[Dawn of War 03] - Tempest

by C. S. Goto - (ebook by Undead)

  The rest of the surviving Prodigal Sons had already left the librarium, clearing the worst of the carnage away so that their venerated leader might study the secrets of the ancient eldar tomes in peace. Ahriman had sent two of them on an errand, directing them down into the lowest vaults of the librarium, hidden within the foundations of the tower, where he thought that they might find the fabled Arcadian web-maps, allegedly drawn up by the Harlequin troupes as they flittered and darted throughout the galaxy.

  You wish to know what I am reading!

  Standing in the heavy shadow of one of the book-stacks, hidden from the ruby light of the suns, I had said nothing and Ahriman had not looked up.

  You cannot resist the question can you, friend of Ahriman ? I can feel the interrogation in your mind. Why do you not ask?

  I stepped out of the shadow, letting the blood-drenched light of the triple suns flood over me and transform my armour into an imperial purple. “Why did you hang the mime?”

  It was of no further use.

  He didn’t move, but just carried on studying the page. It was as though my question meant nothing at all. I felt a wash of disapproval and disappointment flow out of the great sorcerer. That is not the most interesting question, friend of Ahriman.

  “You wish me to ask about what it said?”

  No. The content of its speech was never the point of this experiment. You know this. Ahriman lifted his head slightly, showing me the wide-eyed, vacant horror of his shifting mask. As I looked, the patterns on his face seemed to swim and then whirl abruptly back into a conventional shape, resembling human features once again. He smiled faintly, as though aware that it might be an appropriate expression. Knowledge is its own goal, my friend. Once it is achieved, its means become irrelevant.

  Looking up from the ghastly visage of the sorcerer, I watched the eviscerated and ruined shape of the half-stripped mime as it swung gently, blood still running down its body and dripping from its toes. I felt no sympathy for the alien creature—its very existence felt deeply offensive in ways that I did not feel needed to be rationalised. There was not even anything particularly repulsive about the violence that had been done to the creature’s body; although I could not remember the details, I was sure that I had seen far more terrible mutilations of life-forms for which I had some measure of sympathy in the past. However, something in my soul rebelled against the scene.

  “Knowledge is power, Ahriman, and power brings responsibility.” Your actions show the mark of arbitrariness, not responsibility. I realised that this was what I found discomforting. “Your experiment served no purpose. Knowing that the mime can speak but asking it no questions is an exploitation of your power, not a use of it.”

  The formulaic smile cracked a little wider, as though genuine amusement had suddenly worked its way into the sorcerer’s expression. Exploitation depends on your point of view, friend. Your exploitation is my use, it seems. Power and knowledge intermix and co-substantiate each other: knowledge is power, as you, of all people, know very well. Power is the employment of knowledge—of what use is knowledge if it remains passive and unexercised? It withers into impotence. We must test our knowledge with our power at every opportunity; how else will you know the truth of your theories? Your exploitation is my science.

  “I am not sure that I appreciate this science of exploitation, Ahriman.”

  Your uncertainty demands a test of its own! This is precisely the point—your questions define your quest for certainties. Which brings us back to the matter at hand: what is it that you want to ask of me now?

  I hesitated, unsure that my concerns had really been addressed. “I assume that your book is The Legend of Lanthrilaq. I further assume that you are searching for clues about the possible location of the lost blade-wraith. My question, naturally, is whether you are having any success?”

  Success is the result of tests, my friend, not of theories—as we have just been discussing. But I have the suggestion of a theory; it is beginning to take shape into something that can be tested. Ahriman’s smile broadened.

  Gabriel pushed himself out of the sand and rose to his feet, turning immediately to see the wreckage of the crashed Thunderhawk erupt into flames. The nose of the once-glorious gunship was buried in the desert, and its rear stuck up into the air, venting fire and flame. A deep channel had been cut into the surface of the desert where the Thunderhawk had ploughed down into the sand, skidding and digging its way to a gradual, fiery standstill. Sweeping his eyes around the surrounding terrain, Gabriel could see the glints of red armour that identified Corallis, Ephraim and the massive form of Tanthius, their shapes obscured against the radiance of the triple suns that were dropping towards the horizon behind them. The blue of the Librarians, purpled by the red suns, shone from various points in the desert. The squad had bailed out of the gunship just as it hit the ground, tumbling and rolling through the sand. Now they were dispersed along the impact trail of the flaming vessel.

  “Report,” said Gabriel, punching the side of his helmet as the vox-bead whistled and hissed in protest. “Ravens, report,” he repeated.

  The only response was the crackling and howling of static.

  A series of dark specks appeared on the horizon, like sunspots on the surfaces of the three local stars, distracting Gabriel for a moment. He stared into the blinding, ruddy light of the suns, watching the tiny movements of shadow shift slightly. They grew almost imperceptibly larger as he watched. Whatever they were, they were speeding towards the crash, low and fast over the desert, coming out of the suns as though to hide their approach. They were too low to be the Nightwings or Ravens returning.

  Dropping his eyes back into the desert, Gabriel saw that the other Blood Ravens had also spotted the skimmer vehicles on the horizon. Tanthius, Corallis and Ephraim had already formed a firing line, with the towering form of the Terminator armour looming up behind the Scout and the Techmarine.

  Over to the east, the cadre of three Librarians had shaped up into a loose formation; Gabriel could see traces of crackling blue energy enshrouding the group like an aura of power. He nodded silently to himself, realising how privileged he was to have three Librarians of the Order Psykana with him. It was not unusual for Blood Ravens combat squads to include one or more Librarians, and there were even occasions on which the Chapter could field entire squadrons of these magnificent psykers.

  Gabriel himself had once authorised a strike force of Psykana Librarians to raid an immobilised dark eldar cruiser on the edges of the Circuitrine nebula—the then youthful Jonas Urelie had led the mission. However, concentrations of Order Psykana Librarians very rarely formed within normal combat groupings—their mysterious and secretive order reserved the right to organise itself into battle formations when the need was dire. It was no secret that the Order defined dire need in slightly different terms from the rest of the Chapter. Hence, Gabriel felt the privilege of their presence and the awe of their coordinated and glorious power. Gabriel… The thoughts died almost as soon as they entered his head.

  Taldeer! She was still alive. Turning his attention to the downed wreckage of the Thunderhawk, Gabriel saw the flames licking out of every crack and gash, and thick, black smoke billowing out of the engines. They had left the eldar seer strapped into a crash harness as the gunship had dug down into the sand, thinking her dead.

  Gabriel. There was hardly any strength in the thought at all, and Gabriel found himself unmoved. He gazed over at the smouldering wreck and performed a mental calculation. Although he was no Techmarine, he was reasonably certain that a Thunderhawk that had sustained that much damaged, including a critical impact to the engine block, would explode within a few minutes. He reasoned that they had abandoned the gunship nearly two minutes before, which meant that the explosion was probably imminent.

  As the sound of Tanthius’ storm bolter barked through the desert air, followed by the distinctive rattle of Corallis’ and Ephraim’s bolters, Gabriel realised that even he had to draw a line somewhere. He
had spent so long trying to convince his battle-brothers to follow his unconventional instincts, and therefore to follow this eldar seer, that he had almost forgotten his own disdain for the alien.

  The battle cries of the rest of the Blood Ravens broke through into Gabriel’s helmet, crackling and hissing with intermittency and static as his vox-bead spluttered unreliably. He could hear the thunder in Tanthius’ voice and he could imagine the fury of power being unleashed by the knot of Psykana Librarians. In the background, he was also aware of the sleet of tiny shuriken projectiles being loosed by the speeding Vypers as they flashed out of the suns. But he did not look round; his eyes were fixed on the inferno that was gathering in the downed Thunderhawk, enshrouding the dying eldar seer in a thick death-mask of smoke and toxins. In a moment of self-knowledge he realised that he was not going to save the alien witch, and that he would be wrong to try.

  “Venoms.” The word hissed and whistled through the vox, and this time Gabriel turned in time to see a squadron of skimmers pass between the two groupings of Blood Ravens, splintering off into two streams, one banking to the left and the other to the right, each circling around to get behind their targets and to separate their fire.

  The skimmers looked similar to eldar Vypers, except that they were daubed with the vulgar, multicoloured patterns that had distinguished the Nightwings and Ravens, marking them out as Harlequin vehicles. As he watched them speed through the gusts of sand that blew across the desert, Gabriel realised that it was hard to calculate exactly where they were. Despite the garish colours, their outlines seemed vague and hazy, as though they were indistinct or improperly resolved.

  Volleys of bolter fire from the Blood Ravens sliced through them, making the Venoms flicker like projections but failing to make any impact on the skimmers themselves. The sleek vessels obviously employed some kind of holo-field to disrupt their shape.

  A spluttering eruption turned Gabriel’s attention back towards the downed Thunderhawk and the helpless, dying thought of Taldeer.

  Gabriel.

  It was little more than a rasping whisper at the back of his mind as the engines finally detonated, blowing the exposed rear of the gunship apart and drilling its prow even deeper into the sand. Massive chunks of metallic debris were thrown out of the wreckage, like molten rock from a volcano, and smaller shards of red-hot shrapnel were sent sizzling through the desert air, radiating from the blast in the midst of the concussive wave of pressure.

  As the debris rattled against his armour, Gabriel silenced his mind for a moment half-wondering whether Taldeer’s thoughts would still be there. But there was only a faint silvering voice in the silence—it was a gentle and angelic tone, and Gabriel had heard it many times before. He closed his eyes for a second, letting the soaring, pristine tones of the silver choir fill his soul. Just as the immaculate light rose into his eyes, the voices turned to screams and the silver started to run with blood.

  Gabriel snapped open his eyes, wild and fierce, immediately clamping them onto the tempest of flames, smoke and molten metal that was once his Thunderhawk. Somewhere in that inferno, the eldar seer had died, having been rendered bloodied and ruined to bring the Blood Ravens to this place. He had left her for dead: death to the alien. Something in his soul rang hollow as his thoughts gave voice to the ancient and indisputable mantra.

  Without another word, I turned away from the grinning sorcerer and walked back into the heavy shadows of the aisles between the book stacks. For several minutes, I walked in silence letting the fecund atmosphere of erudition gradually overcome the confusion and anger that Ahriman had instilled into my mind. Something deep within me stirred and arose in opposition to the sorcerer’s manner and his reasoning, but I could not find the words to express my opposition. And without the right words, a scholar’s opposition is meaningless—I would be left merely with my sword, which is nothing but a vulgar and primitive substitute, a rearrangement of words. Yet I was the sword of Vidya, and Vairocanum felt reassuringly solid on my back. I knew that I could confront Ahriman’s logic. I knew it with the kind of certainty that could only have been born out of rehearsal and accomplishment. The flaws in his thinking jabbed at my mind, prodding my subconscious to remember the appropriate retorts and rebuttals. I had been trained to combat this approach to knowledge; the synapses in my brain had become hardwired into adamant opposition. But I simply could not remember what to say. Memories stirred without ever really reaching resolution; they shifted and swam; falling in and out of focus like the Harlequin troupers that had danced and died amongst these very books.

  At random, I stopped and pulled down a book from the shelf nearest to me. It was the action of indolence, little more than a reflex in the presence of books. I didn’t even look at the cover, but just stood turning the book in my hands, as though it were a prop to help me think.

  Knowledge is power. The Harlequins guard it with their lives, and Ahriman seeks it at the cost of their lives. The Harlequins die, knowledge is transferred, but at what cost to Ahriman? What does he trade for his knowledge and his power? Surely he must sacrifice something for this gain?

  What is loss and what is gain? Turn it on its head again and again. Both will result in agony and pain.

  The thoughts came from everywhere at once, whirling around my head and making me spin on my heel. My eyes twitched and scanned the bookstacks, searching for a Prodigal Son Marine, or even for Ahriman himself. But something told me that the thoughts were not human—even less human than the thoughts of Ahriman.

  Can you see without looking and know without thought? You spin and turn like the kinsmen you fought. In a web of confusion I see you are caught.

  “Who are you?” I hissed, trying not to raise my voice for fear that I would be overheard.

  Who are you? That’s a better question.

  I turned again and again, sweeping my eyes through the shelves and pouring my consciousness down the shadowy aisles, searching for a shape or a movement. But there was nothing. Instinctively, I reached over my shoulder and clasped the hilt of Vairocanum, pulling it gently and silently over my head.

  With a sword in one hand and in the other a book, like a vision of justice and valour you look. Did your Emperor look thus when the galaxy he shook?

  “Enough riddles. Show yourself. My patience ran into frustration, but something told me that I should not call for assistance from the other Marines. My Emperor. I am an Angel of Death—Adeptus Astartes. I am the sword of Vidya.

  Why are you here, Angel of Death? As the thoughts appeared, so a figure stepped out of the shadows into the faint light between the stacks. It was a Harlequin, but unlike any of those that I had seen. Its face swam like a prehistoric ocean, cycling through primeval emotions and projecting them into terrible expressions. It swayed and moved, as though constitutionally unable to remain still. If anything, it showed even more grace and innate elegance than the other Harlequins I had killed that day.

  I slid Vairocanum out in front of me, letting its faintly glowing blade define the space between us, keeping the alien at a distance while I weighed up its intent.

  Ah, Vairocanum. I have not seen this blade in many centuries.

  The thoughts startled me and I felt my eyes widen.

  How sad to see it broken now, like the blade of Lanthrilaq himself. I remember when it was glorious and whole, slicing through the silvering hordes with untempered fury. I remember it in the hands of Lavena the Joyful… before she fell into tragedy.

  “Who are you?” The question was the most powerful demand I could make.

  Who are you? Who am I? I have many names amongst the sons and daughters of Isha. The rillietann call me Karebennian, so here on Arcadia that will suffice as my name.

  The name set bells ringing in my ruined memory. When I had first seen Ahriman in the desert, he had been performing some kind of rite using a book. My mind’s eye scanned back through the images stored in my short-term memory: The Tome of Karebennian. It was a legendary guidebook, supposedly cont
aining a description of one of the routes to the fabled Black Library itself. Ahriman had found it and used it to get to Arcadia. Was this the author of the Tome of Karebennian?

  You have heard of my book, Angel of Death ? I had thought it lost long ago. Many of your lifetimes have passed since it was taken from me by a sorcerer who is not unknown to you. I thought that it would have taken him longer to understand it well enough to find his way here.

  “You speak of Ahriman?”

  That is what I called him then and I believe it is his name still. Are you a friend to this Ahriman?

  The words were rich with suggestions, leading my suspicions in many directions at once. I could not fathom the motives of this quizzical and dire alien. Its question brought my own doubts home to me.

  Am I a friend of Ahriman? He had called me that so often that part of my mind had made its peace with the idea. Yet the prodding of this alien awoke me to my credulity. “I do not remember knowing him well enough to call myself his friend.”

  Do you stand with him, Sword of Vidya?

  As I considered the various possible implications of the question, I heard heavy footfalls approaching through the aisles behind me. Keeping Vairocanum outstretched before me, I turned to glance back over my shoulder. There was nobody there, but the footsteps grew louder and closer. Turning back again, Karebennian was gone. I stood with Vairocanum held forth at nothing more than a patch of shadow.

  What are you looking for, friend of Ahriman?

  It was the great sorcerer himself.

  Flipping my blade into its sheath, I turned on my heels to face Ahriman as his heavy footsteps brought him striding up the aisle towards me. Instinctively, I flicked open the book that I had been gripping in my hand, and I looked up from its pages in affected surprise.

  “There is much of value and interest in this place, Ahriman. I am an explorer of knowledge, just like you.”

  Just like me? The thoughts were tinged with mirth and scepticism. Indeed. So, my young friend, what have you found in this labyrinth of treasures?