The Omnibus - John French

by Warhammer 40K

  I knew then that what I was seeing and hearing was not a dream. It was something else, a scrap of unfinished time resolving itself, a conversation that needed to play out for fate to be satisfied. The Dead Oracle’s words passed through me, cold, shivering with implication.

  ‘That is it? He is arming himself against… against what?’

  ‘Against everything that could try to stop him.’

  ‘And he makes me a weapon for that war.’

  ‘He neither adds nor takes away from your nature. You are as you are.’

  Menkaura began to fade as he spoke.

  ‘There should be payment.’ I called after him. ‘Those are the bindings on you, brother – an oracle’s words must be bought.’

  He shook his head as his features sunk into the blackness.

  ‘The payment has already been given,’ he said, and was gone, as though he had never been.

  I stared at the void.

  Then I found myself looking into the face of Ahriman. There was no blink, no transition, just the brightness of lights, and the sound of the Sycorax suddenly in my ears. I sat in a chair of black granite, in a chamber of tarnished bronze. My armour hung from the walls in polished components, and my staff rested in a rack of bone.

  +You dreamed deeply and long, brother,+ Ahriman sent.

  I did not reply. I was flicking my awareness through my mind and body searching for a sign of how much time had passed.

  Ahriman spoke again, this time with his true voice. ‘You have my thanks, Ctesias. I know it cost you.’

  My body felt leaden, my thoughts sluggish in my skull. Fatigue washed through me. Bright colours smudged my eyes. My tongue was a dry leaf in my mouth. Any wounds I had suffered had gone, but the shadow of the binding hung over me, pressing in through every sensation. One does not simply swallow the true name of an exalted daemon and then shrug it off. Everything – as never fails to be proved true – has a price.

  ‘You lied to me,’ I spat back at him, my anger suddenly raw and fresh. He tilted his head, the gesture half an acknowledgement, half a question.

  ‘I did what I had to, brother. As did you.’

  ‘What are you doing Ahriman? Why did we go to the Oracle? What do you intend for us now?’

  ‘Us?’ he said, and the thinnest hint of a smile touched his eyes. ‘I thought you were not part of anything beyond yourself.’

  I shook my head, suddenly feeling deeply tired. Ahriman nodded, and turned towards the chamber’s door.

  ‘Rest, brother,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Rest, and dream.’

  ‘I do not dream,’ I protested, but he was already gone, and the words rang hollow in the still air. ‘I do not dream,’ I said again, more quietly, shaking my head as my eyelids flickered over my sight. My mind and limbs felt heavy, as though the act of returning to consciousness had used up my full store of energy. I was draining down into blank oblivion again, the features of my new chamber sliced away as my eyes closed.

  In the black flicker of my eyelids I saw again the face of Menkaura, and heard words I was not sure had been real.

  ‘He is arming himself against… against what?’

  ‘Against everything that could try to stop him.’

  II

  FORTUNE’S FOOL

  Those who think the gods uncaring know nothing. The gods care for us all: for each pitiful spark of life born in screams, each life lived in lust and ambition and each soul passing in silence. They care for us as we care for food, water and air. We are their life: our dreams are their strength, our weakness their existence. They care for us. They need us. But to need and to care does not require kindness.

  – Numious, The Illuminator of Hilicia,

  executed for heresy

  The second service I did for Ahriman was to kill one of our own.

  I am not a creature given to sentiment; that should not surprise you. But if these words I write have come to be read by another, you will know me to have been led by his thirst for power. I do not feel guilt at the lives I have taken or the deeds I have done. I have killed many, thousands certainly, millions perhaps; the number is as irrelevant as any claim that those deaths damn me, or any counterclaim that they were justified. They are beyond justification, and my soul is forfeit because I want power that mortals should not have. I am willing to seize that power.

  I am a binder of daemons and dealer in terrible truths. Others call our kind sorcerers, but I am the truth of that word given form. I have flayed eighteen mortals to tease a Prince of Excess into giving me its true name, and sold my first memory for a single sigil from a lost language. I have even starved and poisoned myself so that I could talk with the daemons of despair. Yet, having done all these things, and more, I have never flinched from any of them. But that one… murder I did for Ahriman all that time ago – when we were all so different, and so much was yet to happen – haunts me still.

  +Greetings, Ctesias. You honour us by your presence, and your master favours both you and I by sending you.+

  Ichneumon practically purred the thoughts at me as I stepped from the gunship. He did not kneel, but bowed from the waist. His slaves were already folded flat to the floor, so I could not tell if this was to mark my arrival, or if they were always like this in the presence of their lord. I watched them for a full five seconds, and let Ichneumon hold his bow. Sometimes it pays to play the game of power even over petty matters, and I had a feeling this was going to be one of those occasions.

  Sugraiis, I whispered to myself, through my teeth. +I am most pleased to see you, brother,+ I sent, resting weight and sincerity on the last sentiment. I was not attempting to hide my thoughts, and the sending would have been heard by all those gathered in the Nonogramiton’s main hangar deck. I sensed the prostrated throng shiver with appreciation, and caught the subtle movement out of the corner of my eye as warriors in green and gold armour shifted in approval. +The majesty of your welcome exceeds everything that could be expected.+

  Another mental rustle of approval. I bit the lie off, making sure to shield my deep thoughts. There were minds within the chamber watching me, strong minds. Not as strong as mine, but powerful enough to steal truths I wanted to keep my own. Not that there was much in my thoughts at that moment that could do more than insult them. The truth was that the throng abasing itself before me was very far from impressive. There are carnivals of the Plague Father with more magnificence. Most of the throng were only nominally human. Beneath the wrappings of saffron, yellow and blue, their flesh was pale and twitching. Toothless mouths mewled and drooled silver spit from the back of one figure close to where I stood. Another seemed to have no head, that is until I realised that he had two: one on his chest and another on his back. Quills stood out on the limbs of several of them, making them seem like stillborn chicks stretched into the shape of men. Space Marines of a renegade breed lurked at the edges of the chamber. I had no desire to look at them more closely than I had to.

  Ichneumon straightened and pointed with his staff. A corridor opened in the press of mortals.

  +Come, please, honoured brother and voice of Ahriman.+

  I walked the last few steps to the edge of the gunship’s assault ramp and moved onto the Nonogramiton. The lapis and jade tiles set into the floor shimmered to gold beneath my feet. I tapped the base of my staff on them as I went, and Ichneumon fell in beside me. He stood taller than me, much taller in fact, as though his substance had stretched upwards. Yellow robes hung from his chest. His armour held some of the lines of power armour, but its exact shape and colour altered as the light played over it. The staff in his hand was carved emerald, and a thread of lightning ran up and down its core. A crest of blue hair rose above the faceplate of his helm and ran back to the base of his neck. The aura that clung to him was a rainbow of paradox: anger, joy, despair and pride. He was exactly as I had thought, and everything about him made me wish that this task had not fallen to me.

  +Our master wishes one thing from you, Ichneumon,+ I sent, spoke
n to him alone, as we passed the throng.

  +Your master, most honoured voice of Ahriman,+ he replied. I caught an edge in the syrup of his sending. +And we will speak of what he wishes later.+

  We walked the rest of the way in inner silence, while behind me I heard the mortals cry out at their lords leaving. The cries were those of wounded birds.

  +Why do you not go yourself?+ I had asked Ahriman. +He has come to you after all to give you a blessing, or for some other, equally ridiculous, reason.+

  Ahriman nodded, slowly, his face calm in a way that must have been gifted to him as a means to frustrate others.

  +You are right. Even though he is our gene-brother, he has become–+

  +Vile.+

  +That is a strong judgement, even from you.+ His lips twitched, and for an instant I almost thought he had smiled. +But I cannot fault your logic.+

  +Then why countenance even his presence amongst the fleet?+

  +Everyone has their uses, Ctesias. And have I not already accepted others into my service that are just as–

  +Vile?+

  +Flawed,+ he continued.

  I shrugged to concede the point. I am not a noble soul, and by my deeds I might be accounted as amongst the worst of the adopted children of hell.

  +What does he have that you want?+ I asked.

  +A way out, Ctesias+

  I blinked.

  +A way out…+

  +Of the Eye of Terror,+ he sent, and then let the thought ring like a struck bell. +I have not gathered forces to my hand just to spend them in needless battle, nor to see them lost trying to breach the Cadian Gate. I have gathered them for a particular war, and a particular purpose, and both of those lie outside of the Eye. We are not embarking on a crusade, Ctesias. We are searching for exodus.+

  I began to understand, and closed my eyes. I am no seer, but I could feel the future opening before me with all the comfort of inevitability.

  +The Wanderer of Paths?+ I asked.

  Ahriman nodded, and I returned the gesture with weariness.

  The Eye of Terror is a place of paradox, and those who dwell and war within it are creatures of pride and hollow ambition. Every warrior dreams himself a Warmaster, every demagogue thinks themselves a worthy princeling of Chaos and every witch-sighted fool thinks they alone can master the warp. Though some rise to touch the edge of their dreams, few hold them in their hands, and those that do can often only watch as they drain between their fingers. But all, from aspiring lord of slaughter to doomed master of sorcery shout their pretension with the names and titles.

  The honorifics of some champions weigh them down like a prisoner’s chains. Even I have names that follow me: The Eater of Shadows, Whisperer of the Ninth Gate, Lord of Nine Thousand Silences, and so on. Most adornments, including my own, hold no meaning. A few though – a rare few – reflect a deeper truth. Such true titles, and the deeds and power they reflect, are terrifying.

  The Wanderer of Paths was a title of truth rather than pride, and it belonged to the former Thousand Son who had just sought us out. Few others have travelled as far within the Eye, or know more of its secrets, than Ichneumon. If any knew how to leave it without passing through the Cadian Gate, it would be him. His sudden appearance was worrying. Good fortune is not unknown in the Eye, but here it has meaning.

  +You want him to lead us out of the Eye,+ I sent.

  +No,+ Ahriman sent, and waited for the frown to twist the wrinkles on my face. +I want him to tell us of a way out. He cannot lead us.+

  The frown clung to my face.

  +This still does not explain why you are sending me to him. You could call him here, and take what you want from him, willing or not. Or would that be distasteful?+

  Ahriman remained silent for a long second. I shivered.

  +You will go to the Nonogramiton bearing my words of greeting to Ichneumon,+ he sent at last. +You will call him brother and afford him every courtesy. He will give to you as a gift knowledge of a way out of the Eye. Then you will destroy him.+

  It was my turn to stare and be still.

  +Why?+ I said at last.

  +Because it is my will, Ctesias,+ Ahriman replied.

  +So,+ sent Ichneumon, +Ahriman despatched you rather than come himself. Should I feel slighted, Ctesias?+

  +No slight was intended,+ I replied. +You are most welcome, and your presence does us high honour.+

  +I am sure that respect was all that was intended,+ he sent with amusement.

  +Of course,+ I said.

  I was wondering where we were going; an audience chamber, I presumed, but I could not be sure. In other circumstances I would have extended my mind to read the space around me, but Ichneumon would have known and that might have affected the delicate charade of courtesy we were both weaving.

  We walked on. The bronze carvings covering the passage walls twisted, as though echoing Ichneumons amusement. Silence closed over us the further we walked from the hangar deck. The air had changed too. Incense smoke clung to the ceiling, heavy with notes of cinnamon and burned paper. Carvings of bronze, crystal and bone covered every wall and ceiling. Endless patterns of feathers and the serpentine rune of the Changer of Ways slid in and out of focus on each surface I looked at.

  My left hand caught the edge of a bronze wing that projected from the relief on the passage wall, sharp enough to bite into the ceramite.

  Nekasu, I hissed to myself.

  Several paces behind us, nine warriors in emerald and gold power armour followed, amber pendants and silver chains clacking against ceramite as they moved. They were not Rubricae, but living warriors. Their weapons and armour plates had a sheen of moisture, like sweat-slicked skin, and they moved with a total disunity, their steps and movements never synchronising even for an instant.

  +It is kind that you call me brother, Ctesias. It is sometimes pleasant to remember that I once had brothers.+

  +It is a fact, Ichneumon. You are still one of us.+

  +One of us…?+

  +One of the Legion.+

  +You lie beautifully, Ctesias. The Changer of Ways sees this in you. Sees, and is pleased.+

  I was grateful for my helm. It meant that I did not have to hide my lip curling.

  +You…+ I began, but he cut off my platitude before it could form.

  +Your pretence, though gratifying in its attempt, is unnecessary. You think me a fool, a credulous simpleton who has given himself over to the veneration of false gods.+

  +I never thought you a simpleton.+

  +Whether I am or not is irrelevant. The gods are real, Ctesias. You know this. The Changer of Ways watches over us, and holds our fate in his eternal eye. You are his servant as much as I, more perhaps. You hungered for knowledge and power even before the Wolves came to Prospero. He cherishes you for that, guides you in thought and dream, and your successes are the Changer’s as much as they are yours. Your choice to deny that fact does not alter the truth of it.+

  I bit my mouth closed and clamped my thoughts shut inside my head, wishing very much that Ahriman had sent Kiu, Gaumata or even Astraeos to do this. I tried to think of ways of finessing the exchange, of sliding over the chasm that existed between us. In the end I gave up.

  +You are right,+ I sent. +You are a simpleton.+

  The nine warriors behind us snapped into sudden movement, guns rising, crystal swords sliding into the air.

  Ichneumon glanced at them, and they froze. Then he looked slowly back at me. Violet amusement, red rage and black control warred in his aura.

  +We were both sent here by the will of others: you by Ahriman, me by the Winds of Change. The difference is that you do not know if you should be here – you only know that it is Ahriman’s will, but I know that I must be here. You serve because you must, and I serve because I am a servant of the eternal.+

  I tried to give a small nod to indicate a concession, but I could not do even that. It was more ridiculousness than I could bear. You might think that this sentiment was at best hypocrisy and at worst a form o
f wilful blindness. Perhaps you might be right; after all, the gods are real as well as their daemonic servants. These are facts, of which I am sharply aware, but for all that they exist and – as much as I draw on their power – I refuse to sully myself by offering them devotion that they neither need nor deserve. Those like Ichneumon who devote themselves to one of the great powers – for he is far from alone – hold a special place in my catalogue of contempt. Perhaps it is because of the gratitude with which they accept the gifts. Perhaps, it is because I do not like to be reminded of the lies I tell myself. Either way I do not like those who exalt in their service to the gods. In that, Ahriman and I agree.

  +Whatever the reason, it is… good that you came to us,+ I managed at last.

  +On the truth of that we can agree,+ he replied as he turned and gestured for me and our escort to follow.

  +Truth?+ I sent, and let my amusement touch the sending. +Would your god approve of that word?+

  Ichneumon glanced over his shoulder as he walked before me.

  +Let us see,+ he sent.

  +Behold.+ Ichneumon raised his hands and tilted his head back as though bathing in the fire’s warmth – it was hot. My armour warning systems chimed with low-grade heat warnings as I stepped up next to him. +Is it not magnificent?+

  +This…+ I began, but the thought trailed away.

  +It is the Eye of Change,+ he sent, the thought almost purring, and lowered his hands. +It is the heart of the ship, and the heart of everything I have given to the Master of Fortune. It is my heart.+

  I remained silent. In honesty I did not know what to say.

  The chamber was spherical with a circumference large enough to swallow the central plaza of a major city. Its walls were ribbed metal, and so thickly covered in soot that they seemed moulded out of night. We stood on a walkway that wound around the inside of the walls. Before us, in the central volume of the sphere, a mass of flame coiled and pulsed like a blind dragon. It was a singularity of change and wild power. The warp rolled at its heart, raw, wild and hungry. Sheets of burning parchment tumbled endlessly through the fire, turning to ash and then reforming from nothing. The necks of avian gargoyles projected from the walls of the chamber, breathing torrents of burning gas into the air.