Legion by Dan Abnett Page A

hadn’t been anything like this. It was as if the city had become aware of him, and his role as an intruder, and had become a web, spun to trap him. Someone, something, was playing with him.
    The vomit wasn’t going to stay down. He hurried off into an alley away from the temple precinct, and bent over in the shadows to release the acid liquid. It rushed out of him in a geyser. He barely had time to drag his head shawl off.
    He sank to his knees, trembling and spitting.
    Two figures, two men who were just dark shadows, were moving down the alley towards him. They weren’t rushing, but there was a purposeful, urgent stride to their gait. Grammaticus got to his feet and made off in the opposite direction, with equal purpose, not quite running.
    Three more figures rounded the opposite end of the long, winding alley, and came towards him. What were they? Militia? Echvehnurth? Agents of the Pa’khel Awan, the temple’s zealous doctrinal clerics?
    The alley had a couple of side turnings along its length. Grammaticus took the first, and broke into a run as soon as he was out of sight of the figures closing in on him. He reached a dead end, a closed courtyard behind some tall, fine town houses. He heard footsteps approaching behind him. He tried the doors, and found all of them bolted, except a heavy gate of painted wood, where green reptiles intercoiled and made helical patterns. Grammaticus pushed the gate open and ducked into the blessed cool and darkness of the room beyond it. He closed the gate, and drew the bolt across to hold it. He waited, listening to the muffled footsteps and voices outside.
    A gigantic hand, gloved in steel, reached out of the darkness and picked him up by the neck. It turned him around and slammed him back against the wall, holding him by the throat.
    Grammaticus was being throttled, his feet kicking off the ground. The steel hand pressed him back against the wall. Terracotta brickwork ground into his back.
    ‘I have a suspicion,’ a deep voice said, coming out of the darkness, ‘you’ve been looking for me, John Grammaticus.’
    It knew his name.
    ‘Th-that’s possible,’ Grammaticus gasped, ‘though it m-might depend upon who you are.’
    ‘My name? You know my name, you treacherous bastard. My name is Alpharius.’

FOUR
    House of the Hydra, Mon Lo Harbour, Nurth, continuous
    T HE POUNDING BLOOD vessels in Grammaticus’s head felt as if they were about to burst. His windpipe had closed.
    +Let me go,+ he sent, desperately.
    The steel-gloved hand released its grip, and Grammaticus fell awkwardly onto the tiled floor. Hurt and dazed, he forced his mind to work fast. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the cold blue darkness of the chamber.
    He could see the giant shadow of his captor, and the hot, red glow of a visor, but he could not read a mind. Something was screening it. Nevertheless, his urgent commands were getting through.
    +Step back, and keep your hands away from your weapons.+
    The giant shadow above him took a step backwards. ‘Stop him doing that,’ the shadow’s deep voice growled.
    There was someone else in the room, in this bolt-hole that had not been safe at all. Grammaticus saw the second person as a hooded figure, though he could not actually see the man with his eyes. The figure was hooded in his mind.
    Grammaticus tried to rise. A piercing liquid squeal, like a wet finger sliding on glass, stabbed into his neocortex. Pain fired through his autonomic nervous system and sizzled down his spine. He grunted and fell back against the wall.
    ‘He is fierce. Strong and well protected,’ the hooded figure said out loud.
    ‘Too much for you?’ asked the giant shadow.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then keep him down.’
    The squeal increased in power. Grammaticus convulsed.
    ‘We’re going to have a conversation, John,’ the giant shadow said, bending down and looming close. ‘I want some truth out of you, or so help me, I’ll simply crush your psyk-cursed skull. Yes? Are we