The Path of Heaven

by Chris Wraight

  He was afraid. That ought to have been impossible, such emotions having been banished by his long years of gene conditioning and training – but this thing, this agony-causer, made him fearful. It took a long time before he could kick the last of Achelieux’s blasted corpse free of the burnished gold and prepare himself for what had to come next.

  All around him, warp light raced and shimmered, surging up the shaft and into nothingness. He could feel the dreadful weight of the anchor below, plunging into a wound in the living universe, and briefly wondered how such a thing could have been built at all. Had He been here? Had this been made by Him, during the long years of isolation, or during the war-torn confusion of the early Crusade?

  But these thoughts were distraction, desperate attempts to put off what had to be done. Achelieux had tried to open the Gate, and failed. The Novator had been mighty in the lore of the warp, but not a psyker in the true sense. The enormous, static blast wave that still stretched out into space, the crystal sphere around the station, all of it must have been caused when Achelieux had attempted to command the power of the throne.

  Only the nominated primarch has the strength to maintain an active link.

  A primarch. One of the Eighteen, each with his role, each with his purpose. Which one, then? A psyker-lord, surely. Magnus, perhaps? Or Lorgar? Maybe the Angel, or the seer Kurze? Or had this been abandoned, an experiment intended to be forgotten and only uncovered when the lines of communication were broken? The questions remained, clustering fast, all unanswerable.

  He was vacillating again. Whatever the truth, the throne’s intended recipient would never sit in place now, and in that at least Achelieux had been right. To even contemplate taking on the machine, attempting to use it, that felt like pride, or madness, or despair.

  And yet, what else remained? Yesugei could already sense the deaths in the void, hundreds of them, soon to be thousands. The Legion’s strength was being bled from it, far from where it needed to be, spilled out in a conflict that would do nothing to hinder the Warmaster’s advance.

  Yesugei edged closer to the throne. He slowly turned, feeling its malign heat run up his spine. He placed his hands on the two arm-rests, curling his fingers over the eagle-heads, gripping tight.

  Then he took his place.

  Until that moment, there had been no true pain, just what mortals called pain – the fleeting bodily damage that could either be healed, endured, or which resulted in death. This was different. This was an all-consuming, all-embracing hell of sensation, ripping out his soul and tearing it from his body, scouring what remained and flaying the last dregs of self into a howling, screaming ghost of memory.

  Yesugei’s head snapped back, locked against the metal just as Achelieux’s had been. He screamed, his lungs emptying, but the sound was drowned in his ears by the boom and rush of breaking thunder. His hands and feet clamped down tight, locked into place by the throne’s god-humbling power. For a moment, perhaps a long time, he thought it would kill him instantly. The fury of the warp, sucked up by the machine, augmented, altered and bent by its arcane innards, was thrust out through him, hurled up the shaft and out into the colossal maze of vanes and energy coils above. He felt his body burning, consumed like fuel. He felt his mind being flensed open, his soul dissipated. Nothing, nothing, had ever compared to the horror – the hurricane of agony, the bellowing maelstrom of infinite, abominable power.

  The throneroom around him disappeared, to be replaced by a boiling mass of broken colour.

  He saw a vast, flat plane run away from him, erupting like water, bisected by lightning and tormented by eruptions from within. Then he was soaring far above it, disembodied, dissipated, a mere spectre against the face of eternity.

  He saw lights within the Seethe, pinpoints of intensity amid a roiling mass of soul-fire, and saw that they were worlds, millions of them, flung across the immensity of creation. He saw glittering paths between those worlds, some massive and filled with brilliance, others faint smears that meandered into nothingness.

  His mortal body was still screaming. His flesh was still burning. His soul was being drained away, eaten up, dragged into oblivion by the hyperpower of the throne unlocked.

  He rose higher, and, through the agony, perceived patterns in the chaos. There was movement amid the light-channels – the passage of many souls, burning through the immaterium. He saw great armies marching, ranked like the cavalries of old, vast formations that had swelled beyond anything seen at Ullanor. They were all heading in the same way – towards the greatest point of light, set in the far galactic west, where all the glittering conduits met.

  Above that world shone a mighty beacon, piercing and vivid, though faltering as the tempest swarmed in on it. The armies drew closer with every pulse of the galaxy’s heart, strangling it, riding the riptide of the warp towards the setting of the siege.

  There was a second throne on that world, like the one he sat on, though far greater, immensely more powerful, older, fouler, set deeper into the fabric of both reality and unreality. That throne, the Throne, was thrust into the heart of the aether, its roots going down and down, branching into the foundations under the shimmering veil of light.

  There are layers. There is stratum aetheris, the shallow ways. There is stratum profundis, the greater arteries, plunging deeper. There is stratum obscurus, the root of the terror.

  How does this help you? No living man can navigate the deep ways. Even he could not.

  Veil’s words came back to him in fragments, like an old dream. He could no longer envisage the man’s face. He could no longer envisage his own.

  You can see the Cartomancer’s light. You can follow it. Go deeper, and the aegis shatters. The lights go out. The Eye is blinded. The deeper in, the worse the poison.

  He perceived the truth. Both thrones had been made for the same reason – to plumb the deeper ways, to free the species from the nightmare of the shallow warp, to bridge a link across the hidden paths, ones that only xenos had known, and which the Emperor had found some way to access. Dark Glass was the lesser node, the one where the technology had been tested, anchored in the furthest recesses of the void while the Great Crusade scoured its widening path ever further from the home world. In the chaos that had erupted since, the portal had been left behind, lost but not forgotten, neither by its creators nor its opponents in the labyrinthine halls of the Paternova.

  The way had already been opened on Terra, uncontrolled and damaged. Yesugei could see it clearly, bleeding like a severed artery, its ragged edges swarming with the warp-made-flesh, yaksha in their millions. There ought to have been a soul on the Throne above it, guarding it, able to complete the link between worlds, but the seat was empty.

  To reach out to Terra – that was what Achelieux had tried to do, to open a path through the stratum profundis. No storms could block those ways, for they ran beyond the known, into the deeps of oblivion where only the ghosts of slain xenos gods sullenly lingered.

  Ilya had been right. There was a path, albeit an incomplete one.

  With all that remained of his self, knowing the peril, knowing the pain, Yesugei reached out into the throne, delving into its unholy complexity. He saw the energy banks within it burning like starlit nebulae. He felt its cold, mechanical spirit, pitiless and enduring, and knew it could be mastered, if only for a moment.

  His lips were gone, charred to ashes. His eyes were burned away, his fingers melted in their ceramite casing, but still the strength remained, just enough, just sufficient for what needed to be done.

  Sending his impending word of command, the throne exploded into golden light. Terrible energies unshackled, and the chamber about him broke apart, thrust open by the release of the primeval forces within. Columns of warp fire surged up the empty station shaft, smashing and gnawing through the many decks above and shattering the curved spars of black iron.

  Yesugei reached out. First, he
touched three minds, three living souls. That was for courtesy.

  Then, with the last word spoken from his physical mouth, he gave his final command.

  ‘Open.’

  Twenty-Three

  Arvida stood with the Legion’s Stormseers, readying them for the action to come. None of them doubted that the enemy would board if it could, and the taint of yaksha had already been sensed. There were nine shamans on the Swordstorm and a few others stationed on the capital ships, and all were preparing themselves for the trial ahead. The Chogorians slowly mouthed the ritual words of the plains, letting the elemental powers of weather-magic swell in their veins.

  Arvida retained his own rites. He rose up through the Enumerations, heedless now of the danger to his body. If the Change were fated to take him, then there was little loss, for he had seen all the outcomes of the war, thrown before him like the battered cards of his old master’s tarot. Jaghatai had been correct, after a fashion – all that remained was defiance, but what that choice would entail, beyond the faint hope of temporary survival, was still unclear to him.

  Out in the void, weight of numbers was beginning to tell. The abyss was aflame, punctured by the dying, falling corpses of mighty warships. The Swordstorm would be under assault imminently, just as soon as the enemy’s core battleships could fight their way into close quarters.

  Arvida was high in the Enumerations when the mind-voice first stirred. It startled him, for in that state he should have been inviolable.

  But then Targutai had always been more powerful than he let on.

  They will need a guide, brother,+ came a strained psychic voice, laced with agony but still recognisably his. +The way will be dark, and only you have the Sight.+

  Where are you?+ Arvida sent back, suddenly alarmed. In all that had happened, with all its speed and fury, he had not thought for a moment that Yesugei was in danger.

  Navigators will be no use.+

  The pain was heartbreaking, tangible even in Arvida’s mind.

  You will need to control the sickness just a little longer, I think.+

  Then the voice was gone, snatched away as if seized by a clenched fist.

  Arvida snapped out of his meditations. Far away, across the bridge, the mortal woman Ravallion was shrieking uncontrollably. A surge of fear welled up within him, as profound as it had been when he had seen Prospero darkened for the first time.

  He reached out desperately, trying to find Yesugei, to make contact, to save whatever was left – there was always a way.

  Then the viewports went white, blazing with cold fire.

  Ilya stood amongst the sagyar mazan. They were being issued with storm shields and power weapons by Swordstorm’s armoury crew, accepting the equipment with a kind of calm reverence. She had never doubted her choice, but this satisfied her – the forsaken had returned to the Legion, wishing only to fight for it, and now the moment had come.

  Torghun stood at their head. He had yet to don his helm and was staring out through the viewports at the void battle beyond. A kind of fierce yearning burned in his eyes – the desire to see that battle come to him, to give him the last fight he craved, one free of shame or uncertain loyalty.

  She was about to speak to him. She was about to tell him not to blame Shiban, who had been wounded deeply and might recover, given time, just as he had done.

  But she stopped before reaching him. She suddenly felt a pulse within her mind, deep in the core of her being. Yesugei was there, standing behind her. She whirled around, but saw nothing.

  I would have sheltered you, if I could,+ the voice said, and something within it gave away an almost unbearable agony, and it made her want to cry out loud. +You above all, for you were our soul.+

  Panic gripped her. ‘Where are you?’ she cried.

  Do not grieve. We were made to do this, szu. We were made to die.+

  Then the voice was gone. The withdrawal was like a savage kick to the body, hitting her hard and driving her back.

  ‘Not you!’ she screamed out, incoherently, twisting one way then the other, as if she could see him still, standing over her as he had done on Ullanor, invincible, smiling. ‘Not you! Anyone but you!’

  Torghun raced over to her, menials reached her and held her up, but the tears were already streaming down her face, hot and angry, and she lashed out with her fists as if at her enemies.

  Then the viewports went white, blazing with cold fire.

  The Khan stood alone as the battle closed in around them. Reports of ship losses ran down the interior of his helm, one after the other.

  He had fought to prevent this for so long. He had kept his sons alive against the fury of massed enemies, preserving the chance to reach the Throneworld. Now the end had come, the passage remained closed, and the failure wore at him.

  His brother was close now, rampaging through the burning ships to reach him. That, at least, was something to cling to. During all the years of evasions, he had nurtured the memory of the clash amid Magnus’ broken pyramids, and had always known that it would return to be concluded. They were soul-enemies now, bound together by fate, and it was impossible that they should not have their duel resumed before the end.

  Yesugei had foreseen it. He had told the Khan, long ago, of the dreams that had plagued him all the way from Chogoris to Prospero, of the great creature of darkness rising up to engulf them.

  But as soon as Jaghatai thought of the Stormseer, a chill ran through him. His mind switched from thoughts of the war. He turned from his throne towards the sensorium master.

  The command – locate Yesugei – died on his lips. With a synchronicity that could not have been random, the Stormseer’s mind-voice was suddenly there, though wracked by agony.

  In the beginning, I was Shinaz,+ Yesugei said, managing to convey some kind of broken humour amid the pain. +Remember that? You named me.+

  ‘Do not do it,’ the Khan murmured, his mind racing, guessing at last what had happened. The machinery, the under-Palace, the absence of his Father from the war – with sudden, terrible clarity, the pieces fell into order. ‘This is my command. Do not do it.’

  The deep ways are perilous, and yaksha will thrive in it. You are their protector.+

  The Khan was moving then, striding down from the command throne. The teleporters might be usable, even now. ‘Targutai, this will end you. Do not do it. Return to the ship.’

  Know that I would have followed you to the end, my lord. I would have stood beside you on Terra. When I am gone, do not let them forget. Do not let them become what is hateful.+

  ‘Come back...’

  You are their protector.+

  Then he was gone, wrenched out of existence.

  Jaghatai staggered, slipping to one knee. The world seemed to sway, knocked from its axis. He looked up, and the entire bridge was tilting, falling. Ilya was screaming, the Prosperine sorcerer was crying aloud, the warriors of the sagyar mazan were looking out to the void, ushering in the final battle. His Legion was dying, thrust at last into the forge-fire of war, out of space, out of time.

  He was gone. Hasik, Qin Xa, now Yesugei, the only link to the world he had forged when all that had existed was the plains and the sky and the thousand kingdoms between them.

  I still need you.

  The Khan cast his head back, his imperious reserve broken open. He clenched his fists to the heavens, and howled out his rage and his grief, and for a sparse moment there were no more sounds, no more thoughts – only the black thunder of a primarch’s mortal fury.

  Then the viewports went white, blazing with cold fire.

  Dark Glass imploded. The central reactor flared, sending a crimson jet thundering through the crackling upper chambers. Bursts of vivid witch-light pulsed down the warp anchor, spearing directly into the heart of the rift. When they impacted, the void itself ignited into brilliance.

  A sweep
ing wave tore outwards from the throne, devouring all in its lightning-crowned path. The crystal sphere was shattered from the inside, exploding in a hail of glittering glass shards. Their pent-up energies were suddenly released, fuelling the inferno further, ripping physical space apart, pulverising its ancient harmonies.

  A colossal boom echoed out across void that was no longer true vacuum, and the rush of a billion mortal shrieks surged into aural instantiation. Real space rippled and shredded, exposing the multi-hued madness that seethed beneath the weft of the galaxy.

  The base of the void station remained – a sphere of ink-black iron around the throne, spinning wildly like a pulsar, surrounded by a racing tempest of fire and aether-light. Plumes of silver shot out from its poles, lacerating the shreds of reality, flaying matter from its anchor.

  The shock wave smashed through the starships battling far above the void station, sweeping over them in a deluge of static. Lesser craft were tossed like boats in a hurricane, sent rotating wildly amid the roar of unlocked power. Even the greatest, the Gloriana-class beasts and the line battle-barges, were driven hard by the onslaught, their outer hulls scoured, their void shields harrowed.

  Unhindered, the wave swept onwards, picking up speed as it hurtled clear of the epicentre, propelled by what sounded like the massed choirs of species-screams. In its wake came swirls and billows of red-tinged smoke, punctuated by the half-perceived outlines of eyes or teeth or ravening claws.

  The remnants of Dark Glass disappeared, devoured by the maelstrom Yesugei had summoned. Real space was consumed around it, rendered down into the bottomless maw of the infinite. In its place was birthed a far greater warp rift, laced with golden fulguration, gaping obscenely. Arcs of aether-matter lashed and dragged across the face of it, and the fire at its edges thundered as if fed by oxygen rather than souls.

  The diameter of the newborn rift was far greater than the diameter of Achelieux’s first attempt. This was a funnel down into the warp that could encompass an entire battlefleet. Its walls were like that of a whirlpool, racing and concentric, flickering with spears of electric discharge. Its base remained far beyond view, but the horri­fic un-light – all shades and none, extending far beyond mortal senses – welled up out of it, cascading into the world of the living like bile hurled up from some gorged galactic throat.