by William King
'I thought you had seen the future? I thought that was why you brought us here.'
'There are many futures, Janus Darke. Sometimes not one of them is bright.'
'They are down there,' said Shaha Gaathon, pointing into the mighty pit. The vortex of energy enshrouding them had dissipated in a perfumed cloud. Zarghan looked around and noticed that not all of his men were present. Nearly half had vanished. Had they simply been left behind or had something else happened to them? Daemons had been known to suck the energy from mortals to power their spells, after all. He shrugged. At this moment, he did not care.
Zarghan did not ask him how Shaha Gaathon knew what he sought was below. The daemon's voice was filled with utter certainty. 'They have opened the vault and found what they were looking for. Much good may it do them.'
The daemon prince's laughter was not a pleasant thing to hear. It echoed through Zarghan's bones and caused bright colours to flood across his field of vision. For a moment, all he could see was the outline of the thing that had once been Malarys. It looked ten years older. The skin was wrinkled, the hair bleached white. Baleful fires burned in his eye-sockets. The musky perfume of flesh that consumed itself was stronger than ever. The men at their back were restless. They wanted something to kill.
'What is it they are looking for?' Zarghan asked.
'A weapon. A sword created by fools who thought they could stave off the inevitable. They sought to use it to prevent the coming of our master. Fools. It was like using a needle to try and stave off the attack of a mastodon.'
'You have no fear of it then?'
Shaha Gaathon shook his head. 'Once I am in possession of what I seek I will have new flesh and the weapon too. Then I will give the eldar cause to weep.'
'All very well, but how do you propose to get us to the bottom of this pit?'
'With no great difficulty. Behold!'
The daemonhost stretched out his arms and a wind from nowhere sprang up. His long white hair flowed in the breeze. His eyes glowed bright as two burning coals. A huge perfumed cloud billowed out from the space between his arms. It formed a swirling vortex in the air before them and hovered in a way that could not remotely be described as natural. The perfume it emitted made Zarghan's senses sing. Behind him his men stirred. He looked around to see a few of them rush lemming-like to the lip of the pit. Crazed by the infernal scent they threw themselves out into space and sank into the cloud. Zarghan expected to hear their screams as they plummeted to their doom, but instead he heard only their joyous cries from within the cloud itself.
Overwhelmed by the daemon's magic, and in haste to experience the new pleasures the cloud promised, more and more men hurled themselves into space, vanishing within the swirling cloud until only Zarghan and Shaha Gaathon were left on the edge of the mighty drop. Zarghan was proud of his self-control. He had been very tempted to join his warriors, but he had resisted. A cynical smile quirked the lips of the daemon host, almost as if it could read his thoughts. Shaha Gaathon gestured politely, indicating that Zarghan should proceed.
The Chaos Marine was not lacking in courage but he wondered if this might not be some dreadful jest on the daemon's part. The daemon princes of Slaanesh were not known for their bizarre sense of humour. Perhaps once he had joined his men, Shaha Gaathon would release his spell and send them all to their deaths. Stranger things had happened in the past.
On the other hand, he could not see what the daemon had to gain from such behaviour, and he had to admit the ecstatic cries from within the cloud made the prospect of entering it very enticing. He shrugged and calmly stepped off the edge.
His stomach lurched momentarily as he anticipated falling to his doom. But somehow the scented billowing mist managed to partially support his weight and he felt himself sinking into it slowly, and as he did so a delicious languor stole over him, relaxing him utterly. Waves of pleasure pulsed through him. He cast a glance back just before his head sank beneath the top of the cloud and saw Shaha Gaathon stride forward to join them. Moments later there was a sense of motion. All around him bodies writhed as they dropped, their senses temporarily overcome by the spell of the violet cloud.
'Come and see this,' said Kham Bell. Janus strode out through the entrance of the tomb and looked up in the direction indicated by the sergeant's outstretched arm. He saw a strange cloud descending towards them. Small lightning flashes danced on its underside and with every flash it pulsed and swirled and changed colour, becoming first lilac, then lime green and then a shocking pink. The effect was ghastly. From within he could hear howls and screams as if a horde of lost souls was being tormented by daemons. A faint, strange scent filled the air and made his skin tingle. An odd tang filled his mouth. It reminded him of some sickeningly sweet lozenges he had once eaten as a child.
He barked orders to his men to come out of the crypt and open fire. They did not need to be told twice. A hail of bolter shells and las-rifle pulses rose to greet the descending cloud. For a moment, the screams intensified and yet there was still a hideous note of pleasure in them. It seemed that whatever combat drugs the Slaanesh worshippers gave their followers were extremely effective. Then from inside the cloud came the sound of chanting. An odd flesh-coloured glow suffused the cloud and the screaming sound died away, as if some barrier were cutting off the sound.
'It appears our foe has arrived,' said Auric from behind him. 'Let us greet him properly.'
The cloud came to rest atop the massive dais that was the mandala. From this angle it was impossible to get a good shot at the centre of it. Not that it mattered. Janus yelled at his sergeant, 'Heavy weapons! I want krak grenades into the cloud. Now!'
The roar of explosions told him his command had been answered. He hoped his men would make the most of this opportunity. Something told him it was the last advantage they were going to get. He raced forward, heading for one of the smaller daises around the edge of the Chamber of Faces, hoping to get to a position of vantage where he could observe the action.
By the time he got there, the cloud had begun to evaporate. As Janus watched, figures appeared to take shape out of the solid mist, slowly resolving themselves into a mass of mutants, men and abhumans. They had taken far fewer casualties than he would have expected, and Janus guessed that the glowing dome that surrounded them was the reason. It looked like a pinkish semi-translucent bubble whose surface rippled like a jelly every time a grenade connected. It rippled but it held. A potent spell was at work here, he knew, and it was most likely being cast by that white haired ancient in the middle of the enemy formation.
For some reason, the old man looked even more threatening than the hulking Chaos Marine in the bizarre multi-coloured armour beside him, although there was no sign of any daemon, for which Janus was profoundly thankful. It seemed that the farseer's visions might have been wrong after all.
'Auric, can you destroy that dome?' Janus shouted. 'It will give the heavy weapons a chance to work!'
The farseer gestured with the sword and a bolt of blazing energy brighter than the sun slashed out towards the dome. For a moment the dome quivered and began to fold inward, but only for a moment, and then it sprang back into shape. So much for the mighty weapon of the ancients, thought Janus. It looks like we are going to have to do this the hard way.
Already his mind had fallen back into its old patterns. He studied the enemy forces, calculating probabilities, trying to work out the best line of attack. The enemy were a motley assortment of drug-crazed lunatics, but they outnumbered his own men by nearly three to one. Just from their wild appearance he suspected that they would be no match for his own men when it came to exchanging disciplined volleys of fire. On the other hand, if things came hot and heavy and they had to fight hand-to-hand, the balance of power would shift enormously.
Those beastmen were enormous and the massive weapons they carried would doubtless smash through armour with ease. Some of the humanoid mutants looked deadly too. He could make out one huge man with tentacles instead of ar
ms. His limbs looked strong as a constricting serpent. He saw another muscled and horned like a bull. He could see another giant with two heads protruding from his burly chest, and a furred creature with three limbs each carrying a chainsword. The appearance of the mutants was enough to strike terror into even the bravest human warrior.
For all the ferocity of the mutants, it was the sorcerer and the Chaos Marine who worried him most. It looked like the wizened ancient was at least a match for the farseer in power. The Chaos Marine, despite his blotched armour and unkempt appearance, could prove to be a terrifying foe. In his time, Janus had fought alongside many an Imperial Space Marine and knew how tough they were. He expected the Emperor's Child to be, if anything, even tougher.
Then the sorcerer turned and stared in his direction, and a thrill of pure terror passed through Janus as he looked into its glowing eyes. He knew then that what he gazed on was not even remotely human. He sensed an intelligence alien, wicked and totally without mercy. When it spoke, he recognised the voice as belonging to the being that had talked to him during the ritual of the runestones. It was not quite as beautiful, but then you had to make allowances for the fact that it was speaking through an ancient human throat.
'Surrender the human Janus Darke and I will let you all live,' it said, almost conversationally. 'Oppose my will in this, even for an instant, and your lives and souls are forfeit.'
Janus was shocked. This was the last thing he had expected. He had thought it would all come down to a furious battle no matter how one-sided. He had not believed for an instant the Chaos worshippers would be prepared to negotiate. It was just not their way. A faint sweet, hypnotic smell of musk filled the air now and Janus glanced at his men to see what they would do.
Under the influence of that narcotic scent, facing that seemingly overwhelming force, listening to that pleasantly persuasive voice, it seemed utterly plausible that his men would hand him over. In fact, he thought, it might be for the best. Much senseless bloodshed could be avoided. Indeed, as a leader, it was his duty to spare as many of his men as he could from death. If giving himself up would achieve that aim, it seemed only noble and right that he should do so. Not only that, he could get closer to the source of that fascinating perfume.
He almost got to his feet. The urge to do so and raise his hands in the air was near overwhelming. Part of him knew that it would be wrong, suicidal in fact, but it did not make the course of action any less appealing. It was the scent, he knew, it carried some strange magic that overcame reason and made you do whatever its possessor desired. He had to force himself to stay low, to keep only his head above the level of the dais, to shield the rest of himself with the stairway. He bit the inside of his cheek, hoping that the pain would distract him from the overwhelming compulsion, but it only provided him with mild stimulation. If pain could be so entrancing under the influence of that intoxicating smell, part of him thought, what might pleasure be like?
He forced his hand to move, to place his rebreather over his mouth, but it made no difference. Either the perfume had already taken effect or quite possibly its magic was too subtle for any sort of chemical filter. He still felt the blind compulsion to obey. Once more it was all he could do to stay in place.
As if aware of the effect the scent was having, the sorcerer gestured and his followers began to rush down the stairs at the edge of the great mandala. Suddenly Auric shook his head and gestured. At once a great wind sprang up, roaring through the tunnels, sucking the perfume upwards and away in a whirlwind vortex of mystical origin. For a moment, Janus felt like weeping as the drugging effect of the perfume receded, then sanity took hold and he snapped off a shot at the enemy, shouting for his men to do the same.
A hail of fire swept across the dais. Krak grenades tore mutants limb from limb. The enemy, despite being in the open, responded with fire of their own. Bolter shells chipped the dais close to Janus's face, and he dropped down the stair and out of the direct line of fire.
The battle had well and truly begun.
TWENTY-THREE
DEATH IN THE VAULTS
Zarghan listened with glee to the roar of battle. It echoed through his bones and brought a delightful tinge of distortion to the music in his head. The intoxication caused by the perfumed cloud of Shaha Gaathon did nothing to reduce his happiness. He strode forward through the hail of bolter shells, looking for something to kill. A few dozen deaths, he knew, and his happiness would be complete.
'Over there,' said Shaha Gaathon, his beautiful melodious voice carrying easily above the thunder of weapons and the screams of the dying. 'There is Janus Darke. Do not kill him.'
Zarghan nodded. He might or he might not obey depending on how he felt in the next few minutes. He strode across the mandala, bellowing instructions to the abhumans to follow him, and snapped off a shot at the blurry mix of figures crouched in the entrance to what appeared to be a tomb. He howled with triumph as one of the figures fell. His shooting was as good as it always had been.
The colours of the faces on the walls changed from purple to gold as if in agreement. It was an interesting effect. The mandala appeared to pulse and swirl beneath him. Most people would have found it dizzying, but for Zarghan it simply added to the exhilaration of the moment. The howls and bellows of his mutant followers throbbed inside his brain. The colours flickered with every change of pitch and tone. Interesting, he thought, the narcotic quality of Shaha Gaathon's sorcery appears to have enhanced my perceptions of reality.
A bolter shell clanged off his armour. The force of the impact was enormous. A yellow wave of pain pulsed across his shoulder. His armour changed colour around the affected area in sympathy. Zarghan felt himself being spun around by the impact. He kept to his feet with an effort of will and the use of his perfect coordination, and stormed on, coming ever closer to where the humans waited. Unless he was much mistaken, there were some eldar with them.
Excellent. It had been a while since he had had any of them to play with.
Janus popped his head and shoulders over the edge of the dais and aimed an enfilading shot into the mass of Chaos worshippers racing towards the crypt's entrance. He saw one man scream and go down, and he fired again. The enemy was packed too closely to miss.
He watched their leader, appalled. The Chaos Marine was huge and seemed to know no fear. He staggered forward like a drunk man, ignoring the hail of death all around him. His bizarre multi-coloured armour changed colour at the spot it was hit, every time it was hit. On every impact the gargoyle heads set in the shoulder pads shrieked and screamed in a terrifying manner. He occasionally paused to raise his bolter and snap off a shot seemingly at random.
The bolter's muzzle changed colour every time he pulled the trigger. What was the point of that, Janus wondered?
Was there some dark sorcery involved? If so, it was incomprehensible to him.
It seemed obvious that the Chaos Marine and his followers were going to get to grips with his own men and the eldar though. There were just too many of them, and they kept on coming, despite their enormous casualties. Perhaps they were simply too drug crazed to care about the deaths of their comrades. Perhaps they felt no pain or fear. They came on in an irresistible wave, like crazed orks storming towards a barricade.
He glanced up and saw that more and more of them were shambling down from the great dais. Showing some hint of intelligence, they were circling the outskirts of the chamber, under the gazes of those crystal faces, in a pincer movement that would take them to the entrance of the crypt, all the while keeping them out of the line of fire. Janus was not sure whether they were doing so simply by instinct or whether there was some greater intelligence at work.
A flash of energy emerged from the mouth of the tomb and blasted the old man who now hovered over the dais, his hair streaming in the wind, his robes fluttering, his eyes glowing balefully. With a contemptuous gesture the Chaos sorcerer negated the blast and as he did so Janus noticed that his skin grew more wrinkled, his posture more stoope
d. With every use of power he appeared to be aging, consumed by some internal rot. At least, thought Janus, Auric was keeping him pinned down.
Or perhaps not. The old man gestured and a gap appeared in the air below him. Through it, bolts of energy emerged to touch the three nearest Chaos worshippers. The men screamed in ecstasy as their forms writhed and changed. Their skins split like cocoons from which a butterfly was emerging, and three eldritch figures stepped out. They looked like beautiful shaven headed women, but they had arms that ended in pincer claws. They clicked them like castanets in time to the beat of a music only they could hear. This was looking bad—those things looked like daemons of some sort. How many more such reinforcements was the aging sorcerer going to be able to summon? Doubtless enough to swamp the hard-pressed defenders.
Things went from bad to worse when the sorcerer gestured in his direction. The daemonettes nodded and bounded towards Janus. Great, he thought, just what I need, an attack from two sides, she-daemons from hell coming from the centre of the chamber, and the right hand pincer of the Chaos force circling the wall on the other side. No line of retreat visible. Surrender was not an option.
He prepared to defend himself to the death.
Zarghan bellowed with laughter as he cleaved down a human soldier. His chainsword blade passed right through the corpse and buried itself in the body of one of his own men. Served the fool right for getting in his way. The delicious shiver of impact, the vibration of blade on bone, made his gauntlets and vambraces flicker black-red-grey-lime-puce-lilac in eye-blurring succession. Ah, he thought, nothing like the sensations of battle for clearing the head and driving away ennui. This was what he lived for.
Ahead of him, he could see the farseer. He stood calmly in the midst of battle and sang spells aimed at Shaha Gaathon. Zarghan could almost see the words forming around his head; to his mixed senses they formed a dancing halo of runes that orbited the eldar before streaming off to attack their intended target. An impressive, indeed fascinating, pyrotechnic display he thought, pausing to watch for a second, his attention held rapt by the stream of colours and sounds and crossed sensations.