The Path of Heaven

by Chris Wraight

  Then Von Kalda stood up again, returning the instruments to the salver next to him. ‘Monitor vital signs,’ he said to the nearest menial. ‘Do not let this one die.’ Then he looked over to Konenos, who had started to wander down into the chambers beyond. ‘A moment, brother. Be careful, if you please.’

  The apothecarion was crowded with gurneys, medicae slabs and claw-shaped operation cradles. The gleaming surfaces were thick with steel instruments, vials of gurgling nutrients, coils of translucent tubing. In the midst of that Konenos was like a giant let loose in a treasure cave, blundering past fragile tools with his every movement.

  ‘This is impressive,’ Konenos said, appreciatively. ‘You learned all this from Fabius?’

  Von Kalda caught up with him as he passed down a winding stair of white veined stone. Gurgled grunts of pain echoed up from deep spaces below, filtered through shafts that led down the pits the apothecarion. ‘Some of it,’ he said, defensively. ‘He is not the only fleshweaver in the Legion.’

  Konenos flashed him a rictus-like grin. Free of his helm, the orchestrator’s throat and face were a great tumescent mass of sound-chambers and emitters. His eyes gleamed, as pink as a rat’s, out from the cranial folds of glistening skin. ‘No, he is not. But you have been busy since we last spoke.’

  They descended slowly, stepping around the blood-cyclers and organ-columns. The war had placed many demands on the fleet’s apothecarions, and every space, every surface, was cluttered with the debris of body-augmentation.

  ‘It is good, truly, to see you here, brother,’ said Von Kalda, brushing past a line of glass tubes, each the size of a man. Some were empty, others were occupied by dark shapes, thrashing against the edges like fish on a line. ‘Yet you know, of course, that we are busy.’

  Konenos continued to look about him with a kind of enthusiast’s wonder. Glossy things hung from the roof on chains, twisting and buffeting under the glare of medical lumens. ‘And you know that our commander has the course-bearing he needs.’

  Von Kalda nodded. ‘He sent me word.’

  ‘And every ship he could signal is in the warp. A third of the Legion. Imagine that.’

  ‘And the Palatine Blade?’

  Konenos shot Von Kalda a weary look. ‘Eidolon remains taken with him.’ They entered a long, low room. Its walls were ellipses of iron, ribbed and studded with inward-facing spikes. The air became hotter, throbbing out from dull red mesh panels. ‘The commander is always taken with novelty. It will wear off.’

  Curls of steam rose up from filters in the floor, twisting like entrails. Strange noises echoed from up ahead, no longer the agony-echoes from human torment, but more like barks, or bestial rasps.

  ‘You know him best,’ said Von Kalda. ‘But it might be wise not to assume too much. Things are not what they were when the primarch was in command.’

  Konenos headed towards a circular door at the far wall, ringed with iron and inscribed with old variants of Chemosian runes. Just as he neared the release mechanism, Von Kalda reached out to pull him back. ‘Be wary, brother.’

  Konenos’ eyes never left the portal. ‘Why? What lies beyond?’

  Von Kalda moved towards the outer seal. ‘My realm,’ he said, flatly.

  Konenos looked up, then back, taking in the arcane architecture. ‘There is a direction of travel,’ he said, musingly. ‘A decision made. We will better ourselves. We will experience all there is to experience. We suffered for that decision, and others will suffer for it.’

  Von Kalda said nothing, but the foretaste of violence suddenly sparked in the narrow chamber, like fear-musk. His fingers moved a fraction closer to his holstered bolt pistol.

  Konenos moved back towards the door. ‘I would have that direction of travel reinforced. I would not have any regrets, when the time comes for reckoning. You do not only twist flesh, my brother. You twist worlds. You tear the veil.’

  Von Kalda tensed, judging how quickly he could move. ‘I do nothing without–’

  ‘Hush.’ Konenos turned back, placed his finger against Von Kalda’s lips. ‘You and I are of the same mind. Truly. Show me what you have done.’

  Von Kalda hesitated. Even now, even after all the primarch had done to settle the issue, there were still risks, for ancient proscriptions died hard, and a Legion that had learned treachery could birth it within its own ranks easily enough.

  Then he moved his hand away from the pistol, and reached for the seal.

  ‘Tread carefully,’ he said. ‘Watch where you look.’

  He entered the pass-sequence, and steel bolts shot back. With a hiss of escaping air, the portal swung open.

  Beyond was a thick haze of lilac, heavy with complex scents. The muffled barking faded away, replaced by a low, lisping hiss. Von Kalda and Konenos went inside, and for a moment the gloom across the threshold baffled even their enhanced eyesight.

  When the haze cleared, it revealed a circular space marked by runes painted in red-brown all across the walls. A bronze-lined pit opened up before them, barred by thick armourglass just like the body-tubes up in the apothecarion. The base of the pit was full of corpses, piled a metre high, a heap of cracked bones protruding from hunks of raw meat.

  Above the corpse-pile squatted something that was almost impossible to see properly – a false reflection, a shaft of misdirected moonlight. Only when it moved did broken aspects flit across the visual field: a crown of thorns, whiteless eyes, a full-lipped mouth with a lashing tongue the length of a man’s arm. At times its flesh resembled that of a human woman, at others a man. As the two legionaries approached the glass, something lashed across the barrier at them, blurred with speed.

  ‘Ah, beautiful,’ said Konenos, nodding appreciatively. ‘Where did you get it?’

  Von Kalda hung back. There were still times when he doubted the wisdom of this work. ‘It is not ready. None of them are.’

  Konenos gave him a sly smile. ‘There are those, they tell me, who are not yet committed to enlightenment. They cling to older disciplines. They do not see the benefit of improvement.’ He edged closer to the protective glass and something like a crab’s claw snickered, click-clack, in the shadows. ‘Yet this is our future, these are our allies. That is why you did it, yes?’

  Von Kalda felt nauseous. He always did, when in the presence of the things he had summoned into captivity, their ephemeral presence kept anchored by the continual sacrifice of the living. ‘Cario’s favour is high.’

  Konenos swept around towards Von Kalda, catching his face between his gauntlets. He drew closer, and Von Kalda smelt the sweetness of his breath. ‘And, in that, you have your answer. The Palatine Blade is as damned as we – he hears the whispers just as we do. This thing may even hasten them, and I would enjoy that.’ He looked back at the writhing shadows, and his pink eyes shone. ‘Forget making more menials. This is your task now.’

  The thing behind the glass thrashed at him, whipping strands of something nearly-physical in a vicious down-stroke. Something, either the thick armourglass or the mystic signs daubed across the dark metal, held it back.

  ‘This order is from the Soul-Severed?’

  ‘You did not wait for that before.’ Konenos licked his cracked lips. ‘He will tire of his swordsman in time, but time is not something we have in infinite supply, so make these answer your call, and when we next take the ships into war I want them with us.’

  He released Von Kalda and moved back towards the armourglass. The creature within responded, and a pair of violet eyes, greater than a human’s, almond-shaped and cruel, flickered into life amid the shadows. Konenos watched it move, mesmerised.

  ‘They are contagious,’ he breathed. ‘It is time that we hastened the pace of infection.’

  Thirteen

  Before the man Veil was brought in, Yesugei took Arvida aside.

  ‘Are you in pain, brother?’ the Stormseer asked him, concer
n evident on his tattooed face.

  Arvida might have smiled. He was always in pain. The flesh-change bubbled away under the skin, though the discipline helped, as did the deep void. Every so often the hiss in his ears would abate and the terrible heat in his blood would ebb, but it was only ever temporary. Using his craft brought it right back to the surface, and using his craft was what he had been retained by the Legion for. Every time they asked him, the pain got worse.

  If this had been what had driven his Legion to dabble further than they should, if this had been what had brought the Wolves to Prospero, then perhaps he could begin to understand. Magnus had always been an indulgent father, and he would not have been able to bear suffering on that scale.

  To be slain for that crime, all of them, was a harsh judgement, but then the universe was a harsh place, and the Thousand Sons had flirted with destruction ever since their founding.

  ‘No more than usual,’ he replied.

  ‘We do not have to do this.’

  ‘You would not ask if it were not important. Who is he?’

  Yesugei gave a look that said I wish I knew. ‘We are not successful on Herevail. The man we retrieve is only link to the one we sought. He knew target, but he does not know location. However, they work together for years. There may be a way.’

  As the Stormseer spoke, Arvida’s heart sank. Yes, it might be done, but it would take its toll. Of all his arts, scrying potential futures from dimly imprinted pasts was the hardest, the one that involved the deepest immersion in the corrupting swirls of the Great Ocean.

  ‘You spoke to him yourself?’ he asked.

  Yesugei gave a rueful look. ‘I do my best. As far as I see, he speaks truth. He is proud, like them all.’

  That was their reputation, but Arvida had never associated much with Navigators. Vessels in the Thousand Sons fleet had often been guided by their sorcerers on short voyages, leading to friction between the sanctioned Nobilite agents and ship commanders. In no other Legion were the gifts so overlapping and intermingled, and thus the source of so much antagonism.

  ‘There will be a cost to this,’ Arvida warned. ‘You trust Ravallion’s instincts? She has not swayed many yet.’

  Yesugei spread his palms in an equivocal gesture. ‘What else we have? Our options narrow. If things were not as they are, I would not chase this name from a mortal woman’s past, but death now circles us like wolves around fire.’ He looked up at Arvida, and his golden eyes – still so strange – glinted in the soft light. ‘We have tried everything else. And yes, I trust her. I trust her since we first meet.’

  Arvida nodded, steeling himself inwardly. Yesugei liked to believe the best of those he mentored, but he was no fool. ‘Very well, though I give no promise of success.’

  Yesugei clapped him on the arm, pleased. ‘When can we ever? Come, he is waiting.’

  They passed from the antechamber, high up in the Swordstorm’s bridge level, along the corridors to the secure interrogation unit. As they went, menials hurried past them, bowing hastily before racing off to perform whatever duty they had been given. The entire flagship hummed with energy. Khans from long-sundered brotherhoods had returned and now stalked the crew levels, bringing tidings of long defeats or brief victories, seeking out comrades, taking soundings, testing the ground in advance of the great gathering before the primarch. On another occasion, some might have gawked briefly at the owner of the crimson battleplate in their midst, but none did now – all minds were on the choice that needed to be made.

  ‘They say you preserved Xa’s body,’ said Yesugei as they passed down through the decks.

  ‘What remained of it.’

  ‘That will not be forgotten.’ Yesugei shot him a grateful look. ‘The Khagan will not forget it, either. If you change your mind, ask for Legion colours, they be happily given.’

  Arvida winced inwardly. He had made his decision a long time ago, and now there was no going back on it. In any case, parts of his body had fused to the inner curve of his armour-plate, gradually pressing into the mechanisms of the ceramite units. He could no more escape its embrace than he could extract his own skeleton.

  ‘One day, maybe,’ was all he said. ‘Not today.’

  They reached the interrogation units, guarded by legionaries on either side of two heavy iron doors. Most cells were empty. Capture had become harder, and less useful, and it was difficult to restrain victorious khans from slaughtering every enemy they came across in retribution for earlier atrocities.

  Veil had been placed in one of the lighter, drier, less uncomfortable units. He had access to clean water, regular food, a modicum of privacy, but no one had pretended that he was not being kept secure. As the two Librarians – one shaman, one sorcerer – entered the cramped space, the man rose and bowed floridly.

  ‘See, another comes to try his luck,’ Veil observed, looking Arvida up and down. ‘But you are a curiosity – I heard that your kind were all destroyed.’

  ‘Not all,’ said Arvida. ‘Obviously.’

  Arvida sat on a metal bench opposite the mortal, and Yesugei did the same. Veil remained standing, though his eye level was now more or less on a par with theirs. He looked agitated, like a cat confined for too long in a wire cage.

  ‘So, what shall we talk of?’ he asked, his gaze jumping between the two of them. ‘More on the Heisen Vortices? The lore of the Seethe’s screaming? Tales of old Navigators who made it home to Terra, now rocking themselves to sleep in the eyeless halls of the Paternova?’

  Arvida watched all the man’s movements. Some of them were for show – the outrage of the noble falsely kept against his will. Some of them were real nerves, as if he did not trust the good faith of his captors.

  ‘There is not much you could teach me of the Ocean,’ Arvida said.

  ‘Oh no?’ Veil looked at him scornfully. ‘You spell-casters, you hex-makers. You were like children cupping their hands to the waves. You only waded in knee-deep, and it was enough to doom you. Trying swimming where the sunlight does not reach. Try staying alive where the leviathans hunt.’

  Yesugei said nothing, though Arvida could sense his presence beside him – observing, taking stock.

  Arvida leaned forwards, and Veil recoiled.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ Arvida asked.

  The Nobilite operative thrust his bony hands into long pockets in his robes, petulant as an infant. ‘Do not seek to compel me, witch. I am a–’

  Give me your hand,+ Arvida commanded.

  Veil complied before he had a chance to realise it, proffering both hands palm-up. Arvida took the right one, forcing the fingers apart. The flesh was calloused still, tinged grey by a lifetime amid books and star charts.

  Veil was at least astute enough not to struggle in the Librarian’s grip. He fixed Arvida with a look of pure loathing. ‘I am of the Navis Nobilite, high in the favour of the Houses Magisterial. Know that my rights are sacrosanct under ancient treaty and custom.’

  Arvida felt the panic running tight under the surface of those words. For all his bluster, this was just one more terrified soul cast adrift amid the war.

  ‘Fear not,’ said Arvida, aiming to relax him sufficiently for the future-cast to bind. ‘This will not cause you to suffer.’

  Tentatively, his opened his mind to the aether. It surged up within him, far too fast, swelling like a foaming flood, and he clamped down on it again. Veil’s outline became translucent, as did much of the cell around him. Only Yesugei remained firm, his own soul half shackled to the stuff of the underverse.

  Veil’s hand started to shake, but he held position. Arvida probed a little further, and his mind began to fill with ghost-images.

  He saw the reflection of shadowy halls, filled from floor to ceiling with leather spines, then a great dome containing armillary spheres and orreries, then men and women in dark velvet robes walking among whispering galleries. He
saw infants rocking gently in rows of iron cradles, all with swathes of fabric wrapped across their foreheads, their young eyes fixed on charts hung above them, picked out in silver on ebony, bewildering in complexity.

  Then the visions rushed into other, far-off worlds – ocean planets with orbital rings constructed of adamantium, floating telescopes circled with silver-prowed warships, vessels with vanes and sails and pulsing, underslung spheres. Amid those sights were intermingled glimpses of mortal-scale events – a ceremonial ball under lumens shaped like swans, thronged with elegant figures in damask and ermine, moving around one another like Platonic spheres. Ancient words were exchanged, of contract, of fealty, of alliance. Agents slid among the courtiers and magisters, their eyes darting, carrying messages of binding or breaking.

  These are your people,+ Arvida sent. +Now take me to Herevail.+

  It took a moment for the visions to align. Veil did not resist, but nor did he know how to comply. Eventually, the cell filled with landscapes of a burned-out planet, its spire-stumps throwing smoke into a sky made red from the residue of a thousand orbital lances. Arvida watched the cities imploding and thought how familiar the aftermath looked.

  Then they were racing backwards, to the time before the III Legion had arrived, to the bustle and chaos of a major hive-complex, stuffed full of human life and dirt and splendour. Arvida saw officials swarming across glass floors, their faces part hidden behind glittering augmetics. They were scribes, loremasters, scholiasts, all clad in the heavy furs and rich silks of Achelieux’s Magisterium. Only a few carried thick bandanas over their foreheads, edged with gold and draped with jewelled webs. They were the Oculi, the ones with sight into the Ocean, blessed mutants whose origins stretched back into the fractured horror before the coming of the Emperor and whose webs of influence now stretched into every corner of known space.

  One of them came to the fore – a young man with old eyes. He too wore the bandana across his forehead, stained with henna and encrusted with sapphires. He was slender, his skin olive. He floated in and out of focus, laughing, talking. He carried a long ebony staff tipped with a white stone.