Manflayer - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  Salar grunted and turned back to watch as the flock of Voidraven bombers swooped low over the mountain. He grinned. ‘As much as I hate Peshig, I do enjoy this bit. Kysh – remind me to steal those bombers after I kill Peshig.’

  ‘Noted, my lord.’

  Void mines, Salar knew, had two warheads. The first detonated moments before the second, creating a sort of bubble in reality. The second warhead contained a single particle of darklight. Introducing darklight into realspace resulted in a devastating implosion. The bubble contained the effects of the implosion, preventing it from spreading beyond the designated target.

  One could crack a stronghold. Two would render a city uninhabitable. Three – well, three could apparently reduce a mountain to dust.

  There was no flash. No crack of thunder. Only a sudden rush of air and sudden absence of mountain. It was as if someone had bisected an insect mound. Smoke and flame billowed upwards as what was left of the mountain collapsed in on itself. The enemy bastion was left exposed, its defences shattered and its walls ruptured.

  ‘Easy prey,’ Salar murmured. He drew his sword with a flourish. ‘Bring us about. I want see the look on Avara’s face when I claim all that plunder for myself!’

  Oleander screamed.

  The sound was raw and shrill. The cry of a being pushed beyond the limits of mental and physical fortitude. Beyond even the ragged edge where pleasure and pain could be conflated. He thrashed in his bonds as Hexachires extracted the infuser-needle from his spinal column. The haemonculus turned to the drukhari observing the procedure.

  ‘You see? Formerly deadened nerve endings, now fully restored to sensitivity by a simple application of synthetic bonding agents. With this, a captive might be returned to optimum performance with no need for a significant recovery period.’

  ‘Long-term effects?’ one of the other haemonculi asked. She was one of several crowding the chamber, which was the closest thing the drukhari cruiser had to an apothecarium. Drukhari weren’t ones for battlefield triage – it was traditional to leave the wounded to fend for themselves, if they couldn’t make it to safety on their own.

  Hexachires and his followers had claimed the chamber for their quarters. They had made themselves at home quickly enough. In the background, wracks paced back and forth, rearranging equipment or arguing with one another on behalf of their respective haemonculi.

  ‘Variable,’ Hexachires said. ‘Our subject here is of… unique constitution, as you well know, dear Diomone. A more fragile individual might succumb to the pain before the bonding agents can be applied. I suggest a battery of tests, on a wide pool of chattel-species. Once we have the results, we can begin tweaking the dosage and method of injection.’

  Hexachires looked around. ‘Imagine it, my friends – at last, chattel will become a truly renewable resource.’ The gathered haemonculi applauded vigorously as Hexachires’ wracks hauled Oleander from the observation frame. Hexachires gestured dismissively. ‘Enough. End of lesson. Get back to your tasks.’

  The wracks allowed Oleander to collapse onto the floor, and stood watchfully nearby, as the audience dispersed back to their own pursuits. Hexachires cleansed his hands in a bowl of astringent liquid offered up by one of his servants and said, ‘You did well, Oleander. You make for an adequate test subject, if nothing else. Better than your master, at least.’

  Oleander clambered to his feet. ‘You hate him, don’t you?’

  Hexachires paused. ‘No. One is not offended by the actions of a child, or an animal. One is frustrated. The sad truth is, I quite liked Fabius. More so than most of those who make up my coven. They are greedy, ambitious creatures – most of them barely old enough to recall that the great empire did not die all at once, as the performances of the Harlequins maintain, but rather in slow, agonising stages. They do not know the beauty of that time, or what it meant to those of us who struggled to create during it.’

  He looked down at Oleander. ‘But Fabius understood, if only in limited fashion. He witnessed the death of your Imperium, and has catalogued its long, slow decline into the dark abysses of inconsequentiality. We were of similar minds, he and I. That is why I did not kill him when he arrived.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Hexachires hesitated. ‘What?’

  ‘Tell me. Please.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘So that I might learn.’

  Hexachires paused. ‘Very well. Let it never be said that I have ever turned away an eager mind. I am a teacher by inclination. I have a compulsion to share my bounteous wisdom with those who ask.’

  ‘Did Fabius ask?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. He raided our original facilities. Quite a daring gambit – forceful, brutal, but with a certain animal guile. I was taken with his bravado from the first. We haemonculi are not, by nature, prone to such displays. We leave that to the wyches in their arenas.’

  ‘You captured him.’

  ‘That depends on your definition of capture.’ A note of admiration crept into Hexachires’ voice. ‘I maintain to this day that he allowed it. He wanted to attract our attention and succeeded. I saw through him at once, of course – he could not hide his need for our wisdom. I could smell the desperation on him.’

  ‘And so you taught him.’

  ‘Everything. We taught him everything.’ Hexachires turned away. ‘Oh, he had the fundamentals to be sure. A basic understanding of genetic manipulation, a working knowledge of anatomical reconstruction, even a solid grasp of certain technologies one would not expect a mere mon-keigh to be aware of, let alone understand. But despite his precociousness, there was much he did not know.’

  ‘You sound as if you’re proud of him.’

  ‘I am. And that is why I will conduct this extermination with a heavy heart. But conduct it I will.’

  ‘Is it because he escaped?’ Oleander pressed. ‘Is that why you’re looking for him?’

  ‘In part,’ Hexachires said. ‘We did not give him permission to leave. Our protests went unheeded, however. And in the process, he started a war between the Kabal of the Slashed Eye and the Kabal of the Stolen Conscience and used the fighting as cover to escape from Port Carmine. A war that’s still going on, I might add.’

  Oleander resisted the urge to laugh. That sounded like the Fabius he remembered. ‘Is that all?’ he said. ‘You got off lightly. He’s done worse, for less gain.’

  ‘He insulted us. Abused our hospitality. Gobbled our secrets as if they were but sweetmeats. And then had the audacity to flee before we could extract them from him.’ Hexachires drew himself up. ‘Isn’t that right, Diomone?’ he called out. ‘As I recall, you were inordinately fond of our guest.’

  ‘No less than yourself, Hexachires,’ Diomone said stiffly, ignoring the looks tossed her way by her fellows. ‘We were all taken in by his youthful eagerness and primitive wiles.’ She looked at Oleander, and he realised her eyes were cleverly designed prosthetics. ‘They are a… vibrant species, after all.’

  A murmur of agreement passed through the others at this. Hexachires chuckled. ‘Yes, I suppose. If one finds brute primitivism attractive.’ He shook his head. ‘Nonetheless, punishment is due. But first we must draw him out. To that end, we will strike his territories. One after another, until he finally deigns to show himself. A simple enough plan, but then the best plans always are, I feel.’ He looked at Oleander. ‘You have been quite helpful in that regard, Oleander. Why, we would have never even thought of our current target, had you not pointed it out.’

  Oleander bowed his head. ‘I am glad to be of service.’

  ‘Such a sweet boy,’ Hexachires murmured. ‘Unlike you, Diomone.’

  Diomone twitched, but otherwise gave no sign she’d noticed the comment. Hexachires looked at Oleander.

  ‘She makes animals, you know,’ he murmured, as if sharing a secret. ‘Quadrupedal foodstuffs
for the already groaning tables of the great kabals.’ He clucked his tongue. ‘Such brilliance, wasted on culinary hokum.’

  A chime echoed through the chamber as one of Peshig’s lieutenants entered. Hexachires turned.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘We have a prisoner.’

  ‘Ah. How delightful. Bring it in, bring it in.’ He gestured to several of the wracks. ‘You, make room!’ As the wracks cleared off an observation slab, a squad of drukhari warriors entered, dragging a dead weight behind them. They required the help of several wracks to get their burden on the slab.

  Oleander recognised the figure in its battered Mark II power armour, scoured of ancient insignia and bearing a wide array of bestial totems. ‘Chort,’ he murmured. He hadn’t seen the other Apothecary in centuries.

  He was unconscious, likely due to the smouldering crater in the chest-piece of his armour. Hexachires leaned over him eagerly. ‘Fascinating. The seals of his armour have been replaced by what looks to be hardened blood. And his helmet appears to have grown into his skull, somehow. Diomone – get the monofilament saw.’

  ‘You’re planning to cut him out?’ Oleander asked.

  ‘No. I’m planning to cut him open,’ Hexachires said. ‘Was he a friend, by chance?’

  ‘No.’ Chort had always been something of a mystery. Oleander hadn’t cared for him much, and he had a feeling that the dislike had been mutual.

  Hexachires turned back to his task. ‘Shame. Still, you have done well. If you like, you may help me. You’ve earned that right.’ He glanced at Peshig’s subordinates. ‘How goes the raid? Successfully, I trust?’

  ‘Why ask them? It’s not like they know anything,’ Peshig said, as he entered the chamber. He wore a ruffled doublet the colour of wine, or perhaps blood, and a cape of the same hue, rather than armour. But he was still armed. Even Peshig wasn’t that much of a fool. ‘This is my ship, after all.’

  Hexachires sighed and looked at him. ‘Then I shall pose the question to you… Was the raid successful?’

  ‘Yes – and no.’ Peshig looked down at Chort. ‘This one took some effort. I wasted three perfectly good void mines on that mountain of his.’

  ‘Three?’ Hexachires asked doubtfully.

  Peshig smiled thinly. ‘Needs must. I hope this thing was worth it. Salar and Avara are getting the overlord’s share of plunder on this raid – if they don’t kill each other first. I will be most put out if this thing isn’t valuable.’

  ‘Value is in the eye of the beholder.’ Diomone handed Hexachires a serrated, crystalline blade. ‘Ah, thank you, my dear.’

  Oleander turned away. He wasn’t squeamish, and he’d betrayed enough brothers that one more ought not to have bothered him significantly. And yet, it did. Killing Chort in battle would have been one thing. But this…

  He heard a whine as Hexachires activated the saw. He smelled burning ceramite a moment later. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sounds and smells.

  ‘A little sacrifice to forestall a larger one,’ Diomone murmured. Olean­der turned slightly. She wasn’t looking at him, though he knew her comment had been directed at him.

  ‘You have something to say?’ he growled.

  ‘He knows what you’re doing,’ she said, glancing at him. ‘Don’t think he doesn’t. You tossed this creature in front of us as a stalling tactic. How many more of your old friends are you going to feed to us, before you finally lead him where he wants to go? How many more have to die in order to spare Fabius Bile his just punishment?’

  ‘I can’t lead him somewhere that I’ve never been.’

  ‘Then what good are you?’ He felt her eyes probing him.

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘Ask me what?’ Hexachires turned, a piece of Chort’s skull in his hands. He set it into a waiting tray held by an attentive wrack. ‘Never mind. I doubt I’d be interested.’ He held up something whitish and bloody. ‘Look here. You see this? A sprig of wraithbone, fashioned into a crude neural receiver, and inserted into the brain. I doubt the poor fool even knew of its existence.’ Hexachires peered at Oleander. ‘How many of your fellows are even themselves any more, I wonder?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Hexachires chuckled and set the wraithbone into another tray. ‘A few haemonculi of my acquaintance use similar devices – though not so artfully made – to control their servants. It overlays the subject’s original engrams with cognitive information from a central transmitter.’

  ‘It erases their minds,’ Oleander said in understanding.

  ‘Over time. Probably so slowly that they barely notice. And replaces them with a new one – knowing our Fabius, a copy of his own.’ He glanced at Oleander. ‘No need to worry. I didn’t find one of these in your skull, last I checked.’ He held the device up. ‘I shall have to speak to Fabius about these, when next we meet.’

  ‘If you meet,’ Oleander said. ‘If you can find him. So far, you’re not having much luck. Even with the Harlequins helping you.’

  Diomone and the other haemonculi fell silent. Even Peshig and his warriors ceased talking.

  Hexachires looked at him. ‘Are you being impertinent again, Oleander?’ Before Oleander could reply, Hexachires snatched the pain-baton from his coat and activated it. ‘I see I have allowed too much familiarity between us. I shall rectify that in future.’

  Oleander howled and fell to one knee. He vomited up a bellyful of acidic bile. The floor writhed as the discharge from his Betcher’s gland ate through it. Despite the pain, he allowed himself a small smile. He could feel his nerve endings twitching with the beginnings of pleasure. The more Hexachires used the baton, the less it hurt. Oleander’s system was slowing rewiring itself to compensate for the regular jolts of agony.

  Slaanesh had not abandoned him, it seemed.

  ‘And why would they? You are a child of their favoured son.’

  The voice was a silken purr. He looked up, and saw her crouched on the other side of the observation deck, her arms wrapped about her knees. ‘You,’ he murmured.

  ‘Me. I am me, and me is she.’ She stood, beautiful and inhuman. The deck had fallen silent, and the drukhari stood as if frozen. ‘A moment, plucked from time and stretched and twisted into its own thing,’ she said. ‘It will collapse soon, and I must away. But I wished to speak to you, my sweet one.’

  She strode towards him, the sound of her hooves loud in the silence.

  ‘I feared I would never see you again,’ he said, as he pushed himself to his feet. ‘Where have you been all this time? Did I displease you, somehow?’

  ‘Do not whine, Oleander. You are not a whipped dog.’ She circled him. ‘Do you remember the pipe I gave you?’

  ‘The Harlequins took it from me.’

  ‘Yes. It sits in some hidden place, even now, waiting for someone to find it. A piece of one story, taken and made into part of another.’ She traced the newly healed scars on his ravaged frame. ‘Just like you.’

  ‘Are you here to rescue me?’ he asked, only half-joking.

  ‘No. Not you.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked at her. ‘I think I knew, even then, who you really were.’ He’d never wanted to believe – those had been heady times, and he’d been full of his own arrogance and corruption. A daemon of his own, at his beck and call? What did it matter that she resembled someone he’d known?

  ‘And who am I, Oleander Koh?’

  ‘Melusine. Clone-child of Fabius Bile. Lucius the Eternal claims to have slain you.’

  ‘He lies.’

  ‘That sounds like Lucius.’

  ‘I am much changed since you last saw me,’ Melusine said. She stretched, running her claws through her iridescent mane, and he saw things that might have been muscles move beneath her pale skin.

  ‘You have become wise in your damnation.’ Oleander looked away. ‘The Harlequins tol
d me all about you. I think they were taunting me. Telling me that my ideas were never my own. That my fate was always in someone else’s hands. Was I always a pawn, then? A piece of a story?’

  She caught his head and brought her face close to his. ‘We are all just pieces of a story. But it is our story, not theirs. And we will make sure it is told our way.’

  ‘Will I survive the telling?’

  ‘If you are unlucky,’ she said, and kissed the faceplate of his helm. ‘Your thread nears its end, Oleander Koh. You are thrice-damned and your ending will be a lonely one. But it will be memorable as well. And generations to come will sing of you, though they know not why.’

  ‘Generations of what?’

  ‘That too remains to be seen.’ Melusine stepped back.

  ‘Did you come here just to taunt me?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I came to remind you that this is not your ending. And that this story does not belong to him.’

  She pointed to Hexachires. The haemonculus had changed position, ever so slightly. With a start, Oleander realised that the creature was, in some way, aware of what was going on. As he watched, a thin hand stretched out, as if to signal one of the nearby wracks.

  Melusine saw it as well, and smiled. ‘As old and as clever as they are, this is not the story of them. They are but the means to an end.’

  With that, she was gone, and Oleander felt the world lurch as time snapped back into its normal flow.

  ‘–tivate the binding system,’ Hexachires snarled. He fixed Oleander with a glare. ‘What was that? Something happened. I can smell the stink of the warp on the air. What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You lie.’ Hexachires activated the pain-baton again, and Oleander bucked. ‘I am no infant, blind to the nature of our reality. Something was here. Some predator from the underverse. What did it want?’

  ‘T-to taunt me,’ Oleander gasped. He sank to the deck, trying to control his twitching limbs. ‘That was all. It just wanted to taunt me.’