Ahriman: Exile (8 page)

+Fate has come for you, Ahriman, as you feared it would and knew it must.+
The crow’s voice became fainter, and he could feel the hard inner surface of his armour. He was lying on the floor of the throne room. He could taste acid and blood on his tongue, and a blinding pain throbbed behind his eyes.

+
Remember,
+ chuckled the raven’s voice, as blood spread across the throne room floor and ash fell as silent snow.

IV

Oaths

His dead brothers watched him. The two Rubricae were silent and still. Charred flakes of debris drifted down to cover the red of their armour. The light in their eyes had dimmed to pale green in their helms. Ahriman watched them as he stood, waiting for a movement, for a sign of awareness. There was none. He could hear the spirits trapped inside the armour, confused and half blind, searching for direction. Without Tolbek to guide them they were little more than statues.

He glanced around the chamber. Fresh blood was still seeping from heaps of hacked flesh and armour. The battle with Tolbek and the slaughter of Gzrel and his vassals had taken fewer than five beats of a human heart. He needed to make decisions and make them quickly. There were at least a hundred more of the Harrowing on the
Titan Child
, and many more on the
Blood Crescent
. It would not be long before they discovered what had happened to their lord, and when they did… There was also Tolbek’s ship hanging close in the void, its crew waiting for their master’s word.

The pain in Ahriman’s head was growing, and his muscles were shivering with the after-effects of the vision. He tried to focus. The memory of what he had seen and heard boiled through his thoughts. He pulled his helmet off and spat a gobbet of blood and bile onto the floor. The air tasted of corruption, charred meat and exposed guts. He was alone on a ship of enemies with more enemies waiting in the void; he was exhausted, his mind and spirit drained. The only advantage he had was that no one knew what had happened here. Not yet.

A low gurgling and a gasp made him turn. Ahriman tensed, suddenly aware of another living presence in the chamber. It was close to the tangle of armoured corpses heaped over the throne. He moved closer, trying to ready his exhausted mind. When he was a step away from the throne he saw the figure and remembered that he had not killed every member of the Harrowing in the chamber.

Maroth lay curled on the floor behind the throne. His face was streaked with tracks of blood that had run from his eyes. He had drawn his legs up under him, his gauntleted hands clasped to his chest. Ahriman stepped closer and Maroth’s head twitched up. A blood-rimmed eye met Ahriman’s gaze and Maroth let out a hissing yelp. Ahriman did not need to read the sorcerer’s tattered aura to tell that something had snapped inside him and what remained was fractured and broken.

Space Marines were creatures made from men but forged to be weapons. They were made to endure in mind and body what mortal men could not, but Maroth had cut away at that strength, selling himself for petty power and lies. He had sacrificed too much and not understood what he had given. Ahriman’s invasion of Maroth’s mind had snapped what strength remained, and he felt brief pity at what this demigod warrior had allowed himself to become.

Then he remembered the creature held in the
Titan Child
’s cold vaults, and the empty pit of Astraeos’s eye. He raised his hand, gathering strains of emotion to his will. Crackling blue light arced around his fingers. It would be a kindness. The power built, and he remembered the raven’s laughter and the vision the battle had induced in his mind. He hesitated.

Maroth snarled, but Ahriman could see the fear in the broken sorcerer’s eyes.

The energy crackled to nothing on Ahriman’s fingers. Maroth’s wide eyes blinked and he began to shake. After a second the shake became a low gurgling chuckle.

‘Get up,’ said Ahriman quietly. Maroth continued to laugh from the floor. Ahriman lifted his hand and extended a fraction of his will. Tolbek’s sigil-etched sword leapt from the floor to his hand. He caught it and suddenly its point was at Maroth’s neck. The last sorcerer of the Harrowing went still, the choked-off laugh spluttering in his throat. ‘You do not want to die,’ said Ahriman. ‘Now stand or I will take your eyes and give you to your nightmares.’

Maroth stood, somehow looking withered and hunched despite his armour. He kept his blood-rimmed eyes on Ahriman.

‘I can keep my eyes?’ he said, and there was a tremble of madness in the words.

‘I will not take them, and you will live,’ said Ahriman. He glanced towards the immobile Rubricae and the sealed doors to the chamber. ‘But now you will follow me and do as I command.’ Maroth looked as if he were about to sneer, as if a fragment of his pride had surfaced in his mind. Then he met Ahriman’s gaze again and gave a smile that showed his filed teeth; they were pink with blood.

‘Where are we going,’ Maroth hesitated, and his tongue flicked across his teeth, ‘master?’

‘I am not your master,’ said Ahriman, walking towards the chamber doors. ‘And we are going to take this ship.’

They moved quickly through the
Titan Child
. Ahriman walked behind Maroth, so that anyone looking would see him in his normal place. Maroth twitched and murmured as he walked, and Ahriman had to growl threats into his mind so that he moved with his usual imperiousness when they passed others of the Harrowing. Fatigue pulsed at Ahriman’s temples whenever he psychically nudged Maroth.

He glanced at the soothsayer as they passed through an access hatch into a deserted tunnel. Maroth had started to drool, his spit flecked with green bile and blood. Ahriman quickened his pace and pushed Maroth in front of him. He wondered whether anyone would think to enter the throne room. Most would be too terrified of displeasing Gzrel, but someone might wonder why Maroth walked the decks but his master was nowhere to be seen. Every moment made discovery by the rest of the Harrowing more likely, and when they did uncover what had happened there would be carnage. Some of the Harrowing would assume that Maroth had decided to oust Gzrel and try to revenge their dead lord. Others would assume the same but see the opportunity to seize power themselves. Factions would form in seconds and the blood would flow. Ahriman had seen it happen in many warbands. If Gzrel had died at any other time Ahriman doubted that any of the Harrowing would have survived at all.

They slowed when they reached the compartment of the ship Gzrel had made his gaol. The corridors and small rooms already reeked of faeces, open flesh and fear. There the Harrowing,
and a clutch of hunched mutant slave masters, stood close to the sealed blast doors. Ahriman barked telepathic orders at Maroth and he approached them with his usual air of contempt. Ahriman followed, Tolbek’s sword held loose in his hand. The Harrowing growled words of respect and the slaves abased themselves as they passed.

At the entrance to the cells another of the Harrowing stood. Hagos was his name, remembered Ahriman. He was massively built, and his chainaxe rested at his feet, its motor silent. Unhelmed, Ahriman could see the chewed and twisted flesh of Hagos’s head; he had lost half of it to a rival’s teeth. He watched them come, and Ahriman could sense the caution in the gaze. Uncomplicated, reliable and brutally disciplined, Hagos was the only one Gzrel had trusted to guard this door. He was also mute, and had a mind like a lump of iron.

Ahriman felt Maroth’s mind jump suddenly, and the soothsayer staggered, a high-pitched whine escaping his lips. Ahriman went still. By the door, Hagos had brought his chainaxe up. The weapon’s teeth remained motionless.

Ahriman had no choice. He reached his mind out and enveloped Maroth’s crippled psyche. The effort made lights dance in front of his eyes and he had to fight down sharp pain. He straightened Maroth, pulling his mouth open and breathing words into his mind.

‘Do you dare threaten me?’ spat Maroth, and pointed to Hagos’s collapsed lump of a face. ‘I will flay the skin from you, and feed the rest to the nether creatures of the warp.’ Hagos lowered his chainaxe. Ahriman made Maroth spit at Hagos’s feet, and the guard bowed his head as they passed through the sealed hatch.

The chamber stank. Without his helmet Ahriman could taste the congealing blood and stagnant air. Astraeos looked up as they entered, and the pupil of his remaining eye narrowed to a pinprick of hate as he saw Maroth. Ahriman heard the hatch seal behind them and let go of his hold on Maroth’s mind. The soothsayer slumped to the floor, and began to mewl and twitch. Ahriman felt a wave of nausea and fatigue bubble up as he broke the link. There was a sweat on his skin and he had to take a deliberate breath to balance his thoughts.

Astraeos was looking at him, his expression stony and his mind a caution-clad fortress.

‘I can free you,’ said Ahriman. Astraeos was silent, his eye still fixed on Ahriman as if weighing the possibility of the offer being true.

‘How?’

‘The leaders of the Harrowing are dead,’ said Ahriman, and saw Astraeos’s eye flare with surprise.

‘At whose hand?’

‘Mine,’ said Ahriman. Astraeos shook his head, the chains holding him clinking at the movement.

‘You did not do that to free me.’

‘No.’ Ahriman held Astraeos’s gaze. ‘But I will free you.’

‘To what end?’ growled Astraeos and there was laughter in his voice. ‘To be another lord’s pet? To be yours?’

‘To save yourself, and your brothers,’ said Ahriman, and he watched Astraeos’s aura flare and churn with conflicting emotion. He hoped he had the measure of the renegade Librarian, and that this gambit would work. If it did not…

‘But what is the price,
Horkos
?’ snarled Astraeos, loading Ahriman’s false name with contempt.

‘You will give me your oath, and follow my word,’ said Ahriman levelly. Astraeos did laugh at that, a full snarling laugh that hacked from his lungs and shook the chains.

‘You say you have slain your masters, so you will have few allies and less time.’

‘I need this ship, and the Harrowing on board must die. For that I need you and your brothers.’ Ahriman could see Astraeos struggling to contain warring instincts. ‘I can give you more,’ he said, and paused. ‘I can give you vengeance.’

Astraeos gave him a long hard look, then spat on the floor.

‘My oath and the oaths of my brothers are not goods to be bartered for.’

Ahriman nodded slowly. He had thought it might come to this, that he would have to take this step. He did not want to; Astraeos’s loyalty and defiance were qualities he admired, but there was no choice.

‘Very well.’ Ahriman raised Tolbek’s sword. He could feel the crystal at its core sing in tune with his mind. A thought drove cold light down the blade’s edge. He raised the sword and Astraeos followed with his eye, defiance hardening his face to pale stone in the sword’s light.

Ahriman cut, the movement and his mind flowing as one. Astraeos fell to the floor. Maroth yelped from the corner at the sound of shearing metal.

‘Now you are free,’ said Ahriman, looking down at the figure at his feet.

‘Curse you,’ whispered Astraeos, anger making his voice shake. He remained on the floor, kneeling, with the remains of his chains hanging from his wrists. ‘Curse you to the end of all things.’ Ahriman nodded, swallowing a breath. The sword’s glow reflected from his eyes, and he turned towards the hatch.

‘Come,’ he said quietly. ‘I need your repayment for the life I give you.’ Astraeos did not move. He was breathing hard and Ahriman could feel the Librarian struggling to contain his rage.

‘You have my oath, sorcerer. But give me one thing in return for its theft.’ Astraeos looked up. ‘What is your name?’

‘My name is Ahzek Ahriman.’

Astraeos nodded, without emotion or recognition.

‘We will need the ship’s mistress. If this insanity is to work we need her,’ said Astraeos and turned back to Maroth. The soothsayer was a hunched and foetal shape, clad in armour and tanned skin. Maroth’s jaw twitched as if he were going to speak but he said nothing, his black eyes jumping at every movement.

‘You can have him,’ said Ahriman, glancing from Astraeos to Maroth. ‘You may not demand vengeance but I give it to you.’ Astraeos got to his feet and flexed the scabbed skin of his healing hands.

‘No! You said I would live,’ yelled Maroth as Astraeos stepped forwards.

‘I did. You will live, and
I
will not take your eyes.’ Ahriman looked at Astraeos. Maroth went still, and then smiled up as Astraeos’s shadow fell over him.

‘Your eye tasted of the dung you are, and those of your brothers too,’ hissed Maroth, and licked his teeth. ‘You are a brotherhood of the half-blind.’ He laughed. Astraeos’s sudden rage filled the room. He bent down, his bare hands reaching for Maroth’s head.

Ahriman turned to the door. He closed his eyes briefly, seeing the raven soaring against the red sun, and the robed figure looking down on a Legion that was less than dust. He had hoped for so long that it would fade to a memory and then to nothing. Perhaps he had kept himself alive to live that punishment. Now he had chosen a different path. Someone was hunting him and fate had him in its claw. He had to know who and why. There were choices and possibilities ahead of him; he saw that even through the daemon’s lies.
‘If you do not tread those paths, others will,’
the daemon had said. Daemons lied, but he felt the truth of those words as if he had always believed them. There was no choice.

He opened his eyes and pushed his will into Tolbek’s blade again. He rapped on the hatch and cut down into the space beyond as it opened. Behind him, Maroth screamed.

Carmenta stopped in the darkness and let the silence surround her. Slowly she extended a hand and placed it against one of the pipes that ran along the narrow passage wall. The pipe vibrated under the brass of her fingers.