ASHES OF PROSPERO

by Gav Thorpe

  +Into the Crimson King’s gut.+

  The symbolism was not lost on Njal.

  Lukas landed amidst a flurry of tomes, ink pots and parchments. The disc bucked, trying to throw off the Space Wolf as it dipped and accelerated down into the vastness of the hall’s inner space, arrowing towards a pulsating opening.

  ‘Kick it and split it, poke it and hit it!’ snarled one of the blue horrors, jabbing a finger towards Lukas.

  ‘Burn it and harm it, hex it and charm it!’ the other spat back, psychic motes dancing about its hollow fingertips.

  Lukas drew back his claw to strike but the disc rolled suddenly. Instinct forced Lukas to grab something to stop himself falling, plunging his claw into the flesh of the mount while the daemons cackled at him, oblivious to the fact that they were upside down. He saw that they were not quite as similar as he thought – one had three arms and the other two. This extra-limbed daemon opened the chest they had recovered, revealing a single parchment within.

  ‘Looked and found, safe and sound,’ declared the grimacing creature, snatching the page from the chest’s iron-lined interior. It kicked the trunk away, the box whirling upwards – according to Lukas’ senses – as it slipped off the disc.

  ‘We found it in the secret box…’ sneered the two-armed daemon.

  ‘…a pretty gift for the Cyclops!’ the other finished.

  As much as Lukas knew he could stand up – the evidence of his eyes testified that the daemons did so without hindrance – his unreasoning brain told him that he was clinging to the inverted disc, about to plunge into a bottomless depth, if he should let go. He risked a glance sideways, enough to see that the rest of the Blood Claws – four of them now – had regrouped on a balcony-ledge, their backs to a wall, chainswords a blur amid the tangle of daemon bodies that pressed in towards them.

  Gritting his teeth, Lukas closed his eyes. His discomfort quickly subsided, and he was able to get to one knee, somewhat unsteady as the disc yawed and pitched seemingly at random. He felt a wind whistling past his ears, snatching at his hair, but there was no other sensation of movement.

  With a triumphant grin he pushed himself upright and opened his eyes. Crackling energy flared along his wolf claw and the two horrors glared at him, the blaze of his weapon reflected in their immortal eyes.

  Before he could strike, they plunged into a gullet-tunnel. Ruddiness suffused his sight, a sudden closeness constricting around him after the impossible vastness of the cavern. At the instance of his distraction, the two-armed daemon lashed out, a mouth opening in the palm of its hand to spew glittering vapour into his face.

  Lukas stumbled, equilibrium whirling while small fire-sprites danced across his vision and a chorus of grating angel voices snarled and rejoiced in his ears.

  His foot slipped on a pile of scrolls, pitching him towards the edge of the disc. Recovering, he stepped towards the horrors, in time to be met by the three-armed daemon smashing the spine of an over-sized grimoire into his face. The blow was not strong but, already unbalanced, Lukas staggered again and his foot missed the disc’s rim.

  Scrabbling instinctively to grab hold of something, Lukas snatched wildly at the daemon, scattering parchments, scrolls and tomes as he pitched off the disc. His efforts to right himself failed and he cartwheeled off the daemon mount and plunged into the daemon-maw, a scrap of paper clutched in his grasp.

  As darkness consumed him, two voices drifted after.

  ‘He did his best, uninvited guest. I’m unimpressed at his jest.’

  ‘Our foe addressed, his mood distressed, into the Cyclops’ nest…’

  CHAPTER 17

  PROSPERO’S HEART

  Whiteness.

  Silence.

  The double-beat of Njal’s hearts grew louder, the rush of blood through arteries and veins a hiss to fill the gulf. The ruddiness of the blood in his eyes.

  External sensation returned to Njal in a sudden welter of colour and noise as the Stormbird erupted into the heart of the Portal Maze. The sight through the broad canopy took his breath away. A domed hall, impossibly vast. He was aware of an interior and exterior and the size of the former enclosed within the latter. Normal dimensions were stretched to breaking. Even the greatest aetthalle of the Fang would have fitted into the artificial cavern several times over.

  Yes, it was definitely a physical space. Wisps of cloud formed and distance hazed his view. There was curvature, more pronounced than Fenris’ horizon, possibly a moon or artificial station.

  And then it struck him why everything seemed so odd. It was inverted. The curve was up, not down, delineating the inside of a vast sphere. The heart was contained within a pocket space of angular crystal panes and icicle-like columns of shimmering diamond.

  +The heart.+ The reverence in Izzakar’s thoughts was understandable, though it seemed that his awe was not from first experience but something deeper. +Such majesty of construction. Such purpose given form. The most incredible feat of the Cult Prosperine, all working together under the guidance of the Crimson King. A perfection even Fulgrim would appreciate. The Magnus Opus.+

  Njal moved away from Bulveye and barely breathed his next words.

  ‘Where are we? I mean, where is this heart set? We are not within the warp, that much I can feel. This is a real place, with dimension and time.’ The Stormcaller stopped on the threshold of the main compartment, one hand raised to cover the slight tremor of his lips. ‘Fulgrim also turned on the Emperor. He’s another daemon prince like Magnus.’

  +That surprises me less… But to your question. Where else would we build the heart of the Prosperine empire? We stand within the centre of Prospero itself, hollowed out, peeled open by the craft of the Cyclopean Wonder.+

  Through one of the armoured windows the Stormcaller saw the portal they had exited as the Stormbird’s pilot brought it into a steep turning dive towards whatever lay below. There was no grand mask of Magnus, not even a hint of regular architecture. Instead, only a pillar of crystal towering up from the distant cavern floor, faceted innumerable times so that it appeared almost as a spiral of pure light.

  ‘That… seems unlikely. What of your world’s core? Is this excavation not destabilising in some way?’

  +The space it occupies is less than a few metres across, but wound very tightly about itself so that much can fit within.+

  ‘I find that even less believable, though I cannot think why you would lie to me about it.’

  Njal looked back into the cockpit and saw that they were moments from landing upon a dark grey floor, marked with intersecting lines of golden etching in an impossibly complex and bewilderingly vast pattern of hexametric design and psychic containment, much like the wyrdwards upon his own chamber back on Fenris yet far superior in precision and size.

  Glancing back, he saw the portal-pillar shrinking, becoming a shadow against the bright arc of the impossible horizon. On the other side, not far from where the Thunderhawks were about to land, he spied a circle of semi-transparent iridescence. The scene on the far side was of smoke-shrouded Tizca, a twilight sky lit by streaks of gunfire and the flare of starshells.

  +Think of it this way, son of hut-dwellers. Flattened out, your lungs would cover an area of roughly seventy-five square metres, yet they are contained easily within your chest cavity. By flattening out the spatial plane of the heart we were able to create a vastly more efficient use of space-time. It is rather amazing, now I think of it, but dimensional warping was something that just existed if you grew up in Prospero.+

  Something occurred to Njal and he stepped back into the command deck to approach Bulveye.

  ‘You were defending the portal we just used.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the Old Wolf, not turning, focusing on the unfolding scene below, face set with concentration. ‘It seems that routes out of here always lead back, not like the other portals. If we leave, we can return, although where we go to changes each time. I have been able to muster scattered packs and warriors over the last few… Well
, since we pursued the Thousand Sons into this mess. I made this our war-aett.’

  The Thunderhawks disgorged the last of the Old Guard among waiting tanks and packs. Njal had not seen them all together before and realised there were nearly two hundred Space Marines and several armoured vehicles assembled under Bulveye’s command. Among them were larger tanks and transports that Njal did not recognise, as well as various weapon systems and even armoured walkers that had been lost to history. The Old Wolf saw his amazement.

  ‘It’s not just been the Old Guard that has been lost in ten thousand years, yes?’ He sighed, obviously pained by a thought. ‘Your wolf champion, Rockfist, said that the Imperium I knew had died. What happened?’

  Njal’s answer was postponed by the moment of touchdown, a thud and scrape of landing gear on the flat ground followed by the whine of the ramp opening and the hiss of restraining harnesses releasing the Terminators and embarked Dreadnoughts. Cold air drifted in, bringing with it a clinical scent of cleanser and ozone, tainted by the oil and exhaust fumes.

  ‘Horus. Horus happened,’ said the Stormcaller.

  ‘What has the Warmaster to do with Magnus’ treachery?’

  ‘Horus turned on the Allfather, Old Wolf.’ It knotted Njal’s gut to think of the terrible treason unleashed upon the Imperium in the years of its greatest conquests. ‘He tried to destroy the Lord of Mankind and become ruler of the Imperium.’

  ‘The Warmaster?’ The colour drained from Bulveye’s face, his expression aghast, something Njal had never seen before in another Space Marine.

  Bulveye held a hand to a nearby console, physically rocked by the revelation. He shook his head, opened his mouth to speak and then shut it without word. Another shake of the head, as though clearing away the thoughts that crowded in.

  ‘There is much we need to learn.’ The Wolf Lord’s voice nearly cracked with strain but he gritted his teeth and mastered his emotions. ‘Now is not the time.’

  ‘I see Tizca,’ said Njal, pointing his staff at the portal visible through the main windshield. ‘Why did you not just leave?’

  ‘Two reasons,’ Bulveye replied. ‘Look closer.’

  Njal moved towards the glassite plate, focusing through his vague reflection. He recognised the pyramid peaks of the fallen city, summits against the orange sky. Explosions silently blossomed above them.

  But they did not move. It was the same scene he had looked at a minute earlier – it was like a pict-capture projected onto a mirror, not quite right.

  +It is stasis-locked. When this savage killed me the portal I had opened slipped into dormancy. My partial resurrection must have restored the link I had created, but it needs to be properly aligned and calibrated to account for the temporal shift of ten thousand years.+

  ‘The army of foes we just left, it can come through?’ It seemed as though Njal asked the question of Bulveye but his words were for the Librarian inside his thoughts.

  ‘Yes, though we have shown them the error of trying,’ replied the Old Wolf.

  +Of course. If there are any among them that still remember such things, they could bring in forces from other gates. And, of course, more daemons.+

  ‘We must be swift if we are to leave,’ said Njal, jabbing towards Tizca and then swinging his finger to point at the other gate. ‘We cannot be caught using one portal while they attack through the other.’

  ‘Leave? Why would I leave?’ Bulveye signalled for the pilot to depart and then fixed Njal with a stare. ‘I brought you here so that you do not have to share my fate. My oath remains. I must cleanse the Portal Maze of the sworn enemy. It does not matter to me if a route to Tizca is opened, I won’t go with you.’

  ‘And your warriors? You condemn them to this fate too?’

  Bulveye hesitated and then moved out into the compartment, now empty of occupants.

  ‘They swore brotherhood to me, feal-oaths to the Old Guard and others. Where I lead, they follow.’

  He set off to the ramp, gleaming axe in hand, where he bellowed orders to the waiting packs. Njal followed, gaze roaming across the muster. Some of the Old Guard were arranged in a defensive cordon around the portal to the Thousand Sons’ citadel. Among them were a few warriors with other markings, survivors from different companies swept up by Bulveye during his forays from the heart. Others were being attended to by a pair of apothecary legionaries and a trio of Iron Priests, re-arming for another mission.

  He found Majula looking up in awe at the insubstantial ceiling. At his approach, she dragged her gaze to him, a faint smile playing on her lips.

  ‘I have never seen the like,’ she said excitedly, tapping her fingers together as though clapping to herself. ‘I feel the beacon of Terra but it feels amplified, echoing back inside my head. It is beautiful…’

  Before Njal could reply, he felt a spike of anxiety.

  +My body… It should be here. I cannot see it.+

  The Stormcaller called out to Bulveye before he vanished into the press of his Greybeards.

  ‘Old Wolf, what became of the Librarian you slew?’

  Bulveye cocked his head to one side, eyes narrowing. ‘How could you know of this?’

  ‘Wyrdknak,’ Njal said hurriedly, tapping the side of his head. ‘A vision brought me here.’

  ‘I see.’ Bulveye waved his axe towards the smaller portal. ‘We tossed the bodies of the traitors over there.’

  +Quick, we do not have long before Magnus’ host follows through to the heart.+

  Njal left Bulveye to his preparations and strode towards the portal. His Stormriders followed without command, casting looks at the outlandish warriors and machines around them.

  A few metres from the portal disc, Njal stopped and looked through. He could see that the pyramids were more intact, the aircraft frozen as they crossed the dusk skies, the war engines that stormed along the streets of designs that had not been seen for millennia.

  ‘The Wolf King,’ he murmured and reached out a hand towards the portal. ‘Is it possible to step back to that time?’

  +Perhaps, but I do not have the skill nor the inclination to save Russ for you. I have led you to your lost company, but that murderous beast is best confined to distant history.+

  Njal’s own uncertainty about the Wolf King’s fate tempered the anger he felt at Izzakar’s insults against his primarch. The Rune Priest moved on, though Valgarthr and several others halted and stared, drawn by the historic war unfolding beyond the gate. Njal found a heap of corpses armoured in the pre-Heresy livery of Magnus’ Legion. A twinge of anger pulsed through him from his psychic stowaway.

  ‘You opened the portals without your body,’ said Njal, pulling aside some of the dead Space Marines. ‘Why do you need it now?’

  +I do not. But I demand it, as the price for saving you. I will be restored.+

  Njal continued to drag aside the broken remains, their bodies and armour stiff, banging and clattering on the unyielding floor.

  +That one!+

  A thrum of excitement jerked Njal’s arm a little to the right, a momentary spasm powered by the urgency of Izzakar’s demand. He withdrew it, shocked by the loss of control. The Librarian’s hunger to be returned to his mortal shell nagged at him like a false instinct.

  ‘Which one?’

  +That one with the robes and a hole in its chest, you Fenrisian fool.+

  Njal located the body, a sleeveless coat of deep blue hung off the armour, scorched in places. Its torso and plastron had been punched through by the blast that had slain the Librarian. He remembered the plasma pistol at Bulveye’s hip.

  ‘How am I to do this? That body is not much of a state for anyone, never mind a dispossessed soul. You will die again the moment you return to it.’

  +I can heal myself. Do not trouble yourself on that account.+

  ‘And then? You’ll go to Magnus?’ The thought perturbed Njal, and not just the notion of letting an enemy escape. It seemed an unfitting way to part with Izzakar who, despite his barbed remarks and insults,
had proved not only true to his original promise but a capable ally beyond simple necessity.

  +My Legion is lost to me, Stormcaller.+ Seeping sadness chilled Njal’s heart. +But perhaps not all of my company. Like your forebrothers, many were scattered in the Portal Maze by the blundering of this wretch and his companions. Some might still exist that remain loyal to the Prosperine ideals. I do not like what has become of the Crimson King, and I might endeavour to thwart his corrupted ways if I can.+

  Njal knelt, the shadow of his war-plate falling upon the plasma-ravaged corpse of Izzakar Orr. He laid his staff upon the fatally wounded breast and his hand on the brow of the helmed head. Opening his mind, he allowed the spirits to pass into him, letting them fall upon his thoughts like snow, a little at a time but their accumulation strong enough to bury a man and flatten trees. He nurtured that power, becoming the warming sun of Fenris, instilling the life of his world into the broken physical shell before him.

  Cells regrew, ushered into renewed life by Njal’s coaxing. Bone and flesh and organs reformed, though the black carapace that had once shielded them within the epidermis was synthetic and did not heal, leaving a pale splash across the knitted tissue of pectoral muscles and abdomen. The plate, too, could not be fused; its molten edge surrounded the returned flesh with an almost perfect circle.

  Sighing, Njal stood, leaving the body mended but still empty.

  +You did not need to do that.+

  Njal said nothing but opened up his thoughts, unbarring a tiny portion of his mind-fortress, a postern gate in his defences for the Librarian to exit. A spark emerged from within his thoughts, invisible to all but the Stormcaller’s wyrdsense. It travelled down his arm and ejected from the tip of his staff. Nightwing cawed, shuffling on his pauldron, heralding the spirit of the dead.