‘I was right. You’re enjoying this.’
Saqqara shrugged. ‘Not particularly.’ He dipped his knife into the oil. ‘I was not allowed to accompany you.’
‘The gods?’
Saqqara looked at him. ‘No.’
The way he said it made Fabius’ stomach clench. But it was too late now. He had already set his head in the noose.
‘Have you seen her since?’
‘No,’ he said, softly. ‘Nor do I expect to. She has fulfilled her purpose, after all.’
Saqqara nodded sagely. ‘You were given a choice between the knife and the stone.’
Fabius nodded. ‘I chose the stone.’
Saqqara lowered his knife and looked at Fabius. After several moments of silence, he said, ‘Have you ever stopped to wonder why the gods are so interested in you? Out of all of the ones whose names transcended that of their Legion – Abaddon, Lucius, Khârn, Typhus, Ahriman – you are the only one not sworn to one – or all – of the Ruinous Powers. They were made heralds, and set above their brothers. All except for you.’
‘Yes, it is a constant disappointment to me,’ Fabius said acidly.
‘Or maybe it is the gods who are disappointed.’
‘Meaning?’
Saqqara cleaned his knife and set it aside. ‘I have spent many centuries pondering that very question. Have you ever heard the parable of the tall poppy?’
Fabius laughed. ‘The tall poppy gets cut down to size. Yes. We had a similar saying on Terra. Do the gods wish to cut me down to size? Is that it?’
‘Yes. And no.’ Saqqara stood and began to dress himself in a set of plain, grey robes. ‘The greater the heights you achieve, the greater the glory of the gods. And yet, some heights are forbidden.’
‘Have you ever asked yourself why that might be?’
‘Of course.’
‘And what answer did you arrive at?’
‘The gods will it so.’
Fabius shook his head. ‘A trite answer. I expected nothing less.’
Saqqara looked at him. ‘What answer would you prefer?’
‘Something that does not rely on ascribing intent to cosmological phenomena.’
‘And there it is,’ Saqqara said. ‘You resist. You resist their divinity. You resist their power. You deny them their due. Yet you persist in matching your will against theirs. So, they are enamoured of you. And everything the gods love, they seek to destroy. Or to break.’
‘Do you listen to yourself when you speak?’ Fabius said.
‘Do you?’ Saqqara asked. ‘You are the tall poppy. You insist upon your own superiority when in truth you are nothing more than a poppy in a field of poppies. You are not special. You are not superior. You are a slave of darkness, the same as any of us. The only difference is that you refuse to admit it.’
‘Is a slave who refuses to admit it still a slave?’
‘Yes. He is also a fool,’ Saqqara said. He lifted his bowl of oil and began to anoint his armour. ‘They offered you a choice. And you chose to–’
‘I know what I chose.’ Fabius paused, as a thought occurred to him. ‘What would have happened had I chosen the knife?’
‘Only you can say, Pater Mutatis. But I do know that you cannot go back.’
‘Nor will I go forward,’ Fabius said softly.
Saqqara frowned. ‘Perhaps. Sometimes the gods wish us to be as insects in amber – preserved for all time, so that they might take joy from our unceasing struggle. Maybe that is your fate.’
Fabius shook his head. ‘I am too useful to kill – or to promote.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘It has ever been thus. Without me, the Long War grinds to a halt, for good or ill. But so long as the game continues, I persist. So long as I persist, the safety of my creations is assured.’ He looked up, studying the strange stars overhead. ‘I wonder if our primogenitor was given a similar choice. He sits on His throne, caught between living and dying – for what?’
‘It is not the same.’
‘Oh, but I think it is. For He is as useful to them as I am. So long as He exists, so too must your sort strive against Him. And so long as I exist, your numbers will never dwindle to nothing, ensuring that the war continues.’ Fabius laughed bitterly. ‘The Long War indeed.’
‘The gods will it so,’ Saqqara said piously.
Fabius snorted and turned away. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t set off that bomb in your head yet.’
‘You couldn’t even if you wished to. I managed to deactivate it years ago.’ Saqqara looked at him. ‘While you were in Commorragh.’
Fabius frowned. ‘Then why are you still here?’
Saqqara smiled. ‘I am where the gods wish me to be.’
‘You’re mad, you know.’
‘Says one lunatic to another.’
Fabius shook his head. ‘Fine, then. If that is my fate – I embrace it gladly.’ Fabius leaned close. ‘I will feed your gods until they burst, Saqqara. And you and your kind will thank me for it.’
‘Heresy,’ Saqqara said.
Fabius nodded. ‘Yes. I imagine so. Now, are you going to aid me?’
Saqqara finished anointing his armour. ‘Of course. What do you require?’
‘As I said – daemons. As many as you can draw up.’
Saqqara looked startled. ‘I cannot control more than a few at a time.’
Fabius smiled.
‘I said nothing about control.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sundered Gate
Oleander felt it in his bones when the Tower’s weapons systems powered up. Arcs of lightning whipped between the generator rods that ringed its uppermost segments. Folds in its flesh split, disgorging weapons emplacements of reinforced bone, manned by wracks. Disintegrator cannons and void lances hummed with destructive energies as they were readied by their crews.
He watched it all from the various holo-polyps that rose from the floor about him. Hexachires applauded theatrically.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it, Oleander? Over a thousand weapons of all types, manned by the best marksmen the coven can produce.’
‘That’s one word for it,’ Oleander said. On the displays, he saw the node ahead. It had been fortified – that was the only word for it. Walls and gates and guns. Fabius had been busy. Lines of flak lit up the dark of the webway as the Tower of Flesh crashed towards it at Diomone’s urging. She twitched and grunted in her throne with every impact, as if the Tower were merely an extension of her form.
Hexachires tapped one of the polyps. ‘Avara – status?’
‘I’ve split my forces as you requested. Salar and Peshig have done the same. We’re in position – ready when you are.’
‘Good. You will follow us in. Ensure that our route home is not compromised.’ Hexachires turned. ‘Looking forward to it, Oleander?’
‘Looking forward to what?’
‘Why, the culmination of our adventures,’ the haemonculus said. ‘In a few short moments, we shall crack this pathetic bastion and root out the sweetmeats within. And then you will be cured of your ailment, and I will have my vengeance. All will be well in the universe once more.’
‘And afterwards?’
Hexachires’ mask twisted into a smile. ‘That is up to you.’ He turned back to the holo-polyps. ‘Ah, the first defences are getting ready to fall.’ He gestured, and one of the polyps flowered, spitting up an immense image. Oleander saw the wall, saw the mutants and beastkin emptying every drum of ammunition they had into the advancing leviathan. They fought with desperation – and perhaps a bit of courage.
And then, a flash of grey. He stumbled forward, his legs slow to respond. A figure in armour was standing atop the wall, directing the defence effort.
‘Arrian,’ he murmured. He recognised the skulls hanging from the Apothecary’s armour.
O
f course it would be Arrian. Who else would Fabius set to guard his threshold but his most loyal hound? Beams of scintillating energy seared the air around his old comrade. Winged wracks, released from the upper reaches of the Tower, swooped across the wall, decapitating mutants as they darted past. He saw Arrian bring one of the wracks down, and the image shifted, expanding, bringing the World Eater into focus.
Hexachires gripped his shoulders. ‘Another friend, Oleander? How sad that you must watch him die. And in such an inglorious manner – not even a duel to the death.’
The Tower did not stop. Did not slow. It barely noticed the efforts of the defenders. When it struck the gates, they ceased to exist, and everything on them as the Tower lurched on towards the webway node. Gun-towers built into the node opened up, barrels turning white-hot. The Tower bent low towards the node, arcs of electricity leaping from it to strike the pearlescent surface. The node shivered as it was activated. Oleander felt the familiar lurching sensation of the gate opening, and then the Tower was squirming through.
Hexachires cackled uproariously as sparks rained down from above. Polyps burst from the stresses of the transition, and the edifice gave a resounding groan. Oleander was thrown from his feet. White light filled every functioning display, growing brighter and brighter until it nearly blinded him.
Then, they were through.
He heard grinding stones and the crack of ancient masonry – a deafening reverberation as something older than the Imperium of Man itself was torn asunder. There was a heavy convulsion as the Tower swung upwards. Its endo-structure crackled like melting ice, and Oleander was jostled as the chamber contracted momentarily. More sparks, more burst polyps. Wracks shouted in panic as they sought to extinguish the fires that threatened to consume Diomone’s throne.
Hexachires paid it no notice. He’d snatched a fluted communications valve and was bellowing orders. Preoccupied, he barely noticed as Oleander crept towards him.
It was not a perfect moment, but it would do. His plan was a half-formed thing – all snatches of impulse and need. He paused, muscles quivering. Ready to lunge. Felt eyes on him. Diomone was watching him. Urging him on.
Even as he leapt, Hexachires turned and caught him by the throat. The haemonculus flung him across the chamber with a laugh.
‘No, Oleander. Despite what the clown may have told you, this is not how this particular drama ends. Restrain him.’
Wracks hurried forwards to detain him as he struggled to his feet. His limbs didn’t want to support his weight. He half fell, and the wracks struck him with pain-goads, further exacerbating his inability to stand. He howled.
‘Did you think I would not guess?’ Hexachires looked up at Diomone. ‘My arrogance is impressive, I admit, but not so great as all that. Besides, your work was sloppy. I saw that you had tampered with the helm almost immediately. I applaud your ingenuity, however. I was beginning to despair of you, dear Diomone.’
He looked down at Oleander, his flesh-mask twisted into a smirk.
‘As for you… test me again, and I shall have you thrown from the Tower. That is how Count Sunflame died, by the way. If you were wondering. The Lord of Knives has him strangled with his own intestines and flung from the highest turret.’
‘I thought you didn’t like stories,’ Oleander gasped as convulsions gripped him. He felt as if his skin were trying to pull itself away from his muscles.
‘I don’t like reading them,’ Hexachires said.
He patted Oleander’s head.
‘I much prefer to write my own.’
Bellephus was overseeing the placement of the last few bulwarks when the leviathan emerged from the webway node. It surfaced like a sunken mountain rising from the ocean floor. It came wreathed in fire and death, accompanied by a stink unlike anything he’d ever encountered. Its mass was such that the sensor relays attached to either side of the node were scraped clean as the great arch splintered and cracked.
The world seemed to slow. Time stumbled. The vox crackled with questions and curses. Mutant workers fled, vainly seeking to put distance between themselves and the monstrosity hauling itself through the gate.
Bellephus stood, momentarily overawed, unable to turn away. Fleshy tendrils slammed down, piercing the floor and walls, anchoring the immensity as it squeezed its bulk into reality. Beams of destructive energy emerged from the flabby folds that dotted its length, obliterating both the defensive works and those who sheltered behind them.
The node-chamber quaked and the walls split. Shards of broken stone the size of battle tanks slammed down, crushing unlucky legionaries. And still the thing spilled forth. It was a worm and a mountain and a fortress all in one. A heaving malignancy the equal of any god-machine. Watching it emerge, Bellephus was almost afraid.
He’d seen nothing like it, even in the wildest reaches of the Eye. An impossible structure, an organic bastion. Despite this, the 12th held their ground. The thunder of their bolters was lost in the resulting cacophony. All thoughts of organised defence were gone – they fought with the maddened fury of cornered animals.
Bellephus stepped back as a nearby pillar toppled, sending up a cloud of dust. The floor buckled beneath his feet. It felt as if the whole palace were coming apart at the seams. A tendril of reeking flesh punched through the dust, nearly spearing him from his feet. Proximity alerts flashed across his display faster than he could process them.
Each tendril was roughly the size and length of a gunship, and studded with sensory filaments. As they crashed down, red seams appeared and the veiny surface split, unfurling wetly to reveal cages of bone. The bones splintered as hulking shapes tore themselves free and leapt down. Bellephus swung his bolt pistol up as the first grotesque lumbered towards him. He fired, but the monster barely stumbled. It charged, howling.
He backed away, calmly emptying his weapon into the towering brute. It finally collapsed with a groan, a mere handbreadth from him, leaking iridescent ichor. As he reloaded, his targeting array spun wildly. More and more of the tendrils split, disgorging the slave-soldiers of the Thirteen Scars. First dozens, then hundreds.
Bellephus was no stranger to such horrors. He’d fought them before, though not often, or recently. ‘Bellephus to all units, fall back to the antechamber. Repeat – disengage and regroup.’ He gave the order without much hope it would be followed. Some would, but most would ignore him, too caught up in the frenzy of battle.
And still, the leviathan forced itself through the gate – huge segments of flesh, bristling with guns. More tendrils pierced the walls and ceiling. Each was a transit shaft, vomiting warriors into the crumbling chamber. Dust hung thick on the air, interfering with Bellephus’ sensors. He fell back steadily, firing at anything that came too close.
He tried to contact the strategium, but found only static. He considered his available options and decided on the most pragmatic. While he was no coward, he had learned over the centuries that there was precious little glory in a losing battle. The call to arms – the song of heroes – these things had no place in reality. And one warrior alone could make little difference. Especially against something as impossibly huge as the leviathan before him.
As he reached the antechamber entrance, he saw the intruder rise to its full height, brushing aside the roof of the palace as if it were no more substantial than a cobweb. What was left of the ceiling crashed down, burying friend and foe alike. Dust billowed, obscuring the devastation from sight.
He was not the only one to escape the collapse. Dusty warriors spilled into the antechamber, firing as they withdrew. A few at first, and then more. Sixty in all. One of them, wearing a helm shaped like a gorgon’s grimace, turned.
‘I told you this would happen,’ Varex snarled.
Of course he’d survived. Varex was the proverbial cockroach. He’d only put up a token resistance when Bellephus had prevented him from deserting earlier. Bellephus suspected that he
was probably regretting that now. He pointed an accusing finger at Bellephus.
‘I told you we should have got clear of this madness while we had the chance – and now it’s too late. I should kill you now, gutter-poet.’
Bellephus levelled his bolt pistol, stopping Varex in his tracks. ‘You could try. Or we could wait to settle matters between us at a more convivial time. I leave it to you to decide.’
Varex raised his own weapon, but paused as the hum of anti-gravity generators reached them. ‘What’s that?’ He turned.
Drukhari raiders pierced the dust and smoke like arrows. Splinter fire danced across the entrance to the antechamber. Bellephus laughed.
‘Looks like the decision has been made for you, Varex.’ He raised a hand and voxed, ‘Form up – standard phalanx.’
‘This isn’t over,’ Varex said, falling in beside Bellephus.
Bellephus took aim at the approaching drukhari. ‘Patience, brother. We all meet the gods in our own time. Some of us sooner than others.’
Arrian’s display fuzzed, spat and cleared. He rolled onto his front, feeling as if a mountain had dropped on him. His armour’s systems rebooted themselves slowly, or not at all. Something had broken inside it. He shoved himself to his feet with a groan, his armour’s servos protesting. The courtyard was gone – the defences – all of it. Mangled bodies littered the ground – the remnants of his forces.
Not a bad plan, dog-brother. Too bad theirs was better.
‘Yes,’ Arrian said. ‘Then, these things rarely work out the way we intend.’ He turned, trying to estimate the distance he’d been thrown by the impact. He gave up after a few moments, as his vision blurred. He winced as something shifted inside him. His ribcage felt as if it were partially crushed. One of his lungs had deflated. One of his hearts had stopped. He took note of his injuries with an Apothecary’s precision.
Surprising you’re still on your feet, Briaeus said. Then you always were a tough bastard, weren’t you?
‘Tough enough,’ Arrian murmured. He felt nothing. Pain was a vice he did not often allow himself. It just made the bite of the Nails worse.
Manflayer - Josh Reynolds Page 36