Peshig paused, considering. He filed the observation away. A good insult always bore repeating, especially if one could find an audience.
‘Launching payload.’
He turned as Klux’s voice echoed across the deck. He watched the missile speed ahead of the diving bomber and impact against the street below. As Klux pulled up, the picter units attached to the aft section of the bomber recorded what happened next.
The missile had not detonated on impact. Rather it jutted from its crater like a hurled spear. As Peshig watched, panels were ejected from the missile’s length, and miniature aerosol emitters emerged. In moments, a greenish-yellow haze, filled with what looked to be flickering arcs of electrical energy, had permeated the surrounding area, and soon rapidly filled the surrounding streets.
‘I still don’t understand why the missile has to be fired so low,’ Peshig said.
‘Any higher and it might damage the delivery system,’ Hexachires said.
‘Why not simply make the explosion the delivery method?’
‘Because it would disperse too quickly. There is enough powdered wraithbone in each missile to take out a mon-keigh city of moderate size. And the emitters can keep processing it for hours. So long as the missile remains intact, the dispersal system will do its job.’
Peshig spied an approaching raider heave to out of the thickening murk. The warriors aboard wore psychic bafflers, which prevented them from feeling the effects of the wraithbone gas. Theoretically, at least. Hexachires claimed to have field-tested them, but one could never be sure with a haemonculus.
The mon-keigh, however, had no such protections. As the wraithbone mist filled the streets, the already panicked citizens were driven into madness. Some attacked each other, others fell to the ground weeping. A few killed themselves. The effects were instantaneous and irreversible. In the chemical haze, lit by arcs of soul energy, the humans succumbed to their own base instincts and became little more than beasts.
‘No less impressive now than it was the previous three times,’ Peshig said. ‘I could honestly watch it all day. Unfortunately, one has duties when one is archon.’ He pushed himself from his throne. ‘Weapons, please.’
Several slaves hurried forward carrying his wargear. His gun and sword belt were strapped about his waist, and adjusted so that they hung fashionably low. A third slave polished the plates of his armour to a high sheen, while a fourth bound his hair back. When they’d completed their tasks, Peshig scattered them with a gesture.
‘Would you care to accompany me planetside, Hexachires?’ he said. ‘Stretch those leathery limbs a bit? Get some blood on your boots, as my warriors like to say?’
Hexachires didn’t look at him. ‘I think not. I am no warrior. Merely an academic. I shall watch from here, if it pleases you.’
‘Of course, of course. My ship is at your disposal. Should you require anything, simply inform my slaves.’ Peshig paused. ‘You will, of course, be there when Avara does her part?’ he asked carefully.
Hexachires turned. The constant shifting of his mask made his expression all but impossible to read. ‘I would not miss it. And you will recall our bargain – the cache-facilities and all they contain are mine, to dispense or retain as I see fit.’
Peshig flapped a hand negligently. ‘Oh, certainly. I have no interest in a mon-keigh fleshcrafter’s tools. Only guns and slaves have any real value, after all.’ He knew the lackadaisical comment would annoy Hexachires. He gave a jaunty wave as he strode past the haemonculus and his servants.
‘Do enjoy the show, Hexachires. We’ll try and save a few slaves for you.’
Oleander Koh surreptitiously touched the edges of his helm. The interior was barbed, biting into his cheeks and scalp, and cortical hooks were sunk deep into his skull. Rivulets of dried blood stained his neck, shoulders and chest. He tugged at the helm, and felt his flesh tear. It was a good pain.
On the viewscreens that dotted the observation platform, a world was dying. The raid was less a military strike, and more an artistic performance. There was a definite theatrical flair to Hexachires’ strategy, and Oleander suspected that the haemonculus was a frustrated showman. He glanced at his captor, but the haemonculus was seemingly enraptured by his handiwork. He probed the joins of the helm.
He had been worrying at the seals for weeks, weakening them. Soon, he might be able to remove it entirely. He’d lose most of his face and scalp, but that was an acceptable sacrifice. He hissed slightly, as he jostled one of the cortical hooks.
Without looking at him, Hexachires drew a curious, archaic-looking baton from within his coat and pressed a rune on its length. A jolt of pain surged through Oleander’s frame. Not the sweet pain of wounds taken, or of a lash, but rather a spike of agony driven straight into his central nervous system. He convulsed, groping at the helm.
‘Do not touch it,’ Hexachires said, turning. ‘How many times must we go through this? I will not have you ruining my work with your clumsy fingers.’
Smoke rose from Oleander’s exposed flesh. Coughing, he tried to rise. Hexachires patted his shoulder in almost paternal fashion. ‘The harder you struggle, the worse it will be,’ the haemonculus said. ‘Surely you have learned that lesson by now.’
‘I… I’ve always been a slow learner.’
Hexachires snorted. ‘It took quite a bit of effort to determine what sort of frequency would work on a creature like you. Pain and pleasure are comingled in your mind in some fashion. I had to figure out how to bypass those overgrown neural networks and carve a new path.’ He leaned close. ‘Of course, I couldn’t have done it without your master. It was he who first suggested such a thing. He even made a few prototypes, though mine is far superior to his primitive efforts.’
He turned back to the screens.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it has a certain brute appeal.’
Hexachires turned, flesh-mask shifting to show his displeasure. ‘I don’t know why I expected a mon-keigh to appreciate a work of such artistry.’
Oleander forced a laugh. ‘Artistry? You launched a missile. You poisoned the atmosphere. It’s hardly subtle.’
‘Art doesn’t have to be subtle,’ Hexachires said. ‘Indeed, subtlety often robs a work of impact.’ He turned back to the screens. ‘Look. See. A push of a button, and a world dies screaming. What better proof of my genius than that?’
‘I can think of several.’
Hexachires tapped the pain-baton again, and Oleander fell onto his face, screaming. ‘You won’t steal my satisfaction with this moment. In a few hours every living thing left on this world will be dead, or utterly insane.’ He leaned down and caught Oleander’s chin. ‘We were the masters of this galaxy, you know. Every world was but a garden for our pleasures, and every species a source of entertainment. And then it all came apart in our hands. And as we lay in pieces, you ugly little mon-keigh came down from the trees and decided you were in charge.’
‘There used to be a saying on Terra, about possession being the whole of the law.’
Hexachires released him. ‘And whose possession are you, hmm?’ He gave the activation rune on the pain-baton a gentle caress. Oleander stiffened as another thrill of agony ran through him. But only for a moment. ‘I will hear no more bucolic homilies from your depressing little mudball of a home world, Oleander. I am under quite enough stress at the moment as it is. Now where was I?’
‘We… we came down from the trees…’ Oleander said, through gritted teeth.
‘Ah, yes. You and all the rest of the by-blows. The unintended consequences of a plan gone awry. And now look at the galaxy – it’s filthy. Messy. All these little fiefdoms, waging their little wars.’ Hexachires stroked the top of Oleander’s helm. ‘You’re just a weapon with an overinflated ego, you know. What do you call yourselves? Oh yes – Astartes. Just tools. Humanity’s answer to the Krork, only l
ess effective. How does it feel to know you are second best at the thing you were made to do?’
‘You tell me.’
Hexachires clucked his tongue. ‘Did I mention the stress I’m feeling?’ He tapped the rune on the baton and Oleander convulsed, curses dribbling from his blistered lips. ‘You shouldn’t provoke me. I might decide to get creative with your torments.’
Oleander fell to his hands and knees, panting. As he did so, he heard the jingle of bells.
‘We did not deliver him into your care so that you could torture him,’ a new voice intruded.
Hexachires stiffened. ‘Is it my fault that you did not think to forbid it? Consider it payment for services rendered.’ He turned. ‘I won’t insult you by asking how you got in here, clown. Instead, I’ll just skip to the second most obvious question and ask why you’re here.’
A thin shape, clad in intricately patterned clothes of onyx and viridian, stepped into view, clutching a long staff. High, trilling laughter echoed across the deck. Kabalite warriors, slaves and wracks all hurriedly looked away or found other places to be.
‘Rest assured, I come with great purpose, oh Lord of Knives.’
Hexachires sighed. ‘That is not an answer.’
‘No. And yes.’ More laughter, sharp and savage. And unpleasantly familiar. Oleander hunched forwards, trying to block it out, to no avail. The sound crawled into his head and ate at his composure like acid. His eyes darted around, trying to look anywhere but at the newcomer. He felt the end of the staff slip beneath his chin and lift his head.
‘Hello, Count Sunflame.’
Oleander stared at the creature he knew as Veilwalker. He made to rise, to throttle the aeldari, but a surge of pain caused him to convulse instead.
Hexachires laughed. ‘Now, now, my pet. Settle down.’ He looked at the Harlequin. ‘He must really despise you.’
‘I betrayed him.’
Hexachires sniffed. ‘Treachery is meat and drink to this one. She Who Thirsts has her hooks set deep in whatever passes for his soul.’
Veilwalker shrugged. ‘Be that as it may, he still has a part in the drama to come. Else we would have left him to the tender mercies of Lugganath.’
Hexachires laughed. ‘Yes, I heard about that. Did you truly feed all those souls to She Who Thirsts? Granted, they were not important souls – but still, one must question the wisdom of such a plan.’
‘That the reason is not easily apparent is no proof of foolishness. Every gambit, every trick – it is all part of the same story. The only story that matters.’ Veilwalker pointed at the haemonculus. ‘A story you are part of as well, oh Lord of Knives. That is why we gave him to you.’
Hexachires chuckled. ‘And I have had much pleasure from him since. Once, I locked him in his own mind, able to perceive all that occurred but unable to move or speak, and left him in the high eyries, where spire-bats fed his flesh to their young.’
Oleander groaned softly, remembering the exquisite pain. The creatures had flayed him to the bone over the course of a week.
‘And then there was the time that I–’
‘Enough,’ Veilwalker said softly.
Hexachires looked at her. ‘I decide that, clown. Not you.’
‘I meant only that now is not the time for idle reminiscences.’ Veilwalker looked down at Oleander. ‘I wish to speak with him.’
‘Feel free.’
‘Alone.’
Hexachires hesitated. He was a suspicious creature, as any drukhari was. ‘Why?’ he demanded.
Veilwalker looked at him. ‘Because that is how this story goes.’
Hexachires stared at the shimmering mask for long moments, then turned away. ‘Fine. You have your little chat. I will be over here, enjoying the fruits of my labour.’ He moved away, to more closely observe the carnage playing out across the screens.
‘You can’t trust him,’ Oleander said, when he was out of earshot. ‘Whatever hold you have on him – it won’t be enough.’
‘But for now, it is sufficient.’ Veilwalker leaned on her staff. ‘Do you know why we have danced this dance for you, Oleander? Do you perceive the greater narrative before you – or only the part you play?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The future is a tangled skein. Only by tugging on the right thread can you unravel it. But for each action, there is a reaction – the thread becomes more tightly tangled, or significantly looser. The path to the desired ending is neither straight nor easy.’
‘You tell me nothing I do not know.’ Oleander touched his helm. ‘This is hardly the ending I desired, when I made my bargain with you all those centuries ago.’
Veilwalker sighed. ‘We did not choose this role for you. You chose it, and freely.’ The Harlequin leaned forward, mask shifting and shimmering with the light. ‘It was never about your brothers, you know. Never about their fate. United or scattered, their story is written. As is yours.’
‘Is that why you let us break a craftworld?’
‘Yes,’ Veilwalker said softly. ‘We sacrifice a million to save a billion yet unborn. The future of the aeldari race is a tenuous branch, overburdened with possibility. It must be pruned and shaped, and you are part of that.’
‘I care nothing for your pestiferous race.’
‘And we care nothing for you. Your name will not be remembered in our stories and songs, save in the most allegorical fashion. You will die alone, unsung and unremembered.’
‘Is that how Count Sunflame’s story ends, then?’
‘That is how all stories end, eventually.’ She looked down at Oleander. ‘When we took you from Lugganath, mon-keigh, it was not kindness that compelled us. You still have a small part to play in the great drama. And you will perform it with all skill, for it is your chance of escape. It is your hope of victory.’
Oleander stared at his reflection in her mask. ‘Victory?’
Veilwalker stepped back, spinning her staff. ‘Of sorts.’
Hexachires rejoined them. ‘All sorted then? Everyone satisfied with their part in this little drama? Good. Peshig has made planetfall. And Avara has secured the cache.’ He looked down at Oleander. ‘Come, Oleander. It is time you earned your keep. I want you to sniff out his secrets for me.’
‘And what do you intend to do with them?’ Veilwalker asked.
‘Why, I intend to send a message to our quarry, of course.’
Hexachires laughed.
‘One he will not be able to ignore.’
Chapter Two
Manflayer
The chamber stank.
Spar could not identify the odour. She knew more than a thousand distinct scents by heart, but this one was unlike any of them. It was a harsh smell, somewhat like wet metal and rotting meat. She bared her teeth uneasily. Fear was not in her. She was a Gland-hound, and strong. There was nothing that walked, crawled or flew on this world that was not her meat. But this was not something she had ever encountered before.
She activated the lumen attached to the barrel of her autogun. ‘Benefactor’s teeth,’ she cursed softly, as the light revealed her surroundings.
‘What?’ Glaive’s voice was loud in her ear. Her twin was standing guard outside the hatch, making sure that their quarry didn’t escape.
‘It appears to have… given birth,’ Spar said, letting the lumen play across the walls. Thick strands of hardened excrescence stretched across the chamber and gummed up the ancient works. Suspended within this web of foulness were glistening, almost metallic-looking egg sacs. The sacs pulsed with sickly heat and motion.
Something crunched beneath her boot. She looked down, and bit back a snarl of disgust. A desiccated vatborn lay huddled on the ground. She shone the light on it, and saw more bodies – dozens, perhaps hundreds, covering the floor.
‘Brother…’
‘What?’
/> ‘It’s been eating the little ones.’
‘It can’t eat. It’s a machine.’
In the dark, something hissed. Metal phalanges rattled, as if in warning. She caught a flash of a small spider-scorpion shape as she turned. She heard the clatter of bladed limbs and saw tiny shapes scuttling across the carpet of corpses.
Many small shapes… and one large one.
She began to back away. ‘I’m coming out,’ she said, as she lifted her autogun. ‘Be ready to seal the hatch behind me.’ She held her fire. The creatures, whatever they were, weren’t attacking. They were just… herding her. Chasing her out of their den. Maybe they recognised some kinship, however distant, between themselves and Spar. They were both children of the Benefactor, after all.
Whatever the reason, she was thankful for it. She did not want to kill them, at least not until the Benefactor commanded her to do so. New life was to be cherished, until it proved inimical – such was the wisdom of the Benefactor.
She fell back to the hatchway, where Glaive was waiting, his weapon trained. Like her, Glaive was tall and well built, and clad in battered fatigues and flak armour plundered from some Imperial tithe-world.
‘Hold your fire,’ she said. ‘They’re not attacking.’ She scrambled through the hatch, and together they slammed it shut. Glaive looked at her.
‘We must inform the Benefactor.’
She nodded. ‘You can tell him.’
Manflayer - Josh Reynolds Page 3