by Darius Hinks
He paced around the necron, watching it closely. ‘It is a debased dialect. A mockery of the languages used by your necrontyr forbears, but I can decipher your meaning.’
The necron emitted a sound like blades being sharpened. ‘I am Heliomancer Xhartekh. That will mean nothing to a simple creature such as you, but I was studying languages thousands of years before your relatives crawled out of a swamp. And you are a panting animal. An ape in clothes. How dare you lecture me about my forbears?’
Mephiston kept talking, trying to buy himself time. He still did not understand what the dead wanted.
‘Do you know why it’s called an orchestrion?’ he asked.
The necron stared at him in silence.
‘It projects astral music,’ explained Mephiston. ‘Not audible sound. I mean a kind of musica universalis. It mimics the interactions of heavenly bodies. It recognises the harmony of nature. The divine angles. The pure mathematics. It sees the poetry of the spheres and the symmetry that binds us all togaether.’
Mephiston placed a hand on the orchestrion. ‘It understands the beauty of the universe and utilises that knowledge to confound. It can sing an altered harmony alongside the great song of reality, distorting the physics that link dimensions.’
The necron sneered. ‘You mean it blinds witches like you.’
Mephiston nodded, like a teacher encouraging a backward student. ‘Something like that. Your forbears used it to blind the aeldari in the wars of prehistory, that is certainly true. How it ended up here, I can–’
He paused, noticing the ugly rent in the side of the box and the thick cable jammed into it.
‘What have you done?’
The necron was still playing with the little box that hung from its robes, clearly tiring of their conversation, and Mephiston realised he was almost out of time. Soon he would have to kill the necron. But he sensed he was close to his answer. The hole in the box was an appalling act of vandalism, but it also screamed out to him as being in some way significant.
‘Why would you do such a thing?’ he asked.
‘I did not. The phaeron’s crypteks are responsible. They are draining the power of this priceless relic to bolster their weapons and make their faces look less rusted. Ridiculous. They use it like a battery – just to power their regeneration nodes and enhance their command protocols.’
Mephiston halted. The pieces fell into place. He glanced at the ranks of dead, sending them silent thanks.
‘They linked the power of this device to some of their troops?’
‘To all of their troops,’ replied the necron. ‘They fed it through the regeneration nodes. But it was not my idea.’
It strode towards Mephiston, still clutching the mirrored cube, jabbing it at him like a knife.
‘You said you knew how to activate it, but I have seen no sign that you really know. I think you are playing for time, simian. I think you were lying when you said–’
‘I can activate it. But it will do you no good.’
The necron clicked a switch on the cube and it pulsed with inner light, spraying pale energy into a lens on the front of its casing. ‘Show me.’
Mephiston stepped over to the device. ‘The orchestrion is triggered by the same thing it blocks.’ He held his hand, fingers splayed, over the central disc of lenses. ‘Psychic resonance.’
‘Witchcraft?’ snapped the necron. ‘Is that all you have to offer?’
Mephiston whispered an oath and channelled warp fire from his psychic hood, through his hand and into the spinning lenses. The tracery on the orchestrion lit up, glowing like lava flows, shimmering across the polished metal.
The necron lowered its weapon, staring at the orchestrion as the tracery burned brighter. ‘What have you done?’
Mephiston was about to reply when the sound of marching troops filled the hall outside. He rushed to the door, then halted as he saw that the hall was crowded with necron warriors and lychguard. They were divided into two camps, marching towards each other, about to meet in the centre of the chamber.
Leading the necron warriors on this side were two nobles. One was unlike any necron Mephiston had seen before – slender, almost feminine, and painted a dark, bloody red. It moved with lethal grace, weaving and padding through the rows of caskets as though hunting an unseen prey.
The second noble was of a kind Mephiston had encountered before. It was a powerful, regal-looking lord that wore a grand helmet topped by a wide, transverse crest: a necron general. It strode purposely at the head of its troops, trying to keep pace with its crimson companion.
On the opposite side of the hall marched the lychguard and at their head were two thrones, each carried by a scrum of mindless, metal courtiers. In the first throne sat a being so grand and finely attired that it could only be the phaeron, but Mephiston was confused by the figure in the second throne. It looked like a dismembered corpse, wrapped in rags and strapped to its throne.
‘Nemesor Tekheron!’ cried the phaeron, rising up in its throne. ‘I knew you would be here. Even with all your ridiculous talk of attacks, I knew you would want to see the war engine activated. Our ascension is moments away, Tekheron. Soon we will–’
‘You are insane,’ interrupted the necron general as it approached the throne. ‘None dare say it, but I will. Your mind is gone. Even now, with the fortress besieged, you can only think of your absurd predictions.’
The phaeron shook its head, clearly bewildered. ‘Insane?’ The necron looked back at the bundle of rags and meat in the other throne. ‘What is he talking about? What does he mean?’
As the general neared the throne, it gave its troops a signal and they trained their weapons on the phaeron. The phaeron held up a warning hand and lowered its voice to a dangerous hum, studying the ranks of troops arrayed behind the general.
‘You would dare raise arms against me?’
The phaeron gave a signal and its warriors pointed their gauss weapons at the general’s troops. The general paused a dozen feet from the throne, blocked by the phaeron’s vanguard. For a moment, no one moved.
Mephiston looked back into the laboratory and saw that the runes on the orchestrion’s surface were growing brighter with every second. He smiled.
There was an explosion of splintering metal as the crimson necron reappeared and crashed through the phaeron’s troops. It sprinted towards the thrones with a blinding flurry of sword strikes. The lychguard whirled around, trying to defend their phaeron, but the crimson necron tricked them. Rather than making for the phaeron, at the last moment it dived in a different direction, pouncing on the pile of meat and rags in the second throne.
The phaeron made a strange screeching sound as the red necron lifted the corpse and beheaded it, hurling the rotten skull to the floor, where it burst apart with a dull popping sound.
The lychguard opened fire, ripping the red necron to pieces in a dazzling barrage of gauss fire. The general’s troops returned fire and the hall exploded into movement and noise as the two factions rushed towards each other, weapons blazing.
The general took a shot to the chest and fell backwards, dropping its glaive as necron warriors toppled all around it. The general’s troops rushed to defend their lord, but more lychguard pushed into the chamber, blasting the phaeron’s enemies to pieces.
‘Wait!’ cried Xhartekh, appearing next to Mephiston. ‘The device is activated!’ The noise of the battle was too great, so Xhartekh stepped out into the fray, dodging gauss blasts and trying to be heard.
The phaeron had nearly reached the general when Xhartekh noticed what Mephiston had done.
‘What is this? What is happening to them?’ asked Xhartekh, studying the battling necrons through a lens. Every one of them was starting to glow. Light seeped through their metal bones – not the green flame that pulsed from their eye sockets, but a white, pearlescent aura that was quickly growing
brighter.
‘I did as you asked,’ replied Mephiston. ‘I triggered the orchestrion’s primary power relays.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Of course not,’ said Mephiston, still watching the scene unfolding in the hall.
By this time, the phaeron had reached the wounded general. It leapt from its throne and smashed its sceptre into the general’s head. As the weapon hit, it crackled like a Tesla coil, splitting the general’s head into a cloud of metal splinters.
‘You will never rise again!’ cried the phaeron, pummelling the headless body, scattering sparks across the floor.
‘I will see that you never…’ The phaeron’s words trailed away as it noticed the glow pouring from its chest. The light was now so fierce that the necrons seemed to be wearing white armour.
‘What is this?’ demanded the phaeron, looking over towards where Xhartekh was standing and finally noticing Mephiston.
Mephiston stood calmly, his hands resting on Vitarus’ pommel.
‘Your majesty,’ said Xhartekh. ‘I have activated the orchestrion.’
The phaeron raised its arms, staring at the light pouring from its metal flesh.
‘In truth,’ said Mephiston, speaking to Xhartekh, ‘your machine is broken.’
‘Broken?’ Xhartekh looked back at the orchestrion. ‘But you have awoken it.’
‘Even ruined,’ replied Mephiston, ‘it is a source of unusual power. And that cable you jammed into it gives me a direct link to every necron on Morsus.’
Xhartekh finally understood. The cryptek reached for its weapon, but too late.
The necrons in the hall became a constellation of stars, radiant with the power Mephiston had unleashed from the orchestrion.
‘We are ascending!’ cried the phaeron as, one by one, the necrons’ bodies burned away, leaving only luminous pillars of fire.
As the orchestrion’s core overloaded, its power over Mephiston was removed. His mind grew clear. The ancient machine pulsed and died, and his vision was reborn. He sighed with satisfaction as he saw, with absolute clarity, the end of every necron on Morsus. Wherever they were on the planet, battling Rhacelus in the halls above, or sitting outraged in their throne rooms and battle cruisers, they burned briefly with the full force of the orchestrion, then blinked out of existence.
The necrons flickered and vanished until only the phaeron remained, shaking its head, staring at Mephiston, sensing that something was wrong. It tried to walk towards him, but after a few steps, the phaeron disintegrated, toppling into a cloud of embers that faded as they drifted away.
The hall sank into darkness.
Mephiston ducked as a gauss beam sizzled past him and hit the stone walls. Xhartekh was behind him, striding through the fading lights, clutching a glowing crystal.
‘You are not from this dynasty,’ said Mephiston, understanding. ‘Not linked to their regeneration nodes.’
Xhartekh said nothing, preparing to fire the crystal again.
With the orchestrion gone, Mephiston’s power was unshackled. He was already regaining his control of time’s eddies and currents. It was easy for him to step into a frozen moment, draw his pistol and gun the necron down.
Xhartekh crashed to the floor, cursed, and drew out a different device, flipping a clasp on its side. Mephiston braced himself for another blast, but instead of attacking him, Xhartekh simply vanished.
Mephiston hurled his newly recovered sight through the walls of the necropolis, but Xhartekh was nowhere. He shrugged. The cryptek was of no interest to him. With the orchestrion destroyed, his work on Morsus was complete.
He stood there for a moment, savouring the calm, listening to the rumble of vast machines exploding around the complex. Every one of the necron regeneration nodes had been torn apart by the overloading orchestrion. As they exploded, shedding tonnes of stone and metal, the necropolis began to tremble. It would not survive such a wound. Within hours, the city would be lost, finally burying its long-dead lords.
The wall in front of Mephiston glowed where Xhartekh’s shot had scored it, then even that light faded, leaving Mephiston in complete darkness.
He waited, knowing who would come. After a few seconds, he sensed them – the dead, gathering around him, pressing close, reaching towards his face. He opened his arms, welcoming them home, knowing, finally, who he was.
Epilogue
‘Well?’ asked Rhacelus. ‘Was it worth the risk, codicier? What did you learn?’
The two Librarians were standing with Brother-Lieutenant Servatus on the command dais, right at the centre of the Blood Oath’s bridge, surrounded by dozens of blood thralls and servitors. The hall was thick with incense-heavy smoke as the serfs performed the myriad rites needed before a jump to warp space.
Antros could think of nothing to say and kept his gaze fixed in the middle distance.
A few feet away from them, First Officer Castulo was ordering his officers to make final checks and ready the rest of the crew for the journey ahead. Like the Blood Oath, Castulo had barely survived the battle for Morsus. When the ceasefire ended, the necrons had begun attacking the ship again. The wards invoked by the Librarians had held, deflecting most of the damage, but not all. Castulo walked with the stooped posture of a man twice his age and his face was a colourful explosion of bruises.
As Castulo prepared for the jump, the bodies of his crew were still being carried away. Mephiston was overseeing the preparations personally and this was clearly adding to the first officer’s pain. Vidiens had been replaced by another, almost identical servitor that fluttered beside the Chief Librarian, holding the salver out to him. Mephiston was gesturing to the impossibly intricate grids on its surface, explaining to the first officer the route they needed to take as they continued their hunt for the daemon.
The three Librarians had not spoken on the gunship that returned them to the Blood Oath. Mephiston had spent the journey hunched over his salver, plotting the next stage of their route, deep in one of his strange fugue states, and Rhacelus had been under the care of a Sanguinary Priest. He had sustained several injuries during the necrons’ final push to reach Mephiston and he was barely conscious for most of the flight back to the frigate.
It was only now, several hours after they had returned to the Blood Oath, that he had sought Antros out for an explanation.
‘Antros,’ said Rhacelus. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘My lord,’ he replied, shaking his head, ‘forgive me.’ He hesitated a moment longer. Until that second, he had fully intended to explain everything he had learned from the Sons of Helios, but as he watched Mephiston talking to the first officer, an unexpected answer came from his lips.
‘I learned nothing, Lord Rhacelus,’ he said. ‘You were right. It was a needless risk. The Sons of Helios have no special skills. There was nothing they could offer that might aid the Chief Librarian. If they did have anything unique about them, they would not have lost their home world and most of their Chapter.’
Rhacelus frowned and looked closely at him. Antros could feel the old Librarian’s thoughts pressing in on his own, looking for a trace of deception. It was almost laughably easy to shield his mind. There was a time when Rhacelus’ powers of telepathy dwarfed Antros’, but since his time in the Great Rift, Antros felt like a giant beside his old tutor. It was like deceiving a child.
‘Three weeks wasted then.’ Rhacelus sounded annoyed rather than suspicious, and Antros relaxed. ‘Consult me in future. There is no reason for you to trouble the Chief Librarian with your schemes.’
‘Of course, Lord Rhacelus.’
‘If you had arrived on Morsus before the fighting ended, our losses may not have been so grievous.’
‘I realise that, my lord.’
One of the blood thralls approached to ask Lieutenant Servatus a question and Antros took the chance to leave, feeling Rhacelus’ gaz
e burning into his back as he left the bridge.
As soon as he was out of Rhacelus’ sight, he came to a halt and sighed, baffled by his own behaviour. Why did I lie? he thought. There’s no way back now. How could I ever explain such a terrible deception?
He ducked into the first empty chapel he could find and sat before the altar, trying to clear his thoughts. He could not understand why he had not told Rhacelus of the Sleepless Mile. He had raced across half the sector, desperate to share what he knew and now, when he had his chance, he held it back. As he stared at the altar, an image slipped into his mind. He recalled how he had found Mephiston on Morsus, hunched over the xenos device, talking to a necron as though they were old allies. There would doubtless be some explanation for the Chief Librarian’s behaviour. All he had to do was ask him. When he boarded the gunship on Morsus, the other Blood Angels had explained how the Chief Librarian defeated the necrons by massively overloading their regeneration nodes. He had slaughtered every one of them. The idea that Mephiston was in league with the xenos was absurd. And yet… And yet Antros knew he was not going to tell Mephiston what he had learned. On some fundamental level he could not rid himself of doubt.
Antros felt furious at his own disloyalty. The anger blossomed in his mind, turning to aetheric force with shocking speed. The iron bench beneath him buckled and warped, popping screws and groaning as though it were alive. The candles in the sconces flashed brighter and the flames began to writhe across the walls, snaking towards him. Antros gasped. The power jolting through his flesh was beyond his control. It seemed to be coming from outside his thoughts and it was growing wilder with every second.
He heard footsteps outside, rushing towards the chapel. He had to control himself, quickly. He could not be seen in this state. For a moment, he was at a loss and the tremors grew even more violent. Power flooded out of him, causing the shrine to twist and bulge as though crushed by an invisible hand.
