Holy Man clearly showed whom the order referred to.

Everyone hurriedly occupied themselves with the food concentrate - the already familiar to Olga cubes, similar to pressed sugar with the taste of glucose pills. As she finished chewing the solid mass, she noticed that the wind, cold and damp, seemed to have caught her breath. Barely noticeable, but still... Some variety was both intriguing and unsettling.

Time expired, and everyone moved on. The group was exhausted, only the servitor continued to measure his steps with the rhythm of a robot. Olga wanted to ask if the mechanical man was aware of anything. Whether he had any crumbs of memory left, any emotion at all. Is this a Luct, partially transformed into a machine, or is it still a machine, which is traditionally called by a human name?

Another question she put off until better times. Too bad Jennifer the Pinion isn't here to ask her.

The sweet rations had refreshed our energies a bit. A slight draft turned into a breeze that cooled the sweaty faces pleasantly. Everybody became alert at the same time. A presentiment of the end of the journey. Even Olga felt that the cylinder became a little lighter, though it was more likely the sugar in her blood.

"I don't like it," muttered Savlar, barely audible so that Berta wouldn't hear him. The convict's voice squeaked like wet concrete chips under the boots, sounded like a funeral whisper. "We're all going to end up here..."

Steps, endless, perpetual steps... The indiscriminate stride of the small detachment was gradually reduced to a single rhythm, like that of marching soldiers.

"Light," someone suddenly said behind Olga's back, so that the girl crouched in surprise, not even having time to be frightened.

A moment later she realized that it was Fidus's servitor speaking. The servant, neither living nor dead, was speaking for the first time in a voice that sounded almost like a normal person. A solid bass, pleasant enough, but too smooth, without a hint of emotion.

"Hold it right there!" Bertha ordered and asked Kryp half-turned. "What's your tin is talking about?"

Fidus grumbled at such an insult to an almost member of the family, but said aloud:

"He has enhanced optics. He can see the light ahead."

"Got it."

Bertha counted the supply of chemical candles and raised her fist above her head. Everyone armed silently rattled their weapons, checking readiness. Olga pulled her head into her shoulders.

Again she experienced a sharp - and already familiar - a desire to become very, very small.

They had walked thirty yards, maybe more, when the servitor stopped and said again:

"Crying."

"He has microphones," Fidus explained again. "Someone is crying in front."

Hearing about the crying, Olga immediately remembered the moaning in the house, the quiet, bitter wailing coming from some forbidden place. Now, however, she heard nothing of the sort.

"It's a useful tin," remarked Bertha. "Let's walk quietly, we walk carefully."

The unit moved forward cautiously and slowly. On the one hand, Olga liked it - it was easier to carry the cylinder. On the other hand, no, because every step, no matter how small, brought her closer to the unknown.

"Water," now it was Crybaby's turn to predict. "There's saltwater up ahead. Lots of it."

"Well, fuck," hissed Savlar, who seemed to be exhausted as much as Olga. Despite the extreme aversion harbored towards the noseless man, the girl felt a little pity for the misfit. The convict carried a spare chemical cylinder, which was considered more dangerous than a flamethrower because the infernal mixture ate everything. Including - sometimes - the walls of the vessel and the taps with couplings. To expect a cheerful outlook on the world at such a job would have been strange.

Now even ordinary eyes without any optics could see the light ahead. A regular light, like a standard lamp. A small white dot, getting a little bigger with each step

"The Emperor will not abandon us," Demetrius said, seemingly for the first time during the entire tunnel journey. "Whether it's the light of hope or the final path, it's all in His hand."

The fucking optimist, she thought angrily, shuffling on her tired legs. In the meantime, the pain spread from her lower back to her back, lodged prickly along her spine. Only now Olga notice that Demetrius was also armed. In his hands, the medic was clutching some sort of submachine gun with a long, thick clip.

The light was getting closer, and now everyone could hear... a cry indeed. It was soft and pitiful and very human. Luke clanked his shotgun loudly. He must have taken the safety off, or maybe cocked it. Olga mechanically slowed her steps to get the turreted servitor closer. His multi-barreled mortar gave at least some sense of reassurance, of security.

The crying continued, and Olga felt the barely grown hairs on her head stand on end. No one had walked in this tunnel for years, and if anyone had, it was probably those evil cultists. Where did the strange sobbing man come from? The girl slouched down to take full cover behind the stunted Crybaby, feeling at least a little protected from the rear and the front.

The tunnel ended abruptly, one might say 'suddenly,' and a vast hall opened up ahead. It looked more like a bathhouse with a square pool. The floor was lined with large tiled (or maybe ceramic) slabs, badly beaten and cracked. Similar tiles, only smaller in size, covered the walls, as well as the six rectangular columns that supported the vaulted ceiling. Two mighty vents, which must have been operated by a strongman like Luct, stood at the edge of a knee-high basin. A chain and hook hovered over the standing water, and a little higher was a structure apparently used to lift something heavy and voluminous out of the water.

Olga's consciousness did not want to perceive bad things, so first she looked around the bathing room. As far as she could do it from behind the backs of her colleagues. Then she thought that it looked more like a parking lot for a small submarine. And only after that she did not see, but rather realized, the presence of a man in the hall.

There was a girl of about twelve or fifteen, very thin and dirty, wearing a dirt-gray nightgown, chained to one of the valves - rusty like everything else here. She sat on her knees with her head down, sobbing on the same note, pausing only to breathe.

Olga's first instinctive urge was to rush to the aid. She probably would have done so, but then Luсt's broad, rake-like palm came down on her shoulder.

"Dangerous," the servitor muttered.

Most likely, it would not have stopped the girl, but the interference made it possible to realize that...

Olga wondered what she didn't like about it, what scratched her eye and mind like a small, barely perceptible, but pesky splinter. Well, apart from the fact that no one from the team is in a hurry to help the unfortunate. And she remembered. 'The Ring.' That seemed to be the name of that movie. Olga had watched it inattentively, on black-and-white TV and with the sound turned down to a minimum so her brother wouldn't hear it. She did not understand the plot well, but she remembered the image of the ghostly drowned woman well. The girl by the pool reminded her of a TV creeper. The same shirt, grayed with water and mud, the same long tangled hair covering her face.

Olga crouched lower so that she was now literally looking out from under Crybaby's arm.

The girl raised her head as if only now she noticed the unexpected guests. No, her face was very ordinary, with slightly distorted proportions. But Olga was already used to that; every planet in the Empire had its own original faces. Around her eyes were darkening in wide circles, her eyelids were red, and so was her nose. The girl sobbed, choking back tears.

"Help," she whispered, and her voice echoed, reflecting off the water and the high ceiling. The water in the pool was slightly illuminated as if lanterns were burning below.

"Help me, please," the girl repeated. "They'll be back soon... They..."

She lowered her head, clearly in hopeless terror of the Cultists' imminent visit, her dark hair pulled back like a curtain, hiding her face again.

"And we know this trick," said Fidus suddenly, almost merrily, like a man who has unraveled an evil prank.

"A trap," stated the Priest.

You're all crazy! Olga wanted to wail, and suddenly it occurred to her. How long has this poor child been sitting here? Judging by the general filthiness, quite a while. Long hours, perhaps days. And all that time she wept? As someone who had repeatedly cried bitterly and hopelessly, Olga knew that the voice was not long enough. A person fairly quickly begins to either howl or wail quietly.

"Help me, please. They'll be back soon... They..."

It was like deja vu, the same tone, the same words, the same sequence of movements. Olga was ready to swear that the girl on the chain was a living person, but she acted like a puppet, programmed to a clear sequence of actions.

"For us?" Bertha quietly clarified, she seemed to acknowledge that in some aspects Fidus knew much more than any other novice in the unit.

"Perhaps," Kryp said just as quietly. "But most likely on anyone who happens to be here. It's not really a trap, more of a watchman. Come on. It might be booby-trapped."

The sobbing stopped, like the flick of a switch. The girl lifted her head again and looked - looked very carefully! - at the company. Her eyes were now a glossy black, with iridescent sparkles in the depths, just like the glowing liquid in the faucets of a burned-down house.

For some reason Olga expected the chain girl to say something, but she was silent. For a few moments, she stared unblinking at the squad. The Priest lowered his chemical cannon with a rustling drive, aiming from behind the Sinner's shoulder.

The sufferer's face blurred, like a plasticine mask under a blast of air from a hairdryer. The lower eyelids drooped, twisting outward, and the corners of her mouth crept upward and to the side, turning her mouth into a frog's mouth, grinning in a parody of a smile. The nose slanted to the side as if it were pulling into the face. The white skin was rapidly expanding with boils and sores, and pus dripped onto the tiles.

"Get back," commanded Bertha. "Sinner, get ready!"

Everything happened very quickly, in a matter of seconds, and yet Olga perceived the picture clearly, in all the details, as if she were watching a video in slow motion.

The dark hair partly fell out, falling to the tiles as a dirty washcloth, partly pulled back into the balding head. The trap girl's forehead stretched forward, and her eyes grew following its movement, turning into enormous faceted burls. The lower jaw snapped off easily, hung on shreds of melting skin, then dropped with a chuckle. Articulated tentacles as long as a finger crawled out of the upper jaw, each ending in a sharp claw.

The creature, it could no longer be called human. It dropped to all fours, its arms moved lower, shifting to the middle of its ribcage, and two thin Tyrannosaur-like paws ripped into its shirt and skin beneath its collarbones. The palms and feet lengthened, and the toes fused together to form insect-like paws. In a few moments, the unfortunate child was transformed into something that looked more like a giant fly without wings than anything else.

"Burn!" commanded Bertha, and Sinner pulled the trigger.

* * *