‘Zarils Yllithian, second sibling on the Oanisis branch, my archon. According to this you strangled him with your own hands and then cast his body into the void.’
‘Ah yes. I knew there was a reason he looked so promising.’
‘If I may make a suggestion, my archon?’
‘You may,’ Yllithian sighed. ‘Apparently I shan’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Nothing too pressing on my mind.’
‘Well quite. It strikes me that with the limited time we have available it may be best to set aside aesthetic concerns and concentrate on finding a… robust enough character to survive the transmigration of power. Physical appearance is, after all, mutable,’ Bellathonis smiled his disturbingly shark-like smile at this and cocked his head to show off his own sharply altered profile with its long, pointed chin and hooked nose. ‘No additional charge, of course.’
‘The face and the blood is everything, Bellathonis,’ Yllithian told him pedantically. ‘I would be a fool to trust my household’s future to the vagaries of your knives however talented you may claim them to be. This must be perfection itself.’
Asdrubael Vect, the supreme overlord, had called a convocation of the surviving archons. Any kabal that failed to send its leader to Corespur forthwith would be judged rebellious and destroyed on sight. Vect must be desperate if he was taking such steps, or so Nyos fervently hoped. Unfortunately attending the convocation in his current state would be worse than suicide and so for the sake of the noble house of Yllithian he must find a successor.
‘Well if the face must take precedence then the blood must suffer,’ Bellathonis continued smoothly. ‘That, too can always be rectified, of course.’
‘You make your points with the subtlety of a pit slave, Bellathonis, do you know that? I just find it hard to believe that among my vast, extended and frankly bloated bloodline not one of them is suitable to take my place.’
‘If I may say so, at the risk of exhibiting the subtlety of a pit slave once again, you may have been entirely too successful in securing your own position to leave any viable contenders for your replacement. More bluntly still – you already killed them all. Furthermore these are only the blood-kin in the fortress itself. So many are missing in the Dysjunction that the pool is distinctly shallow at present.’
‘Tell me again why you aren’t growing me a new body right now.’
‘Aside from the fantastically high chance it would be subject to possession at a time of Dysjunction, my archon? The other reason is that it could not possibly be ready in time. A third reason, if you desire it, is that it would have to be vat-grown and you have already made your feelings on that subject perfectly clear.’
Yllithian snarled something incomprehensible.
‘I’m sorry, my archon, could you repeat that?’
‘I said send for young Razicik then, currently seventy-third in line to absolutely nothing. His fortunes are about to change drastically.’
CHAPTER 9
THE HUNTERS
Morr and Motley descended through the banks of mist until it became a low overcast above their heads. In the valley before them the shrine of Arhra rose tier upon tier to where its conical spires vanished into the golden haze. Pillars and archways of obsidian clustered upon its faces in dizzying profusion, all enwrapped by trailing nets of parasitic vines and extravagantly flowering greenery. A heavy, humid atmosphere hung about the place creating thin tendrils of mist that flowed from the darkened entrances and down its cracked steps. Plinths dividing the steps at irregular intervals bore eroded statues; some of the carvings still recognisable as warriors and beasts while others formed bizarre and otherworldly shapes born of madness and decay.
The land surrounding the shrine gleamed with low-lying waters. The rearing shapes of mangroves bearded with hanging streamers of moss and lichen jutted out of the murk. Insects buzzed industriously and a few winged shapes wheeled high above. Beyond these few signs of life no other creatures were to be seen near the shrine. A pregnant sense of watchfulness pervaded it as if hidden eyes gazed upon the newcomers from its deeply shadowed recesses.
‘Here I was reborn,’ intoned Morr with reverence. ‘The child that escaped the prison of its birth learned the true path to destiny and honour in this place.’
Motley glanced at the incubus with frank surprise but did not speak. Morr’s words were clearly not intended for him and to respond to them might only drive the incubus back into his shell. It was remarkable enough that this living weapon had found a voice of its own if only for a moment. Morr hefted his blade and strode away, picking his way over mossy stones towards a causeway that led across the swamp. The path was treacherous in the extreme but Morr never so much as glanced downward. His gaze was locked on the distant spires of the shrine. Motley skipped after the incubus with his heart full of foreboding.
‘Morr… Does it strike you as unusual that this place does not appear to have been affected by the Dysjunction in any way?’
Morr seemed puzzled by the question. ‘Why should it be? There is no direct connection to Commorragh.’
‘True, but the effects of the Dysjunction are being propagated elsewhere throughout the webway, I would expect to see… to feel some evidence of its impact even here.’
‘Many are the shrines to Arhra, but it said that he gave up his mortality in this place, and that this shrine was forged from his flesh and bones. His spirit is certainly strong here, perhaps it is strong enough to protect the shrine.’
‘Perhaps that’s it… I, well I’m sure that you’re correct.’
Morr halted and swivelled to regard Motley balefully. ‘You sound as though you fear some lurking corruption. There is nothing to fear in this place for those who come to it untainted by weakness.’
‘Weakness in this case including concepts such as empathy, charity or mercy I would imagine,’ Motley replied somewhat tartly. Morr only grunted in response before turning back to continue his journey.
As he did so he stopped short. A figure now stood on the causeway ahead of them, waiting. It was clad in green-black armour and rested a double-handed klaive on the ground before it. After a moment Morr addressed the apparition cautiously.
‘Greetings, brother, I seek passage to the shrine. Have you come forth to greet us?’
The figure remained silent and made no movement, it may as well have been carven of green-black stone for all the signs of life it betrayed.
‘If you will not speak then stand aside and let us pass, or there will be a passage of arms between us that you may regret.’
By way of reply the figure swung its weapon to a guard position. Morr automatically reflected the movement by raising his own klaive in both hands and taking a step forward.
‘Are you sure you are entirely welcome in your old haunts, Morr?’ Motley asked impertinently from behind him. ‘This fellow seems to think you are not.’ A short, curved blade and a long, elegant pistol had appeared in the Harlequin’s hands as if by magic.
‘Stay out of this, little clown,’ Morr warned as he continued to advance on the silent sentinel.
A battle between two incubi is a formidable sight to behold. Both wear armour capable of warding off any but the strongest blows, yet they wield weapons capable of tearing through that self-same armour like paper. Against skilled but lesser armoured opponents an incubus must fight warily – constantly on the move, feinting and shifting to keep their comparatively slow, heavy klaive balanced and ready to unleash a killing strike. Against a horde of unskilled foes an incubus can concentrate on maintaining a steady rhythm, overpowering and overawing their enemies before they use their weight of numbers to advantage. In either case the incubus can rely also on fists, knees and feet to deal crippling damage, moves that against a fellow incubus would leave them as a pile of severed limbs in moments.
Between two incubi the contest becomes one more of speed, strength and endurance. They t
rade blows and counters faster than the eye can follow, each swing perfectly directed at a vulnerable spot, most often the wrists, head or neck. Each parry must be delivered with just enough power to deflect a descending klaive but not so much that the defender overextends and drops their guard to the inevitable counter swing. Maintaining the momentum of the moving blades while interweaving strikes and parries is key, the first fighter to slow or falter is apt to lose their head.
Morr and his opponent stood almost toe-to-toe, their klaives carving glittering arcs as they swept together, clashed and whirled away to attack again. Morr used his greater height to rain down blows like thunderbolts, causing his enemy to sway and finally take a step back to escape from beneath the storm. His foe responded by redoubling his attack and unleashed a rapid series of eviscerating strikes from left and right.
Morr was put on the defensive, his grip spaced widely on his klaive as he blocked one strike after another. Suddenly the towering incubus was staggered by an unexpected overhead swing that he barely managed to block with his upraised klaive. Morr fell back a pace and his opponent rushed forward to keep up the pressure, hammering at his guard without respite.
Morr’s klaive flicked out to snare his advancing foe’s weapon with its hooked tip as he tried to buy time to recover. Instantly both warriors spun their klaives to gain the necessary leverage to drag their opponent’s weapon out of their hands. Neither of them succeeded but Morr’s opponent momentarily lost control of his klaive as it was flung outward from his body. Morr’s recovery was quicker and he instantly slammed a blow into his enemy with his full weight behind it. His opponent blocked the strike just in time, but could not fully deflect it. The two warriors were left locked blade to crackling blade for instant before, with a mighty heave of his shoulders, Morr hurled his enemy back with brute strength alone.
The other incubus was thrown off his feet but reacted with cat-like quickness by rolling into a crouch. Morr’s klaive sang as it flashed down, being only partially deflected by a weak, cross-armed parry before its hooked tip gouged into his opponent’s thigh. Morr tugged the blade free in a shower of armour fragments and gore, leaving red ruin in its wake. His foe lurched up to make a desperate riposte that Morr caught easily on his klaive. He stripped the blade from his opponent’s grasp with a practiced twist, leaving the other incubus completely defenceless.
Morr swung again without hesitation, a horizontal cut at the neck with every ounce of his weight and every iota of his strength behind it. The other incubus had been raising his arms, perhaps in an effort to catch the swinging blade, or to ward off the blow or perhaps even to plead for mercy. It mattered not one jot. The monomolecular edge of the klaive flared with power as it crashed through both armoured wrists and neck without slowing. A handless, headless puppet sprayed crimson as it toppled to the causeway with its strings cut. The helmed head clattered down several yards away and rolled, splashing tiny carmine spirals in its wake.
Morr grunted with satisfaction and went to retrieve the helmet and severed hands. Motley blanched as Morr produced a spool of wire from his belt and threaded the grisly trophies together prior to hanging them from the skeletal rack that rose behind his shoulders for just such a purpose.
‘Is that really necessary?’ Motley protested. ‘Is it not enough to take a life in honest combat that you must play the ghoul afterwards?’
Morr stood and looked at Motley through glittering crystal lenses, his face unreadable behind his blank-faced helm. Motley regretted his outburst immediately. He had allowed himself to forget that Morr was a denizen of the dark city where grisly trophies are always at the height of fashion. Hearing the story of Morr’s maiden world origins had softened Motley’s already somewhat empathetic view of the incubus’s plight even further. He told himself to recall this moment if he found himself making the same slip again. To Motley’s surprise when Morr spoke it was without any trace of rancour.
‘If one brother opposes my approach to the shrine then there is a high chance there will be others that feel the same way,’ the incubus intoned. ‘The sight of their predecessor’s remains may give them pause.’
‘Surely the hierarchs won’t tolerate any such interference?’ Motley asked. ‘You’ve come here to seek their judgment, how can they accept such disregard for their authority as waylaying plaintiffs before they can even reach the judge?’
‘The right of one Incubus to challenge another is sacrosanct. It is a law beyond the authority of any hierarch to overturn. Thus it has always been.’
‘So you’re saying you may face a succession of challengers then?’ Motley snorted. ‘The path to the shrine will be littered with their corpses at this rate.’
‘It is more likely the remainder would attack as a group, and from positions of ambush,’ Morr said imperturbably, ‘there is no ordinance that the challenges must occur singly or openly.’
‘But why would they be so set against you seeking judgment?’
Morr was silent for a long moment before answering. ‘They believe, rightly, that my guilt is manifest and incontrovertible,’ Morr said, ‘I killed my liege lord and there is no denying the fact. For them that is the end of the matter. They believe that there is no possible mitigation for the actions I have taken and that I will dishonour the hierarchs by even bringing the case before them.’
‘So they want to stop you reaching the shrine before anyone’s feathers get ruffled or any awkward questions get asked?’ Motley asked incredulously. Morr nodded solemnly in response.
‘If they come at us again there will be no discrimination,’ the incubus said, ‘they will try to kill you as well as me. Turn back if you wish, you are not beholden to me to continue.’
Motley grinned wolfishly at the notion. ‘More fool them, I’m not just a pretty face, a fantastic wit and an inordinately good dancer, you know.’ He skipped energetically through the first few steps of a complex pavane to illustrate his conjecture. ‘So do I have your permission to get involved next time?’ Motley asked brightly. ‘Defend my honour and, coincidentally, my life and all that?’
Morr nodded again and turned to continue down the causeway without another word.
‘Of course there is one other possibility, Morr,’ Motley called after him. ‘They might think you’re the one that’s been corrupted – you know, got the story backwards. Happens all the time.’
Morr made no response. Motley hurried to catch up with the towering incubus before he vanished into the coiling mist.
The intimate secretary was furious. It was not an uncommon state of mind for him, although ordinarily it derived from less certain causes and felt empowering rather than emasculating as it did now. This was a truly impotent fury and it tasted bitter on the secretary’s serrated tongue. The master elect of nine had given him with the task of dealing with Bellathonis, before Asdrubael Vect learned of the role the renegade had played in triggering the Dysjunction. No doubt by doing so the master elect had fulfilled his own instructions from a deeper degree of the Black Descent – a patriarch noctis or perhaps even a Grand Reeve – to ‘do something’ about the renegade master before the coven suffered Vect’s wrath. It left the intimate secretary with little choice to obey and get it done right after Syiin’s prior failure to do so. Unfortunately the intimate secretary found himself quite unable to devise any suitably cunning schemes at present because he was fully engaged in staying alive.
The intimate secretary was concentrating on creeping through the spiralling labyrinth of the Black Descent. He was moving through the seven hundred and ninety-one motions necessary to travel from the sarcophagus chamber at the sixty-fourth interstice across to the twenty-ninth interstice where his own workshop-laboratories lay. Ordinarily this would have given him no cause for concern. The steps necessary to navigate the labyrinth were etched into his memory in symbols of indelible fire – but that was before the Dysjunction. The Dysjunction had riven the labyrinth just as badly as t
he city above. Traps had been triggered, hostile organisms had been released and whole sections were rumoured to have collapsed into the oubliettes below. The wracks that had returned from investigating had reported traps completely choked with fiends, ur-ghuls and a thousand other wretches that had broken loose from their cells.
Even so it was necessary to go through all the necessary motions to reach the interstice. Many of the labyrinth’s traps reset automatically, and some would work as efficiently as ever no matter what happened as they were inimical to life by their very nature. The intimate secretary fumed and ground his filed teeth together at the delay as he ducked beneath an invisible monofilament web that might, or might not, still be in place to slice through an unwary explorer at waist height. There were better, faster routes with few or no traps that could take him to his destination, but his degree of advancement in the coven was insufficient for him to know them. He moved six more paces and sidestepped to avoid a pressure plate connected to a trap alleged to be so heinous that he had never been informed of its function. He could not tell if the stupid thing had been triggered or not.
He had to improvise the next ten motions, hidden spigots overhead had cracked and deposited their loads of organic acid onto the plain basalt floor below. The black rock still bubbled and spat where the acid had touched it and was forming searing puddles that stank evilly. The intimate secretary climbed along the wall with spider-like agility to avoid the whole mess, stepping back onto the floor to perform the six hundred and eighteenth through to six hundred and thirty-first motions required to avoid a sequence of moving gravitic anomalies along the next stretch of corridor. Another sidestep to avoid a timed flame funnel and he was at the entrance to the twenty-ninth interstice. He cautiously stepped inside and surveyed the chamber.
To his relief he found two hulking grotesques were stationed guarding the entrance, blocking the entry as effectively as a pair of thick, fleshy doors. Their puny heads covered by their black iron helms seemed like afterthoughts amid thick ridges of bulging muscle and sharp bony growths. The hunched giants drooled as they recognised him, their thick, ropy spittle dangling down from their grilled masks like jellied worms. The intimate secretary cursed the brutes and drove them back with blows from his short rod of office in order to get past.
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