Tyrant of the Hollow Worlds

by Mark Clapham

  Anto/Kulbard sat back in his seat and clapped his hands together. Outside, the sun was setting beyond the horizon.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said Kretschman. ‘Suns don’t set in the Hollow Worlds.’

  ‘It seems your imagination has a fondness for the obvious metaphor,’ said Anto/Kulbard, as darkness crept into the carriage. ‘You’re dying, you see. Our connection is allowing me to attack Pranix from two sides at once, but you are not built for witchcraft, mortal. Your body is burning, and the only thing stopping you from experiencing that agony is my will.’

  It was nearly dark, now. Kulbard was gone. The noise of the train, the motion of the carriage, had ceased. There was only Anto, the eye slits of his helmet glowing red in the darkness.

  ‘It’s nearly time to let you go, little puppet,’ whispered Anto, a quiet voice in the dark.

  Caught between Sindri and Garreon, wielding his chainsword left and right to fend off blows from both of them, Anvindr was being backed dangerously towards one of the portals, an energy-fringed hole in reality twice as large as the Space Wolf himself. As the portal drifted his way he could see that it looked out onto some broiling clouds of red-blue energies. Was that what the Siren Clouds looked like, from the inside? Anvindr didn’t want to find out.

  ‘Why, Sindri?’ he demanded, ducking under his former friend’s blade.

  ‘Because our battles are pointless,’ said Sindri. ‘Fighting for an Imperium of dead gods and worthless mortals. We are gods ourselves, we should live as such! Garreon showed me that.’

  ‘What did you do to him?’ Anvindr demanded of Garreon, enraged that his brother had been broken by this monster.

  ‘Pain simply opens us to our true selves,’ said Garreon, leering as he dodged Anvindr’s chainsword. ‘In agony, we know what is worth fighting for, and those values which are simply… empty.’

  Anvindr knew what Garreon was saying to be true. Not about the Imperium, but about Sindri. He had always had an arrogance to him that had set him apart from his fellow Space Wolves. Garreon had simply pushed him the right way.

  ‘The pain was worth the revelation,’ said Sindri, and his cruel smile was a mirror of Garreon’s. ‘Having had the error of my ways revealed to me, it was simply a matter of being allowed to return to your side, and waiting for the moment to prove myself to my new master.’

  ‘You have proven enough,’ grimaced Anvindr. ‘To me at least.’

  With a howl of rage, Anvindr launched a series of thunderous blows on Sindri, leaving Garreon trapped between the rotating fragments in the chamber.

  Sindri backed away under the hail of blows, back towards where Huron Blackheart was burning in the core.

  Anju Badya reached the entrance to the fortress knowing that her Corsairs pursuers were not far behind her. Steeling herself, she ran through the solid blackness of the doorway, and found herself in a rounded chamber consumed by energy and battle: Anvindr and one of his fellow Space Wolves were fighting near to a column of energy within which a huge figure writhed, while the air was filled with strange objects that made no sense. But it was the blazing man near to her who held her attention.

  Kretschman was alight with some kind of power that burned his skin and clothes, a current of which was pouring out of him towards the prone form of Inquisitor Pranix, who was raising his staff to try to defend himself both from that stream of energy and another coming from the staff of a Red Corsair in a red cloak. The light and fury between the three of them hurt Anju’s eyes, and none of the three paid her any attention, so focused were they on each other.

  Anju didn’t understand any of it. This was beyond her, a simple rider of Tallarn.

  But as she stood there, the Red Corsairs doubtless about to strike her down as they had so many others that day, she felt a strange peace.

  She reached into the saddlebag she had brought with her and withdrew a large chunk of rock.

  She remembered Folkvar telling her he thought that she might have survived for a reason, for a battle yet to be fought, and the look in his eyes at the moment of his death, saying that moment was still ahead.

  Here it was. She knew where to strike. She knew this would be the end.

  She raised the rock, a chunk of jade as big as her hand, and brought it down on the back of Kretschman’s head.

  Pranix didn’t even see Sergeant Badya enter the chamber until she struck down Kretschman, but the effects were unmissable. The wave of psychic energy coming from Kretschman to Pranix ceased, rushing through the Cadian and feeding back right at Anto, a swirling mass of psychic lightning that surged into his staff, shattering it into fragments. Anto reeled, hands and cloak ablaze and ripples of malignant energy coursing over his form.

  Kretschman, scorched and smoking, keeled over, while the rush of outgoing energy threw Badya out of the way.

  Pranix didn’t have time to worry about either of them, or even whether Anto remained a potential threat. Only stopping Huron Blackheart mattered.

  Traitor, traitor, traitor.

  Anvindr’s disbelief in Sindri’s treachery had curdled into outrage and horror now, and all he wished to do before he died was strike Sindri out of existence.

  Sindri had already reeled through one of the tendrils of energy working their way around the chamber, which had left his armour shattered and blackened. When part of Sindri’s chestplate fell away, Anvindr didn’t hesitate; he plunged the chainsword deep into the gap, feeling resistance as it cut through the hardened ribcage, the release as it dug deep into the organs within.

  ‘I hope you enjoy meeting your new gods,’ hissed Anvindr, spittle dripping down his beard with rage. Sindri’s eyes were wide, terrified in a way no true Space Wolf ever could be.

  Anvindr pulled the chainsword loose and flung Sindri into the column of energy where Huron Blackheart still stood.

  He turned to see Garreon coming for him, but was thrown aside by a tremendous release of energy from the column of light at the centre of the chamber.

  Rotaka and Taemar found the ascent up the hill far more difficult than expected, the distance to their destination seeming to stretch away even as they should have got closer. Rotaka, uneasy enough in his alliance with Taemar, found further discomfort in these distortions.

  When they reached the fortress, they were greeted by an explosion that rocked the ground beneath their feet. They ran into the chamber within to find not the aftermath of a disaster, but a scene of glory. A spherical space, at the centre of which stood a column of light, from which now emerged a spectacular figure.

  Huron Blackheart was glowing with energy, starlight illuminating the air around him. As he stepped forwards the chamber around him seemed to respond, strange anomalies in the air moving towards him, crackles of energy sparking between the Tyrant and the portals and alien machinery floating past. It was as if he were part of the machinery that worked these Hollow Worlds.

  No, not part – the centre of. Huron Blackheart had taken control of everything.

  Rotaka had been right to stay loyal. His master was magnificent.

  ‘You are too late, dog,’ Huron was telling a prone Space Wolf. Others, Space Wolves and Red Corsairs alike, lay scattered around the floor, and Rotaka could see Garreon getting to his feet nearby. ‘I have control of this system.’

  Huron gestured in the air, and portals began to open.

  ‘Where shall I start, Anvindr Godrichsson?’ asked Huron. ‘Do not be surprised – you are transparent to me now. So, where to start? Perhaps here.’

  A portal opened in the centre of the room, showing the Red Corsairs fleet floating in space around the Outer Dock.

  ‘I could take my fleet, and let them in… here,’ said Huron, and another portal opened up, showing a world of forests and lakes. ‘Ressial, the throne world. I will bend the gravity fields around my ships, allow them safe passage to rain fire down on these mortals.’
>
  Huron dismissed both portals with a wave. He walked around the Space Wolf, and his footsteps echoed like thunderclaps, scorch marks smoking on the stone floor behind him.

  ‘This is too little, isn’t it?’ said Huron. ‘Soon I shall be able to stretch the abilities of this system further, far further. How would you like to see Fenris reduced to molten lava, that Aett of yours falling into a chasm? Or the Eye of Terror and Terra itself joined together by an Archway, feeding daemons straight into the Emperor’s very throne room?’

  Taemar and Rotaka were tentatively crossing the chamber, and Huron looked up. His organic eye burned pure white.

  ‘Taemar, Rotaka. Come stand alongside Garreon and Valthex. See your lord’s victory.’

  Rotaka and Taemar stepped forwards cautiously.

  ‘You too, my beast,’ said Huron, and the Hamadrya ran out of the shadows, a semi-visible blur, and leapt onto its customary place, coiled around Huron’s shoulders. ‘See, I have not abandoned my gods. I do all this in their glory.’

  Huron seemed confused, even in his omniscience.

  ‘Where is the sorcerer?’ he asked. ‘Where is Anto? Let him see me honour the powers we both worship.’

  ‘Sorry,’ coughed a small, mortal voice. ‘He isn’t feeling very well today.’

  Anvindr had remained still as Huron Blackheart loomed over him. The terrible energies that crawled all over Huron’s body had the aura of a storm about to break, and Anvindr did not know what to say as the Tyrant ranted. Instead, he waited to strike.

  The opportunity came when Pranix walked out of the shadows and blasted Huron with a bolt of psychic energy. Pranix had worked his way around the chamber, running between the stone columns, and was near Anvindr when he struck.

  Anvindr rolled upwards and brought his chainsword around to attack Huron. When it hit, it wasn’t like cutting into flesh or chipping against armour, but like plunging a blade into the heart of a star. He wasn’t even cutting into part of Huron’s body, but instead was connecting with the field consuming him.

  As the same energy flowed over Anvindr, so waves of it washed through the chamber.

  Rotaka and Taemar tried to rush forwards as the inquisitor and the Space Wolf attacked Huron, but it was impossible to get close. The fragments and portals in the chamber had begun to whirl at tremendous speed, blurring into a storm of daggers, slashing and pushing back anyone who dared try to enter.

  Rotaka, Taemar, even Garreon, all were held back.

  That left Huron and his attackers at the heart of the storm.

  The energy coursed through Anvindr; he could feel himself connecting to the forces at work within the chamber, and had a sense too of what was beyond that, of the forces that held the Hollow Worlds together. He felt that he could stretch his will out across it all, maybe even beyond, that he was connected to it all. He could see what Huron had sought here, why the Tyrant wanted to control it so badly: it was life, this stuff; you could build stars and worlds from it, heal your sicknesses, perhaps even raise the dead. It energised Anvindr’s body, healing the burns from his battle with Becaro, the bruises and injuries from all those other wars he had fought. That energy flowed through Anvindr’s hand and into his chainsword, which glowed like a charged weapon.

  Anvindr pulled back from Huron, then brought the sword down. Huron blocked it with the Tyrant’s Claw.

  ‘So, you would steal my power?’ he hissed, his one organic eye staring insanely. ‘You would have it for yourself?’

  ‘No,’ said Anvindr.

  And it was true. The power was surging through Anvindr’s mind, opening it, his awareness spreading. He could feel the turning of worlds, the complexity of the Hollow Worlds as a system, the majesty of the Siren Clouds.

  He could see the universe anew.

  But he wanted none of it. These visions meant nothing to him. He was a Son of Russ, a child of Fenris. He was born to hunt, raised to a life of never-ending battle. His place was not on some throne, but out in the snows. His duty and undying loyalty was to the Emperor, and such power was His and His alone.

  Anvindr rejected the power, and pushed it back at Huron, bringing the chainsword around in an arc to crash into the Tyrant’s side.

  As the sword made contact, the teeth clashing with the ceramite of the Tyrant’s armour, sparks flew from the contact, expanding into a burst of energy that hit Huron, defusing the energy within the Tyrant’s body. The glow of power that infused Huron, that illuminated the air around him, began to falter and flare.

  ‘No!’ bellowed Huron. ‘You cannot reject it. It is power – it is eternity.’

  Pranix was coming in for another psychic attack close to Anvindr now, unleashing another blast of warp energy. As the bolt of power hit, Huron reeled again, and Anvindr followed it up by swinging his chainsword at Huron, a killing blow aimed at the Tyrant’s head.

  ‘Imbeciles,’ Huron raged, blocking Anvindr’s sword with the Tyrant’s Claw, pushing back as the teeth of the chainsword ground against the back of the power claw. ‘Can you not see what you are casting out? This is everything.’

  ‘It is nothing,’ said Anvindr, sweeping the chainsword away, then bringing it around to strike at Huron once again, each blow deflected by the Tyrant’s Claw but draining a little more of Huron’s power. Anvindr’s power was nearly gone from him, and as his blows drove the last of it back to Huron, so Huron’s own grip on the power was fading.

  Pranix was right next to Anvindr now. His staff glowed white-hot with the psychic energy flowing through it, and tears of blood dripped down his cheeks. Anvindr stepped away as the flow of psychic energy drove the depleted Huron to his knees. The Tyrant’s skin looked drained of energy, grey and cold. He was a corpse, a dead thing, due to enter his long-delayed grave.

  ‘You must strike the final blow,’ snapped Pranix. ‘I can’t do it.’

  There was enough of the power left in Anvindr for him to see through the petty workings of Pranix’s mind.

  ‘That isn’t true,’ said Anvindr. ‘Even now you seek to manipulate me, inquisitor. You could strike that blow yourself, but you know that it will likely kill you to do so. So you demand the sacrifice from this old Space Wolf instead.’

  Pranix was speechless.

  Anvindr laughed. Huron was on his knees now, his gaze slack and listless as the power was stripped away from him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Anvindr. ‘It is who you are. That is your wyrd, to manipulate and scheme, Pranix. It is my wyrd to fight, and this is my final battle. My thread is coming to an end.’

  He took the staff from Pranix’s hand. He could feel the psychic charge in it. A blow from such a weapon would shatter anything.

  ‘I have seen my final winter,’ said Anvindr Godrichsson.

  He brought the staff down, heading towards Huron’s lolling head, a killing blow to finish the Tyrant.

  And it was deflected. Sindri, blood bubbling from his mouth, knocked Anvindr aside, and the psychic blast went wide, hitting the fading core behind Huron. The staff in Anvindr’s hand broke in half, the psychic blast pushing him backwards.

  Sindri laughed a final laugh, and fell sideways, eyes glassy.

  The storm in the chamber ended as suddenly as it began, the core at the centre of the chamber closing, rock reforming around it to create a central pillar. The speed of the portals and devices floating in the air began to slow.

  Anvindr looked around. Four Red Corsairs were closing in on him at speed, now the barrier separating them had gone.

  ‘Godrichsson, your sword,’ called out Pranix. ‘Kill the Tyrant, now.’

  Anvindr didn’t hesitate; he swung his chainsword around, the blade revving, swinging it right at Huron Blackheart’s neck.

  And Huron looked up, a residual spark of his lost power in his eye, flaring. A cruel smile twisted the corner of his mouth.

  Anvindr could
feel his sword slowing in the air, a strange energy holding him back. Around him, there was a similar lack of motion, the running Red Corsairs frozen in space, Pranix’s mouth half open in a shout of warning.

  ‘You have not relieved me of all the power this place holds, Fenrisian,’ said Huron Blackheart, standing up and stepping aside from Anvindr’s slow-moving blade. ‘We are evenly matched, but my understanding is greater. Enough to manipulate the forces within these worlds, to deny you your prize. You will not take my head, or that of any more of my Red Corsairs.’

  He reached up with the Tyrant’s Claw, and a portal drifted down from the ceiling. Through it, Anvindr could see an image of Huron’s fleet, then within the ships themselves, the portal breaking into many smaller portals, showing the dank interiors of different ships.

  ‘I send my Corsairs home,’ said Huron, and ribbons of energy reached out from the portals, wrapping themselves around the Corsairs in the chamber, even Sindri’s fallen body. They disappeared, portals forming around them then closing. Still connected to the same power as Huron, Anvindr could feel that this was happening everywhere, that across the Hollow Worlds portals were transporting the Red Corsairs back to their fleet. In spite of that connection, Anvindr could not break free, or stop Huron. The Tyrant’s will, the enormity of his determination and ego, was too great.

  Then there was only one portal, floating behind Huron, leading to a darkened room aboard a ship, starlight from a great porthole illuminating a throne, a wall of trophies, a wooden chest.

  ‘You live today, Space Wolf,’ said Huron Blackheart, stepping through the portal. ‘But know that I do not forgive your defiance this day, and if I cannot avenge myself on you, I will strike against your Chapter instead.’