Tyrant of the Hollow Worlds

by Mark Clapham

  ‘For Huron!’ bellowed Rotaka and his squad pushed forwards on the heels of their lord, bolters finding targets and bringing them down.

  As they reached the Tyrant, Rotaka realised that Huron’s attention was partially elsewhere, engaged with someone other than them. Rotaka thought him lost in the grip of one of his delusions until the Tyrant addressed the voice he was hearing by name, proving it the product of a private vox-channel rather than his diseased mind.

  ‘Garreon,’ Huron snarled. ‘Get those dogs off my planet.’ He paused, as presumably the Corpsemaster offered some explanation as to how he would correct his error.

  ‘Then do it,’ snapped Huron. ‘Push them beyond the arch, but offer minimal pursuit. Hold that line until I say otherwise.’ Another pause. ‘Do not question me, Garreon, just act.’

  Rotaka expected Huron to lash out in rage after such a conversation, and he and the other Corsairs had discreetly moved away from the Tyrant as he spoke to Garreon.

  Instead, Huron simply turned to his next set of orders, pointing ahead through lines of Cadian defences to the mountain at the centre of the island. ‘To the mountain,’ he snarled. ‘Let no mortal stand against us and live.’

  As Huron spoke, for the briefest second, Rotaka saw the constant rain pass through Huron rather than splash off his body and armour.

  Then the next assault on the Cadians began and Rotaka dismissed what he had seen as a trick of the light from the pale, artificial sun above their heads.

  On the Hacastan side of the Archway between that world and Kerresh, endless snow fell down on a long-toothed Scout by the name of Agmund.

  Agmund kept watch, as he had done since the Space Wolves seized control of the area on the other side of the Archway. He stood by a rock, a supporting pillar from some fallen building, carefully sharpening the blade of his sword against the rock’s surface.

  There were others of his kind scattered around the Archway, old Space Wolves who preferred their own company, content to leave the glory of finishing off the traitors to the Blood Claws and willing to take on the necessary, solitary duties. They signalled each other at regular intervals to state that all was well, low whistles issued through heavy jaws, but otherwise had no contact unless required.

  Agmund preferred the company of the snow and the wind, and had no desire for the camaraderie of his fellow Space Wolves. Leave that to the young.

  He paused, sword held slightly aloft. He heard something in the wind, and his nose wrinkled. There was a familiar, musky scent, a fellow Space Wolf, but that could mean anything. The enemy would not be above stripping the pelts from a fallen Space Wolf’s armour to conceal their approach from heightened olfactory senses.

  A heavy tread grew closer, ponderous and leaden, heavy even for a Space Marine. It sounded nothing like the cautious walk of an enemy, but still Agmund whistled the signal to be alert, that someone approached.

  ‘No need for that, brother,’ said a deep augmented voice, which Agmund recognised.

  ‘Folkvar?’ he called out into the blizzard. ‘We thought you half a world away.’

  The last Agmund had heard, virtually all under Folkvar’s command had been lost in battle with the traitors.

  ‘I was,’ said Folkvar. He had a mortal alongside him, wrapped in thick layers of clothing, so that Agmund couldn’t tell if it was even male or female. ‘But I heard the action was here, so here we came.’

  ‘You walked?’ said Agmund, and his grip tightened on his sword, regardless of how long he had known Folkvar. To travel so far unaided – was this witchcraft, some enemy trap?

  Folkvar chuckled humourlessly, a grating sound through his augmetics.

  ‘Not quite, old Agmund,’ said Folkvar. ‘We requisitioned whatever vehicles we could find, took some of the monks’ shortcuts. The last one broke an hour or so back. I am not used to travelling in such flimsy vehicles…’

  Folkvar trailed off and there was a weariness to his voice that Agmund had heard many times before. The loss of the Frost, the other tanks and crews under his command. Agmund had heard that tone in his own voice, when packs he had fought with had fallen. Folkvar needed purpose now, more than anything.

  Agmund sheathed his sword.

  ‘Come,’ said Agmund. ‘Pass through the Archway. There is much to be done.’

  On Karstveil, Hulpin followed Huron Blackheart and Rotaka into battle, but it was not their leadership that drove him on, chainfists swinging back and forth as he cut through the Cadian loyalists. It was his own faith, his belief that his gods looked approvingly on his actions, that inspired him.

  The Red Corsairs had advanced halfway between the wall of the Ironshore and the doorway in the mountain ahead, behind which lay some resource pivotal to the Tyrant’s plans. The details were irrelevant to Hulpin; all that mattered was that Huron Blackheart was greatly favoured by the gods, and that to follow him was to do great work in their honour.

  As the helbrute Kolsh pounded a bunker to pieces, smashing through the rockcrete roof and opening fire on mortals within, Hulpin followed Verbin as the other Red Corsairs charged through a barricade, dropping into a dugout on the other side. A dozen guns were on them instantly as Cadians charged from all sides, assailing the enemies in their midst, but Hulpin and Verbin lashed out in the close confines, pushing through las-fire that scorched their armour to break bones and tear flesh. Bolts exploded in the bodies of the mortals nearby as Rotaka, Malinko and Wuhrsk fired down into the trench.

  This was worship, this was ritual, sacred carnage. Hulpin broke the bones of the dead and dying as he stepped on fallen mortals, striding to the other side of the dugout and climbing out to be greeted with the sight of his fellow Red Corsairs exchanging fire with the defenders of the Ironshore. A grenade exploded nearby, throwing up hot dirt into air already polluted by smoke and a mist of human blood. The air was thick with death.

  As Hulpin dived into the fray once more, he felt that he was truly blessed.

  Nistal fired his lasrifle until the barrel was hot in his gloved palm, until his wrists ached. The mile between the mountain at Nistal’s back and the Ironshore wall was a scene of carnage, and he had no shortage of targets to aim at from his position behind the last line of defensive barricades. There had to be over fifty Traitor Marines in the field, butchering Cadians and Lastrati alike, bolters and other weapons blazing, armoured fists lashing out at any mortal that came near them. In their wake came even more support troops, including red-uniformed traitor infantry as well as ragged slaves and barely human, mutated grotesques.

  While some core part of Nistal was struck with fear by the horrifying sight of the traitors and their followers, he was still a Cadian born in the gaze of the Eye of Terror, and he kept firing and issuing orders even as it became clear that the defence was doomed to fail.

  From his position at the last line of defence he could see the enemy beast machine kicking aside barricades, the human soldiers behind them knocked aside like dolls.

  ‘All heavy weapons teams, target that abomination,’ he shouted over the roar of gunfire. A mortar nearby fired, its explosive payload streaking up through the air to land on the metal monstrosity. The beast staggered as the explosion hit, but did not falter.

  ‘Again!’ shouted Nistal, his own lasrifle laying down suppressing fire to keep back the assailants now heading towards the mortar’s position. Two mortals, one stricken with a scaly left arm that made Nistal nauseous, fell to his shots, only for a towering figure to charge through las-fire and bolts alike, swiping aside any obstruction with a great clawed power fist which then spat promethium at the mortar team, burning them alive.

  The fist, the dead, grey flesh, the halo of gold – Nistal recognised Huron Blackheart from his description, but nothing had truly prepared him for the Tyrant’s presence. He towered over even the other Red Corsairs and though he looked exposed, his face and head un­armoured to reveal patches
of necrotic-looking flesh inbetween the extensive augmetics, he charged through his enemies unscathed, his power claw tearing through Cadians with dozens of kills to their name, decapitating or disembowelling them in an instant. He moved with terrible speed and fury.

  ‘No,’ said Nistal, mainly to himself. If they won no other victory, they would see Huron Blackheart bleed.

  A grenade had taken out another heavy weapons team to the left of Nistal’s position, away from Huron Blackheart. From twenty feet away, the rocket launcher looked undamaged.

  ‘Murso,’ Nistal said to the sergeant next to him. ‘You have command.’

  Before Murso could protest, Nistal was over the sandbags and running across open ground, bolts and las-fire flying past him. Skidding in the mud, he lay low next to scorched bodies as the air above his head was criss-crossed by enemy fire, his gloved fingers working quickly on the rocket launcher. It was ready to fire.

  Kneeling up, mud soaking his uniform, he lifted the launcher on to his shoulder, aimed at Huron Blackheart and fired. He wasn’t wearing the correct shoulder pads or mount to fire the launcher, and as it kicked back it knocked him over and ripped through the shoulder of his coat, gouging into his flesh. As he fell, he watched the rocket streak across the space between him and the Tyrant, who was turning in Nistal’s direction.

  Huron Blackheart batted the rocket out of the air, somehow hitting its side without striking the nose cone and detonating it. The rocket careened sideways, exploding against the barricade behind which lay the door in the mountainside, the barricade where Nistal had so recently been positioned.

  And then the Tyrant was crossing the churned battlefield towards him, and Nistal scooped up a lasrifle and squeezed the trigger and…

  Nothing.

  Nistal’s muscles failed him. He couldn’t move his finger. Cold talons had sunk through his arm and shoulder, cutting tendons and leaving them limp, and Nistal could feel the weight of some unseen, heretical creature on his back, and its presence paralysed him, not with terror but by its cold presence freezing his body, and he could smell its foul breath as it blew past his cheek and…

  …the creature was gone, but Huron Blackheart’s power claw was coming up, lifting him off his feet.

  And he was dangling, feet off the ground, in agony, gazing into the face of Huron Blackheart, the dead, slack leer of pleasure, the sole surviving eye twitching with insanity. Over Huron Blackheart’s shoulder Nistal could see Murso and the others vaulting the shattered barricades, coming to his rescue only to be gunned down themselves, the forces of heresy closing in on the Cadians’ last stand.

  With relief, Lieutenant Nistal died before he had to endure seeing any more.

  Rotaka and his squad gunned down the last of the Cadians beneath the arch in the mountainside, moving in on them firing tight bursts of bolts. Behind them could be seen a towering door made of the same metal as the Ironshore seawall.

  Rotaka turned to see Huron slide a dead Cadian off the Tyrant’s Claw and drop the corpse to the ground, with the casual disdain of someone discarding a dirty glove.

  In the heat of battle, Huron Blackheart’s presence seemed to have solidified once more, as if violence itself kept him anchored in the universe. Rotaka and the others stepped back as the Tyrant walked towards his prize.

  He gripped the wheel at the centre of the door with both hands, the Tyrant’s Claw fitting uneasily around the spokes. It did not move.

  ‘What is the password?’ said a voice.

  Huron Blackheart stepped back from the door. The voice seemed to come from the very fabric of the door itself.

  ‘Poisoned chalice,’ said the Tyrant, repeating the phrase Rotaka had relayed to him.

  The wheel in the door began to slowly rotate of its own accord, and the criss-crossed slats of the door separated and retracted into the wall. Behind it was revealed a corridor disappearing deep into the mountain.

  ‘Rotaka,’ said Huron, with a cold rage reflecting his indignation at having to ask for admittance to anywhere. ‘Deal with this creature as you dealt with its sibling.’

  ‘My lord commands,’ said Rotaka, bowing his head slightly. Then he led his squad into the mountain.

  ‘You know what’s in there,’ Rotaka said. ‘You know what we have to do.’

  His squad exchanged nods and moved quickly down the tunnel. After the first turn it opened into a stone chamber containing a creature almost identical to the passenger they had received the code from, the corpulent once-human they had encountered on the never-stopping train. It was surrounded by similar life support systems to its sibling, and behind it could be seen another stretch of tunnel, from which came light of a kind Rotaka could not identify.

  ‘Welcome, traitors,’ said the gateholder, its modulated voice as self-satisfied as that of the passenger.

  ‘I refuse,’ snapped Rotaka, ‘to have this conversation again.’

  Then the entire squad opened fire, bolters blazing, the explosive bolts tearing chunks in the gateholder’s body and life support, while Malinko’s flamer set the creature alight in a mass of blazing fat.

  The gateholder slumped dead.

  ‘That was satisfying,’ said Malinko, to grunts of approval from the rest of the squad.

  Rotaka opened a vox-channel.

  ‘My lord,’ he told Huron Blackheart. ‘The path is clear. The Orrery awaits you.’

  Twenty-Two

  ‘In the name of…’ exclaimed Rotaka, then trailed off, unable to think of a suitable name to utter. Once, it would have been the Emperor, latterly the name of Huron himself. Now, he didn’t have any higher power to call on in the face of the inexplicable.

  The Orrery was exactly what the name implied.

  The Orrery was nothing like what Rotaka had expected.

  It was an orrery in the strictest sense, a working representation of the Hollow Worlds, but it was neither a physical model with metal spheres moving on some visible mechanism, nor a hololithic display with the worlds projected in light.

  No, this was something else. The cavern within the mountain was a vast space with a curved ceiling high above, and beneath that ceiling floated the Orrery, a planetary system in miniature. It was unclear how it remained suspended in the air, but it was fed with energy from a central pit in the chamber, in which a glowing mass of energy swirled. Periodically, bolts of fierce, wild energy would crackle between the pit below and the spheres above.

  This was no projection. The spheres appeared to be made of stone and some translucent material, so that the interior of each world with its small sun was visible from outside, and Rotaka could recognise the continents of the worlds he had already visited. The model of each of these suns flickered with flame, a fiery imitation of its larger equivalent.

  The smallest of the spheres was larger than Kolsh, and they floated in a cloud of shimmering particles, clearly representing the Siren Clouds. Between the worlds ran strands of coruscating energy, linking sun to sun and Archway to Archway, all feeding from an ice-blue sphere in the centre.

  The spheres were moving, too, and while the ice-blue sphere remained at the centre of the system the rest of the Hollow Worlds did not orbit it in any conventional sense; instead the push and pull of the different energy streams caused them to weave around each other, the threads of power that bound them stretching as planets passed each other within the clouds.

  Within this system, the positioning of the planets bore little resemblance to the interlocking of the Archways. Yes, Laghast and Plini were at one edge of the Siren Clouds, and Trincul at the other, but between them planets physically close in the rotation were completely disconnected, while others had Archways stretching between them even though they were far apart.

  It was a machine, or a mechanism, Rotaka realised. Not just the Orrery, but the actual Hollow Worlds it imitated. An artificially created mechanism of unreadable purpose, one tha
t might only pass for a planetary system because of its scale, and the life supported within it.

  Rotaka had seen many things unimaginable to mortals, but the alien complexity of this confounded even him.

  To Huron Blackheart, it seemed to be exactly what he expected. The Tyrant had barely looked up as they entered the presence of the Orrery, as if its presence were unremarkable. Whatever voices, whatever gods had whispered in Huron’s ear, they had kept him well informed.

  The chamber was silent, as if no one had entered there in centuries. As the battle outside had faded, the last resistance crushed, Huron’s most trusted officers and counsel had joined them: Taemar, Valthex and Anto.

  ‘Exultance…’ breathed the Tyrant, breaking the silence.

  Rotaka saw his master was gazing at the central sphere.

  ‘Anto,’ said Huron. ‘Can you divine a route?’ The Tyrant pointed his power claw upwards, towards the spheres.

  It had not occurred to Rotaka that the Orrery could be scaled, but looking up he could see smaller, duller objects floating amongst the spheres. Were they viewing platforms of some kind, or control mechanisms? The energies connecting the spheres crackled across these duller objects, licking their surfaces, with an intensity that suggested they would cut through any weaker substance, perhaps even power armour.

  Anto was shaking his head, and Rotaka saw a reticence in the sorcerer he had never witnessed before.

  ‘Whatever this is, it is no sorcery I have knowledge of,’ he replied.

  ‘Useless,’ snapped Huron. ‘Valthex, serve me better.’

  The Techmarine stepped forwards, studying the Orrery intently. ‘There seems to be an access route there, my lord,’ he said, pointing.

  Where Valthex indicated, Rotaka could see that there were protrusions from the walls, possibly control galleries, and they had been crudely linked by ladders, stairs and scaffolding constructed on a more human scale.