by John French
‘You are the tech-priest, Carmenta. This was your ship, was it not?’ She did not reply. At her back her mechadendrites spasmed briefly, as if responding to a suddenly repressed impulse. ‘You should be careful,’ he said as he bent down to repack and seal the crate. ‘Gzrel does not like defiance that does not serve him. He likes his slaves broken and obedient.’
‘I see why you survived so long.’ He almost laughed, but instead shook his head and picked up his black beak-fronted helm. Most humans looked on Space Marines with awe and fear; she showed no such reaction. Amongst creatures like Gzrel and his Harrowing, any other response was dangerous. She would learn, or die before she did.
‘Do you know why my lord summons me?’ he asked as he walked to the open hatch.
‘Another ship has found us,’ she said. He almost stopped in surprise. If the ship had come from the warp then he should have felt the psychic bow wave as it ripped back into reality. Also there were no alarms, no shaking of the Titan Child as it fired its weapons. When ships met in these regions the outcome was always written in blood.
Carmenta filled the silence, as if sensing part of his questions. ‘It is a warship,’ she said.
Gzrel must be nervous, he thought. The Harrowing were still struggling to wake the Titan Child, even with its former mistress as a slave, and the Blood Crescent was a carrion thief rather than a warrior. Gzrel would not want to risk his prize in a fight he could not be sure of winning.
‘The ship has hailed us and requested that they send an emissary to speak with your lord,’ continued Carmenta.
‘They wish to treat with us?’
‘They say they are seeking something and are willing to give great rewards if aided.’ Ahriman felt suddenly chill, but could not say why.
‘He has called us to discuss whether to receive this emissary, then?’ he asked as he stepped through the hatch after Carmenta. She made a low sound that might have been a laugh.
‘No. Your lord has agreed. The emissary is already here.’
For a moment Ahriman thought he heard a chuckle fading in the gloom of his chamber before the hatch clanged shut.
III
Visitation
They were waiting for Ahriman. Gzrel had decided to meet the emissary in a high vaulted chamber in the Titan Child’s jutting bridge tower. Perhaps it had once been a forum or gathering hall, but the Harrowing had made it a throne room. Candles of human tallow burned at the foot of the walls, dribbling melted pools of fat across the black stone floor. The light they cast was spluttering, smoke-edged, and stank of cooking meat. The dead hung from the ceiling on hooks and rusted chains: dried corpses, their skin shrunk over screaming skulls; fresh heads still thick with clotted blood and flies; pale torsos, their limbs and heads severed by neat cuts. The symbol of a fang-lipped chalice covered the floor, hacked into the stone with heavy blows. At the far end of the chamber sat the throne. Raised on tiers of black iron, it had been the command seat of an Imperial warship but its systems had been stripped and its metal frame draped with tanned hides of a dozen species. Skulls of those same species lined the plinth it sat on, their yellowed domes spattered with script and arcane patterns.
Ahriman entered from a side door, and Gzrel flicked a bladed finger to indicate a place at the foot of the throne. The lord was nervous and tension hung in the air like the static before the arrival of a storm.
‘Come and stand with us, Horkos,’ Gzrel growled, and fumes coughed from his armour. The rest were already there. Xiatsis and Cottadaron stood one step below Gzrel, flanking the approach to their lord. Two champions also stood next to the throne, their chainblades resting point-down at their feet. Maroth stood beside Gzrel, one step down so that he could lean across the massive arm of the throne to whisper in his lord’s ear. Ahriman was the last and the least of Gzrel’s circle and so stood the furthest from the lord.
Gzrel nodded, satisfaction and impatience gliding over his features. All his vassals were in place, a blunt show of power and majesty to the unknown emissary.
‘Be aware of any trickery,’ growled Gzrel. ‘This emissary is a sorcerer.’
‘And he knew we were here,’ said Maroth. ‘That concerns me, my lord.’
‘Did they come for us, or is it a chance meeting?’ croaked Cottadaron.
‘We must learn the answers from this audience,’ said Gzrel, and raised a clawed hand to the two Harrowing that flanked the bronze doors.
Ahriman was suddenly aware of a presence beyond those doors, a presence that burned in the warp like a bound star. It had a shape and structure, an outline formed by disciplines that were as familiar to him as his own hands.
The guards were moving to the doors, their movements dream-slow to Ahriman’s eyes. He blinked…
…A raven rising from a plain of dust, red drops falling from its feathers, its wings swallowing the sunlight…
The doors were opening. He looked down at his hands, the vision still swimming through his mind. A sickly warmth was spreading through his body, prickling his skin, filling his mouth with the taste of nausea.
No, he thought, and the word was a desperate scream in his head. I am not that man. I failed. He wanted to run but he could not move. He looked up, as the high doors swung wide…
…The raven turned on the wind, looking at him with sapphire eyes…
A figure stepped through the door. He wore robes the white of dried bone, his armour deep red and silver-edged. Green eyes shone from a mask of bronze beneath a striped crest of crimson and white. A sword hung at his waist. Two figures followed the first. Their armour, too, was red and silver. Lapis and ivory spiralled over the casings of the boltguns held across their chests. They moved with machine-like precision, stopping a pace behind the emissary and becoming utterly still. Ahriman heard a low whispering, like words spoken just out of hearing.
Ahriman felt ice run across his skin. He knew the armour, the craft that had gone into its making, and the symbolism that had guided the maker’s hand. The emissary was a sorcerer of the Thousand Sons, and his two followers were not living warriors but Rubricae. Not alive, but denied death, they were ghost-driven shells. Seeing the blank stare of their helmet eyes Ahriman felt his world blink to blackness…
…The chamber vanished and for a heartbeat he saw again the raven flying in a burning sky. The raven’s cries laughed in his ears. ‘I am fate, Ahriman. I am the turning of stars, and the death of time…’
Ahriman stilled his breath, fighting to keep his mind clear. His gaze locked on the trio. Inside his mind he could feel the presence of the emissary gliding over the chamber, tasting each mind for intent and type. He forced his mind to ascend through levels of control and focus, cooling his surface thoughts to a meaningless static. He felt the emissary’s mind touch his, and almost cried out; it was seeing the face of a friend thought long dead.
Tolbek. The name sprang into his mind, and now as he looked again he recognised the subtle details of posture and stance. An adept of the Pyrae in the long-broken traditions of Prospero, Tolbek had been one of the first to join Ahriman’s cabal. Tolbek had played his part in the Rubric that destroyed their Legion and shared in their banishment. Ahriman had not seen him since.
He is alive. The thought rose in his mind with a rush of emotion. I am not alone. Inside his helm his mouth opened and words began to form on his tongue.
But why is he here? How is he here? The questions were suddenly sharp splinters in his thoughts, and his words died in his throat. He blinked and the image came again…
…An unkindness of ravens spiralling around him, their cries rising louder and louder…
Ahriman tried to remain still, as his mind screamed. He was breathing hard. The vision had slipped into his mind like a razor. He had not experienced anything like it since his exile. And it was not over. He could feel pressure building inside his head. He heard snatches of voices, and vague images smudged his sight.
‘I come with greetings.’ Tolbek’s voice was deep and resonant, filled w
ith authority, but Ahriman heard the edge of contempt in the tone. Gzrel must have heard it too, or noted the absence of title and obeisance. The lord of the Harrowing stirred, the blades of his claws clicking on the throne’s arms.
‘From whom do you come?’ asked Gzrel.
‘I speak for the Brotherhood of Dust,’ said Tolbek, and Ahriman glanced up to see Maroth whispering frantically in Gzrel’s ear.
‘A name I do not know,’ said Gzrel. Ahriman’s mind was racing, drawing together possibilities, memories and fears. He thought of the glowing eyes of Karoz, of the snatches of vision glimpsed in the taking of the Titan Child. He had spent lifetimes of mortal men hiding from what he had been, not knowing what became of his brothers. Now the past had found him and he could feel its threat as if it were a sword above his head.
Why not let it fall? Why not let fate end here? he thought.
Because you do not believe in that fate, Ahriman, said a voice in his mind, and he could not tell if it was his own.
‘If you can help us find what we seek then the rewards will be great,’ said Tolbek.
‘What could you reward me with?’ Gzrel gestured to his throne and attendants.
‘Things you could not grasp in your dreams,’ said Tolbek softly, and Ahriman could see the hunger in Gzrel at the words.
‘What is it that you seek?’ said Gzrel, and Ahriman felt the answer appear in his mind with complete certainty. It was not a trick of prophecy or a truth seized from the warp, but he knew, and the truth was a cold hand around his hearts.
‘We seek a sorcerer,’ said Tolbek.
Without considering why, Ahriman brought his mind to a point of complete focus. He felt calm, the old battle calm that he had not felt for a lifetime of exile. He felt the warp align with his thoughts. Long ago, in a time that seemed so far removed from the present as to seem a dream, he had learned the Spiral of the Corvidae. It was a discipline of future prediction, physical precision and mental control as much as it was of the blade. It was an art of killing.
Beside him Gzrel chuckled and gestured again at his attendants.
‘Of those I have enough, but they serve me alone.’
Ahriman drew the warp to him, subtly aligning thought in patterns he had believed forgotten. He felt doors he had sealed off in his mind open. It felt like the first breath after coming to the surface of a deep sea.
No, he thought. No, I will not. But he did not stop. Senses he had kept closed opened, denied powers and possibilities sprang into his mind. He felt the warp overlay his perceptions.
Stop now before it is too late. He heard the warning in his own voice.
‘We seek the sorcerer called Ahriman,’ said Tolbek. Ahriman felt his mind register his name. His senses were alive, seeing the small movements of Tolbek’s fingers on the pommel of his sword, hearing the dull roar of the warp around him like the pounding of ocean waves.
‘For what?’ asked Gzrel, a dangerous smile splitting his face. Ahriman’s eyes settled on Tolbek, seeing his physical form overlaid with his aetheric aura. Power, a lot of power, held back like water behind a dam. Tolbek remained silent for a heartbeat; Ahriman saw his aura flicker.
‘For the settling of fates and tallies of betrayal,’ said Tolbek. Gzrel nodded slowly, Maroth whispering in his ear. Ahriman could feel the minds of the others in the room: Gzrel bloated with hunger, Maroth a tangled mess of fear and pride, the other two Harrowing sorcerers murky lumps of exaggerated emotion and vestigial power. He noted each.
‘What can you tell us of him?’ It was Maroth that spoke, his rasping voice ringing hollow in the gloom-filled air. Tolbek fixed the soothsayer with an emerald stare.
‘I see that you have nothing I seek.’ Tolbek turned and took a step towards the door.
‘I have many sorcerers in my service,’ called Gzrel, and Ahriman could hear the desire and the angered pride in the lord’s voice. ‘Perhaps you would hear the rewards that your service would earn from me.’
‘Do not be foolish,’ said Tolbek, half turning to look at Gzrel. ‘I have searched across the stars and void. I have spoken with those who would grind you to nothing with a thought. You do not have what I need, and so I go.’
A lie, thought Ahriman. He could feel Tolbek’s mind unfolding into the ship, tasting minds, searching. He fought to make his mind a mirror, his thoughts blank.
…The flicker of black feathers, and a red sun rolling through a starless sky…
Gzrel was rising from his throne. Chainblades spun to life in the hands of the guards by the door. Ahriman felt a sudden surge in the warp, a ragged wind coiling around Maroth as the soothsayer muttered guttural phrases. A second later Xiatsis and Cottadaron were also the centre of growing spirals of invisible power. Tolbek was still and silent, but to Ahriman’s eyes he was a towering shape of diamond and spreading flame. The floor began to glow around Tolbek. The candles melted to pools of pale liquid. Ahriman could feel his hearts beat inside his chest. The vision pressed against his mind. An impression of a red sun and black wings flicked across his sight. He fought the image down. His head felt like it was about to explode.
‘Do not let your pride guide you down a path you could not return from,’ said Tolbek and his voice was the soft roar of an inferno. ‘Have your sorcerers look down those future tracks – if they can. They will tell you that this meeting has ended in your favour.’ Maroth’s enchantment vanished from his lips; he was shaking, and sweat beaded on his face. He was afraid; Ahriman could tell that without looking at him. Gzrel remained standing, his fingers flexing, but he said nothing. The firestorm around Tolbek faded from the warp. The floor cracked as the stone began to cool.
Ahriman kept his gaze steady on Tolbek. He held his mind in the poised focus of battle readiness. An image of Tolbek standing on the plains of the red planet flashed in front of his mind. He remembered Tolbek turning to him as the dust settled under the rising sun. In that remembered moment there had been fear in Tolbek’s eyes.
Tolbek paused, and then turned to look at Ahriman. The beaked front of Ahriman’s black helm hid his face, but he felt Tolbek’s gaze as if it were the barrel of a gun.
‘You,’ said Tolbek.
He knows, thought Ahriman, and felt a stab of hatred and suspicion bloom from Tolbek and then vanish as it was suppressed.
‘What is your name, crow helm?’ The question hung in the air. Gzrel was turning to look at Ahriman, words forming on his lips. Maroth was watching Tolbek, his hand moving towards his weapons. Above them the chains stirred and clinked. Ahriman could feel the warp become suddenly still and calm.
+Brother,+ sent Ahriman.
+It is truly you,+ replied Tolbek, and Ahriman felt the surprise in the sending.
+Why have you come?+
Ahriman felt Tolbek’s mind harden, his thoughts hiding behind walls of protection.
+You must come with me.+
+To what end?+
Tolbek did not reply. Ahriman could see a glimmer of the truth through the fortress of Tolbek’s mind. There was anger, and sorrow, and bitterness. The emotions blazed like multi-coloured lights and tasted like ashes.
+I will not go with you,+ he sent. +I am not what I was and I will never allow myself to be again.+
+That choice is not yours.+
‘I am sorry, brother,’ said Ahriman.
The flame leapt from Tolbek’s hand. Ahriman froze as shock washed through him in a cold wave. For a fraction of a heartbeat he could not believe the suddenness of Tolbek’s attack.
He is my brother, he thought, and felt the warp coiling around him, held taut, waiting for his will to give it form. It was like regaining feeling in a forgotten limb. There will be no way back after this, he thought, and felt paths of cause and effect skitter at the edge of his awareness: the old divinations of the Corvidae, so long sealed off, returning like insects drawn to light.
Ahriman was still as the fire reached for him.
He raised a hand.
Tolbek was moving, his blade in hi
s hand, its edge blinding bright.
The flame hit Ahriman’s palm and exploded outwards.
Ahriman’s mind was a still point at the centre of a storm. Beside him Xiatsis raised his hand, energy flowing to the gesture. Ahriman felt the threat and shifted the shape of his thoughts. Xiatsis came off the floor and split apart into armour fragments and tatters of flesh. One of the Harrowing initiates beside Gzrel had taken a step towards Ahriman, the teeth of his chainsword starting to spin. With a thought Ahriman flung the bloody cloud of bone splinters at the champion. A shard found an eyepiece and the champion went down, his chainsword shrieking to life in his dead man’s grip.
Tolbek had taken two paces towards Ahriman, fire still spraying from his hand. Ahriman’s mind reached across the warp, grasped the flame and pulled with his will. It felt like sinking his teeth into soft meat. Tolbek cried out in surprise and pain. The fire curled around Ahriman, spinning in a cyclone, turning faster and faster, roaring as it fed on the chamber’s air.
Ahriman wanted to laugh. He had refused this power for so long, had feared the doors it opened and the future it would draw him to, but now fate had found him and fear vanished. The sensation of battle and power surged through him in euphoric waves. He felt the aether respond to his mind, forming to his emotions and intellect. He could see the next few moments playing out in exact detail: the gasp of air from Maroth’s lips, Tolbek’s sword rising, the blood of the door guards bright on the floor. And through it all he could see his actions sliding through these moments like a razor slicing flesh. How could he have ever put this aside? The years of fear and doubt shrank in his mind as he soared above them on a god’s wings. The pressure in his head exploded and for a blink the chamber vanished…