Path of the Renegade

by Andy Chambers

  ‘I applaud your dedication,’ Yllithian said, somewhat repelled at the thought. ‘And what have you been doing with all the copious free time afforded to you by not being dead?’

  ‘Trying to understand what happened when we brought back El’Uriaq,’ Bellathonis said as he limped forwards. ‘Trying to understand what happened to Archon Kraillach and Archon Xelian.’ The twisted haemonculus leaned in closer and his voice dropped to a harsh whisper. ‘Trying to understand what we called up, Yllithian, and how we can dispose of it.’

  Yllithian drew back involuntarily at the implication. ‘Are you mad?’ he hissed angrily. ‘It is death to speak such words and yet you speak them here, in his very domain?’

  The haemonculus smiled at him apologetically. ‘Better here than your own throne room, archon, you know yourself that the taint has spread that far. Why else would you come alone? You know that your warriors would follow El’Uriaq’s commands rather than your own. You know that his very presence sways hearts and commands minds to do his bidding.’

  Yllithian looked around the shadowed, empty passageway, self-consciously reassuring himself that they were alone. His hand flexed on the hilt of his sword with the momentary urge to draw it and slash the haemonculus’s smiling face into red ruin. Yllithian mastered the urge and unwrapped his fingers with a conscious effort. Bellathonis was right, there was no denying it. The sense of helplessness he was feeling stemmed from the simple fact he could trust no one to obey him.

  ‘Very well, I’m listening. But choose your words with care, crooked one, I’m not about to betray our beloved El’Uriaq no matter what your inducements.’

  Bellathonis nodded slowly, recognising the old formulas of denial in his words.

  ‘You’ve gone to speak with Angevere many times, but she is obstinate, is she not? I can assure you that a more certain hand at the controls has her singing like a bird. Add to that some investigations of my own and… well, here we are.’

  Bellathonis sighed, his steel-pinned limbs winking in the dim light as he moved. ‘You see, even with the worldsinger’s power the regeneration couldn’t be instantaneous – for that to happen it needed even more energy coming in from outside.

  ‘When we recalled El’Uriaq something else found the crack in reality and came back with him, a great revenant from beyond the veil. It wears El’Uriaq like a mask, hidden for now but guiding his every action.’

  ‘For now?’ Yllithian asked warily, his face stony and unreadable.

  ‘Yes, until it gains a strong enough foothold in our reality that it can emerge fully and open a permanent breach,’ Bellathonis said, cocking his head bird-like at Yllithian as if he expected him to already know the answer.

  ‘In many ways it’s a perfect symbiosis,’ Bellathonis continued. ‘El’Uriaq’s residual personality and self-belief create an ideal framework for the entity to attach itself to. As his ambitions grow it grows with him, continually feeding him more power from the outside. It’s a familiar pattern among the slave races. We set little value by their lore but in this area their experiences are in some ways more extensive than our own.’

  The silence that fell between the archon and haemonculus was broken only by the drip of moisture and the sigh of a foetid breeze blowing through the tunnels. Yllithian was carefully weighing what secrets he could learn against the price of discovery. His curiosity gradually edged ahead of his caution. He could always present everything he was told to El’Uriaq and denounce Bellathonis later, although if the haemonculus was correct Yllithian held out little hope that would save his life.

  ‘This is why Morr turned against his master? You’re saying that Kraillach was… tainted by his association by El’Uriaq?’ he eventually asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the haemonculus wheezed regretfully. ‘In some fashion the entity that entered El’Uriaq also infected Kraillach during the resurrection. Through Kraillach’s influences the Realm Eternal was being brought firmly under El’Uriaq’s control – that is until their chief executioner saw the peril for what it was and took action. The Realm Eternal was always in danger of collapsing into a pleasure cult. Kraillach was preparing to take them the whole way.’

  ‘So now the incubi shield him,’ interrupted Yllithian, ‘oathbreaker and traitor that he is. Few archons will trust that silent brotherhood again if word of this gets out.’ Vague schemes for blackmail flourished in Yllithian’s mind unbidden. To gain a hold over the incubi would be a fine prize indeed…

  ‘Not when the whole of this sad tale is known, my archon,’ Bellathonis replied, dashing cold water on the half-formed plans. ‘As I understand it the incubi pledge themselves to serve their living lord and not some daemonically-corrupted imposter.’

  ‘And what of Xelian?’ Yllithian prompted. ‘I can only assume that your grand conspiracy theory incorporates her death too.’

  ‘Denial of the obvious is indeed the last refuge of the desperate mind, my archon, as I have seen on my examination tables many times.’ Bellathonis smiled ingratiatingly. ‘I was unsurprised that she, too, fell into El’Uriaq’s web. In many ways the more surprising thing is that you have survived thus far, unharmed and untainted as best as I can discover. He finds you useful, Yllithian, more useful than your noble allies.

  ‘Much like Kraillach, Xelian carried the seeds of her own destruction inside her, albeit in less spectacular fashion. It’s my belief that the thing posing as El’Uriaq found Xelian too proud and intractable to be a useful tool. In order to remove her it tended those seeds of weakness until they blossomed and brought about her own death. The thirst for blood was ever at the fore of Xelian’s mind. El’Uriaq’s subtle promptings cultivated that thirst until it consumed her.’

  ‘What are you saying that you believe we’ve unleashed?’

  ‘An old doom, my archon, one that has been unleashed and contained many times before in our city. Fear not, we are more cunning than our foes know. Our enemy still believes that his purpose is hidden, and although he wonders about Kraillach’s destruction his fears are formless as yet.’

  ‘You would be telling me none of this unless you needed my help. What is it you expect me to do?’

  ‘A trifle only, I would not ask you to act directly against him. If El’Uriaq’s personality is strengthened the entity will find it increasingly difficult to control his actions. It so happens that we have an artefact of El’Uriaq’s past life in our hands, one that might focus his mind on the present juncture in a highly successful fashion–’

  ‘The head of the crone,’ Yllithian said flatly.

  ‘Just so. Angevere knew El’Uriaq of old. I have no doubt that contact with her will trigger all kinds of memories. If you were to present the head to him as a gift and a keepsake at this gathering he’s planning, El’Uriaq will not be able to refuse it.’

  ‘Because naturally you wouldn’t have infested it with something deadly, or simply turned it into a bomb. Crude, Bellathonis. I can’t believe that you’re serious. I’ll not be your delivery slave.’

  ‘Of course you will be able to fully examine the head before taking it, and I assure you that no assassination device will be carried within it or upon it in any fashion. I honestly imagine the gift will win great favour from both El’Uriaq and his hidden master.’

  ‘How so?’ Yllithian asked warily. He found that he was taking the haemonculus’s proposition seriously despite his reflexive scepticism. He didn’t doubt that Bellathonis had some ulterior motive behind the idea, but if he could discomfit El’Uriaq without openly dirtying his hands too much the idea appealed to him.

  ‘Of El’Uriaq’s seven handmaids, only Angevere escaped the daemons in the fall of Shaa-dom. Restoring her to him, even in such an attenuated form, will stimulate El’Uriaq’s residual personality magnificently. The possessing entity will also be delighted to finally have her within its grasp and may not appreciate the danger of letting its disguise slip in its moment of triumph. I don’t doubt for a moment that the entity is one of those that participated in the sac
k of Shaa-dom when the breach was made there.’

  ‘But you’re saying this gift won’t harm El’Uriaq directly in any way.’

  ‘It will not directly harm him, no, my archon.’

  ‘Very well, then I accept your proposal. I trust I need not emphasise the consequences attached to lying to me or attempting to make me your dupe, Bellathonis. I do not accept your wild allegations about El’Uriaq, Xelian or Kraillach. More likely we’re seeing the tyrant’s hand at work. You see, you listen to the crone entirely too much, perhaps she’s the true source of diabolical influences you perceive in every mishap. You forget she has already been proven wrong on one key point.’

  Bellathonis was genuinely perplexed. Yllithian’s dart was well-placed. Perhaps he had been entirely too reliant on Angevere for her interpretation of events…

  ‘To – ah – to which key point do you refer, my archon?’ Bellathonis asked humbly.

  ‘Why the Dysjunction, of course! She firmly predicted one would occur if we resurrected El’Uriaq and yet here we stand with no ill-effects felt beyond incessant rumours and the baseless predictions of the warp-dabblers. I’ll be doing you a great service by taking the crone’s head back and gifting it to El’Uriaq: I’ll be saving you from her insidious lies. Follow me no further, haemonculus, or I’ll give you additional reasons to enter a resurrection crypt.’

  Yllithian turned and stalked away without another word. Bellathonis watched him vanish down the ill-lit passage towards his own fortress, no doubt to huddle there in mortal fear of his own retainers. Behind him the shadows shifted restlessly, a sibilant whisper forming in the air.

  ‘Of course he suspects something,’ Bellathonis grumbled to the darkness. ‘He always suspects everyone and everything all of the time – that’s his nature. But he’ll do it when the time comes, he’s desperate to take back some control in any way he can.’

  The broken figure of the haemonculus shuffled away, with dark shapes flitting at his heels.

  ‘Now we must put our trust in the worldsinger,’ he wheezed to the slinking shadows. ‘Everything hinges on her.’

  More urgent whispers hissed from the darkness.

  ‘Dysjunction? Don’t doubt it’s still coming in spite of Yllithian’s claims,’ Bellathonis snorted. ‘It is inevitable now.’

  CHAPTER 16

  THE PATH OF THE RENEGADE

  Sindiel crept fearfully along the ill-lit corridors of El’Uriaq’s hidden domain. He was richly dressed in shimmering Eol-fur and sun-spider silk, with precious metal and rainbow gems adorning his hands and throat. He was armed with a sinuously beautiful splinter pistol and the Dai Saoith, a long, straight blade that apparently had an ancient pedigree much finer than his own. The weapons were mostly for show, to be expected on a highborn of Commorragh. The mostly deadly device he carried was currently concealed at his wrist beneath the voluminous lace at his cuffs. He was hoping that he would not have call to use that weapon, but he’d also found that he felt desperate enough to bring it with him – just in case.

  It was all so unfair. Despite being bedecked like some barbaric princeling Sindiel’s external wealth did nothing to protect him from the internal sense of destitution he felt. His star had risen swiftly under the direct patronage of Yllithian and the indirect favours of El’Uriaq. He had already gained control of a squadron of sleek Corsairs berthed at Ashkeri Talon and a palatial manse to dwell in nearby. He had warriors at his command that knelt before him and called him dracon, he had the choice of slaves taken from a million worlds to do with as he would. Now he could explore every fantasy and indulge every hidden vice in a society that did not judge nor even care how its members behaved. The archon’s rewards had been everything promised and for Sindiel, a relative newcomer to the concepts of ownership and property, quite dizzying.

  Nonetheless he had felt himself slowly coming to an uncomfortable revelation about the Dark Kin. It was the kind of thought that once it had formed simply wouldn’t go away. In their own way the eldar of Commorragh were just as stunted and narrowed as the eldar of the craftworlds or, for that matter, the Exodites. They were also denying a part of themselves in their bid for immortality, trying to turn a blind eye to their psychic nature in the hopes of cheating She Who Thirsts. He was secretly starting to wonder if the daemon-goddess had allowed some of the eldar race to escape simply to enjoy their self-imposed suffering as they eternally twisted and turned trying to evade Her claws.

  He crept along with his heart in his mouth, unable to quite decide whether he should try to stroll brazenly or not. This part of the catacombs beneath the White Flames’ fortress, roughly delineated as it was, had been taken over by El’Uriaq and his minions as their makeshift palace. He’d been told the foundation plates of the great port-city were riddled with secret ways, hideouts, mines and countermines constructed by competing kabals down the long centuries. The old emperor of Shaa-dom had declared himself happy enough with these troglodytic quarters and now seldom issued forth. Slaves disappeared into El’Uriaq’s den with voracious regularity, but apparently in Commorragh this in itself was not worthy of any great excitement or interest.

  Sindiel could not shake the sense that a lurking horror had manifested itself down here, and that it was growing stronger by the day. Although he often felt naïve and ignorant among the darkly brilliant citizens of the eternal city he was sure of one thing – that their psychic senses were dulled to the point of blindness. They saw the warp in terms of forces to be manipulated and refused to see that it was also manipulating them in return.

  The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his troubling thoughts. He turned and fled into a darkened cross-passage before pressing himself into the shadows behind a mouldering buttress. The measured tread of two pairs of armoured feet steadily approached the cross-passage and halted briefly before moving on. Sindiel crept cautiously back to the main path in time to see the backs of two kabalite warriors disappearing in the direction he had just come from.

  He moved the opposite way, reflecting bitterly on how, once again, providence had demonstrated its habit of pitching him into situations he was ill prepared for. He had come to El’Uriaq’s lair with no clear objective in mind; only some vague notion of seeing how it felt, as if that would confirm or dispel his fears, with an underlying idea that he would improvise heroically from there. Now he had wandered inside an area that was being actively patrolled with no adequate explanation for what he was doing here. Destiny had left him with no choice but to sneak in further, if only to look for another way out.

  It always happened like this. Sindiel had never thought of himself as a renegade, indeed he felt he had laboured long and hard to try and find purpose in his life. He had come to believe that his being birthed on a craftworld was a matter of mischance and concluded that he had never really been intended for such a hard, narrow life until some hiccup in destiny had cast him into it. He had rebelled often and joyously against the strictures of the seers and moralising dogma of his companions, conceiving it as his adoptive destiny to mix things up a little.

  The few pranks he had played and the lessons he had attempted to teach to his moribund fellow travellers on the craftworld had done little to endear him to them or vice versa. Slowly but surely he had been expelled into the chilly outer darkness of social seclusion, there to watch others undertake their meaningless journeys along different paths; gardener, sculptor, entertainer, philosopher, artisan, warrior, on and on. It appeared to him that their aim was a lifetime of well-rounded mediocrity and he despised them for it.

  He had briefly flirted with the warrior path but found it to be the most tiresomely restrictive and ritualised of them all. Everything on the warrior path seemed focused on how to stop being a warrior, how to deny that part of the psyche that lusted for violence. When he was offered the opportunity to leave his beautiful prison and escape into the wider universe he’d jumped at the chance – even now he remembered the weary shrug the seer had given when Sindiel asked him what would happen i
f he chose not to go.

  For the most part the great and wonderful universe had proved to be nothing but mud and squalor warring with ignorance and stubbornness. His supposedly disaffected Ranger companions proved to be merely tourists with a taste for the outdoors and a fondness for meddling in the affairs of others. None of them had the slightest intention of questioning their way of life or attempting to forge their own path. They were simply bored and disaffected so they took the prescribed craftworld path of life that was labelled ‘for the bored and the disaffected’. Sindiel had wanted more out of life than that.

  Well, he’d certainly found it now, and damned his immortal soul into the bargain. Listening to seers prattle about the perils of the warp and the spirit-self was one thing, entering the daemon-haunted ruins of Shaa-dom had been quite another. He found he now believed in the existence of his immortal soul as he had never done before.

  He could also blame Motley for that. Ever since Iron Thorn the grey one’s words kept coming back to haunt him. Sindiel had almost died of fright when his ankle was grabbed as he lay waiting near the gate, then grown furious when he saw the grinning half-masked face bending over him.

  ‘Don’t think that this is The End,’ the masked one had said. ‘You have more choices, more chances ahead of you than you can ever know. Your path will always be your own to make no matter what they tell you. Remember that it’s never too late to try and reclaim your soul.’

  The nagging idea that he could still do… something to recover himself had stayed with him ever since. He’d thought himself committed to the dark path, that he’d finally spat in the face of the universe once and for all and sworn himself to win power by any means. Now he had it he found that the power he’d sought was meaningless. He could feel the first tendrils of the empty hunger of the Commorrites kindling inside him and he did not like it one bit. He was starting to understand the unremitting fury of the dark city and its need to consume everything that it touched. If they stopped for even a moment the yawning void that was constantly at their heels would engulf them all. Now that an eternal life of parasitism and exploitation was laid out before him he found the idea repellent.