ASHES OF PROSPERO

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘Save ammunition,’ Lukas suggested, leaping forward with his claw, followed by the revving of chainsword motors as the others piled in after.

  It took only seconds to finish off the daemon, scattering parts across the bare ferrocrete. Herlief eradicated the rest with a burst of promethium from his flamer. They watched the burning scraps melting away, nobody quite sure what to say.

  Bahrd broke the silence. ‘How did you know it was daemonspawn? Did you smell it, see something, taste its otherworldly nature?’

  ‘You all saw his smile the same as I did,’ Lukas replied. He spun away, concerned that nobody was watching the portal. It throbbed as before but seemed dormant. ‘Nobody ever looks pleased to see me.’

  There was no arguing with this immutable truth and they followed Lukas back to the plinth.

  ‘How do we destroy it?’ asked Gudbrand, looking at the pulsating gate. ‘Melta bombs?’

  ‘If it survived the scouring of the Rout, I very much doubt we have the means to break it,’ said Lukas.

  The rest of the Blood Claws gathered, prowling about the portal stone like a pack closing on its prey. Lukas could feel their eagerness, their battle-lust roused by the fight with the daemon. It was the same feeling that quickened his own pulse.

  Lukas set a foot upon the plinth.

  ‘That… thing tried to lure us into the portal,’ warned Agthei. ‘It has to be a trap.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Lukas replied, taking another step, just centimetres from the ill-defined aura that marked the boundary of the portal. ‘Want to find out what’s waiting inside?’

  ‘All of us together, rapid assault,’ said Herlief. He moved next to Lukas, the flamer dribbling a few sparks from its igniter arm. The others drew closer, weapons ready like bared fangs.

  ‘For Russ!’ they shouted, and plunged into the swirling gate.

  +I know what I am doing. You do not.+

  Reluctantly, Njal allowed Izzakar to once again take control of his body, just enough to speak out loud and move his arms and hands. He hated the feeling of impotence when he allowed the sorcerer this freedom. But Njal detested his continued presence more, which was why he allowed the traitor these brief episodes as puppetmaster. It was regrettably the only way to progress through the maze.

  The Thousand Sons Librarian placed splayed fingers into the light of the wyrdgate, letting the shimmering white play between them. One digit then another twitched, carefully rather than in spasm, and with each movement one of the runes upon the stone altered shape. The Stormcaller felt the resistance of the wyrdpower building as Izzakar tuned the gate to a new destination.

  ‘Ahmet aton ahmet utuhl ared autah eitas aret ahmet,’ Njal intoned, the speech his own but the words unintelligible. His lips and tongue felt clumsy around the unfamiliar syllables.

  As alien as it felt to him, he knew it was more so for the others around. He caught Arjac looking at him sharply, hammer raised. The Wolf Guard approached a little closer at some command the Stormcaller did not hear. Combined with his behaviour earlier, it was obvious that Rockfist had been dispatched by the Great Wolf not just to protect Njal but to keep watch on him. If Ulrik’s reaction was anything to judge by, any act even slightly out of the ordinary might be deemed against the Chapter’s honour and duty. Njal had to remember that in case such reflexive suspicion became an impediment, as much as he sympathised with Logan Grimnar’s order and Arjac’s concerns.

  Izzakar completed his manipulations with a flourish of the hand. The symbols had all changed, and burned with a green cast upon the stone. There was a moment of hesitation, just an instant before the Librarian withdrew his influence, returning to the pocket of Njal’s mind he had made his own like a trap-spider withdrawing into its lair after striking.

  ‘Nya fjel wyrd alt, Arjac sleip neva,’ Njal said to his companions, speaking Fenrisian to reassure them that he was in control. Rockfist did not relax, but turned to the jade gleam of the portalway.

  ‘Where does it go?’ the Wolf Guard asked.

  +Familiar territory. Somewhere I know well to allow me to get my bearings. The Pyramid of Ahtep-Luxanhtep, temple-arcology of the Raptora cult.+

  ‘One of the other pyramids,’ Njal told the others. ‘Follow me.’

  He stepped up to the plinth and into the shimmering light.

  The hall into which the Space Wolves had been transported was open to the sky, its triangular arrangement of windows empty – the fallen glass crunched underfoot, turning to powder beneath their tread. Njal’s wyrdsense detected nothing amiss and he concluded that they were somewhere within the material universe as Izzakar had asserted; the view through the broken panes showed the Pyramid of Photep in the distance, the first starlight sparkling on its flank.

  ‘Are we not within the maze?’ he whispered.

  +There is no maze to be within, you savage. The portals exist in our world. The maze is simply the link between there and here.+

  ‘But you said that time flows awry within the maze, where you and Bulveye were trapped.’

  +Yes. Some of the places that might be here or there are within the fringes of warp space, and some portals have broken, allowing anti-materium to leak in. But the maze is a physical construct except for the heart.+

  The thud of more arrivals behind Njal caused him to turn. The plinth he had crossed was no more. Instead a curved archway four metres high and three wide, moulded like two upraised eagle wings, formed the portal through which Valgarthr and his pack emerged, flickers of green energy playing about their armour. Next, the bulky mass of Bjorn moved impossibly through the space, the war machine suddenly filling the empty hall with his presence.

  Njal returned his attention to their surroundings while the other two Dreadnoughts pushed through from the Pyramid of Photep, ornate tiles cracking under their weight. The hall was filled with avenues of stone shelves, their highest reaches a dozen metres from the floor. He saw no ladder or stairs and the shelves themselves were empty.

  +All gone,+ moaned Izzakar. +This was the hierographica raptorae, centuries of accumulated research of our sect. Destroyed!+

  ‘Heretical,’ said Njal as he moved away from the others. ‘Corrupted. Cleansed to protect others.’

  +Wisdom is not an infection. Knowledge lies beyond creed, you barbarian. There is no heresy, only free-thinking and the will to explore. Heresy requires a faith against which to be antithetical! You bandy around these terms without understanding their true meaning. It is an indictment of the Imperium’s decline. Orthodoxy and dogma have quashed Enlightenment and the Imperial Truth.+

  Njal sent Nightwing ascending towards the shattered slope of the pyramid wall that formed the ceiling. From on high, he could see the archives were arranged in concentric squares, broken through with avenues to three doorways in the other walls.

  ‘I don’t see any steps to the upper levels,’ said the Rune Priest.

  +How prosaic of you, hovel-born. We Raptorae are masters of psykaphysical interaction. Telekinesis. We could bring the crystals and books to us with a whim, or raise and lower floating platforms with the power of our minds.+

  ‘Where is the next portal?’ Through the psyber-raven’s eyes he searched for something else that might be a gateway into the Portal Maze, but saw nothing.

  +The next? We must use this one, idiot! Let me recalibrate the destination. Each portal takes us forward, down the rings of the maze, like stepping stones.+

  With the former Librarian’s insults still chafing his pride, Njal gestured for his companions to make way and returned to the winged arch. He noticed Arjac’s expression of concern and tried to give a reassuring nod. The Rockfist looked unconvinced. Njal pushed his unease aside to focus on the portal mechanism.

  Darker symbols marked the tips of the three longest feathers, mirrored to either side. They matched those that Izzakar had arranged on the other side of the portal, back in the Pyramid of Photep.

  ‘So we just step through to get back to where we began?’ asked Arjac.
<
br />   +No! The portals are directional and contextual. I would need to key in the coordinates for the great temple to take us back. But that is not where we need to go, is it? Just let me do my work and stop interfering.+

  Njal shook his head in reply to Rockfist, stifling a retort to the sorcerer. He held his hand out towards the arch and set free Izzakar’s spirit once more.

  The next two portals took them to other locations across Tizca. Each time, Arjac stayed on the heels of the Rune Priest, a shadow not only ready to strike but serving as a reminder to whatever entity shared the Stormcaller’s brain.

  From the summit of a hexagonal tower north of the Pyramid of Photep, Rockfist and Njal watched the unfolding battle. Much was hidden, but the main conflict around the great temple was visible along one of the great avenues.

  Led by a Predator battle tank and three Rhinos, the remainder of the Stormriders had scattered the cultists that had attempted to cut off their access to the inner city. More thralls advanced along the corridor held by the Space Wolves, the patrols of gunships a further deterrent to the followers of Magnus for the time being.

  A firefight still raged on the south-eastern corner of the approaches, but it seemed as though the situation was well in hand.

  ‘By harnessing the portal of Photep and anchoring it properly, we’ve disrupted the local network for the cultists,’ said Njal. The terms were unfamiliar in context but Arjac believed it was the Rune Priest speaking. He guessed Njal had picked up the phrases from the sorcerer. ‘Some of them are trapped inside the maze. The others will find it hard to coordinate until they can re-establish control.’

  Rockfist said nothing, stepping aside to allow the Stormcaller to attend to the realignment of the portal gate through which they had entered.

  The chamber inside the tower was cramped and the battle force had spread into adjoining hallways and rooms. Space was especially scarce with Bjorn and his two Dreadnought brothers present, their exhaust stacks scraping plaster from the ceiling every time they moved.

  ‘I don’t like how we can always fit through, no matter what size the doorway is,’ said Berda.

  ‘You should know that size isn’t everything,’ replied Ingvarr, raising his storm bolter next to Berda’s assault cannon.

  The others sighed at the bad joke. It was a good sign, their bond returning after the exceptional events of the past few hours. Arjac left them to their chatter and stepped up beside Majula, who stood by a cracked plate-glassite window, looking towards the distant landing fields. Her guards stood close at hand, but respectfully turned their gaze away.

  Only a few tell-tale plasma lights betrayed the last drop runs descending towards Tizca. Night was creeping closer, the terminus clearly visible from the kilometre-high vantage point. Majula stared intently at the scene beyond, barely registering the activity around her. The Navigator had said hardly a word since they had left the Pyramid of Photep and was clearly under some strain.

  ‘I can still summon you a transport,’ Arjac told her. ‘A Rhino and a combat pack could be spared to take you all back to the dropzone.’

  Dorria stepped closer. The guard captain said nothing, gaze directed out of the window, but it was clear from her body language that she was listening to what passed between them.

  ‘No, thank you, sergeant,’ said Majula. The use of Arjac’s formal Adeptus Astartes rank was alien to his ears. She spoke quietly but he sensed no weakness in her voice. ‘I serve the Guiding Light best by remaining with the Lord of Runes.’

  ‘That may be so, but it is not the safest place to be.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Majula, turning her head within her hood to look at him out of the corner of her eye. In the reflection the silver band that shielded her oracular glinted in the sunset. Arjac suppressed a flinch at the thought of what lay beneath the plain headband, uncomfortable with being so close to the representative of House Belisarius. ‘The Longclaw has been emptied of crew save those to fly the ships and man the essential systems. Were I aboard and your expedition fails, I would be stranded here. Without the Lord of Runes, we lack anyone that can conduct astrotelepathy to summon aid. Any foe that could best the Space Wolves would make short work of Dorria and her companions, though I value their loyalty and attendance to what must be an arduous duty.’

  Arjac saw Dorria smile slightly under her visor but she did not look round.

  ‘This could be the last chance to make that choice,’ said Arjac, indicating the portal with inclined head. ‘After this, we may not be anywhere near Tizca.’

  ‘Or Prospero, sergeant,’ added Majula. Apparently she was more at ease with that thought than Arjac. Given her nature and role in the Imperium he supposed it was not strange that travel to otherworldly places did not vex her.

  He said nothing else, and headed back to the others just as the golden hue beneath the archway darkened, signalling that they would shortly be moving again.

  CHAPTER 13

  INTO DARK PLACES

  Arjac’s mood worsened when the next jump indeed took them away from Prospero, to a moonlit clifftop among ancient menhirs. The entire stone circle was bathed in a wyrdglimr that itched the inside of the skin and prickled the nape of the neck. Njal – or his passenger – examined the runes carved a metre high into the huge stones, tracing them with a fingertip while the rest of the force gazed up at the unfamiliar sky or down at a sea crashing against a harsh shore mottled purple in the light of twin moons.

  After that was a cavern, lit only by the suit lamps of the Terminators, though the sensorium sweep detected a sprawl of descending passages curling away from their point of entry. The portal itself seemed to be painted on solid wall, Arjac’s suit sensors detecting trace amounts of human blood. The glyphs that formed the gateway bulged and distorted as more warriors passed through. The dark brown scrawl rippled into an outline of an emerging figure before returning to its native shape when each Space Wolf entered.

  Njal moved away. Arjac’s glare searched the rest of the cavern, following the glitter of lumen beams across crystal deposits and stark striations in the rock. Pairs of Valgarthr’s warriors departed to watch the cracks and tunnels while Arjac and the Wolf Guard moved to the broad mouth of the cave. The rows of stalactites and stalagmites looked suspiciously like ossified fangs.

  A dead landscape stretched as far as the eye could see, of desolate greys and light browns like ash. The sky was devoid of stars and moon, the land itself without rise or dip, the horizon oddly flat against natural perspective. There was almost no atmosphere at all, and what little there was contained no oxygen.

  ‘What in the Allfather’s name did the Thousand Sons want with this place?’ said Ulfar.

  ‘In the Allfather’s name is correct,’ said Njal, coming up on them from inside the cave. The Rune Priest had his helm in place, making it even harder for Arjac to tell who was commanding the Terminator suit, but it seemed as though the sorcerer was not trying to mask his presence any more. His words were dismissive, if not outright hostile, and the nature of the information imparted was impossible. ‘A watch post created during the Great Crusade. A staging ground, you might call it, to places further afield.’

  The Rune Priest paused for a moment and his next words were quiet, perhaps not intended for Arjac. ‘We have a problem. I cannot rewrite the marks upon the cave wall, the destination is set.’

  ‘So?’ Arjac fought back his suspicions, but it was hard not to think that this was manipulation by the Stormcaller’s possessing spirit. A manufactured inconvenience. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means we have to go out there,’ said the sorcerer, startled by Rockfist’s question. He thrust Njal’s staff out towards the stark landscape. ‘To the other portal. Or we go back through this gate to somewhere even less welcoming.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a decision you should be taking,’ Arjac said quietly, letting the Thousand Sons traitor know that he was watchful.

  A second passed, a moment of immobility that signified the tr
ansition of consciousness, before the Rune Priest replied.

  ‘We head out,’ Njal announced to the task force. ‘Our only way forward is across these wastes.’

  They began making preparations, organising for the foray into the unknown, when Majula called out to them, her voice filtered through the void mask she wore beneath her hood.

  ‘I can see the Light of Heavens, Lord of Runes,’ she told them, lifting a gloved finger to the sky beyond the cave mouth. ‘It burns bright. We are close to Terra!’

  She took a step between two of the jutting stalagmites but then retreated with a gasp, recoiling as if struck. She whirled around, panicked.

  ‘It’s gone!’ she cried, stumbling towards Njal, hand held out to the Rune Priest, the other raised in instinct to keep her oracular guard in place. ‘There is no veil!’

  The Navis Guard clustered about Majula while the Stormcaller eluded her grasp and stepped towards the boundary stones of the cavern. He stood on the threshold looking up, a golden gleam playing about his helm and staff. Arjac joined him, feeling a frisson of energy along his nerves as he passed the line demarked by the cave mouth.

  ‘What does she mean?’ Arjac asked. ‘What veil?’

  ‘Like the Geller field breach, this place stands between realities,’ the Stormcaller replied, not looking around. ‘It is not in the Othersea but not within the world of mortals. It is a bridge, trapped between.’

  The Stormcaller took another step and Arjac followed without thought.

  ‘What do you see?’ asked Njal.

  ‘Nothing…’ Rockfist scanned the featureless plain and empty sky. ‘What do you see, Stormcaller?’

  ‘A golden eye turning towards us.’ The words came as a whisper. The next were a hasty shout. ‘Quickly now, we have to find the other portal. Our presence is drawing unwanted attention.’

  The darkness was all-encompassing, deadening the suit lamps of the Space Marines and the Dreadnoughts’ searchlights after a few metres. Only a glimmer on the ashen ground was visible, as flat as planed ship’s timber. Nothingness pressed down upon them all, the unremitting closeness of everything like a great weight.