Path of the Incubus

by Andy Chambers

  Almost as her feet hit the deck another needle-fanged horror came clambering over the railing opposite. Bezieth’s sword flashed across the intervening space like lightning and sent the creature flying backwards in an explosion of black ichor. She turned to Kharbyr and shouted.

  ‘What are you waiting for? Go! Now!’

  ‘But… Xagor!’

  Bezieth glanced below to where the wrack was struggling with an ur-ghul that had its claws wrapped around his rifle. Needle fangs champed for his throat as the horrible strength of the creature relentlessly bore him down. An instant of calculation flickered through Bezieth’s mind, save the wrack or abandon him to his fate? If it had been Kharbyr down there the conclusion would have been instant – even though the skinny assassin had just raised his worth a notch or two in her estimation – but the wrack was actually useful. She leapt down from the Raider with a long suffering sigh, her djin-blade licking out to decapitate the ur-ghul pinning down Xagor. More ur-ghuls circled, but with easier prey at hand in the form of hapless fallen kabalites than an armed and aware opponent they warily kept their distance.

  Kharbyr dipped the Raider as she pulled the wrack to his feet so that she could virtually throw Xagor straight onboard. She caught a look of calculation on Kharbyr’s face as he manoeuvred the craft and swarmed swiftly aboard herself before he could form any bright ideas of his own about leaving her behind. The Raider’s angular nose came up and they rose quickly upwards out of reach of the struggling ur-ghuls and warriors beneath.

  ‘That was… nicely done,’ Bezieth admitted.

  ‘Thanks,’ Kharbyr grinned, elated with his success. He felt like he was actually starting to like Bezieth on some levels. Despite the scars and rough manner she was turning out to be the most reasonable, down-to-earth archon he’d ever encountered. It was a very odd feeling for him and it didn’t last long.

  ‘Don’t get too close to those towers,’ Bezieth snapped. ‘The Azkhorxi will burn us down just for fun if you give them the chance.’

  ‘Where to then?’ Kharbyr asked sulkily.

  ‘Into the tubes, the plan hasn’t changed.’

  ‘What about the ur-ghuls?’

  ‘Just don’t stop to pick up any more passengers,’ Bezieth told him acidly.

  Vhi was becoming dangerously frustrated. Impatience, his memory engrams told him, was often the cause of mission failure but that piece of wisdom did not seem to help right now. The psychic trail was fresh and distinct. There was no doubt that the target had passed this way recently not just once but several times. The narrow sub-strata tunnels Vhi was now investigating were rank with the spoor of the target and it was absolutely clear that its lair must be nearby.

  However, try as he might, Vhi could locate neither the target or the lair and was now finding himself crossing the same spots over and over again. When Vhi had first hit upon the fresh trail he had experienced a desire for communication capability so that he could illustrate his manifestly superior hunting skills to Cho by sharing the knowledge. Now he experienced a similar desire for communication capability so that he could consult Cho on the findings. It was most puzzling and Cho was too far out of range to ask. The enhanced sensing capabilities of the Cho engine were something his protocols now told him were sorely missed.

  Vhi stalked back and forth on whisper-quiet impellers through the tangle web of sub-surface tunnels, drifting through the darkness in silence as he analysed his sensor returns. Available information bore no indication of the tunnels’ existence and so he had to painstakingly map them as he went, laboriously cross-referencing that information with the confusion of multiple target trails he could also sense. It didn’t help that the layout of the tunnels seemed to be random and followed no discernible pattern on either the horizontal or vertical plane.

  Vhi gradually came to realise that the randomness of the tunnels was because structural damage had occurred in them recently. Some had collapsed entirely, others were partially blocked, voids and crevices had opened up to make connections between sections that hadn’t existed previously. The psychic spoor led straight up to walls of fallen debris in several places, yet as the three dimensional map Vhi was building grew he could see that the trails continued beyond the blockages. Clearly these trails were older and had been made before the structural damage occurred. With a rush of excitement Vhi flagged all such interrupted trails as older data and eliminated them from his calculations.

  Sure enough the remaining psychic traces formed a distinct nexus, a knot of activity that could only denote the location of the target’s lair. Vhi rotated his hull smoothly in place to point directly towards the area in question. His segmented tail curved forward over his carapace and the heat lance mounted on it glowed with ruby energy. A fiery line connected the lance with the tunnel wall for the briefest instant before the dense matter of the wall began to soften and drop away in viscid blobs. Vhi modified the output of the heat lance and began pushing slowly forward into the resulting hole. Vhi was done with creeping around through tunnels, he had decided, cutting a direct course for the target’s lair would achieve maximum surprise and in the meantime it was a gratifyingly destructive path to take.

  Yllithian stood on the deck of his barque pondering the complex vagaries of so simple a matter as sending a message in Commorragh. Secure communications were always problematic in the eternal city. Even after millennia of dedicated efforts by paranoid archons to find ways to prevent it any signal could be intercepted or blocked or broken by a clever enough foe. Even supposedly unbreakable line of sight energy pulses could be interfered with, redirected or eavesdropped on.

  Assuming you could get over those difficulties the simple fact of accepting any kind of communication also accepted the possibility that it had been tainted in some fashion. An innocent-seeming message might, for example, be corrupted to introduce a command into your armour systems to cut your own head off, as occurred most notably to the unfortunate Resy’nari Kraillach on receiving what was ostensibly a report of his victory over Ly’lendel the scrivener. How can you communicate when you don’t trust one another or anyone else? It was a pretty problem however you sliced it.

  Yllithian was diverting himself while waiting patiently to receive notification of his assigned district from Vect – however that might be achieved. Around him were arrayed his somewhat reduced band of warriors. Their reaver and hellion auxiliaries were huddled in tight around the surviving Raiders, all silently holding station together like a shoal of sleek, predatory fish. The dark, jagged slope of Corespur swept away below them to where the titanic, screaming statues of Vect stared out over the distant spires of Sorrow Fell.

  Dozens of dark shoals like Yllithian’s waited in the shadows of Corespur: aethersails of crimson, purple, poisonous green, acidic yellow were on every side, serpent prows with jewelled eyes thrust alongside of gilded harpies and jagged rams, chain-snares and trophies swung beneath blade vanes and serrated keels as the host silently drifted in unaccustomed quiescence. Countless different icons marked out the host of different kabals that had been summoned by the Supreme Overlord. The opportunities for them all to gain some advantage in the chaos were virtually limitless and they began right now. In the hours to come a single missed order might send an archon or a whole kabal crashing into ruin in a heartbeat.

  Another reality-shaking storm was breaking across the city. World-shattering bolts of multi-coloured lightning lashed down from the warding into the spires below with terrifying violence. The strikes were so frequent that at times it seemed as if there was a forest of flickering pillars spread across the city that barely supported the sagging, rageing vault of heaven. Fires licked everywhere and fully half of Sorrow Fell seemed to be burning, its sullen red glow warring with the vivid aurora above.

  Periodically groups of sleek craft would slide out of the host and descend into the maelstrom as they received their orders. Yllithian continued to divert himself by imagining th
e difficulties inherent in communicating with such a disparate horde. This was no raid into realspace where a plan could be pre-made, roles assigned and each part then trusted to work within the greater whole. Vect seemed to be biding his time, waiting to see where the worst eruptions were occurring while he fed kabals into the blaze one by one, but perhaps it was just the physical difficulty of actually telling them all what to do.

  The problem rested squarely with the inherent deviousness of the Commorrites themselves. In realspace everyone focused on working together as smoothly possible, the city-games were suspended for a time in the interests of efficiency. In Commorragh itself even something as simple as a rival receiving a message offered boundless opportunities for mischief. Because of that signals had to be routinely encrypted, decrypted, re-encrypted, quarantined and subject to the equivalent of red-hot pokers and pincers before they could be safely brought anywhere near the attention of a living recipient. Even then there were no guarantees that some slippery foe hadn’t found some new and exciting way of getting something past your defences. It all took up an inordinate amount of time and added uncertainty to a situation that was already dangerously fluid.

  A beat of dark wings above caught Yllithian’s attention as the lone scourge he had been half-expecting, half-dreading descended onto the deck of the barque. The altered messenger was prominently wearing the mark of the Kabal of the Black Heart to show he was one of Vect’s own (although that in itself meant little, flying false colours was a trick older than Commorragh itself). The scourge furled its gorgeous, feathered wings ostentatiously and knelt in front Yllithian offering up a narrow wafer of crystal for Yllithian’s inspection.

  Messages delivered by hand avoided many problems while introducing a few new ones, but at least you could identify the origin more readily and, if the situation warranted it, literally shoot the messenger. As it was Yllithian took the crystal from the scourge’s clawed fingertips without a second glance, shooing the feathered warrior away with his other hand. The scourge bounded to its feet and leapt away into space, the unfurling snap of its wings doing little to conceal its cynical, cawing laugh as it departed.

  Yllithian examined the flat crystal plaque and turned it over in his hands: a biphase lattice genecoded to a single sender and recipient – unbreakable, unforgeable and unalterable – theoretically at least. It bore the mark of Vect and it no doubt contained his orders, sealed in such a way that they could quite literally be seen by Yllithian’s eyes only. He was hesitant about unsealing them – it felt very much like donning a leash. No doubt many other archons had felt the same way but the truth was that the leash was already around their necks and what they were feeling was Vect jerking it to bring them to heel.

  He slid one finger along the top of the wafer and a row of unambiguous, angular ideograms swam into view within the crystal. Yllithian read it, and then read it again before crumpling the thing in his fist. It crushed into fine, glittering dust, slipping away instantly between Yllithian’s fingers in a twinkling cascade. He meditated for a moment on the missive’s contents, thinking that unseen eyes would be watching and waiting for his reaction. He hesitated for only a heartbeat, what choice was there but to obey? For now at least… At his gesture the shoal of White Flames grav-craft slid away from the slope of Corespur and set course into the maelstrom.

  In another section of the waiting host Aez’ashya stood on the small, open deck of her Venom sky-chariot reading her own crystal-encased message. A wry smile played across her lips as she did so. At her call the Blades of Desire began rousing their skycraft, the high whine of booster engines rising around her moment by moment. She swept her arm forward and the Venom shot away following the course Yllithian had taken, a snarling swarm of reavers and hellions at her back.

  CHAPTER 20

  Escape Attempts

  ‘They’re coming,’ Motley called suddenly, still running. ‘I’d hoped they would take longer to decide on what to do but apparently we’ve been fated to be disappointed in that regard.’

  Morr, loping beside him tirelessly, glanced at the harlequin without questioning how he knew what actions the craftworlders were taking. They had been running for minutes through the glittering ruins and the place they had escaped from was well out of sight in the darkness by now.

  ‘Will your allies be able to intercede again?’

  Motley shook his head regretfully. ‘They’ve already done more than I should ask, and besides I think Caraeis will be wise to their tricks now.’

  ‘How far is it to the nearest gate?’

  ‘Too far unless we can think up a way to throw them off our trail,’ Motley grimaced. ‘Those Dire Avengers run quicker than hunting hounds.’

  ‘Alone you are considerably faster than me. You could easily reach the gate ahead of them and open it,’ Morr pointed out.

  ‘That wouldn’t h– oh I see what you mean,’ Motley said with a grin. ‘I’ll see you again shortly.’

  The two runners separated, their courses diverging as Motley put on an impressive spurt of speed. The slight harlequin bounded across the tops of broken pillars, flipped over gaping craters and danced through the ruins with a speed and grace that few living creatures could equal. In a few seconds he was entirely lost amid the rushing darkness. Morr kept doggedly running at his best pace and curved his course off into densest ruins he could see, his klaive held balanced low at his side.

  Caraeis ran lightly through the forest of broken stone and twisted metal. He was as deft and agile as any of his race, battle-trained for many differing environments yet he was still struggling to keep Aiosa and the Aspect Warriors in sight. When they had agreed to pursue the incubus he had assumed Aiosa would need him to use his rune sight to follow the Commorrite’s black aura. Instead the Dire Avengers had sprung away without a moment’s hesitation, almost vanishing before he even began to move. They intended to make the capture alone, Caraeis was sure of it, no doubt as another way to embarrass him before the council when Aiosa made her report.

  It had taken him a little while to work out how the Aspect Warriors were tracking the incubus before he realised they were literally, physically, tracking him. Once he recognised the mundane source of their information he began to notice the tracks himself, unmistakeable large, armoured boot prints filling slowly with blown dust. The fugitive was obviously running with no attempt at concealment at all, the prints were widely spaced, digging deep at the toe as they pushed off. Even so the incubus’s lead could only be measured in minutes and judging by the speed the Dire Avengers were moving it must be shrinking rapidly. The incubus’s trail pointed unerringly towards the nearest gate, a reality-distorting knot that Caraeis could sense at the edge of his consciousness. There were other gates in the vicinity but this was the strongest focus by far, the obvious escape route.

  Caraeis cursed mentally at the perfidy of Commorrites, harlequins and Aspect Warriors equally. He, Caraeis, had seen the crisis-pattern first, and he, Caraeis, had been the one who had calculated precisely how to manipulate it to the best advantage of Biel-Tan. Yet when he put his finely-considered plan into action all the mechanisms he had so carefully wrought span out of control at the first instance, evincing an animus and taste for self-direction he had never anticipated. No calculation he had made indicated that the hidebound pride of the Dire Avengers exarch would be a factor, or that the wandering followers of Cegorach would become involved.

  He had tried to dismiss the incident of the warlock and harlequin runes colliding in his earlier casting. Such unfavourable portents often happened due to malign influences – it was precisely the kind of thing the runes were meant to defuse and could usually be safely ignored. Now he was beginning to wonder whether it had been a more literal omen of their course towards mutual destruction.

  Caraeis became aware that the Dire Avengers’ course was changing, curving away from a straight path towards the gate. He looked down and saw that the trail they followed
was curving too. The incubus must have given up on trying to escape that way. Between the flying wracks of dark vapour blown on the winds it was apparent that the land ahead rose precipitously. Terraces of broken marble and jade frowned down like broken cliffs. They would soon be climbing rather than running if this course held true.

  Caraeis thought selfishly that the incubus’s tracks would become invisible over such ground, and Aiosa would need him after all. Then he suddenly felt the gate, now off to one side, begin opening and panic thrilled through him to his very core.

  ‘Aiosa! It’s a trick!’ he mind-shouted desperately to the distant sapphire figure of the exarch. ‘The gate is opening! This must be a false trail!’

  Aiosa’s head snapped towards him and the Dire Avengers paused, as still as statues. ‘Can you stop it?’ her clipped mindspeech responded immediately.

  Caraeis was already bending his will in that direction, trying to prevent reality and webway aligning within the psychically charged arch of the gate. It was like wrestling with a huge door, struggling to keep it shut as unimaginable forces pushed at it from the other side.

  ‘Yes! N-not for long,’ Caraeis gasped with the effort. ‘Get to the gate! Quickly!’