Path of the Incubus

by Andy Chambers

  ‘Oh dear,’ Motley muttered to himself as he stepped quickly through gate at the heels of the Aspect Warriors. If he could read those runes then Caraeis had most certainly seen them too. That didn’t bode well at all.

  ‘Turn around very slowly,’ Bezieth said.

  Kharbyr did as he was told, turning slowly to find Bezieth’s djin-blade levelled at his throat. Somehow she had got right behind him, crept up through the loganiaceae shrubs without a sound while he was watching Xagor coming down the path. The tip of her blade was vibrating with a high, keening whine, as if it wanted to lunge forward of its own volition. Kharbyr’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He was dead, he’d seen Bezieth of the Hundred Scars fight and she could carve a gutter-rat like him into pieces one-on-one without even breaking a sweat. Xagor whimpered pathetically behind him, making Kharbyr reflect grimly that he could expect no help from the wrack either.

  ‘You had better have a more detailed plan in mind than “run away into the park”,’ Bezieth said eventually and lowered her blade. Kharbyr experienced a giddy rush of relief.

  ‘You’re not taking us back to Naxipael?’ he blurted in disbelief.

  ‘Or killing you,’ the archon reminded him pointedly, ‘even though you’ve already shown yourself to be faithless and untrustworthy. You’re lucky you have a useful friend to speak up on your behalf.’

  Kharbyr glanced back at Xagor, who was nodding emphatically. ‘Don’t look at him!’ Bezieth snapped. ‘Look at me! That’s better. Now, tell me all about your genius plan to get out of this.’

  ‘By going down, not up. Down to Null City,’ Kharbyr said reluctantly. ‘The xenos and mercs down in Null City will be pulling together at a time like this, not pulling apart at the seams like they are in High Commorragh. I know people that’ll help,’ he ended weakly. It didn’t sound like such a good plan anymore, not with Bezieth’s eyes boring into his as she searched for any hint of evasion. He felt particularly weak and stupid beneath that pitiless gaze.

  ‘And just how were you planning to get there?’ Bezieth asked impatiently.

  ‘I was going to find some transport and use the… travel tubes,’ Kharbyr replied, even as the words left his mouth he knew that he had probably just signed his own death warrant. Anything capable of moving under its own power would be long gone from Hy’kran and probably everywhere else within a hundred leagues by now. The tubes would be blocked by debris and who-knows-what crawling out of the pits to join the fun. It was a weak plan, doomed to failure before it even began. Bezieth held his gaze for a long, painful moment before she spoke again.

  ‘Not bad, but your chances of finding transport just lying around rest somewhere between slim and none. We’ll have to steal it or do without.’

  Kharbyr grinned stupidly. ‘You want to go with my plan? What about Naxipael?’

  ‘Naxipael will most likely get shot the moment he tries to set foot in Sorrow Fell. They won’t be taking in any waifs and strays up there,’ Bezieth said carelessly. ‘If I ever see him again I’ll claim we got separated in the park and I couldn’t find my back to him. Believe me he won’t push the point – especially if no one is stupid enough to try and contradict me.’

  Kharbyr glanced at Xagor again despite himself. The wrack merely shrugged helplessly. He was right, it didn’t matter what reasons Bezieth had for splitting with Naxipael – it wasn’t like they had a choice whether she came along or not. Besides, her sword arm and that nasty blade of hers would be a real boon if they ran into trouble again. Bezieth seemed to be amused by watching him working it all out.

  ‘Listen. It’s Kharbyr, isn’t it?’ she said reasonably. ‘Listen, Kharbyr, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told your friend. In every crisis there’s opportunity, you just have to make sure you survive the crisis for long enough to take advantage of it. I intend to survive this crisis and personally I rate Naxipael’s chances of surviving as being significantly worse than my own. That assessment extends to the people with him. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘This one agrees, mistress!’ Xagor squawked obediently.

  ‘As does this one,’ Kharbyr assented.

  ‘Good, because by extension the people that stay with me have a better chance of survival too. Now let’s get going, you first Kharbyr – and try not to get distracted.’

  Archon Yllithian exuded confidence as he unhurriedly mounted a set of low, wide steps that swept up to the doors to the grand auditorium in Corespur. He took note of the host of greater archons assembled there also awaiting audience with the Supreme Overlord. They were strung out along the steps in cliques and clumps, the leaders of the most powerful kabals in Commorragh standing around waiting at the overlord’s door for their instructions like expectant slaves. Many he recognised, some he acknowledged with a nod, others he greeted warmly or pointedly ignored.

  Fear lurked behind every face. It was masked by bravado or pugnacity or humour or boredom, but fear hid behind the hard, black eyes of every archon present. The assembled host were the ones who stood to lose the most in the Dysjunction. They had unleashed unspeakable terrors on the slave-races across the galaxy, revelled in inflicting exquisite pain and suffering for centuries beyond numbering yet now they were the ones in fear. Anarchy had broken upon their own strongholds and they found it had an entirely different timbre when it was rageing so close to home. Yllithian recognised the fact that there were no archons present from the satellite realms, presumably because the portals were still too unstable to find them. More pointedly every archon present was either from Sorrow Fell or one of the upper tiers, a fact which did not bode at all well for the status of Low Commorragh.

  Yllithian came to an individual that he recognised, but not one that he acknowledged as a great archon. His surprise caused him to pause for a moment. The lithe succubus Aez’ashya stood before him, looking magnificent in skin-tight flex-metal and bladed shoulder guards that spread fans of knives at her back. Yllithian recalled that this erstwhile archon that had been propelled into leadership of the Blades of Desire after the fall of his ally, Xelian.

  Yllithian had distinctly mixed feelings about Aez’ashya. She was trueborn but of inferior stock without a trace of noble blood. She had unwittingly become El’Uriaq’s catspaw when he had decided to rid himself of Xelian and now she was left a puppet without a puppet master. He wondered how she was manageing to maintain her control over the notoriously fickle Blades of Desire. Yllithian smiled and addressed her warmly.

  ‘Why if it isn’t Aez’ashya, what an unexpected surprise to find you here,’ Yllithian said with mocking gallantry. ‘I am delighted to find you weathering these difficult times so well – a true test of leadership even for experienced hands like mine.’

  ‘The pleasure is mutual, Yllithian,’ Aez’ashya purred. ‘It seems so little time since I was undertaking missions on behalf of Archon Xelian, and by extension her close allies like Archon Kraillach and your good self, of course. Missions of the most delicate nature, or so it seemed at the time. Now I send my own minions to do my work for me.’

  Yllithian smiled with his lips but not with his eyes. She was warning him in subtle terms not to push too far. What Aez’ashya had witnessed in the accursed halls of Shaa-dom was enough to damn Yllithian five times over if she brought it before the Supreme Overlord. It felt oddly refreshing to be on the receiving end of blackmail for once. Of course such a revelation would bring doom on Aez’ashya too – entry to Shaa-dom was forbidden on pain of death, so it was a case of mutually assured destruction.

  ‘Quite so, it must all seem so very new to you now. This will be your first meeting with Asdrubael Vect in person, will it not?’ he chuckled. ‘Given the circumstances he will be in rare form today, you’re in for a treat.’

  ‘Speaking of rare form I had heard rumour that you had fallen prey to a wasting disease, but I confess you look better than ever. Even a little younger perhaps.’

  ‘Too kind, too k
ind,’ Yllithian replied smoothly. ‘It’s truly a wonder what the haemonculi can achieve when all seems lost. I still await the return of my dear friend Xelian with an almost breathless anticipation.’

  ‘Oh? I had hoped to ask you if there had been word on Xelian’s whereabouts. I’m told that her most dedicated hekatrix stole away her corpse before it could be tended to. No sign has been discovered of it since, personally I fear that the noble Xelian may be lost forever.’

  ‘I have indeed heard such tales being told.’ Yllithian smiled again, sympathetically this time. ‘But I have complete faith in Xelian’s unconquerable spirit. That she will be found, in some form, is not a subject of doubt in my mind.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. All natural laws are turned on their head at present, so why not in this matter also I–’

  A hideous crash of cymbals and screech of horns abruptly rent the air, rendering any further verbal sparring impossible rather to Yllithian’s regret. At the top of the steps two vast, engraved doors were grinding inward to reveal a dark space beyond that was broken occasionally by an ominous, flickering light. One by one the great archons turned and walked inside in answer to the summons. The Supreme Overlord was ready to receive them now.

  INTERLUDE

  We become such slaves to continuity, insisting that we receive our portions of beginning, middle and end dished up to us in our trencher in order to feel that our repast has substantive significance. A story most particularly is expected to slide from gate to gate with the orderly precision of public transport. All aboard…on your left you’ll see… on your right you’ll see… and so on until the end of the line, please ensure you take all belongings with you when exiting the vehicle.

  Of all the mortal constructs this one is perhaps the most pernicious. Our efforts to impose structure mean that things have to have a beginning, a middle and an end, that they must unroll with visible cause and effect, not to mention a sprinkling of moral lessons and insightful observation along the way. Our existence is spent crafting our own stories into a suitable lifetime, categorising every experience to fit them into self-imposed contexts, trying to write ourselves towards an ending that we don’t really want to reach.

  Reality is not like this. Reality is spontaneous and unknowable, chaotic, abrupt, wonderful, terrible and most of all unpredictable. The sad truth is Things Just Happen. Plans go awry, unforeseen elements prove pivotal and unrelated events combine in the most unexpected ways.

  That is to say unexpected to some at any rate. There are powers in the universe that see all possibilities and endlessly try to shift the balance towards their own ends: a nudge here, a push there and all will be as they desire it. Little do they know that powers above them also nudge and push them in turn.

  It’s said that when mortals try to plan that the gods laugh. Thus we come to where we are now. Morr and Motley both frustrated in their efforts by an unexpected third party, the world spirit still bent upon revenge against Commorragh, the inhabitants of the dark city struggling and failing to survive (and, in some cases, prosper) in a catastrophe unleashed by powers beyond their reckoning. Events still continue to spiral out of control, creating more debris as they fall into anarchy. Is there still hope for a gratifying resolution and perhaps a moral lesson or two? It’s difficult to say at this juncture. Time is most certainly running out.

  CHAPTER 17

  Transition

  Motley emerged into an all-too-familiar landscape. Bleached dunes of dust lay all about them lit by a single, lonely-looking sun that was little more than a chilly red disk hanging high overhead. The air was bitterly cold and infected with an unpleasant acidic tang that invaded through the nostrils and sat on the back of the tongue. It was familiar as a generality rather than as a specific, hundreds of worlds bearing gates to the webway were virtually identical to this one – blasted wastelands devoid of all life. Motley looked back to see that they had emerged from a five metre tall wraithbone arch protruding incongruously from the face of a dust dune. The warlock, Caraeis, was leading the squad of Dire Avengers and the bier carrying Morr away across the dunes on an arrow straight course presumably towards another gate.

  The warlock was playing it safe, taking the long way around by moving from planet to planet to keep their journey outside the webway as much as possible. Motley felt his lip curl involuntarily a little. Time was of the essence yet Caraeis was acting as if he could take all the time in the world. An unwelcome thought that had already been lurking at the edge of Motley’s mind settled into a fully-developed suspicion. He fished a small object from his sleeve, a thin oblong of crystal embossed with stylised masks that laughed and cried. He surreptitiously breathed on it once, polished it and then flipped it back through the gateway where it vanished like a puff of smoke.

  The harlequin turned and ran lightly after the Aspect Warriors until he caught up with them. Morr was conscious now, glaring silently at Motley as he passed. Motley liked to think there was more despair in the look than hatred, and he gave Morr an encourageing grin and wink anyway. He was most certainly going to need the towering incubus’s support soon. Caraeis was already vanishing down the opposite slope of a dust dune, sending tiny avalanches downward with each footfall. Motley called out to him.

  ‘Caraeis? I’m still not really sure about your direction here. Are you intending to take us all the way around the great wheel just to get back to Biel-Tan?’

  ‘You well know the webway is too unstable to risk traversing long sections of it at present,’ the warlock replied testily. ‘Your disregard for your own safety and that of others does you no credit.’

  ‘The safety of “others” is actually at the foremost in my mind,’ Motley said brightly, ‘probably more so than yours. The difference lies in who those “others” are. From your outlook you would regard two thirds of our race as not being worth taking any risks for.’

  Caraeis stopped to face him evidently needled by Motley’s implication. ‘Pure hyperbole,’ the warlock said. ‘You would accuse me of caring nothing for the Exodites – that is untrue.’

  ‘Oh, so just one third are disposable then? Who set you up as judge, Caraeis?’ Motley asked in outrage. ‘Of course the webway is a little unstable – that’s because Commorragh is in the process of being broken apart! Meanwhile you delay and prevaricate to do your best to ensure that the process is completed!’

  The warlock did not even trouble to deny the accusation. ‘It’s true I would not risk a single life to see the dark city continue,’ he said. ‘The foul perversion of Commorragh has gone on too long already, I would rejoice to see it ended in my lifetime.’

  ‘And so you would sacrifice Lileathanir too?’ Motley mocked. ‘Because that’s what Commorragh will take with it at the very least. More likely is that the entire webway finally unravels, and our race is left stranded, scattered through the stars as we finally fade away into nothing.

  ‘You want to know something interesting, Caraeis? Commorrites refer to themselves as “true eldar”. The way they see things they have continuity with the pre-Fall days that neither the craftworlds or the Exodites can lay claim to. If you really want to reforge the empire you should ask the dark kin, they’re the ones that really remember it.’

  Motley was acutely aware of the Dire Avengers, and especially their exarch, standing stock still behind him. The sort of accusations the harlequin was cheerfully throwing at Caraeis verged on blasphemy in polite craftworld society. They were deadly insults for one on the path of the warrior and a matter to be settled by open conflict if honour was to be maintained. The harlequin was gambling that the Aspect Warriors would not leap to the warlock’s defence because they already suspected his motives in some fashion. The internal conflict that was evident between Caraeis and the Dire Avengers was only going to be intensified the more they saw him failing to live up to their standards.

  ‘Does he speak the truth, Caraeis?’ the exarch said. ‘Is there a ris
k to the webway as a whole?’

  ‘No,’ the warlock snapped irritably. ‘Again hyperbole and exaggeration, the current… ah… flexing will rectify itself with time.’

  ‘You mean you hope it will!’ exclaimed Motley. ‘You can’t know that’s true!’

  ‘Wiser minds than mine have studied the problem,’ Caraeis said more evenly, ‘and I agree with their conclusions.’

  ‘What a shame these august authorities aren’t on hand to support your claims,’ Motley remarked acidly. ‘I, on the other hand, speak from considerable personal experience. I can take you straight to Lileathanir right now if you’ll just let–’

  ‘Your life of… vagrancy and your foolish doom-saying do not make you an authority on anything!’ Caraeis thundered in response, he caught himself and checked his anger before continuing shakily. ‘Our actions have been planned and foreseen, directed by the highest minds towards a path most conducive to the continued existence of our craftworld. You act only to provoke me and waste the time you claim is so precious in pointless argument. I will hear no more of this.’

  With that Caraeis turned and stalked away down the dune. After a moment of hesitation the Dire Avengers followed him with their prisoner still in their midst. Motley followed and attempted to provoke the warlock further with a few more choice observations but got no response. Caraeis was right that Motley was trying to delay him. It was, however, a far from pointless exercise. Another tall wraithbone arch was coming into view atop the next dune. Motley hoped he had bought enough time for his message to get through.