Ahriman: Exile (29 page)

His claws closed on one of the angelic thought forms. It writhed in his grasp, shifting shape; now serpentine, now scaled and bloated with flesh. Ahriman gripped tighter and soared upwards, the sorcerer’s thought form held in his claws. Golden droplets of aetheric blood tumbled in their wake. Somewhere in the physical world he passed through the hull of the
Titan Child
. Stars and the engine fires of warships were dim impressions on the edge of his awareness.

+Quiet, my brother,+ he whispered, and squeezed. His claws sank into the thought form’s flesh. It screamed as its body split open. Ahriman let go. The thought form fell from his claws. It shattered as it fell, its substance breaking into luminous tatters. Ahriman’s thought form reached the top of his climb and rolled over into a dive. The beaks of his twin heads closed on the remains of the dissolving thought form.

Feelings and memories flooded Ahriman’s mind as aetheric blood filled his mouth.
Kiu
, that was this sorcerer’s name. Kiu, acolyte of the Raptora. Kiu, so silent unless spoken to, now screaming with all his mind and soul. He spat Kiu’s shrivelling thought form out. In the chamber far below, the serpent-crested sorcerer fell to the floor.

The other two thought forms were rising to meet him. Ahriman roared and the roar became flame. The thought forms twisted aside. One had taken the body of a feline predator; two sets of wings spread from its back, and its fur flickered between the colours of snow and jet. The other coiled through the air, its long body glistening with blue and golden scales, its wings sheets of translucent skin. Ahriman spread his wings and met them, claws first. They tumbled together. He felt teeth rip his flesh and feathers away. Somewhere, where he had real flesh, new wounds opened. Pain billowed through him. He lashed out blindly as he felt himself weaken. He was falling now, not diving, tumbling in a savage embrace with his enemies, focus and power bleeding from him with every instant.

No
, he thought.
I will not end like this, not at the hands of my brothers.
He gave in to the pain, let it surge into his consciousness. The raven shape of his thought form began to burn. Black feathers kindled to bright flame. His thought form cracked, blazing lines opening across its shape. And all the while the pain rose, burning away all other thoughts and sensations.

The sorcerers’ thought forms howled. Their skin peeled away. Ethereal flesh charred black and began to dissolve. They bit and clawed deeper as they burned, scrabbling at Ahriman’s thought form even as it cracked with heat.

White brightness filled Ahriman’s mind. He was losing himself, his mind dissipating into the warp as it consumed itself. He could feel his name start to drift just beyond memory, as the vortex of sensation dragged him into its embrace. He would become a dimming light, alone and unremembered. He had to end the fight; he had to end it now.

His will cut through the pain. His thought form’s bird body melted, and became a glowing sphere. The thought forms wrapped around it shrieked as their claws and teeth sank into the molten surface. Then the sphere uncoiled. Glowing lengths of scaled flesh wrapped around the thought forms. Ahriman felt them claw and struggle as his thought form constricted tighter and tighter.

Their movements grew weaker as the mind of each sorcerer pushed against his grasp. He gripped tighter, wrapping his will over their minds even as he felt fatigue wash through him. He had sustained his projection in the warp for no more than a second of real time, but even that had cost him. Blackness crept across the edges of his thoughts like night falling after day. The two thought forms trembled, twisted one last time and went still.

The exhaustion came in a thick cloud. It boiled up from within, dragging him down like the waves of a dark ocean. His will wavered. The pain and fatigue were enfolding him, cutting away his awareness of the warp. His thought form began to fade; the serpent sphere broke apart, unravelling like a knot of burning rope. Ahriman felt his consciousness flood into his body again.

He lay on the stone floor, his sword fallen by his side. Around him the Rubricae watched him stir but did not move. He tried to breathe, choked and found there was blood in his mouth. There was blood in his armour, too. He could feel it sticking to the inside of his body like a second skin. He rolled onto his side and began to stand up. Sympathetic slashes and bites in his sides and legs pulled open, and pain whipped through him. A fever haze rose through his body; he swayed. Frost covered the chamber and floor. Splinters of crystal from the shattered dome above mingled with the ice. Under the rime he could see Kiu and the other two sorcerers. They did not move.

The Rubricae watched him as he stood, their eyes glowing green, unmoving. Whispers filled his ears, pushing through the fog of exhaustion. He turned, slowly, looking between the watching eyes. The Rubricae remained still. On the floor one of the sorcerers stirred. Ahriman reached down for his sword.

Then he felt it, a ripple in the fabric of reality, like a stone dropped into a flat pool of water.

He grasped his sword and stood again. His helmet display pulsed with injury warnings. He was still losing blood. His eyes dimmed and luminous worms twisted at the corners of his sight. He was tired, so tired. He took a breath and felt blood rise in his throat. Even as he tried to gather his will, it scattered. He looked up.

A mote of golden light hung in the middle of the chamber. In his mind he could feel and hear the warp churning like water curling into a whirlpool. The mote of light expanded like a blown bubble. Stars and night swirled at its centre.

Of course
, he thought. He could see shapes, three indistinct humanoid outlines shimmering as if seen through a heat haze.

I am a fool. I should have understood what was happening here.
He tried to gather power to his will. He raised the sword. The sigils along the blade were dim. Around the edge of the chamber the Rubricae took a step forwards, their guns levelled.

The sphere of stars swelled, and the shapes of the three figures grew clearer.

He had failed, he had presumed, he had missed the most logical of reasons why Amon had not come himself while Ahriman was still strong. Because it would have been foolish, and Amon, apart from that one time when he had believed Ahriman, had never been foolish.

The three figures were clear now: two wore flowing white robes and red armour. Curved horns rose from their helms to hold golden discs. The third figure wore blue silk robes over his armour. Horned skulls covered his shoulders, tapers of yellowed parchment spilled from the visible red plate, and he carried a staff of silver topped by the symbol of a serpentine sun. Horns rose from the crown, temples and cheeks of his blank-fronted helm. The eyes that looked at Ahriman from behind the narrow eye-slit were red coals.

The figures stepped from the swirl of colour and stars. Ahriman tried to take a step forwards, but his muscles would not respond. Blood foamed in his throat as he breathed. He stumbled, then collapsed to one knee. The three figures watched him, not coming any closer, not retreating. Ahriman kept his eyes fixed on the third of their number. He could feel the presence of all three newcomers, the hard control and power like sunlight trapped in a fist. But the third figure shone brighter than anything else in the room.

+Amon,+ sent Ahriman, and the effort filled his eyes with nauseous swirls of colour. The figure in the horned helm nodded, and then turned to look at his companions.

+Help him stand,+ sent Amon. A shiver ran through Ahriman. It had been a long time since he had heard that mind. He smiled despite himself.

Amon’s two companions approached Ahriman from either side. Both wore khopesh swords at their waist and had pistols clamped to their thighs. Ahriman breathed, trying to gather power to his mind and balance the rhythms of his body. If he could focus he could knit his wounds back together, he could… he could…

Hands gripped him and pulled him to his feet. His vision was clogging with shadows. He heard his sword clatter to the ground. He could not feel his hands. He could not feel anything. The world was folding in on itself. The winds of the aether seemed to be thick with swirling dust. Amon’s voice in his thoughts, calm and soft, followed him as he fell into the dust cloud in his mind.

+ It is good to see you, Ahriman.+

Carmenta had watched with all her eyes. Internal scanners and pict lenses had seen Ahriman approach the doors to the bridge, then pause. Then there had been an explosion of light and static that grated across her senses. She had felt distortion and corrupted code boil through her as she glimpsed movements faster than she would have believed possible. Then there had been stillness, and the crackle of unnatural energy playing over her hull. An instant later one of Ahriman’s opponents had fallen to the floor, as if he were a puppet with his strings cut. Then the other two had followed. Finally she had watched Ahriman struggle to pull himself from the floor where he had sprawled.

I was right to do this
, she thought.
I had no choice. He would have destroyed us. My child would have been taken from me. I was right to do this.
A blue-robed figure that must be Amon had appeared out of thin air.
She watched as Amon’s two attendants pulled Ahriman to his feet. No one had said anything, not Ahriman, not Amon, not any of the silent Space Marines that encircled them all.

I was right to do this.
She tried to purge the doubt, but it stuck to her like clotted blood to a hand.

She saw Ahriman slump in the grip of the two Space Marines. The one that must be Amon turned towards the doors to the command bridge.

‘
Titan Child
,’ he called, and she noticed that his voice was strong and calm, kind even. ‘It is done.’ He paused and turned his head so that he was looking directly into one of her pict-eyes. ‘You are free.’ He turned his gaze away, and something silent passed between him and the Space Marines encircling the chamber. He was looking at Ahriman, she realised. Hanging like a drowned man between the arms of the acolytes. ‘But betrayal should buy no peace.’

Amon’s head turned and he was looking into the pict lens again. His eyes were burning. She tried to shut down the visual feed, but could not. His eyes stared back at her from every pict-eye, blazing brighter and brighter. She felt them bore into her, stripping away layers of machine code. She wanted to scream, to run. She felt her limbs tangle in her cradle of cables. She could not feel the rest of herself: her reactors, engines and weapons were not there. All that remained was her link to the pict feeds, and that she could not break. She felt something burning within her, something liquid and vital boiling.

Carmenta’s body juddered in its cradle. Blood rained down from her, spattering on the floor as the blood cooked in her remaining flesh, as Amon’s eyes turned from her.

+Peace,
Titan Child
,+ whispered Amon. +Be at peace.+

Amon turned and let the killing thought fade from his mind. His thoughts felt clotted and soiled. But it had been necessary; an act of balance, not malice. The tech-priest had betrayed the trust Ahriman had given her, and any betrayal had a price. One could not choose the limits of one’s beliefs; he had learned that long ago. It was a mercy anyway. He had touched the mind that called itself the
Titan Child
, felt the aberrations, the lumps of self-mutilation and distortion. He glanced at the encircling Rubricae, felt the broken particles of their thoughts swirl in his mind. They tasted of dust. Yes, better brief pain and then peace than what the ship or its mistress would have become.

He looked to where Zabaia and Siamak stood, holding the collapsed form of Ahriman. With a mental flick he extended his mind and lifted Ahriman from them so that he floated above the floor. With another tendril of thought he lifted Ahriman’s sword. He turned it over, noting the markings and the red iron raptor rising from the golden flames of the crossguard: Tolbek’s sword. So Tolbek
was
gone. He felt something move in his mind, a dull pulse of something starved and weakened.
One more,
he thought, and looked at Ahriman. He let the sword drop from his hand.

+There are two of our silent brothers on this ship,+ he sent to Zabaia and Siamak. +I can sense them. Tolbek brought them here, his mark is on them. Follow their scent. Bring them back to us. Then give this ship to the fire.+

Both acolytes bowed their heads and withdrew. He nodded in response and turned away. Behind him the injured and unconscious forms of Kiu and the other two sorcerers lifted into the air on cushions of telekinesis. He muttered a fluid stream of names and commands, and the Rubricae moved to flank him. He would return to the
Sycorax
by Storm Eagle, leaving one to carry Zabaia and Siamak once they had completed their task.

He walked from the chamber, and behind him the four limp figures floated like puppets dragged by their wires. Beside him the Rubricae matched his step and hissed words from broken memories.

+Soon, my brothers,+ sent Amon. +Soon.+

XVIII

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