Path of the Incubus

by Andy Chambers

  ‘That’s right, I didn’t get a hundred scars in Necropolis street fights.’

  As with Bezieth the wrack’s methods were not kind but they were quickly effective. Raw wounds that were showing through Naxipael’s partially melted armour quickly scabbed over. Naxipael’s face took on a mask-like grimace of pain and he cursed volubly.

  ‘With respect,’ the wrack said deferentially, ‘this one would ask why no possessed were at the canal.’

  Bezieth regarded the wrack coolly for a moment before coming to a decision. ‘Because the big ones, which is to say the smarter ones, don’t stop for a feast as soon as they get inside the warding,’ she said, her eyes momentarily unfocused and distant with the memory. ‘They go deep and bury themselves somewhere where they can find sustenance, somewhere they can grow like a cancer.’ The wrack nodded while bowing and scraping so low that it was virtually banging its head on the tiles. Naxipael was muttering again as the scabs flaked off him to reveal patches of pink, new skin.

  ‘Xagor, isn’t it? Tell me about the weapon, Xagor,’ Bezieth said, looking at the rifle more closely. It was an ugly thing, owing more to the aesthetics of a butcher’s tool or a collection of tubes than the elegantly sculpted lines of a Commorrite weapon.

  ‘This device is called the hex-rifle, honoured one,’ the wrack said with some pride. ‘Acothyst’s weapon, Xagor found it in the processional among the entourage of Master Re’ryrinx. Most unfortunate.’

  ‘Never mind that. What does it fire?’

  ‘Cylinder impregnated with accelerated viral compound, normally Glass Plague. Xagor does not know what compound this device uses, perhaps mutagenic, perhaps not. Xagor has fired only one shot with it and suggests finding more test subjects for more accurate analysis.’

  ‘Well whatever it is it works, keep it by you in case we need it again,’ Bezieth said before pushing down her distaste and clapping the wrack on its leather-clad shoulder. ‘And nice shot, by the way.’

  Naxipael seemed more aware of his surroundings again, his cursing tailed off into a string of short expletives as he stood up somewhat shakily. He gave Bezieth a peculiar look and then shrugged painfully.

  ‘All right, Bezieth, I’ll listen to your suggestion of what to do next,’ Naxipael said with equanimity.

  ‘Then make for Sorrow Fell,’ Bezieth said, ‘and do it quickly.’

  ‘Reason?’

  ‘Things have been stable for a little while but that won’t last, it’ll get worse. Sorrow Fell surrounds Corespur and it’s the only tier that will be organised enough to survive the worst, Vect will keep it that way.’

  ‘You’re assuming our glorious and beloved Supreme Overlord has survived,’ Naxipael sneered. ‘Some revenant might be eating his entrails at this very moment.’

  ‘More likely some High Commorragh pureblood is trying to stick a knife in his back, but I don’t find either possibility very likely. Vect still lives, you know he does. When the universe ends Vect will still be alive in the nothingness that comes after, floating in an unbreachable bubble of his own deviousness and sense of self-satisfaction.’

  Naxipael scowled but didn’t deny it. Asdrubael Vect had ruled Commorragh with an iron fist for six millennia. The Supreme Overlord had maintained his rule through disasters, rebellions, civil wars, alien invasions and Dysjunctions before. If anything Vect seemed to thrive on the experience, emerging stronger and with notably fewer opponents after each one. Naxipael had to grant that Bezieth’s plan had merit, contrawise to ordinary times it would actually be wise to seek protection from Vect’s presence rather than stay away from it.

  Between them Bezieth and Naxipael managed to get the survivors moving again, haranguing them for their laziness and threatening the tardy with lurid punishments. There were three warriors left, each from three different lesser kabals so they watched each other suspiciously at all times. There were a pair of Ethondrian Seekers in maroon cloaks and hoods, their half-seen faces constantly questing back and forth like weasels. They stayed close together and guarded one another’s backs religiously. Finally there was the wrack and a ragged-looking sell-sword that she vaguely recognised.

  They were sullen and unwilling to move, but all of them understood the peril they were in and obeyed after some grumbling. Not much of a force to take into Sorrow Fell, Bezieth thought, but any of them that could make it through the ruins of Low Commorragh should be able to find ready employment among the high archons at a time like this. Ready employment and relative safety until the Dysjunction was over.

  At least so she hoped.

  The images on the wall flickered, and the soft, amber light in the room fluctuated unpredictably. Distant, disturbing sounds flickered at the edge of hearing (or perhaps the edge of consciousness) but they seemed reassuringly far away for the present. It was still possible for the occupants of the chamber to set concerns of the Dysjunction aside for a moment and concentrate on their vital work.

  One of the images was briefly outlined and expanded to fill the wall, the face of a somewhat slack jawed, flat-faced, raven-haired specimen of Commorrite nobility. One of the room’s occupants spoke up as twisting skeins of data unfurled around the image.

  ‘This is Kvaisor Yllithian, eleventh sibling on the Mol’zinyear branch, my archon.’

  ‘Too ugly,’ the room’s only other occupant snapped. ‘Next.’

  A different image promptly replaced the first, this one closely resembled Nyos Yllithian save for a certain dissipated look and what looked to be a permanently distracted expression.

  ‘Razicik Yllithian, seventy-third sibling on the Vatinyr branch, my archon.’

  ‘Seventy-third? Are you insane?’

  ‘There is a strong matrilineal quantum on the Vatinyr side of the family, my archon.’

  ‘You are insane. Next.’

  Face after face, name after name. All of them sharp featured, haughty, gazing at the viewer with naked contempt. There were certainly variations: pallid skins and dark ones, flamboyantly flowing manes or close cropped skull-caps, but every face bore a familial resemblance to Nyos Yllithian that was unmistakable. The master haemonculus Bellathonis stood nearby, scrolling through the ancient records of the noble house of Yllithian as they attempted to find a suitable candidate.

  Despite all of the haemonculus’s allegedly best efforts Yllithian was still dying. The Glass Plague was mutating aggressively, marching across his skin like a conquering army. His hands could no longer grip, his legs could not walk and he could only speak thanks to a succession of temporary skin grafts and devices. The plague had bound itself inside Yllithian’s own body in a way that made it impossible to completely eradicate. Perhaps as little as days remained to him but he’d thought it would be enough time to find the right individual to use as his successor. A message he had just received denied him even that, now he had only hours.

  ‘What about that one?’

  ‘Zarils Yllithian, second sibling on the Oanisis branch, my archon. According to this you strangled him with your own hands and then cast his body into the void.’

  ‘Ah yes. I knew there was a reason he looked so promising.’

  ‘If I may make a suggestion, my archon?’

  ‘You may,’ Yllithian sighed. ‘Apparently I shan’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Nothing too pressing on my mind.’

  ‘Well quite. It strikes me that with the limited time we have available it may be best to set aside aesthetic concerns and concentrate on finding a… robust enough character to survive the transmigration of power. Physical appearance is, after all, mutable,’ Bellathonis smiled his disturbingly shark-like smile at this and cocked his head to show off his own sharply altered profile with its long, pointed chin and hooked nose. ‘No additional charge, of course.’

  ‘The face and the blood is everything, Bellathonis,’ Yllithian told him pedantically. ‘I would be a fool to trust my household’s futur
e to the vagaries of your knives however talented you may claim them to be. This must be perfection itself.’

  Asdrubael Vect, the Supreme Overlord had called a convocation of the surviving archons. Any kabal that failed to send its leader to the Corespur forthwith would be judged rebellious and destroyed on sight. Vect must be desperate if he was taking such steps, or so Nyos fervently hoped. Unfortunately attending the convocation in his current state would be worse than suicide and so for the sake of the noble house of Yllithian he must find a successor.

  ‘Well if the face must take precedence then the blood must suffer,’ Bellathonis continued smoothly. ‘That, too can always be rectified, of course.’

  ‘You make your points with the subtlety of a pit slave, Bellathonis, do you know that? I just find it hard to believe that among my vast, extended and frankly bloated bloodline not one of them is suitable to take my place.’

  ‘If I may say so, at the risk of exhibiting the subtlety of a pit slave once again, you may have been entirely too successful in securing your own position to leave any viable contenders for your replacement. More bluntly still – you already killed them all. Furthermore these are only the blood-kin in the fortress itself. So many are missing in the Dysjunction that the pool is distinctly shallow at present.’

  ‘Tell me again why you aren’t growing me a new body right now.’

  ‘Aside from the fantastically high chance it would be subject to possession at a time of Dysjunction, my archon? The other reason is that it could not possibly be ready in time. A third reason, if you desire it, is that it would have to be vat-grown and you have already made your feelings on that subject perfectly clear.’

  Yllithian snarled something incomprehensible.

  ‘I’m sorry, my archon, could you repeat that?’

  ‘I said send for young Razicik then, currently seventy-third in line to absolutely nothing. His fortunes are about to change drastically.’

  CHAPTER 9

  The Hunters

  Morr and Motley descended through the banks of mist until it became a low overcast above their heads. In the valley before them the shrine of Arhra rose tier upon tier to where its conical spires vanished into the golden haze. Pillars and archways of obsidian clustered upon its faces in dizzying profusion, all enwrapped by trailing nets of parasitic vines and extravagantly flowering greenery. A heavy, humid atmosphere hung about the place creating thin tendrils of mist that flowed from the darkened entrances and down its cracked steps. Plinths dividing the steps at irregular intervals bore eroded statues; some of the carvings still recognisable as warriors and beasts while others formed bizarre and otherworldly shapes born of madness and decay.

  The land surrounding the shrine gleamed with low-lying waters. The rearing shapes of mangroves bearded with hanging streamers of moss and lichen jutted out of the murk. Insects buzzed industriously and a few winged shapes wheeled high above. Beyond these few signs of life no other creatures were to be seen near the shrine. A pregnant sense of watchfulness pervaded it as if hidden eyes gazed upon the newcomers from its deeply shadowed recesses.

  ‘Here I was reborn,’ intoned Morr with reverence. ‘The child that escaped the prison of its birth learned the true path to destiny and honour in this place.’

  Motley glanced at the incubus with frank surprise but did not speak. Morr’s words were clearly not intended for him and to respond to them might only drive the incubus back into his shell. It was remarkable enough that this living weapon had found a voice of its own if only for a moment. Morr hefted his blade and strode away, picking his way over mossy stones towards a causeway that led across the swamp. The path was treacherous in the extreme but Morr never so much as glanced downward. His gaze was locked on the distant spires of the shrine. Motley skipped after the incubus with his heart full of foreboding.

  ‘Morr… Does it strike you as unusual that this place does not appear to have been affected by the Dysjunction in any way?’

  Morr seemed puzzled by the question. ‘Why should it be? There is no direct connection to Commorragh.’

  ‘True, but the effects of the Dysjunction are being propagated elsewhere throughout the webway, I would expect to see… to feel some evidence of its impact even here.’

  ‘Many are the shrines to Arhra, but it said that he gave up his mortality in this place, and that this shrine was forged from his flesh and bones. His spirit is certainly strong here, perhaps it is strong enough to protect the shrine.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s it… I, well I’m sure that you’re correct.’

  Morr halted and swivelled to regard Motley balefully. ‘You sound as though you fear some lurking corruption. There is nothing to fear in this place for those who come to it untainted by weakness.’

  ‘Weakness in this case including concepts such as empathy, charity or mercy I would imagine,’ Motley replied somewhat tartly. Morr only grunted in response before turning back to continue his journey.

  As he did so he stopped short. A figure now stood on the causeway ahead of them, waiting. It was clad in green-black armour and rested a double-handed klaive on the ground before it. After a moment Morr addressed the apparition cautiously.

  ‘Greetings, brother, I seek passage to the shrine. Have you come forth to greet us?’

  The figure remained silent and made no movement, it may as well have been carven of green-black stone for all the signs of life it betrayed.

  ‘If you will not speak then stand aside and let us pass, or there will be a passage of arms between us that you may regret.’

  By way of reply the figure swung its weapon to a guard position. Morr automatically reflected the movement by raising his own klaive in both hands and taking a step forward.

  ‘Are you sure you are entirely welcome in your old haunts, Morr?’ Motley asked impertinently from behind him. ‘This fellow seems to think you are not.’ A short, curved blade and a long, elegant pistol had appeared in the harlequin’s hands as if by magic.

  ‘Stay out of this, little clown,’ Morr warned as he continued to advance on the silent sentinel.

  A battle between two incubi is a formidable sight to behold. Both wear armour capable of warding off any but the strongest blows, yet they wield weapons capable of tearing through that self-same armour like paper. Against skilled but lesser armoured opponents an incubus must fight warily – constantly on the move, feinting and shifting to keep their comparatively slow, heavy klaive balanced and ready to unleash a killing strike. Against a horde of unskilled foes an incubus can concentrate on maintaining a steady rhythm, overpowering and overawing their enemies before they use their weight of numbers to advantage. In either case the incubus can rely also on fists, knees and feet to deal crippling damage, moves that against a fellow incubus would leave them as a pile of severed limbs in moments.

  Between two incubi the contest becomes one more of speed, strength and endurance. They trade blows and counters faster than the eye can follow, each swing perfectly directed at a vulnerable spot, most often the wrists, head or neck. Each parry must be delivered with just enough power to deflect a descending klaive but not so much that the defender overextends and drops their guard to the inevitable counter swing. Maintaining the momentum of the moving blades while interweaving strikes and parries is key, the first fighter to slow or falter is apt to lose their head.

  Morr and his opponent stood almost toe-to-toe, their klaives carving glittering arcs as they swept together, clashed and whirled away to attack again. Morr used his greater height to rain down blows like thunderbolts, causing his enemy to sway and finally take a step back to escape from beneath the storm. His foe responded by redoubling his attack and unleashed a rapid series of eviscerating strikes from left and right.

  Morr was put on the defensive, his grip spaced widely on his klaive as he blocked one strike after another. Suddenly the towering incubus was staggered by an unexpected overhead swing that he ba
rely managed to block with his upraised klaive. Morr fell back a pace and his opponent rushed forward to keep up the pressure, hammering at his guard without respite.

  Morr’s klaive flicked out to snare his advancing foe’s weapon with its hooked tip as he tried to buy time to recover. Instantly both warriors spun their klaives to gain the necessary leverage to drag their opponent’s weapon out of their hands. Neither of them succeeded but Morr’s opponent momentarily lost control of his klaive as it was flung outward from his body. Morr’s recovery was quicker and he instantly slammed a blow into his enemy with his full weight behind it. His opponent blocked the strike just in time, but could not fully deflect it. The two warriors were left locked blade to crackling blade for instant before, with a mighty heave of his shoulders, Morr hurled his enemy back with brute strength alone.

  The other incubus was thrown off his feet but reacted with cat-like quickness by rolling into a crouch. Morr’s klaive sang as it flashed down, being only partially deflected by a weak, cross-armed parry before its hooked tip gouged into his opponent’s thigh. Morr tugged the blade free in a shower of armour fragments and gore, leaving red ruin in its wake. His foe lurched up to make a desperate riposte that Morr caught easily on his klaive. He stripped the blade from his opponent’s grasp with a practiced twist, leaving the other incubus completely defenceless.

  Morr swung again without hesitation, a horizontal cut at the neck with every ounce of his weight and every iota of his strength behind it. The other incubus had been raising his arms, perhaps in an effort to catch the swinging blade, or to ward off the blow or perhaps even to plead for mercy. It mattered not one jot. The monomolecular edge of the klaive flared with power as it crashed through both armoured wrists and neck without slowing. A handless, headless puppet sprayed crimson as it toppled to the causeway with its strings cut. The helmed head clattered down several yards away and rolled, splashing tiny carmine spirals in its wake.