The House of Night and Chain

by David Annandale

  ‘Down.’ The frozen cyclone came from below.

  ‘Down,’ Rivas repeated. He nodded, then opened his book, the pages falling open to a much-read spot. It was too dark to read the words, but Rivas looked upon them all the same, quietly mouthing the prayer he knew was there. He kissed the book, and kept it open. He stepped forward and struck his staff against the first of the steps heading down. ‘We are here!’ he announced. ‘Foul power, we counter your pride with our humility and our trust in the God-Emperor. Hear His footsteps!’ He struck each step as he descended, the sharp sound echoing loudly through the tower. ‘The Emperor marches with us. This is the sound of His coming. This is the sound of your doom!’

  I grabbed a torch from a sconce just outside the tower and followed closely behind Rivas. The feeble light pushed against the darkness, and the darkness pushed back, solid and deep as an ocean. As soon as Rivas started to pray, the draught became a wind, steady and hostile.

  Down we went, down as I had not gone before. We descended with purpose. We followed the spiral until we passed the spot where I had found Veiss’ headdress, and we kept going. Down, down, down, past the detritus of the personal histories of all my predecessors. I understood the accumulation better now. I understood why Eliana too, towards the end, had begun adding to it. The past was too monstrous to be allowed into the light. It had to be buried, crushed below ground by the weight of all the other pasts. Generations of Strocks, as their doom had come for them, had done what little remained in their power to do and sacrificed their pasts, their legacies, their histories and their identities to the effort to hold back the heart of Malveil.

  And Malveil hurled their pasts upward. The blast only appeared to be static. It was not. It turned slowly, but it turned, and when it sensed prey, it turned faster. So it was now as we gradually dropped further and further into the depths. The cyclone moaned and ground with its tectonic spin. Smaller objects tumbled over each other as larger ones shrugged upwards. The edges of the slow storm glinted in the torchlight, revealing individual possessions trivial and important, all that had become part of a futile last act of defiance by the victims of a cursed lineage. I saw a golden astrolabe, armillary spheres of jewel-encrusted bronze. I saw a huge sundial, at least five feet across, its gnomon of iron carved to resemble one skeletal arm wrestling another into submission. I saw a discarded stained-glass window, its design invisible to me except for the hint of a frowning reptilian eye.

  The sundial and the window disturbed me. Their designs were disquieting, and the objects gave the impression of great, inhuman age. They were not among the mundane discards of the sacrificed lives. They were something else. I felt that they had risen from below. They were something twisted that belonged to the house, and not to any sane human.

  I wondered how many other such things were in the great pile, slowly moving upwards to visibility and discovery.

  Rivas kept up a steady litany of prayer, invocation and anathema. He paused in his recitations a short time after we had passed the sundial. ‘We are very far below ground,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. No cellars could be this deep.’

  The stairs continued down into the dark with no sign of an end.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Then we shall continue.’

  We did. Endlessly, around and around the great spiral of the Old Tower, down and down and down. I echoed Rivas in his prayers. I gave the responses invoked by his calls. Next to us, the cyclone stirred and turned. Its movements increased in speed with the same almost imperceptible pace as the progress of our descent. The foundations of the house groaned with the deep voice of a mountain. There were no other unholy manifestations. Malveil was holding back its blows.

  I feared to think how strong they would be when they finally came.

  I did not notice the glow at first. It was too faint. I registered only the fact that I could see some of the objects around us a bit more clearly. At the same time, my unease grew. Strange fragments of thoughts shimmered through my mind, unable to cohere, slithering like mercury. When I realised there was more light, I also saw that there was something wrong with it. It was worse than the darkness. It did not behave as light should. It dripped and ran like water. Its colours, as they intensified, were without name. Unnatural radiation crept towards us in rivulets from the depths. It flickered, scattered into droplets, then reformed, a slime of maddening hues.

  I took Rivas’ arm, stopping him. He did not resist. His prayers faltered as he stared at the glow crawling up the walls and the stairs.

  ‘That is warp energy,’ I said.

  I had been fortunate in my journeys through the immaterium. The Geller fields of every ship I had been on had held. Once, though, they had begun to crack under the strain of a warp storm. The tempest was powerful enough to throw us off course, and we had returned to the materium a hundred light years from our goal and eight months after we had made the translation to the warp. During the worst of the crisis, though the shutters had remained firmly closed over all viewports, traces of warp energy had leaked into some compartments adjacent to the outer hull. We had sealed them off immediately, but the sight of that light that was not light, of those colours that were not colours, of the flickering, coiling flames of madness itself had stayed with me. The horrors from my memory were with us again.

  ‘Then this is the result of Devris Strock’s crime,’ said Rivas. ‘He opened a portal to the empyrean in these depths.’

  ‘That is where the horrors come from?’

  ‘It must be.’

  And our riches, too.

  The sudden blossoming of mineral wealth beneath the grounds of Malveil could not have a rational explanation. It could have an irrational one, though.

  The slithers of light grew stronger as we descended. The cyclone of debris spun faster, and it was rising now. I pictured it erupting from the roof of the Old Tower, dispersing the tainted relics across the land, Malveil spreading its touch far and wide.

  ‘We can’t go down much further,’ I warned. I no longer believed there was a bottom to this well. The Old Tower went on forever, its foundations anchored in the warp.

  ‘I know,’ Rivas said. ‘A short distance more. We will have only one chance. We must make it count.’

  I agreed. We kept going, and a few minutes later we were rewarded for our perseverance. The stairs came to a wide landing. They continued to descend beyond it, but here was where we would make our stand.

  We had left behind the rockcrete construction that formed the above-ground structure of Malveil. Here the steps and walls were black granite. There were no bricks. They were an unbroken whole. Instead of being carved, the steps looked as if they had extruded themselves from the curve of the walls. And on the floor of the platform was the design of an eight-pointed star. The deep grooves in the stone did not look as if they had been formed by any cutting tool.

  This is where he did it. This is where Devris entered into the pact and damned our family forever.

  Rivas stayed outside the circumference of the star rune. ‘We will not set foot on this unholy sign,’ he said.

  We stood together, and Rivas opened the book once more. He kissed the pages again, held the staff high, then slammed it down, striking the rock with his most savage blow yet. ‘The Emperor commands!’ he shouted. ‘Who can defy Him?’

  ‘None can defy Him,’ I responded.

  ‘There is no light except the Emperor’s light. There is no god except the Emperor. In His light, all false things must burn. Burn then, creatures of lies and darkness! Burn, abominations! Burn!’

  He spoke with the fire of sanctity. I had often said that Rivas was a saint, and now I wondered if he might truly be one. His voice thundered in the well of the Old Tower. It rose to the invisible roof. He was inspired. Here was the force of the holy, come to bring a reckoning to the foulness of Malveil.

  ‘The Emperor will not suffer the abominati
on to live! You are judged, unclean thing! And being judged, you must perish!’

  ‘Perish!’ I shouted.

  ‘There is no mercy for the daemon in the Emperor’s sight!’

  ‘No mercy!’

  Rivas raised his arms, the book and staff his weapons of execution against the abomination of Malveil. ‘Let the light of the Emperor purge this house and make it clean!’

  And there was light. True light. Rivas was at its centre, and it spread outwards from him. A halo became a sphere, and the sphere expanded, pushing back the darkness of the Old Tower. The cyclone began to slow again. The groans of the house subsided.

  I felt hope again, true hope, hope that was sanctified by faith. The Emperor was mighty, and He was acting through His loyal cardinal. We stood with the Emperor, and by His will, the darkness was lifting. We would defeat the enemy in Malveil. We would know what it was.

  I felt something more than hope. I exulted.

  We will see the truth. We will find your weaknesses. We will know the identities of the horrors that you nourish. We will know what gods they serve.

  We will see what lies in the warp. We will know the infinite and the terrible.

  We will know change, and wrath, and excess, and plague. We will see the Throne, and the Maze, and the Palace, and the Garden.

  We will know the names of–

  I cried out and pulled away from Rivas. I clawed at my skull, trying to pull out the monstrous illumination that was trying to force its way into my consciousness, and from there into my soul.

  The light was a trap. It was Malveil’s attack. Revelation was upon us, revelation that no human should ever be forced to endure.

  It took Rivas a few seconds longer to know what was happening to him. He was bathed in brilliant light, hard and white as bone. He had stopped praying. His mouth and eyes were wide circles as vistas of monstrous truth opened up before him. Part of him awoke to the danger, and he began to moan in horror. Tears of blood formed at the corners of his eyes. His holy text burst into flame, and more fire surrounded the head of his staff. The flames of crimson and violet and green and blue entwined and fought.

  With a violent jerk, Rivas threw the staff and book at the centre of the eight-pointed star. Their fires brought them together, and the staff curled like a serpent around the book.

  The rumble of Malveil’s voice began anew, the grinding of stone coming closer and closer to forming hideous syllables. The walls bulged. Huge blisters formed in the stone. They became translucent. Things stirred eagerly within them. The blisters burst, and the revelling abominations were free. They came down the walls and through the air towards us, a deluge of horrors. There were things of hideous sensuality wielding pincers that could cut a man in half. There were horned monsters with crimson hides, bellowing with rage. There were more of the bulky, laughing pink abominations I had seen earlier. There were rotting, tumour-ridden creatures who intoned thankful prayers as they made for us. The walls of Malveil had opened up to all the shades of insanity. The monsters that even our worst nightmares tried to shield us from were here in the tower, and they were the house’s answer to Rivas’ prayer.

  ‘Emperor help us,’ Rivas whispered.

  There was no one to hear.

  The daemons fought with each other to be the first on the platform. Some went tumbling down into the farther reaches of the Old Tower. The robed daemon who had broken Eliana’s body extended its arms in a mocking imitation of Rivas. Its hideous laugh sent splinters of broken mirror through my mind. In another few moments we were surrounded on the platform, and there were still more coming.

  The circle of daemons paused, savouring the moment before they closed on their prey. As they did, I saw that their eyes were focused entirely on Rivas.

  He realised this too. He turned to me, his face a study in fear, despair and desperate determination. ‘Malveil has not finished with you yet,’ he said. ‘Make it pay.’

  ‘I will,’ I promised. I don’t know how. I could not say those words to a man on the verge of death. Then I looked at the torch in my hands. I thought of the apparition I had chased from the house, the spectral arsonist every one of my predecessors had also pursued. ‘The Emperor lights my path,’ I said.

  He started to smile.

  The daemons surged forward. I ran, and left my friend to his destruction. The daemons flowed around me, parting like water. I sprinted past them, up the stairs. I looked back, and saw they had seized Rivas and were competing for the pleasure of his destruction. He struggled, shouting holy imprecations at them, still defiant though his voice shook with terror.

  That was my last sight of Rivas. The curve of the stairs took me around the churning vortex of discards and hid him from view. Then Rivas began screaming and begging and choking, and there were sounds that were very wet, and there were sharp cracks.

  He wouldn’t stop screaming. The Old Tower shook with the roaring, gibbering laughter of the daemons and the wailing of my friend. As his shrieks reached a new pitch, I ran faster. I needed to get away from that sound, because what I heard in that extremity was a saint who had lost his faith.

  Chapter 19

  I flew up the steps two at a time, daring the house to throw me down. Malveil had mocked and stolen my every purpose since I had returned. It had twisted the paths of my entire life, and those of every Strock since the great sin of Devris. It had taken the light that Rivas had brought to the darkness and turned it against us. It would never tire of tormenting the playthings that it had made of the Strocks. But I was not done fighting. I would kill the house, and die with it if need be. No matter the cost, I would end its reign of damnation.

  Rivas’ screams finally faded away, though I feared his agonies had not ended. The daemons shouted and laughed, raged and sang. The fluting melodies of the monsters of excess were mixed with bloodthirsty ravings. Bells tolled, and whispered chants climbed the tower, insinuating change and destiny. Though I climbed as fast as I could, I was slowing down. My legs were heavy, my chest aching with every laboured breath, and I was still far from the Old Tower’s door. There was no sign of it, and now that I had left the platform behind, I had no sense of my progress. The cyclone spun, and the objects within it climbed faster than I could. In the race against the vortex, I seemed to be losing ground. It was as if I could keep climbing forever.

  I began to wonder if that might really be the case. Exhaustion set in, dulling the edge of my determination. I circled around and around the tower, endlessly struggling up a treadmill of stone. I had not even escaped the traces of warp energy. They were around me, thin rivulets of non-light writhing up and down the walls and dancing over the vortex, an aurora of madness.

  Soon I could not run any longer. I dragged myself up the steps. I could only think as far as the next rise, the next movement of my legs. When I looked up, I saw only the unbroken wall. There was never any change. The violent revel of the daemons followed me, though the abominations had not come into sight. They did not have to. I was not going anywhere.

  I did not know how long ago Rivas and I had entered the Old Tower. Malveil was stealing time from me, as it had so much else. In return, it was giving me a dark infinity, existence reduced to stairs without end, a purpose without expression, and all the exhaustion of hopelessness.

  I will not let you win. I will not pass into your shadows in so pointless a fashion. I will hurt you. You will know I have fought back.

  I thrust the torch to the side, touching its flames to the edges of the cyclone. The trailing edge of a rolled carpet began to smoulder. The papers in an open chest ignited. The vortex created a wind as it turned. The carpet exploded into flame and fire spread through the vortex like a spiralling vein of poison.

  I kept the torch next to the cyclone as I climbed. More and more objects caught fire. They seemed eager to burn, kindling for a conflagration that had been too long in coming. The thread of fire be
came a ribbon, and the ribbon became a river. It very quickly grew hot in the Old Tower. With a huge, muffled roar, the cyclone became a colossal torch.

  I was inside a chimney. It was hard to breathe, but time moved forward again. There was change now. The entire centre of the tower was a column of flame. From below, barely audible over the fury of the fire, the daemonic celebration turned into anger. The abominations would be coming for me. I was hurting the house.

  The exit from the Old Tower came into view.

  I have burned your heart, and forced you to release me. You have weaknesses. You can be destroyed.

  I found new energy and struggled forward to the top.

  Stabbing, burning pain consumed my face. My lungs seemed to curl in the heat. Every breath should have been fatal. I staggered through the door and slammed it beside me. The iron of its frame was already too hot to touch. The fire inside the tower would escape soon enough.

  I moved through the house, spreading doom. I set fire to carpets and tapestries. I torched paintings. In the rooms piled high with debris, I created new bonfires. Before long, the flames no longer needed my help. I threw the torch away. I fled down halls while tongues of fire raced down the ceilings ahead of me.

  Though every breath was precious, I shouted my defiance at the house. ‘You will not take me with you! I am the phantom that has been waiting to burn you down through every generation! You were the fate of the Strocks! Now I am yours!’

  I finally knew the face of the vision that had run through the house, setting it alight. It was mine. It had always been mine. I was the bane of Malveil.

  Smoke filled the halls. Curtains billowed as if in pain. I listened for the snarls of daemons and vengeful spectres. There was only the voice of the fire.

  The flames were greedy, hungry, furious. They attacked the house as if every surface were covered in a slick of promethium. This was a blaze centuries in the making. It had been rehearsed over and over. At last it had come. I had not saved Eliana. There had never been anything to save. I had lost her when Malveil consumed her and refashioned her into a creature of hate. But there would be atonement, perhaps not for my sins, but those of Devris. If I survived, I could only seek Eliana’s forgiveness in my memories of her.