The Space Wolf Omnibus - William King

by Warhammer 40K

  Along with his companions, Ragnar entered the chamber warily, weapons held ready, knowing that there was no way he could defend himself from what waited within.

  The floor was caked in what looked like the hardened remains of a millennia of effusions of pus and snot and phlegm. In the middle of the floor, on an altar that looked as if it was carved from a mound of pure hardened mucus, lounged an obese and profoundly disturbing figure. It was truly huge. It was obscenely fat and its skin was a blotched and unhealthy green. It rippled to the ground in many leathery folds. The reek from it was worse than any sewer. Tiny horns emerged from its foul, bulbous head. Its eyes were tiny and sparkled with ancient malice. The thing gave a long, hacking cough that sent a great shower of snot spraying out onto the floor. Where the disgusting eruption landed, each drop formed into a tiny capering figure that resembled its creator. They danced across the floor for a moment and then sank into the carpet of filth, disappearing without trace.

  ‘Emperor save us, an Unclean One…’ he heard Sternberg mutter, and a shiver of horror passed up Ragnar’s spine. The Unclean One was the ancient name for a type of terrible, terrifyingly powerful daemon, devoted to the service of Nurgle, the Lord of Pestilence, and now it appeared he was in the presence of such a being. ‘Now all is clear to me.’

  As Ragnar watched, the greenish stuff of the altar writhed and reformed. Tiny gargoyle faces emerged, stuck out their tongues, hawked and spat and then vanished into the substance of the structure again like ripples disappearing from the surface of a pool.

  ‘Excuse me for not rising,’ said the daemonic thing. ‘But I am not in the best of health.’

  It laughed uproariously as if it had just made some astoundingly funny jest, and its laughter only died out in another long and hacking cough.

  ‘Daemonic scum! Prepare to die!’ roared Hakon.

  ‘Please be a little quieter. Can’t you see I’m not well?’ said the vile daemon, looking at the sergeant with watery eyes brimming with cynical humour. ‘You humans can be so tiring. Almost as bad as those eldar pests who trapped me here. Well, it’s been a boring few thousand years but oddly restful too, so I suppose I mustn’t grumble. But now I have things to do. A plague daemon’s work is never done, you know.’

  Ragnar looked at the daemon in astonishment. He knew that its words were not actually being spoken aloud but somehow were appearing in his head as if by magic. And he knew also that despite the humorous tone of the daemon’s remarks, its speech was simply a way of belittling and distracting them. There was a wicked intelligence at work here.

  ‘You shall not leave this place!’ shouted Sternberg. An appalled look flashed across the inquisitor’s face. He looked like a man who has found out that his whole life’s work had been a mockery. Ragnar felt a certain sympathy for him. The inquisitor had come here believing that he was about to save his home world from the plague – but he had just found out that he freed one of the deadliest daemons in existence. A malefic being, that he had sworn to oppose with his life if need be, had been unleashed upon the universe through his actions.

  And mine, Ragnar realised.

  The daemon’s laughter gurgled forth. ‘On the contrary, my little human friend. I shall. I am very keen to see the outside world once more. I tell you, you don’t know the meaning of boredom until you’ve spent two thousand years animating statues made from your own filth, and then trying to teach them to dance. Still, every cloud has a silver lining. You know, I have devised some very interesting new disease spores.’

  ‘You’ll never have the chance to spread them,’ Sergeant Hakon spat. He looked ready to strike, but Ragnar could tell from his posture and his scent that he was unsure of himself. The daemon’s odd conversational manner and its obvious poise had thrown him. Ragnar could tell that his whole pack was struck by a similar unease. Possibly they were all dumbfounded by the thought they had been used as pawns by this vile gurgling monstrosity.

  ‘Now, now, don’t be like that,’ Botchulaz simpered. ‘I am entitled to my little bit of fun, you know. Have a little sympathy. You’re not the one who had been stuck here for millennia with only your own secretions for company. I mean, those eldar were unnaturally cunning, if you ask me, almost too much for a poor bumbling creature such as myself. All those wards and gates, all that power bound up in that lovely talisman. All those ancient warrior ghosts to keep my followers away. One of those accursed intricate patterns which only reveals its flaw every three thousand years when stars are falling from the sky and the moons are in the right alignment. It was tricky arranging this, I don’t mind telling you. Surely you don’t grudge me a little amusement?’

  ‘We shall slay you where you stand,’ Nils dared to say.

  ‘Foolish boy, you can’t slay me. I am a daemon prince of Nurgle. You might, if you were very powerful and very lucky, be able to destroy this living vessel and return my essence to the warp, but you could not kill me. Not even your Emperor could do that. Believe me, I know, I met him once. A nice enough chap but very dour.’

  Ragnar could not believe he was hearing this blasphemy. And yet, he realised, it was perfectly possible that the unholy fiend’s words were true. According to holy writ the Emperor had fought against the plague daemons of Nurgle over ten thousand years ago. Was it really so unbelievable that this creature had been one of them? No more unbelievable than the fact that it had survived in the heart of this pyramid all this time, and schemed for its release, using them all as its pawns, directing them all from across the vastness of space.

  Almost as if it sensed his thoughts, the daemon swivelled its blubbery head and looked over at him. Its face broke into a wide grin which revealed row upon row of thousands of blotched green and brown fangs. There was a ghastly stench of halitosis and gum disease. ‘It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. Only at certain times could I send my thoughts questing outwards, to make contact with my minions and get you people to do my will. Seemed like an age, believe me. Oh, what am I saying? It was an age since I first got stuck here. The eldar again – they never liked me, you know. I suspect the Farseers built this pyramid as a trap for my kind ages ago. You can never tell with them, they can predict the future in an odd sort of way, and they are subtle in a way you lot have never been.

  ‘Anyway, I blundered right into it, I was only here to spread some new spores and a little good cheer among my worshippers and they dropped right out of the sky and began their rituals. Nobody was more surprised than I was when I got sucked into this prison. I might have been stuck here forever, too, if your people hadn’t interfered and slaughtered the eldar.

  ‘Broke the blasted amulet too, and carried it away and I thought: Well, that’s that; I’m stuck, aren’t I? The amulet was the key to the whole thing and then it was broken and gone. It was hard to maintain a positive attitude, what with my poor health and all. I was so depressed that it took me centuries to get in contact with the minions and find out even the location of one piece. And then, there was all the trouble of finding a reason for you to go and get it for me. It had me worried, I don’t mind admitting.’

  The daemon was mocking them, Ragnar realised. It was boasting about how it had used them, all the while speaking in tones of false sympathy and humour. Why were they standing here listening to it, Ragnar wondered? Were they all hypnotised? Memories of how he had almost been ensnared by the sorcery of Madox came back to him. That had been a close run thing, and surely this creature must be a hundred times more powerful than Madox?

  ‘Oh, that reminds me: dear Gul, it’s time for your reward.’

  ‘Thank you, master.’

  Commander Gul stepped smartly from their ranks to come face to face with the daemon. Suddenly it seemed much larger, as if somehow it had changed its size without them even noticing. It loomed over the massive figure of the inquisitors’ bodyguard, then reached forward to lick his face with a long, slime-soaked tongue.

  ‘No need to look so shocked,’ the daemon said to them all. ‘I needed to have somebody to
keep you all on the right track. And Gul has been my servant for many years, haven’t you, Gul?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Man and boy, like his father before him, and his father before that, and so on. I won’t bore you with a tedious repetition of all the sorceries that were needed to conceal his true nature from your tests. They were many and varied in nature and one so likes to preserve some of the mysteries. Anyway, it was my worshippers who did most of it, and I’m not one to hog all the credit. Suffice to say that they were difficult and costly in terms of energy and sacrifice.’

  ‘Gul, you are a traitor to all of humanity,’ Sternberg said. Frank disbelief showed in his face. He obviously had difficulty adjusting to the thought of his trusted henchman’s betrayal.

  ‘And you are a fool who believes he knows the truth,’ Gul replied with a sneer.

  Hatred twisted Ragnar’s gut. Gul had accompanied them on their quest pretending to be their ally and all the time they had been serving his vile purposes. Lars and others had died so that this man, if man you could call him, could find his way here and abase himself before Botchulaz.

  ‘Now, now,’ said the plague-thing. ‘There’s no need for harsh language. All’s well that ends well, and so on.’

  Botchulaz’s mocking tone fuelled Ragnar’s righteous rage. He knew now that this unending torrent of cheerful clichés was nothing more than a wicked jest of the daemon’s. In its heart it hated them all, and this was its way of showing contempt for their intelligence.

  Ragnar managed to throw off the spell of the daemon’s voice long enough to raise his bolt pistol and aim a shot at Gul. The shell flew straight and true and exploded within the cultist’s heart.

  ‘That wasn’t very nice, Ragnar,’ Botchulaz said as Gul collapsed at his feet. The former bodyguard gazed up at the plague daemon the way a hound might gaze at a beloved master. ‘I had rather planned to reward Gul, too. His wasn’t an easy task, you know. Pretending loyalty to your Emperor and his rather over-zealous Inquisition was a bit draining for a man of his background.’

  Gul reached up and tugged at Botchulaz’s leg. His fingers made a hideous sucking sound as they drew back. Ragnar noticed their tips were covered in slime. ‘Yes, yes,’ said the daemon soothingly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll see you right. Least I can do, really.’

  Ragnar drew a bead on the daemon, which met his fierce gaze with one of his own. Yellowing teeth were revealed by its wide grin. ‘You wouldn’t…’ it said cheerfully.

  Ragnar pulled the trigger and sent shell after shell streaking towards the daemon. One went into its head; three more went into its stomach. Botchulaz’s face crumpled inwards like a rolled up piece of paper. The shells sank without trace in the rippling folds of flab around his midriff. For a moment, Ragnar thought he might have done the thing some harm, but then the face sprang back into its normal shape – and then there was sound like a cork being pulled from a bottle, as the bolter shells were expelled from its flesh.

  ‘That hurt, a little,’ it said in a pained voice. A horrible coughing sound began deep in its throat and for a moment Ragnar thought that perhaps he had damaged the monster after all. It bent forward, clutching its midriff where the bullets had gone in. A spew of vile stuff vomited from its mouth. Ragnar watched as the foul stuff bubbled downwards, engulfing the dying Gul. Even as Ragnar watched in disgust and horror, it filled the dying man’s wounds, closing them, and began to spread outwards over his flesh, leaving a blotched mouldy crust as it went.

  Gul gasped and shook like a man in the terminal stage of a dreadful fever. Then the shaking stopped and his whole body seemed to swell. His muscles ballooned out and his skin took on a sick greenish yellow tinge. Weird lights blazed within his eyes and he rose to his feet, fingers flexed like the talons of a hawk.

  ‘There we go,’ said Botchulaz. ‘One good turn deserves another, that sort of thing.’

  Karah Isaan seemed to snap out of her trance. She yelled a fierce chant and raised her arms high above her head. A wave of white-hot psychic energy flowed out from her towards the daemon. A wall of searing fire enveloped Botchulaz and made his outline shimmer and dance. The daemon’s skin seemed to bubble and pop and for a moment, Ragnar thought the inquisitor might actually succeed in banishing it. Then the plague daemon’s outline congealed. It turned towards Karah and seemed to belch forth a tidal wave of energy of its own. Thousands of serpents of sickly green and yellow light entwined around her, encasing her form. She gave one long moan of agony, her skin suddenly blotched and discoloured and then she fell motionless onto the ground. Botchulaz stood there, steam rising from his skin as it knitted back together. He nodded amiably to himself, checked all his limbs to make sure they were intact, looked around and laughed pleasantly.

  ‘Well, it’s been fun, but I mustn’t dawdle. I have some business to attend to. I’m sure Gul will see to your deaths.’

  Ragnar watched in astonishment as a web of green and yellow light erupted from the plague daemon’s body. The air was suddenly filled with a sense of vast energies unleashed. The walls of the pyramid began to change colour. Ragnar knew this did not bode well for anybody on the surface of Aerius, but he did not really see what he could do about it right now.

  Gul was looking less and less healthy. His whole form slumped forward now, as if the flesh had partially melted. His fingers were extruding long talons. Massive boils were erupting through the crust around his body. There was a smell similar to putrefaction but even more sickly sweet in the air.

  ‘I am immortal,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll bloody well see about that,’ Sven yelled, leaping forward. Ragnar moved to join him.

  FOURTEEN

  A dozen things happened at once. The Blood Claws, Sergeant Hakon and the inquisitors all sprang into action. Writhing figures began to emerge from the vile carpet of muck caking the floor, whole bodies pulling themselves out, like swimmers emerging from the sea. They were vaguely humanoid, resembling smaller, less distinct versions of Botchulaz. Their heads were featureless blanks save where two sightless eyes had been poked in them. Their bodies had a fluid boneless quality. From their stink Ragnar could tell they had been created from snot, mucus and other daemonic excreta.

  Something snared his ankle, and looking down he saw a smiling face looking up at him. It seemed to have been carved from the floor but Ragnar knew full well it had not been there moments before. It leered at him with a crazed daemonic mirth which echoed Botchulaz’s.

  He kicked out with his leg, tearing the arm free from the ground. The fingers remained glued to his ankle and the whole form continued to emerge from the sludge. Bolters sounded all around as more bolts tore into Gul and the vile things the daemon had summoned. Ragnar heard the strange sucking sound once more as the shells bit home. They seemed to have no effect on the creatures. Ragnar found this to be hardly surprising. They were boneless, had no internal organs, and were animated only by dark sorcery. They would not succumb to wounds that would have felled a normal man.

  Gul laughed insanely, inspecting his altered flesh, capering with glee. ‘Now, servants of the False Emperor,’ he said. ‘You will most assuredly die.’

  Ragnar shifted his leg but the grip strengthened and the snot thing’s arm lengthened. He felt the constriction increase, and to his horror saw that the ceramite was starting to give way in places. He lashed out with his chainsword and severed his captor’s arm at the shoulder. The blades screamed and tore and then cut right through. The arm came away and he was able to move.

  Looking around he saw that more and more of the eerie figures were pulling themselves from the floor. His battle-brothers blasted them with bolter fire but their flesh parted and knitted together again. He saw Sven lash out with a chainsword and chop off a head. It rolled free, was picked up by another shambling monstrosity of snot and mucus, which attached the head to its own chest. Gul stood in the centre of it all, encased in his blotched carapace, and howled with crazed mirth. Even as Ragnar watched one of the hideous figu
res reached out. Its arms stretched and a spray of its own disgusting slime smashed into Inquisitor Sternberg’s face. Ragnar wondered what possible harm this would do, until he saw streams of pus emerge through the inquisitor’s eyeballs. A moment later, under the extreme pressure of the vile fluid that had been forced into it, his head ripped apart.

  For a brief moment, Ragnar imagined the inquisitor’s last moments, worms of diseased plasma wriggling through the mush of his brain, and tendrils of foulness extruding down his throat into his stomach, choking off all air. Ragnar glanced over at Sergeant Hakon and knew from the veteran’s gritted teeth expression that the old Space Wolf was thinking along the same lines.

  It was time to get out of here. Ragnar picked up Karah’s unconscious form and threw it over his shoulder. Carving a green path through the knee-deep slime, he made for the exit of the chamber. Seeing him go, Gul drew his pistol and aimed it. His movements were slow and his hand trembled like that of a man with the ague but Ragnar knew it would not matter. All it would take was one shot.

  He dived forward, hoping that presenting a moving target might throw off the Nurgle worshipper’s aim. A bolt pistol shell churned the floor behind him. Ragnar kept moving, offering up a prayer to Russ and the All-Father. He heard the other Blood Claws shouting war cries as they, too, began to retreat from the room.

  Vile hands tugged his ankles, slowing him down. A terrible slurping sounded every time he raised his feet from the floor. It was like being trapped in a well-remembered nightmare, one in which deadly foes pursued him, and he was unable to make any headway in his escape.

  He heard another shot ring out and half-expected to feel a sudden agonising blast of pain in his chest. None came. He turned his head and saw that Sergeant Hakon had blasted Gul aside, and was now trying to fight his way clear of the mucus beasts emerging from the walls and floors. Ragnar wanted to go to his aid but some instinct warned him that it was imperative that he get Karah to safety. Perhaps the psyker would have some idea as to how to contain the plague daemon and its minions. He was certain of one thing: he did not.