Path of the Incubus

by Andy Chambers

  Kharbyr experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He’d forgotten about the Seekers. Ethondrian Seekers could track a scourge through the turbulent upper airs, there was no reason they couldn’t track him straight to his hiding place. The Seekers were approaching the point where he had left the path and in a few seconds they would direct Naxipael straight to him. The Venom Brood archon did not look to be in a forgiving mood. Kharbyr tensed his legs to get ready to run again. Just then Bezieth emerged onto the path behind Naxipael and called out to him.

  ‘The traitor must have doubled back or we’d have him by now,’ she said. ‘We have to get moving, Naxipael, we don’t have time to waste on this.’

  Bezieth vanished again. Naxipael snarled something incoherent and turned back to follow her. The Seekers whined discontentedly as they were dragged away from their quarry. Within a few moments the path was empty again and Kharbyr allowed himself to breathe once more. He started to think frantically about how he could disguise his trail if the Seekers came back. It struck him then that Naxipael and Bezieth had probably already caught Xagor and didn’t care so much about finding him anyway. The wrack could fix wounds and keep them patched up. Kharbyr was just a nameless loose cannon to them, a traitor. Just leave him to die on his own.

  Kharbyr got up, determined to put more distance between him and the Seekers just in case. Perhaps if he could find some water he could obscure his trail for a while. He froze as he realised there was someone else coming down the path. Xagor came into view, creeping along with his rifle slung over his back and looking fearful. The wrack glanced around, left the path and headed straight towards his hiding place. Kharbyr grimaced and stepped into view brushing dirt from his clothes.

  ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he said casually. Xagor seemed genuinely startled, as if he hadn’t really expected to see Kharbyr step out from behind a bush.

  ‘Well we made our escape, what’s wrong now?’ Kharbyr asked peevishly.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the fact that your friend is just acting as a decoy,’ Bezieth said from behind him.

  CHAPTER 16

  Capture

  The ring of red-eyed incubi had closed completely around Morr and Motley in the shrine of Arhra. Unwounded, Morr might have been able to hold off so many for some time, and even prevail against more than a few of them before they took his life. Yet Morr’s wounds still dripped crimson, and he held his great klaive upright only by an effort of will. Motley had proved himself more than equal to individual incubi but against so many, in the darkness of their own holy place, they would quickly drag him down too.

  ‘Speeded by wings of desperation a plan does occur to me,’ Motley said quickly, ‘but I shall require a moment I doubt these eager young gentlemen will grant us.’

  ‘Then I suggest using the same ruse that you used against the gloomwings,’ Morr said somewhat reluctantly.

  ‘Ah! Good plan! Yes! Now!’

  Motley hurled a photonic flare that split the stygian vault with a blazing white thunderbolt. Even through closed eyes purple spots danced in his vision, for the armoured incubi the effect was multiplied a thousandfold. With their senses unexpectedly blasted by their cornered prey the iron ring of incubi staggered and broke for a moment. Mustering a supreme effort, Morr leapt among them with his deadly klaive lashing right and left with all thei fury of a wounded tiger. In the confusion klaives swung so wildly that some of the incubi wounded one another.

  Meanwhile Motley cast a small silver spindle into the air that hung in place and spun around its axis emitting a trilling whine. The harlequin sang desperately, pitching his tones within the shrill warbling of the spindle. A swirling purple teardrop wavered into focus beneath it and expanded rapidly like a slit pupil opening. Morr charged through the open gate without bidding with a dozen vengeful klaives at his back. Motley gave a jaunty wave and slipped through just before retribution arrived, the gate closing instantly behind him with an audible snap.

  Morr awaited the harlequin on the other side, leaning heavily on his klaive with a look of horror on his pallid face as he gazed about him. They stood among picturesque ruins, elegant pillars and porticos of undoubtedly eldar design that were overgrown with moss and briars. Fragments of statues lay underfoot, and the cracked flagstones sprouted with dry, coarse grass. The genteel-looking decay was illusory, and came to an abrupt halt at a cliff edge a hundred metres away in each direction. Beyond that torn islands of rock, some the size of continents, whirled and somersaulted through a pulsating, multi-coloured sky.

  ‘Is this…?’ Morr seemed unable bring himself to ask the question.

  ‘Lileathanir?’ Motley said. ‘Thankfully no, not yet anyway. Relax, we should be safe here for the moment.’

  Morr sagged, seating himself on a fallen stone with his klaive across his knees. The incubus truly looked old now, worn out. Motley decided it might be best to give him a moment to collect himself before journeying onward. Morr gazed down at the shattered face of a statue curiously, its single eye gazed blankly back at him.

  ‘What is this place if it is not the maiden world?’ the incubus asked.

  ‘This was Ashnerryl’ti, just an outpost of the old empire before the Fall. A garden world, really, a retreat of sorts or so I’m led to believe, but a populous enough one to call down its own doom when She Who Thirsts awoke. It was caught on the peripheries of the great upheaval – touched by the trailing edge of Her cloak, as it were, and pulled beyond the veil. It was enough to shatter Ashnerryl’ti into a thousand pieces and irrevocably alter every single one of its inhabitants – in point of fact we’re standing on what remains of some of them right now. They were all quite literally petrified by the sight of Her awful majesty, or so the story goes.’

  Morr gazed at the tumbling sky for a moment and then at the ruins some more. He stood suddenly.

  ‘Why did you bring me here?’ the incubus asked with a strange edge to his voice.

  ‘I didn’t choose it,’ Motley replied defensively. ‘It was the easiest place to reach in a hurry where I knew we would be safe. Few know how to find this place, and even fewer choose to come here.’

  ‘Then who are they?’ Morr said, pointing.

  Five figures in sapphire armour of a design vaguely reminiscent of the incubi were emerging from hiding behind the ruins around them. Motley recognised them instantly as craftworld Aspect Warriors of the Dire Avengers shrine. These warriors seemed slighter than incubi, well-proportioned and heroic-looking, like animated statues. Their full-faced helms were adorned with tall crests marked in alternating bands of blue, white and yellow. They carried long-necked shuriken catapults that they kept levelled at Morr and Motley at all times.

  A sixth figure emerged from the ruins, this one swathed in rune-covered robes and with its head enclosed by a bulbous, insect-like helm that was affixed with antlers of wraithbone. The warlock, for such it was, bore a witchblade that was as tall as himself. It seemed a curiously delicate-looking, academic weapon in comparison to Morr’s brutal klaive.

  ‘A curious sight,’ the robed figure said equably, ‘to find entertainer and murderer travelling as boon companions together.’

  Morr laughed mordantly. ‘“Murderer”? Come closer, little seer, and I’ll add another to my tally. In your case it would be my pleasure.’

  Motley stepped quickly to interpose himself between the warlock and the injured incubus. ‘What brings you here, fellow travellers?’ the harlequin asked brightly. ‘This is a secluded, not to say delicate, spot. I hope everyone can be relied upon to behave themselves. Why don’t we introduce ourselves, my angry friend here is Morr, you can call me Motley – now what should I should call you?’

  ‘My name is Caraeis, I tread the path of the Seer,’ the warlock said reasonably. ‘We have come for your companion, he is to be taken before the council of seers and punished for his crimes.’

  ‘Aren’t you getting a litt
le ahead of yourself there, Caraeis?’ Motley asked acidly. ‘Surely there’d be all that trial and judgement stuff first, an opportunity to answer the accusation thrown in there somewhere, evidence, impartiality and suchlike and so forth before we arrive at any talk of punishment?’

  ‘This is none of your affair unless you would fight against us on his behalf,’ the warlock said with a trace of irritation in his voice. ‘If that is the case I’ll have to regretfully order the Avengers to cut you down where you stand.’ Motley noticed that his words provoked the slightest of head twitches from the Dire Avenger exarch leading the squad of Aspect Warriors. She evidently disapproved of the warlock’s actions in some way.

  ‘I would rather see the best possible outcome for everyone involved,’ Motley replied carefully. ‘At this very moment we are on our way to Lileathanir to attempt to rectify matters, you’d be welcome to accompany us.’

  ‘So you do admit the culpability of your companion after all,’ Caraeis said with some relish. ‘Under the circumstances I think you had best accompany us to the council too, so that you can fully explain yourself and your role in the affair on Lileathanir.’

  ‘Explain myself? I am no more beholden to your council of seers than my dear friend Morr is,’ Motley responded with some heat. ‘By what right do you claim to order us around like captives? Are we your captives, do you think?’

  The slight harlequin stepped closer to the warlock, seeing how the robed battle-seer flinched ever so slightly as he did so. This one was full of fear and ambition, a nasty combination. Two of the Dire Avengers pointedly swivelled their shuriken catapults to cover Motley while the other three remained locked unwaveringly onto Morr. Motley stepped back again with open hands and a wide grin to show he meant no harm.

  ‘The incubus is my prisoner,’ the warlock said smugly. ‘If you wish to remain with him you must also become my prisoner.’

  ‘Motley,’ Morr said quietly, ‘this is not your battle, none of it has been your battle from the moment we met. Now it is time to leave me to my fate.’

  Motley turned to look up at the unmasked face of the incubus now standing close behind him with his klaive in his hands. Morr’s lank, pale hair had fallen forward to hide his features but the fierce, mad gleam of his eyes still glittered between the strands. Motley could see a taste for self-destruction burning there, the exultation of slaughter to come even if it was his own.

  The Dire Avengers could cut Morr down before he took a single step, the warlock could boil the incubus’s brain inside his thick skull just by looking at him – but Morr still wanted to fight them. The incubus must be seeing this as his reprieve, a chance to go out fighting against a properly hated foe instead of the brotherhood of his shrine.

  ‘I cannot do that, Morr, as much as you’d like me to. Not while there’s still the faintest shred of hope left,’ Motley said heavily, ‘and I am truly sorry for this. I only hope you can forgive me for it later.’

  Motley snapped his leg up and out so fast that even the Aspect Warriors didn’t have time to react. A perfectly executed nerve-kick to Morr’s temple dropped the towering incubus like a felled tree – a slight sway and then a gathering rush before he crashed to the ground.

  Motley turned back to the warlock with a heavy sigh. ‘There, now you can’t “accidentally” kill my friend while apprehending him. I think I will come along with you, just to make sure everything stays nice and friendly.’

  The warlock inclined his bulbous helm sardonically, seemingly well pleased by the outcome. The Dire Avengers came forward warily, three covering the fallen warrior as one of their number brought out a set of heavy manacles. The Dire Avenger exarch was watching Motley with her beautifully crafted star thrower held at ease in what was probably intended to be interpreted as a conciliatory gesture.

  ‘You have not spoken of the craftworld you hail from,’ Motley remarked. ‘Where do we have the honour of travelling to?’

  ‘Biel-Tan,’ the exarch said before the warlock could intercede and stop her. The warlock glared at the exarch and Motley sensed some silent exchange was taking place between the two.

  ‘Ah, that explains a lot,’ Motley interrupted. ‘As I recall Biel-Tan claims jurisdiction over a great many maiden worlds.’

  ‘They are the future of our race,’ the warlock said sharply.

  ‘Not to mention excellent recruiting grounds for Biel-Tan’s efforts to reforge the old empire,’ Motley remarked impertinently. ‘Lots of eager young Exodites ready to fight and die for a great cause with the right grooming. You should be careful, Caraeis – your bias is showing.’

  The amber lenses of the warlock’s bulbous helm regarded the harlequin silently for a moment before the seer turned and stalked away. Motley looked back to the exarch and her squad. Her warriors had shackled Morr’s arms behind his back and strapped him to a collapsible bier that floated a half-metre above the ground. The Dire Avengers had evidently come prepared to take a living prisoner and transport him back, which Motley took to be an encourageing sign in some regards. To Motley’s relief the Aspect Warriors also retrieved Morr’s klaive and strapped it onto the bier alongside the thoroughly restrained incubus.

  ‘We would have taken him alive,’ the exarch told Motley. ‘There was no need for you interfere.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt that a group of finely honed Aspect Warriors like yourselves would have executed the plan perfectly,’ Motley replied with a frown. ‘It’s your warlock friend over there that I’m concerned about.’

  The warlock had moved off among the ruins to an intact arch of pale lavender stone. He stood facing it for a considerable time, muttering and making passes through the air with his hands. Eventually a sheen of silver drifted into being inside the arch, wavered and then strengthened into a rippling veil. Motley noted with dismay that blue and green threads coiled within the veil – even here the Dysjunction could be felt. Its effects were flooding the entire webway. The four Aspect Warriors took up positions at each corner of the bier carrying Morr. With the exarch leading they began guiding the bier to the gate. The warlock held up a hand to stop them as they approached.

  ‘There is a disturbance in the webway,’ the warlock said. ‘A direct link is impossible. I must make a rune casting to divine our best path forward.’

  ‘Well yes, that would be entirely the issue wouldn’t it?’ Motley snorted derisively. ‘The disturbance will only get worse the longer that we stay away from Lileathanir.’

  The warlock ignored him, concentrating fully on bringing forth tiny wraithbone runes from his satchel with quick, practised movements. He placed each into a growing, spinning array suspended in the air before him.

  The correct interpretation of rune casting is a nuanced art form that takes quite literally a lifetime to master, as evinced by the craftworld eldar in their Path of the Seer. Eldar runes embody symbolic concepts deeply rooted in ancient mythology and philosophical schools of thought that were already old when the eldar race was young. Runecasting came down fundamentally to interpreting the alignment of the psycho-active wraithbone runes when they were set ‘adrift in the ether’ to reproduce in microcosm an idea of the emergent patterns in the macrocosm.

  It took no special expertise to see that the warlock’s reading was erratic, the broken orrery of runes twisting around one another chaotically. The warlock flinched as two of the runes actually touched, the resultant discharge of psychic energy blasting them apart with a crackle of static. Both runes dropped to the ground charred and smoking.

  ‘Not that way, I’m thinking,’ Motley suggested helpfully. The warlock only emitted a low growl in response before focusing his concentration back onto the rune casting. The wheeling runes slowed a little, re-aligned and several of them reversed direction. The warlock kept reaching into his satchel and pulling out more runes as if trying to balance the casting. Motley tried to make sense of the runes being shown to him.

  T
here was the rune for Anarchy/Disorder/Entropy most prominent orbiting at the outermost reach of the casting, encompassing everything within it. To Motley’s mind that could only represent the Dysjunction in this case, its erratic influence affecting all the other elements. His eye was drawn to the rune of weaving as it looped back and forth within the orbit of the Dysjunction, seeming to shepherd the other runes before it. It fluttered unnaturally between the jagged, scimitar-like rune of the dark kin and the serpent-like rune of the world spirit as they swung through perilously close gyrations. It sped around the dire portent of the soul-drinker rotating around the bottom of casting, and encompassed salvation orbiting the top. Numerous lesser runes wove back and forth between the major ones: the sun, the moon, the scorpion, the devoured and more. At times the rune of weaving darted between them all.

  ‘You know I could always lead you to Biel-Tan if you like,’ Motley said hurriedly. ‘No one knows their paths through the webway better than me, well nothing mortal anyway.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ the warlock announced sharply. ‘I see the way forward clearly enough.’

  Motley pursed his lips uncertainly, darting a quick look at the exarch. She stood as still and imperturbable as a statue, her tall crested helm turned to the gate. Aspect Warriors, Motley lamented to himself, were always so hard to read. Caraeis was retrieving his runes now, capturing them one by one and returning them to his satchel. The moment he had the last rune secured the warlock unsheathed his witchblade and stepped through the gate. The exarch followed, then the bier carrying Morr and its four attendant Aspect Warriors.

  Motley hurried to follow as it really wouldn’t do to lose them now. As he passed the spot where Caraeis had performed his rune casting he saw the two blackened, twisted runes that had struck one another were still lying ground untouched and abandoned by the warlock. They were damaged but still recognisable before they crumbled to dust when Motley tried to touch them. They were the rune of the Seer and the rune of the Laughing God or, to put it more commonly, the runes used to represent the warlock and the harlequin.