by Gav Thorpe
The single eye of Magnus narrowed, becoming a golden orb in which the fleshless skull of Lukas was reflected. He felt a connection, the daemon primarch’s mind thrusting into his own. All of his adaptation and mental training as a Space Marine was of no more defence against the psychic might of the Crimson King than a wall of paper against a powersword.
A beam of black power erupted from Magnus’ outstretched hand, striking Lukas, flaying skin and muscle in an instant. His heart – his one remaining heart – stopped, incinerated by the blast. In that same moment, the device in place of the heart that had been stolen activated.
The stasis bomb exploded about the collapsing corpse of the Trickster, sealing his eternal moment of death. The stacked cell at the heart of the stasis generator would last a thousand years, impregnable even to the wiles of the warp-spawned and the greatest minds of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
And in his fist, the scrap of parchment, stolen for a millennium.
Magnus retreated again, wary of Lukas.
Give it to me and I will see your desires fulfilled.
‘Anything?’
Anything within my power.
‘What would you suggest?’
The primarch smiled, the expression sending shivers of discomfort through Lukas. The Crimson King gently stretched forth a massive talon, its black tip barely touching Lukas’ plastron. The Trickster’s heart beat like a demented drummer as he expected the claw to plunge further despite his gambit. Instead, it lightly tapped against the flame-scarred ceramite.
I am no stranger to change. I see what lies inside of you, the same as hides in the souls of all Sons of Russ. I know your name for it. Wulfen.
Magnus withdrew his hand and crossed his arms, an expression of beneficent mercy on his face.
I can rid you of that curse. Set you free from the fate that stalks you.
‘Tempting,’ said Lukas.
It really was. He knew the beast that stalked him, the curse that he couldn’t trick or outrun. Others thought the stasis bomb was just a trick, but it was far more than that. It was protection, the last chance to avoid becoming what he despised in himself.
You have bested the changeling, anointed of my patron. You have stolen one of the nine inward-flexing incantations from the Blue Scribes, archivists of the Changer of Ways. I see your spirit, the desire that drives you. All is flux. Your stasis bomb, a final laugh, is deliberate irony. Stasis, the antithesis of all you seek.
I see your thoughts well. Trickster, you call yourself, but you have another name – the one the others speak in sour tones. Jackalwolf. The scavenger of their honour. The lesser creature. They despise you, even though you are better than them.
Swear yourself to me, pledge your soul to the Architect of Fate and you shall know immortality. You will spend eternity with your tricks, bringing low lords of worlds, an incarnation of hubris returned, of pride revisited. My patron lures in those that would be powerful, ignorant of the knowledge that all ambition is meaningless and no legacy lasts beyond death.
But you… Lukas… You have no ambition but to twist the ambitions of others – to remind the universe that everything is without meaning.
I can give you that.
‘My brothers, do they still live?’ asked Lukas.
Magnus considered this, supernal gaze not moving from Lukas.
They do, but my allies are poised to crush them.
‘Spare them.’
A vision sketched upon the air, showing Lukas the Blood Claws in the impossible hall. The ground warped around them, tumbling daemons into the abyss, shifting stone bringing them back before the portal by which they had entered. The glimmer of the veil in the gateway cleared, revealing the empty chamber of the port command centre. Lukas could hear nothing but it was plain from the scene that the Blood Claws were not certain.
‘Go back, you idiots,’ growled Lukas.
They looked up, as if hearing his voice.
‘Go back!’
The survivors of the pack hurried into the portal and stumbled out into the ruins of Tizca, unmolested. Behind them the gateway froze, becoming a solid wall of black marble.
They are free.
‘And if I still say no?’
Lukas sensed a change in the primarch, a look of cunning on his face. The Trickster raised his claw in response, a crackling blade pointed beneath his plastron, aimed for his surviving heart.
Magnus paused, fearing Lukas would kill himself and set off the stasis bomb.
I am immortal. Time does not flow for me as you. If need be, I can wait a thousand years.
‘Stop! If you try to use any of your powers, I swear on the Allfather’s throne I will end myself first.’ Lukas spoke quickly but surely, summoning all of his will to match the immortal stare of the demigod. He let out a short laugh, his apprehension escaping as contempt. ‘I think you bluff poorly, Magnus. The galaxy is being torn asunder and you have moved your daemonworld into the realm of mortals, but there is something else you need. The Portal Maze is part of it, and this wyrdhex I hold is the key, isn’t it? You cannot wait a thousand years. Your fallen brothers will have carved out their mortal domains, taken their fill from the carcass of the Imperium and you will be left with scraps. You will have failed, Magnus.’
You cannot resist!
Lukas felt tendrils of foreign thought piercing his mind. He tried to plunge the claw into his chest but his arm would not respond. Gritting his teeth, he stared up as the Lord of the Thousand Sons reached out a hand, ready to pluck the parchment from Lukas’ unresisting fingertips.
The Trickster laughed, throwing the spell-piece into the air.
Magnus’ whole focus moved to the incantation he desired, freeing Lukas from the grip of his enchantment. The Trickster dived towards the portal behind him. He rolled to his feet in front of the curtain of power and glanced back. The torn parchment floated on a cerulean breeze towards the outstretched hand of the Cyclops. It landed in his palm and his fingers gripped it tight, lifting up the scrap. One eye scanned the page in an instant, brow furrowing deep. The single eye of Magnus turned on Lukas, confusion writ across his features.
This is not the Spell of Unlocking…
‘I never said it was,’ laughed Lukas. ‘That was your assumption.’
The Trickster leapt. The crackle of a sorcerous blast and a deafening bellow of rage followed as the portal gate enveloped him.
Arjac kept guard with the survivors of his pack, ordering forward squads of thralls to provide escort to the Space Wolves that dashed through the whirling maw of the open portalway. Majula emerged in their midst, just four of her Navis Guard with her. They peeled away from the general movement along the avenue. The Navigator looked exhausted, held onto the shoulder of Dorria, but she straightened as they approached Rockfist. She smoothed her gown and tidied the pendants around her neck, but there was no affectation any longer. Her proud bearing carried to the look in her eyes.
‘Your deeds for the Space Wolves will be sung in saga,’ said the hearthegn looking at the representatives of House Belisarius. ‘And now we must ask another task, that you steer us safely home through the storms.’
‘After that…’ Majula glared back towards the Portal Maze aperture. ‘Sailing upon the sea of the warp will be a welcome familiarity, Champion of Grimnar.’
Dorria gently gave care of Majula to one of the others and remained while they moved away.
‘I saw what happened with the sorcerer,’ said the guard captain. ‘You could have been killed, protecting a traitor.’
‘We would have all been trapped in the maze if he had died. And really, we owe greater thanks to Greybeard Jurgen for not letting Bulveye get a second stab at the kraken.’
She absorbed this in silence, nodded in respect and followed quickly after the others.
Arjac drew in a long breath, brow knotted as he watched her go. Did the others think as she did, that he had risked his life for the Thousand Sons Librarian? The thought vexed him, unsure which of two po
ssible stories was the better. The lie – that he had saved the Librarian to protect them all. The truth – that he had thought the shot aimed for Njal and all else had been unintended.
A scrape of boots on the wall of a cloister above him had him turning quickly, the dilemma forgotten, hammer at the ready.
An indistinct aura parted, revealing a smiling face framed by a bright shock of braided red hair, gauntleted fingers tugging at a slender beard. The Space Marine’s expression, the knowing smile, made Arjac suspicious, that somehow the newcomer could know his thoughts, the perplexity that he had been thinking about moments before. Irritation replaced self-consciousness.
‘What do you want, Jackalwolf? Where did you sneak off to when there was real fighting to be done?’
‘Here and there,’ said Lukas. The Trickster airily waved a wolf claw towards the pyramids. ‘Around and about.’
Arjac grunted. ‘And what did you get up to, scourge of honour?’
‘Sneaking,’ said the Trickster with a sly look. He pulled his doppelgangrel cloak about himself, blending once more with the shadows, a last hint of a starlit grin before only his voice remained. ‘Just sneaking, like you said.’
The Stormcaller landed on the cracked paving of Tizca, the sporadic bark of bolters and a drone of strafing gunships stark and unreal, though it was actually reality that crowded upon him after the dimensional flatness of the maze-heart. He skidded to a stop and turned, expecting Izzakar to follow.
Njal could see back through the circle, as clear as though it were a hole in a wall. Izzakar stood at the breach while, behind him, the companion gate across the heart glowed hotter and brighter.
It was hard to make sense of his feelings, torn between the oaths he had sworn to slay Magnus’ sons and his experience with Izzakar. It was a fool’s hope that they might forge a common cause. Before he could say anything, Izzakar spoke from the other side of the gateway.
‘I will break the seal,’ declared the Librarian. ‘It will take time even for Magnus to correlate the correct metrics to follow and you will be far away from Prospero before then.’
‘You can close the portal from this side,’ said Njal, remembering how Orr had severed the link from the grey wastes. ‘You don’t have to trap yourself.’
‘My world died ten thousand years ago, Son of Russ. I do not belong in yours. I would prefer to see if any of my brothers remain untouched by this dust-curse. Warn your masters of Magnus’ plan.’
The portal shut, a blackness cutting across the Thousand Sons Librarian which mingled with the smog of battle that hung upon the lacklustre Tizcan breeze.
Njal stood looking at the empty portal plinth for several seconds longer, unable to process the recent events beyond the most basic level.
He shunted his concerns and doubts aside, pushing them to a place where they stopped interfering, paused for later examination. There were more important matters to be dealt with than his confusion.
He voxed a signal to Aldacrel.
‘Praise the Allfather, I thought you lost to us, Stormcaller,’ the Iron Priest replied. ‘I was only minutes from ordering our return to orbit.’
‘General withdrawal to the landing zone, brother. Signal the Longclaw and have them target all ordnance at this site. Strike in five minutes.’ He looked at the Pyramid of Photep and the glow of broken dimensions from within. The image of the Cyclops was gone, but he knew that on the far side of the maze gates Magnus still sought entry, reclaiming Prospero for his dire scheme.
‘Leave nothing but ashes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gav Thorpe is the author of the Primarchs novel Lorgar: Bearer of the Word, the Horus Heresy novels Deliverance Lost, Angels of Caliban and Corax, as well as the novella The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs, as well as several audio dramas including the bestselling Raven’s Flight and The Thirteenth Wolf. He has written many novels for Warhammer 40,000, including Rise of the Ynnari: Ghost Warrior, Jain Zar: The Storm of Silence and Asurmen: Hand of Asuryan. He also wrote the Path of the Eldar and Legacy of Caliban trilogies, and two volumes in The Beast Arises series. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. In 2017, Gav was awarded the David Gemmell Legend award for his Age of Sigmar novel Warbeast. He lives and works in Nottingham.
An extract from Lukas the Trickster.
Wolves howled.
Pack leaders crashed together. Avalanches of muscle and fur, sweeping together from opposite sides. Inevitable as death. Their shadows spun and fought across the walls of the Aettergeld, a narrow chamber of rock with high sloping walls and a massive nave set between the two halves of an immense horseshoe-shaped table.
The chamber was lit only by the glow of the firepits that ran down its centre, lambent shadows crowding the edges as if trying to creep away from those of the combatants. Ancient battle-banners hung from the ceiling, rippling in the intense heat. Weapons and other, less obvious trophies marked the roughly carved walls. Cheers and whistles pierced the air. The benches were packed and mjod flowed freely.
Naturally, there was an audience. Wolves didn’t have secrets from each other. At least, not that they would admit.
Lukas the Trickster sat well back from all the excitement, near the largest of the firepits that dotted the chamber. He leaned on a massive wolf, idly scratching it between the ears. ‘Who do you think it’ll be, then?’ He glanced down at the wolf. The great beast grunted and made to roll over, uninterested in conversation. Lukas chuckled and set his legs across the back of another wolf.
He leaned back amid the massive hairy bodies that lay about him in untidy piles. The smell of wet fur and animal musk enveloped him. In the close environs of the chamber, that smell wasn’t unpleasant, but it was impossible to ignore. There were a dozen or more sleeping wolves around him, a full pack. The brutes often sought the warmth of the Aett in the colder seasons, where meat and water were freely available as well. Wolves were opportunists at heart – it was one of the reasons Lukas enjoyed their company.
‘You are most hospitable companions, for all that you smell awful,’ he said, turning to study the ancient banners and battle-worn trophies hanging from the walls. Since the setting of the Fang’s roots, the Aettergeld had been used as a place of judgement and sentencing. Sven Ironhand had declared his exile here, and Garn Felltooth had bared his throat to the Great Wolf’s axe. Disputes were weighed, blood-prices paid and the guilty condemned. It was a place of debts owed and restitutions made.
Lukas had been in this chamber a hundred times before, and would be a hundred times more before his thread was at last severed by Morkai’s jaws. That was his wyrd, and he was content in it. He was a sour note in the song of heroes, a fact he prided himself on. Of what possible interest was a perfect song? Better to be interesting than perfect.
Lukas knew he was many things – lazy, disrespectful, often unhygienic – but never boring. He was the only man living who had killed a doppelgangrel by hand, and the only warrior to ever have taken a punch from Berek Thunderfist and remain standing.
He was the Jackalwolf. The Strifeson. The Laughing One. The Trickster. The warriors of the Rout collected names the way a child might collect shells. Each name came with a story, a saga of heroism or foolishness. Sometimes both. Every warrior was a collection of stories, with the same beginning and only one end.
A roar went up from the gathered Wolf Guard as one of the combatants was sent rolling through a firepit. The warrior leapt to his feet and tore his burning shirt from his frame. Even un-armoured, the strength of the fighters was such that they could burst stone and warp metal. One ill-timed blow and a Great Company would be electing a new Wolf Lord before the day was out.
Benches had been upended in the struggle. Braziers spilled crackling embers across the floor, and a rug made from the slick pelt of a sea troll was burning. In the centre of the chamber, the two mighty figures came tog
ether again, snarling and cursing. The gathered huscarls stomped their feet, adding thunder to the storm.
Helwinter had come round at last, and it was time for the Jackalwolf to find a new pack. Or, rather, for a new pack to be burdened with the Jackalwolf. The jarls drew sticks until only two remained. Then, as was tradition, those two would beat each other bloody until one yielded. A simple procedure, and an entertaining one.
Lukas felt a faint vibration as the storm outside lashed at the mountain. The few lumens in the hall flickered. No one noticed, preoccupied as they were by the sight of two Wolf Lords pummelling each other into bloody surrender. The two warriors were of a similar size and bulk, giants among giants. Leathery faces tanned by glare and hardened by age rippled in savage snarls. Distended jaw lines bulged as fangs snapped. Yellow eyes glared with kill-lust. The other jarls circled the combatants, shouting encouragement.
Not all of them were in attendance on this momentous occasion. He knocked on a wolf’s head with his knuckle. ‘No sign of my old sparring partners, Hrothgar Ironblade or Berek Thunderfist. Gunnar Red Moon is in hiding. And Egil Iron-Wolf is nowhere in sight, which is something of a relief, if I’m being honest.’ Part of Lukas dreaded the day he would be foisted on that pack. The smell of machine oil alone would kill him.
‘No sign of the Great Wolf either. Of course, while Grimnar often boasts of sharing the burdens of duty with his subordinates, he has ever avoided this one.’ Lukas snorted and ran his hand through the crimson tangles of his beard. ‘Given that he was the one who made it a tradition, maybe he’s exempt – or maybe he has simply had a bellyful of me.’
The absences left only a few familiar faces. Engir Krakendoom, obviously. Lukas paid little attention to his current jarl. Despite his best efforts, he looked like a condemned man on the cusp of reprieve, something Lukas took as a compliment.
From where he sat, he could hear the wagers that flew fast between the huscarls, weighing the merits of both warriors. Kjarl Grimblood was the older, his slate grey hair and beard whipping about as he drove a crushing blow against the side of his opponent’s skull. Bran Redmaw staggered, but replied in kind almost instantly. His mane of hair stood up stiff on his scalp, and his veins bulged like tension cables. He champed his teeth spasmodically as he struck Grimblood again and again, pummelling him.
