…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; he 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 with 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?’ asked 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. Tol
bek 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 his 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…
…and the raven laughed, and the ground spiralled beneath him as he rose into the red sun…
Reality blinked back into place. Tolbek was charging, sword rising in a glowing crescent. At the chamber door, the two Harrowing guards had started forwards. Maroth gasped, shaking where he stood, and Ahriman could taste the fear fuming from him in black clouds. Ahriman reshaped his thoughts and the fire storm enveloped Tolbek. Tolbek was burning, his robes charring, his armour glowing with heat. Tolbek spoke a word and the flame sucked into his body like water draining into sand.
Gzrel was fast, despite his bulk. His claws reached for Ahriman, lightning coating their tips. Ahriman turned to look at Gzrel and the claws sparked across a wall of invisible force.
The Harrowing initiate on Gzrel’s right began to move, his thoughts a feral babble of instinct and rage. A part of Ahriman’s mind locked around the champion’s thoughts and squeezed. The champion began to spasm…
…‘Higher, higher,’ called the raven, and he could feel the heat of the red sun on his body as the ground vanished beneath him…
One of the Harrowing by the door fired. The bolt-round skimmed Tolbek’s shoulder and exploded. He did not stop moving. Ahriman heard the telepathic command flick from Tolbek’s mind, and saw the light in the eyes of the two Rubricae flicker. They turned towards the door and fired. The bolt shells glowed as they burrowed through the air and hit the Harrowing guard. Suddenly there was blood splattering the floor. The guard screamed, blue flames spreading across his body from his shattered chest. The Rubricae fired again and fire swallowed the second guard’s head. Ahriman could feel the hunger in the flames as they burned the guards to grey ash.
Gzrel’s claws raked across Ahriman’s kine-shield, each blow shaking the sorcerer’s focus. He turned and looked at Gzrel, seeing the pulsing blood flowing beneath armour and flesh. Warp-twisted molecules spun in the dark liquid. Ahriman broke their bonds with a thought. Gzrel began to shake, then to howl. He scrabbled at the air, claws trailing blue sparks. His face bloated, black blood boiling from his mouth. The vents in his armour coughed and vomited foul liquid. The flesh sloughed from his face, but his skull continued to scream as he fell.
Cottadaron finally reacted. The twisted sorcerer sent a forked tongue of black lightning from his hand which cut through Ahriman’s kine-shield with a detonation of unlight. Pain bored into him, running up his nerves and across his skin. For an instant his focus almost slipped. He had misjudged Cottadaron; he would not make that mistake twice. Just behind Cottadaron, the remaining Harrowing initiate was convulsing on the floor. Ahriman still held the warrior’s mind in his own, and he willed the other to rise. The effort made him shake and he felt a cry rising to his own lips. The champion came to his feet, swayed, and cut Cottadaron’s head from his shoulders. Ahriman ripped his mind out of the champion’s, and then the lifeless body was falling.
Tolbek took another pace closer, and all Ahriman could see was red, the red of death, the red of a
bloated sun…
…the sun filled the sky. The ground was a memory forgotten beneath his feet. The raven was a silhouette of shadows against the sun. ‘Look,’ said the raven…
Tolbek was three strides from Ahriman, footsteps scattering blood drops from the floor. The sword in his hand was blue with heat. Arcs of lightning crackled across his scorched armour.
Ahriman was dimly aware of Maroth, still alive, cowering behind the throne. He reached out with his own mind, felt the soothsayer’s psyche like a cracked sphere in his mind’s grip. He squeezed and somewhere he heard Maroth shriek.
Pain filled Ahriman, sudden and bright. It felt as if a door long shut in his soul were straining at its locks. Images of raven feathers and dying suns pressed into his mind, trying to pull him back. He shut them out. Raised his hands with palms open, waiting for Tolbek…
…the surface of the red sun cracked, and flowed, and he realised that the molten fire was a sea of faces, and that each one was screaming…
The sword shimmered as it cut down towards Ahriman’s head.
The telekinetic blow was unrefined and desperate, but it worked. Tolbek’s sword twitched to the side, and Ahriman felt Tolbek’s focus break. Ahriman moved forwards, his open hands clamping over Tolbek’s grip on the sword as he pivoted. Tolbek flipped through the air, and Ahriman caught the movement with his mind and slammed his brother into the floor. He stamped down on Tolbek’s chest and felt something crack. Tolbek’s sword was in his hand, its sigil-etched blade still crawling with fire. On the floor Tolbek tried to come to his feet. Ahriman hammered his mind into Tolbek’s, breaking wards and mental shields with raw power.
+Who sent you, brother? How did you find me?+ Tolbek’s mind slid out of his grasp. Ahriman could feel something forming in Tolbek’s mind, even as he bored deeper trying to find truth. He punched through walls of thoughts and cut through dream structures. He was angry, and the anger gave his power a vicious strength. Tolbek retreated, vanishing into the darkness of his unconscious, taking the truth with him. In the stopped-clock reality of the throne room, the chase was a space between heartbeats.
The Omnibus - John French Page 6