The name Fabius Bile had become synonymous with atrocity. Once, Skalagrim knew, such a thing might have amused him. Fabius had always thought himself above such things. But this was different. Even Abaddon was disturbed by some of it, though he had never said as much. Not that he would have, in Skalagrim’s hearing.
These days, the warmaster employed witches to haunt the Clonelord’s trail. Seers to see what he was up to and cognoscenti to determine the ramifications. So far, they spent most of their time arguing with one another.
Strangely, the warmaster had never asked Skalagrim his opinion on the matter.
Around him, the wraithbone took on a more rugose texture. Rougher, thicker. Sturdier, perhaps. The roots of the original seeding, now grown fat on whatever it was wraithbone fed on. Souls, perhaps. Even now, he wasn’t sure.
He could hear music – or rather something that was supposed to be music – and wondered if Ramos and his choir were still around. He considered asking Saqqara, but the question died on his lips as they came to an immense atrium-like chamber. Rays of light fell from unseen shafts somewhere far above, aiding the recessed lumens in illuminating the chamber. It was at once familiar and alien.
The chamber resembled Fabius’ laboratorium on Belial IV, albeit more expansive. The same battered nutrient tanks and sample canisters occupied specially carved niches. Equipment littered the floor and walls, or sat half-assembled on observation slabs. Rough sketches of organs and replacement limbs were tacked to the walls and hololithic images of sectioned bodies floated above the projectors scattered seemingly at random. Disarticulated body parts hung from the upper walls on butcher’s hooks, and blood collected in rusting troughs for later use. Organ jars had been stacked along the bottoms of the walls, and the arrhythmic thud of hundreds of hearts beat on the air.
There were mutants everywhere – debased creatures clad in rags that might once have been medicae scrubs, scuttling about on various errands or gnawing surreptitiously on castoff scraps. Some bore the signs of recent flesh-grafts or bone restructuring on their twisted bodies. Others had newly attached augmetic limbs, to compensate for some physical failing. The creatures looked up as one when the two Space Marines entered the chamber. Skalagrim realised that each mutant had a picter unit inserted into its skull, in place of one of its eyes. They murmured shrilly to one another and scuttled across the chamber.
There, at the far end of the chamber, amid a rough pentacle of observation slabs, stood Fabius Bile in all his glory. He was bent over one of the slabs, hard at work. Each of the slabs was occupied by a writhing mound of muscle and meat. Some new form of war-mutant, Skalagrim thought. At least until one of the creatures gave a moan as its flesh split, disgorging a thrashing horde of serpentine cilia, topped by miniscule, leering faces.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Saqqara murmured. ‘Entropy manifested.’ He stroked one of the cilia, eliciting a tinny purr. ‘Look there – see how they grow?’ He pointed to a muscular arm, where the flesh was twisting into daemonic faces that mouthed silent obscenities.
‘What is this?’ Skalagrim said, repulsed by the sight. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I am making monsters,’ Fabius said, without turning. ‘Isn’t that why the warmaster sent you, Skalagrim? He wants what I owe him – even if he didn’t fulfil his end of the bargain until it was too late to do me any good.’ He paused, and the hulk on the observation slab before him groaned piteously. ‘How is Ezekyle, by the way? Feeling the weight of all that glorious purpose yet?’
Skalagrim forced a laugh. ‘You might say that. He was never wound that tightly to begin with, and consorting with daemons isn’t conducive to sanity.’ He cut a glance at Saqqara. ‘Offence intended.’
‘None taken, even so,’ Saqqara said.
Fabius turned. There was a great quantity of blood and ichor staining his medical apron and gloves, as well as the blades of the chirurgeon. He held out his hands and a mutant scuttled forward, carrying a metal basin full of an astringent liquid. As he cleansed his hands, he gave Skalagrim an appraising stare. ‘I heard about Cadia. Finally cracked that nut, did he? And it only took how many centuries to do it?’
‘Some tasks take longer than others.’
‘And cost more in the doing.’ Fabius smiled. ‘I suppose he wants stronger soldiers to replace the ones he lost. Is that it?’
‘Among other things.’ Skalagrim looked around. ‘This place is modestly impressive – I expected something more like a hole in the ground.’
‘I find I need little in the way of space, these days. No students to teach. And the sort of work I am engaged in is all craftsmanship. No artistry to speak of.’
‘It is not for us to question the whims of the gods,’ Saqqara intoned piously.
Fabius glanced at him. ‘Say, rather, it is a waste of breath,’ he murmured.
‘No vatborn, though,’ Skalagrim said. ‘What happened to all the little beasts?’
Fabius said nothing. He turned to one of the other slabs. ‘Ezekyle will have to get into the queue with the rest of them. I have more patrons now than I can reasonably count.’
‘The fact that you are the only source of untainted gene-seed in the Eye might have something to do with it.’ Skalagrim looked down at the beast Fabius was examining. This one had more solidity to it than the other. It almost resembled a legionary, save for the gaping, razor-fanged maw where its face should be. ‘I thought you were planning something different for the gene-tithe. Something worthy, you said.’
‘Plans change,’ Fabius said. The beast thrashed in its restraints, snapping crustacean-like claws in berserk fury. One of the chirurgeon’s limbs darted down, injecting the beast with a sedative. It slumped with a shrill whine of protest. ‘What use is a Legion to me now, save as spare parts?’ He looked at Skalagrim. ‘I suppose Ezekyle wants some?’
‘I wouldn’t say no. It might improve the chances of the aspirants I’m given, at least.’
Fabius snorted. ‘And why would you want that? I say make it even harder. Why one in a hundred, when it can be one in a thousand – or one in a million? Why churn out chattel when you can have warriors of legend?’
‘Chattel has its uses,’ Skalagrim said.
Fabius shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
‘You seem different.’
‘I assure you, I am not.’
‘Maybe that’s why. What did the drukhari do to you, Fabius?’
Fabius turned back to his work. ‘I assume there are stories. The drukhari no doubt spread them far and wide.’
‘A few, yes. Most mention surgery of some sort.’
Fabius laughed. ‘Poetic justice, then.’
‘If you like.’ Skalagrim paused. ‘That’s not it, though, is it?’
Fabius looked at him. ‘Does it matter? The past is ashes, and the future unpredictable. Only the present is of any importance.’
‘There – that’s what I mean. You always thought about the future, before. You wouldn’t shut up about it. Every move you made, every gambit, was in service to the future you were supposedly designing. But of late…’
‘What?’
Skalagrim looked around. ‘Of late, it seems you no longer care about tomorrow. Or about anything you once professed to care about. What changed?’
Fabius was silent for long moments, as if considering how to reply. Then, he looked at Saqqara.
The Word Bearer bowed his head. ‘The gods will it so,’ he said.
Fabius gestured. ‘There’s your answer.’
‘Since when have you ever cared about gods?’
Fabius’ smile was a twisted, broken thing. ‘I suppose, since they began to take such an abiding interest in me.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you.’
‘Because it is not him.’
Skalagrim whirled, reaching for a weapon that was not there. The voice was like two people –
two women – speaking at once. There was a rawness to it, a feral burr that sent a warning pulse through him. A robed figure, face hidden beneath a hood, stepped out of the entryway of an offshoot chamber.
‘Come,’ it – she – said, gesturing.
‘I do not think that is wise,’ Fabius said.
‘He does.’
Fabius fell silent. Skalagrim looked at him, surprised by the ease with which he’d been cowed. The Fabius of old would never have given up so easily. Something was going on. He looked at the newcomer.
‘I know you, don’t I?’
She drew back her hood. Her features were familiar, but strangely dissimilar. Like two half-recalled memories blended together by a disordered psyche. ‘You knew one of us, yes. Not the other. And now you meet us both, for the first time.’
Saqqara bowed. ‘Lady Melusine. Is something amiss?’
Melusine. Skalagrim froze, just for an instant. He knew that name. Even now, it rang out through the courts of pleasure, and the worshippers of the Dark Prince sang hymns to her. Quieter hymns than most, almost gentle in comparison to those sung for Fulgrim or N’Kari. The daemon-daughter of Fabius Bile and the concubine of hell. The girl who had become a daemon and then flesh once more.
‘No. All is right, faithful Saqqara.’ Melusine looked at Skalagrim. ‘Come. Follow.’
Reluctantly, Skalagrim did. Fabius and Saqqara followed. The chamber beyond was smaller. Circular, like the other, but crowded by tendrils of wraithbone that spilled down the walls and across the floor. Banks of cogitators peeked from within this pale growth like wary animals. Temperature regulators pumped coolant into the air, and it crawled in a slow fog across the floor, eddying in the corners and pooling about Skalagrim’s feet.
Data-screens hung like a canopy overhead, showing varied scenes. Skalagrim recognised some of them – battlefields and burnt-out world-husks that had fallen into the Great Rift and been consumed. Others were unfamiliar to him – industrial forges and agri worlds, darkened chambers where mutants knelt in homage to some unseen presence, or on the bridge of some vessel. He could detect the soft whisper of numerous vox frequencies – a babble of many voices, all speaking at once.
Slowly, he realised that every root converged on the same point – a raised diagnostic bier, upon which sat a bio-casket, wreathed in coiling wraithbone. A thin, familiar figure sat beside it. Key turned hollow, wraithbone eyes towards him, and smiled in vapid welcome.
‘What is this?’ he asked softly.
Melusine stretched out a hand. ‘Look. See.’
Skalagrim did. Through the filthy casing of the casket, he could see the wasted, corpse-like features of its inhabitant. The very familiar features of the same man standing beside him. He looked at Fabius, and then back. ‘He finally did it…’ he trailed off. ‘Is he… Are you… dead?’
‘No. I am not.’ Fabius studied himself. ‘Or, should I say, we are not. I am not him. And yet he is me. My thoughts, my experiences… they are as dreams to him. And not just mine.’ He gestured to the data-screens. On each, a Fabius was now visible. On each, a Fabius crafted monsters, led raids, or sat in quiet contemplation.
‘That’s impossible,’ Skalagrim said flatly. ‘They can’t all be you – or him.’
‘They are all me, and we are him,’ Fabius said, smiling thinly.
‘But the weapons… the chirurgeon…’
‘Chirurgeons are plentiful and daemons are cheap,’ Fabius said, glancing at Saqqara. ‘The lesser variety, at any rate. Though it takes some effort to trap them and tame them, once broken they are quite placid.’ He held up Torment. ‘And one daemon-infused weapon is much like another, in my experience.’ He looked back at the screens. ‘There are only a few of us, of course. Less than a dozen active at any one time. His – our – mind couldn’t handle any more input than that. As it is, he – I – drifts in and out of lucidity, and we are forced to improvise.’
‘How long?’ Skalagrim growled.
‘Since Belial IV. He – we – died there, you see, and was interred here. He sleeps, and his consciousness guides us, so that we might guide his – our – creations.’ He looked at Skalagrim. ‘We are mirrors. Cunningly designed, but mirrors nonetheless.’
‘He can hear us? Perceive us?’
‘After a fashion.’ Fabius smiled. ‘Feel free to tell Ezekyle, if you like. I doubt it will matter to him, so long as he gets what he wants.’
Skalagrim felt as if he’d swallowed something bitter. ‘No. It won’t,’ he said slowly. ‘But he doesn’t want your mutants or monsters this time, Fabius. He wants your mind. There’s a problem he wishes you to turn your attentions to.’
Fabius raised an eyebrow. ‘Intriguing. Do continue.’
‘A new phase of the Long War has begun, and the old gods have returned to stride the stars. Guilliman has returned. And he has not come alone.’
Fabius paused. ‘How?’
‘Aeldari witchery.’ Skalagrim held up a dataslate. ‘I’ve compiled all the pertinent information here. At least, everything we know.’
Fabius took it and tossed it to Saqqara. ‘And how did you come to know this?’
‘First-hand accounts. Surviving witnesses. Spies.’ Skalagrim hesitated. ‘That isn’t the main problem, though.’
‘I should hope not. If anyone knows how to butcher a primarch, it’s Ezekyle.’
Skalagrim retrieved a small holo-projector from his belt and tapped the activation rune. A figure appeared, accompanied by reams of data. ‘They appeared suddenly. As if they’d been waiting for Guilliman’s call. They wear the heraldry of our milkblood cousins, but they are not like them. They call themselves Primaris Marines, if that means anything to you.’
‘Nothing of any importance. And why are you concerned?’
‘They are larger. Stronger. Faster. Even veterans of the Long War are hard-pressed to match them. They are better than us, Fabius. Better in every way that matters.’
‘As we were better than the Thunder Warriors,’ Fabius said. ‘Is it any surprise that there were yet more horrors waiting in the Corpse-Emperor’s laboratories?’
‘Aren’t you concerned?’
‘Why would I be?’ Fabius gestured, and the image spun slowly. He peered at the genetic data scrolling alongside it. ‘Is this information correct?’
‘I took those samples myself, off one of the few bodies we managed to recover.’
Fabius dismissed the image. ‘Ezekyle wants something to counter them, doesn’t he? How predictable. They make oversized warriors, we make oversized warriors.’ He shook his head. ‘A galaxy of children, squabbling over their toys.’
‘Opinions aside, can you do it?’
‘Of course I can. The question is – should I?’ Fabius gestured to the projection. ‘Why should this interest me?’ He paused suddenly, and turned to the diagnostic bier. A moment later, he sighed softly. ‘Oh. I see. Very well.’ He looked at Skalagrim. ‘Stand back.’
‘What? Why?’
The bier hissed as it vented waste-gas. Skalagrim hastily retreated as the wraithbone roots pulsed and quivered. Alert runes flashed on the nearby screens. Key stood and laid a thin, clawed hand on the surface of the casket, as if to soothe the being within.
‘Because he is awake,’ Melusine said. She turned towards Skalagrim and gave a smile that was somehow wider than her face. She stepped back as the bio-casket shuddered open, spewing toxic fumes into the air. Cyclers kicked on, drawing it up and away. Throughout the chamber, mutants abased themselves.
‘Pater Mutatis.’
They intoned the words with fatalistic reverence.
‘Pater Mutatis.’
Wraithbone crackled and slid free as it was expelled from the casket. Alarms chimed.
‘Pater Mutatis.’
In a geyser of nutrient smog, something as thin as a corpse rose from its crypt. Bl
oodshot eyes rolled in their sockets, fixing on Skalagrim with predatory interest. Without thinking, he took another step back. ‘Gods…’ he muttered.
‘Gods?’ the dead man croaked. ‘There are no gods here save me. You would be wise to remember that, Skalagrim. For I am not a merciful deity – or a kindly one.’ He held out a withered hand and Saqqara handed him the dataslate.
Fabius Bile smiled.
‘Now, let us see what has become of the galaxy in my absence, eh?’
About the Author
Josh Reynolds’ extensive Black Library back catalogue includes the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, and three Horus Heresy audio dramas featuring the Blackshields. His Warhammer 40,000 work includes the Space Marine Conquests novel Apocalypse, Lukas the Trickster and the Fabius Bile novels. He has written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Shadespire: The Mirrored City, Soul Wars, Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, the Hallowed Knights novels Plague Garden and Black Pyramid, and Nagash: The Undying King. He has written the Warhammer Horror novel Dark Harvest, and novella The Beast in the Trenches, featured in the portmanteau novel The Wicked and the Damned. He has recently penned the Necromunda novel Kal Jerico: Sinner’s Bounty. He lives and works in Sheffield.
An extract ‘Light of a Crystal Sun’
by Josh Reynolds
from the anthology Warriors and Warlords.
The dead alien screamed.
An impossibility, the observer felt. The dead could not scream. And yet, somehow, it did. A long, ululating cry, brittle and sharp. It rose from the crystalline shape held within the flickering confines of a specially designed sensor array, and was echoed eerily by the enslaved witches who huddled in a circle about the device. The sound scratched at the edges of the observer’s enhanced hearing, before spiralling upwards into inaudible ranges beyond comprehension.
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