Manflayer - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘It is not enough,’ Hexachires said.

  ‘It will have to be. You are in no position to be stubborn, Hexachires.’ Fabius’ gaze flicked to Melusine. ‘You may have captured one daemon, but can you fight an army of them? Especially with your ­precious Tower collapsing around you?’

  Hexachires growled softly. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You will cease this infantile vendetta,’ Fabius said. ‘From this moment on, all debts are paid and my slate wiped clean.’ His eyes strayed to Oleander. His former student had crept closer to Hexachires. Their eyes met, just for a moment. Oleander gave a slight nod, and Fabius tensed.

  Hexachires was silent for long moments. Then, he laughed. ‘A terrible bargain. And one you would not make unless you were desperate. I am calling your bluff, Fabius.’ He gestured. ‘Take him. Avara, you and the others prepare for battle. We will make a fighting withdrawal–’

  Oleander lunged.

  Hexachires turned with a squawk of surprise. He thrust his hand into his robes, reaching for something, but Fabius was there first. He grappled with the haemonculus, and his hand found the pain-baton.

  ‘Oleander – catch!’

  Oleander caught the baton with a howl of joy. Hexachires squalled like a wounded cat and his spinal tendrils arrowed down, propelling Fabius away. He rounded on Oleander, spitting curses. Several wracks interposed themselves between their master and Oleander as the latter advanced. But Oleander had a different target in mind.

  As Fabius regained his feet, Oleander brought the baton down on the grotesque’s skull, pulping it with a single blow. The great beast dropped, and the crystalline sheath fell to the ground with a ringing clatter. Oleander raised the baton over it. Hexachires cried out. Fabius, knowing what was coming, dived for cover.

  The pain-baton, at least the prototype he’d devised, had been based – in part – on Torment. It had no daemon within it, but it was powered by a miniature darklight reactor, allowing it to be used without fear of its charge failing.

  Already cracked from the blow that had killed the grotesque, the subsequent blow resulted in an explosion of such force and savagery that Fabius thought the entire chamber was going to collapse in on him.

  Smoke and flame filled the chamber. Fabius dragged himself to his feet. He could see nothing – no one. Then, a blast cut across his shoulder-plate, nearly throwing him to the floor once more. The smoke swirled, thinned, and he spied Hexachires heading for the exit, followed by his aides. Drukhari were screaming, and something laughed.

  A kabalite warrior slammed into a nearby wall, startling him. The warrior crumpled, armour ruptured. He could hear the whine of splinter rifles and the dull shriek of a blast-pistol. Reinforcements had arrived.

  He saw Torment lying on the floor and went for it. As he did, the heavy shape of a grotesque rose out of the smoke, fists raised over its head. It brought them down, nearly crushing him as he lurched aside. He rose, Torment in hand. The beast reached for him again.

  ‘No, brute. He belongs to me.’

  The grotesque turned with a gurgling roar as something awful rose over it. The daemon – a Keeper of Secrets – looked down at Fabius, a cruel smile spreading across its bovine features.

  ‘Hello, sweet Fabius. I told you we would meet again – and that moment has come around at last. Do you remember me?’ It laughed. ‘Never mind, I shall introduce myself – I am Kanathara, Whose Hooves Shatter Mountains and Whose Voice Lulls the Sun. You have called and I have come.’

  As it spoke, Kanathara’s blade split the grotesque from crown to groin, before slamming into the floor with a dull clang. Fabius fell back, cursing as his battered frame refused to respond properly. The chirurgeon was doing what it could, but not swiftly enough. He clawed at the wall, trying to haul himself to his feet.

  ‘Where are you going, Fabius?’ Kanathara purred. ‘Are you not pleased to see me?’

  ‘Begone,’ Fabius growled, fumbling to retrieve Torment. ‘I have no need of loquacious figments. Go kill the drukhari, as you were summoned for.’

  ‘Your bite is weaker than I recall. Could it be that iron certainty has begun to rust at last?’ Kanathara dropped to its haunches and watched him scrabble. ‘I was in the garden, you know. Watching as the Dark Prince’s favoured heir brought you to heel at last – reminding you of your place in the great game. But I am not so easily satisfied as all that. You insulted me, and I will have my recompense.’

  Almost playfully, the daemon thrust its blade towards him. The tip pierced Fabius’ side, punching through his armour with ease. Blood flowed and Fabius screamed. His groping hand found Torment’s haft and he snatched the weapon up with desperate strength, swinging it at the daemon’s head.

  The blow was a glancing one, but it served its purpose. Kanathara jerked back with a howl, and Fabius scrambled to his feet. One hand pressed to his wound, he stumbled away from the creature, seeking a way out of the chamber.

  ‘Help me,’ he hissed, manually activating the chem-pumps affixed to his armour. The chirurgeon trilled in consternation, pumping secon­dary stimulants into his already overloaded system. ‘I know,’ he spat.

  ‘But I will not die here. Not yet.’

  Avara spotted the mon-keigh as she shot a capering daemonette. Hexachires had already fled, leaving her to deal with the daemons that now seemed to be crawling out of every crevice and crack in this cursed place. She bared her teeth in a snarl of frustration. They’d come all this way – again – and the creature was escaping – again.

  Not this time. She’d kill the beast and bring its head back to Commorragh and gift it to Vect himself – or at least a suitably influential proxy. Malys, maybe. Hexachires would be punished for whatever transgression he was trying to hide, and she would be feted as she deserved.

  ‘This way, follow me,’ she snapped. Several of her warriors broke off and hurried after her. The rest would have to make their way as best they could. She could always get new ones, once she’d returned to Commorragh.

  She raced after the creature. Wounded as it was, it would be easy to put down once and for all. As she stepped out into the corridor, she saw it stumble towards a transit-shaft. She laughed and levelled her pistol. This was almost too easy.

  ‘You would shoot him in the back?’

  Avara spun and fired, even as the figures burst from the smoke. One fell, but the rest kept coming. The mon-keigh moved faster than she thought possible. Almost as fast as kabalite warriors. They howled as they fought, like wild beasts.

  Avara focused on the figure before her – a female. Old. But strong. She lifted her blast-pistol for a second shot, but hesitated. Black smoke boiled from the glancing hit she’d made on the woman’s side. The mon-keigh glanced at the wound, and gave a ragged laugh.

  ‘Too old and slow,’ she said, before launching herself at Avara. Shocked, Avara fell back, her finger on the trigger. Her attacker’s knife pierced the blast-pistol’s power core even as she fired. Avara tried to hurl the weapon away from her, but too late.

  She screamed as a ball of darklight engulfed her hand. Everything seemed to slow – the moment stretching into an eternity. She saw her warriors falling, dying – being devoured. She saw her attacker slump back against a pillar, clutching at the wound in her side. She saw the ball of darklight double in size. Then triple. She tried to drag her arm free, but to no avail. Her monocle scanned the coruscating ball of darkness, calculating, predicting, even as the ambient effects of the darklight interfered with its function. She turned away, slowly, so slowly, and clawed for her knife.

  She fumbled the weapon from its sheath. The darklight trebled again. Her arm was gone, but she was still caught fast. She raised the knife, and felt someone take it from her. White fingers caught her face and forced her to turn. Eyes like dollops of quicksilver stared into her own.

  ‘Poor little mouse. Caught fast in the trap. Would you like my
help, mouse?’ the daemon purred.

  Avara tried to find her voice. To curse. To shout. Anything. But the darklight was in her by then and through her and carrying her words away as it spilled out of her. The daemon stepped back as she fell, crumbling into black smoke and fading motes.

  Igori watched the archon crumble into nothing, devoured by the alien energies of her own weapon. As the last ashes of her opponent swirled up to join the rest whirling about the battlefield, she looked down at her wound. It was a black scar on her side, burnt flesh and blood boiled away to steam. She could feel its bite in her bones. ‘Too slow,’ she growled. She tried to rise, but her legs weren’t working.

  She laughed softly and slid down.

  Mayshana turned, letting the drukhari she held slump to the ground. ‘Grandmother,’ she said softly. She padded towards Igori, blood dappling her jaws and hands. She sheathed her blade and holstered her pistol. ‘You are hurt.’

  ‘Dying,’ Igori said. ‘Then, we have been here before.’

  Mayshana crouched beside her. ‘Yes. Only this time, the Benefactor cannot save you.’

  Igori gave a bloody grin. ‘Do not sound so pleased, child.’

  ‘I am not. Who will be Eldest now?’

  ‘Who do you think?’ Igori stroked her grandchild’s cheek. Mayshana caught her hand.

  ‘You should have let me take you back. I told him I would.’

  ‘Oh, child. He will forgive you. The others?’ Though her vision was blurring, she could see indistinct shapes gathering. Glaive, Spar and all the rest. Bloody-jawed, some hurt, all hungry.

  ‘You were the only casualty, grandmother.’

  ‘That is fitting.’ Igori lay back. She felt nothing – no pain, no fear. Just… tired. ‘Divide my heart evenly, children. And then find the Bene­factor.’ She tried to smile. ‘He needs you, more than he knows.’

  ‘He needs us all.’

  Igori’s eyes widened. Mayshana whirled, reaching for her knife. Melusine’s hooves clicked against the stones as she passed through the ranks of the Gland-hounds. She trailed her claws across their heads and chests, as if blessing them, and they twitched back, faces contorted with fear and revulsion – but also awe.

  ‘But you and I most of all,’ Melusine said, as she knelt before Igori. ‘He needs me, as I need you, for what is to come.’

  ‘Leave her,’ Mayshana growled.

  ‘No.’ Igori pushed herself up. ‘No. This is what must be.’ She looked at her granddaughter. ‘Go. Do as he has commanded. Lead our people, as I could not.’

  Mayshana hesitated, but only for a moment. She nodded, turned and was gone. One by one, the others followed until only Melusine and Igori remained.

  ‘I am dying,’ Igori said.

  ‘But you do not have to.’

  Melusine held out her hand.

  ‘Take my hand, sister. We have one last task.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sleep

  Belial IV burned. Fabius could smell it. He could hear the shrieks of daemons as they capered in the ruins of his ambition. The drukhari were gone. Most of them, at any rate. He wondered if Hexachires had escaped. Part of him hoped so, if only so the creature could live with its humiliation.

  He’d made it to the atrium before he’d collapsed. It seemed fitting to die amid such beauty. Perhaps the plants would eat him. Hopefully they would do so before the daemons found him. He lay against a pillar, unable to breathe, barely able to see. The wound in his side would not cease bleeding.

  ‘Father.’

  The voice echoed itself. Two voices mingling into one. He heard the clop of hooves and looked up.

  ‘Melusine?’ He shook his head. ‘No – Igori?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She is me, and I am her. We are your daughter, in flesh and bone and soul.’ And she was. It was as if two beings overlaid and intermingled with one another. One moment, the face was Igori’s, the next Melusine’s.

  He laughed. ‘And what should I call you then?’

  ‘Melusine will do, Father. Names have power.’

  ‘They will come for me soon,’ he whispered. It hurt to talk.

  ‘That is why I am here, Father. I will not let them have you.’ She knelt beside him. ‘It has all been leading here. Every moment, every story. All to reach this point.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is a game of gods, and you are one pawn among untold millions,’ Melusine said gently. ‘One god wants you here, another wants you there. All that has changed is your position on the board.’

  Fabius laughed weakly. ‘Which one wanted me enslaved, then?’

  ‘All of them.’ Melusine leaned close. ‘The question is not whether you are a slave, Father. The question is, what sort of slave will you be? Willing or unwilling? Faithful or treacherous?’

  ‘Why?’ he whispered again, caressing her hair. ‘Why a slave at all? Did you hate me so much?’

  Melusine kissed him on the brow. ‘No. Because I loved you. And because only as a slave will you live. All other roads led to the death.’

  ‘I am dying now, child.’

  ‘No. You are only going to sleep, Father. And when you awaken, all will be as you remember. And your work will begin anew.’

  ‘Do not make promises you cannot keep, Melusine.’ He coughed. His hearts stuttered and strained, fighting against the weight of inci­pient death. The chirurgeon squalled like a frustrated cat as it injected various tinctures and solutions into his flagging system. Volts of electricity cut through him, as one of his hearts shut down and his armour automatically attempted to restart it.

  Everything was going red at the edges. Soon, it would go black. This time, there would be nothing beyond that. No slow tumble through the ghosts of his past, no wandering the corridors of his own soul, as he waited for his mind to acclimate to a new body.

  This time, it would be the end. The true ending. He welcomed it.

  Do you, now?

  Fabius stiffened. Soft trills of laughter slithered out of the smoke. Dark forms followed it. Melusine rose. Fabius tried to speak, but he couldn’t find the strength. He was a prisoner in his own crumbling body.

  We have fulfilled our part of the bargain, sweet Fabius.

  Now it is time for you to fulfil yours.

  Oleander crawled through the remnants of the strategium chamber, trailing his useless legs behind him. He’d managed to tear the control-helm from his head, at the cost of most of his face and scalp, but it was worth it just to breathe unencumbered.

  He heard a clatter of bells and looked up. Veilwalker looked down at him.

  ‘You have made it to the end. Congratulations.’

  Oleander rolled onto his back. The nerves in his spinal column were reknitting, but slowly. Too slowly to do him any good. He dragged himself into a sitting position. ‘I presume you’re here to kill me.’

  ‘If you wish.’

  He gasped as something inside him shifted. He leaned back, trying to ignore the sensations that crept through his ravaged body. ‘I think so,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘I think I am tired of your stories.’

  Veilwalker leapt down lightly and walked towards him. ‘Some might say that is more mercy than you deserve.’

  ‘Are you one of them?’

  Veilwalker cocked her head. ‘Sometimes. The story is never one thing or another.’ She sank into a crouch and watched as he convulsed. ‘The endings are uncertain until the last page is turned. Or perhaps not. Maybe we overestimate our cleverness, and our stories are but trite rotations of a well-worn wheel.’

  Oleander groaned. He coughed up something wet and yellow and felt his hearts spasm. He wondered where Melusine was – and where Fabius was. He hoped they’d escaped.

  ‘Or maybe there is no story, no grand plot, and this is all but farce for the amusement of the Laughing God, in his f
inal days,’ Veilwalker continued. ‘Maybe the strings we pull are attached only to ourselves and we have convinced each other that there is some meaning to our madness. It is impossible to say because the final page is yet to be turned. The final stanza yet to be sung. The final curtain yet to fall.’

  ‘That’s… that’s a very l-long winded way of saying you’re as in the dark as the rest of us,’ Oleander said, as he lay back.

  ‘Yes. Then, maybe I have already seen the end. And all of this is simply to ensure that it happens in a timely fashion – or doesn’t happen at all.’

  ‘S-stories,’ Oleander muttered and laughed. ‘Bloody stories.’

  ‘In the end, stories are all we have. Those we tell ourselves and those we tell others.’ Veilwalker raised her staff. ‘Goodbye, Oleander.’ She swept the weighted end of her staff down towards his skull.

  He caught it before it struck, holding it at bay with all the strength that remained to him. ‘W-why?’ he asked, forcing the words out. ‘W-why all of th-this? Just tell me that. Why him? Why me?’

  ‘Because we all have our part to play in the Great Jest. Some sooner than others.’ Gently, she pulled her staff from his weakening grip and raised it anew. ‘Sleep now, Count Sunflame. Your tale has reached its end.’

  Oleander never felt the blow that followed. But he carried Veilwalker’s final words down into the darkness with him, and wondered at them.

  ‘His tale, however, is only beginning.’

  Saqqara walked through fire and dust, his gauntlets stained with blood. The souls of slain drukhari followed him like whipped dogs, chivvied along by his most loyal daemons. The souls were weak things, ragged and empty. Barely more than a mouthful for the bestial, simplistic Neverborn who loped and gambolled about him. They were his now, bound to him by magics older than their civilisation. He was somewhat surprised that it had worked. Then, there was not much difference between a drukhari soul and a daemon. At least, the lesser sorts of daemon.