Path of the Incubus

by Andy Chambers

  The entire relationship of the incubi to the myriad other entities in Commorragh’s power structure would be irrevocably altered in either case, the brotherhood would be weakened, fractured by the schisms already becoming apparent. Better if the problem simply didn’t exist at all, then the hierarch’s judgment could never be questioned.

  ‘I see it now,’ Morr said to Motley. ‘To save the brotherhood I must be destroyed. Not for the sake of honour or vengeance, but for convenience.’

  ‘Oh Morr,’ Motley replied sadly. ‘You’ll always find such noble concepts as honour become increasingly rare as you ascend through the ranks. The pursuit of power virtually requires the abandonment of resolution for pragmatism, cooperation for coercion and principle for convenience. Sadly it’s the way of these things.’

  Morr tore his gaze away from the figure of Drazhar, still patiently waiting, to regard the slight figure in motley beside him.

  ‘Now will you please come with me to Lileathanir?’ Motley asked somewhat petulantly. ‘You did agree to do it if you survived coming to the shrine and look – here were we are, surviving.’

  After a moment Morr turned back to face the master of blades. ‘Survival alone is not enough,’ Morr said slowly. ‘I learned this on Ushant before I ever saw the wider universe. Life without purpose has no intrinsic value.’

  ‘You have a purpose! You can save Commorragh from the Dysjunction!’

  ‘No.’ Morr intoned as his blank-faced helm swiveled back to Motley. The bloodstone tusks of Morr’s helm suddenly flared with ruby energy that burst upon the unsuspecting harlequin in a tsunami of red-edged pain. Caught completely unawares by the treacherous strike Motley fell to the flagstones twisting in agony. Every nerve was jangling as if fire raced along it. Paralysed, Motley could only look on with anguished horror as the towering incubus bent over him.

  ‘My path is clear to me now. Farewell, Motley.’

  Kharbyr shot the first black and purple figure he saw then ran forward to plunge his blade into another that was leaning over the battlements to shoot. He caught sight of Bezieth hacking her way into a group of three, the gore flying from her djin-blade as it sheared through armour and flesh. He just had time to think that they had the numbers over the Azkhorxi before one of them almost skewered him with rifle-blade. He twisted aside from the thrusting point and shot the owner in the face. Murder-lust gripped Kharbyr as he jammed the curved half-metre of razor sharp metal that was his own blade up under the warrior’s chin and into their brain. He pulled the blade free in a shower of crimson before plunging it beneath the warrior’s chest plate again and again.

  Something slammed into Kharbyr’s shoulder, instantly knocking the breath out of him. Pain lanced through his nervous system like white fire, ripping a horrific scream from his lungs. Kharbyr wheeled around to see another warrior in black and purple calmly shooting into the melee from a short distance away. Kharbyr’s pistol hand shook as if he were palsied, but he raised it and shot back wildly in desperation. The warrior collapsed as if poleaxed – cut down by either Kharbyr’s uncertain rounds or someone else’s blind shot in the whickering crossfire. Suddenly it seemed there were no more black and purple warriors left standing. Naxipael’s ragtag clique had triumphed again. Kharbyr’s knees buckled beneath him as poison raced through his veins.

  Xagor was at his side almost before he could draw breath for another scream. The wrack still laid his stupid rifle down with the most infuriating care before looking at Kharbyr’s wound. Xagor’s bird-like metal claw clamped onto Kharbyr’s shoulder authoritatively and elicited a blistering series of imprecations from him.

  ‘Kharbyr squirms like a child,’ Xagor admonished. ‘Only splinter-kissed, no major tissue loss.’

  ‘Poison you idiot!’ Khabryr shrieked. ‘I’m poisoned!’

  Xagor had produced an ugly-looking metal syringe in his gloved hand. The wrack made a disparageing noise as he dug its thick needle around in the wound.

  ‘Bloodsong and sournyl – neurotoxins like faerun, but cheap and nasty,’ the wrack said with elaborate disdain. ‘Easily fixed.’

  The fire in Kharbyr’s veins was abruptly washed away as if by a dash of ice water. In the aftermath of it his limbs started trembling and his shoulder began to ache abominably. The wrack sprayed some sort of sealant over the wound to prevent it bleeding.

  ‘Xagor thinks Kharbyr needs to wear armour in future,’ Xagor suggested. Kharbyr treated him to a withering look in return.

  ‘Armour won’t save you from anything that’ll kill outright,’ Kharbyr replied through gritted teeth. ‘Being quick on your feet will!’ It was something of a personal philosophy for him, but it was rapidly assuming the dimensions of a full and comprehensive explanation for his dislike of being weighed down. Xagor made the disparageing noise again.

  ‘Kharbyr trusts his skills too much, skill cannot protect against luck. Fate is stronger.’

  The wrack picked up his rifle and hurried off to tend more of the injured. Kharbyr sat up cautiously and looked about him. The meeting of the two sections of the steps had formed another broad courtyard with a row of gun metal teeth across it. To either side broad archways led away into parkland. Judging by the scatter of bodies the Hy’kranii had taken the worst of the casualties in the Azkhorxi attack. The survivors from Metzuh had lost just one of their number, some nameless warrior lay nearby torn in two by a disintegrator blast. The archons Bezieth and Naxipael had a prisoner, or rather an enemy who hadn’t died of his injuries yet. Kharbyr edged a little closer to better overhear their questioning.

  ‘Who holds the other steps?’ Bezieth shouted, one foot on the prisoner’s chest.

  ‘Take a ride up and find out!’ the prisoner managed to spit before his voice rose in a yell of agony. ‘I don’t know! Archon Jhyree sent us to seize the lower steps from the Hy’kranii.’

  ‘Oh? And why should she do that?’ Naxipael asked almost gently. ‘Was she under orders from Corespur?’

  ‘Ask him why!’ the prisoner shrieked, gesturing towards Kharbyr. Both archons glanced at him with disturbing intensity as he struggled to make sense of the accusation. He realised that the prisoner was indicating not him but a Hy’kranii warrior in ornate armour standing nearby. Judging by his green and bronze battle gear this was a dracon or at least a trueborn kabalite. He was probably the one in charge of the guards on the first step that had joined themselves to Naxipael. The Venom Brood archon arched his brows inquiringly. The dracon, if such he was, shuffled his feet a little uncomfortably at all the attention he was suddenly getting.

  ‘Well?’ Naxipael prompted. ‘And why is it we should we ask you, Sotha?’

  Dracon Sotha shrugged expansively. ‘Archon Osxia held the view that Metzuh was already lost and had plans afoot to quarantine the whole tier.’

  ‘Hmm, quarantine sounds like a nice euphemism doesn’t it?’ Naxipael mused to Bezieth. ‘We can safely assume Osxia means “lock it down until everyone inside is dead” by that.’

  ‘Osxia is slippery and has no love for Metzuh,’ replied Bezieth, ‘but I’ll wager there’s more to it than our new friend here is letting on.’

  The half-forgotten prisoner beneath Bezieth’s heel was laughing, a horrible choking sound as he drowned in his own fluids. ‘You should tell them the rest!’ the prisoner coughed. ‘It’s a fine jest and well-deserved.’

  ‘What did you do, Sotha?’ Naxipael’s tone was icy.

  ‘I did nothing!’ the dracon spluttered. ‘Osxia sent the word to Vect, I had no part of it.’

  ‘What word?’

  ‘That Metzuh was completely lost and… needed to be purged.’

  The prisoner laughed again, blood bubbling from his mouth in a pink froth. ‘We intercepted your messenger!’ he babbled in a rush of words. ‘We sent it upward with an addition of our own and now Vect thinks Hy’kran is lost too. You’re all as good as dead!’ The prisoner coughed
, convulsed and then loudly expired with wild laughter etched on his blood-flecked lips.

  Bezieth and Naxipael exchanged an inscrutable glance before stepping away from the corpse of the prisoner to discuss the revelation with more privacy. Kharbyr could guess what they were thinking. If the Supreme Overlord received word that entire tiers of low Commorragh were lost he would activate certain ancient failsafes. These served to lock areas off from the rest of the city with impenetrable fields of energy. Vect had used them before when incursions from beyond the veil grew to the point where they threatened the city.

  Assuming the outer wardings held the entities would be trapped, growing progressively weaker as they destroyed all the living creatures capable of sustaining them. When the time was ripe the overlord’s forces would re-enter the sealed area and make it a point to hunt down anyone still alive on the not unreasonable assumption that they must have been possessed to survive. Talon Cyriix had met a similar fate back in the day when one of its archons decided that allying with daemons was a good way to overthrow the Supreme Overlord.

  That was if the outer wardings held. If they didn’t then the sealed areas would become living hells like accursed Shaa-dom – lost forever to the anarchic energies of the void. Would Asdrubael Vect even get the message? If he did, would he believe it? Kharbyr had no clue, but the great tyrant had a well-deserved reputation for ruthlessness that would certainly encompass sealing off whole tiers of the city if he believed they constituted a threat. He caught sight of Xagor returning from tending the other injured, the wrack glared with professional disdain at the corpse of the prisoner as he passed it.

  ‘Amateur talents,’ Xagor sniffed quietly as he looked at the archons still deep in conference.

  ‘They got what they needed,’ Kharbyr said. ‘Apparently word has gone up to the tyrant to seal off both Metzuh and Hy’kran.’ Xagor shivered visibly at the thought.

  ‘Lies come easily from dying lips,’ Xagor said. ‘The master teaches us to return to the same question over and again without death interceding.’

  ‘I’m sure he does, but right now even the possibility that it’s true is enough to kill us all, so in this case I’d take the risk of believing a dead informant.’

  ‘This one thinks it is not his choice to make.’

  ‘You need to think about what the master wants more,’ Kharbyr sneered. ‘Us caught in the middle of inter-kabal wars or us hiding out somewhere safe.’

  ‘Let this one know when you find that place,’ Xagor nodded eagerly. ‘Xagor cannot cure whole kabals of clients, too many hurts in each fight.’

  Kharbyr gazed up the grooved slope to where the next step lay out of sight. If he remembered correctly the next step was copper-coloured, the one after that was bronze, then silver and then gold for Dhaelthrasz just one tier beneath Sorrow Fell itself. Unconsciously he rubbed at the flat metal pentagon in its hidden pocket again and a thought struck him.

  ‘We’re going the wrong way,’ Kharbyr muttered to himself. ‘We need to be going down, not up.’

  ‘This one does not understand: death above, death below, death wherever we might go,’ Xagor half-sang in his flat, monotonous voice.

  ‘Look – the upper tiers are full of kabalites on high alert, the whole place is in anarchy right now and getting mixed up in their fighting is going to be nasty. The lower tiers might get completely sealed off. What’s a place that’s always in anarchy, even without a Dysjunction?’

  ‘Sec Magera,’ Xagor replied promptly.

  ‘That’s right, Sec Magera – Null City. We go there and join whoever’s strongest.’

  ‘Xenos and outcasts,’ Xagor spat with surprising distaste.

  ‘Which is why they’ll be concentrating on just surviving, not treachery and revenge like the kabalites are doing. Besides I have friends there that can help us if they’re still alive.’

  Xagor nodded slowly at Kharbyr’s words. ‘How to escape without consequence?’

  Kharbyr looked over to where Naxiapel was arguing with the Hy’kran dracon, Sotha. Bezieth stood nearby looking thunderously angry. The other survivors from Metzuh and the remaining Hykranii warriors had picked up on what was going on and were clustering around the archons in two discrete groups. The nearest arch into the parkland adjoining Letiya’s steps on this tier was less than hundred metres away.

  ‘Now is as good a time as any,’ Kharbyr said, tilting his head towards the arch. ‘Move that way like you’re checking the bodies or something then just walk out quick and quiet. I’ll follow you in a moment.’

  Xagor immediately sidled off with exaggerated nonchalance, poking and prodding at the fallen Azkhorxi as he went. Kharbyr turned back to where Naxipael and Bezieth were now arguing with Sotha. The followers of both sides were eyeing their opposite numbers resentfully and violence was in the air. Kharbyr started pondering how he could turn that into a big enough distraction to secure his own getaway.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Living Sword

  Morr turned his back on the collapsed harlequin and took a step towards the colossal statue of Arhra looming at the end of the hall. Drazhar responded instantly, racing forward and bounding over the intervening pits faster than a running Gyfrlion. An instant later he landed before Morr, physically barring his path with demi-klaives held ready to strike. The two incubi stood in frozen tableau like twin colosii with tension crackling in the air. Neither moved, staring rigidly at one another as they locked in a silent battle of wills. Moments seemed to draw into minutes and still neither twitched so much as a muscle.

  The tableau shattered into sudden violence without warning. The swiftness and ferocity of the first exchange was too quick to follow with the naked eye, with no hint of who had been the first to strike. Only glittering after-images were left by the ballet of leaping blades: Morr’s klaive licking downward, one of Drazhar’s demi-klaives deflecting the blow even as he whirled to unleash a devastating riposte with the other. Drazhar’s twin blades hewing, mantis-like, Morr leaping aside to avoid being driven back into a pit.

  Motley finally began to regain some control of his treacherous limbs after Morr’s paralysing nerve-jolt. He still felt sick to his stomach as he pulled his legs beneath him and shakily stood. The duelling incubi paid him no heed. They were caught in their own universe where there was only Morr and Drazhar, like twin neutron stars whirling around a common axis. Any attempt to interfere in their contest now would be instantly fatal. All hope was lost, Motley was forced to admit, and all he could do was watch the tragedy unfold while marvelling at the deadly skill of the combatants.

  Both were masters, of that there could be no doubt. The difference in armaments made the contest one of speed against strength. Even mighty Drazhar, the living sword, could not block Morr’s heavier klaive as it swept through its lethal arcs. Neither could Morr match the darting speed of Drazhar’s demi-klaives. The battle was constantly shifting, always moving, always dodging among the irregular patchwork of open pits and solid slabs without so much as a downward glance. The footwork and agility alone was breathtaking, the scream of their blades tearing through the air was terrifying.

  The fight raged back and forth through the hall, around and across the pits, up to the feet of Arhra and back again. Grotesque shadows cast by the duellists capered and leapt around the walls as if an army of daemons fought through the hall, all eerily silent except for the scuff of armoured sabatons against stone and the soughing clash of blades.

  The two incubi broke apart after a particularly furious passage of arms, frozen once again in tableau. Drazhar crouched with demi-klaives held at the ready, one arced overhead like a scorpion’s sting, the other pointed unwaveringly at his opponent’s heart. Morr’s armour was mauled and he dripped crimson from a score of small wounds. The towering incubus swayed alarmingly for a moment and Drazhar rushed forward to deliver the coup-de-grace against his weakened opponent… and almost lost his own head
in the attempt. Morr’s klaive hissed forward faster than a striking snake. With an unbelievable twist Drazhar caught the hurtling klaive on both of his blades and was physically driven back, heels scraping, across the stones.

  But that was the last of Morr’s strength, a last gasp. His recovery was slow and sloppy as Drazhar – relentless as ever – came bounding straight back onto the attack. The demi-klaives rained down like a hammer on an anvil, sparks flying as Morr’s klaive swept aside each attack in turn, but each defense was a little slower now, a little weaker as Morr’s lifeblood drained from him, and with it his prodigious strength.

  Motley saw the death blow coming in the most vivid detail, unfurling with agonising slowness. Morr’s klaive hooked out too far to return by Drazhar’s first strike, the second strike coming as an uppercut. The hooked tip of the demi-klaive gleaming as it curved up in a perfect parabola and caught Morr beneath the chin. A flash and Morr hurled back as if he had been launched. Morr landed at the edge of a pit with a crash, his shattered helm spinning away into the darkness, his klaive skittering across the flagstones as it fell from nerveless fingers. Drazhar leapt on his fallen enemy, his merciless blades raised for a decapitating strike. Motley covered his face with his hands and turned away, unable to watch what would come next.

  To live as a true eldar is to live on a knife edge, to live as an archon is to live at the very point of the knife. Yllithian repeated the catechism to himself as he mounted the steps to the landing field at the top of the White Flames’ fortress. So the insufferable tyrant Vect had summoned him like a slave – Yllithian would go and brazen it out like the pureblooded Commorrite that he was with a smile on his face and murder in his heart. Survival was important now, survival so that he could set about wreaking the most consummate revenge.

  Yllithian had ordered the seneschal to assemble all the warriors and auxiliaries that could be spared from the immediate defense of the fortress. Without counting his personal barque it came to just five Raiders full of warriors with an untidy mix of scourges, hellions and reavers to escort them. It was a substantial enough force for a time like this, but certainly not enough to rescue him from Corespur if Vect knew more than Yllithian hoped he did. Then again, the Supreme Overlord was always careful to ensure that no single force in Commorragh could hope to assail Corespur under the best of circumstances. The White Flames’ fortress, mighty and storied as it was, was nothing more than a child’s model in comparison to the enormity of the Supreme Overlord’s demesne. The forces on hand would have to suffice.