Lukas the Trickster

by Josh Reynolds

  He spun. The blade left his hand, and her fan snapped up, trapping it before it reached her face. Malys glared at him. ‘You dare?’ she hissed, rising to her feet.

  She stopped as Sleg and the other Sslyth tensed visibly, their flat eyes watching her with brute anticipation. The dry rasp of their coils against the deck was as good a warning as the hiss of a blade from its sheath.

  ‘Aurelia, of course I dare. I am Duke Traevelliath Sliscus. I have danced with daemon-women on the hulls of dying ships and cut the heart from a trueborn prince while his kabal watched. I have tweaked the nose of the Tyrant not once, but twice, and got away clean. And do you know why?’

  ‘He favours you,’ Malys said.

  ‘Because I serve a purpose, as do you. Do not allow your ambition to blind you to the realities of your situation, Aurelia. You know as well as I that Vect has spared you all these years not out of affection or fear, but because you have a use.’

  Before Malys could reply, one of the Raider’s crew shouted and pointed. Sliscus laughed and strode to the prow, taking a splinter rifle offered up by one of his slaves. The rifle was a thing of jagged beauty, like all of his weapons. Its stock was inlaid with ivory and gold, and the barrel was covered in ornate scrollwork carved by his own hand. The design had come to him in a dream, and he had endeavoured to capture it in metal.

  ‘What is it?’ Malys asked, turning in her seat.

  ‘They have been brought to bay, at last.’ He lifted the rifle and peered down its length. The wolf-beasts had been driven into the lee of a stone cleft rising from the ice. Such miniscule islands marked the frozen seas like tombstones. This one resembled nothing so much as two axe-blades of stone thrust into the ice, one beside the other.

  The other Raiders had surged ahead of the pack and cut them off. The wolf-things now crouched among the icy rocks, snarling at the sleek vessels that circled them like birds of prey. Sliscus took aim at one of the beasts as it burst from cover and lunged for a gap between the Raiders. He fired. The creature gave a mournful howl and tumbled, hindquarters over head. It slid across the ice, leaving behind a smear of blood.

  ‘Ha! Take us down.’ Sliscus lifted the rifle and grinned, pleased with himself. It was no easy thing to hit a moving target under conditions such as these. The snow was falling more fiercely as the wind picked up. The Raider drifted towards the ice, juddering slightly, but Sliscus paid it no mind.

  He and Malys stepped onto the ice a moment later. It crackled softly underfoot as he strode towards the wounded beast. There was still some fight in it, despite the gory wound in its flank. The splinters had torn open its side, and he could see the pale slash of bone within the mangled flesh and muscle. On the rocks, the other beasts had set to howling as his warriors kept them at bay with bursts of splinter fire.

  The wolf-thing was twice his size. It stank of sour blood and spoiled meat. It whined, acidic slaver dripping from its blunt muzzle, as it scrabbled to face him. The whine spiralled up into a grating snarl, and the beast heaved itself in his direction. Inhuman muscles bunched and stretched, claws like knife blades cracking the ice. It lunged for him, yellow eyes wide and empty of anything save feral rage.

  Sliscus laughed and made to fire, but the beast was too quick. It crashed into him and sent him sprawling backwards. The ice cracked threateningly beneath him as he slammed down. The lupine monstrosity snapped at him, and he thrust the length of his rifle between its jagged teeth. He heard yells and saw warriors racing across the ice to his aid. ‘Stay back,’ he shouted, shoving the beast away. Its strength was fading as its blood spilled across the ice. ‘This is my hunt – my kill!’ Still gripping the rifle in both hands, he got his feet under him and rose. The creature slipped back, growling.

  With a wrench of its head, the beast pulled the weapon from his grip and hurled it away. Sliscus leapt back. He considered drawing his ­liquifier pistol, but discarded the idea. Instead, he reached for his swords. The spirit stones pulsed with agitation as he drew them.

  The wolf-thing leapt, roaring. He ducked beneath it and let his blades slice across its belly. It landed in a heap, its paws tangled in its own intestines. It wailed like a dying man and spun, quicker than he would have thought possible given its condition. It snapped at him, tearing at his cloak as he danced out of reach. He slashed at its snout, filling its nose with blood. It struggled on, pursuing him, leaving its life on the ice. He darted in and out, flicking his blades across its hairy form, carving it to pieces even as it lunged and grunted.

  He could hear his warriors cheering as he tortured the beast. They enjoyed such displays. Sliscus preened, stretching the moment of execution, allowing them to drink in the creature’s agony. It was just human enough to have some dim grasp of what was happening to it, almost as if the pain were awakening that part of it that had long been lost. Things that might have been words tumbled from its frothing ­muzzle, lost among the wheezing snarl. Was it pleading with him? Cursing him? He couldn’t say, and didn’t care.

  Sliscus ended the dance with a skill that left his audience breathless. The lupine monster made a half-hearted lunge, propelled more by stubbornness than strength. Sliscus reversed his blades and thrust them down through the beast’s glaring eyes, extinguishing their baleful light forever. The massive engine of meat and savagery went limp, with only a resigned sigh to mark its passing.

  He extricated his swords with a flourish, casting droplets of blood about him in a dark halo. He bowed low, accepting the enthusiastic applause as his due. Sleg and several of his coil-kin slithered to the body, their blades ready to skin and gut the creature. Its altered organs would make for a unique meal, and its hide would make a fine coat. Leaving them to it, Sliscus strode back towards the rocks where the rest of the pack still crouched.

  Jhynkar was waiting for him there. ‘Yes, yes, these will do perfectly,’ the crooked fleshweaver said as the remaining beasts were brought to bay by his wracks. His malformed assistants wielded a variety of restraint devices – shock-staves, barbed nets and neuro-chains. ‘So much potential, stifled by circumstance. They are almost art in and of themselves.’ He studied the snarling, snapping creatures fondly. ‘Oh, what wonders I might make of such raw materials.’

  ‘And it is wonders I demand, Jhynkar. Wonders and horrors such as no other’s eyes have witnessed. Unique and without equal.’ Sliscus slapped the haemonculus on the back, nearly flattening him. ‘I want something exceptional to remember this hunt by.’ He looked at Jhynkar, his gaze calculating. ‘Can you do it?’

  Jhynkar nodded hastily. ‘Oh, absolutely, my lord. I shall torture my muse to the utmost, in your name.’

  Sliscus smiled. ‘That’s what I like to hear. Now, how is your former master getting along? I understand the Hex have acquired their own pets?’

  Jhynkar bobbed his head. ‘Oh, yes, several less devolved examples of the altered template. They are still in the throes of genetic transmogrification into the advanced form – not quite mon-keigh anymore, but not yet transhuman. Their minds are engines of instinct. Easy prey for Xhact and his pain-engines.’

  That Xhact had gone for such prey was not surprising. The master of Hex had little love of a challenge. Still, Sliscus admired his creativity – Xhact had a way with flesh and bone that few others could match. That was why he had allowed Jhynkar to convince him to invite Xhact. That Jhynkar was undoubtedly hoping to somehow worm his way back into the coven’s good graces was neither here nor there.

  ‘Good, good,’ Sliscus said. ‘So long as everyone is having fun, yes?’

  Myrta stood on the ice, watching as Jhynkar’s wracks muscled the last of the snarling beasts into the Raider’s hold. Shock-staves crackled as the wracks jabbed the creatures into barbed nets and dragged them bodily up the loading planks. Several of Jhynkar’s slaves were dead, but there were always more where they came from.

  The beasts were destined for the pits at the base camp. There they
would join the many other prisoners taken in the days since the arrival of Sliscus and his guests. She thought of the humans crouched in their stinking cages, awaiting branding and transport to the Incessant Agony. The beasts would suffer a different fate than the rest of the meat. Sliscus would want to keep them. He did so enjoy his monsters.

  She frowned slightly. Sliscus was an avid collector of monsters. Sleg and his scaly kin. Jhynkar and his wracks. The broken collection of cast-offs, turncoats and lunatics that made up his fleet. Herself, even. There were some among the nobility of the Eternal City who considered her sisterhood an abomination. They thought them a throwback to the old pleasure-cults that had supposedly doomed their ancestors to a twilight existence. And perhaps they were right.

  Myrta pushed the thought aside. She lacked the hedonistic tendencies of many of her sisters. She preferred the poisoner’s blade to the courtesan’s dance. Perhaps that was why she had been gifted to Sliscus. As punishment. Her jaw tightened, and her fingers gripped the hilt of her sword.

  A burst of laughter caught her attention, and she glanced at a nearby knot of corsairs. They were dressed in colourful silks and armour that was more decorative than functional. They were watching her, and she had little doubt that their laughter was directed at her.

  She drew her splinter pistol smoothly and fired. Ice cracked and sprayed across their armour. They leapt back, their jeers turning to cries of alarm. She smiled prettily and holstered her weapon. They turned away from her, pulling the tatters of their dignity about them. She left them to it. She had killed three captains already, not counting Kakaroth, as well as two archons. And twice that number of petty corsairs and trueborn aesthetes. Some, like Kakaroth, had attempted to kill her. Others had insulted Sliscus, either to his face or behind his back. At least one had committed the ultimate sin of choosing an outfit vaguely reminiscent of the one the Duke had worn that day.

  All of them had died. Some by poison, others by the blade. One by the weapons of his own crew. The role of executioner was just one of the responsibilities Sliscus had foisted on her since their arrival. To her had fallen the task of organising the camp and making the mon-keigh dwellings fit for purpose. She had arranged for the dozens of disparate hunting parties to stay in some sort of contact despite the storm’s interference.

  She watched as slaves bearing platters of food and drink circulated among the laughing corsairs. Despite the wind and the snow, the dark eldar were enjoying themselves. The smell of blood was on the air, and prey was plentiful. She turned away from their laughter and went to where the Sslyth were butchering the Duke’s kill.

  Myrta looked down at the beast in annoyance. If that was the best this world could muster, she was doomed to disappointment.

  ‘You were hoping it would kill him.’

  Myrta turned. Malys stood behind her. The archon gestured with her fan. ‘Do not deny it, courtesan. I saw the eagerness on your face as the beast lunged for his throat. The others may have been watching the battle, but I was watching you.’

  Myrta tapped the pommel of her blade. ‘And what of it?’ she said petulantly. ‘He knows I wish him dead, so if you seek to hold your suspicion over me, you are sadly out of luck, my lady.’

  Malys clicked her tongue. ‘Your sisterhood has ever prided itself on its wisdom. Yet in matters such as this, you are as children. Sliscus is no Low Commorragh archon, with a paltry kabal and reach exceeding his grasp. He is called the Serpent for good reason. He is amoral, despicable and impeccably dressed. If Vect himself could not kill him, then what hope has this world?’

  Myrta frowned. ‘Then what would you suggest?’

  Malys laughed. ‘Suggest? Nothing. There is no hope for you. Accept your fate, or dive into the wolf’s jaws if it displeases you so.’

  Myrta’s hand fell to the hilt of her blade. She yearned to draw it and show Malys the extent of her displeasure. But something in the archon’s expression stopped her. ‘You misunderstand me, courtesan,’ Malys continued quietly. ‘I mock you, true, but not out of cruelty. Merely to point out the flaws in your scheme.’ She chuckled. ‘Indeed, I will help you, if you will let me.’

  ‘I thought you wanted him alive,’ Myrta said.

  ‘I want him in my debt,’ Malys corrected. ‘He listens to you, as he will not listen to others. He does so because he thinks he has nothing to fear from you. He knows your secret desire, and it makes him arrogant. So I will help you humble him.’

  ‘But not kill him?’

  ‘Why kill what can be useful?’ Malys smiled. She looked down at the dead creature. ‘No. You do not want such a beast dead, my dear. You want him… tamed.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ROUSING THE PACK

  641.M41

  The tunnel was a tight fit, especially given their burdens.

  ‘This isn’t how I imagined we would be doing this,’ Halvar said as he adjusted the weight of the mjod cask hanging from his back, just beneath his battle-plate’s power pack. Rather than delicious amber ­liquid, it contained the broken body of one of their foes.

  Lukas thought forlornly of the last dregs of mjod sloshing at the bottom of the cask, now never to be drunk. But only briefly. Some things were too painful to consider. ‘They’re not likely to let us in without an argument. And time is of the essence.’ He had his own cask, filled with a similar weight of dead meat. Lukas patted it, causing it to gurgle unpleasantly. ‘Besides, it keeps them from stinking too badly.’

  ‘We’re pickling them. We could have drunk that.’

  ‘At least we’re not eating them afterwards.’ Lukas’ expression became speculative. ‘Though we could, I suppose.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Seems a waste to burn them, is all.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is your sense of adventure, Halvar?’ Lukas asked. ‘New experiences are what life is all about.’

  ‘Not our lives. I just kill xenos – I don’t eat them.’ Halvar hesitated. ‘Except ork, on occasion. Very rare occasions,’ he added hastily.

  ‘No need to be ashamed, pup. We’ve all eaten an ork at one time or another. They cook up nicely.’ Lukas concentrated on navigating the narrow, uneven corridor. It was a natural bore hole, worn open by tectonic pressures, weather or some long ago disaster. One of the secret paths that wolves and other things used to sneak into the Aett.

  This one wound its way into the refectories. Using the front gate had been ruled right out. Grimblood and the other jarls needed to be alerted to the presence of the xenos on Fenris, but they wouldn’t be inclined to listen. Not that he could blame them.

  The tunnel abruptly came to a dead end, a thin circle of light marking the rough-hewn wall. Lukas pressed himself against the rock face, his hands moving slowly. ‘When I found this tunnel I spent some time making sure no one else could do so,’ he said. Unseen tumblers clicked and the rock face shuddered. The circle of light expanded, the rock hissing. Lukas lifted part of the wall up and away.

  The heat of the refectory washed over them as they stepped out of the tunnel. Lukas breathed in, tasting the mingled aromas of cooking meat and off-world spices. While meat was often roasted over the great firepits that marked the heart of every gathering chamber, that was more for show than anything else. The bulk of every meal was made in the refectories by the sure hands of trusted bondsmen.

  Few of his kind came down here. The plethora of smells alone could easily overpower the senses of a Grey Hunter, let alone a Blood Claw, unless he was prepared for it. Heat blasted from open ovens, and the air throbbed with the noise of culinary industry – the thunk of knives, the rattle of pans, the sound of hundreds of voices raised in effort.

  There were servants for whom these refectories were the entirety of their world. The flames of the ovens were the sun, while the waters pumped up from the icy floes below the Fang and poured into the storage butts were the oceans. Lobotomised machine-thra
lls trundled through the maze of preparation slabs, hunched beneath industrial serving trays.

  Lukas hefted the section of wall back into place, using cleverly carved crannies in the rock. It snapped into position with a grinding sound. Lukas stepped back and nodded. ‘There,’ he murmured.

  ‘And how many of those do you have secreted about?’ Halvar asked.

  Lukas laughed. ‘More than one.’ He gestured. ‘Come on. This way.’

  They navigated the maze of preparation slabs, moving quickly. But just before they reached the doors, a woman’s voice called out. ‘You are not supposed to be here, my lords.’

  Lukas froze. He turned, a sheepish look on his face. The woman was tall for an unaugmented human, with the pallor of one who had never seen the sun. She had silver hair pulled tight over high-boned features, and the faint blue of faded tattoos curled down one side of her face and neck. She glowered up at the two warriors, as if they were nothing more than overlarge scullions. Lukas grinned weakly. ‘Berla! How fortuitous!’

  Berla had been comely in her youth. She was still comely, though his appreciation was more aesthetic than primal. There was a strange sort of beauty to unaugmented humans. They grew more interesting the older they became, unlike the Vlka Fenryka, who all grew to resemble wolves – or worse, the same wolf. Their gene-sire had a shadow that stretched over millennia and the generations that rose and fell within them. But there was a variety to the mortals that never failed to fascinate him.

  He stepped towards her, ignoring the servants who scuttled fearfully from his path. She didn’t retreat. She had grown to womanhood in the kitchens, as had her mother and grandmother, unto seven generations. An unbroken line of hearth-mistresses whose word in the refectories was law. ‘My lord,’ she said. ‘It has been many cycles since you last visited my kitchens. To what do we owe the honour?’

  ‘Just passing through, I assure you,’ he said, looming over her.