Manflayer - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘And if Hexachires protests?’ Avara asked.

  Peshig smiled. ‘Accidents are commonplace, and haemonculi replaceable.’

  In the chamber he’d claimed as his lair, Hexachires smiled.

  Treachery was afoot. He had expected no less. And planned accordingly.

  Prior to leaving the safety of Commorragh, he had taken the liberty of infesting his person with a number of nano-fleas. The tiny creatures were as much machine as they were vermin, and acted as mobile data transmitters. Wherever they went, so too did Hexachires. In spirit, if not in the flesh. The infestation had spread across the ship, where the nano-fleas had begun to breed, even as he’d designed them to do. There was now little that went on aboard the vessel that he didn’t know about. He knew every scheme, every minor treachery and black drama playing out on every deck. A wealth of tragedies that he hoarded gleefully to himself.

  He had not expected unquestioning devotion from Peshig and the others. The drukhari were not designed with loyalty in mind, except on rare occasions. Indeed, it had taken them longer to realise that something was amiss than he’d estimated. Salar was an idiot, but the others were both quite cunning – if not intelligent. Then, greed had a way of blinding even the most observant warrior.

  But greed was only a tenuous chain, and it was already fraying. The holds of Peshig’s ship were groaning with plunder, and his warriors, as well as those of Avara and Salar, were muttering about spending their shares. They would demand a return to Commorragh soon. Hexachires thought he might be able to browbeat Peshig into raiding a few more worlds, but only a few. Eventually, they would get bored, or scared, and the game would be up.

  Until then, he would simply have to hope that Fabius showed his face sooner rather than later. He’d expected some sign of his old student before now. Especially after the biometric transmitter he’d installed in the clone on Beleghast had gone silent. Someone, or something, had destroyed the creature. He hoped it had been Fabius – the gift had been meant for him, after all.

  It would be the last gift Hexachires ever gave him.

  He looked down at the device he was disassembling. The second he’d found, this one embedded in the skull of an avian-obsessed bio-artist. The mon-keigh had even given himself wings, as if in primitive mockery of drukhari scourges. The device was a cunning thing, for all its crudity. Fabius had come far. His original devices had been keyed solely to his own cerebral matter. But this latest iteration was more generic. Not mass-produced, but close. He wondered how many there were, scattered across the galaxy. How many boltholes had Fabius prepared for himself?

  To any other being, such a plan might have seemed mad. To Hexachires, it seemed only reasonable. Fabius was a kindred spirit. He saw the galaxy for the smouldering pyre it was. Like Hexachires, in his heart of hearts, he knew his people were doomed. Hexachires was under no illusions as to the eventual fate of the drukhari. They were on the slow road to extinction, much like their craftworlder cousins. Even the Exodites, in their primitive enclaves, were caught fast by the coming conflagration. They were fuel for the fire, nothing more. Unless something changed.

  As Fabius sought to reshape humanity into something better, so Hexachires sought to do to the aeldari. Granted, their methods were not similar in the least. Fabius cared nothing for the mon-keigh as they currently existed. He intended to shape a better race to rule over the galaxy with their passing. But for Hexachires, the passing was all. For the aeldari to be preserved, they must first perish and their souls be given over to the force known as Ynnead.

  In his youth, in the dwindling days of the Aeldari Empire, Hexachires had never been one for gods. They seemed to be a bucolic holdover of a simpler time. But since the empire’s fall, and Commorragh’s rise, he had come to know better.

  There were gods, and they were hungry, terrible things.

  But some were more terrible than others. And some might well hold the key to the rebirth of his people. Ynnead was one such, according to those who had taught him of such things. Only once all of the living aeldari were devoured by Ynnead – barring a dutiful few, of course, such as himself – could they be reborn anew, free of the weakness that had been their downfall. But among those who thought as he did, there was precious little agreement on how to accomplish such a thing. Some wished merely to wait out the inevitable conflagration – perhaps even nudging events along, here and there. Others committed themselves to crafting exquisite pandemics or weapons of such destructive potential that even Asdrubael Vect himself would balk at their use.

  Hexachires, on the other hand, fancied a subtler solution and one that allowed him the freedom to explore his artistic inclinations. The populace of Commorragh was divided between Trueborn and Half-born. The amniotic tanks employed to breed the latter were the province of the haemonculi covens. The Thirteen Scars bred warriors and slaves for more than twenty lesser kabals and a handful of the greater ones. As master of the coven, Hexachires oversaw these efforts.

  As such, every drukhari expelled from the vats bore his thumbprint on their DNA – a little spice to the mix. A tweak to their aggression and to the portions of the brain which controlled the impulse to self-preservation and caution. He made similar changes to the Trueborn who found themselves in the coven’s resurrection tanks – Salar, for instance.

  Fabius, in one of his rare moments of wit, had observed that Hexachires was not so much culling the herd as encouraging the herd to be self-culling.

  A bit of wraithbone crumbled in his grasp, and he realised he’d been clenching his fists. Fabius, always a quick study, had stolen that knowledge for himself. And more besides. He’d pillaged the secret vaults of the Synod of Scars and escaped to tell the tale. And all because Hexachires had thought him nothing more than a curiosity. He’d underestimated Fabius once. He would not do so again.

  As he plucked shards of wraithbone from his fingers, he considered the issue. Fabius was very clever for a mon-keigh. Innovative, even. It had been a pleasant surprise to find such a pearl amongst the muck. Fabius had hijacked a Corsair vessel and forced the survivors to bring him to Commorragh. Then blown up the vessel to cover his arrival.

  Such attention to detail – and from a mon-keigh no less! He’d haunted Low Commorragh for weeks, studying the inhabitants. Even dissecting some of them. Such raw curiosity had quickly drawn the attentions of the covens. It had been Hexachires’ luck that he’d managed to run Fabius to ground first, before Rakarth or Xhact or one of his other rivals.

  It was only then that he’d learned Fabius’ true purpose – the mon-keigh had come to learn. In truth, he already had a grasp, however crude, of their most delicate arts. They’d taught him little he did not already know, and what they had taught him, he seemed to take little interest in. He took no joy in their art. Hexachires would have cast him out for that alone, but pity stayed his hand. ‘Cursed pity,’ he murmured.

  The haemonculi of the Thirteen Scars were no strangers to physical infirmity. Such was the price of age. Organs and limbs faltered, the mind fogged and strength ebbed. There were many surgeries by which one might halt or even reverse time’s grip on the corpus. But Fabius, dear, sweet Fabius, was satisfied with none of them.

  There was a persistent ailment gnawing at his vitality in a most curious fashion. As much psychological as physical. A sickness of the soul. They’d cut him open again and again, trying to root it out. They’d cored his bones and flensed his ligaments. They’d rebuilt him organ by organ, vein by vein. And still the malignancy crept back. It had been a fascinating case study, one for the coven’s records.

  Fabius had been… fascinating. So much to study there. So much to learn. To teach. And what had he done, the ungrateful mon-keigh?

  ‘Why hasn’t he tried to escape?’ Diomone asked from behind him. Startled, Hexachires turned. He’d quite forgotten she was there.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your pet.’

  He
xachires followed her gaze. Diomone was intent on an observation orb, one of a dozen of the faceted devices scattered through the chamber. Each was keyed to a different deck of the ship, allowing an observer – likely the captain – to spy on his crew as they went about their business.

  He set aside the samples he’d been studying and considered the question. He’d wondered the same thing himself of late. Over the years, Oleander had made one hundred and thirty-seven separate escape attempts, some of them quite costly. But of late, he’d been almost… docile.

  ‘Because he is biding his time. Or perhaps his will is truly broken.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘Which?’ Hexachires raised a hand to forestall her answer. ‘Wait, no, don’t tell me. I confess, I don’t particularly care.’ He peered at her. ‘Why are you so suspicious of him?’ Diomone was wiser than most of his coven. He had high hopes for her – if she didn’t get herself killed doing something foolish first.

  ‘Why aren’t you more suspicious?’ She turned to glare at him. ‘He could be lying to us, you know. This could all be some convoluted scheme by our enemies.’

  ‘Which enemies might those be? We have so many.’ He waved her reply aside. ‘He is stalling, but not lying.’ But even as he said it, he wondered if that was the truth, or merely an assumption. He decided to test the theory. ‘Go and ask him yourself, if you like.’

  Diomone hesitated. Hexachires’ mask twisted into a leer and he caught her by the back of the head, propelling her none too gently towards the door.

  ‘In fact, I insist.’

  Oleander listened to the sounds of celebration. Another successful raid. He sat alone, on a high platform overlooking the starboard gunnery deck. Above him, a void-hardened observation port allowed in the light of the stars. Drukhari stumbled along the open corridors below in raucous knots, revelling in their victories. It was probably the most successful raid these particular kabals had ever participated in.

  He looked down at the feathered amethyst helm he held. It had belonged to Herik Stymphalos. A brother of the Third. Herik had always been strange, and had only got worse after Terra. He’d spent the entirety of the siege trying to reshape mortal prisoners into avians for reasons he had never cared to articulate. Perhaps he’d just liked birds.

  Now, like Chort, he was dead. Oleander wanted to apologise, but could not find the words. Despite their shared genetic legacy, he hadn’t known Herik well. When he’d departed the Consortium, Herik had been overseeing one of Fabius’ smaller boltholes in return for being left alone to play with his pets.

  Down below, a duel broke out. He watched two warriors circle one another amid a jeering ring of their peers, knives in hand. It wasn’t the first time. As the warriors closed, he looked away. There were only so many times you could watch drukhari gut each other before it became tedious.

  Elsewhere on the lower deck, impromptu markets had sprung up along transit gantries, and lines of slaves were led by overseers to the upper embarkation decks. Not all of these flesh-pedlars were drukhari. Peshig’s ship was currently playing host to slave-traders from a number of races, including Zygo, Sslyth and Tarellians.

  The lesser xenos often flocked in the wake of smaller drukhari raids, hoping to skim the pick of the plunder from the raiders before they returned to Commorragh. He watched a bulky Tarellian dog-soldier bargain in sibilant tones with a long-limbed Vassalian hunter. Nearby, a Donarathi blitz-trooper roared guttural imprecations at a pair of drukhari warriors, and was only placated by copious offerings of wine.

  ‘You are planning to escape, aren’t you?’

  He turned. The haemonculus called Diomone stood a wary distance from him, her head tilted as if observing some strange, exotic beast. From her perspective, she almost certainly was.

  ‘And where would I go?’

  Diomone peered down towards the deck below. ‘Maybe you could catch a ride on a Tarellian freighter. Or stow away on a Vassalian Slavebird.’

  ‘If I was planning on it, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘You are very rude for a slave.’

  ‘I am not a slave.’

  ‘Then why are you wearing slave-marks?’ she chided. ‘I am surprised you let Hexachires make them. The stubbornness of your particular subspecies is legendary in Commorragh. I’m told that’s why you make such good fodder for the arenas.’ She sidled closer. Artificial eyes clicked and focused.

  Oleander followed her with his gaze. She was close enough now that he could smell the tang of her prosthetics and the bitter perfume of her flesh. Close enough to read the micro-expressions on her face, and to know that she was lying.

  ‘You are a fascinating subject,’ she murmured. ‘What I would not give to crack open that fused ribcage and examine your hearts.’ She paused. ‘The others say you are a physician of some sort. Is that true?’

  ‘I prefer to think of myself as an artist.’

  Diomone laughed. ‘Ah, one of those.’

  ‘Are you not an artist, then?’

  She snorted. ‘We of the Thirteen Scars leave art to lesser covens, such as the Hex. Our interests are in the creation of new forms of life – or in making existent forms more efficient or fit for purpose. I myself have created over thirty new species of domesticated food-beast.’

  ‘And what of Hexachires?’

  She snorted again. ‘Practicality has never been his strength. His theor­ies are more… intangible. Some among my brethren claim he was nothing more than an artist, once.’

  Oleander nodded. He could hear the note of contempt in her voice. Hexachires was not well loved by his followers. He and Fabius had that much in common, at least. He wondered if it might be of some use. ‘And yet he is your master.’

  She peered at him. ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘It seems an odd choice, is all.’

  ‘I was not asked my opinion on the matter. The Synod of Scars voted and he was elected, in accordance with our most sacred traditions.’ She ran her fingers across his back. ‘Over-developed musculature. Some sort of sub-dermal armour – or a layer of synthetic skin. Reinforced skeletal structure.’

  ‘I’m more than the sum of my parts,’ he said, turning to face her.

  ‘No. We are nothing but. Meat and bone, to be pumped, sliced, flensed and cured.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He considered the situation before him with a tactician’s eye. She’d got close enough now – perhaps she thought him neutered. Compliant and broken. Her mistake.

  When he moved, he did so without hesitation. One hand batted aside her dendrites as the other arm looped itself about her throat. He pulled her in, crushing her against his body, and set his hand against her throat.

  ‘Move or cry out and I will snap your neck and feed you to the slaves on the lower decks.’

  ‘Interesting,’ she murmured. ‘I was right. You are not tamed at all.’

  ‘I am a warrior of the Third Legion. We cannot be tamed.’

  ‘I shall remember that for the future,’ she said. ‘What now? Am I to be a hostage? Will you use me to bargain for a ship?’

  ‘Where would I go that you could not follow?’ He tightened his grip on her throat. He leaned close, whispering. ‘You hate him, don’t you? Hexachires, I mean. I can smell it on you. What if I were to kill him for you?’

  Her eyes widened slightly, and he could smell her interest. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘I think my chances of survival will improve under the aegis of another member of your coven.’

  ‘How intriguing,’ Hexachires said. The pain hit a moment later. Olean­der snarled and fell away from Diomone. As ever, the pain was less than it had been. He was getting used to it. Starting to enjoy it. But it wouldn’t do to let Hexachires know that. Not yet, at any rate.

  He fell onto his hands and knees and glared up at Hexachires. The haemonculus looked down at him, fl
esh-mask twisted into an expression of disappointment. ‘I confess I had hoped for a more… interesting ploy.’

  Oleander laughed harshly. ‘Sometimes the old tricks are the best.’

  ‘Not in this case. Diomone is far too loyal – if not to me, then to the coven itself. Isn’t that so, Diomone?’

  She hesitated for a millisecond before answering. ‘Yes.’ If Hexachires noticed, he gave no sign. Oleander filed the hesitation away. Some poisons were slower than others.

  ‘Still, I will give you marks for the attempt,’ Hexachires continued. ‘I was starting to worry we’d broken you at last. That is why I will forego the pain-baton this once. Take him.’

  He stepped aside, and a trio of wracks moved towards Oleander. The first of them lunged forward, a crackling shock-baton clutched in one hand. The blow caught Oleander in the midsection, and a spasm of pain ripped through him. He roared and swung out a fist, intending to pulp the wrack’s skull. The other two masked acolytes bounded forward, moving with skittish, inhuman speed.

  As they closed, he caught a whiff of the chemicals pumping through them, and the stink of their unwashed bodies. A second blow struck him in the leg, and the limb went numb. Had he been at full strength, he might have been able to shrug off the blow. But after centuries of privation and torture, it was all he could do not to fall on his face. Blows rained down, each one pushing him closer to unconsciousness. His roars became screams as the three wracks struck him again and again, laughing all the while. Through pain-dimmed eyes, he saw Hexachires watching his agonies, a gleeful expression on his flesh-mask. Pain was meat and drink to the drukhari.

  Oleander rolled onto his back and lashed out with a kick. One of the wracks spun away, neck snapped. He scrambled clumsily for the fallen baton, as his remaining attackers froze momentarily in shock. The wracks recovered and launched themselves at him as he snatched up the baton. He spun to meet them, balancing awkwardly on his numbed leg. They came at him from opposite sides, and he was hard-pressed to defend himself.