‘Ah, here is my master flesh-sculptor now,’ Malixian trilled on catching sight of him. ‘Come forward, Bellathonis, and meet the noble Archon Yllithian!’
Aside from his chalk-white skin the master haemonculus Bellathonis appeared physically different to Syiin in almost every way. Where Syiin was permanently stooped Bellathonis stood rigidly upright. In place of Syiin’s moon-like face Bellathonis’s features were angular and sharp. Syiin’s loose hide robes were replaced with Bellathonis’s glossy black ribbed skinsuit. It was their eyes that marked their brotherhood: Bellathonis’s eyes were black and glittering orbs that had drunk in torments of unimaginable cruelty and malice.
Bellathonis approached and abased himself with a formality that seemed to please Archon Yllithian. Malixian appeared to be in what Bellathonis thought of as one of his gregarious moods. Energetic and excitable, he was constantly bobbing up and down on the anti-gravitic spikes he wore to keep him permanently raised a few inches above the floor.
‘Old Yllithian here felt his scourges were getting soft so he brought them to me to test against my own winged warriors!’ Malixian’s eyes glittered with amusement behind the raptor mask. ‘A useless flock they were too! Couldn’t win a single race!’
If Yllithian felt embarrassment at the performance of his minions he didn’t show it, he merely nodded in rueful agreement.
‘I fear the noble Malixian is correct, but he was generous enough to suggest that I might be able to engage your renowned services to rectify the matter, Master Bellathonis.’ Yllithian said smoothly. ‘He was extremely effusive about your skills when it comes to the reconfiguration of beings to enable flight.’
Bellathonis smiled ingratiatingly and bowed again. ‘Archon Malixian is too kind. In truth, what mean skills I have were only honed to usefulness by access to the incomparable resources here in the Aviaries.’
‘Indeed?’ Yllithian seemed intrigued by the thought. ‘So in the past you have honed other areas of your art with equal skill?’
Bellathonis looked to Malixian for approval before replying, acutely aware that he didn’t wish to appear as trying to be a more interesting or accomplished companion than the mad archon. Malixian twitched his head marginally to signal him to proceed.
‘I have had the great good fortune to study the arts of flesh beneath a variety of patrons,’ Bellathonis replied carefully. ‘Each had their own interests and I consider it simple courtesy to learn all I can to please them in the subject of their heart’s desire.’
‘Fascinating. My own haemonculi would do well to share your attitudes rather than frittering away their energies to inconsequentialities,’ Yllithian said with feeling. Bellathonis found it hard to believe that this hard-eyed archon of the White Flames could be so indulgent of any inconsequential activity.
‘Archon Malixian suggested that I might tour your workshops and discuss with you the alteration of the scourges under my control,’ Yllithian continued.
‘I would be most greatly honoured, Archon Yllithian,’ Bellathonis responded obediently, all the while wondering what it was that Nyos Yllithian really wanted to discuss.
Nyos allowed the haemonculus to lead him through his untidy little tower full of torture implements. The tall, thin creature apologised continuously for his lack of preparedness for the visit of his august personage, lashing its own servants, his wracks as they were properly termed, into a positive frenzy for their tardiness. Bellathonis demonstrated the alterations he was making to turn imprisoned slaves into the twisted monsters known as grotesques, the haemonculus’s long-fingered hands deftly wielding scalpel and flesh welder to sculpt their shuddering bodies. Nyos was shown whip-thin, skinless predators suitable for hunting and ursine-looking brutes being broken for the arena.
Members of the Ninth Raptrex who were undergoing the transformation into scourges were demonstrated to him in great detail. Their bodies were stretched on suspended frames as they painstakingly grew the bone, muscle and cartilage necessary for their new forms. Bellathonis launched into what sounded an erudite dissertation on the finer points of flight musculature but quickly subsided when Nyos showed little interest in the topic. Nyos was pleased to note that the haemonculus’s attitude shifted slightly at that, as if he had confirmed a suspicion.
Finally Bellathonis led Nyos into a central area filled with a variety of pain racks and examination tables and directed his attention upwards. Dozens of crystal-fronted sarcophagi were arrayed in concentric circles disappearing up into the gloom above their heads. A handful of the sarcophagi were occupied by the semi-cocooned figures of eldar, the yellow-white bones showing on some contrasting with the raw red meat evident on others. The latter, Bellathonis explained, were fallen warriors that were close to reaching the conclusion of their regenerative process while the former unfortunates were only beginning theirs. The haemonculus then lapsed into silence as if waiting, his piercing gaze directed squarely, and somewhat impertinently, at Nyos.
‘And so, most honoured guest, how is it that I may truly assist you?’ Bellathonis asked eventually.
Nyos smiled thinly. Now they came to the meat of it.
‘I was advised to seek you out in a matter my own haemonculi were unable resolve satisfactorily,’ he said. ‘Your reputation as a reanimator precedes you, it seems.’
‘How very flattering, might I enquire which of my brothers brought my unworthy self to the archon’s attention?’ Bellathonis replied, and there was steel in the words. It seemed that Bellathonis had little love for his brother haemonculi, or possibly archons.
‘We can discuss that later in concordance with my level of satisfaction in your highly lauded knowledge,’ Nyos countered to regain control of the discussion. ‘Now – tell me how the process is performed. I have been told it is complex and has many pitfalls – you cannot return one lost for more than a day, for example.’
There was a long pause before the master haemonculus replied.
‘At its most elemental level the process is simple,’ Bellathonis said emphatically, eyes shining with black intensity. ‘My brother haemonculi insist on mystifying the procedure but only two steps are required.’ Nyos could sense he was hearing an old argument being played out to a new audience. The master haemonculus raised a corpse-white hand with two fingers extended.
‘Firstly the body must be regrown. For this, the smallest fragment of the subject can be used – even ashes will suffice,’ Bellathonis said as one obscenely long, thin finger was lowered.
‘Secondly – the animating spirit must be recalled into the body and then nourished with sufficient pain and suffering of another.’ The second horrid digit lowered to join its twin.
‘If these two requirements are fulfilled it is my belief that any regeneration may be performed. Death cannot hold us with either weight of years or violence if we have but the will to survive!’ Bellathonis’s fist was gripped tightly by now. Nyos found himself nodding, old Syiin had put him on the right track after all – probably by accident in all honesty, but the right track nonetheless.
‘I was led to understand there were terrible risks involved, that overly ambitious attempts had triggered Dysjunctions in the past,’ Nyos said. Bellathonis’s sharp features curled in disgust.
‘Fear leads my brethren to create connections where none exist,’ the tall haemonculus replied dismissively. ‘The key to restoring the long-dead is a secret they all seek – after all, what greater power could a coven wield than life or death itself? Their future would be assured for all eternity. So each coven pursues its own ends and tries to foil the attempts of the others, not least through stories of dreadful failures and dire consequences. Pure hypocrisy.’
‘Fascinating. So if you were provided with the requisite means – a viable fragment and a sufficient source of suffering – you believe you could return one lost for hundreds or even thousands of years?’
Bellathonis paused before replying, we
ighing Nyos’s words carefully.
‘The resonance of dark energies required to return one so far behind the veil would be immense. The empathic connection to the source could be nothing less than perfect…’ the master haemonculus mused.
‘An individual of “pure heart” could make the connection,’ Nyos prompted. ‘Someone not to be found in Commorragh.’
Bellathonis looked at him sharply again, calculating.
‘You are surprisingly well informed, archon. You are correct in surmising that, to put it in crude terms, quality and not quantity is required for the undertaking. A single subject of the right characteristics would bring better chances of success than a pen full of slaves… Yes, a pure heart…’
‘You do not know where such an individual might be found?’ Nyos asked. ‘If not in the eternal city, then where?’
Bellathonis’s face was growing taut with excitement, his dark eyes glittering with the thrill of the hunt for new knowledge. Nyos was beginning to see why the other haemonculi shunned this individual. It appeared Bellathonis took entirely too much pleasure in the exchange of thoughts and ideas for their tastes.
‘Such questions have plagued the covens of the haemonculi for years without number, noble archon. Some have sought increasingly esoteric subjects, particularly among the human chattel, but thus far without success. Others have attempted to substitute quantity with notably disastrous outcomes. I have theorised for some time and to any that would listen that the lesser races lack a powerful enough connection to the Sea of Souls to serve such a purpose.’
‘It would appear that despite your obvious eminence your colleagues failed to see the wisdom of your words.’
Bellathonis’s eyes glittered darkly. ‘They had no taste for the conclusions I had drawn, no, merely carping criticisms of the impossibility of obtaining appropriate subjects.’
‘Oh? And what manner of subjects would these be?’
Bellathonis abruptly turned on his heel without a word and entered a doorway leading off the main chamber, leaving an astonished Archon Yllithian behind. The tall haemonculus returned a few seconds later bearing a huge, hide-bound tome that was fully half his height. Thumping it down on the notched surface of an examination table Bellathonis began to rapidly leaf through its man-skin pages. Obscene anatomical sketches, runic inscriptions and esoteric diagrams flicked past, the thin pages rustling unnaturally as if angry at their disturbance. Bellathonis paused at a certain page, reading intently with one long finger tracing the silvery runes.
‘Vlokarion believed…’ Bellathonis checked himself and began again, ‘Vlokarion was one of the greatest haemonculi ever to grace the dark city. His achievements have only been equalled by the great Urien Rakarth in recent centuries and they have never been surpassed. Vlokarion was fascinated by the muddy branches of our race that turned aside from the true way to mire themselves in primitivism and monasticism.’
Bellathonis swivelled the tome towards Nyos to point to elements of a complex diagram picked out in silvery ink on the pale skin of the pages as he continued.
‘See here the unbroken line of the ancients leading to their inheritors in Commorragh. See here the twin branching paths of the sterile eldar of the craftworlds and the simpleton followers of Isha, the Exodites.’ In truth Nyos could only vaguely follow the branches Bellathonis was pointing to: the lines intersected, parted, curved around one another and reconnected in a dizzying profusion.
‘Vlokarion believed that during the Fall the racial soul of the eldar was divided like colourless light striking a prism. The division led to each branch of our race embracing, or rather expressing, different parts of our nature to the exclusion of others.’
The broad, straight path leading from the ancients to Commorragh bore a version of the mark of Khaela Mensha Khaine, the dragon-rune denoting Fury. Bellathonis pointed out a prominent rune on the craftworld path, a variant of the sign of Asuryan – Discipline. Finally he pointed to a different rune on the Exodite path, this one showing the sign of Isha – Purity.
‘Vlokarion proved on many occasions that the quantity of dark energy that could be harvested from eldar subjects exceeded that of the slave races many times over,’ Bellathonis explained, ‘and the Exodites most of all. He speculated that with a pure enough specimen to work with he could resurrect the greatest legends of eldar history.’
Bellathonis heaved the tome shut before resting his hands meditatively on the embossed cover.
‘A pure heart could be found on a maiden world, among the Exodite clans. The Exodites bind their souls to what they call the world spirit of their home planet in order to escape She Who Thirsts, just as our deluded kin on the craftworlds hide their dead from Her by binding them into the very fabric of their vessel.’
Nyos’s lip curled in disgust at the concept. The eldar of the craftworlds chose to hide forever, clinging to their psychic gifts in sterile little facsimiles of the home worlds and never venturing forth. The regressive Exodites were no better than those of the craftworlds, living in the mud of a single world and calling that their whole universe. True eldar, the ones the milksop eldar of the craftworlds called the dark kin, chose to live forever and took what they needed from the slave races to survive.
‘You said that this individual could be found among the Exodite clans, not that any one of them would do. On a planet full of savages how could this singular pure heart be found?’
Bellathonis grinned in triumph, a dreadful and menacing shark-like smile. ‘You are most incisive. In the course of my studies I have discovered a caste that would be ideally suited for our purposes, ascetic warp-shapers that form a life-long spiritual bond with their home world. Once removed from that… embryonic environment I believe a member of this caste could be employed as a living conduit of dark energy.’
Nyos arched his brows thoughtfully. He’d spent a long lifetime keeping his position by being able to read what others sought to conceal. His finely tuned senses could detect the distinct taint of omission in the haemonculus’s words now.
‘If such individuals exist and you know of them why has none been secured before? It’s not as if the Exodites could prevent us from taking whatever we want from them. I fear you’re not being entirely forthright with me, Bellathonis.’
The master haemonculus paused and bowed his head. ‘Forgive me, noble archon, my enthusiasm perhaps runs ahead of me. The caste in question is seldom mentioned even in the oldest records, and to the best of my knowledge no member of it has been brought to the eternal city alive.’
The master haemonculus reached out to caress the embossed surface of the great tome on the table before him. ‘Some claim that their existence is entirely mythical,’ Bellathonis continued, ‘possibly even a concoction by Vlokarion to misguide his rivals. However, Vlokarion himself mentions that they seldom leave their shrines buried deep in the heart of their worlds, and that these places are normally completely inaccessible to outsiders.’
The haemonculus raised his head and locked his disquieting gaze on Nyos. ‘But if you could find such a worldsinger and bring them to me I feel confident that I could resurrect Eldanesh himself.’
‘I admire your hyperbole, Bellathonis, but the firstborn of our kind is not quite who I had in mind,’ Nyos said. ‘Make such preparations as are necessary and I will find a way to supply you with the means to make a dark miracle the like of which this city has never seen.’
Bellathonis bowed deeply ‘I am greatly honoured, archon, but beginning the preparations would be a great undertaking to make on faith alone. I sense that such activities would be best pursued outside the Aviaries of Malixian and beyond the sight of the tyrant’s agents or you would have been more forthright already. Are such costs and risks to be accepted entirely without compensation?’
Nyos was taken aback by the sudden twist of acquisitiveness, thinking that he had already snared Bellathonis through his own thirst for knowled
ge. ‘I would imagine the promise of participating in such great endeavours would be spur enough for one such as yourself, haemonculus,’ Nyos replied dangerously, before checking himself. Bellathonis would be key to the scheme ahead so placating him was best. Full accounts could be made for impudence later. Nyos smiled disarmingly ‘However, I am a generous patron and I do have a plaything in my possession that would handsomely recompense any marginal inconvenience that such activities might incur on your part.’
Bellathonis’s brows arched with obvious interest and Nyos knew that he had him.
When Yllithian’s barque returned to the fortress of the White Flames the hunch-backed haemonculus Syiin had emerged from his pits and was lurking at the docking port to dutifully give voice to his joy at his archon’s safe passage. He was left behind as Yllithian and his retinue swept into the palace, lingering to talk with the steersman and his crew, plying them with elixirs distilled in the pits below.
Syiin was particularly attentive to the steersman’s stories of their journey to the Grand Canal and the Aviaries of Malixian the Mad, congratulating him on his perspicacity in suggesting such a rewarding diversion to Yllithian. Syiin commiserated with the flightmaster at the losses to his scourges, and listened patiently to his distraught excuses as to why his winged charges had performed so poorly when put to the test. His broad, moon-like face smiled disarmingly as he pieced together his archon’s activities one by one and saw them for what they were.
Syiin’s mind clicked through the calculations like a wicked old abacus. Yllithian had gone virtually straight to Bellathonis. Despite all the archon’s smoke clouds and misdirection Syiin could see through them to what lay at their heart. He had gone to meet with Bellathonis and… what? That precise piece of data was missing and known only to Bellathonis and Yllithian, forcing Syiin to speculate in a most unsatisfactory fashion.
Path of the Dark Eldar Page 9