by Darius Hinks
‘Can you do this, cryptek?’ asked the phaeron.
Xhartekh was about to beg the phaeron to see sense, to explain the true, warp-nulling might of the orchestrion, when he realised that all eyes had turned to him. The royal court was waiting to see how he would respond. The words ‘executed for their treason’ rolled through his thoughts. He glanced at Hattusil, who was still kneeling at the foot of the steps, and his vargard shook his head in a barely perceptible warning. Rather than doing as he would like, and decrying the phaeron as a lunatic, Xhartekh nodded and looked back at the image of the exploding planet.
‘Of course, your majesty,’ he said. He was already calculating how quickly he could leave. He was not going to burn with the rest of them. He carried a phase-shifting crystal that could transport him to the next safe system at the flick of a rune, but he could not bear to leave without at least seeing the orchestrion. Perhaps, once it was activated, the phaeron would see sense. ‘It would be an honour,’ he replied.
‘Finally,’ said the phaeron. ‘A cryptek who understands me.’ He turned Xhartek back towards the throne-shaped cage. ‘Now, before you begin your work, we must play one more game.’
‘Majesty,’ said one of the nobles, stepping from the shadows. ‘If it pleases you, I would speak with the cryptek first. It is a matter of security. I must be sure of his intentions.’
The noble was powerfully built and heavily armed, and his skull was topped with a golden, transverse crest that marked him out as a great general.
Menkhaz nodded. ‘Very well, Nemesor Tekheron. But be brief. The sooner he can begin, the better.’ The phaeron returned to his throne and leant towards the corpse, continuing a whispered conversation.
‘Cryptek,’ said the nemesor, gesturing back down the steps.
Xhartekh descended from the dais and as Hattusil fell into step with him, they glanced at each other. The nemesor’s voice had contained none of the welcome of the phaeron’s – it was hard and full of distrust.
Xhartekh wondered how well he had hidden his disappointment at the phaeron’s lunacy. If the phaeron’s general realised what Xhartekh was thinking, he might need to leave sooner than he had planned. He grew even more anxious when he saw the glaring, red-armoured noble rise from her throne. She moved like a hunter, stalking rather than following, sword drawn, ready to strike.
‘You too, Alakhra?’ said the phaeron, breaking off his conversation with the corpse.
She paused, turning with slow, feline grace. ‘Yes, your majesty. If it pleases you. I will assist the nemesor as he interviews the cryptek.’
The phaeron stared at her. ‘Do not damage him. The good cryptek has crossed half the galaxy to be here. He has work to do.’
The concubine performed a low, elegant bow, flourishing her sword, then descended the steps.
The nemesor marched quickly back down the colonnade, with Xhartekh and Hattusil hurrying after and Alakhra following close behind. As they neared one of the exits a detachment of lychguard broke ranks to escort them, but the nemesor waved them back with a curt growl.
Neither Nemesor Tekheron nor the phaeron’s concubine spoke again for several minutes. The nemesor clanked on through several smaller antechambers, past dozens more courtiers and nobles, then led them across a narrow walkway into darker, less grand parts of the necropolis. The chambers here were smaller and the darkness was punctuated by only the occasional warning glyph, flickering in the centres of doors and at the entrances to recesses. All of the doors were watched over by motionless lychguard who saluted in silence as the nemesor passed.
Finally, the nemesor stopped before a large set of double doors and waited as the guards unlocked it. Then he led the way inside.
It was a training room. Weapons adorned the walls and the floor was marked with geometric shapes. As a renowned cryptek, Xhartekh had visited many tomb worlds and he recognised the designs from the countless parade grounds he had visited.
Once Xhartekh, Hattusil and Alakhra were inside, the nemesor waved for the guards to leave and locked the door. Then he turned to speak.
Before the words had left his mouth, Alakhra lunged forwards and smashed the hilt of her sword into Xhartekh’s face, knocking him onto his back and sending him sliding across the floor in a shower of green sparks.
Hattusil raised his glaive and rushed forwards, but Nemesor Tekheron struck with surprising speed, smashing Hattusil to the floor.
Furious, Xhartekh reached for one of the prisms attached to his robes, searching for a light source to harness. Alakhra leapt across the chamber and kicked the prism from his grip, sending it clattering into the shadows.
‘That is priceless!’ cried Xhartekh.
‘You are a liar,’ she said, her voice a cold drone. She crushed her foot down on Xhartekh’s throat and placed the tip of her sword against one of his eyes. ‘Who sent you?’
‘Are you working for Lord Szokar?’ demanded the nemesor, pinning Hattusil to the ground with his sparking glaive.
‘Szokar?’ Xhartekh had never heard the name. ‘I have no idea who Szokar is.’
‘Liar,’ said Alakhra, pressing the tip of her blade into Xhartekh’s eye socket and stepping on the metal cables at his throat.
‘Your majesty,’ said the nemesor. ‘The phaeron will expect to see them soon.’ He looked at her sword, grinding across Xhartekh’s face. ‘And he will expect to see their robes and weapons intact. If we are going to dress our own cryptek in his lenses and equipment, it must not be broken – or his majesty may see through the ruse. We must kill them cleanly.’
Alakhra shook her head. ‘The phaeron would not notice if we replaced them with a chair.’
As he lay, trapped beneath the concubine’s boot, Xhartekh sensed an opportunity. If they intended to deceive the phaeron, perhaps they had not succumbed to his madness.
‘Do you realise what a powerful weapon you are in possession of?’ His vocal cords were being crushed and the words emerged as a thin, feedback-drenched screech. ‘The orchestrion is not just a bomb.’
‘What do you know of the orchestrion?’ asked Alakhra, taking a little weight off his throat.
‘It sounds to me that you already know more than your regent,’ he replied. ‘It can do more than the phaeron intends.’
‘It is just a relic,’ she replied. ‘A trinket from the War in Heaven.’
‘It is the last of its kind,’ said Xhartekh. ‘I have heard rumours of such things, but never encountered a working example. The Silent King discovered the orchestrion in the final days of the war. He planned to use it against the aeldari witches. I do not know the exact nature of the machine – it predates even our ancestors, but I know it creates a psychic void. It disrupts the aetheric energy sorcerers use for their witch-sight. It clouds their minds and leaves them blind. It is…’ Xhartekh paused, noticing that the two Khenisi nobles were listening intently to his every word. ‘What do you intend to do with me?’
Alakhra shook her head. ‘Lord Szokar must have told you its history.’ She pushed her blade back against his eye. ‘So that you could more easily detonate it.’
‘Wait,’ said the nemesor, still holding Hattusil on the floor. ‘Szokar believes every word the phaeron says. Why would he tell this cryptek that the orchestrion can do more than the phaeron wishes?’
Alakhra made a strange humming, growling sound, then stepped back. ‘Rise,’ she said, waving her sword at Xhartekh.
Xhartekh stood, stepping a little closer to his discarded prism as he did so.
‘In the throne room, you swore to help his majesty trigger the war machine,’ said Alakhra. ‘You mean to help him destroy the crown world.’
‘But you would wish for something other than that?’ Xhartekh hoped he was right.
Alakhra looked at the nemesor.
The nemesor shrugged. ‘We are going to kill him anyway. There is no harm in talking fir
st.’
Alakhra watched Xhartekh for a moment longer, then said, ‘Yes, I wish for more than that, cryptek. I mean to rebuild House Khenisi. I mean to use the orchestrion for a greater purpose.’ She waved him over to a display screen and tapped at the glyphs, summoning a star map into existence. Stars and nebulae drifted between her face and Xhartekh’s. A ragged wound stretched from one end of the galaxy to the other. She traced one of her fingers across the ugly scar.
‘The aether storm has driven everything from this region.’
‘The Cicatrix Maledictum,’ nodded Xhartekh.
‘What?’
‘A name given to the trans-dimensional tear by the lesser races.’
‘The aeldari?’
‘The Imperium of Man, your majesty.’
She shook her head.
‘Forgive me,’ he replied, stepping closer to his prism. It was now just a few feet away and he could see it was already primed – the activation rune must have been depressed when it landed. ‘It is not important. I was speaking of humans.’
Nemesor Tekheron allowed Hattusil to rise and came towards them, keeping his weapon pointed at Xhartekh’s bodyguard. ‘He means the mortal species, your majesty,’ he said. ‘The simian animals that inhabited these systems before the arrival of the aether storm.’
‘Ah,’ she nodded, looking back to Xhartekh. ‘Exactly.’ She waved her hand through the chart, describing the shape of the rift. ‘Vermin that have risen in our footprints. We have encountered them even here, on Morsus. Animals that have mastered the use of crude weapons. We use their meat to fuel our ceremonial fires.’ She laughed. It was a cold, mirthless sound. ‘My beloved thinks some of the animals on Morsus are aeldari – the same witches we fought during the War in Heaven. He has us launch pointless attacks, imagining he is striking at them. Our tactics are dictated by his games of crowns. I would grieve at the waste of resources, but it at least enables us to practice battle manoeuvres and refine our tactics.’
Alakhra placed a hand on Xhartekh’s arm, halting him just as he was about to stoop and grab the lens. ‘If we use the orchestrion on the aether storm we could end it. Or at least create a path through it. And then, with Morsus secure, we could step forth and reclaim what is ours.’ She clicked another rune and dozens of symbols pulsed into life on the map, right through the path of the Great Rift. Every one of them was the cartouche of House Khenisi. ‘The aether storm has cleared a path for us. With the storm gone, we could return to our tomb worlds and unleash the full glory of House Khenisi.’ She leant back, gripping her sword in both hands and staring into the middle distance, picturing the future. ‘With a mighty queen in place of a lunatic.’
The lens was now within Xhartekh’s reach, but he paused. ‘Your majesty,’ he said, shaking his robes, causing his devices to jingle and glitter like jewels. ‘The rift is a vast anomaly that none of us fully understand. I am not sure that the orchestrion could be used that way, but I certainly have no desire to trigger a suicide bomb. The Still-heart Conclave wishes only to recover and repair. I was not sent here to help you all die.’
‘Do you think you could adapt the orchestrion to disrupt the aether storm in the way we described?’ asked the nemesor.
‘It is impossible to say without seeing it,’ said Xhartekh. ‘It is an unimaginably powerful device. Nothing of its like has been created since. And I am particularly adept at this kind of work. But I would need to see the machine before I can determine its capabilities.’
‘Can we trust him?’ demanded Alakhra.
‘Your majesty,’ replied the nemesor, ‘our own crypteks can barely understand the device. And even if they could understand it, they will never question the will of the phaeron. If they managed to power the engine, they would use it as a bomb, as he desires. If there is even a small chance this outsider could harness its true power then we have no choice but to trust him.’
Alakhra raised her sword slightly, as though considering attacking the nemesor. ‘Do not presume to order me.’
‘Your majesty, you misunderstand me. I did not mean to order you – only that we have no–’
‘Wait,’ said Xhartekh. As the Khenisi nobles were talking, he had picked up his prism and adjusted the casing, angling it towards the nearest torch. The lens caught the light and refracted it. The glass blazed with a rainbow of colours, spilling them out across the chamber, turning the room into a slowly twisting kaleidoscope. As the colours washed over the faces of the four necrons, Xhartekh tapped a switch on its hexagonal casing. ‘I acquired this during the Sostran wars. The beam splitter produces a time dilation effect. If I trigger the prism, these beams will become more than just pretty lights.’
Alakhra stepped into a battle-crouch, her sword raised, but the nemesor placed a warning hand on her shoulder.
‘If I wish it,’ continued Xhartekh, ‘these lights could throw us all far into the future. By the time your sword fell, your majesty, Morsus and its sun would be long gone. You would find yourself drifting through the stars alone, if stars still existed.’
Alakhra stayed frozen in her battle pose, ready to cut him down.
‘Very well,’ said Xhartekh. ‘Let me illustrate.’ He adjusted the prism’s casing and the beams formed a single ray of white light that fell on the nemesor’s face. Immediately, his metal shell began to shimmer and fade where the light touched it.
Tekheron backed away, raising his weapon.
‘What do you want, cryptek?’ demanded Alakhra.
‘I want what you want,’ he replied. ‘Look.’ He shook the prism, splitting its lights again. The nemesor’s shell became solid once more. ‘I could remove you from history, or hurl you far into the future – anything I desire, but I have not. That’s not why I came here. I began planning this decades before I left the conclave for Morsus. I and the rest of the conclave set wheels in motion as soon as we received your messages.’ He clicked a switch on the prism and the light vanished. ‘You can trust me.’
After a few moments’ hesitation, Alakhra lowered her sword and nodded at the nemesor.
‘There is another matter,’ said Nemesor Tekheron. He adjusted the star chart to show a fleet of necron cruisers at high anchor above Morsus. ‘Another reason to work fast.’
Xhartekh stepped closer and saw an alien glyph – a winged blood drop – shimmering at the centre of the fleet.
‘The galaxy has remembered us,’ said Tekheron.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Xhartekh. The alien symbol was familiar, and not like the aeldari runes he had seen earlier. ‘That looks human.’
The nemesor nodded. ‘But this is not just a simple animal, like the creatures on Morsus. There is a sorcerer on that vessel. He has studied our methods of war and he wields the power used by the perfidious ones during the War in Heaven. He wields only a faint shadow of aeldari sorcery, but he is a shaman or religious lord of some kind. Whoever he is, he has placed a web of psychic energy around his ship that is so dazzling it stands out even amongst all the disruption of the aether storm.’
‘But the lower races are no threat to House Khenisi,’ said Xhartekh. ‘Even if he is a sorcerer. You have whole legions at your command. What harm could one simian do?’
The nemesor shook his head. ‘None. Of course. I am not concerned about this shaman. Or the feeble shell he has woven around his ship. They would be dead already if they had not stalled for time, asking for an audience with the phaeron. But that sorcerer’s presence will act as a beacon to the primitive races. For a long time we have been left in peace, while the primitive races tried to cope with the arrival of the aether storm. They have no reliable, scientific method of space travel, as I’m sure you know. They rely on prayers and luck to cross the dimensions. But where one group lands, others always follow. When they came to Morsus in the past, they called it a crusade and mired us in an interminable war. They do not fight with any nobility, cryptek, they sim
ply swamp their foes with armies as big as nations. They are a most undignified enemy. If we do not activate the orchestrion soon, we will be trapped in an ugly war while the aether storm continues to grow. And our tactics will be decided by the phaeron’s games of crowns. We could even lose. I will be unable to marshal our forces with reason. The phaeron is a lunatic. We have to act before more of these humans arrive.’
Xhartekh was relieved to finally hear sense. ‘We share the same ambition, my lords. If you can get me to the orchestrion, I will try to bring its systems back into working order. It can, and should, be far more than a bomb. It can be the foundation of your new empire.’
Alakhra and the nemesor stared at each other.
‘It must be done,’ said Alakhra.
‘There is still the matter of his majesty the phaeron,’ said Xhartekh.
Alakhra tapped her blade with a clang. ‘I will deal with that when the time comes.’ She waved Hattusil over. ‘Just one thing,’ she said.
There was a blur of crimson metal as she drew her blade and attacked. Xhartekh recoiled, raising his arm to defend himself, but no blow landed on him. Hattusil crashed to the floor in a shower of electricity, still twitching as his skull clanged away into the shadows. He tried to rise, but before he could move, Alakhra rained dozens of sword strikes on him, tearing his body into a mound of sparking junk.
Xhartekh reached for one of his lenses but Alakhra whirled from Hattusil’s remains and pressed her blade against his throat.
‘Think of betraying me,’ she said, her voice a flat drone, ‘and your end will not be as peaceful as your servant’s.’
Xhartekh stared at his dismembered bodyguard. They had travelled togaether for centuries. Outrage stalled in his mouth as he saw the power rattling through Alakhra’s limbs.
He nodded mutely and allowed the nemesor to lead him from the chamber.
