Ahriman: Unchanged

by John French

  ‘Do you want to stay down there and die?’ said the voice, and this time Ahriman’s eyes found the speaker. Ctesias stood above him. The summoner was leaning on his own staff, one arm twisted unnaturally at his side. The robes and parchment strips had burned from his armour, and it was a ruin of gouged plating and exposed wires. His head was bare and he looked more like a walking cadaver than ever. ‘If you do, then you are going about the right way to make it happen.’

  ‘I failed,’ said Ahriman. The words were the only ones his mouth could find to say.

  Ctesias’s skin tightened over his skull.

  ‘Not the first time, but if you do not want it to be the last then we have to move now.’

  Ahriman found a smile forming behind the mask of his helm.

  He looked at Ctesias’s offered hand. The fingers were shaking with fatigue. He hesitated.

  You have failed! screamed a voice in his skull.

  He grasped the proffered hand.

  ‘Have I done enough to inspire loyalty in your mercenary soul, Ctesias?’

  ‘You were better when you were half dead,’ hissed Ctesias, and pulled Ahriman to his feet with a snarl of effort. They stood for an instant, and then Ahriman took an unsteady step. ‘You may want that,’ said Ctesias, and nodded to the Black Staff slowly sinking under accumulating dust. Ahriman looked at it, and then picked it up. Dust fell from its crest of horns.

  ‘Where…’ he began to ask. Ctesias was already moving away.

  ‘Anywhere that is not here.’

  ‘The Athenaeum…?’

  Ctesias shook his head, but did not look at Ahriman. The dust was everywhere.

  ‘Gone, and we have to hope that we will not find what became of it.’

  ‘And the Rubricae?’

  Ctesias did not answer for a second.

  ‘I have not looked for any of them,’ he said carefully.

  ‘Then we look for them now,’ said Ahriman, and felt the smallest spark of hope in his own thoughts.

  Have I failed? It might have worked. Even with Knekku’s sacrifice it might…

  ‘If that is your will,’ said Ctesias, but Ahriman did not hear the words, or the lead in their tone. He was already walking through the red twilight, his senses searching.

  They found Astraeos before they found any of the living or dead. The renegade Librarian knelt on the ground, his skin bare, his eyes empty pits. The wings and talons had melted from his body, and his armour lay about him in tarnished shreds. Ctesias saw him first, and his hand closed on Ahriman’s shoulder before he thought about what he was doing.

  ‘It is him,’ said Ctesias. ‘You should not…’

  ‘I think…,’ said Ahriman, carefully shrugging Ctesias’s hand away, ‘I think that there is nothing to fear here.’ He looked at the kneeling figure. ‘Not now.’

  Ctesias wanted to say something, but could think of nothing.

  ‘Astraeos,’ said Ahriman and stepped closer to the motionless figure. ‘Brother?’

  The head came up slowly, the empty eye sockets haloed with runnels of caked blood.

  ‘I was never your brother, Ahriman. That was just the first lie you convinced me of.’

  ‘I did not lie.’

  Astraeos tilted his head back, mouth wide. A rattling roar came from his throat. It took a second for Ctesias to realise that it was laughter. It faded slowly, and Astraeos shook his head.

  ‘Do you even know what you have done?’

  Ahriman reached up and pulled his own helm off. Shadows clung to the hollows of his face.

  ‘I thought you dead, Astraeos,’ said Ahriman. ‘That you had gone to the death you wanted at the hands of those who had wronged you. I thought you had found redemption in your own eyes.’

  ‘In my own eyes?’ Astraeos was shaking at the jest only he could see. Fresh blood marked his cheeks and lips. ‘In my own eyes.’

  For a second the only sound was the hiss of the dust wind, and the fading rattle of laughter.

  ‘Why did you do… this?’ asked Ahriman eventually.

  ‘Why?’ Astraeos’s empty eye sockets fastened on them. ‘That you need to ask should tell you enough. You destroy and corrupt by existing, Ahriman. That you do not see that fact is the only condemnation I need speak.’

  Ahriman shook his head.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  Astraeos was still for a second, and then stood. Dust powdered his scarred flesh. He moved slowly, as though powered by will as much as strength.

  ‘I do not need your sorrow,’ he said, taking a step half into the enveloping cloud of dust. ‘I have the only comfort I need. I came here to see all you dreamed of broken. You came here to find salvation. We both are broken again, but I…’ He reached down to where the ground was hidden beneath the powdered caul. ‘I alone have what I came for.’

  A murmur of will slipped from Astraeos’s mind. Blood washed from his nose and ears at the effort.

  Rise,+ commanded Astraeos.

  And, slowly, like a wreck pulled from the bed of the sea, a lone Rubricae rose from the ground and stood upright. Cold light glowed in its eyepieces, haloing in the murk. Ctesias did not need to touch it with his own mind to know that it was still a shell, rattling with the voice of a lost soul.

  Ahriman’s eyes were locked on the Rubricae. Behind it the dust was thinning, as though it were a curtain pulled aside on cue. More Rubricae were rising from their coverings of dust. Dead light shone in their eyes, as they turned to look back at Ahriman.

  Astraeos stepped back.

  ‘Look upon your works,’ he said.

  Ahriman fell, slowly, to his knees. The Black Staff wavered in his hand. His helm slid from his grasp. His eyes remained open and fixed on the ranks of slowly standing figures.

  Astraeos turned his empty eyes on Ahriman once more, his features set in grim triumph, and then turned and began to limp away.

  ‘Where are you going?’ called Ctesias. ‘You will not survive.’

  Astraeos stopped, and half turned. Ctesias thought he saw a flash of amusement on the blood-streaked face.

  ‘You are broken,’ said Ctesias, still not sure why he was speaking. ‘You are blind.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Astraeos nodded, and walked on. ‘He taught me well.’

  The Exiles fled for a second time. The awe and terror of their arrival became a gathering of loose handfuls of forces and a disorganised scattering of ships. Few opposed them. There was little will for that; anger had drained along with strength.

  On the surface of the Planet of the Sorcerers, the dust began to drain from the air. Broken towers and dunes of rubble emerged from the haze. The surviving mutants staggered and brayed as they formed ragged herds. The sorcerers of Magnus raised their heads, and sent their first thoughts out through the aether. They sensed the gunships and assault craft roaring back to the ships above. They saw the warships that had hung over the city come about and power away into the dark.

  We should stop them, sire.+ Sar’iq sent the thought as he watched ragged streaks of craft fleeing up through the thinning dust.

  Behind him, the presence of the Crimson King remained silent, his shape a pillar of light wrapped around the shadow of a man.

  If we act now we can destroy them once and for all,+ sent Sar’iq again, as more lights fled the surface and moved from the sky above.

  No, Sar’iq.+ The Crimson King’s sending was a deep rumble in Sar’iq’s thoughts. +They have done no more than repeat their first crime. Failure is judgement and punishment enough.+

  In his navigation tower on the Word of Hermes, Silvanus wept in the dark, wet slits opening and closing down his back with each raking breath. The ship was shivering to life, and he knew that everything had gone wrong, he had seen it even though he had tried to blind himself. He was alive, but he knew that now he would have to perform his func
tion again. Slowly he began to slide his body across the floor towards the navigation chair.

  Silvanus?+ The voice was Ctesias’s, and for a second Silvanus found himself wondering where Ignis was. Then he let the thought fall away; it really did not matter.

  ‘Yes, master,’ he said to the air, ‘I know. We are running.’

  In the shadows of the cave, the robed figure of Magnus watched the flames. Light danced in his lone eye. In the cage of fire it saw the Word of Hermes slip away from the Planet of the Sorcerers. It nodded once to itself, and waved a hand over the flames. The fire roared up, becoming a pillar of light reaching upwards without end, and then fell back into cold embers. The robed figure stood and turned, its limbs twitching as though old muscles were fighting fatigue. It began to limp away. Behind it, the image of both cold fire and cave collapsed and folded into nothing.

  XXVI

  Rubricae

  Ctesias pulled the hatch shut on the chamber. Ignis waited in the passage outside. The Master of Ruin seemed somehow incomplete without his automaton at his side. Ignis had recovered, but his memory of what had happened to him had not. Something had attacked him during the battle. The torn frame of Credence had told part of an incomplete story, but mysteries were the least of their current concerns.

  ‘Has he spoken?’ asked Ignis. Ctesias shook his head.

  ‘Not a word or thought.’

  Ignis nodded, the tattoos on his face fixed. They had exchanged the same question and answer enough times that the exchange had taken on something of a grim formality. Neither of them used their thought voices. Both of them had taken to shutting off their minds when they did not have a specific need to touch the warp. It was as though Ahriman’s silence was seeping out into the survivors of his forces.

  Days and weeks had passed since they had fled the Planet of the Sorcerers. In that time Ahriman had not spoken or moved from his chamber. Between them Kiu, Gaumata, Gilgamos and Ctesias had pulled what forces and materiel they could from the battlefield, but Ahriman had come from it silent, walking only where guided, his eyes unfocused, mind and voice silent. Only when he had reached his sparse chambers had he moved briefly by his own will. Ctesias had watched Ahriman pull a blackened and dented helm from within a metal casket. Black soot covered the helm’s crown and crow-like snout. Ahriman just sat with it, turning it over and over in his hands.

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Ignis.

  ‘I do not know.’

  Ctesias rubbed his eyes, and let out a deep breath. He had surprised himself that he had not simply left. That he came back to try to coax a response from Ahriman time and again was something he did not understand enough to be surprised by. That Ignis waited outside the door for news each time was a fact that Ctesias did not have the energy to question.

  ‘I do not know,’ he repeated with a weary shrug.

  Gaumata’s strides shook the passageway as he ran. Dis­organised clusters of slaves and mortal crew scampered out of his way.

  Ctesias!+ he called. A sharp pain stabbed into his skull as he projected the message. His mind was still weak from the battle, and the effects of the second Rubric. +Ignis!+

  Neither Ctesias nor Ignis answered. Their minds – as they were so often now – remained hidden and sullenly silent. Gaumata muttered a curse to himself, and twisted down a companionway. There were fewer crew here. Even Ignis’s servitors now seemed to shun the passages around Ahriman’s chambers.

  He turned a corner and almost cannoned into Ignis. The Master of Ruin pulled back sharply, electoos shivering across his face in surprise. Behind him Ctesias was a hunched shadow.

  ‘Brothers,’ breathed Gaumata. A frown formed on Ctesias’s wrinkled face, and his mouth began to open with a question. Gaumata cut him off. ‘You have to bring him. You have to bring him now.’

  The Rubricae stood in perfect silence and stillness. Some still showed the marks of battle on their armour. Others were pristine, their blue lacquer gleaming under the stablights. Ignis did not look at them. His eyes, and the eyes of all the others, were focused on the figure who stood at the centre of a circle that had formed in their ranks.

  The lone figure’s armour was the same as the others, its plates etched with Prosperine runes, and edged in silver and gold. Only the chains leading from its wrists to cleats in the deck marked it apart. The chains, and the high-crested helm that sat on the deck beside it.

  Ignis found that he could not look away. Ever since they had followed Gaumata into the hold he had been able to do nothing else but stare at the figure. What else was there to do in the face of the impossible, in the face of a miracle?

  He is the only one?+ asked Ahriman.

  Yes,+ replied Gaumata. +I do not know how I did not sense it before, but every other Rubricae on our ships has been examined. This…+ his thought voice trailed off, and Ignis could feel Gaumata reaching and failing to find a concept. +This is the only one. He must have been brought up with the rest of the Rubricae we recovered from the surface. I do not know how I missed the… difference.+

  Ahriman did not answer, but stepped towards the chained figure. Ignis felt a pulse of will and the chains crumbled. The lone figure flinched, eyes flicking to the vanished chains, and then up to Ahriman.

  It is all right,+ sent Ahriman, and then spoke with his true voice. ‘There is nothing to fear.’ He extended a hand, and the lone figure flinched again. ‘I am your brother,’ said Ahriman, and then nodded to where Ignis, Ctesias and Gaumata stood behind him. ‘We are your brothers.’

  The lone figure’s eyes moved across Ignis and the others, and then back to Ahriman.

  ‘My brothers?’ said the figure.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ahriman. ‘Do you not remember?’

  ‘I remember…’ Frowning eyes darted across the empty air. ‘I remember… light… bright light…’ Jaw and lips moved for a second, but no more words came.

  When I discovered him that is all he would say,+ sent Gaumata. +I touched his mind. It is blank, no memories, besides that of a bright light. It is as though nothing existed for him before… before the Rubric.+

  Ahriman shook his head slowly, and reached out and grasped the figure’s shoulder. Armoured fingers clacked on ceramite.

  ‘No, you remember one other thing, don’t you, brother? I can see it in you. Deeper down, just beyond the light. You remember something else.’

  The figure glanced down at Ahriman’s hand on his shoulder. Muscles moved smoothly beneath unscarred skin. Ignis could see the slow beat of blood in his neck.

  Impossible. The thought echoed in his head. Impossible…

  ‘Who are you, my brother?’ asked Ahriman.

  The figure looked up into Ahriman’s shining eyes.

  ‘I… I am Helio Isidorus.’

  Ahriman breathed out slowly.

  ‘Yes. You are.’

  Epilogue

  A Final Beginning

  I wondered if you would come here.+ The Oracle’s thought echoed across the spherical chamber. Ahriman did not look up as he crossed to stand at its centre. His head was bare, and each breath he took tasted different: smoke, burnt spice, and ozone warring in his senses. The walls were black stone, polished to a mirror shine so that they pulled reflections of him from the air. Some burned with haloes of luminous fire, some seemed to scream, and one was not looking at him. He did not let his eyes linger on them.

  Menkaura, the Oracle of Many Eyes, floated above him. Silver armour covered the Oracle’s body, its surface bright but reflecting nothing. A smooth, blank-fronted helm covered his head. Eyes spun about him in circular arcs. The iris of each eye was bright, vivid blue, and all of them were fixed on Ahriman.

  It has been a long time.+ The Oracle’s thought voice came from every direction.

  ‘Since we saw each other?’ Ahriman asked. ‘Or since the Banishment?’

  Both.+

  Ahriman nodde
d once, but remained silent. The Oracle’s eyes slowed in their orbits.

  You have been here before,+ said the Oracle. +We have met already, but while that meeting is in the past for you, it is in the future for me. That explains much. How many times have you come here?+

  Ahriman paused, and blinked slowly.

  ‘Twice.’

  Such is time. Mortals think it a river, but it is not. It is an ocean. An ocean twisted by storms, and churned by whirlpools. We meet in the future, but in the past that has already happened. Perhaps you are even here now because of what I said, but have not yet said. I see futures. I see them stretch into the dark, their golden threads ever thinning, ever tangling, and ever breaking. But if I watch from the past then what do I see? Past? Future? Neither?+

  ‘A fine explanation.’ Ahriman paused, the brief shadow of a smile forming at the edge of his mouth. ‘I will take your recitation of my own words as a compliment.’

  Take it as you will.+ The Oracle’s eyes paused, and then reversed direction. +You have questions.+

  ‘Who does not?’ he said.

  Questions have no cost, but truth must be paid for.+

  ‘It always must.’

  Silence and stillness formed in the chamber. Ahriman saw the pupils of the eyes narrow.

  You are not as I thought you would be, Ahriman.+

  ‘Time, Menkaura. Time and choices change everything.’

  Truth.+ The Oracle floated slightly closer to Ahriman. +Why are you here?+

  ‘I come for answers.’

  I am an Oracle.+ The thought voice was cold and emotionless. +Ask and I will answer.+

  Ahriman nodded.

  ‘What will happen now?’

  The Oracle’s eyes went still.

  Do you give your bond in payment?+

  Ahriman bowed his head.

  ‘I do.’

  As you wish,+ sent the Oracle.

  The eyes rolled in the air so that Ahriman could only see the vein-threaded whites. They began to turn, spinning on new paths and in patterns. Some began to burn, the jelly within cooking to steam, others crumpled into ash or swelled to bulging spheres. Every colour of pupil flashed past Ahriman, yellow split by black, red, black without edge or break. When the Oracle spoke, his thought voice was thin, as though it were calling from far away.