In a Perfumed Garden A short story of the Warhammer 40,000 universe by Drew Bryenton Summary While the Inquisition hunt

down heretics and the worshipers of Chaos, they themselves are prey for the most desperate of the Imperium's enemies. Kael Orbiq is one such renegade a psyker who has turned to Chaos not out of zealotry but out of the desire for revenge. Utterly cunning and pragmatic, Orbiq and his team of fellow outcasts hunt and kill agents of the Inquisition, setting traps for their dangerous prey and accepting the damnation which is their reward. In this short piece Kael Orbiq's Arcanii have one of their elaborate schemes backfire as their prey turns predatory. Kael is forced to embrace a deeper level of damnation and dehumanization to survive, and discovers that the pact he made for the sake of power has turned into out and out slavery. Synopsis Despite its innocuous name, this short piece is all about a trap which goes horribly wrong a trap set by a desperate band of heretics to ensnare and kill one of the agents of the Ordo Hereticus. Kael Orbiq and his team of killers are not zealots or fanatics, but have turned to Chaos in order to wreak revenge on the Imperium for a variety of very personal reasons. They count their success in the severed heads of the Inquisition's finest, but on this occasion Kael, a psyker and self-confessed damned soul, has proven too smart even for himself. As he prepares to seduce an entire planet's spiretop aristocracy to Chaos with the unwitting help of twin Dark Eldar outcasts, Inquisitor Arn Calyx is on his trail. Orbiq, masquerading as a slaver and rogue trader of sordid repute, has ingratiated himself into the court of corrupt planetary governor De'Averos Greshin, a grossly proportioned heavy-worlder obsessed with becoming beautiful. His aides in 'transforming' the sick-minded Governor are Gisandre and Telith, Dark Eldar cast out of their own society for unspoken atrocities. Governor Greshin has his party crashed by a squad of Black Templars led by the zealous Inquisitor after he reveals the 'transforming' work the xenos have wrought on his body. At this point Kael reveals himself, assisting the Dark Eldar in attacking and managing to best the Space Marines, if not their master. As Greshin is righteously executed, Orbiq and his team close the trap, with his deadly allies Mister Steeplejack and the Jewelsmith keeping the spire-house sealed off while renegade pilot Ilse Cadrian

brings in their means of escape. But it transpires that Calyx was planning on just such a ruse he has been following the heretics for some time, and has offered himself up as bait to draw them in. He is much more dangerous prey than Orbiq imagined. Kael engages the Inquisitor in a deadly duel, playing both Dark Eldar against each other then offering up their souls to the gods he reluctantly follows in order to recieive the blessing of limitless power. And while the situation for the sniper Steeplejack and the fallen Tech-adept Jewelsmith grows steadily worse, Kael is forced to give away part of his memory and part of his remaining humanity in a deal with his daemon patron just to survive. This takes place inside the very memory which the daemon A'pharaen feeds on, a slice of Kael's coming-of-age on a snowbound feral world. In the memory he is forced to kill one of the planet's apex predators or die trying, in a scene similar to those in ancient Earth mythology. The Daemon is quick to point out that the predator is a cypher for Inquistor Calyx, and that this formative experience has led Kael into damnation. Above them, near the top of the spire, Mister Steeplejack is saved by Ilse from a vengeful PDF force Valkyrie, in a display of overwhelming firepower and piloting skill. In a climactic scene of psionic rage and carnage Arn Calyx falls, leaving Kael Orbiq and his allies fleeing Imperial retribution. It proves to be a hollow victory, both strategically and morally, but this is the way of damnation. Kael finds out that he is trapped on his path of revenge, and that he will only survive to commit fresh atrocities by giving up his humanity, body and mind, piece by piece. It is revealed that A'pharaen has taken part of his memory, as well as leaving a mark on his body in the form of twin rows of iridescent feathers growing down his back a mutation of Tzeentch.

Sample The creature had filed its teeth to points. They glistened wetly in the dark, a knife-slash of pearly sharp enamel. The creature was amused. Its oil-drop eyes were unblinking as it regarded him, folded in bruise-purple hollows of twitching flesh. It witnessed his disgust, and it laughed. Brand me a heretic, then, if you must. Call me unnatural, perverted... Degenerate, I've heard, is the word the priesthood favour. Just remember that you set this all in motion. Rolls and folds of oiled and tattooed flesh shifted in the half-light, a rose-tinted gloom veiled in incense smoke. Kael Orbiq wrinkled his nose in distaste at the sickly-sweet smell of it the scent seemed to carry with it an undertone of open plague-pits. He coughed, clearing his throat. It's not my place to call you anything other than master, my Lord. And far above my humble station to tell you what you are. Tattoos writhed and coupled as the man on the dais heaved himself upright, fingers the size of other men's forearms scrabbling at the slippery marble and ivory. But do you know what I'm becoming, Orbiq? Your associates have far surpassed my wildest imaginations. Orbiq's pale lips twitched down into a grimace again as his Master giggled to himself. And I'm sure you know how wild my imaginations can be, hmm? Kael knew. He'd had to clean away the... pieces. Had to pay off the families when the Arbites came sniffing, and more. I'm pleased that you find my efforts so rewarding, my Lord. Will our mutual friends be joining us tonight? Kael heard them behind his back before the Master Lord De'Averos Greshin could reply. Satin on leather, and footfalls light as snowflakes on water... but he heard. In order to save himself from the knives, he pretended not to. I'm afraid we must, my dear Landgraeve. Our masterpiece is at a very fragile stage in his metamorphosis right now, and we wouldn't want him to be... damaged. The voice was a sigh and a song at once, subtly mocking. Kael twitched his head around just in time to watch Gisandre tuck her hands back into the sleeves of her shimmering robe, accompanied by the flash of steel. That one knew almost too much. And as for her brother... We are artists, not butchers like you hyuu-man animals. Gatekeepers of the divine! Kael smirked. Only the fallen Eldar could make 'human' sound like the name of a virulent disease.

Well put, Telith. It's good to know that I've brought Lord Greshin the very best. He turned to face the other Xeno, a whip-thin and smirking thing wearing little but straps and rags. Telith's body was tattooed with intricate alien formulae the same eye-watering scrawl which covered Greshin from eyebrows to ankles. Only the crown of his head remained bare. It's immaterial, huffed the shadowed figure of the Planetary Governor, settling back across his throne. Gisandre, Telith play nicely with poor Orbiq, won't you? He is not as us... not yet! Anyone else would have missed the flicker of violet eyes, and the self-satisfied little look which passed between the two xenos. Then again, anyone else would never have dared to bring these three maniacs together in the pressure-cooker world of Spire-Cluster Nine-Three Ascendant. Anyone else would have plunged naked into the warp to put this damned world behind them. Kael Orbiq, however, was quietly enjoying himself. Behind his mask (rogue trader; sometime pirate; friend of xenos and notorious slaver), Kael's mind was a blur of oiled gears, counting down as the Governor's private chamber slid down its mag-rails and into the Perfumed Garden below. He was angling, and the bait was in the water. Perhaps this time he'd pull in more than an empty, bloodied hook... Before his smile betrayed him the hiss and clang of immense docking clamps broke his reverie. The chamber settled onto its shock absorbers with a groan, and the ivory-paneled walls clicked and slid away. Noise washed in with a strobe-burst of flickering lights, followed by an airborne spray of heady olfactules engineered drugs which made the blood sing in Orbiq's temples. The music was a physical force a sledgehammer bass track pounding relentlessly as Greshin's noble subjects danced. Kael felt the line twitch against his fingers. Come now! Let us show my people what artistry you command! I feel like being adored, Landgraeve Orbiq. Tonight more so than ever! Servomotors whined as a brace of filigree legs socketed out from either side of Lord Greshin's throne, lurching his bulk up off the floor. Telith and Gisandre played at subservience, moving to each side of their living masterpiece and taking up a pair of intricately wrought staves, each one adorned with carnal scenes in gold and lapis. From their crowns depended fat bunches of cathetered plastic sacs... the potent antivirals and medicaments which kept Greshin alive. Kael struggled to keep his face impassive as his Master rode forth into the light, the legs of his throne clicking and squealing against the marble tiles. He wasn't moved by the spectacle of watching a pair of proud Kabalites serve a mere human after all, that was just another game. No Orbiq was perfectly horrified at what the xenos had done to De'Averos Greshin. It was the first time he'd felt true horror in

many long years, and so he savored it. The Governor's body was swollen and slick, inked with alien calligraphy which seemed to squirm away from Orbiq's gaze. Here and there the Dark Eldar aesthetes had pierced rolls and folds of his flesh with golden rings, or scarified anguished faces into his skin. One of his legs hung bloated and useless down the front of the throne a rubber-sheathed stump pierced by sheaves of transparent tubes. The other was tucked up as if Greshin sat in meditation as pale and perfect as the limb of an alabaster statue. The same was true of his arms one tumorous and vast, skewered with jeweled needles, the other lithe and muscular. The slim fingers at the end of that arm reached out and plucked a flute of amasec from a blind servitor's tray, bringing it up to lips which were only half there.