by John French
The woman’s eyes never rose from the paper, and beads clacked back and forth on the counting frame. As we watched, a servant in a polished glass mask silently placed a jug of scented water and a cup by her elbow. She did not look up and the water remained untouched.
‘She can undo any part of the lives of any of the men and women we saw in the streets, and she can do it with a word,’ said the daemon. ‘Her people call her the Sun Queen, because from her comes all that lives. People in lands far from here quake at rumours of her anger. Like her forebears she has broken enemies and taken their lands as her own. Here, in this small slice of existence she is not a human. She is a goddess.’ The daemon breathed, and I felt its rank presence shiver though me as it shook its head. ‘And in a few moments the most important thing she has, will be no more.’
‘Is this a demonstration of your power?’ sneered Ahriman. ‘You killed them and left all they made in the dust?’
‘Oh, no, no… This kingdom will live for centuries more. In a millennium it will cover the planet it was born on. In three millennia it will burn planets that defy it. In ten… well… that is another story.’
My eye suddenly caught something at the edge of my sight. Out beyond, on the edge of the blue dome of the sky a new, bright star began to glitter. The star swelled, growing brighter with every second. Somewhere down in the streets a cry rose over the city’s murmur. The star became a ragged sphere of white light. The sound of the distant crowd was now a swelling chorus of panic. The woman, who was a queen, looked up at last, a frown on her face. Her eyes found the bloated star. For a second she stared, and then she was across the tiled roof, shouting for her servants as the star grew and grew. The cries from the streets below were howls of terror now, and the summit of the building was crowded with figures, and shouting voices. The star was a second sun.
‘Enough,’ said Ahriman. ‘I do not need to see this.’
‘But you do,’ said the daemon, ‘and you bade me show you what I can offer you.’ The star was no longer a star. It was a shrieking wall of white light dragging across the sky. ‘Watch.’
And then it was above the city, and the cries of fear became silence.
A rippled ceiling of light hid the sky. Growths of fire, and smoke rippled across it. Vast spurs of blackened metal cut through the fire cloud like shark fins through an inverted sea. And then, as fast as it had arrived, it was gone. After a minute it was a fading star on the opposite horizon.
Then everyone was shouting, and calling out.
Amidst the clamour, the queen stood silent and still, staring at the abacus on her table.
‘Do you see now?’ asked the daemon.
‘The fire of inspiration falling from the sky,’ said Ahriman. ‘The manifestation of something so great and terrible, and outside of comprehension, that it opens these peoples’ eyes to the limits of their knowledge. If you know me as you claim, then you should know that this illustration of the power of enlightenment is wasted. ‘
‘Yes, but no. Look at her face. Really look at her face. Think of the strength that was in those eyes before. There was worry of course. Doubt, naturally, but what is there now?
‘Fear, determination, anger, curiosity.’
‘And what is gone that was there before.’
‘I… do not…’
‘The consolation of ignorance Ahriman. The simple comfort of knowing that no matter the terrors and possibilities that the world offers and threatens, those things are understood, measured. Known.’
‘Why show me that?’
‘As a gift. As a warning. As an offer.’
‘There is no value in ignorance,’ said Ahriman.
‘No? Are you certain? Would you like to see what I will show you next?’
The daemon did not wait for a reply. The city, and the queen, and the sound of new-born enlightenment, vanished.
A figure stood before us, bent over a lectern, his face lit and shadowed by the light of the flames. He wore black robes edged in white. Pictograms ran down the fabric, coiling in gold and silver stitches.
‘To be mortal is to be made of the past,’ said the daemon, ‘all the moments of what has been piled up to make the present.’
A scroll covered the face of the lectern, the handles of the twin spools of parchment turning in the figure’s hands. He looked human at a glance, but he was not. Behind him a suit of crimson and ivory armour hung from a chrome frame, like a snap shot of a dissected man.
I knew him. I knew the hunger and focus in his stare. I knew the smile that touched his lips as the scroll passed before his eyes. I knew that at this moment he knew nothing of what awaited him in the centuries to come. I knew him better than a brother or a father.
He was me.
‘This has no value,’ said Ahriman. ‘I remember Ctesias as he was. I remember them all, living and dead.
‘Yes, they live in your memory don’t they? All the dead who fell, all the ghosts of mistakes and dreams gone astray.’ More shapes appeared, sketches of armour, limbs, and faces drawn in smoke – a Legion of the lost spread out to a vanishing point. ‘This is how you see them is it not, Ahriman?’ I saw faces I knew and had not seen for centuries: Khayon, Hathor Maat, Phosis T’Kar, and beyond them hundreds more. Thousands. Tens of thousands. ‘The measured wisdom in their eyes, the nobility in their aspect, the ideals of illumination clinging to their every breath. So noble, so misunderstood. Worth something. Worth everything. Worth saving.’
‘They are as they were,’ said Ahriman, and I heard the catch in his voice, and then the bitterness. ‘But do not claim to be able to turn time back to this. That is beyond the power of the gods you serve.’
‘I do not serve the gods, and your vision is reassuringly narrow. The past is not what I am offering you. I said that I would only show you truth, and so I have, and so I do…’
Names began to rise out of the dark, a rolling litany of names chanted by unseen voices.
‘….Gilgamos, Ohrmuzd, Ctesias, Iskandar Khayon, Magnus, Tolbek, Helio Isidorus…’
The Legion before us began to shine. Light grew out of them, and spread above their heads and shoulders in halos of golden light. Their skin and armour became translucent shells over the blaze within.
‘…Mabius Ro, Nycteus, Menkaura, Gaumata, Amon, Zebul, Ketuel, Ankhu Anen, Jehoel, Midrash, Arvida, Kiu…’
They rose into the air and their faces were not noble, but proud, and cold, and hungry. Cords of congealed flesh hung from them, connecting each of them to a great tangle of oily light which hung above.
‘…Zabaia, Siamak, Ignis, Sanakht, Khalophis, Atharva, Phosis T’Kar, Auramagma, Hathor Maat, Uthizaar…’
Sickly bright colours moved through the knotted mass. Eyes winked from within its coils, and mouths chattered in countless half-heard voices.
‘See them,’ said the daemon. ‘See them as they were.’
‘No,’ breathed Ahriman. ‘This is not truth. I saved them. I saved them from this. They were not like this, they were never like this.’
‘They were and are as you see them. They have not changed. It is you who have changed.’
‘This is–’
‘Truth. Remember the gift of ignorance, Ahriman. Remember that. You can have the lie if you wish. It can even be made real. You can remake your Legion as you remember them. It will be a lie, but lies can easily be believed, just as truth can be forgotten.’
Ahriman did not reply, and the legion of glowing figures began to flicker, and their names faded with them.
‘Silence,’ said the daemon, ‘is as good an answer as any. You both believe me and don’t. Such delicious paradox. So you do not want truth, nor lies, nor ignorance. What remains for me to lay at the feet of Ahriman, greatest of sorcerers, greatest of fools?’ ‘Let us see. Let me show you my last gift.’
The sky was fire and jagged light. Black tower
s broke the horizon. Streaks of silver rose from the ground, tearing into clouds of creatures pouring from a dark rift which split the burning sky from horizon to horizon. Flat shapes of skin and teeth spiralled in the air. Armies covered the ground, glinting with armour, blood, and blade edges. Huge beasts strode amongst the sea of warriors, their hides scaled in rusted iron. The air vibrated with gunfire, and thunder strikes.
‘Where is this?’ asked Ahriman
‘A battlefield that has yet to be,’ replied the daemon.
A warrior in blue armour stepped into view, and buried a fire-edged axe in a creature of rotting skin and tentacles. The creature exploded, and flies and maggots swarmed up the axe-man’s arm as he drew back. Yellow pus smoked as it ate into his armour. The sound of great wing beats filled our ears and a shadow fell across the battlefield. A towering figure landed before us, wings folding an instant before it swung the cleaver in its fist. A circle of warriors in blue crystal armour fell, blood flickering out, burning and curdling as it touched the air.
The figure was huge. Its jaws lolled in a wide cave of black meat. Pus seeped from between its cracked teeth, and its wings shivered as it looked around. Smoke boiled from it, pulsing and shimmering like a living veil… and an instant later, I released that it was not smoke. It was a cloud of coal-black flies. Gunfire plucked at the figure’s flesh and rang from its armour. It turned its head to the sky and bellowed.
Its rattling cry shook the air with challenge. A second monstrous figure dropped from the sky. Twin pinions spread from its shoulders, each feather a tongue of blue flame. The down draft of each sweep shimmered with heat, and smelled of incense. Blue fire sheeted from it as it dived.
It struck the first figure with a sound of breaking bone and vaporising fat. The pair cannoned through ranks of warriors in a tangle of blades, claws and fire. The bloated creature roared as claws ripped chunks from its arms. They rose from the ground, wings of feather and skin beating. Their hands locked around each other’s necks.
The image froze, and silence replaced the clamour.
‘Do you recognise them?’ asked the daemon.
‘I do not,’ said Ahriman.
‘You knew them both once. You know one of them still.’
Ahriman did not answer, and I knew that he would be doing as I was, staring at the two monsters, wondering who they had been. They were daemons, immortal princes of the Changer of Ways, and the Father of Plagues. Both had once been mortals, but their devotion to their chosen gods had bought them ascension to the circles of the neverborn.
‘The one made of dead blubber and poison is Garthak,’ said the daemon, ‘once called the Last Blade, Chieftain of the Death Sight cohort of the Sons of Horus. You–’
‘I shared the field with him at the fall of Marnicia,’ said Ahriman. ‘I remember. A good man.’
‘Not now,’ said the daemon with a chuckle. ‘Now he is just a slave.’
‘And the other?’
‘You do not recognise him? Well, I suppose he is different to how he seems to you now. If you do not see the resemblance I will not spoil the eventual surprise. We are not here for him though, or for poor Garthak. We are here so that you can see the battle they fight.’
‘This could be any one of a million battlefields on a thousand worlds. Many more than these two have fallen. Their tragedies are not unique.’
‘You are correct. This battle is not exceptional, and that, my clever mortal, is the point. This is not just a battle between two creatures of the warp – it is a clash of greater powers written small. This is part of the war fought by slaves to darkness on uncountable battlefields. Fought not because they chose to fight, but because they have no choice. Fought by creatures such as you.’
‘I am not–’
‘Not what? A slave? You are, Ahriman. Every beat of your blood, and every conjured thought in your skull, serves the Changer of Ways.’
‘You speak–’
‘From the first moment you saw the stars in the sky you served the God of Change. Every beat of your life has happened for its amusement.’
‘I am no one’s slave, and no one’s son!’
‘It burns, does it not?’ laughed the daemon. ‘Truth, ignorance, power, there are no things deeper, no things darker, no fires more fierce. You are a slave. Your choices are not your own, no matter what you may believe. I offer you freedom, Ahriman. Take Ctesias’s place in my debt, and the chains will fall.’ Its voice was low, crooning, like a mother offering comfort to a child. ‘No other can promise you this. No other has broken those chains themselves. I alone am the salvation you crave.’
The tableau of battle was dissolving, and the daemon’s presence was a suffocating coil of pressure – squeezing tighter, anticipation and hunger seeping from it like heat from a fire. I could feel Ahriman’s presence then, the hard crystal of his mind resisting the slow strangling. He was strong, but if I had been able to speak I would have told him that he was not strong enough.
‘This is a trap,’ breathed Ahriman. ‘You never wanted Ctesias. You knew I would come for him, and so you sent the daemon hounds to kill him. You have been waiting for Ctesias to fail, so that you could engineer this moment. You are here for me.’
‘The great intellect revealed at last. The gods will fall, and the warp will howl at the foot of my throne. You may join me in that future, Ahriman. It can be yours.’
‘No.’
‘Then you will lose what you came to save.’
Needle points of ice pierced me and ripped downwards, and the daemon’s anger and spite was roaring through my blind soul like a wind of knives. And then I heard something that terrified me more than the pain of my torment.
Ahriman laughed.
‘So certain,’ he said, and there was no humour in his voice. Only iron. ‘So used to power. So much a slave yourself that you cannot see that your delusions are the amusements of the gods you rebel against.’ I could feel the daemon’s anger and confusion. ‘And so certain of your power that you forget your nature and limits. You have lingered here too long… Be’lakor. And while this is a trap, it is not yours.
‘No!’ roared Be’lakor.
Cracks of white and blue light split my sight, blinding me, pulling me down. Be’lakor howled and blackness howled with it. I was coming apart. I was shreds of thought separating under a blade. I was a single, long shriek of agony.
And then colour and sound and feeling rushed in, and I had an instant of numb disbelief before I began to drown in my own blood.
Chanting voices poured into my ears. Flame light spiralled around and above me. I could see a ring of figures in blue armour and white robes. Their hands were raised, fingers linked by chains of lightning. I was lying on my back, blood pulsing from the wounds in my chest and neck, pink foam frothing as I gasped. Ahriman stood above me, his horned helm a crown of brilliant light, his open hand splayed above my eyes. His voice echoed as he called
‘I call you from the shadow of this soul, Be’lakor.’
Darkness vomited from my lips. The spaces between the lights dimmed. A black cloud swelled through the air, caged by the fire and lightning.
‘I call you into the light!’
The shadow cloud twisted, searching for a way out. Shapes formed within it, sketches in shades of midnight.
‘I call you!’
The cloud rushed outwards, and then snapped back into something that had shape, something less and more real than smoke. And at last I saw Be’lakor. I had never seen him before. He was many things at once, images and forms overlaid and combined, all the same and all separate: a withered skeleton with twisted horns of rotting bone, a towering creature of bare flesh and red flame, a figure of flowing obsidian muscle, a shadow like the flutter of great wings. He loomed larger than sight, his presence ice and cold oblivion.
‘You will burn, sorcerer!’ roared Be’lakor. ‘I will ma
ke your dreams ashes!’
‘I have an offer for you, daemon.’ Ahriman sounded utterly unconcerned. ‘A trade.’
‘I will drag your soul through the garden of knives. I will stew it in the pools of decay, and burn it on the fires of wrath.’
‘Control is made of knowing what we have, and want we want. Power is having something that someone else wants and cannot have. I make you a simple offer. You release Ctesias from your debt, you heal his wounds, and you grant me the answer to one question. For this I will give you freedom.’
‘You dare–’
‘If you do not accept this, I will bind you into Ctesias’s corpse, and bury that corpse beneath stone, and fire, and leave it there until the stars turn cold.’
‘You do not have the strength.’
‘I do. It might cost, but what does not have a price?’
Through the haze of blood and fading life, I saw Be’lakor, the First Prince of Chaos and Master of Shadow, shake with rage, and then become still.
‘I…’ it hissed. ‘I accept your terms.’
‘You submit to release my brother Ctesias from all bonds made between you, to return him to life, to give me the answering of one question I will speak to you?’
‘I do.’
‘Pledge it!’
‘By the hidden marks of my name, by all the power that is mine, by the fortune of all that I will bring to being, I answer and am bound by your gift.’
‘Good… now make it so.’
The daemon twisted, its substance spiralling into a column of fire and black smoke. I felt my heart beat a last time, and felt thousands of invisible hands grip my flesh and begin to pull me down. And with the last scrap of life I heard Ahriman speak his question to the daemon, and I heard Be’lakor laugh as he answered, and then I felt the memory of both question and answer vanish as the blackness finally took me.
I woke to the quiet beat of my twin hearts, and found Ahriman alone standing above me. My blood had caked to a crust on my face. I touched my throat and chest where the death wounds had bled before, and found smooth skin and flesh inside the breaks in my armour. I looked up at Ahriman.
