Asurmen: Hand of Asuryan

by Gav Thorpe

  The Phoenix Lord realised what Stormlance was trying to do – break through the dam of resistance Neridiath had erected with her fear of violence. Asurmen’s bloodlust, the part of his spirit that powered the warship, was trying to rip aside her defences to expose the hate and anger being so ruthlessly suppressed. That energy had to be released carefully, in controlled fashion, not unleashed like a beast slipped from a chain.

  Can you not feel– The starship’s message ended abruptly when Asurmen took control, forcing aside the lesser part of his spirit.

  Listen carefully, Neridiath. This is the moment foreseen, the time that Asuryan dreamed of so long ago. Our fates stand upon the edge of a blade and the choice is yours.

  ‘You cannot force me to kill. And do not try to appeal to my sense of duty with speeches about the future of our people. There are always alternatives.’

  Not always. Asurmen accompanied his words with a blunt thrust of psychic power, like a mental slap. Millions will die because of your misguided principles.

  ‘Are you going to tell me that killing can serve a higher cause?’ Neridiath was trying to withdraw, pulling her mind away from his, humiliated by his insistence. Her reply was carried on a barb of spite. ‘Is that your philosophy, to remove the anger and the hate so that killing is just a casual act, devoid of feeling? I will not share your filthy desire for bloodshed!’

  Nothing could be further from my philosophy, petulant child! Again the Phoenix Lord allowed his emotion to seep into the contact, a wave of crushing disdain. Neridiath was resisting for the sake of resistance, her contrary personality forcing her to take opposition against all good reason. She tried to ignore him, but he would not let her. The time for subtle cajoling was over. More direct coercion was required.

  There is nothing noble about death or killing. The need to fight, the desire to kill, comes only from the worst of our emotions. Jealousy, hatred, anger, revenge, greed. And fear. Your fear. My lesson is not to turn away from these desires, these base instincts that are part of what we are. We must embrace them and channel them, lest they consume us and all around. You will not fight to save our people, but you must fight to save yourself.

  ‘Was it easy?’ she snapped, letting her frustration slash along the psychic link. It tumbled ineffectively from the iron mind of the Phoenix Lord. ‘The first one you killed? Did it give you the thirst for more? I would rather the galaxy was swallowed whole than set foot along that path to destruction.’

  You want to know about the first life I took? A freezing chill swept from Asurmen into Neridiath, the cool wrath of the Phoenix Lord manifesting in her body. I will show you.

  XIII

  Illiathin followed closely behind Tethesis, with Maesin just a few steps behind. The three of them stopped as they reached the edge of what had once been the Plaza of Tangential Ascendance. The skybridge that had once arced high over the city had fallen, a broken span wreathed with strange pink growths like vines coiled about a tree trunk. The collapse of the bridge had showered stone on the surrounding district and dammed the river, so that there was ankle-deep purplish water lapping at their feet as they cautiously entered the plaza.

  The jagged remains of an auditorium stood out in silhouette against the strange light that came from the black sun, its upper floors ­shattered in such a way that it resembled a slender skull. A few of the banners that had lined the roof wafted gently despite the lack of wind, giving the impression of tufts of hair.

  Illiathin shuddered and looked away, the sensation of being watched ever-present. If the mood of the city had been oppressive before the cataclysm, the atmosphere had become cloying and claustrophobic. The air was sluggish in his lungs, the sound of water against the buildings melancholy.

  ‘Over here,’ said Maesin, pointing to the tumbled remains to the left. The building had been an artistic commune once, though the art on display had become bizarre, grotesque, even as the moral malaise of the pre-cataclysm had grown. Some of the works remained outside – sculptures made from animated flesh melded with stone, psycho­plastic and metal, and paintings of nightmarish scenes of torture and violence splashed in disturbingly trite pastel colours that masked the depravity that was illustrated.

  Maesin took the lead up the steps, a carbine ready in her hands. Tethesis was similarly armed, as was Illiathin, though the weapon felt awkward in his grasp. He had managed to survive the catastrophe without resorting to violence and he had no intention of changing that habit. If there was any threat, he would run. He had warned the others of this, to expect no heroics on his part.

  They each readied their activated gleamgems, bathing the interior of the building with beams of bluish light. The lower floor was one large open space, a triangle of three columns forming the central structure of the tower. A moving staircase was still working, its motor purring gently in the stillness. Half-completed pieces, piles of materials and digital easels were arranged across the space. There were bodies strewn on the laminated floor, some still holding their brushes, sculpting tools and rendering wands. Illiathin counted seven in all. A bloody mess at the bottom of a staircase made eight, but he was not sure.

  They picked through the debris, lured by Maesin’s promise that she had seen a cache of working power cells on her previous foraging expedition. Illiathin was careful where he put his feet, aware of the fluids that lay in puddles, convinced many of them were not simply artistic in origin.

  They had made it to the ascending stepway at the back of the building when a sound caused them all to stop and turn. It had sounded like a drip of liquid, a splash in a puddle. The light of the gleamgems roved back and forth but revealed nothing. Illiathin waited and watched while the other two turned back to the stairway. He was sure he heard scraping.

  Something moved, a darkness against the ruddy twilight that seeped through the open door. Illiathin grabbed his gleamgem and swung the light across the room. The beam settled on the staring, slack-jawed face of an eldar. The body was crawling towards them, dragging itself with twitching hands. There was something wrong, other than the obvious. Two horns jutted from its brow, growing in length as he watched.

  He hissed a warning to the others, transfixed by the apparition. It was changing, growing in some fashion. The pale, flaccid skin tightened, bones rearranged, the nose melting away to reveal flared nostrils, the eyes coming to life with a silver glow. It rose to a crawl and then into a crouch, the fingers of its hands melding, extending, becoming the tines of long claws.

  ‘Daemon!’ yelled Maesin, opening fire with her carbine. The pulse of red energy slammed into the creature, throwing it back across the room, a gaping hole in its chest.

  The daemon slid to a halt at the base of one of the pillars, neck kinked at a strange angle. With a tearing wet sound, the corpse’s skin split. Like an obscene butterfly emerging from its cocoon, the daemon pulled itself free of the body, organs draped from its shoulders in viscous ribbons.

  ‘There’s another!’ yelped Illiathin, swinging his gleamgem to the left. In the sudden light, the daemon-possessed corpse stumbled, one hand held up to ward away the glare.

  Maesin fired again, but the blast of the sunfire rifle slapped against the daemon and dissipated without doing any damage. The daemon grinned, revealing half a dozen serrated fangs. It beckoned to them, running a claw down its lithe body, long tongue sliding suggestively over its teeth. Maesin unleashed another bolt from the sunfire with no apparent effect.

  The daemon’s face twisted into a savage grimace and it bounded forward, fast on bird-like legs, covering the ground before Illiathin could react. Tethesis moved first, swinging the carbine like a club, smashing the butt of the weapon into the side of the daemon’s head.

  The other daemon broke free from its body-wrapping, shedding the skin with a shudder and an expression of ecstasy. Illiathin fired out of pure instinct, the ball of charged particles from his gun flashing past the daemon’s head.

>   Maesin and Tethesis were pounding the other daemon with their weapons, smashing its head and body, kicking and screaming incoherently in their terror. The creature writhed and howled, lashing out with claws and barbed tongue. Maesin fell back, her chest opened to reveal bloodied ribs sheared through by the daemon’s claw.

  Knowing it would not help but unable to do anything else, Illiathin shot the daemon running towards him. The blast struck it square in the face, smearing its features like putty. It stumbled back, wailing in pain from a mouth that had slid down to its neck, its eyes obliterated.

  Illiathin spared a glance at his brother. Tethesis stood over the remains of the other daemon, which resembled a bloodied bag of parts more than a humanoid creature. It spasmed, claws snapping, jaw mouthing silent threats.

  The distinctive noise of flesh sloughing away caused the brothers to turn.

  Maesin stood behind them, her face split from right eye to top lip, her clothes and flesh falling away. Daemon magic pulsed in her chest where she had been wounded, silver liquid leaking from severed blood vessels.

  Horrified, Illiathin stood immobile as the daemon-Maesin leapt, the tip of a newly emerged claw rasping across Tethesis’s throat. His finger tightened on the trigger at the same moment, turning Maesin’s head into an incinerated pulp.

  Both fell to the ground, Tethesis pinned beneath the lifeless remains of daemon-Maesin. Illiathin saw that the route to the door was free of danger and the urge to run welled up in him. His brother was dead, or as good as, and there was nothing to be done, but some sense of duty snared Illiathin, causing him to remain.

  He saw a glow from a pouch at his brother’s belt, dark blue. Snatching it from the body, Illiathin found inside the gem he had given him. At his touch it pulsed with life, but the blue was darkening, polluted by a spreading blackness.

  Looking at Tethesis, he realised that the stone was linked to him, and as his brother’s features started to contort into those of a daemon, Illiathin knew what had to be done.

  He fired a burst of shots from the carbine, disintegrating what remained of his brother’s chest and head. The stone in Illiathin’s other hand throbbed in his grasp, the light brightening, the darkness seeping away to leave a beautiful cobalt glow.

  The daemons were recovering, their grunts and moans growing in volume. Illiathin looked at the body of his brother and knew that he was totally alone. He had killed the last friendly face he knew, and for all he could tell the rest of his long life would be spent alone in this terrifying realm.

  Fear broke through the trance as claws scraped on the floor behind him. He dropped the sunfire and ran, not daring to look back.

  27

  Through his connection to her, Asurmen could feel the thoughts of Neridiath falling into turmoil. She could think of nothing except that moment of hopelessness she had felt with him as he had shared the circumstances of Tethesis’s death. The utter lack of power, the knowing submission to fate had brought to her mind the incident in the storage bay. He now shared that memory, the sensation of his fingers at Manyia’s throat, the sure and certain knowledge that he would have to kill his daughter.

  It was shocking how close she had come, even when there were weapons to hand with which she could have defended herself. Fear had paralysed her, the same fear that drove her now, but it was not death that inflicted such dread. Something far deeper and more visceral than simple mortality influenced Neridiath’s choices.

  In the storage room she had been helpless, saved by the instincts of a frightened child and the petty mental defences of a human. Death, perhaps torture and degradation, the murder of her child, had been but a breath away from reality.

  Let me help you, said Asurmen. He drew in more of Neridiath’s spirit, allowing his own psychic potential to envelop her. He used the connection to create a facsimile existence, the two of them standing in a dark chamber facing each other. A single candle flickered on a stand between them.

  As he had told his warriors before the confrontation with the Dark Lady, he needed no temple. He was the incarnation of the shrine, the embodiment of the peaceful repose before violent acts. He allowed Neridiath a moment to compose herself before speaking.

  ‘Focus on what I say,’ he told her. ‘Let my words enter your thoughts freely. Do not analyse them. Do not trust or distrust them. Simply allow them to be. Can you do that?’

  Neridiath nodded, uncertain at first but then with more vehemence.

  ‘Yes, I can do that.’

  ‘That is good. You are strong, very strong. Too strong. For a long time you have trodden the Path and dammed up emotions that are destructive. That is the purpose of the Path, to guard us against those extremes. Now the time has come to let go, to confront those feelings and thoughts. They are blinding you to a greater truth. They are binding your spirit to a fate it does not desire.’

  Asurmen stepped closer to the candle and Neridiath looked up. Her eyes widened in surprise. Asurmen was clad not in his armour but in the form he had worn before the Fall. He was shorn of his wargear, of the legend that hung like a mantle about his shoulders. He was not Asurmen in that moment, he was Illiathin again.

  ‘There is a fear within you, Neridiath. You avoid it, but you cannot hide it forever. You must look upon it and in doing so you will rob it of all power to control you. Remember. Remember the time the fear began. Do not think of it, but picture it, relive it.’ He felt resistance from the pilot. His voice grew firmer. ‘Listen to me! You must fight. You must break the hold this dread has upon you. The sake of our people depends upon it. Your daughter needs you to be strong.’

  At the mention of Manyia, a succession of emotions crossed Neridiath’s face. Grief at first, and then she was afraid. The fear turned to anger and she snarled at Asurmen.

  ‘I will not let her see that! I will not become what my mother became!’

  And there it was, the moment that had sown such dread in Neridiath. Asurmen latched onto it, burrowing his mind into hers, dragging free the suppressed memory.

  She was young, but old enough to know her own mind. Her mother stood at the door, looking back at her. Neridiath emanated waves of love, mingled with desperate hope and pleading. From her mother came nothing. Cold eyes regarded her as nothing more than bones and meat. A sneer lingered on her mother’s lips. Disdain, not love. The child’s eyes were drawn to the rune marked upon her mother’s brow. The symbol of the Fire Dragons writ in dried blood. She had never seen it before, always removed before her mother had left the shrine. It seemed a grotesque thing, an icon of anger and death.

  Her mother stayed at the threshold for some time and Neridiath sobbed, hiding her face in her hands. She felt the hot wetness of her tears and a thought occurred to her. She raced towards her mother, hands outstretched, hoping to use her tears to wipe away that dreadful rune.

  Neridiath’s mother caught her wrist in one hand and twisted, throwing the child to the ground. It had been a moment of instinct, no intent to harm or hurt behind it. Rubbing her arm, Neridiath looked up and saw that there was no response from her mother. She seemed neither glad nor ashamed.

  ‘Come away.’ Neridiath turned at the sound of her older cousin’s voice from the doorway behind her. She glanced back and saw Fasainarath standing with his hand held out to her. ‘Come here, Neth, away from that thing.’

  Thing. Her mother was a thing now. That thing had a name. She was dimly aware of it, spoken in whispers by her family and friends, acknowledged but never welcome.

  Exarch.

  Her mother was an exarch, driven to bloodshed and the worship of Khaine until she died. What she had been was lost. Now all that remained was the warrior.

  Reeling, Asurmen broke his mind free of Neridiath’s. He had encountered many exarchs in his long existence. Indeed he had been the first. But never before had he understood the transition, the effect it had on others. Seeing a spirit becoming trapped on the
Path of the Warrior through Neridiath’s eyes made him understand from whence her fear stemmed. This was the place she had returned to, cornered in the storage bay. Her thought had not been for herself but for Manyia, not her daughter’s death but the loss of her innocence.

  ‘You are not your mother,’ he said firmly, stepping past the candle to lay a hand on her shoulder. He had assumed his warrior countenance again, clad in blue armour. The psyche-shrine became light around them, a bare white chamber in the centre of his mind. ‘Very few that tread the Warrior’s Road become trapped. You are stronger than she was.’

  ‘What if I like it? The killing?’

  ‘You will,’ Asurmen told her. The truth could not be avoided. ‘You cannot fight that. You will feel triumph and dismay in equal weight. You will desire thrill of battle, the rush of blood. These are things that we cannot deny about ourselves. I will teach you how to control them, how to harness the incredible powers that our bodies have been gifted by our ancestors. You will become the weapon and you will learn to draw the war mask so that the shame and the hunger can be kept at bay, unleashed like a beast when necessary, caged when not needed. That beast lurks within you, unfettered, ready to burst free. You are a danger to your daughter if you do not learn how to handle it.’

  ‘But I have to fight now. You want me to attack those ships. I can’t… I can’t lose Manyia. What if she senses my bloodlust. I won’t defile her!’

  ‘You have to fight.’ Asurmen’s voice became an insistent growl. ‘You have only irrational fear to conquer. The threat is real, your dread is not. You can break the fear, but only if you try. Now you have the opportunity to prove to yourself that you are not a monster. Use it!’

  She had a weapon, as much as if she had a knife or pistol in hand. She was the Patient Lightning and the ship’s warlike creed seeped into her thoughts, provoking her, telling her that there was nothing to fear. She did not fight the desire. She embraced it. She had chosen to be powerless, but that had simply been the choice to be a victim.