Ahriman: Exodus

by John French

  I am a binder of daemons and dealer in terrible truths. Others call our kind sorcerers, but I am the truth of that word given form. I have flayed eighteen mortals to tease a Prince of Excess into giving me its true name, and sold my first memory for a single sigil from a lost language. I have even starved and poisoned myself so that I could talk with the daemons of despair. Yet, having done all these things, and more, I have never flinched from any of them. But that one… murder I did for Ahriman all that time ago – when we were all so different, and so much was yet to happen – haunts me still.

  Greetings, Ctesias. You honour us by your presence, and your master favours both you and I by sending you.+

  Ichneumon practically purred the thoughts at me as I stepped from the gunship. He did not kneel, but bowed from the waist. His slaves were already folded flat to the floor, so I could not tell if this was to mark my arrival, or if they were always like this in the presence of their lord. I watched them for a full five seconds, and let Ichneumon hold his bow. Sometimes it pays to play the game of power even over petty matters, and I had a feeling this was going to be one of those occasions.

  Sugraiis, I whispered to myself, through my teeth. +I am most pleased to see you, brother,+ I sent, resting weight and sincerity on the last sentiment. I was not attempting to hide my thoughts, and the sending would have been heard by all those gathered in the Nonogramiton’s main hangar deck. I sensed the prostrated throng shiver with appreciation, and caught the subtle movement out of the corner of my eye as warriors in green and gold armour shifted in approval. +The majesty of your welcome exceeds everything that could be expected.+

  Another mental rustle of approval. I bit the lie off, making sure to shield my deep thoughts. There were minds within the chamber watching me, strong minds. Not as strong as mine, but powerful enough to steal truths I wanted to keep my own. Not that there was much in my thoughts at that moment that could do more than insult them. The truth was that the throng abasing itself before me was very far from impressive. There are carnivals of the Plague Father with more magnificence. Most of the throng were only nominally human. Beneath the wrappings of saffron, yellow and blue, their flesh was pale and twitching. Toothless mouths mewled and drooled silver spit from the back of one figure close to where I stood. Another seemed to have no head, that is until I realised that he had two: one on his chest and another on his back. Quills stood out on the limbs of several of them, making them seem like stillborn chicks stretched into the shape of men. Space Marines of a renegade breed lurked at the edges of the chamber. I had no desire to look at them more closely than I had to.

  Ichneumon straightened and pointed with his staff. A corridor opened in the press of mortals.

  Come, please, honoured brother and voice of Ahriman.+

  I walked the last few steps to the edge of the gunship’s assault ramp and moved onto the Nonogramiton. The lapis and jade tiles set into the floor shimmered to gold beneath my feet. I tapped the base of my staff on them as I went, and Ichneumon fell in beside me. He stood taller than me, much taller in fact, as though his substance had stretched upwards. Yellow robes hung from his chest. His armour held some of the lines of power armour, but its exact shape and colour altered as the light played over it. The staff in his hand was carved emerald, and a thread of lightning ran up and down its core. A crest of blue hair rose above the faceplate of his helm and ran back to the base of his neck. The aura that clung to him was a rainbow of paradox: anger, joy, despair and pride. He was exactly as I had thought, and everything about him made me wish that this task had not fallen to me.

  Our master wishes one thing from you, Ichneumon,+ I sent, spoken to him alone, as we passed the throng.

  Your master, most honoured voice of Ahriman,+ he replied. I caught an edge in the syrup of his sending. +And we will speak of what he wishes later.+

  We walked the rest of the way in inner silence, while behind me I heard the mortals cry out at their lords leaving. The cries were those of wounded birds.

  Why do you not go yourself?+ I had asked Ahriman. +He has come to you after all to give you a blessing, or for some other, equally ridiculous, reason.+

  Ahriman nodded, slowly, his face calm in a way that must have been gifted to him as a means to frustrate others.

  You are right. Even though he is our gene-brother, he has become–+

  Vile.+

  That is a strong judgement, even from you.+ His lips twitched, and for an instant I almost thought he had smiled. +But I cannot fault your logic.+

  Then why countenance even his presence amongst the fleet?+

  Everyone has their uses, Ctesias. And have I not already accepted others into my service that are just as–

  Vile?+

  Flawed,+ he continued.

  I shrugged to concede the point. I am not a noble soul, and by my deeds I might be accounted as amongst the worst of the adopted children of hell.

  What does he have that you want?+ I asked.

  A way out, Ctesias+

  I blinked.

  A way out…+

  Of the Eye of Terror,+ he sent, and then let the thought ring like a struck bell. +I have not gathered forces to my hand just to spend them in needless battle, nor to see them lost trying to breach the Cadian Gate. I have gathered them for a particular war, and a particular purpose, and both of those lie outside of the Eye. We are not embarking on a crusade, Ctesias. We are searching for exodus.+

  I began to understand, and closed my eyes. I am no seer, but I could feel the future opening before me with all the comfort of inevitability.

  The Wanderer of Paths?+ I asked.

  Ahriman nodded, and I returned the gesture with weariness.

  The Eye of Terror is a place of paradox, and those who dwell and war within it are creatures of pride and hollow ambition. Every warrior dreams himself a Warmaster, every demagogue thinks themselves a worthy princeling of Chaos and every witch-sighted fool thinks they alone can master the warp. Though some rise to touch the edge of their dreams, few hold them in their hands, and those that do can often only watch as they drain between their fingers. But all, from aspiring lord of slaughter to doomed master of sorcery shout their pretension with the names and titles.

  The honorifics of some champions weigh them down like a prisoner’s chains. Even I have names that follow me: The Eater of Shadows, Whisperer of the Ninth Gate, Lord of Nine Thousand Silences, and so on. Most adornments, including my own, hold no meaning. A few though – a rare few – reflect a deeper truth. Such true titles, and the deeds and power they reflect, are terrifying.

  The Wanderer of Paths was a title of truth rather than pride, and it belonged to the former Thousand Son who had just sought us out. Few others have travelled as far within the Eye, or know more of its secrets, than Ichneumon. If any knew how to leave it without passing through the Cadian Gate, it would be him. His sudden appearance was worrying. Good fortune is not unknown in the Eye, but here it has meaning.

  You want him to lead us out of the Eye,+ I sent.

  No,+ Ahriman sent, and waited for the frown to twist the wrinkles on my face. +I want him to tell us of a way out. He cannot lead us.+

  The frown clung to my face.

  This still does not explain why you are sending me to him. You could call him here, and take what you want from him, willing or not. Or would that be distasteful?+

  Ahriman remained silent for a long second. I shivered.

  You will go to the Nonogramiton bearing my words of greeting to Ichneumon,+ he sent at last. +You will call him brother and afford him every courtesy. He will give to you as a gift knowledge of a way out of the Eye. Then you will destroy him.+

  It was my turn to stare and be still.

  Why?+ I said at last.

  Because it is my will, Ctesias,+ Ahriman replied.

  So,+ sent Ichneumon, +Ahriman despatched you rather than come himself. Should
I feel slighted, Ctesias?+

  No slight was intended,+ I replied. +You are most welcome, and your presence does us high honour.+

  I am sure that respect was all that was intended,+ he sent with amusement.

  Of course,+ I said.

  I was wondering where we were going; an audience chamber, I presumed, but I could not be sure. In other circumstances I would have extended my mind to read the space around me, but Ichneumon would have known and that might have affected the delicate charade of courtesy we were both weaving.

  We walked on. The bronze carvings covering the passage walls twisted, as though echoing Ichneumons amusement. Silence closed over us the further we walked from the hangar deck. The air had changed too. Incense smoke clung to the ceiling, heavy with notes of cinnamon and burned paper. Carvings of bronze, crystal and bone covered every wall and ceiling. Endless patterns of feathers and the serpentine rune of the Changer of Ways slid in and out of focus on each surface I looked at.

  My left hand caught the edge of a bronze wing that projected from the relief on the passage wall, sharp enough to bite into the ceramite.

  Nekasu, I hissed to myself.

  Several paces behind us, nine warriors in emerald and gold power armour followed, amber pendants and silver chains clacking against ceramite as they moved. They were not Rubricae, but living warriors. Their weapons and armour plates had a sheen of moisture, like sweat-slicked skin, and they moved with a total disunity, their steps and movements never synchronising even for an instant.

  It is kind that you call me brother, Ctesias. It is sometimes pleasant to remember that I once had brothers.+

  It is a fact, Ichneumon. You are still one of us.+

  One of us…?+

  One of the Legion.+

  You lie beautifully, Ctesias. The Changer of Ways sees this in you. Sees, and is pleased.+

  I was grateful for my helm. It meant that I did not have to hide my lip curling.

  You…+ I began, but he cut off my platitude before it could form.

  Your pretence, though gratifying in its attempt, is unnecessary. You think me a fool, a credulous simpleton who has given himself over to the veneration of false gods.+

  I never thought you a simpleton.+

  Whether I am or not is irrelevant. The gods are real, Ctesias. You know this. The Changer of Ways watches over us, and holds our fate in his eternal eye. You are his servant as much as I, more perhaps. You hungered for knowledge and power even before the Wolves came to Prospero. He cherishes you for that, guides you in thought and dream, and your successes are the Changer’s as much as they are yours. Your choice to deny that fact does not alter the truth of it.+

  I bit my mouth closed and clamped my thoughts shut inside my head, wishing very much that Ahriman had sent Kiu, Gaumata or even Astraeos to do this. I tried to think of ways of finessing the exchange, of sliding over the chasm that existed between us. In the end I gave up.

  You are right,+ I sent. +You are a simpleton.+

  The nine warriors behind us snapped into sudden movement, guns rising, crystal swords sliding into the air.

  Ichneumon glanced at them, and they froze. Then he looked slowly back at me. Violet amusement, red rage and black control warred in his aura.

  We were both sent here by the will of others: you by Ahriman, me by the Winds of Change. The difference is that you do not know if you should be here – you only know that it is Ahriman’s will, but I know that I must be here. You serve because you must, and I serve because I am a servant of the eternal.+

  I tried to give a small nod to indicate a concession, but I could not do even that. It was more ridiculousness than I could bear. You might think that this sentiment was at best hypocrisy and at worst a form of wilful blindness. Perhaps you might be right; after all, the gods are real as well as their daemonic servants. These are facts, of which I am sharply aware, but for all that they exist and – as much as I draw on their power – I refuse to sully myself by offering them devotion that they neither need nor deserve. Those like Ichneumon who devote themselves to one of the great powers – for he is far from alone – hold a special place in my catalogue of contempt. Perhaps it is because of the gratitude with which they accept the gifts. Perhaps, it is because I do not like to be reminded of the lies I tell myself. Either way I do not like those who exalt in their service to the gods. In that, Ahriman and I agree.

  Whatever the reason, it is… good that you came to us,+ I managed at last.

  On the truth of that we can agree,+ he replied as he turned and gestured for me and our escort to follow.

  Truth?+ I sent, and let my amusement touch the sending. +Would your god approve of that word?+

  Ichneumon glanced over his shoulder as he walked before me.

  Let us see,+ he sent.

  Behold.+ Ichneumon raised his hands and tilted his head back as though bathing in the fire’s warmth – it was hot. My armour warning systems chimed with low-grade heat warnings as I stepped up next to him. +Is it not magnificent?+

  This…+ I began, but the thought trailed away.

  It is the Eye of Change,+ he sent, the thought almost purring, and lowered his hands. +It is the heart of the ship, and the heart of every­thing I have given to the Master of Fortune. It is my heart.+

  I remained silent. In honesty I did not know what to say.

  The chamber was spherical with a circumference large enough to swallow the central plaza of a major city. Its walls were ribbed metal, and so thickly covered in soot that they seemed moulded out of night. We stood on a walkway that wound around the inside of the walls. Before us, in the central volume of the sphere, a mass of flame coiled and pulsed like a blind dragon. It was a singularity of change and wild power. The warp rolled at its heart, raw, wild and hungry. Sheets of burning parchment tumbled endlessly through the fire, turning to ash and then reforming from nothing. The necks of avian gargoyles projected from the walls of the chamber, breathing torrents of burning gas into the air.

  I pulled my helm off, letting the full heat of the fire hit my face.

  ‘Haassuvir…’ I breathed aloud.

  What?+ Ichneumon shot me a glance, and his sending was sharp. Just on the edge of my eyes, his bodyguards twitched where they stood. Ichneumon stilled them with a pulse of will. He knew that the sound I had made held no real power, but he did not understand the words I had spoken. He did not like that.

  A expression of surprise, brother,+ I sent,

  Truly? I do not recognise the language.+

  It is a language that died with the civilisation that created it.+

  Sweat was prickling my skin. Without my helm the heat was a deluge. I spat, and the saliva was fizzing to steam before its acid began to eat the metal of the platform.

  How did this civilisation die?+

  I destroyed it,+ I sent.

  He tilted his head, and I tried not to blink as the sweat ran into my eyes.

  For their language?+ he asked.

  For their impudence.+

  He was silent for a second, and then began to laugh. Behind him the mass of fire flared and writhed.

  Is that a threat?+ he sent, the thought rolling with amusement. +Oh, what a beautiful jest!+

  Not a threat,+ I sent.

  I am sure it’s not,+ he sent. +But now that we are here, under the Eye of Change, let us talk terms?+

  Terms?+ I sent.

  Yes, Ctesias. Terms for the exchange of what Ahriman needs and what I will receive.+

  Ahriman offers–+

  He wishes to leave the Eye of Terror,+ he cut through me. +And he wishes to do it without braving the Cadian Gate that is now garrisoned by the might of the Imperium.+ I formed a thought in reply, but he raised a finger to halt me. +I know this. The fire and wind gave its truth to me. And I…+ he paused, looking up at the boiling cloud of flame. +I have the means to give Ahri
man what he wants.+

  The fire twisted and changed colour: blue, purple and green flowed into the red and gold. Clefts opened up, and vortices formed from roaring heat. An image of the Eye of Terror hung above us.

  They call me the Wanderer of Paths,+ he continued, +but I wander only where I am guided, and the paths I walk are gifts from the Great Knower of All. I will give that knowledge to Ahriman as a gift.+ He paused and the image of the Eye collapsed back into a tumble of wild flames. +But I wish a gift in exchange.+

  It was my turn to laugh.

  So that is it? For all of your millennia of devotion you are still just a mercenary like the rest of us.+

  He shook his head, and then, slowly, removed his own helm. The head beneath was monstrous. Even in the limited manner of those raised from mankind to the ranks of the Legiones Astartes, it was no longer anything that even mocked its original humanity. Eyes clustered across one half of its front. Circular mouths full of teeth covered the other. Tendrils of soft, pale flesh hung from its scalp like locks of twitching hair. It was an image of abomination, an echo of the curse that we had once followed Ahriman to undo.

  I want to come with you. I want to serve Ahriman,+ sent Ichneumon, the teeth in his mouths twitching. +You see, I am our true face, Ctesias. Under the skin, you are all still like me.+

  I did not know what to say. The Rubric had shed the curse of mutation from the Thousand Sons, at least from those of us who lived. But cure is not immunity. The warp is subtle, and though we do not crawl with tentacles and chimeric flesh, there are many amongst the Thousand Sons whose flesh still changes. That is to be expected given what we are, and where we make our home. But Ichneumon’s face declared that he was not afflicted with the influence of the warp; he embraced it.

  He tilted his head, and his mane of flesh lengthened and coiled together like a knot of worms.

  What say you? Will Ahriman take me into his service? Will he let me be a part of the future he chases?+