Maledictions

by Graham McNeill et al.

  Schenk was a few feet away, also regaining consciousness. They helped each other up, then turned around slowly, taking in their new surroundings. They were no longer in the tower. It was dead and gone and dust. They were in a huge, dark space. There was a faint vibration beneath Seroff’s feet. ‘We’re on a ship,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Schenk, her voice cracking with despair. ‘We are cargo.’

  The details of the immense hold came into focus for Seroff. He was surrounded by disease. The buzzing in his ears was insects. Bloated, thick-bodied flies, overfed and sluggish, droned in clouds over the suffering in the chamber. The stench was rich and layered, and thick as honey. The suffocating moistness of vomit and rot and roses wrapped itself around Seroff and forced its way into his lungs. The floor was deep in the muck of ruined flesh. It gave off a dim, green phosphorescence, as did the mould growing on the walls and drooping in furred stalactites from the ceiling. There were bodies everywhere. Most were human, though there were xenos as well. They lay half-submerged, groaning with the fevers that changed them. Tumours as long as Seroff’s arm grew from bodies, twitching like blind worms. Some of the sufferers were arranged in pairs. Cataracts of maggots fell from the wounds of one victim, and twisted over each other in their hunger to climb inside the body of the other. In the centre of the hold, the bodies, many of them still moving, were heaped into a mound. On the top, haloed by huge swarms of flies, a gigantic figure sat on a throne of squirming, oozing, rotting bodies. The silhouette was armoured, and a single curved horn rose from its helm. It carried a massive, serrated, pitted scythe.

  When Schenk saw the figure, she stiffened in shock. To Seroff’s horror, he saw her grow even more afraid. ‘Typhus,’ she whispered. ‘We’re on the Terminus Est.’

  Typhus. Seroff knew the name the way children know the names of the monsters that haunt their nightmares. Typhus was a whisper, a myth that must be shunned, yet insisted upon being told. He was the shadow that lurked behind the plague-deaths of countless worlds, the herald of endless decay.

  Schenk was sobbing.

  ‘So you know me,’ said Typhus, with a voice that was deep and humming, like a pipe organ filled with insect wings. ‘I thought perhaps you didn’t. That would have explained your presumption.’

  Typhus descended the mound of bodies. He approached, holding his scythe like a staff of office. His armour bulged and split, spewing insects and crawling abominations. Schenk took a step back, though there was nowhere to go. Typhus loomed over her, a colossus of plague. ‘Perhaps you thought you had escaped judgement. After the first century had passed, I expect you did. It took me a long time to find you. And longer to watch you, and to tailor your sentence.’

  ‘Judgement?’ Seroff croaked.

  The red eyes of Typhus’ helm looked down on the lord commissar. Seroff felt himself wither even further before the contempt he felt behind those lenses. Something vital, more important and deeper than bone, began to fracture inside his chest.

  ‘Yes, judgement,’ Typhus said. ‘She used my plague on Molossus. I will not allow such presumption to go unpunished.’ He turned back to Schenk. ‘I did you the honour of creating a plague specifically for you.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I wasn’t infected.’

  There was a sound like thunder heard under depths of slime. Typhus was laughing. ‘Your ignorance is the point. You seek to understand and control, and you fail. I have killed Eremus with a nightmare. Its transmission from human to human was through fear. Once their terror was great enough, the people were consumed by nightmares, and they became nightmares. And then the dust of horror gave life and death to the inanimate.

  ‘But you, in your wounded pride, you already believed you were living a nightmare. You, who were strangers to Eremus, who had known heights no native citizen of this dying world ever had, you believed you had fallen so far that only ascension was possible. Your bitterness was always there, a shield against your fear. Until now.’

  Schenk dropped to her knees, the full weight of despair at last bringing her down.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Typhus. ‘Now you see. Time to end your immunity, then.’ Insects with long, multi-jointed bodies streamed out of a rent in his right pauldron. They surrounded Schenk’s head. They stung her, and when she cried out, they rushed into her mouth. She fell into the muck, thrashing in pain. Her greatcoat tore as hard-edged fungi emerged from her shoulder blades.

  Seroff clapped his hand over his mouth and stumbled away. Typhus laughed again. ‘You flatter yourself, lord commissar. This is her punishment, not yours.’

  ‘I am immune too,’ Seroff said, the sting to his pride making him speak in spite of himself.

  ‘For the same reason, but your pride is misplaced. The fall of Eremus is Ingrid Schenk’s tragedy. Not yours. You do not matter.’

  The thing in Seroff’s chest broke. The last blow snapped his pride, and he saw himself for the vain insect that he was. His self-worth fled, and the nightmare came for him.

  Seroff fell, snakes rising up his throat and coiling in his lungs. His last sight before his eyes turned to dust was of the agonised Schenk being dragged off by Typhus, leaving him alone to be consumed by the nightmare of his unimportance.

  The dream always started the same way.

  In it, he was surrounded by riches, being showered by them. Precious gems and metals; jewellery. All the finery he’d become accustomed to, that he increasingly felt he needed to accumulate. The things that gave him the most pleasure, the most comfort: tokens, trinkets, charms from all the planets he had ever visited.

  And he, Tobias Grail, would revel in it. At first.

  Just as it always began with the same scenario, it would inevitably twist and turn. He’d find himself growing uncomfortable – that tingling sensation which always seemed to warn him, that he always relied on. Was somebody coveting the wealth he’d amassed, and was continuing to accrue? Did they want to take it away from him? Steal the fortune he had been working so hard to compile? If so, he would not let them! Grail would grab handfuls of the coins, the gems, the bracelets that he’d had specially made, gathering everything up so it would not be wrenched from his grasp.

  Then he would stop, peer into the blackness that surrounded him. He caught flashes of movement there, heard whispers and shuffling. Someone watching, marvelling at his wealth, almost definitely. The more he acquired, the more he felt the need to protect it. Often he would caution whoever it was to get back, threaten them, for they were getting closer and closer the longer the dream endured.

  ‘Stay away! I’m warning you!’ he snarled. But this would only be met by more of the whispering.

  Then things would change again, and Grail fancied that he heard snatches of those words. If anything, they were apparently encouraging him to add to his collection. But why? So they could take even more of his riches from him?

  More, you can have even more!

  Grail always squinted, attempting to make out exactly who this figure was in the shadows; that apparently was the shadows. But just when he thought he had them in focus they would move again, becoming vague, indistinct, and the whispers began once more. He was, by turns, excited and terrified by all this. His mind would flit from the possibilities they were suggesting, the outrageousness of the plans and schemes which would enter his head, to the sheer terror of putting them into effect. Of getting caught or, even worse, losing all that he had managed to stockpile thus far. Of going back to being in the Guard. Or even before that, to the gutters of his homeworld, desperate to escape and knowing there was only one way to do so. To become the scavenger he still was at heart.

  More, always more!

  Look how far he’d come, at how he’d earned his place and position; paid for it with blood and tears. He was not about to lose all that to anyone. However, this wasn’t what the figure wanted – he sensed that much at least. In fact, sometimes Grail wondered if it
had even been his idea to begin all this. Was it his or someone else’s? Didn’t matter in the end, the result was the same. Now he craved more, needed to make more, to secure his position.

  And the dream would always end the same, that rush of exhilaration and fear as the figure moved closer, whispering, yet still out of sight. Or was it? Could he see… something?

  Finish your work!

  The heady cocktail of emotions caused him to sit bolt upright in bed, panting for breath. Gasping, and reaching down to prop himself up, Grail felt the wetness of the bed sheets beneath him, already slick enough because of the shiny fabric they were made from. He wiped his forehead with the back of his other arm, ­staring out at the space in front of him.

  Something moved out there. A carry-over from the dream, the nightmare? Something shifting about in the darkness, whispering. Coming closer and closer. In a panic, Grail called for light and because he hadn’t been specific the bedside glow-globe came on. It illuminated the massive bed he was in, but didn’t really stretch far enough out to reveal who else might be present. He had no family here; no wife or children. The many guards and servants that resided in his home did not have access to his most private chambers.

  Another whisper, and a tall figure stepped into the circle of light. Grail let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, his body visibly relaxing, shrinking as it did so.

  ‘Russart,’ he said, voice catching. ‘It’s you!’

  ‘Who were you expecting?’ asked the man, striding forward, the material of his form-fitting bodyglove causing the whispering now as its folds rubbed together. Grail took in his features, the thick dark hair and eyebrows, which arched over a solid brow. The squareness of the rest of his face, especially his equally strong jaw. The intensity of the man’s stare, those steel-grey eyes throwing back his own gaze. And finally, that well-muscled body stretching the bodyglove tight, a physique that Russart had maintained in the years since they’d served together while Grail had let his own grow fat and soft. Even as he thought about it now, Grail pulled the covers up more around himself, in spite of the fact this was the one person he trusted most in the world… in any world.

  Russart’s right hand was on the hilt of his sidearm, nestled in its holster: a laspistol that Grail had seen him use without hesitation or mercy in the past. He was taking his hand off it, removing his finger from the trigger, now that he could see they were alone in the bedroom. Grail thought about the question his second-in-command, his bodyguard, had asked: who had he been expecting? Russart was the only member of security he allowed access to his inner chambers, and he was always on duty, even at night-time. That was something Grail very much insisted upon, in case he should require the man at a moment’s notice.

  But Grail hadn’t been expecting anyone real, had he? Just a shade from the dream, somehow here in his bedroom.

  ‘No… no one,’ he said, more than a little embarrassed. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

  Russart nodded towards the surveillance pict recorders in the room that must have alerted him. ‘You were screaming for help.’

  ‘I wasn’t screaming,’ Grail argued.

  ‘I could hear it even as I entered the room. I thought you were in trouble.’ Russart stepped a little closer, concern etched on that face. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility; Grail did have his enemies after all, though how they would have reached him inside his fortress was anyone’s guess. ‘Dreams getting worse?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Grail assured him, clicking his fingers for Russart to pass his robe over from a nearby chair. Quickly, he pulled this around him, swinging his legs out of bed at the same time. He hadn’t gone into any kind of detail with Russart about the dreams, had let the man assume they were of the battlefield: of Fennan’s Pass and the hulking green-skinned xenos.

  ‘But you–’

  ‘I said I was fine,’ Grail snapped. ‘You’re dismissed.’

  Russart looked like he was about to say something else, then thought better of it. Questioning Grail when he was in this mood was not the wisest thing to do. Instead he nodded, concern turning to… what, resentment? Just a fleeting glimpse of it, but there.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning for the inspection,’ Grail added, his tone lighter. Because he was thankful for all that Russart did. Furthermore, Grail did not know what he would do without the man who kept so many of his secrets. It was the reason why he was paid so handsomely, although Russart didn’t get much of a chance to spend that money. Apart from when they periodically played games of chance in various backstreet establishments, that was. Even then, Grail’s luck was invariably better than his companion’s. Better than most people’s.

  Russart nodded again, withdrawing from the room. Grail waited for the click of the door before reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table, desperately parched and needing to rehydrate himself. His hand shook as he brought the liquid to his mouth and gulped it down. Then he set it aside, rose, and wandered over to the far side of the room, out of sight of the pict recorders. He passed a mirror on the way, catching his reflection; though neat and well-groomed in his appearance, he couldn’t help noting that the face staring back was a lot rounder than it had been a few years ago. His hairline was rapidly receding as well, and once again his mind turned to Russart, the difference in their appearances, comparing himself to his friend. Grail shook his head and continued on to his destination.

  There he pulled the covering off a box that had been made to look like a bench, but was in fact a chest coded to his handprint. Grail looked about him, then opened it, gazed at the contents old and new. Quickly, he closed the box again, covering it up.

  He just needed to check it was all safe. Just needed to be sure.

  As part of his duties as governor of the mining world of Aranium, Grail was obliged to conduct a monthly tour of the facilities and it was to one of the larger mines that he had been taken to that morning via shuttle, accompanied by a full complement of guards. He’d passed over the workers’ habs that filled this sprawling portion of the planet, most in various states of disarray and decay, not important in the great scheme of things. Streets filthy and sordid, the perfect home for filthy and sordid deeds.

  Now he was observing the operations – from afar, naturally, as he didn’t want to get too close to the slaves who mined the vital ore which kept the neighbouring forge worlds well supplied – and receiving reports about production.

  It was a stark contrast to the place he’d set out from a few hours ago. His fortress home, though old itself, was sturdy and had stood the test of time. It had also seen quite a lot of funds channelled into it, giving it a new lease of life and fortifying it still further. The void shield, for instance, which he would be able to use to keep himself and the building safe in the event of insurrection or invasion. Unusual, to be sure, but a precaution Grail had insisted upon; just another level of security in order for him to feel safe.

  Or take the renovations to the ballroom there, which would be needed soon for the party Grail was throwing, having sent out invitations to noble families, high-ranking officials and dignitaries. A way, as he saw it, of celebrating the good work that had been done since he’d been placed in charge; output having tripled in the last six months alone.

  There were losses, of course, as was to be expected. You couldn’t push the workforce as hard as they did without casualties. But their sacrifices were for a higher purpose, for the Imperium. Without their contribution, and that of hundreds of other worlds just like it, the entire Imperial war machine could grind to a halt. Grail and Russart, who was only inches from his side, as always when they were outside the fortress, expected all of those under them to give everything to the cause. If they couldn’t? Well, then they were no longer of use and would be ‘disposed of’. An impetus for the rest to work that much harder. Similarly, those who tried to escape – and they did exist, believe it or not – would
be executed as an example to anyone thinking about disobeying or abandoning their posts.

  Grail had witnessed many such executions first-hand, some of which Russart had carried out personally and had appeared to quite enjoy. The governor viewed it as necessary, although he, too, did enjoy witnessing the bloodshed, to some extent. Unlike when they’d served together in the Guard, there was no risk involved to him; no danger. Grail, for his part, had always been rather fond of his own skin, and had more reasons than ever lately not to be parted from it.

  Before they’d set off for the mine, walking through the hallways of the fortress – passing the multitude of guards and servants alike, Grail actually chastising a few of them for little or no reason – Russart had enquired if he was feeling up to the trip, given his broken sleep the night before. Grail told him again he was absolutely fine, that he should let the matter drop.

  ‘Do not forget your place,’ he’d said, ‘or how you came by it.’ The debt he owed Grail, not just because he’d brought Russart along with him when he was rewarded for his efforts; how he’d requested Russart as his aide, but also because of what he’d done that day on the line at Fennan’s Pass.

  ‘I never do, sir,’ the bodyguard had replied. ‘How could I?’

  Grail wasn’t sure whether he meant the constant reminders, or the events themselves, which were seared onto his own brain.

  The noise of the lasguns and lascannons all around the regiment, dug in for weeks at the pass: a position of strategic importance in this particular campaign. Attempting to make the handful of men they had left, who were holding off the enemy out there – advancing through smoke and fire – look like an entire army.