Secret War: Warhammer 40,000 by Ben Agar (romantic novels to read .TXT) 📕

You do when you are annoyed or angered. Remember, I have taught you time and time again: 'give nothing to your enemies or your allies.' That proverb was handed down to me by my master, and now I hand it down to you. Do you understand what it means, child?"

"Yes." I barely said rather than sighed. I started regretting coming here.

"Good!" she sat back in her chair. "Now, tell me. What troubles you, young Attelus."

Her voice softened; she seemed legitimately interested. That had always taken me back, how she could change from harsh, berating teacher to tender and kind-hearted motherly figure in the blink of an eye.

My heart skipped and suddenly found words hard to form; when she changed like that, it would always give me a strange tightness in my chest. I had no idea why.

"I- I hate this!" I managed to blurt. "We have been here for six months, and we have nothing! Nothing! Just more corpses and questions! It's hard; every frigging day is the same! A new lead we are sent to track down and- and! We are only to find a new dead end!"

"I know," she said softly. "I know it is hard."

"But you know what else?" I snarled. "I get the suspicion that frigger Taryst knows more than he lets on! That he could give us information that would allow us to do our jobs, but for some idiotic, selfish reason, he holds it back! I don't know why, but I have my ideas!"

Glaitis placed her elbow on her desk and cupped her jaw in her smooth, tender hand. A slight smile played over her full purple lips. "Really, young one?' she cooed. "And pray tell, what are these 'ideas'?"

I stiffened; I said more than I should have. But I did not stutter. I looked Glaitis straight in the eye and said, "That the information would damn him, that he is desperate to keep it secret so much, that if it were even slightly leaked out, his life would be jeopardised. That he could be branded as a heretic and a traitor." I sighed. "That's why."

My attention dropped to the carpet, and waited for her response.

After what seemed an eternity, she finally said, "I have to say, my young one, I am impressed."

"What?" I said, looking back up. Of all the responses that were the last, I had guessed.

"Yes, that you would have at least a little tact to figure out makes me believe that finally, my lessons seem to be getting through to you. I, myself, had come to suspect Taryst for quite some time but for you to figure it out all alone," she laughed.

I stood, seemingly frozen to the floor. Never had Glaitis complimented me like that before.

"Th-thanks?"

"That, young one. Is the true key to survival in our...line of work," she said. "The first rule, 'know your enemy.' It is a simple and obvious statement, but you have learnt its true meaning."

I winced with a curse, finally realising...

"You have it, child."

Her smile turned cruel.

"Everyone is your enemy."

 

 

I Leant on the wall of the dirty, smoggy alleyway and smoked a lho stick. My colleagues were yet to arrive, but I did not mind. I was early, and it allowed me time to do what I do best; think.

It was frigging typical of Glaitis to retract a compliment. After her words filtered through my numbed mind, pride started to well within me. My posture straightened, so straight, I stood taller than ever before, but then she said.

"But do not let it go to your head, young Attelus, Xanthis Kaltos. For though, I am not sure when you began to suspect Taryst. In all likelihood, it would be far too late."

"What?" and I was back to being hunched again.

She stood and approached me from around her desk; I could not help my eyes running up her lithe, full-figured body.

Glaitis shook her head; she knew, she always frigging knew. "By now, Attelus if you were alone, working out in the field, and it took you this long to suspect your employer? You would be dead; you did well, young one, in this endeavour, but next time..."

"Frig!" I snarled and sighed: "Try doing it a little quicker.".

"Indeed, and remember this piece of advice, young one and remember it well: 'trust nothing, suspect everything.'"

I nodded wide-eyed.

"I will," was all I could manage.

"And Attelus, as much as I try to encourage you to try...think a little less. Do think on my words now," her face turned dark. "Think on them long and hard, now leave. I have much work to do."

I took the Lho stick with my index finger and thumb.

"Trust nothing, suspect everything," I said. The irony was Glaitis meant herself too.

Is this what it meant to be an assassin? Being some paranoid, psychotic, schizophrenic, trusting no one, not even yourself?

I sighed out smoke; it reminded me of my father how he would act when some slightly suspicious stranger walked past our home, how he reacted when anyone but me came close. For the first time in a long time, I felt something other than anger at my father. I felt sorry for Serghar Kaltos.

Was he the product of this 'training'? No, I was beginning to think it was brainwashing. Was this why my father neglected to teach me the 'subtle arts?' He did not want me to be a lonesome monster like him?

I took the Lho stick and eyed it; I used to be a chain smoker. They helped me in my darker days. At Glaitis' instruction, I had quit (which seemed hypocritical as she encouraged the use of potentially deadly combat drugs). Still, since we came under Taryst's employ, I drifted back to the dirty habit, a coping mechanism indeed.

Was the life of an assassin what I truly wanted?

I tapped the ash off the Lho stick and put it back in my mouth.

I didn't know what I wanted anymore.

I inhaled the sweet smoke, took the dying smoke between my index finger and thumb. Exhaled and flicked the stub onto the rockcrete ground.

I kept leaning against the wall, not moving to step it out. Elandria did it as she emerged from the shadows.

"Lost in your little world once more, eh?" she said.

"Not lost enough to miss your clumsy approach."

I could not see the expression on her face behind that cold, featureless mask, but I could hazard a guess.

Elandria was many things, but socially intelligent was not one of them.

She stood for a few seconds, trying to make a coherent comeback and the best she came up with was, "why is the son of Serghar Kaltos smoking Lho? Does he think himself too good for the rules?"

My jaw set. I tried to keep my father's identity a secret, but Glaitis had to go and tell Elandria. Perhaps it was yet another 'test', but what that bloody woman wanted to test exactly was a mystery; was it my patience? Or my skill at combat when I lost my patience?

I sighed contemptuously, and that riled her up.

"What does that mean?"

"It means what it means," my tone insultingly melancholic.

"Yeah!" she snarled. "Well, let us see what it truly 'means' when I separate your head from your shoulders!"

And she reached for her blades.

I grinned then, in a blink, slid into a combat stance and drew my sword.

Then Garrakson suddenly seemed to appear between us.

Elandria and I yelped in fright and leapt back.

"That's enough, kiddies," he said. "I think that we've had enough violence for today."

Then he turned to me. "And kid, if you want to sheath your blade in her, may I suggest using your 'other' blade instead."

I felt my face go hot.

"What?" demanded Elandria, her wide, beautiful green eyes switching back and forth between Garrakson and I. "What is this 'other blade' you speak of, Garrakson? Attelus Kaltos only wields one. Is-is it the knife in his boot?"

"Try a little higher, missy," said Garrakson, and I blushed even worse.

But she still didn't get it.

Garrackson sighed. "Alright, let's get moving, kiddies. We've got exploits to report."

 

 

My face still seeming on fire, and Elandria still confused. We slipped south toward the 'back way.' The entrance designated to us dirty dogs of war. We were not good enough for the public entry.

Elandria and I walked on Garrakson's flanks; into the dirty, barely six-metre wide alleyway. We were aware of the cameras watching us—thirteen of them, perched about five metres up on the grim, grey walls. I reminded myself of them every time, just in case.

We came to the entrance, a well-hidden set of double doors. Garrakson tugged open the panel hiding the keypad and typed the access code.

Elandria and I kept watch, which was fine with me. My back was to the gorgeous assassin. In my immature embarrassment, I could barely at look her and counted myself lucky. Her indoctrination had given her a naiveté of such personal matters.

Actually, on second thought, I was not lucky at all. Luck had abandoned me long ago.

I hissed a curse. Then I could not help grin and shake my head.

Abruptly, I was brought into reality by the slight hissing of the opening doors, and we silently slipped in.

We walked into what was once a maintenance entrance, now was a highly secure, fortified maintenance entrance.

If there was a literal embodiment of Taryst's paranoia: this was it. Mercenaries crawled throughout the ten metre wide, hundred-metre long walkway. At every three metres: were waist high rockcrete walls. It was on a sharp incline, so each wall overlooked the last and twelve small balconies jutted from the walls: ten metres overhead. A sniper crouched in each; their Long Las rifles tracked us as we walked.

I hated the place. I would always try to find some way to sneak or fight through without getting evaporated by billions of las, solid projectile and high-velocity hot shot rounds, besides stealing a uniform or complete camouflage. I came up nil; it was as close to impregnable as I knew. It would take hundreds, perhaps thousands of Imperial Guardsmen to storm it, and their casualties would be horrendous, but it would work...eventually. That or an entire company of Space Marines, but even they would suffer: a high yield hotshot round punches through power armour with ease.

Elandria and I silently walked through the crowd of highly armed and armoured mercenaries. But Garrakson seemed to greet each frigger in frigging turn. He knew them by name and stopped for idiotic small talk with them. I was almost glad at Callague's and Jarvus' demise; the walk would have been even longer with them.

After twenty long minutes, we arrived at the end. Here two servitors, both with an autocannon for arms, stood constant vigil at the doors.

They slid open, and Colonel Barhurst walked out. The grizzled old bastard approached with a warm grin and outstretched arms. But he was contradicted by the ten grim, faceless Stormtroopers escorting him.

"Ahh! Garrakson, my good friend!" Barhurst exclaimed. He was well into his two hundred, but the use of extensive and expensive rejuvenate treatments kept him looking in his mid-thirties. Though a heavily scarred and beaten man in his mid-thirties. According to my research, he was one of Taryst's longest-serving allies. He abandoned his duties as a Colonel in the Tamarsk 30th to join the Rogue Trader, so wanted by the commissariat and Inquisition for dereliction of duty. But thanks to Taryst's goodwill and huge influence, he eluded justice so far.

I never liked Barhurst; the man was sycophancy incarnate. Taryst was the real commander; all Barhurst did was carry on the Rogue Trader's commands, and when asked to do anything himself, he would pass it onto others. He was charismatic, friendly, but it was an obvious facade. How Taryst couldn't see the incompetence of his second was quite beyond me.

"How goes the hunt?"

"Another dead end," said Garrakson; the contempt in our squad leader's voice was well hidden, but not from me. "And we lost Callague and Jarvus."

Barhurst made an exaggerated frown; it was like an alien making a sick parody of human emotion.