Tyrant of the Hollow Worlds

by Mark Clapham

  When the slaves had gone, Rotaka had held on to the bloodied skull fragment.

  It had remained in his hand day and night since. In the long voyage across the oceans of Karstveil, through the Archway they had used to come from Hacasta to its new twin on Kerresh, and here to this facility. As opposed to the harsh resistance that had met them on the journey out, the return trip had been entirely without event.

  Usually, under such circumstances, the restless Corsairs would have been sparring, taunting each other, getting into fights and reviving long-dormant feuds between rival squads, but now days passed without any such raucous conflicts. The mood between the Red Corsairs was muted, with the shadow of a greater conflict to come.

  As reports of the battle in the Orrery had spread, along with reports back from Kerresh as to the loss of Corsairs left on Hacasta when that world was destroyed, a new spirit of simmering resentment had begun to fester in the ranks.

  It was in the nature of the Red Corsairs to serve and to fight and to die, without questioning their orders. Those who had been Astral Claws had changed their allegiance from the Emperor to Lufgt Huron, and had followed Huron when he turned on the Imperium. To die in his name was nothing; it was what Huron Blackheart expected of them, and what they expected of themselves.

  And yet…

  It was not simply loyalty to a man or an abstract ideal that made Huron Blackheart their leader. Neither was it anything as simple or mortal as fear or intimidation, for all that he wielded those against his followers.

  No, it was Huron’s greatness as a leader, a worthiness for that role that bled through his every order and action. Though he had ceased to be Lufgt Huron, he retained that strategic brilliance, his fearless grip of the necessities of command, and a warped shadow of the old charisma that had allowed the Tyrant of Badab to turn his Chapter against everything they had once sworn fealty to.

  The Red Corsairs were willing to die, even to face defeat, when following a leader who was bold, brilliant, ambitious – a warrior who sought glory and vengeance in equal measure. Those were qualities an Adeptus Astartes, whether loyalist or traitor, would live and die for.

  They were qualities that did not characterise the Huron Blackheart who now led them, and there was a disquiet amongst the Red Corsairs that they were led not by a master strategist, but someone more desperate and irrational, bent on an objective that was not military, but personal.

  The Red Corsairs had conquered these worlds, but Huron was destroying them, obliterating Hacasta and leaving Kerresh a dying shell. When they could have been consolidating their power in the outer worlds and defending their conquests against the Space Wolves and their allies, instead Huron was pushing ever onwards with his quest, over-stretching his forces so that they were vulnerable at every point on the map.

  Whatever power Huron sought at the centre of the Hollow Worlds, would seizing it even leave his Red Corsairs alive, or would he shatter the entire system with his loyal soldiers in it?

  Although he was stricken with doubt as to his loyalty to Huron, Rotaka was unsure what to do. It seemed too late to change allegiance at this stage; he had gone too deep. There was no return to the Imperium for him, and even if it were possible, he had even less faith in their Corpse-Emperor than he had in Huron’s gods.

  Neither was there a place for him in the other Traitor Legions he had encountered, warbands led by ancient warriors carrying on arcane feuds that dated back to the time of Horus and other mythical figures.

  If they deposed Huron, who would lead them then? Garreon was as close to Huron Blackheart as anyone could be, but would doubtless take the throne without remorse should the Tyrant fall. Taemar would betray anyone for glory. There were others, lieutenants who might seek to lead given the right moment, but Rotaka could not see himself following any of them.

  Yet he was unsure if he could still follow Huron. The vision of what Huron Blackheart was becoming still lingered, leaving Rotaka with more reason than most to believe that Huron would sacrifice his entire warband to ensure his own survival.

  The only loyalty that retained any meaning for Rotaka was to his squad, his brothers, and they were divided. Verbin missed the old Babab, and would throw his loyalty behind anyone who would seek a more permanent conquest of the Hollow Worlds. Hulpin, however, was a true believer in the Ruinous Powers, and would follow Huron purely because he saw him as their avatar.

  Which left Wuhrsk. Wuhrsk was a pragmatist. He would turn to whichever side had the upper hand in a conflict within the Corsairs, and he would trust Rotaka’s judgement.

  Rotaka continued to stare at the piece of skull as he rotated it between his fingers. Iltz, the comrade he had struck down in Huron’s name. Which was the greater betrayal of his brothers now, to stay the course with Huron Blackheart, or strike against him before it was too late?

  The murmurings in the ranks were that reaching Exultance would be the critical point. The Red Corsairs on Kerresh were gradually being ordered to move to the Threshold Archway, and from Threshold they would move to Exultance, and whatever power was Huron’s final objective.

  If there was to be rebellion, it would be before Exultance was reached.

  If there was to be a reckoning, it would be on Threshold.

  Of all the Hollow Worlds, Threshold was the most… hollow.

  It was not a dead world, far from it. All of Valthex’s scans indicated there was life here, animals as well as the wide variety of flora that was clearly visible since they crossed through the new Archway on Kerresh. There were, however, no humans, or any superhumans beyond the party Huron Blackheart had brought with him.

  It was a world of thick vegetation and hot, moist air. Valthex did not care about living things, but there was some technical curiosity to the place, to how it had come to be in such a condition.

  This was what the Hollow Worlds meant to him, a series of curiosities, of technical problems beyond anything he could truly understand. The fear of knowledge at the Imperium’s heart, the terrified blindness embraced by all followers of the Corpse-Emperor, were anathema to Valthex, and had been long before he followed Huron into the service of Chaos.

  He had been rewarded greatly for such service. Whatever damnation he may have subjected himself to was nothing compared to the forbidden knowledge to which he had been given access. In a universe quivering in ignorance, he had been given a unique opportunity to delve deeper into lost sciences and long-forbidden technologies.

  Valthex’s insatiable, ruthless desire for further knowledge never ceased, and he never felt he knew enough.

  The technology of the Hollow Worlds vexed him. He could manipulate the power sources and inputs to some degree, switching monumental devices such as the Archways on or off, providing or diverting power to them, but he could barely comprehend how they worked. He would have been content to spend the rest of his immortal lifetime here, until the universe itself went cold, stripping apart every piece until he found their secrets. He wished to tarry by the newly born Archway, to work out how such a device could spring from bare ground on two worlds, the stone working itself into existence as if from nowhere.

  His master’s ambition did not allow him the luxury of such time.

  ‘How long will this take, Valthex?’ asked Huron. ‘My galleons seek a course.’

  The Tyrant stood by the Archway, the iridescence from the barrier between worlds making him a towering shadow. Valthex had a hololithic projector set up, and as servo-skulls spread out, scanning their environment, a map began to form from the signals the skulls sent back. They had been at work for two days, and had about a third of the world mapped.

  ‘Not long now,’ replied Valthex. ‘The skulls map not only the environment at ground level, but the sky above, in this case the continents opposite as much as they are visible. When that is complete we’ll have a full image of this world, and more importantly the main power flows. With all other
technology dead, the only flows should be to the Archways.’

  ‘We must move on, to Exultance,’ said Blackheart, a restless energy in him as he paced in the light from the Archway.

  Somewhere on Threshold, Huron’s intervention within the Orrery had opened up an access point, presumably akin to the Archway – although a scientific mind such as Valthex’s railed at the idiocy of mere assumption – leading to Exultance. It was that which they sought.

  Though no mortals currently lived on Threshold, evidently they once had. The Archway had formed in an anonymous valley on Kerresh, but on the other end it had built itself, or grown itself – the uncertainty niggled at Valthex’s curiosity like an itch – in the centre of a ruined Imperial city.

  The abandoned buildings were completely overrun with vegetation, not obviously damaged by conflict. Not a trace of human habitation remained.

  What had scoured the population so thoroughly from this world? Valthex did not know, and if Huron knew the history of this world, and how it had become lost to the other Hollow Worlds in the depths of time, he was not telling. More mysteries.

  ‘We will find Exultance, soon, my lord,’ said Valthex.

  And when Huron Blackheart cracked open the heart of the Hollow Worlds for his own purposes, Valthex would be there to seize whatever secrets he could.

  Huron’s sense of urgency was motivated by the fact that somewhere on Threshold there would be an Archway connecting to Trincul. While reconnecting the flows of power from Exultance to the other worlds, Huron had needed to balance the system by connecting Threshold to Trincul as well as Kerresh, or else the loss of Hacasta would have destabilised the Hollow Worlds entirely. For all of Huron’s callous disregard for life, he prized his own more than anything, and that rebalancing was a necessary evil to preserve himself.

  The fact that he had been forced to provide a route for his enemies to reach Exultance enraged him, and if there was one thing Huron Blackheart hated more than the failings of his subordinates, it was the possibility that he himself might be capable of error or weakness. To speak of the fact that he had conceded such an opportunity was to court death.

  ‘Notify me immediately when there is progress, Valthex,’ said Huron, walking back towards the Archway. For a world he had made such effort to seize, the Tyrant showed no interest in spending any time there.

  Valthex was left in silence with his drones and equipment, and the buzzing of insects.

  The facility was exactly as the mortal Badya had described, Anvindr thought as he watched the movements around those buildings from a discreet distance. It had been built against the side of one of the planetary ridges, at a point where the huge metal rail towered over ground level.

  The buildings crawled up the side of the ridge, with a platform at the top, next to which a ridge runner had stopped. Anvindr could see figures walking on and off the train. Loading or unloading? It was impossible to tell, although he suspected the Corsairs would not stay on Kerresh for much longer.

  Was it the same train Anvindr and his squad had seen pulling away from the factorum, shortly before the Red Corsairs counter-attack at the Archway to Hacasta? It was possible. Anvindr and his pack had been unable to pursue the ridge runner then, instead giving pursuit to the demolition engines as they advanced on the Archway. A rocket had destroyed their vehicle and they had not rejoined their fellow Space Wolves until the battle was over and the Archway destroyed.

  If it was the same ridge runner then there was hope. In the aftermath of the battle for the Archway and the destruction of Hacasta, the Archway itself had collapsed, and the Red Corsairs had withdrawn. The Space Wolves had searched the ruins of the station in which Tormodr and Sindri had last been seen, but could not find their bodies in the rubble.

  By the time the Space Wolves regathered their forces and raided the factorum that produced the demolition engines, the Red Corsairs had already gone. There, the possible trail of Sindri, Tormodr and their captors had been lost.

  Until, possibly, now. Anvindr was close, his hunter’s instinct told him so. Whether Sindri and Tormodr were alive or dead, he was sure they were here.

  The evidence suggested they were alive. Badya had also been right about the guard patterns, Red Corsairs patrolling the walkways and stairs that ran up the outside of the building, looking as much inwards as out. A prison guard’s patrol, and for the Corsairs to do it themselves… Only other Space Marines could warrant such security.

  There was a concentration of guards at the ground level, and the construction of the building suggested there could be as many floors below ground as above. Anvindr suspected any prisoners would be underground, and hoped it was there that he and his squad would be ordered to strike.

  To free his brothers and kill the traitors? The kill-urge rose in Anvindr, and he waited with the impatience of a hungry beast for the order to come.

  His wish was soon granted.

  Pranix was expecting them to take him away while he slept, perhaps using gas pumped into the cell to deepen his slumber, and to wake within whatever containment coffin Anto had devised for him.

  He wasn’t expecting his cell door to be kicked open while he was awake, and as the traitors stormed into the tiny space, he thought for a second that his survival had been discovered by those loyal to Huron Blackheart, and that he was to die after all.

  His thought as their bolters were raised in his direction was that at least his death would thwart Anto’s scheme to turn Pranix against the Imperium.

  But then the two Corsairs made way for another figure to partially enter the cell. Although he was fully helmed and armoured rather than wearing robes, Pranix recognised Anto from his arrogant posture. The sorcerer raised a staff as he looked at Pranix, and it crackled with psychic energy.

  ‘Take him,’ Anto ordered the Corsairs. ‘Do not attempt to resist, Pranix. I may have struck away the wards but I can kill you before you have the chance to use your powers.’

  Pranix cursed himself as he realised that, as Anto had said, the obstructions to his psychic abilities had been taken away. He hadn’t even noticed, and any opportunity to escape before they took him away had passed.

  Then he was being dragged between the two Red Corsairs, his feet barely touching the ground. They pushed through heavy doors and Pranix found himself disoriented as he took a breath – they had passed out of the artificially sustained atmosphere of clean processed air, and into a more toxic environment. Pranix coughed and stumbled, but the Corsairs dragged him onwards.

  The building they were in was built at a scale for the mortal humans who resided within the Hollow Worlds, not the Adeptus Astartes, and Pranix’s guards moved awkwardly through the narrow corridors. Pranix’s cell had been below ground, and he was showered in brick dust as he climbed the stairs to the ground level, the pauldrons and elbows of the Red Corsair in front of him scraping mortar from the walls as he squeezed through.

  The stairs opened up as they ascended flight after flight, curving back and forth, and Pranix realised they were above ground. He could hear nearby gunfire, shouts and screams, and as they passed slits in the walls, Pranix glanced out and caught a brief glimpse of hulking, silver-grey armoured figures running towards whatever building they were ascending.

  The Space Wolves were here. No wonder Anto was evacuating.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re running away,’ said Pranix, trying to conceal the difficulties he was having speaking while breathing such foul air.

  ‘Do not waste your time taunting us,’ said Anto, without looking around or breaking his step. ‘We are not like the Space Wolves you associate with – we will not be riled into unfortunate anger by challenges to our valour. We will defeat the Space Wolves on the battlefield of Lord Huron’s choosing, and not before. Until then, we rejoin him.’

  Pranix was about to challenge Anto over the fact that Huron had ordered for him to be killed, and that taking h
im to the Tyrant might be a poor choice, when the Corsairs dragged him out on to a rooftop, adjacent to a platform where a ridge runner awaited.

  He was silenced by his first sight of the sky above.

  The sun was broken, a blue-grey ball in the sky, casting a pallor over the whole world. Visibility was poor, and the other side of the world could not be seen. From high up on the platform Pranix could see desolation in all directions.

  ‘Which world are we on?’ blurted Pranix, then regretted his words instantly. To request information was to expose oneself to your captors.

  ‘Kerresh,’ said Anto, turning to Pranix, and the inquisitor could swear there was amusement creeping into his voice. ‘It has been this way since Lord Huron destroyed Hacasta. Do you see now my master’s power, inquisitor?’

  Pranix looked up again. One world destroyed, another broken. The confidence Pranix had maintained throughout his captivity began to seep away under the poisonous glare of that dying sun.

  As soon as Tormodr heard gunfire he started to strain at his bonds. He hadn’t seen any of the Red Corsairs who acted as his guards for hours, but if this place, wherever it was, was under attack then they would surely be here soon, to fulfil Garreon’s promise to transport them off-world.

  Tormodr didn’t intend to take that trip.

  Even as he struggled, Tormodr realised that his burst of defiance was useless. It was not as if the bonds had become easier to break because his desire to escape was now stronger. Willpower could only do so much.

  What he needed was opportunity, and that would come when his guards came to move or kill him. Tormodr stopped struggling, conserving his energy, prepared to strike at the first chance he was given. Something slammed into the door, and he prepared himself, tensing.

  There were two more blows, and on the last one the door flew open.