Manflayer - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  Fabius let his hand drop. At her words, his hearts shuddered. He touched his chest.

  ‘When?’

  When he looked up, she was gone.

  Part Three

  THE BATTLE OF BELIAL IV

  993.M37

  Chapter Twenty

  Waking the Tower

  Hexachires led Oleander into the meeting chamber. It occupied the lowest point of the Tower and Oleander felt his stomach shift unpleasantly as he took in the non-Euclidian geometry of the space.

  ‘Now, Oleander,’ Hexachires said. ‘You will be on your best behaviour, I trust. No attempting to escape.’

  Oleander didn’t reply. The chamber resembled an immense spiral of bone, dotted with balconies and long benches of fossilised ligament. Each twist of the spiral acted as a row, looking down on the chamber’s centre. A long ramp, made from what looked like fused vertebral sections, extended from the cathedral-like entrance to the raised dais at the centre. The dais was equipped with grav-units, allowing it to rise and move around the chamber. Several wracks were stationed atop it, ready to see to its workings.

  Other, more heavily armoured wracks guarded the ramp and the other entrances scattered about the spiral. These were not the distorted assistants employed in laboratoriums or on raids, but a warrior caste. Their armour was attached to them somehow, and the vicious-looking weapons they carried were surgically implanted into their forearms.

  Hexachires followed his gaze. ‘Another thing you have to thank your master for. It was during my studies of his physiology that I hit upon the idea of replicating the more practical aspects of his condition. While mon-keigh powered armour is crude, my designs are more elegant. Each warrior grows his own, derived from induced silicates in his own blood and marrow. The armour plates sprout within a few weeks, covering them like a crustacean’s shell. As hard as cera­mite, but self-repairing.’

  ‘Clever,’ Oleander said. He looked around. Many of the benches and balconies were occupied. At least a hundred haemonculi were in attendance, maybe more. ‘I didn’t realise there were this many of you.’

  ‘There usually aren’t. Diomone has convened the Synod. It is rare for the entirety of the coven to gather in such a way. Normally, we only do it when it is time to elect a new master.’

  ‘They intend to overthrow you, then,’ Oleander said. ‘My condolences.’

  Hexachires snorted. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Oleander. A new master is elected only when the old one is… indisposed. And it would be considered gauche to murder me here, in front of everyone. No… no, they are curious, that is all. Gossip is as valuable as fresh samples in these halls.’

  ‘Well, you’ve given them plenty to talk about.’

  Hexachires gestured with the pain-baton. Oleander grunted as his limbs convulsed. Hexachires watched him twitch for a moment, before sighing.

  ‘You are probably right. I have allowed pride to blind me,’ he said softly. ‘I thought of it as a duel, when it was merely pest control. But now that we have his location, thanks to the Harlequins, we can bring this affair to a satisfactory conclusion.’

  He thrust the pain-baton back into his robes and proceeded down the walkway. Oleander stumbled after him.

  ‘Take this lesson to your hearts, Oleander,’ Hexachires continued. ‘There is no enemy save that which you make for yourself. All others are merely momentary impediments or minor frustrations, to be dealt with in as efficient a fashion as one can muster.’ He climbed atop the dais and it rose into the air with a soft hum, where it spun in slow circles above the audience chamber. Oleander was left standing on the ramp.

  Hexachires went to the lectern. A wrack crouched before it, holding up an archaic-looking broadcaster. Hexachires tapped it, eliciting a hollow boom that echoed throughout the chamber. He cleared his throat, and began.

  ‘Brothers and sisters, I come before you with a heavy heart. Despite my best efforts, our quarry has slipped the noose and fled to parts unknown.’

  A wasp-hum of jeers and insults rose from the haemonculi seated on the benches. To Oleander, they looked like so many furious insects, disturbed from their hive. Hexachires raised his hands, and slowly they fell silent.

  ‘I am angry as well, my friends. It burns in me twice as hot, for is the responsibility not mine? Was I not the one who invited this treacherous fiend into our innermost demesnes?’

  A chorus of scornful assent met these words. Hexachires basked in the opprobrium. He spread his hands in mock helplessness.

  ‘I can only beg your forgiveness. I thought to fix my mistake, to bring this treacherous beast to heel myself, but I see now that such is beyond even my skill. Thus, I turn to you, the Synod of the Thirteen Scars, and ask for your aid in dealing with the problem before us.’

  ‘And why should we do that, Hexachires?’ a haemonculus shouted. ‘This is your mess. You clean it up.’ Heads nodded and a sprinkling of applause filtered through the chamber.

  ‘As I said before, Ominilian, I’ve tried.’ Hexachires pinned the heckler with a stare. ‘And this mess goes beyond me. Though I am ultimately responsible, it was our weakness – our weakness – that allowed him to steal away with our secrets. Why, even you, Ominilian… did you not teach him the best way to cultivate cerebral tissue?’ He swung an accusing finger towards another haemonculus. ‘Or you, Xactzer – weren’t you the one who taught him the art of mass bio-replication?’ The finger twitched to the left. ‘And you, Margilias… what sweet nothings did he whisper in your ear to convince you to give up your secrets concerning increased dermal elasticity?’

  More murmurs at this, but the tone was not jeering this time. Olean­der read concern on the sea of alien faces. Those that had faces, at least. Especially those Hexachires had called out by name.

  ‘We are all guilty,’ Hexachires continued. ‘Guilty of the sin of pity. One cannot look upon such a creature and not feel a flicker of sympathy. That is our failing, brothers and sisters – the milk of kindness curdles thick in our veins. We have ever been victims to it. We bestow our gifts upon the weak and the needy, do we not? The little kabals of Low Commorragh have ever sought out our services – for they know that we… care.’

  Hexachires looked around. ‘We are philanthropists, brothers and sisters. And not for the first time, our good nature has been taken advantage of.’ He slapped the lectern. ‘The other covens – they see this, and they whisper. They whisper that we are weak. And we are. What is kindness but weakness, after all?’

  He paused, letting the silence build. He leaned over the lectern. ‘That is why I sought him out, this perfidious mon-keigh. For us. For you. As master, it was my responsibility.’ He tore at his coat, the picture of mournful regret. ‘My duty.’

  He hunched forward, flesh-mask writhing. Oleander wondered if those were actual tears glistening in the rubbery folds.

  ‘But I failed,’ he said heavily. ‘We will be made pariahs – worse, prey. Every kabal in Commorragh will swarm to tear at our flesh like hungry spire-bats. We will be cast down from our lofty perch and scattered.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure some of you would find new homes. But others… well.’

  ‘We know this, Hexachires,’ Diomone spoke up. She stood high on a back bench, surrounded by supporters. ‘As our leader, you were supposed to handle the matter. Instead, you allowed the mon-keigh to escape.’

  ‘Lest you forget, dear Diomone, you were with me there. And you, Arcuryate. Resthemenes. Elishia. Four of your number accompanied me and none foresaw our quarry’s escape. He is clever – I warned you. Too clever to continue playing these silly games with.’ Hexachires sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘I admit it – I made an error in judgement. I was gripped by hubris. But no more.’ He leaned over the lectern. ‘The strength of this synod has always rested in its unity. Together, we have made wonders. Let us make one more.’

  ‘Pretty words, but how will we find him?’ Diomone d
emanded. Her supporters added their voices to hers. ‘Have you somehow divined his location?’

  ‘I prefer to say I deduced it,’ Hexachires said. This elicited some scattered laughter. Hexachires had his own supporters, however few and far between. He gestured, and a fleshy polyp rose from beneath the dais. As it stretched up past the hovering dais, it sprouted a pearly orb at its tip. The orb began to shimmer with an unhealthy radiance as Hexachires spread his hands over it.

  The radiance congealed into a beam of light that spilled across the air, splitting into an arterial diagram of the webway.

  ‘Behold – the webway node of the forgotten temple-palace of Asuryan,’ Hexachires boomed. ‘An opening between one world and another.’

  ‘We all know what a webway node is, Hexachires,’ Diomone said.

  ‘Just making sure,’ Hexachires said. ‘This webway node is special, as you might guess. For it is our route to the heart of our quarry’s terri­tory. And quite a large route, too. One fit for an army.’ He looked around. ‘Our army.’

  Silence. For a moment, Oleander wondered if he’d lost them. Then, Hexachires spread his arms.

  ‘You see? This is the chance we have been hoping for. We will turn his petty empire into a boneyard. Tear down every bastion, burn every planet to a cinder. We will purge his creations from the stars. I will make him a memory, and soon not even that.’

  Hexachires turned, looking down on the attentive faces of his coven. ‘No more games. No more petty butchery. Our pride is at stake, brothers and sisters. He spat on us and cast aside our friendship. I will not have it.’ He brought his fists down on the lectern. ‘I will not have it!’ He loomed over them. ‘We will make all Commorragh tremble with our cruelty. We will make such an example of Fabius Bile as to make the stars themselves weep.’

  The histrionics had the desired effect. Haemonculi rose from their benches and applauded in polite frenzy. Some, like Diomone, frowned and did not clap. But neither did they argue. Hexachires was still speaking, but Oleander was no longer paying attention.

  Instead, his gaze was fixed on a colourful figure sitting high above all the rest. Veilwalker, come to ensure that Hexachires did as he promised. For a moment, her face was that of a drukhari he didn’t recognise. Then it was that of Peshig, a fixed smile on his narrow features before sliding into an approximation of Oleander’s own.

  He stared at himself, and his hands clenched into fists. A moment later, Veilwalker was gone. Oleander forced himself to relax as the dais descended and Hexachires stepped down.

  ‘Do you see, Oleander?’ he called out. ‘As I said, a satisfactory conclusion.’

  ‘Yes,’ Oleander said. ‘Now what?’

  Hexachires swept past him. ‘Now? Now we wake the Tower.’

  Hexachires chuckled. ‘Why so sour, Diomone? Can it be that you are disappointed?’ He swept down the ramp, the edges of his coat in his hands. Attendants scuttled after him, murmuring excitedly amongst themselves.

  He couldn’t find it in his heart to blame them. They were about to assist him with a once in a lifetime event. He would have them killed afterwards, of course. Couldn’t have them sharing what they’d seen. But no reason to spoil their fun just yet.

  ‘Not disappointed,’ Diomone said. ‘Perplexed.’ She followed his attendants and Oleander followed her. She glanced back at him suspiciously, as if wondering whether the mon-keigh were planning to pounce on her again. Hexachires had ordered Oleander to follow her for that very reason. Diomone needed the occasional reminder of her place in the scheme of things. It kept her from getting airs above her station.

  ‘How might I enlighten you?’

  ‘How did you find it?’ she asked.

  ‘Why – I looked for it,’ he said, with aggrieved innocence. ‘Why do you think I sequestered myself for all those weeks?’

  ‘We assumed you were sulking.’

  Hexachires stopped. She was forced to stop as well, or risk running into him. He turned.

  ‘Careful, dear Diomone. I am not against the occasional jibe, but as Master of the Synod, I feel I am owed a certain amount of respect.’ He tapped a talon against her nose. ‘Now, to answer your question, I triangulated its position based on webway access to Fabius’ caches. Our probes made it clear that he has been hard at work shoring up certain sections and reinforcing others… such work requires ready access to raw materials and slaves. So, I simply… connected the dots, you might say.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do it earlier?’

  Hexachires paused. Diomone was no fool. It was clear she suspected something. Nor was she alone in her suspicions. He had no doubt that the others were watching this whole conversation through the data-feed of those artificial eyes of hers. Waiting for him to say or do something foolish, so that they could turn on him with clean consciences.

  He could not say how they would react if they knew the Harlequins were involved. It was possible that they would react poorly indeed. Diomone certainly would. Her loyalty was a frayed strand, waiting for the right moment to snap. That was why he’d insisted on her company. The closer he kept her, the less likely she was to cause trouble. Or, at the very least, he’d be able to react in time to mitigate whatever disaster she caused.

  ‘Adversity sharpens the wits,’ he said. ‘Something to bear in mind, perhaps.’ He turned and pressed on. Time was of the essence. A mobilisation such as he was planning required permission from the Overlord, even if only tacitly. Permission Hexachires did not have and could not afford to waste time getting.

  Ahead of him, the central ganglion of the Tower waited. Though the structure was a living thing, it had no brain as such. Rather, it had thousands of them – simple knots of nerve-fibre that controlled a set number of autonomic functions. But those ganglia could be controlled from a central point, here in the heart of the structure. The chamber was ovoid in shape, with a low ceiling and a concave floor. A canopy of nerve tissue stretched across the walls and ceiling, stretching towards the central ganglion from all directions.

  If the need was great, the central ganglion could be manipulated to take direct control of the Tower’s functions. And Hexachires judged that the current need was great indeed. Peshig – or rather Veilwalker wearing Peshig’s face – had already convinced Salar and Avara to join forces once more. Their kabals had swelled in the weeks following their return to Commorragh, both in influence as well as numbers. Success was the best balm, and they had already forgiven him for his outburst – or so they claimed.

  But three minor kabals would not be enough. For victory to be won, the Thirteen Scars must go to war. And going to war without permission risked eliciting the wrath of Asdrubael Vect. Ordinarily, Vect’s wrath was not something he concerned himself with. But these days, well… things were less certain.

  It was a tightrope, and he the acrobat, ushering his hapless coven across the void. A show of force that would resonate in a hurricane of whispers, through Low Commorragh and High alike. All would know the Thirteen Scars and fear them.

  As they would fear him.

  Thinking on it now, he could see that Fabius had actually done them a great favour. For too long the Scars had hung in the dark, content to feed on the detritus of the city above. But now, there was a fire in their belly and a hunger singing in their blood. Vengeance was a powerful motivator. They would rise as they had never done before, and take their place among the true horrors of the Dark City.

  And it was all thanks to one heedless mon-keigh.

  ‘We are taking a great risk, doing this,’ Diomone said, hurrying after him. Irritated, he wondered if he ought to have Oleander snap her neck here and now. A waste, perhaps. Then, a little waste might save a lot later.

  ‘Risk, Diomone, is the whetstone of opportunity.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Hexachires didn’t reply. He opened the eyes inserted into the back of his neck, fixing them on Ole
ander. Another bit of potential waste to consider. He no longer required the mon-keigh’s assistance, and yet he found himself reluctant to do away with the creature. One never knew when one might need such a specimen. And the brute was ever so entertaining – especially now that he was suitably broken to the lash.

  Plus, there was his knowledge of the Harlequins to consider. Veilwalker had spun this whole situation for her own benefit – that much was clear. And that, in itself, was almost as much an insult as Fabius’ theft. The Harlequins would need to be taught proper respect for their betters as well.

  But not yet.

  The central ganglion rose before him, suspended in a web of nerve tissue. A bulging mass of neural matter, studded with contact ports and data-nodes. He paused, weighing the risks. The Tower had never moved, though it was designed to do so. There was no telling whether or not it would perform as Fabius had claimed that it would.

  He considered the possibility of some last-minute trap. Some engineered flaw, designed to take advantage of his hubris. Fabius had so loved his little traps. A thrill of… not fear, but anticipation gripped him.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Diomone asked from behind him.

  Hexachires clamped his hands against the ganglion. Wire-thin cilia emerged from his palms and wrists, inserting themselves into the contact-probes. He stiffened as a sudden rush of data flowed through him. For a moment, he saw the Tower from every angle, both within and without. He felt the wind on its skin as if it were his own. He felt the rot, deep in his bones. Like an ache that could never be fixed.

  He surfaced from the flood of information, and sent a pulse of command to the mooring ligaments. The Tower began to shudder. It started as a small tremor, developing into a bone-rattling quake. He heard the panicked cries of slaves, and felt the internal contractions as the other haemonculi sealed off their laboratories. Alarm klaxons sounded, filling the corridors with a persistent wail.