ASHES OF PROSPERO

by Gav Thorpe

  Lukas peered over the younger Space Marine’s shoulder, confident that the Blood Claw had been properly trained in auspex use but confused all the same. The reading was correct; not a single signature emanated from the port headquarters. Lukas looked across the divide, trying to see into the shadowed interior through the large openings where once plate glassite had been. He thought he saw a flicker of blue on an interior wall.

  ‘There’s only one way to check,’ he declared. He turned a lopsided smile on Gudbrand. ‘Still think we need to investigate?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Blood Claw said with an emphatic nod.

  ‘Good. It’s too quiet around here. Let’s find some trouble.’

  CHAPTER 12

  THE PROSPERINE MAZE

  Through the eyes of the psyber-raven Njal looked at the coruscating veil that stood between them and the unknown worlds of the Portal Maze. He took a settling breath and let more of his power ebb into the familiar, imbuing it with his thought and will.

  +Let me see.+

  ‘You cannot?’

  +Only with the eyes in your head. Your thoughts are barred again. Let me see as you do and I will aid you.+

  The sorcerer had been true to his word in reversing the portal to destroy the cultists. Compared to giving up momentary control of his voice and limbs, Njal was confident no harm could come from allowing a tiny portion of Izzakar’s psychic splinter to connect with Nightwing.

  He gathered his thoughts, singling out the small partition that housed the soul fragment of Izzakar, as he had done during the portal opening. He let just the tiniest mote of awareness pass through the wall he had erected, siphoning it with his own psychic power into the nervous system of the psyber-raven.

  +How remarkable. My brothers of the Corvidae sect would be…+ The thought trailed away. +They are dead. Or corrupted.+

  With a minute exertion of energy Njal set Nightwing into motion. The psyber-raven flew back and forth across the gaping hole in reality, passing twice before the breach, eyes and psychic augurs seeking any sign of what lay beyond.

  ‘What do you see, Navigator?’ Njal asked.

  Majula removed her eyeguard, which she had restored while the Space Wolves had gone about their labours. Taking a few strides closer, she gazed into the depths. At Njal’s urging Nightwing circled higher, keeping clear of any accidental sight of her sanity-shredding third eye. Even so, the projection of power was a warm wind that ruffled the psyber-familiar’s feathers.

  ‘Nothing, as before, Lord of Runes,’ Majula told him. ‘Darkness eternal. A chasm between realms.’

  ‘Very well. We forge onwards.’

  With another deep breath, Njal swerved Nightwing towards the breach. What little remained of the natural bird shirked at the wall of quietly crackling energy. The Stormcaller pushed through its base instincts and the raven flew into the breach.

  Passing the veil was a momentary sensation, not at all what Njal had expected. After a lifetime of warp transitions he had thought to experience dislocation, perhaps sickness and disembodiment. Through the senses of Nightwing, he felt… nothing. No more than when stepping into a neighbouring chamber. Simply a change of perspective. A dip in temperature. A slight dimming of the light.

  ‘Are we actually inside?’

  +Yes, on the boundary curve.+

  The hall appeared as it did from the outside, except when he looked back at the Space Wolves, Njal saw their wyrdlit gleaming from within. For most it was little more than a dusting of colour, their souls weak and kept caged behind walls of ritual discipline. The Dreadnoughts glowed from the wolf pelts and bone-talismans, powered by ulfwyrd – respect and admiration of millennia that had accumulated within the frames of their war machine bodies and their totemic decorations.

  He saw Majula, a star of blinding brightness in her forehead, though thankfully dulled by the intervening barrier.

  And next to her, himself. He was used to glimpsing his own body, dwarfing her in its armour, red hair wild and unkempt. What took him aback was the golden apparition that hovered over his shoulder. Indistinct, but gaining clarity as he focused, the unmistakably monochrome outline of a Thousand Sons Librarian. Not some horn-helmed sorcerer or mutant heretic, but a sombre-faced Space Marine with a rune-embroidered tabard over his armour, with neat rows of sigils etched into the battleplate.

  +Remarkable.+

  The image was at odds with Njal’s impression.

  Not impression, he realised. His preconception. All he pictured of Izzakar had been created by the sagas of Prospero and ten thousand years of enmity.

  An enmity that had been earned by the Thousand Sons, he reminded himself, recalling the devastation brought to Fenris by Magnus and his warriors. His mood soured.

  ‘What do you mean by “boundary curve”?’

  +The Portal Maze works on a gradient. Rather than dropping into the abyss, one goes deeper in stages. It is not so simple as one gate leading to another gate like a teleport link, although that can also be true. Each transportation can be used to navigate further into the maze, or out of it. Like a door that leads onto a landing with two flights of steps, giving you the choice to head up or down. Deeper means further, so that the third or fourth portal can take you light-decades from where you began. That is why the Old Guard caused so much damage with their rampaging. The more they blundered, the deeper they went, until they reached the heart of the Portal Maze.+

  Njal steered Nightwing around the hall and his view rippled and inverted as though moving through a reflection in a disturbed pool. He saw a plinth, about half a metre high, reached by two steps, on which burned three silver symbols. He remembered the stele that Izzakar had activated and decided the raised stone had to be its analogue within the Portal Maze.

  The psyber-raven flew laps about the plinth but Njal was careful not to pass over it.

  ‘The heart is where we will find my lost brothers?’

  +That is where you will find my body. And where they were last. They are near, as much as such concepts of proximity count whilst in the maze. Though it is but a fraction of the ten thousand years in their awareness, they have not stayed idle in such time as they experienced.+

  ‘So we must go deep? Far along the curve?’

  +Yes. To reach the heart requires at least eight gates. I should say that it did require that many. Who can say what additional ruin the continuing trespasses of your warriors has caused?+

  Now that he was becoming attuned to the nascent rhythm of the maze, Njal could make out more of the landscape within the boundary of the broken gateway. He saw another chamber, much like the one they had occupied but smaller, with inverted triangle windows that looked out on precincts beyond.

  ‘The cultists did not blindly throw themselves through the gates. They knew something of what they were doing. Guided, I would think.’

  +Indubitably. Only Magnus truly understood the full extent of the Portal Maze. If he has imbued them with a portion of his power, the secrets are theirs to learn. If the ruptures are as severe as I think they will be, there may be other foes too.’

  ‘More Thousand Sons?’

  +I was thinking more in the nature of those that assailed you through the Geller field.+

  ‘Daemons?’

  +Yes. Daemons.+

  Izzakar said the word as though testing it out and Njal was reminded that even for the Thousand Sons the terminology of Chaos and the dark minions of the warp was something that had come into use after the defeat of Horus. The Stormcaller was well aware that even at his lofty position his ignorance of such things was more than his knowledge, but in the time of the Wolf King even the concept of daemons had not been recognised.

  ‘Then tell me, this Portal Maze, is it real or is it wyrd-make?’

  +I do not understand the question.+

  ‘Here, where Nightwing flies on the other side of the veil. Are we real or immaterial? Will the daemons be within the warp or must they manifest physical bodies that we can destroy?’

  +I see…
+ Izzakar considered the point for a few seconds. +Real. For the most part. The Portal Maze is like the Geller field in some respects. It creates corridors of reality. Think of the links as pockets of material physics. Though broken in many places, it is not of the warp itself.+

  ‘That makes our task a little easier.’ Njal transferred focus from Nightwing back to his body, as simply as a normal person might shift weight from one foot to the other. ‘Valgarthr, Arjac, Bjorn. Prepare your warriors. The Portal Maze is dangerous, and not just because of the foes it hides. We must stay close together. Any that wander will be lost. Our mission is simple. We locate Bulveye and the Old Guard and we leave with them. Everything else, any foe we meet, is secondary to that objective.’

  Arjac signalled his assent with a raised hammer and Valgarthr voxed an affirmative.

  ‘We stand ready,’ said Bjorn. ‘I will go where I could not before.’

  The Stormcaller turned to Majula as she slipped on her headband.

  ‘I hope you will join us. We venture into a land that is as much immaterial as real, and your gifts will be valuable to us. I place no bond upon you and if you wish to stay here, my warriors as well as yours will see to your protection.’

  The Navigator looked at the cerulean cascade. She took a breath and Njal noticed her hands tremble within the cuffs of her long sleeves.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘None will think worse of you for it.’

  ‘No.’ Majula set her jaw, darkened lips pursed tight.

  Njal activated his vox-link and broadcast on the command channel. ‘Aldacrel, we are about to enter the Portal Maze. You are the ranking warrior in Tizca. You have command.’

  ‘Understood, Stormcaller. We will hold the city centre until you return.’

  Njal paused, not quite sure how to phrase what he wanted to say next.

  ‘We may not come back,’ he told the Iron Priest. ‘I do not know how long we shall be gone, and I leave it to your judgement whether to remain or not. We came to Prospero seeking to bolster our strength, not to expend it.’

  ‘By the Allfather, we will fight as long as we can.’

  ‘If you think your position is untenable, you must withdraw. You must keep the route to the landing field open, you cannot allow yourself to be trapped here. This is a rescue mission, not a last stand. That is my command. Am I clear?’

  ‘Aye, Stormcaller. No foolish heroics from us, I swear.’

  ‘Fight well for the Allfather.’

  ‘May He guide you through the dark places you must go,’ the Iron Priest replied before the link went dead.

  ‘Stormriders!’ Njal surveyed his warriors, proud to be in their company. ‘We venture into unknown seas, with only our wit and the wisdom of the Allfather to steer by. Whatever hardship besets us next, we are the equal to it. Now comes the hour when our saga truly begins.’

  Valgarthr’s squad hurried to be the first across the divide, though with the eyes of Nightwing, Njal could detect no threat beyond. As the outer reaches of energy lapped at the armour of the Stormriders, Arjac had a question.

  ‘Speaking of hardships, has anyone heard from that duty-shy Lukas?’

  ‘Probably skulking somewhere, Rockfist,’ replied Sven Halfhelm. ‘You know the Jackalwolf – never where anybody needs him.’

  The port command centre looked like an inverted cone atop a huge pillar, taller than anything else in the docklands. Its uppermost levels were little more than a skeleton of ferrocrete pillars and spars, the large windows that had allowed the controllers to see across the harbour taken millennia before – if they had even survived the wrath of the Wolf King’s attack.

  The main pillar, nearly two thirds of its height, was broken only by narrow apertures. The interior was dark as the Blood Claws stepped over the threshold where once broad doors had barred entry. There were signs of fresh disturbance in the ash and dust, clawed and toed footprints on the floor, but Agthei’s auspex continued to buzz with negative readings. The centre of the column was another pillar, hollowed out with four shafts that had once held conveyors. All trace of gear and chain, cage and brake had been removed. Holes in the walls showed where metal rungs had once been embedded.

  ‘There are stairwells, this way,’ said Agthei, consulting the flickering schematic of his scanner. He pointed through an opening behind the conveyor column, which had the look of a maintenance area. Bare ferrocrete steps led up, wide enough for them to advance only in single file, though a sibling staircase was located on the opposite side of the hallway.

  ‘Split up?’ said Bahrd.

  ‘We should stick together,’ said Agthei. He looked at Lukas for support, or perhaps affirmation. The Trickster gifted him only a nonchalant shrug.

  ‘Together,’ echoed Gudbrand.

  There were a few seconds while the others internally debated, but consensus was reached when Lukas stepped towards the stair and the others followed. He pointed a claw at Agthei. ‘The merest squeak from that and you tell me.’

  ‘Yes, pack… uh, Lukas.’

  The Trickster started up the steps, plasma pistol raised, claw ready to strike. He passed small landings on the spiralling stairway with doorways that led to corridors flanked by small chambers, probably clerical cells in the heyday of Tizca.

  They reached the first floor of the broader storeys at the summit and immediately Lukas could feel a change, a frisson of tension in the air. Like static in his braids, he could feel the unnatural discharge of the portal gate before he could see it. Stepping off the landing space he came upon a passageway that led towards the front of the building.

  The ping of the auspex sounded loud in the confines of the stairwell.

  ‘Lukas!’ snapped Agthei at the same instant.

  The Trickster froze, plasma pistol moving slightly as he eyed the doorways branching off the corridor directly in front of him.

  ‘Heat and movement. One source,’ Agthei reported, pushing past Gudbrand to stand at Lukas’ shoulder. The Blood Claw panned his scanning device, seeking a more accurate reading.

  ‘The signature is changing… No, it’s settled. Movement twenty metres ahead. I’d say power armour.’

  ‘If you see any hint of blue, open fire,’ Lukas whispered, meaning the livery of the traitor Thousand Sons.

  The click of the auspex quickened as the signature approached. Agthei moved his pistol to his other hand, and on Lukas’ left, Gudbrand readied his weapon also. Behind, the remaining Blood Claws secured the stairs and a doorway on the opposite side of the landing.

  Lukas could see the faint suffusing gleam of portal light through the far archway. A shadow moved across it. The thud of boots echoed down the corridor.

  The figure that appeared at the far end was clad in blue-grey. He had the blazon of the Space Wolves upon one shoulder, and the symbol of the Stormriders on the other. Half his face was a mess of makeshift bionics, staples and plastek dressing.

  Valgarthr.

  The veteran’s lips twisted into an approximation of a smile.

  ‘Ah, it’s you, brother.’ He half turned, tilting his head back the way he had come. ‘The others are this way. Come on.’

  The pack leader disappeared into the far hall. Lukas hurried after, while Gudbrand assembled the pack and followed behind.

  Valgarthr had called them into a chamber that ran for the width of the storey, about forty metres across, which might have once been highly adorned but was now devoid of any decoration or purpose.

  Except for the portal.

  A golden plinth was set to one side, Prosperine runes carved into its side. Above it fluctuated an aura of light and dark – not black and white, but a distant brightening and dimming like sunlight dappled through a canopy in the wind.

  Valgarthr stood before the portal, one foot on the plinth. He waved for Lukas to approach.

  ‘Quickly.’

  Lukas stopped a few paces away, listening for the arrival of the others. His eyes never left Valgarthr, and as the pack leader turned to acknowledge the re
st of the Blood Claws Lukas raised his plasma pistol and opened fire.

  The azure blast struck Valgarthr in the head, blossoming against the wounded skull. Explosive forces ripped open the Space Marine, flinging him across the chamber from the portal.

  The accusing shouts of the Blood Claws erupted around Lukas as he dashed forward, claw at the ready. Where Valgarthr had fallen lay a writhing, misshapen thing. It appeared clad in grey power armour, but the open wound caused by the plasma bolt was a seething mass of blue and pink and green, rippling against itself.

  An eye popped into existence through the wolfshead symbol on the ruined chest plastron, regarding Lukas with a baleful red pupil. The Trickster took another step and the thing convulsed, sprouting tentacle limbs from its back that carried it scuttling away.

  Lukas gave pursuit, cursing the recharge of his pistol. Bolts from the Blood Claws flickered past, exploding across fake armour and unveiled daemonflesh. Each detonation tore open the disguise a little further, the mechanical becoming seething organic.

  All of a sudden the daemon-changer altered course, springing back at Lukas, dagger-blades forming out of broken slivers of not-ceramite. He swiped out his claw just in time, catching the creature where Valgarthr’s abdomen would have been. Daemon matter splashed against the Trickster, sliding across his claws and up his arm, folding and bulging and flowing around him. He slashed again, ducking and twisting as more stilettos and barbs hissed into existence, wrenching at his armour, scratching at his exposed face.

  The growl of a chainsword painfully close warned him of Bahrd’s attack and he ducked just as the Blood Claw’s weapon lashed into the creature, hewing deep into its chest with a fountain of immaterial gobbets. It released its grip, tearing chunks from Lukas’ neck as it leapt away, limping on gangly tendrils, the withered remnants of legs and arms dragging and flopping like an empty overall as more bolter impacts chewed into its mutating torso and limbs.

  It floundered, pursued by the Blood Claws, swaying one way and then the other as it tried to find shelter in the featureless hall. Tatters of blue cloak streamed from its unnatural form while flickers of warpfire played about its wounds.