Hand Of Abaddon, page 39
As he reached the uppermost dais, Herek’s will collapsed at last, and he with it. On his knees, he glowered at the warsmith with bloodshot eyes, his skin as pale and thin as paper.
‘Fire, then…’ he rasped, and grimaced as he felt the susurration bite, as the shards wormed inside him with an animus of their own. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
The Anathame.
He had borne its pieces just as Augury had told him to. His part of the pact: willing sufferance for the prospect of something greater. It tasted bitter, as bitter as a brother’s blood on his tongue.
The gods demand much…
From the shadows came the hooded attendants he had seen as he and Rathek had entered the forge. Up close they were huge, hulking things. Having abandoned their shovels and picks, they carried saws and drills and other tools. They went to work, cutting away Herek’s armour. He flinched at first, but the grip of the attendants was strong and he did not resist. The pieces of plate came away in scraps at first, then swathes; then off came the mesh beneath, like a serpent sloughs away its dead skin. Naked, exposed, Herek saw the hexes marked onto his skin for the first time since the Eight had bestowed them. They throbbed, burning with a painful eagerness. He the vessel for the power they had allowed him to bear.
One of the attendants brought forth a savage-looking pair of tongs. Its pincers were sharp, like a set of fangs. The warsmith took the tool and lumbered around to the front of the anvil, where Herek awaited him down on his knees.
‘Thus is the anointing done,’ said the warsmith, ‘and there are eight and so shall the supplicant carry the eight, a vessel for the power of the sacred Octed and the Eightfold Path. The blade of Horus’ rebirth. The bringer of illumination. The shards of Erebus. Anathame.’
The tongs grew white-hot in an instant, and he plunged them searingly into Herek’s flesh.
Despite himself, Herek screamed. Every bone in his body felt like it was burning, his skin, his nerves, his eyes, his organs – even his soul, alight and blazing. A heavy clang resounded as a dark splinter was pulled out of his body and laid to rest upon the face of the anvil.
‘Of the eight, this is the first,’ the warsmith intoned.
Seven more to go.
He went in again.
Herek just kept on screaming. He was near unconsciousness by the time the final shard of the Anathame had been removed, and he had to be supported by the attendants, one at each shoulder. The creatures took care to face away from the warsmith’s labours even whilst hooded, and Herek felt their trembling.
The warsmith exhaled a shuddered breath when he was done.
‘And lo, there were eight, and from the eight shall come the one,’ he said.
As the last piece was removed, Herek felt the burden he had been carrying lift. His senses sharpened again, and some of his fatigue fell away. Thick, bloody scars covered his body from where the shards had been pulled out. They lay, all eight of them, on the anvil now, and the warsmith was already lumbering back around to resume his former position. From a glowing pit of fire, he wrenched forth a hammer. It dripped with molten promise, with the heartblood of this terrible place. He raised it, and turned his eye on Herek.
‘As the bearer, you may choose.’
The shards resembled crude daggers in their own right but arrayed just so, Herek discerned the greater whole they had once been. But that was the past. An axe had been his first thought – the executioner his preferred soubriquet. But then his mind turned to his brother’s sacrifice. He would honour that.
His voice was a reedy croak but found its purpose after he had cleared his throat.
‘A sword…’
‘Dark metals shall be amalgamated with the shards to form the blade. It shall have a hilt of cursed iron. A black sapphire shall make the pommel, unbreakable and cut with the essence of Neverborn ichor. It is the Anathame reforged,’ the warsmith pronounced. ‘It is…’
‘Culler,’ said Herek, dragging himself to his feet to stand before the warsmith. ‘Call it Culler.’
The warsmith gave a solemn nod. ‘So it is spoken, so it shall be.’
He hammered the shards, and with each blow the screams of the damned resounded and dark, unholy visions filled Herek’s mind.
A woman with a saint’s fiery halo, wings arising from her back…
A horned priestess, with chains of fate threaded through her flesh, carrying a staff of azure flame…
A figure seated upon a throne, encircled by fire, its sword aloft and then its cup, until the flames consumed it.
He blinked, breathless, as the warsmith struck a final tempering blow.
‘The third is fire,’ he intoned and quenched the blade in a vat of blood. Then he pulled it forth, the sword steaming with malevolence both old and renewed. It had tasted the flesh of demigods, Herek knew, and now it was his.
He held out his hand.
It was heavier than he had imagined. Herek clasped Culler and felt the power running through it. A weapon to slay a god. He knew of one whose craven followers revered him as a god, and who recently bestrode the galaxy again.
The attendants came forward, heads bowed, one with a belted scabbard and another with a simple brown cloak, which Herek wrapped around his naked body. Then he donned the belt, sheathed the blade, and departed the forge.
Herek kept his gaze away from Rathek, who remained where he had fallen, and tried not to think about the sacrifices he had made to get here. As the gates parted with a loud clamour, he stepped out into the red desert and made for the river mouth. Once there, he could retrace their steps and find Kurgos, if the chirurgeon was still alive. He hoped he was.
Behind him, the pyroclastic cloud closed up and the forge was lost to his sight. A storm threatened on the horizon and Herek pulled the cloak tighter around his neck. The reek of sulphur and warm copper on the breeze stirred his survival instincts, and he drew the blade, though he saw no foe ahead of him.
‘Declare yourself,’ he demanded of the desert wind, which was rising and dirtying the air.
Then he lurched forward, arching in agony as hot fire pierced his back and punched out through his chest in a welter of blood.
A rapid paralysis overtook his limbs and Culler fell from nerveless fingers to land softly on the desert sand. Herek fell less gracefully, collapsed onto his side, a long knife still jutting from his chest, the hilt still lodged in his back. As he stared at it, disbelieving, he saw it had a shiny black blade.
‘The Lackey,’ uttered a voice he knew – several voices, all overlaid atop one another.
Augury. He stared open-mouthed at his patron before his eyes came to rest on the figure with them.
A sorceress. She held a staff, its head flickering with azure fire. She had silver piercings in her skin, and the gemstones embedded in her flesh caught the light of the sun as she reached down for Culler. Her hands were stained red with his blood.
‘That belongs to me,’ she said, her voice resonant with power, ‘though I thank you for carrying it.’ The smile was venomous.
Herek could not move, though his mind raged and his fingers tried to clench into claws, into fists. The sorcerer took the sword and disappeared from view.
Augury remained, looking down on him, their face largely concealed.
‘You were a good servant, Graeyl Herek,’ they said, ‘but you have done your part. It was only ever ordained that you would deliver the weapon, not bear it. That part is over now, though, and the children of the gods must have you.’
‘I was…’ Herek rasped, as his lifeblood leaked eagerly from his body, ‘chosen.’
‘Yes, you were,’ Augury replied, not unkindly, ‘for the gods choose all their servants, willing and otherwise. Not all may ascend, as Yheng of Gathalamor does before you. Farewell, Herek.’
They departed then, leaving a trace of blood and brimstone with their passing, and the lightest tang of electrified rain.
Chapter Forty-Five
a debt is owed
a flicker of light
duty
Rostov met the kâhl in his quarters aboard the Wyrmslayer Queen, this visit much more cordial than the first time she had set foot on the ship. She had come alone, not that Rostov believed for a moment she needed protection.
‘You look well, Imperial,’ she began, a smile on her face that the inquisitor had never quite decoded. ‘Better than when last we met.’
‘The benefits of a well-earned rest,’ he lied.
It had been several hours since they had breached the throne room only to find it empty and the shards absent. After an initial search, Rostov and the other troopers had returned to the ship. The Kin had been left to their salvage and wasted no time in starting the process of stripping the Blackstone Fortress bare. They went in armed and in force, clearance teams ridding the place of any lingering inhabitants, every scrap of resource being slowly conveyed back to Vutred’s fleet in short order. It would take days, even weeks, but Rostov’s time in the Stygius Gilt was coming to an end.
Vutred sat down heavily in a wooden chair that creaked against her armoured weight. She paid it no mind, nor appeared to notice she had not been invited to sit.
‘I think you are someone unaccustomed to rest, Imperial.’ She gave him a querying look. ‘Was it something on the fortress? Did you find some restorative? Is it valuable?’ Now she jabbed a thick finger his way, one eye shut as the other appraised and chastised equally. ‘Do not think to hold out on me, Imperial. I will know, true as wrought, and I swear by the ancestors that if you try to skim off our agreement… Well.’ She leaned back and the chair creaked further, threatening collapse. ‘You would find us far less amenable.’
‘The Blackstone Fortress is yours, kâhl, lock stock and whatever else you can fill your gunwales with. I have no interest in it now. But I thank you for your part in this. You have earned my gratitude, and that of the Imperium.’
Vutred nodded at this, pleased with his show of respect, as he had known she would be.
‘Fair is fair, and a deal is a deal. You have held up your end, and I mine.’ She rose to her feet, letting out a small grunt of effort. ‘This concludes our accord, though if you ever have need of the Kin again, I would not be averse to pulling your hide out of the fire one more time.’
Rostov didn’t take the bait, and considered the possibility that she might actually like him to a degree.
‘I appreciate you coming to say that in person,’ he said.
‘I prefer to finish my business face to face.’ Another smile, just as inscrutable as the first, before her expression became more readable, more serious. ‘Grudgement has been settled. I am able to reclaim my honour, Rostov. This is no small matter for my Kindred. A debt owed that will not be forgotten.’
She lingered, her gaze appraising as ever, and then finally she left.
Rostov watched her leave, his satisfaction at making a new ally souring at the prospect of what he had to do next. He sealed the room and activated a hololithic recorder. Encased by the cone of light, he began his report to Lord Inquisitor Greyfax.
The Hand had been dealt a serious blow, but some yet lived. And the shards had been taken, their whereabouts now unknown. A threat had ended only for another worse one to take its place. The irony of it left a bitter taste as he concluded his verbal missive for now.
And yet he felt hopeful. The one who travelled with him now, the one known to Syreniel: she was surely an indication of the Emperor’s presence and protection. To what that portended, Rostov was at a loss, but he had felt something as the taint was purged from his flesh, his vitality restored and purified. A miracle, a chink of light to lift the darkness.
If only a flicker.
She hit the target right in the middle. A perfect shot. Well, not perfect, not exactly. That word had taken on a different meaning now.
She fired again, three more shots, three more bullseyes, all marksman’s skill and no miracles needed.
At least I still have this, Kesh thought, and tried not to dwell on what had happened to her on the fortress. Only a few hours ago she had blazed with light, spat fire from her sword. It had felt… unreal, as if it had been someone else experiencing those things.
She saw her face reflected in the plastek shielding of the range alcove. Apart from the stark white hair, she looked as she always had, though there was a certain lustre in her eyes that had not been there before. The miracle, the light and the fire – that had faded. She considered it a mercy, and as time wore on she found she remembered less and less of her deeds.
Not for the first time since coming aboard ship, Kesh sank her face into her hands and just focused on breathing. And also not for the first time, she was grateful for the ship’s captain graciously acceding to her request for a place where she could be alone.
She was no longer aboard the Venerated Sword but a rogue trader vessel called the Wyrmslayer Queen. She had not been allowed to speak with her comrades, the inquisitor having sequestered her almost immediately in the aftermath of the miracle. He had said little to her, beyond the fact that she was to accompany him; that she would be presented to his master and a high-ranking priest of the Ecclesiarchy.
She had not the heart nor the audacity to tell him that this had been tried before, to no great fanfare. Though she supposed it was different now. Everything was different now – and yet she was still Magda Kesh, still a daughter of Mordian, still grieving for a father figure she hadn’t realised she had until she’d lost him, and wondering if she might speak again with the silent ally she had made on Kamidar.
As Kesh lifted her face from her hands, she saw that same ally standing behind her, the reflection of the Silent Sister far less distinct than her own. She turned to face Syreniel.
‘Am I meant to feel empowered?’ Kesh asked her. ‘Because all I feel right now is fear.’
It is human to fear what is unknown.
Kesh gave her a wry look. ‘I had hoped for a more encouraging reply.’
You are chosen, Magda Kesh. I see in you His will made manifest.
‘I only ever wanted to serve, as a soldier, one amongst many. I could fulfil my duty and die with honour. I should have died. More than once.’
And what will you do, then, with the life that has been given?
‘I wish I knew the answer to that question.’ Remembering something, Kesh suddenly fiddled around in her pocket, until she produced the coin she had been gifted. Syreniel’s impassive expression softened as she laid eyes on it.
‘This is what saved me. I honestly think I would be dead without it.’
Then I am glad you have it.
‘How did you even come to be here? I thought once everything was done with Kamidar that I would never see you again.’
As did I, Magda, but who am I to understand–
‘If you are about to say the will of the Emperor, I will shoot you with this lasgun. And as you can see, I am a damn good shot.’
Syreniel’s eyes smiled in a rare flash of warmth amidst the ice. Then I will not. Say it, I mean.
Kesh leaned against the alcove, exhausted. ‘I never asked for any of this.’
Syreniel’s face hardened. The true faithful rarely do, but we must observe our duty all the same.
Kesh caught on to the sudden change in mood and straightened up.
‘You’re not really here to reminisce, are you, Syreniel?’
No.
‘Then why are you here?’
Because it is my duty.
‘You want to know if I can be trusted,’ Kesh realised. ‘And you will kill me if I cannot.’
Syreniel nodded.
‘And what do you think?’
It does not matter what I think. I am merely to watch and be vigilant.
Kesh’s gaze lingered on the Silent Sister for a moment, then she turned back to the firing range. She reloaded her lasgun, taking aim at the furthest target. She regretted the bitterness in what she said next, but could not take it back.
‘Then you had better do your duty well.’
Another hit, dead in the middle.
Epilogue
the will to live
the sword is mine
three remain
It took every iota of his will, but Tenebrus had managed to crawl from the black chamber before the Imperials arrived. He knew the paths of the fortress, even inert as it now was, and had taken a secret way into its depths. He was bleeding – dying, he realised – but only needed to find a place to rest. With sorcery, he would reknit his wounds. He would regain his strength, and he would have his vengeance against the acolyte who had betrayed him.
Gods of the abyss, she will suffer.
He heard them now, the servants of the False Emperor, the blind fools who followed a corpse-lord on an empty throne. They were far above him, and even in his weakened state Tenebrus was confident that they would not find him before he had restored himself and found a way off the fortress.
Anger was a powerful motivator, and he drank deep of it now as he dragged his broken body across obsidian. At one point during his flight, he had heard soldiers closing in, but using a little of his power Tenebrus had masked his presence and the soldiers had given up their pursuit.
Idiots.
He had found the perfect place for his recovery, a deep chamber, hard to reach and even harder to find. He felt confident he would be undisturbed for several hours at least. All the time he needed, during which he would nurture thoughts of revenge.
Slumping against a pillar, Tenebrus peeled open his robes to reveal the damage she had done to his body. The wounds were deep, and bleeding. He wondered how much of himself he had left smeared on the floor. A fair amount, judging by his failing strength. He just needed to gather his wits, focus his mind. Fingers moving like a puppeteer’s pulling on invisible strings, Tenebrus began to work at his injuries. Skin pulled together, began to heal.
