The bells did not ring on Apate V. The shrines were covered in black cloth, the preachers silent in their pulpits. Even the famed Novum Choir simply droned sorrowful dirges to crowds of weeping pilgrims.
Cardinal Alvroz was dying.
For more than forty years, the holy man had served the subsector. Now Apate’s Blessed Son lay insensate in a four-poster bed. A smattering of candles lit the darkened room and cast wayward shadows around the only two men in the chamber.
‘It is done, Deacon,’ the shorter one whispered. ‘The medicaes and functionaries are dismissed.’
‘Well done, curate,’ replied Deacon Orsini. The smaller man bowed.
‘Should Bishop Terkel not be here, my lord? He is—’
‘The successor, yes.’ The deacon shook his head, ‘No, it would be unseemly. We are men of the church, not ghouls waiting to collect corpse scraps.’ The lesser clergyman nodded servilely.
‘The cardinal wished to be left alone with his Emperor at the end. Only I was to pray for him.’ Orsini looked down meaningfully at the little man. After a silent moment, the curate caught the implication and began shuffling backwards towards the room’s elaborate double doors.
‘Emperor guide you, Deacon.’
‘And you. Keep them out. They will know when he has passed,’ Orsini looked upwards into the shadowed ceiling, as if searching for the Emperor himself. There was a brief spear of light as the curate exited, then a soft click as the door closed.
Orsini stood alone in the gloom, listening carefully, but there was no sign of the curate reentering. He sighed deeply.
‘You can come out, Traitor.’ There was a low, rumbling laugh from the darkness. A hulking figure emerged from the shadows. Despite wearing a massive suit of baroque armour coloured a harsh purple, the monster made no noise as it sidled up to the bed. Golden snake eyes leered down at the deacon hungrily. The priest shuddered, but he quickly composed himself, straightening his back and meeting the predator’s gaze.
‘You have good eyes,’ the figure hissed. ‘I bet they would taste delicious.’ It pulled back its grotesquely pale lips to reveal a mouth full of needle teeth.
‘Spare me, Malebolge,’ Orsini snarled, ‘you know why you are here.’
‘So curt. I always imagined an evil priest would be more… theatrical.’ The traitor Astartes gestured around the room with its massive gauntlets, one of which bore a strange, drill-like device. ‘Theater’s all you corpse-botherers do.’
‘Enough, Monster.’ The cardinal pointed at the bed. ‘There will be time for you to work now.’ Malebolge nodded thoughtfully.
‘I could just kill him, you know. And you. And every fat little rector or pontiff or whatever outside. I could rip the heart out of this world in an instant.’ The predator’s gaze was back on Orsini.
‘And then his successor would come after your little cult. Terkel is remarkably narrow-minded.’
‘And what are you, false priest? What will you be when your prayers have saved the Cardinal’s life and made you his chosen heir?’ The snake eyes blinked lazily, though Orsini felt it was far more for effect than necessity.
‘I am a pragmatist. I do not care for your petty indulgences in the slums when I can lead a crusade that will purge the whole subsector.’
‘Petty? Little? You wound me.’ Without a backward glance, the traitor marine threw aside the bed curtain. The broken cardinal writhed in the sheets as if Malebolge’s very presence was a torment. ‘My my, what have you done to him?’
‘Something horridly unique.’ Orsini sneered at his master’s withered body. ‘I will not tell you where I found this malady or how I found you. Only that I know you can cure it when no other medicae could.’
‘Your sense of suspense titillates me,’ remarked Malebolge coyly as his snake eyes scanned the cardinal’s form. One gauntleted finger tapped into a keypad on the drill device. ‘Theatrical, like I said.’ After a few minutes of tense silence, the marine stepped away from the bed.
‘I can fix this.’ Orsini sighed with relief at the creature’s confident assessment. Then Malebolge continued, ‘But why should I?’
‘Your survival hinges on it,’ Orsini replied indignantly.
‘No, little priest,’ Malebolge said with a wicked grin, ‘That was why I shouldn’t kill you. I am asking you why I should fulfil your little scheme. Why not just depart now?’
‘I will leave your cult alone. I told you my ambitions.’
‘And they are grand,’ hissed the traitor marine, ‘but you could not chase my cult anyway. If you bring it to Terkel, he will ask questions you cannot answer.’ Orsini snarled angrily but Malebolge just stared impassively. For a moment, it seemed as if the deacon would strike the horrific being out of pure frustration, but then he paused. A wicked smile crept across his features.
‘Because it is perverse,’ Orsini whispered, ‘A servant of the Dark Powers healing a cardinal in secret? Every breath Alvroz takes will be a profanity against the Emperor and a secret exaltation of your gods. And no one will know but we two, a dark secret masked as a miracle. Why, Malebolge, it is all positively… theatrical.’ Orsini laughed then, a strange, mad laugh. Malebolge giggled too.
‘Oh my dear little priest, how wicked you are. I love it, I truly do.’ He rested a massive gauntleted hand on the deacon’s shoulder. Orsini stopped laughing, fear coursing through his body, but if Malebolge noticed the deacon’s discomfort, he did not seem to care. ‘It is wonderfully perverse. So step back,’ the gauntlet lifted from Orsini’s shoulder, prompting a soft sigh of relief. ‘Let me make a miracle happen.’
The bells rang out on Apate V. The preachers roared the Emperor’s praises from their pulpits and the Novum Choir sang beautiful exultations. All told a glorious story of triumphant faith. Deacon Orsini, the cardinal’s trusted advisor and now chosen heir, had prayed for his beloved master’s salvation, and the Emperor answered.
Cardinal Alvroz was alive.
