At first he had tried defiance. As the hours wore on, that became harder. He started to shout, to rail against the injustice of it, but there were no answers. That was when the fear truly began to take over. Much later, having had no contact for however many hours it had been, he found himself pacing methodically. Then, after more hours had passed and physical weakness had set in, he could no longer do that, and sat slumped in the cell’s stinking corner. Then the shaking started. You could hear strange noises in that place, terrible noises, and it got to you, just as was intended.
He knew what they were doing. He was versed enough in the arts to understand exactly how they were taking his mind apart, but knowing made it no easier to resist.
By the time the door opened again, he was exactly where they wanted him to be — in the chair, shivering despite the oppressive heat, his hands clasped together in their shackles, his face down.
He only looked up again as his interrogator entered — a tall man in fine black armour with silver detailing. His face was severe and bore the marks of recent illness or injury, though his grey eyes were calm and he moved fluidly enough.
The door closed behind him, sealing them both in, and he took a seat opposite.
‘Salvor Lermentov,’ the man said, clasping his gauntlets together and looking directly at him. His voice was low, intelligent, flavoured with more Low Gothic than he might have expected.
Lermentov found he couldn’t take his eyes off a skull-form rosette fashioned from iron and pinned to the trim of the man’s cloak. He resolved to keep his eyes fixed on that. In what was to come, he had been trained to find something to latch on to, for that was supposed to help him hold out for a little longer, which despite everything he was determined to do.
But this was the end, he knew. All that remained was token defiance, for once you entered a fortress of the Inquisition, you did not leave.
He nodded. His interrogator brought out a thin sheaf of parchments, and began to turn them over, studying the script upon them carefully.
‘Say nothing,’ Crowl told him dryly, precisely, beginning all over again. ‘Listen with utmost care.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Wraight is the author of the Horns Heresy novels Scars and The Path of Heaven, the novella Brotherhood of the Storm and the audio drama The Sigillite. For Warhammer 40,000 he has written the Space Wolves novels Blood of Asaheim and Stormcaller, and the short story collection Wolves of Fenris, as well as the Space Marine Battles novels Wrath of Iron and Battle of the Fang. Additionally, he has many Warhammer novels to his name, including the Time of Legends novel Master of Dragons, which forms part of the War of Vengeance series.
Chris lives and works near Bristol, in south-west England.