Path of the Incubus

by Andy Chambers

  Kharbyr soon abandoned the idea of stealing transportation; the place seemed a city of ghosts. As they moved coreward the parkland quickly gave way to tightly packed slave quarters that had encroached into the manicured lawns and hidden arbours. The narrow, crooked streets were barely shoulder wide in places to give protection against marauding gangs of hellions and reavers. Scourges were usually to be found in the uppermost and outermost parts of the city, but packs of wild riders of skyboards and jetbikes were a peril just about anywhere. They saw it as a personal challenge to take their machines through the tightest streets, down inaccessible pipes and along the faces of the spires themselves when they took a mind to. Wires and chains were strung between the overhanging eaves of the slave quarters so that even riders wild enough to try their luck in the twisting streets would soon catch a swift death instead.

  It hadn’t saved the inhabitants. Dead slaves lay everywhere, sprawled in doorways, piled in the streets in an untidy mixture of races and sexes. They had all been cut down by splinter fire from above, probably a Raider full of warriors moving above the rooftops. Plentiful pockmarks and puncture holes in the flimsily constructed buildings showed that the slaves that had tried to remain inside hadn’t fared any better than the ones that tried to run.

  ‘Why kill them all like this?’ he asked Bezieth.

  ‘You’re a pretty little idiot aren’t you, Kharbyr?’ she told him. ‘The answer’s as plain as the nose on your face. Think. Why execute the slaves?’

  ‘Well the old joke is because they’re revolting,’ Kharbyr said in confusion, ‘but these don’t have any weapons so they didn’t plan it very well.’

  ‘Seriously? Look above your head, boy!’ Bezieth snarled in exasperation. Kharbyr looked up without thinking, up through the narrow gap between the buildings to where vivid, ugly colours were being visibly plastered across the sky from moment to moment. The sight wrenched at the soul, as if he were seeing the bones of creation were being laid bare in all their base simplicity. What was worse was the feeling that he was also seeing familiar reality being rewritten into new and alien forms before his very eyes. He looked away stifling a curse.

  ‘All it takes is one of these idiots to think he’s seen god or salvation or his great, hirsute, uncle Uggi up there and we could have a whole new problem on our hands. Belief, desire, worship – the daemons would be feeding on it like a swarm of locusts,’ Bezieth explained heavily. ‘Not the smartest move leaving a heap of potential meat-puppets like this, but I imagine whoever did it came through here in a hurry.’

  Bezieth noticed that Xagor was looking back curiously in the direction they had come from, even though the black, narrow street seemed empty save for the dead. ‘What is it, Xagor?’ she snapped. The wrack jumped reflexively in response.

  ‘Sounds, quiet sounds!’ Xagor babbled. ‘Gone now, but whisper-quiet!’

  Bezieth frowned and looked back along the street too. Still nothing moved and nothing could be heard above the distant roar of infernal winds. She looked to Kharbyr who returned her gaze with a shrug before circling his temple with one finger to indicate his judgement on Xagor’s sanity.

  ‘Well there’s nothing there now, keep moving and stay alert,’ Bezieth said with more certainty than she felt.

  A few hundred metres away, hidden by a trellis of climbing rose in an artfully-placed gazebo Cho studied the input of her twitching sensor vanes and needle-fine probes with some confusion. The trace to the target had been present, a strong trail existed and was developing moment by moment, and yet the target itself was not present. No comparable scenarios existed within Cho’s frame of reference and it was making the data extremely difficult to analyse.

  On one logic path she had now followed the trace to its termination point and not found the target she was looking for. Therefore she must turn around and rejoin Vhi to investigate his trace, and so in effect cede defeat. Another logic path took into account the additional factor that the trace was still developing, the psychic spoor appearing in the ether like oil spontaneously appearing in water. Pursuit of this ongoing development might yet lead to the target, and the contest with Vhi would remain in contention.

  Taking both logic strands and twisting them together produced two potential conclusions. In the first the target was present but using an unknown technique to mask its exact whereabouts. The technique did not eliminate the spoor entirely but rendered the target, in effect, invisible to Cho. In the second a form of decoy was being used to lay false trails. Both conclusions had precedent, although neither equated exactly to the phenomena being demonstrated in this precise example. Cho fluttered her sensor spines in something akin to frustration.

  Attacking a decoy would undoubtedly compromise her chances of success by forewarning the real target. Such a scenario even held the potential of incurring the level of structural damage that could critically impair Cho’s functionality. This outcome held a strong negative reinforcement, elimination of the target superceded all self-preservation considerations but that only applied once the target was positively acquired. In other words Cho was quite ready to get hurt and possibly die, but not against the wrong target. This was the kind of logic that Vhi seemed to interpret as a form of cowardice.

  The other engine was undoubtedly taking the most direct and bloody route possible in his pursuit of the target. That was simply the way they had been made: Vhi for speed and strength, Cho for agility and cleverness. Part of Cho was being constantly distracted by not having her companion engine close at hand, missing its brainless certainty and the enhancement of their collective capabilities when they were together.

  Correct psychic parameters or not Cho could still detect four living minds moving together through the park and generating the correct psychic trace as they went. Logic dictated that they had strong probability of connection to the target even if they were only being used as decoys. Cho concluded that patient stalking/hunting protocols might reveal more information. If necessary a direct attack strategy could be used to force a decision later, but only once Cho could determine whether that was liable to drive the target into the open or deeper under cover.

  The sleek machine-form of Cho rose up on whisper-quiet impellers and slid forward on the trail of the lifeforms with all the focused intensity of a stalking panther.

  The light leaking into the auditorium through its high windows was awful to look upon. Livid, angry colours swirled within it; bruised purples, sullen reds, diseased yellows, poisonous blues and nauseous greens fought to overwhelm the eye and baffle the mind. Its brightness jumped and leapt capriciously from moment to moment. Periodically an all-enshrouding gloom would fill the great hall in defiance of its many lamps. In the next moment retina-burning flashes sent grotesque shadows darting across its trembling flagstones from the forest of chains hanging down from above. Each chain bore a body that had been hung up like freshly killed meat, although many of them still quivered or twisted in silent agony.

  Yllithian took his place amid the assembled archons ranging themselves in a half-moon before the steps to Vect’s throne. The dais itself was raised, appearing as a cylinder of metal extending up to the ceiling like a thick-bodied pillar. Moments passed in uncomfortable silence with only the crackle of distant thunder for accompaniment as the archons waited. The tramp of armoured feet came to their ears as Black Heart kabalite warriors filed into the auditorium and took up positions around the dais and along the walls. A number of Vect’s courtiers and playthings swept in to arrange themselves decoratively on the dais steps before, as a final touch, a troupe of trained slaves were lined up to sing an interlude passage of the Rhanas Dreay – the coming of the Overlord.

  As the slaves’ voices reached a crescendo of pain the dais slid downwards as smoothly as a piston until it became level with the steps. A hemispherical shield of entropic energy atop the dais swirled and dissipated to reveal a throne. The throne was a dark, ugly thing of sharp angles and gleam
ing blades. It was an artefact that looked savage and unworthy of the elegance of true eldar culture – meaning that it was a statement of intent for those wise enough to read it. It squatted on the dais with an undisguised malevolence that well suited its occupant. The Supreme Overlord of Commorragh gazed down from his bladed throne and favoured each of the assembled greater archons with a lingering look.

  Vect’s milk-white skin was as smooth and unlined as a child’s yet his void-black eyes glowed with millennias-old hatred and unimaginably devious intelligence. The proud archons met the Supreme Overlord’s gaze without flinching (as they knew they must or die), but not one of them did not tremble a little inside. Vect’s sharp-featured face was normally redolent of the uncounted centuries of unbridled wickedness he had inflicted on others for his own pleasure. The Supreme Overlord normally projected amusement, or self-satisfaction or insufferable confidence by turns. Now his mouth was drawn into a bitter scowl.

  ‘My poor, beautiful city,’ said Asdrubael Vect at last, his rich voice sonorous with melancholy. ‘Why is it that everyone conspires to destroy it?’

  The cracked black expanse of the auditorium shivered again and flakes of the artfully decorated ceiling fluttered down like baroque snow. The archons stood silent and waited, none of them fool enough to try and answer. The Supreme Overlord of Commorragh stepped down from his throne and began to walk slowly around the vast hall.

  All about him, above him and behind him bodies swung on chains suspended from the ceiling. Most were still alive, but they hung silently in their agonies. Their screams had been paralyzed along with their vocal cords at Vect’s command when he tired of their repetitious and entirely pointless pleas for mercy.

  The great tyrant paused before one of his ‘guests’ that was hanging head down and covered in gore. This had once been Archon Gharax of the Kabal of the Crimson Blossom. Like the others he had been the ambitious leader of a minor kabal possessing only a few handfuls of warriors until a few hours ago. Now he was reduced to an example, part of a display created by Vect to impress upon the greater archons the true gravity of the situation. Vect ran a long-nailed finger through the dangling strips of flesh his haemonculi had expertly flensed from the unfortunate archon’s frame.

  Vect’s words were not truly directed at the ruin of flesh and bone hanging before him. Archon Gharax suffered on in induced silence. His eyes radiated pain and burning hatred for his Supreme Overlord. By all accounts Gharax had been completely loyal to Vect, or at least as completely loyal as any Commorrite archon could claim to be, but Vect did not care. Gharax’s puny handful of warriors had pledged their loyalty directly to him now. A time of Dysjunction was not one to allow the minnows to swim freely.

  ‘I’ve pondered this often down the ages, you know,’ Vect told Archon Gharax. ‘In fact I believe I can say that it is a topic that has occupied my attention beyond all others – and there are always so many, many other matters that demand my constant attention.’

  Yllithian and the greater archons watched impassively as Vect paced onward through the grisly display. It was rare to see the great tyrant in the flesh, and rarer still to do so in the presence of so many other archons – hanging from chains or otherwise. Yllithian calculated that over a hundred archons were present in the chamber in one state or another. United they could easily kill Vect and finally free Commorragh from his wicked rulership and millennias-long oppression.

  Yllithian had to repress a snort of derision at the thought. Out of all the fearless warriors present in that great chamber no one was about to risk making the first move. As ever, the archons watched one another and looked only for an opportunity to strike down their rivals instead of the insidious puppet master that controlled all their destinies.

  It was enough to make one weep, or to laugh hysterically – another urge that Yllithian was forced to quell. Something told him that if he began laughing he wouldn’t be able to stop. Laughter without end until even the madness of the Laughing God seemed logical and sane. No one moved and no one spoke. Yllithian and the greater archons remained as silent as Vect’s hanging victims while they patiently awaited the Supreme Overlord’s command. A time of Dysjunction was no time to show weakness.

  Finally Vect stalked back to his throne and sat before he spoke again. ‘Naturally I have summoned you all here to discuss the current Dysjunction. Such occurrences are not without precedent just as such occurrences do not occur without cause. Rest assured that those responsible for this attempt to destroy us all will be found and will be punished for their crimes. Upon this you can rely.’

  The auditorium shook violently. From beyond its walls a thunderous cracking sound assailed the ears and the soul in equal measure. Vect paused and looked outward into the rageing storm, a feat that few would dare to emulate. Yllithian thought he saw fear in the tyrant’s eyes. This ageless god of the eternal city could see the end of his rule written in the roiling energies outside. Yllithian suppressed an urge to flee, to hurl himself to the ground and cover his ears or, worse still, admit all and beg forgiveness.

  He was the one responsible. His actions had brought about the Dysjunction – that he was sure of. His scheming with Xelian and Kraillach had unleashed the forces now battering remorselessly at Commorragh. Such bitter irony that a scheme to unseat Asdrubael Vect had now brought Yllithian to within striking distance of the tyrant himself. It was all irrelevant now. Xelian and Kraillach were already dead and gone, consumed by those same terrible forces leaving only Yllithian to bear the responsibility that Vect had so darkly alluded to.

  If Vect were ever to divine Yllithian’s culpability in the cataclysm currently enfolding Commorragh it would be the end of him. The fate of the lesser archons would be a truly blessed release in comparison to the horrors that Vect would inflict upon Yllithian for his crimes. The fear in the pit of Yllithian’s stomach was a familiar one. He had plotted for long enough against Vect to weigh all the consequences. Even so, standing before the tyrant himself, with all his plans ruined and allies destroyed it was all Yllithian could do not to soil himself. Despite his fears Yllithian had to comport himself with the same aloofness as the other greater archons, each pretending they were careless about the current situation and its implications. To do any less would provoke the Supreme Overlord’s suspicions.

  Asdrubael Vect drew in a sharp breath and continued.

  ‘For the present the city must be protected, a responsibility that I charge each and every one of you with from this moment forth.’

  Vect stood again, his restlessness betraying an anxiety Yllithian would never have believed possible in the saturnine Supreme Overlord. As the tyrant strode through the hanging bodies again he seemed to draw new energy, his voice echoing unnaturally through the great space.

  ‘All incursions from beyond the veil must be eliminated! Open portals will be sealed! The possessed destroyed! Many of you will believe that this is an ideal time to settle old scores and eliminate your rivals – quite rightly so – however I warn you that if your games further imperil the city you will answer to me directly… and I also warn you that I am far from being in a forgiving mood.’

  As if to underline Vect’s words another thunderous boom rattled the auditorium. The tyrant’s frown deepened into an angry grimace.

  ‘Enough talk. Go. Get out of my sight. Your districts of responsibility will be assigned to you,’ he spat. ‘Go and do what you must to save our home.’

  The archons filed out in silence. Each was consumed with their own thoughts, no doubt planning how to feed each other to the rageing entities loose in the city while remaining… well, innocent would be the wrong term… more like blameless. Yllithian eyed the others with interest as they broke into cliques en route to their own transports. Surreptitious glances and minute gestures indicated predator and prey to the practiced eye. In a time of Dysjunction all bets were off. All previous alliances were in ruins, old rivalries temporarily set aside and new
accommodations made while the political landscape of Commorragh shifted as suddenly and as violently the city itself as the storms engulfed it. The thought rallied Yllithian immeasurably. His own plans might be in ruins but so were the plans of every other potential rival.

  The ebon corridors around the auditorium were filling up with more functionaries, representatives and yet more Black Heart kabalites from all over the city. Yllithian reflected that Vect probably had many more groups to harangue and threaten into obedience over the next few hours. Mandrake nightfiends lurked in the shadows between silver sconces guttering with ghostly wytchfire, incubi klaivex pushed past arguing helliarchs and syrens beneath arches of black opal, groups of haemonculi clustered together like colonies of bats displaying the seals of their different covens – The Hex, the Prophets of Flesh, The Dark Creed, The Black Descent.

  Yllithian paused and looked at the Black Descent representative more closely. His white, glistening face was altered into a wide, permanent smile amid hanging jowls that twisted into a beard-like mass of purple tendrils at his chin. Black, ribbed robes concealed the haemonculus’s surprisingly corpulent body. A pointed demi-hood rose from the nape of his neck to frame his ugly visage. The creature caught Yllithian’s glance and turned to him seeming to smile, if it were possible, all the wider.

  ‘You’re here to represent the Black Descent to the Supreme Overlord,’ Yllithian declared.

  ‘I have that honour, archon,’ the haemonculus agreed slightly cautiously. The haemonculus took note of the White Flames icon on Yllithian’s armour and his eyes narrowed shrewdly. His permanent smile seemed a little strained for a moment.

  ‘Then we also have some mutual matters to discuss,’ Yllithian told him frankly.

  ‘You are… quite correct, Archon Yllithian,’ the haemonculus nodded. ‘We do have a great deal to discuss. Sadly I regret that this is neither the time nor the place to do so.’