Around him, Belial IV burned. The ruins were full of bodies. The daemons he’d summoned ran riot, slaughtering any living thing left, save those already pledged body and soul to the Prince of Pleasures. And not even they were entirely safe. He heard the howl of beastkin, and the rattle of boltguns. The whisper-crack of splinter rifles and the crackle of duelling vox frequencies. Contrary to popular opinion, the aftermath of a battle was not silent. Overhead, gunships rose on wings of flame and smoke, pursued by flocks of shriekers. Soon, there would be no one left.
Saqqara inhaled deeply, tasting the scent of victory. For this was victory. The gods had triumphed, as they inevitably did. All else was unimportant.
A sudden blossom of pain in his skull stopped him. His daemons whined in agitation as he cradled his head. The pain swelled, driving out all thought. He sank to one knee, and tasted blood. The pain spread, stretching its roots down deep into his organs, as if to squeeze them into pulp. He coughed acid, and the blood-taste became acrid and metallic. A pressure built behind his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. He pounded a fist against the ground, fighting against the agony even as it redoubled its assault.
Then, all at once, it was done.
Panting, he stood. He blinked blood from his eyes and looked at his hands. He began to laugh. He had done it. He had not been certain, despite his claims to the contrary. He raised his fists to the sky.
‘Free,’ he whispered. Then, roaring, ‘Free!’ He slammed a fist into his chest and bellowed an ululation to the uncaring sky. ‘He is dead and I am free! Free! Free!’
Saqqara.
The voice cut through him like an athame. His daemons heard it as well, and began to howl. He silenced them with a gesture. ‘I hear you, my lady,’ he said. ‘He is dead. I felt it.’
Yes. Come.
‘Why? My task is done.’
Not yet. Come.
Saqqara looked up and saw that the setting suns had turned the sky the colour of old blood – the colour of his armour. ‘A sign?’ he murmured.
He did not question. Questioning was for those who doubted. Saqqara did not know doubt or fear. His faith led him unerringly along the paths the gods had prepared for him, and for this he had ever been thankful. Especially now, free at last of his burdens. Fabius Bile was dead, and Saqqara Ur-Damask Thresh lived.
Death is but a transition.
Her words leapt at him like arrows, and he batted their meaning aside. ‘I felt the device he implanted in me go off,’ he growled. ‘That means his mind has ceased to function. Whatever is left is not him.’
And yet… do you not wish to be certain?
‘Why should it matter to me now?’ Saqqara demanded.
Do you not wish to know who you are?
He paused. ‘What do you mean?’
Are you the one holding the knife… or the one on the stone?
After a moment’s hesitation, Saqqara sighed and turned. ‘I am coming, my lady.’
Decision made, he did not tarry. He ran as fast as he had ever run before, dragging his prisoners in his wake. His daemons ranged ahead of him, yelping and shrieking. They drove aside anything that sought to stand in his path, be it Neverborn or mortal.
Only when he finally clattered across the rusting gantry, into what had once been Arrian’s atrium, did he stop short. There was a familiar musk on the air – Neverborn. Many of them. He sank down, and silenced his daemons with a gesture. They huddled about him like nervous hounds. The things below were as far above them as they were above the cringing half-souls of the drukhari.
Daemonettes danced through the burning flowers, laughing as they garlanded one another with drukhari intestines. Serpentine beasts coiled about support columns, their gemstone eyes glinting in the firelight. The creatures filled the atrium, but kept their distance from the far end.
There, Melusine crouched over the body of Fabius Bile. From his position, Saqqara thought it looked as if the daemons had come to pay homage to the fallen Apothecary. Or perhaps to watch his final moments.
He paused. He felt the immaterium tremble, and knew that something greater than any daemonette was approaching. The other Neverborn fell silent and drew back as something massive ducked beneath the entrance to the atrium. It clutched the broken bodies of several drukhari in two of its four claws.
‘Hello, Fabius,’ it growled.
Saqqara hissed softly in recognition. Kanathara, Whose Hooves Shatter Mountains. One of the princes of the court, high in the esteem of N’Kari and Shalaxi, though not so beloved as those two. And it had its own grudge with Fabius, ever since their first encounter above Sublime. Had the gods sent it to collect on what they were owed? Or was it here merely to satisfy its own petty desires?
‘I told you I would be here,’ the daemon purred as it rose to its full height. Its silks rustled as it approached. ‘I told you I would walk through fire to see this moment.’ The ragged remnants it clutched were dropped. ‘Your enemies are gone, Fabius. And your children, too. As the gods promised.’ Its eyes flicked to Melusine. ‘All save one, at least. But she will not be here much longer, I suspect.’
‘Longer than you, Kanathara,’ Melusine said. At her words, the gathered Neverborn hissed and snapped their claws, as if to chastise her.
‘You forget yourself, little concubine,’ Kanathara said. ‘I am here at the Dark Prince’s request. And I am come to collect what he is owed.’ It pointed a gilded claw at Fabius. ‘I see it, crouched inside that decaying shell – a flicker of pallid soul-light. I have longed to claim it since I first caught its rancid scent. And you cannot stop me.’
It took a step forward. The sound was that of a bell, tolling doom. Melusine put herself between her father and Kanathara.
‘No. I cannot.’ She looked up and her eyes met Saqqara’s. He laughed softly, caught the rail of the gantry and swung himself over. He dropped to the floor, cracking the stones. Neverborn shrieked at this intrusion, and Kanathara turned, eyes narrowed.
‘You should not be here, diabolist,’ the daemon said.
‘I go where the gods require,’ Saqqara countered. He looked past the daemon. ‘And right now they require me to be here. To watch and record this moment.’
Kanathara laughed and turned. ‘You hear, Fabius? There will be a witness to your ending after all! This little priest, whom you enslaved for so long, shall go out into the wider universe and sing the song of your final moments, as he was ever intended to do. All will know the futility of denying the gods.’
Saqqara smiled. ‘I shall be honoured to do so. But first…’ He drew his blade and slashed it across the back of the daemon’s calf. Kanathara howled in shock and crashed down to one knee. It swept a claw out, but Saqqara ducked away. He bellowed a command, and his daemons flung themselves at the Keeper of Secrets.
Kanathara howled and cursed as the smaller daemons tore at it in a frenzy. He had only moments to act. It would not be off balance for long. He stripped its ichor from his blade and crouched, drawing a sigil on the floor. Kanathara must have sensed his intentions, for it flung aside his pets and lunged. But too late.
Saqqara stabbed his blade into the floor and said the words. Kanathara reared up and gave voice to a scream of fury and frustration. It gibbered and ranted in a language incomprehensible to mortal ears as thin cracks of light appeared on its form. Saqqara ignored it with an ease born of experience. He drew an empty flask from his armour and removed the cork.
‘No,’ Kanathara snarled. ‘No, you will not! I am a courtier of the Dark Prince! I–’
‘You are just another pawn on the board,’ Melusine said. ‘And only a little one at that.’ She met Saqqara’s gaze. ‘Do it.’
‘Gladly.’
He spoke the words and felt the world twist to his will. When it was done, he corked the flask and held it up. Then, with a sigh, he tossed it into the flowers. ‘Too dangerous to keep, I think. L
et him learn patience, as I have.’
‘Thank you,’ Melusine said. Her voice cracked.
‘Are you… weeping?’ he asked, in puzzlement.
‘No,’ Melusine said. ‘She is. I cannot.’ She looked up at him. ‘You returned.’
‘As you knew I would.’ He looked down at Fabius and his grip tightened on his blade. He wanted to drive it into the dead man’s hearts. Instead, very deliberately, he cleaned the ichor from it and sheathed it. ‘I will never be free of him, will I?’
‘No.’ She smiled, and he felt it like a blade in his hearts. ‘But what would you do with freedom, Bearer of the Word?’
Saqqara looked away. ‘What now, then?’
‘Now we lay him to rest, and prepare for what is to come.’
‘And what is to come?’ Saqqara asked, as he gathered Fabius’ limp bulk to his chest. The Chief Apothecary was lighter than he imagined. He flinched as the chirurgeon scrambled up his back, clicking urgently, but did not shake it off. It was keening, after a fashion. The heartbroken wail of a pet – or perhaps a child.
Melusine turned away.
‘Only the gods know.’
Epilogue
The King in the Grove
AFTER THE GREAT RIFT
Skalagrim Phar strode through the grove of wraithbone, hands empty.
His black armour gleamed in the witch-light that danced among the branches. The armour was mostly new – stripped plate by plate from the bodies of rivals. He’d had many challengers in the early days. Fewer now. The old wolf still had all his fangs. He reached down and caressed the chainaxe hanging from its reinforced loop on his belt. It all still felt strange to him, like a dream that refused to end.
The air tasted foul, and his scalp prickled within the ceramite shell of his helm. His auto-senses flexed and focused, confused by their surroundings, trying to make sense of the twisting confines of the wraithbone grove. It had grown since he’d last seen it, spilling out of the crater and spreading across the ruins of the city. Absorbing everything that fell in its path. The wraithbone pulsed with life, of sorts. Not the sort of life its creators had intended, but life all the same.
It came as no surprise that Fabius had retreated here, after the fall of Belial IV. The world was a cosmic speck in the daemon sea. It had long since been picked over by scavengers and even the seers of the craftworlds had likely forgotten its existence. Only gods and monsters knew of it, and these days, only the latter deigned to visit.
But there was no sign of any facilities, or bastions. No defence arrays, no orbital batteries. Not even a designated landing zone. He’d been forced to land his gunship atop one of the sturdier towers, where it now waited. He’d left his guards behind, with orders to depart if he didn’t return in a reasonable amount of time. They hadn’t required much convincing, despite his status as one of the few actual Apothecaries in the ranks of the Black Legion.
Even now, he was only tolerated at best. Abaddon might have lifted his exile, but that didn’t mean he’d been forgiven. He was still the Twice-Damned, despite the passing of centuries. Perhaps he always would be.
Skalagrim traced his fingers along the trunk of a tree, feeling the psychic tingle of the wraithbone through the ceramite. He wondered whether the energies pulsing through the psychoplastic substance had anything to do with why this world had seemingly been forgotten by everyone else.
He paused as the trill of a bird cut the silence. Except there were no birds here. No animals. No vermin.
‘I came alone,’ he growled. His helm’s vox cast the words before him like stones. He could feel someone or something watching him from the branches. Or perhaps through a sniper’s scope. Their numbers were impossible to gauge, but he doubted there were less than a dozen shadowing him. They’d been on his trail the moment he left the safety of the gunship. ‘I need to see him.’
‘But does he need to see you?’
The voice was familiar. Surprisingly so. Skalagrim straightened. His hand fell to his axe. ‘Is that you, Saqqara?’
‘Who else would it be? I am the last.’ A robed and hooded form stepped out from among the trees. Vials and flasks clinked beneath the rustling cloth, and the air seemed watery about the newcomer’s head and shoulders – as if something beyond Skalagrim’s perceptions crouched on his shoulders.
‘I’m surprised to see you still alive,’ Skalagrim said.
‘I could say the same. Why are you here?’
‘I wish to speak to him,’ Skalagrim said.
Saqqara drew back his hood. He’d stopped shaving his head, and a mane of pale hair spilled down and curled about his tattooed features. Some of his tattoos had been scraped away or redone by less sure hands. One of his eyes was milky white. The other, yellow and slitted, like that of some predatory felinoid.
‘Why?’ said the diabolist.
‘I have information.’
Saqqara studied him. ‘Is that the only reason you came?’
‘That’s my business, isn’t it?’
The air tensed. That was the only word Skalagrim could think to describe the sensation. Things moved just out of the corner of his eye – things without substance or shape, but nonetheless somehow possessed of palpable intent. He pulled his hand away from his axe.
‘I didn’t come to fight, Saqqara.’
‘No. Then, you never had the stomach for it, did you?’
‘Is that some sort of criticism for not dying with the rest of them?’
Saqqara frowned. ‘He gave you sanctuary, wolf. And you repaid him by fleeing.’
‘He sent me to Abaddon,’ Skalagrim protested.
‘But you never came back.’
‘Abaddon commanded otherwise.’ Skalagrim paused. ‘But I did come back, despite that. I came back with every warrior I could muster. But it was too late.’ He looked away. ‘Did they… did they die well, at least? The World Eater and the others.’
‘Some better than others. A few fled.’
‘But not you.’
‘The gods sent me to him for a reason.’ Saqqara turned. ‘Come. Let us see if he wishes to speak to you today.’
Skalagrim followed the Word Bearer into the trees. ‘I heard he was dead.’
‘When has that ever stopped him?’
Skalagrim grunted. ‘I also heard Sanguinius’ whelps put a price on his head. He seems to have offended them quite badly.’
‘A discontinued experiment,’ Saqqara said. ‘Though, apparently, some good did come of it. At least to hear him tell it.’
‘And I heard he’s been back to Commorragh. More than once.’
‘He likes to keep busy.’ Saqqara glanced at him. ‘You’ve been keeping an eye out, then. Feeling guilty, perhaps?’
‘Guilt is for mortals and weaklings.’
Saqqara smiled. ‘And you are neither, is that it?’
‘Speaking of mortals – where are they? I expected to see them by now.’
Saqqara turned away. ‘There are none here.’
‘All dead then?’
‘No.’
Skalagrim sneered. ‘Left him then, have they? Finally realised their precious Benefactor was just a selfish old monster did they?’ He laughed. ‘Good for them.’
His laughter echoed through the trees, long after it should have ceased. He couldn’t help but feel he was being mocked in some fashion. The New Men might be gone, but no doubt something else had taken their place.
‘He sent them away. The same way he sent you away, wolf. Unlike you, I suspect that they are grateful.’ Saqqara gestured. ‘Follow, or not, as it pleases you.’ He paused. ‘Though if you do not, I cannot promise you will make it back to your gunship.’
Skalagrim fell into step with the Word Bearer. ‘Was that a threat?’
‘I thought it was fairly obvious that it was. Has your time with Abaddon’s false L
egion dulled your wits that much?’
‘The Black Legion is one of the most powerful bodies in the Eye.’
‘So you all insist.’ Saqqara looked at him. ‘I am surprised that he spared your life.’
Skalagrim shrugged. ‘Apothecaries are rare on the ground these days. Especially ones who are old enough to remember the proper way to set up an apothecarium.’
‘Even so…’
‘Abaddon is nothing if not pragmatic. So long as I am useful, my sentence is commuted. A fair enough exchange.’
‘I suspect you got the better end of the deal.’
Skalagrim studied the Word Bearer. ‘You’re a bit more talkative than I recall.’
‘Times change.’
‘People don’t.’
Saqqara laughed. There was a brittle edge to the sound. ‘Perhaps you are correct.’
‘As amusing as this is, I came here with a purpose. Where is he?’
‘Close.’ Saqqara ducked beneath a crumbling archway. The wraithbone merged into walls of pearly white, stretching away to either side and down, into the roots of the grove. Skalagrim realised that the reason he’d seen no facilities was that the wraithbone itself had been shaped into a bunker.
‘I’d ask how he did this, but I’m not sure I want to know.’
Saqqara gave another brittle laugh and something high in the branches laughed with him. Skalagrim resisted the urge to draw his bolt pistol. The path wound down and around in a serpentine fashion, defying his armour’s auto-senses. His systems could not draw enough data from his surroundings to build any sort of trustworthy map, and he ceased the attempt. The grove and all that it contained were little more than solidified warp energy – only a madman would attempt to make sense of it.
Only a madman would make his home in it, come to that.
And Fabius was mad. Utterly and completely. His actions over the past centuries attested to that. Whatever the drukhari had done to him, it had removed all inhibition from him and loosed a roaring daemon upon the galaxy. He had burned worlds, enslaved populaces and devised such exquisite tortures for his enemies that even the courtesans of Slaanesh blanched to witness them. He had littered the Eye and its immediate surroundings with monsters both subtle and horrific. He had committed acts of such gross malignity that the Imperium had initiated multiple crusades to purge his works from afflicted sectors.
Manflayer - Josh Reynolds Page 40