Manflayer - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  The ramp thudded down moments later. Fabius stopped at the hatch and looked around. His armour’s sensors stretched out, drawing in environmental and atmospheric data. He didn’t need it, however. His own eyes told him everything he needed to know. The world was a drab, grey little thing. A mote of factorum grit, lodged among the evil stars.

  ‘This is it?’ he asked, frowning. He looked at Quin. ‘Really?’

  ‘What did you expect?’ Quin said. The Pilgrim was clad in his battered Tartaros-pattern war-plate, and held his power axe in a loose grip.

  ‘Something more… unusual.’ Fabius looked around. They had landed in an empty quarter, barren of life and obstruction, save a scattering of tumbled stones, rusting heaps of abandoned machinery and dust-dunes. In the near distance, the ruins of factorums and refineries rose like the skeletons of landlocked leviathans. Farther away, mountains surged skywards, their peaks shrouded in perfume and dust.

  Quin followed him down the ramp. ‘Our gene-father is not prone to whimsy. Even in his current state of being. Fulgrim likes his pleasures the way an engineer likes his buildings – sturdy and efficiently constructed.’

  ‘I sense an implied criticism, Narvo.’

  Quin grunted. ‘Fulgrim does what is expected of him, to the utmost of his abilities. He always has done. He seeks to be the best at everything. Even debauchery. So he seeks to build the perfect world – one where all may know exquisite pleasures and torments, from the highest noble to the lowliest slave.’

  ‘It resembles Chemos,’ Fabius said. ‘Right down to the particulates in the atmosphere. It almost looks as if he poisoned the world, and then cleansed it afterwards.’

  ‘He did.’ Quin sighed. He knelt and scooped up a handful of sand. ‘It is Chemos. He spent centuries turning this world, whatever it once was, into a reflection of his birth-world, and then recreated the circumstances of his arrival.’ He let the sand dribble through his fingers. ‘To improve upon his earlier work.’

  ‘Madness.’

  ‘Yes. Then, he was always a little mad.’ Quin was silent for a time. ‘It got worse, after Byzas. We might have been saved there, if we’d lost.’

  Fabius paused. ‘Do you regret it, then?’

  ‘No. What’s done is done. The world is set, and my place in it.’ Quin looked at him. ‘Do you? Regret it, I mean.’

  ‘I can ill afford to waste my time doing so. I have little enough left as it is.’ Fabius turned as Savona followed them down the ramp. She had insisted on coming, though he couldn’t say why. Perhaps the temptation to accomplish something so many of her Legion rivals had failed to do was impossible to resist.

  She gestured with her maul towards a pall of black smoke on the horizon. ‘Did you see? There’s a war going on over there. I spied it as we broke the troposphere.’

  Quin nodded. ‘Chemos was a fractious planet, before Fulgrim exerted control.’

  Fabius looked at him. ‘He’s even recreating the wars?’

  ‘He fights them over and over again, attempting different strategies. In search of the perfect victory with which to rewrite his history.’ Quin paused. ‘Sometimes, he even lets them win.’

  ‘I was right. He’s mad.’

  ‘Yes. Are you certain you still wish to do this?’

  ‘I have little choice,’ Fabius said. He looked around. ‘You know, I never really understood our gene-father’s obsession with martial glory. It always seemed to me more efficient to simply eradicate our foes from orbit. Pound the earth flat, and build over the ashes.’

  ‘And if they dig in?’

  ‘There are ways. Saboteurs, chemical weapons – there are hundreds of methods for dismantling a world and its people that do not involve orbital insertions and glorious advances into the teeth of enemy fire.’ Fabius shook his head. ‘Perhaps I overestimate the intelligence of our species. Perhaps we are little more than psychopathic apes, driven to fashion clubs and smash out the brains of our closest neighbours.’

  Quin laughed. ‘And here I thought you were the smart one. I figured that out the day of my culling, when my family forced my cousins and me to fight for the honour of joining the Third.’ He ran a thumb along the blade of his axe. ‘War, as you describe it, would be little more than pest control. What is there for the gods to feed on? Where is the desire for victory, the savagery, the hope and despair? Where is the entertainment?’

  ‘I believe you have made my point for me.’

  ‘No. You are not listening.’ Quin leaned forward. ‘On my pilgrimage I learned much. Win or lose, the gods feast on our deeds. A man pets a stray, and his small pleasure in the act of kindness feeds Slaanesh. A woman strikes her crying child, and that awful moment of elation she feels feeds Khorne. A Munitorum drone considers suicide. Nurgle grows fat on his despair. A merciful strategist devises a plan for bloodless victory, and Tzeentch is content.’ He looked at the sky above, an expanse of grey, leached of all colour and life. ‘The Word Bearers think the gods crave worship. But the gods care for nothing save filling their bellies with our sorrows. Intentionally or not, we are all meat for the beast.’ He paused. ‘Even you, Fabius.’

  Fabius frowned and looked away. The barest hint of a road was visi­ble beneath the wind-blown dunes – cracked ribbons of ferrocrete, stretching across the vanishing distance in all directions, including towards the outline of a city that seemed to waver mirage-like in the light: their ultimate destination. Even as he spied it, the rustle of the wind changed, sounding almost like laughter.

  ‘Then what is the point of anything? If all we are is meat, why strive to be anything more?’

  Quin shook his head. ‘Why does prey seek to escape the predator? Eventually, they will be caught. Why not simply surrender?’

  Fabius grunted. ‘Point taken.’

  Quin clapped him on the shoulder. ‘If it makes you feel better, I think the gods themselves are but the slivers of something greater. For all their nightmarish power, they too are meat.’

  ‘That does not make me feel better at all,’ Fabius said.

  ‘I did say “if”.’

  Savona pushed past them. ‘I still think this is a trap.’ She stopped suddenly, looking around. ‘Which way do we go? All I see are mountains.’

  ‘Those aren’t mountains,’ Fabius said.

  The cloying clouds of perfume and dust thinned as he spoke, revealing the screes of dead flesh, heaped and stacked, to their sensors. Fabius magnified the image, despite the fact that he knew what he would see. The bodies of innumerable men, women and children rose into high crags and fell away into valleys and canyons. Carrion birds nested in the heights, stripping the flesh from broken limbs or sampling delicacies from exposed innards.

  ‘I estimate their numbers somewhere in the low billions,’ he said, after a moment’s calculation. ‘Roughly two planetary populations worth, or around six generations.’ He banished the image. ‘Always so wasteful, Fulgrim. You’d think growing up on a world like Chemos would have taught him better.’

  Savona, no stranger to death or slaughter, stared at the distant crags in seeming incomprehension. The issue, Fabius suspected, was one of scale. This was not mere butchery or collateral damage, but a mass extermination.

  ‘Why?’ she asked softly.

  ‘They were not perfect.’ Quin shook his head. ‘Come. If he has to look for us, things will go poorly.’

  They walked the road in silence. Fabius had wanted to take the gunship in, but Quin had insisted on walking. Apparently there was some ritual to it all that Fabius didn’t understand. He’d considered bringing Saqqara, to translate, but the Word Bearer had flatly refused. Startled by his vehemence, Fabius had acquiesced.

  They passed others on the way. Cliques of chanting monks sat on the side of the road, carving erotic imagery into each other’s flesh. Strange, inhuman merchants had set up isolated stalls among the dunes overlooking the road, and haw
ked all manner of goods – the dreams of pilgrims past, and the tears of daemons; weapons forged the hour of Chemos’ destruction and gilded copies of the Chemosian Cantos; the memory of a caged star and the skull of the last High Executive.

  Crowds of pilgrims bathed in the acidic pools of runoff near the road, purifying themselves in preparation for… what? Fabius didn’t know. Overhead, the winged shapes of bestial furies rode the thermals, occasionally snatching an unwary pilgrim high into the air, where they were devoured, screaming ecstatically all the while.

  Fabius and his companions were not the only warriors to follow the road. He spied the garish figures of Noise Marines perched upon fallen statues and pillars, engaged in sonic duels that echoed for leagues in all directions.

  ‘It seems this place is easier to locate than I was led to believe,’ Fabius murmured.

  ‘Only to those with true faith. And even if they find the world, there is no guarantee that they will be admitted to the garden. Fulgrim has… high standards.’ Quin pointed. ‘There. Just ahead of us. The gates to the Garden of Sixfold Pleasure.’

  The gates rose higher than Fabius could see, stretching ever upwards and far beyond the limits of physical or mechanical sight. They stood alone, banded by no walls. They shone with a soft radiance, at once comforting and repulsive. The gates themselves were carved to resemble untold millions of souls writhing in orgiastic pleasure – or perhaps pain. The sides of the archway that contained them were dominated by two great shapeless statues – formless flurries of hooved feet, bared teeth and snapping claws.

  ‘The Lord of Excess,’ Quin said, genuflecting to each statue in turn as they drew close.

  Fabius had seen similar depictions of Slaanesh in the ruins of the crone worlds. Briefly, he was reminded of a smile as vast as the heavens and a voice like the cracking of a world’s bones. He shook his head, banishing the memory.

  ‘Why is there a gate if there is no wall?’ he demanded.

  ‘Who would dare step past the gate without an invitation?’ Quin said.

  ‘It’s singing,’ Savona murmured dreamily. ‘The gate is singing.’ Fabius could hear it as well, though only faintly – like a distant concert of familiar voices.

  ‘Kynska,’ he muttered. ‘It sounds almost like the Maraviglia.’ He looked around, noting the huddled forms who lay scattered about, sheltering in the ruins that dotted the periphery of the gate. All looked to be dead, or sleeping.

  ‘Yes,’ Quin said. ‘It is the song of Slaanesh. They say his favoured son crafted these gates from a single scale, plucked from the Dark Prince’s flank.’

  Fabius frowned. ‘Favoured son… Fulgrim?’

  Quin nodded. ‘Who else, but our father?’

  ‘Of course. I should have known, gaudy and grandiose as this portal is. How do we open it?’ Fabius strode forward, bones crunching beneath his tread.

  ‘We knock,’ Quin said, not moving. ‘Or rather you do.’

  Fabius paused. ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘You are the pilgrim here, brother. Not me and certainly not her.’ Quin nodded towards Savona, who stood swaying in time to the strange melodies that dripped through the air. The music had changed, becoming more urgent, as if building to a crescendo. ‘Our souls are already bought and sold. But yours is still up for grabs.’

  Fabius gave a snort of laughter. ‘I’ve been told otherwise.’

  ‘One must willingly bow before the gods. To do otherwise is… heresy. Blasphemy.’

  Fabius grimaced. ‘Fine. I shall knock. More, I shall drag our gene-father from whatever hedonisms currently occupy his attentions and force him to listen to me.’ He turned to the gates. ‘Do you hear? I have arrived, Phoenician – and I will not be denied!’

  Stimms flooded his ravaged system as he stalked towards the gates. He could feel the eyes of the huddled pilgrims fixed upon him, and he wondered whether they would rush him in a frenzy, if he managed to open the gates. He took a two-handed grip on Torment, and felt the daemon-shard respond eagerly. It recognised this place, he knew. Perhaps it had been here before. Whatever the reason, it seemed jubilant at the prospect of what was to come.

  Fabius shared that joy. He longed to destroy this place and cast its shards into Fulgrim’s face. For every manipulation, every curse, and every cryptic riddle he had endured, he would set the Phoenician’s precious garden alight and force him back to the harsh realm of his responsibilities.

  The first blow echoed like the tolling of a bell. The second caused the song to falter. It took four more to silence it entirely and breach the gates. Each blow reverberated through him, threatening to break his arms and tear his muscles. His hips and spine ached with a marrow-deep pain and his head throbbed.

  But on the sixth blow, the gates swung inwards. Silver grasses hissed as in welcome, and the long shadows of abandoned hab-blocks and manufactoria stretched across his path. A thoroughfare extended before him, lined with steaming braziers. Clouds of incense wafted across the path, obscuring the forms of distant statues and other, less identifiable shapes. Panting slightly from his efforts, Fabius stared at the sight before him.

  ‘This is no garden.’

  Eerie laughter greeted his observation. It came from all directions, from within the ruined buildings and from atop the archway of the gate. Fabius turned, seeking the source.

  ‘What is that? Some new trick?’

  ‘No,’ Quin said, as he joined Fabius. ‘Did you think the gates would be unguarded?’

  ‘I see no guards,’ Fabius said, even as his targeting array lit up.

  Savona gestured with her maul. ‘I do. Look.’

  Gangling equine shapes moved into view at the opposite end of the thoroughfare. Some stood on two legs, others on four. Atop each, a slim, inhuman shape sat. Eyes like simmering embers were fixed on the invaders. A horn sounded, and the riders kicked their beasts into motion.

  ‘I don’t suppose this is a welcoming party,’ Fabius said.

  ‘Did you think they would let us through for nothing more than a smile and a song?’ Quin growled. He raised his axe. ‘These are the castellans of the silver gardens, Fabius. They have flayed mightier souls than ours.’

  ‘Then it’s a good thing I’ve already lost mine,’ Savona said, bounding forward to meet the riders. Her maul’s power field crackled to life as she ran.

  ‘Idiot woman – wait,’ Quin bellowed. He glared at Fabius. ‘What sort of lunatics are you keeping company with?’

  Fabius drew his needler. ‘The kind who keep the enemy safely preoccupied.’ He focused on the targeting runes that flashed across his display. The needler was loaded with an extract refined from the cere­bral tissues of psychic nulls. To the Neverborn, it burned like acid, eating away at the falsity of their existence and reducing them to nothing.

  The daemons were on them in moments. Fabius turned, seeking a route of retreat, and saw that the gates were sealed once more, trapping them. On this side of the gates, the walls were plainly visible, and far too high to scale, even if they were made of what appeared to be pulsing ribbons of flesh.

  He cursed and fired, plucking a daemonette from the saddle. He saw Savona do the same, smashing the thing from its mount with her maul. The Neverborn rolled to its feet, shrieking. Savona gave it no chance to recover. Her second blow pulped its pale skull. Two more raced towards her, and she snatched her bolt pistol from its holster, firing even as she sought cover.

  Quin chopped through a beast’s neck, spilling its rider to the ground. Fabius shot it in the head, and watched in satisfaction as the toxins reduced the screaming creature to motes of coloured ash. Quin caught the reins of a riderless steed and turned.

  ‘Go, Fabius – take the steed and go!’ he said, shoving the reins into his hand. ‘We shall hold their attentions here.’

  Fabius didn’t argue. He swung himself easily into the saddle, prompted by memories of a former lif
e. He jerked the daemon-steed’s head about and thumped its ribs, forcing it into a gallop. The beast shrilled in protest, but did as it had been made to do and ran.

  He leaned low over its spiny neck, and risked a look back. Several of the riders had broken off from the battle and were charging after him, shrieking playful obscenities. He drew his needler and fired, allowing his targeting array to guide his hand. The darts struck the pursuing beasts, eliciting screeches of pain as the pariah-derived toxins unravel­led them at their hypothetical core.

  His own steed seemed to know where it was supposed to go. It galloped along the wide thoroughfares, carrying him deeper into the city. The sounds of battle faded into silence behind him, swallowed up by distance.

  His beast screamed, and Fabius hauled back on the reins, startled. A thin figure, cloaked in incense, stood in the middle of the street, one hand extended. The beast reared, clawing at the air, and Fabius dropped hurriedly from the saddle. The creature sprang away, its fearful wails lingering behind it. Fabius faced the figure. He reached up and removed his helmet.

  ‘Melusine,’ he said softly.

  ‘Father,’ she said.

  ‘I thought this place was beyond the sight of your kind.’

  ‘A lie. I could not show you the way. You had to find it for yourself.’

  ‘A pilgrimage,’ Fabius said. He looked around. The air was clotted with incense, making it hard to see. He pulled his helm back on. The incense was no more natural than the buildings around him. It was all air and shadows. An infernal glamour, conjured by a malign intelligence. As was the being before him.

  Quin had been right. It was a trap after all. She could not be who she was. He knew that now. She was nothing more than a memory, given form by his own longings. The lost girl, found at last.

  Melusine nodded. ‘Yes. A pilgrimage. To show your love. Your faith.’

  ‘Neither of which I possess in any great abundance.’ He looked around. ‘Where are the others? Still among the living, I trust?’