Lukas the Trickster

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘A bribe, you mean. To forgive you your many and varied trespasses.’

  ‘If you wish to be blunt about it,’ Jhynkar said, frowning.

  Xhact smiled. ‘It is best to speak simply, I think. What are you offering?’

  ‘A world of raw materials such as we have never plundered, and the life of one who has delivered insult upon insult to our coven. Not least of which is daring to give sanctuary to one the Hex has cast out.’

  ‘You,’ Xhact said pointedly.

  Jhynkar shrugged. ‘I don’t make the rules.’

  Xhact laughed hoarsely. ‘No. Vect does. And he has raised the bounty on the Serpent’s head considerably since Sliscus’ last visit to the Dark City. Something about the theft of a tesseract device intended as a gift for the lord of one of the other kabals. But you knew that, I expect.’

  ‘Sliscus might have boasted of it once or twice.’

  ‘That sounds like him, preening fool that he is. It would raise us much in the esteem of the mighty if we were to give him a suitable ending. Something amusing, and fitting.’

  ‘I may have just the thing, revered one. But I will require aid.’ Jhynkar hid a smile, knowing what the answer would be even as he raised the matter. Xhact was no fool, but he was greedy for influence.

  A true artist was above such things, but Xhact and his followers were leeches of the first order. Their art was not conceived for its own sake, but designed to elevate them in the eyes of those whom they might serve as fleshweavers and bodycrafters. Such undignified scrabbling reduced creativity to mere mercenary endeavour.

  Understandable, in its way. Commorragh was a sea in which a soul without influence quickly sank. The covens and kabals scrambled constantly in an eternal game of power and pressure, each seeking its own advantage. It was almost beautiful, like some intricate mechanism of gloriously malign purpose, when looked at from a certain angle.

  There was an art to such manipulations. His time with Sliscus had taught him that much. Every word in the right ear was a brush stroke on a canvas as wide as the dark between the stars. And when he had completed that great work, it would be spoken of in whispers until the day the last tower of Commorragh crumbled into dust.

  But first, Xhact had to agree.

  The master of the Hex nodded slowly. ‘An intriguing prospect, I will admit. Much to be gained, and so little to be lost.’ He paused, as if something had just occurred to him. ‘And you will oversee it, will you?’

  ‘I merely proffer the information, honoured master. Make use of it as you will.’ Jhynkar bowed his head with what he hoped was proper subservience.

  Xhact snorted. ‘I shall consider it. In the meantime, make your preparations.’ The image flickered and dissolved. Xhact had cut the connection on his end. Jhynkar’s wrack slumped with a guttural moan, and he absently patted the creature on the head.

  ‘Oh, I will. I will indeed.’

  Chapter Six

  FEAST AND FIRE

  641.M41

  Feasting was a tradition. One more ritual among thousands, one more bar on the cage. To feast was to sit with your brothers on long benches, eating, drinking, singing. And at the high tables, where all could see them, the thegns and jarls would be doing the same. The only ones not singing and drinking were the thralls, forced to navigate a maze of fistfights and hungry wolves, bipedal and otherwise.

  Lukas crouched in the high rafters of iron-hard wood above the chamber and watched it all. From above, the feast resembled nothing so much as a mechanism of many parts. He could see the wheels of influence and aggression upon which the whole of the Aett turned. He wasn’t the only one who could see them – even he wasn’t so arrogant to think that. But he fancied that he was the only one who saw them for what they were.

  A trap. A trick, played on those long-dead warriors by their Wolf King. Russ had taken a legion of brutal killers and convinced them that they were heroes. He had twisted the ancient superstitions and sagas of Fenris into a cage of words to contain his wild sons. It was a chain of illusion, holding them fast, though they could neither see it nor feel it.

  All except Lukas. He rubbed the back of his neck, as if he could feel the collar chafing him. His perch creaked beneath his weight, and he glanced up. Five shapes crouched nearby, scattered across the rafters. A familiar stink tickled his nose and he sighed. ‘Halvar,’ he sub-vocalised. The name flew across the encrypted vox-link he had devised for his pack, and the shapes froze.

  ‘How’d you know it was me?’

  ‘If you want to sneak up on someone, maybe wash first.’ Lukas looked at the Blood Claws. ‘Why are you fools up here?’

  ‘We followed you,’ Kadir said, creeping closer. ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘I am preparing to teach Grimblood a lesson, as I promised. You are going back the way you came.’ He tensed. What he was planning was bound to have consequences. Grimblood could suffer wounds to anything save his pride, and that was where Lukas intended to strike.

  Kadir snorted. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re lucky I don’t boot you off these rafters,’ Lukas snarled, but softly.

  Kadir frowned. ‘We came to help. He took our glory.’

  ‘And I’m going to punish him. But it’s better if I incur his wrath alone, don’t you agree?’ Lukas frowned. ‘Get out of here, and leave me to it.’

  ‘No,’ Einar said.

  ‘He’s right,’ Ake said. ‘We won’t let you fight our battles for us. What do you need us to do, Trickster?’ The others growled agreeably, united against a common foe. Lukas hesitated. But they knew the risks, and they were right. It was their battle as well. He wasn’t a jarl, to steal their glory.

  ‘Fine. You want to help? Here.’ He tapped at a plate on his thigh. It popped loose from his armour with a hiss of displaced air, revealing a hidden port. Inside were a handful of crystal spheres. Lukas held them out to the Blood Claws. ‘I’ve been looking for an excuse to use these. Take one.’

  Kadir took one and looked at it. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A holo-flash. Projects a sort of hololithic mask over whoever is holding it. Doesn’t last long. Only a few moments, and then it burns out.’ Lukas handed them out to Einar and the others. ‘I got them from a trader of my acquaintance. She brings me all sorts of gifts in return for… certain favours.’ He grinned. ‘These she got on some feral backwater. Archaeotech, probably. They have skjalds there, of a sort. They use them when they perform before their chieftains.’ He closed the port on his thigh. ‘These are keyed to my appearance.’

  ‘So we’ll look like you?’ Kadir asked warily.

  ‘Aye, though it won’t last long, more is the pity.’ Lukas smiled. ‘Still, you’ll get to know how it feels to be this handsome, at least for a few moments.’

  ‘And what do you want us to do with them?’ Dag asked. Pale as he was, he looked positively sickly in the glow cast up by the fires below. He grinned, eager to participate in whatever Lukas was planning. For a moment, his lean features resembled a skull. Lukas blinked the image away, banishing it from his thoughts.

  ‘I want you to sneak back out of here the way you came and wait for me outside. Don’t activate them until I give the signal.’

  ‘What’s the signal?’ Ake asked, nervously bouncing his crystal on his palm.

  ‘You’ll know it when you see it. Now go. And be quiet.’

  As the Blood Claws crept away, Lukas turned back to the feast below. It was in full swing now. Normally, feasts were held to commemorate the dead, to celebrate a victory or to rejoice in a hunt yet to come. Helwinter feasts were a more energetic sort of beast – all that excess energy boiled over into a mad celebration full of noise and violence. Any thrall not serving food and drink stayed well away from Jarlheim during festivities like this.

  Below, Grimblood stood and came to the centre of the chamber. He raised his hands, and a respectful silence fell
. Whatever his faults, the jarl had a firm grip on the throat of his Great Company. One gesture was enough to put them in their place. The warriors of the other companies fell silent as well, eventually, as their own jarls glared or shouted for quiet.

  It was hard to deny that Grimblood cut an impressive figure. His battle-plate was burned black in places, and red runes had been carved on these scorched areas. They caught the firelight and shimmered eerily, exactly as the Wolf Lord had likely intended.

  Lukas snorted. He knew what came next. Every feast, Grimblood liked to ruin the fun with a long-winded ramble on his favourite subject. The jarl circled the great firepit that occupied the heart of the chamber. ‘The fire speaks to me,’ he rumbled. His voice carried through the chamber easily, reaching every ear. ‘The galaxy burns. And if we fail, it will be consumed. Luckily, failure is not something we are known for, eh, brothers?’

  A shout went up at this. Fists thumped tables and tankards crashed down. Grimblood smiled. He struck his chest with a balled fist. ‘We are the sons of Russ, and failure is not in us. Whatever the battle, whatever the cost, we stand true. Always and forever.’ He held up his fists and brought them together. ‘We are the iron of two great worlds, of Fenris and Terra, hammered together by the hands of the Wolf King and forged into a killing blade.’

  Roars now. Bellows of agreement from those too drunk on mjod to hold their tongues, or to notice that Grimblood was lifting lines from one of the most famous speeches ever given by their primarch. ‘We are the Wolves that Stalk the Stars, and the beasts of void and darkness fear us. They burn their worlds lest we catch their scent. They flee at the first glimpse of us, at the first sounding of our howl. They prefer the agonies of Hel to the touch of our fangs. They fear us!’

  Lukas settled back on his haunches as a solid wave of noise rose from the feasters. His ears ached with the din. Below, Grimblood turned as he spoke, casting his gaze across every table. ‘Aye, they fear us, and they are right to do so, for once a wolf bites, it does not let go until its prey is dead. They come seeking slaughter, and we give it to them, brothers,­ measure for measure.’

  Someone had begun to pound rhythmically on a table. Others joined in. Grimblood spread his arms. ‘Feel the ground tremble and quake, brothers. Feel the echoes of the storm cascading through the stone of the mountain. Feel our world twist in its rage – it is a gift, that rage. It makes us strong, it is what our enemies fear. It is our fire, burning cold at the core of us. But like every fire since the first, it must eventually consume us.’

  A voice rose in a dirge and was soon joined by others. Dolorous and proud, like the groan of a dying animal. Lukas winced. Grimblood turned to the fire and swept his hands through it, as if to capture the flames between his fingers.

  ‘Our fire is the wolf in our blood. It is ever hungry, and will devour us each in its turn. But that is how it must be. Morkai comes for every man, and he cannot deny it, no matter how he might wish it. Our enemies deny death, they deny the truth of things, and so make themselves into lies. But we are the truth made flesh.’

  The dirge grew louder and wilder. The kill-urge rose suddenly, beating at Lukas’ temples and choking his throat. He forced it back, fighting for clarity. Grimblood continued to speak, but Lukas ignored him. It was too easy to get swept up in these self-aggrandising refrains. Not truth, but boasts and lies. Grimblood was just teasing the beast, so that when the Helwinter released its hold on the Aett, the companies would burst forth and harry the stars with appropriate vigour. It was his duty, and he was good at it.

  ‘And this is my duty,’ Lukas muttered as he reached into one of the pouches on his belt. The pouch was specially insulated, and inside rested a neat, gelatinous sphere. It fit easily in his palm, immediately losing its shape as he wrapped his fingers around it.

  Lukas warmed the solution between his palms. It had the consistency of rubber, but with less tensile strength. As it warmed, its surface began to ripple and bubble. He grinned. The substance was made primarily from kraken ichor and drake blubber. Combining them in the correct quantities along with some form of accelerant made for a potent, if largely harmless, flammable gelling agent. He rolled the solution once more into a tight ball and dropped it into the firepit.

  When it landed, the fire sprang up and out, blazing wild for a brief moment as the solution exploded. Grimblood whirled, and droplets of the gelling agent splattered across his face and armour. The jarl staggered back as his beard burst into flames. The rest of his hair went up like a torch, and he howled. He stumbled over a wolf, and the animal scrambled away, yelping. Its cries set the other wolves to similarly voice their confusion. The shouts and curses of the warriors at the tables only added to the furore.

  Lukas laughed. It was going better than he had expected. Still, he hadn’t intended to set Grimblood’s whole head on fire. That was a failing on his part, and one he needed to address swiftly, before things got out of hand. He sprang from his perch and dropped to the floor.

  Lukas landed opposite the bellowing Wolf Lord. He howled out his laughter as he scooped up a barrel of mjod from a nearby table and bounded towards Grimblood. The jarl’s eyes widened as he realised what Lukas was planning. ‘No!’ he sputtered.

  Lukas slammed the foamy barrel over Grimblood’s head, putting out the flames with a heavy splash. The Wolf Lord threw a wild punch, but Lukas easily avoided the blind blow. Still laughing, he leapt up onto another table. ‘All this talk of fire, and no thought given to putting it out? For shame, my jarl – what would Russ say?’

  Grimblood tore the barrel apart, splattering liquid everywhere. What was left of his singed hair and beard was plastered to his skull in limp knots. He roared in fury. Warriors grabbed at Lukas, hurling themselves across the table as he ran down its length. Lukas leapt and slid, kicking up platters of food and knocking over tankards in his madcap dash for the door. Grey Hunters moved to cut him off. One rushed him with a beef bone, and Lukas was forced to defend himself with a platter. He kicked his attacker’s legs out from under him and leapt for the wall beyond the table.

  As the soles of his boots crunched against the stonework, he twisted and pushed himself towards one of the ancient chandeliers that hung from the rafters. He stretched out a hand, catching the black iron rim. Still laughing, he swung himself towards the exit. When he reached the apex of the swing, he let go and landed in a crouch. Without hesitation, he scrambled to his feet and towards the doors. He heard Grimblood roaring behind him and felt the floor tremble as warriors galloped in pursuit. He didn’t look back.

  Lukas hit the doors full tilt, scattering thralls. As he raced into the corridor, he heard a familiar howl and saw a flash out of the corner of his eye. A moment later, five copies of himself were racing alongside him. Lukas threw back his head and laughed. ‘Split up,’ he barked. ‘Let’s lead them on a merry chase, brothers. Hloja!’

  The howls of the Rout pursued them into the dark.

  Galerunner pushed the great bronze-banded doors open and entered the Hall of Silences. Jarlheim was in an uproar. Packs of Grey Hunters scoured the tunnels and corridors, seeking something. Or someone. Galerunner knew well enough who that someone was without having to be told. No doubt that was the reason he had been summoned.

  ‘I told him,’ he said softly to his shadow. ‘But he didn’t listen.’ He had warned Grimblood about provoking the Jackalwolf. Anger was the Rout’s vice, and Lukas played on it often. Whole packs of vengeful Grey Hunters had been led into the depths of the Aett by a laughing shadow, only to return some hours later, shame-faced and smelling of troll piss or worse things. Brondt Rocktooth had pursued Lukas through the Bloodfire Gate and vanished for three cycles, eventually staggering back with his battle-plate stained black with kraken ichor and a haunted look in his eyes.

  Only the mad and the desperate tried to catch the Jackalwolf by the tail. Lukas could be endured if you were clever. Other jarls had managed it, in their time. Bu
t not Grimblood. And now he was paying for it. Galerunner sighed.

  The Hall of Silences lived up to its name. The Aett echoed with noise. All save this place, where silence seemed to swell in on itself, drowning out all sound. It sat on the eastern slopes of the mountain, a shrine to forgotten things, built by men who forgot nothing. Galerunner frowned. ‘No matter how much we might wish to,’ he muttered.

  Here was the battle-plate of a warrior who had fallen in the Months of Shame, shorn of totems and markers, for reasons known only to the Great Wolf. There, the tattered blue uniform of a Delsvaan Warden, killed in the fall of Masaanore-Core, a decade before Leman Russ had taken his Legion in hand. The walls were heavy with shameful trophies and tokens of bitter remembrance. The air was pregnant with stories untold.

  It was the Wolf King who had given the Hall of Silences its purpose. To ensure that his warriors tasted not just the sweet, but the bitter as well, or so the Wolf Priests claimed. It was one of many such shrines that dotted the slopes and crags of the Fang, tributes to past mistakes. Few warriors of the Rout visited the hall these days, however.

  Galerunner could find no fault in that. The air here stank of regret. The battered suits of armour that decorated the crudely carved stasis-alcoves were reminders of the worst moments of Legion and Chapter.

  He found Grimblood waiting for him. The Wolf Lord was gazing at the contents of an alcove, his face marked with soot and burns. His hair and beard had been scorched to stubble, and his armour stank of something. Trails of grimy residue marred the grey plate, smoke still rising from it in places.

  ‘You called, jarl. I have come.’

  ‘I have eyes, Galerunner,’ Grimblood said. He trembled with barely restrained violence, as if he wanted nothing more than to tear flesh and break bone. He fixed his yellow gaze on the Rune Priest. ‘This is a place of contemplation. I came here so that my anger might bleed out safely.’ His eyes flashed. ‘It is taking longer than usual, for obvious reasons.’ He indicated his burnt features. ‘I need your wisdom, priest.’