by John French
I… I cannot see…+
Ahriman shivered at the words. There was panic in them, the blind panic of a creature drowning in dark water. Threads of black tarnish spread across the mirror of Menkaura’s armour. He was vibrating in the air, his body flickering like a stuttering projection. Ice spread across Menkaura, cracking as it thickened and fell, flashing to steam before it hit the floor.
Ahriman!+ called Menkaura. +I cannot see!+ The Oracle was moving, juddering through the air, his hands opening and closing as they reached into emptiness. Shattered-glass images of dead futures exploded in Ahriman’s mind, spinning as they tumbled past without end.
Then sudden calm, and ringing silence.
Menkaura was shivering in the air, his orbiting eyes moving with weary slowness.
I cannot answer you,+ sent Menkaura, and the voice was filled with exhaustion. +Your future is closed to me. The paths you will walk are now the paths of thorns and shadow, and whether they will end with victory or defeat I cannot see.+
‘A question that cannot be answered is an answer in itself.’ Ahriman nodded, and turned to walk away. ‘You have my thanks, Oracle.’
If you find what you seek it will not be as you imagine,+ called Menkaura. Ahriman turned. The Oracle was rising higher, his eyes gliding in smooth orbits. +You were right. Time and choices leave nothing unchanged. You are not unchanged, Ahriman, and neither is your dream. You should not begin again without realising that.+
Ahriman paused.
‘You said that you cannot see what will happen. The future remains to be written.’
I do not foretell, Ahriman. This is not prophecy. I do not need to be able to see the future to speak truth.+
Ahriman stared at him for a long moment.
‘I apologise. I have not given payment for your answers.’
A sound shivered on the edge of Ahriman’s mind. It took him a second to realise it was a dry chuckle.
But you have, Ahriman, and you will. That I do know.+
Ahriman did not answer, but walked away. After several steps he felt the spherical chamber fade, the image of the floating Oracle a presence vanishing behind him. He did not look back, even when he heard Menkaura’s voice call to him out of the distance.
Good fortune, old friend. I will wait for us to meet again.+
Acknowledgements
The ending of a trilogy is the ending of a journey, and the longer the journey has been the more people you meet and the more people help you along the way. This has been a long journey, and so the roll call of thanks is also appropriately vast.
To Liz, for the infinite help.
To Christian Dunn, for giving me the chance to start this walk into the warp.
To Graeme Lyon and Nick Kyme, for bringing me over the finish line.
To my co-conspirators and fellow dream weavers: Graham McNeill, Chris Wraight, and Aaron Dembski-Bowden, for their inspiration and guidance.
To Ead Brown, Colin Goodwin, Trevor Larkin, and Greg Smith, for all their enthusiasm and support.
And now – for the sake of emphasis – a pause.
To the people of Black Library through the ages of this series: Sarah, Adam, Lynne, Karen, Rik, Christian, Ceri, George, Rachel, Ragnar, Nick, Eve, Stuart, Laurie, Lindsey, Michael, Claudia, Andy, James, Ash, Rosie, Stephanie, Darius, Emma, Amy, Adi, Ead, Carol, Neil, Mark, Caroline, Graeme, Matt, Anthony, Daniela, Vince, Chris, Mal, Phil, Ken, Eddie, Mike, and Tom, for the past five years.
Thank you all.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
About the Author
John French has written several Horus Heresy stories including the novellas Tallarn: Executioner and The Crimson Fist, the novel Tallarn: Ironclad, and the audio dramas Templar and Warmaster. He is the author of the Ahriman series, which includes the novels Ahriman: Exile, Ahriman: Sorcerer and Ahriman: Unchanged, plus a number of related short stories collected in Ahriman: Exodus, including ‘The Dead Oracle’ and ‘Hand of Dust’. Additionally for the Warhammer 40,000 universe he has written the Space Marine Battles novella Fateweaver, plus many short stories. He lives and works in Nottingham, UK.
An extract from Ahriman: Exodus.
The daemon rose through the night before me.
I knew I was dreaming. I could feel the unreal substance of it around me, as light as warm wind, as cold as deep oceans. I knew that anything I saw, or heard, was not real, and that kindled something close to fear in me.
Perhaps that surprises you, but dreams are not what you think. They are not your mind scrabbling through the detritus of experience. They are not the universe babbling meaning to you as you slumber. They are the point at which your soul meets all the truths you cannot see. A dream is the most dangerous place that you can go, and you go ignorant and unarmed.
I am not ignorant, and in the land of the mind I am far from unarmed.
But as I looked at the daemon I knew that something was wrong. Very wrong.
I have not dreamed for a thousand years. It is not something I can risk. It is not something I thought I was capable of anymore. And this was not simply a dream. It was a manifestation.
The daemon’s shape formed as it moved, smudging depth and substance from smoke. Its body resembled a feathered lizard. Nine short legs broke its flattened bulk, each toe tipped with a mouth and tongue. Its head was a cluster of snapping jaws, and slitted, yellow eyes. I could hear voices, laughter and pleading just on the edge of hearing.
I knew the daemon. It had been my hand that had unleashed this creature upon the Silvered Host at Cvenis, and seeded its soul parasite into Taragrth Sune. It had many names amongst mortals – Chel’thek, The Dragon of the Hundredth Gate, The Speaker of Infinity – but only I knew its true name, and so only I held its chain of slavery. Given that, and where my body lay, its presence was more than just a problem. It was a sign.
‘You,’ I said, my voice heavy with false authority, ‘are not supposed to be here.’
The daemon’s mouths clacked open and shut.
‘But I am, little mage,’ it breathed. ‘I am here.’
‘I have your name,’ I said. ‘Your passing is at my sufferance. You rise into being at my will.’
It laughed with the sound of cracking cartilage.
‘Command me then, half-mortal. Bid me back to the dark. The chains rust, and fire pours upon the days as yet unborn. The chiming of the broken bells calls this doom. The Three will defy your exodus. They will drag you apart from within, and eat your carcasses as they cool.’ It grinned with a thousand mouths. ‘You are hunted. You and your master.’
‘I have no master.’
Its laughter clattered out again, its flesh shivering beneath copper feathers.
This is the way of daemons. Like predators of old Terra, they posture, growl and magnify their appearance to cover weakness. But, like the growl of the wolf and the snarl of the lion, it is bravado that breathes from between sharp teeth.
‘Everything has a master,’ it smiled a wide, sagging smile. ‘But you are not mine.’
It had gone snake-still. I had to act now.
It burst towards me.
I began to form the thing’s name, reaching into the compartments of my mind to unlock, and combine each fragment.
‘Sah-sul’na’gu…’
The syllables sprayed from my lips, but the daemon was already lunging at me, its body growing as it moved. Its skin tore, arms reaching from within its swelling form. Fingers stretched and became razors of bone.
‘…th’nul’gu’shun-ignal…’
The skin of the dream clogged and stretched as I spoke. Sounds of tearing skin and weeping cries stole the daemon’s roar.
‘…g’shu’theth…’
Un-words poured from me. They burned in the idea of air. The daemon’s body began to crumble, skin and meat hissing to slime. Fles
h stripped from its reaching claw. The last component of its name unlocked in my mind.
‘…ul’suth’kal!’ I spat the last piece of it.
The daemon froze. Shivering in place, the edges shimmering to nothing.
‘You.’ The daemon’s voice hissed from its dissolving throat. ‘Are. Weak.’
‘Not yet,’ I said, and thrust it back into oblivion.
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