‘Why?’
‘Because once, I thought myself the master of my own fate.’ Oleander bowed his head. ‘Such hubris is like meat and drink to them.’
Hexachires chuckled and lowered the baton. ‘Then you must be quite the feast indeed.’ He shook his head. ‘No matter.’
Oleander tried to push himself to his feet, but all the strength had drained from his limbs.
‘Your continued struggles are admirable, in a way,’ Hexachires said, watching him. ‘Prey that fights is always preferable to prey that doesn’t. Such is the common wisdom. But we have little time to enjoy such things. There are important matters requiring our attention.’
Hexachires gestured. Several wracks hastened to obey, moving to surround Oleander. Unable to stay upright, he toppled to the ground and lay thrashing, caught between duelling agonies. Hexachires turned away. ‘Pick him up.’
He paused.
‘And someone clean up that acid before it eats through to the next level.’
Chapter Five
Meeting of Minds
‘War-hound.’
Arrian didn’t turn. Instead, he finished his thrust, spitting the already-damaged combat-servitor through its cracked skull-case with his blade. It squalled and went limp. He let it slide from the blade in a shower of sparks and said, ‘I’m not in the mood for theology, Saqqara.’
‘Nor am I. I merely wished to inform you that he’s convened a meeting.’
Arrian turned, sliding his hand along his blade to clean it of blood and oil. The Word Bearer stood a respectful distance away, watching him. Saqqara’s gaze could be unnerving at times. It was too steady, too open. A fanatic’s gaze, full of light and fire. Arrian met it without flinching. He supposed he was a fanatic as well, of a sort.
‘I thought he might.’
‘You’re aware that she was here earlier. The Neverborn he calls daughter.’
‘I am.’ When the alarms in the laboratorium had gone off, Arrian had raced there immediately, only to find Fabius gone and a swirling portal of wraithbone where the observation slabs had once been. He’d rousted a handful of Gland-hounds, intending to enter the portal in pursuit of whoever had taken the Chief Apothecary, but Fabius had returned before they could do so, dragging a bloody carcass in his wake.
‘You know what happened?’
‘She took him somewhere.’
Saqqara nodded. ‘And now we are on the cusp of war. You must be pleased.’
Arrian wiped his blade clean and sheathed it. The training hall was empty, save for the idling combat-servitors still awaiting commands. Few of the Apothecaries used the hall, and the Emperor’s Children were more inclined to duel each other than servitors.
‘You speak as if he’s confided in you.’
‘He doesn’t have to. I am as much a soldier as you, World Eater, and I can smell it easily enough.’ Saqqara moved closer. Arrian’s nose wrinkled as he caught the reek of the sacred unguents that the diabolist anointed his armour with. ‘Tell me you don’t feel it.’
‘Perhaps. And if so, what of it?’
Saqqara tapped his daemon-flasks. ‘It is unlike him.’
‘Are you worried about him?’
Saqqara grimaced. ‘No.’
‘Are you certain?’ Arrian tapped his skull. ‘If he dies, so do you.’
‘He has died before.’
‘But this time might be permanent.’
‘As the gods will it,’ Saqqara said piously.
‘Then why are you bothering me?’
‘He wants me to rouse Savona from her hedonisms.’
‘Then why are you here?’
Saqqara frowned and scraped his fingers over his shaved pate. ‘One is prey, two are peers,’ he said. ‘They bear me some grudge, for reasons that escape me.’
‘You stole their daemons,’ Arrian said, with some amusement. The Emperor’s Children were quite possessive of the Dark Prince’s children. Warriors duelled for the honour of a kiss from a daemonette, or to catch the eye of one of the greater daemons. They showered the simplest beasts with affection and gifts. But Saqqara needed none of that. Disagreeable as he was, the diabolist was beloved by the Neverborn. Then, daemons often liked unpleasant things.
Saqqara sneered. ‘I cannot steal what was not theirs to begin with. We belong to the gods, not the other way around.’
‘As you say, brother. And you have come to me… why?’
‘I just told you.’
‘But why me? Why not Skalagrim or one of the others?’
‘Our Legions once fought side by side,’ Saqqara said.
‘We are not our Legions.’
Saqqara looked as if he were chewing shrapnel. ‘I… trust you.’
Arrian blinked. He had not been expecting that answer. ‘Why?’
‘You are as devoted to your god as I am mine,’ the Word Bearer said.
Arrian frowned. ‘I do not serve Khorne.’
‘I did not say your god was the Lord of Skulls. You serve a smaller god, Arrian.’
‘You mean the Chief Apothecary?’ Arrian said, amused. ‘He would not like to hear such talk, especially from you.’
‘And yet I speak the truth nonetheless. Pater Mutatis, Pater Mutatis… the name creeps through the warp, its shadow growing ever longer. Even the gods have noticed. And how could they not, when he takes what is theirs and twists it to his own purposes.’
Arrian was silent for a moment. ‘Do you know why they worship him, Saqqara?’
‘Because he ensures that they cannot do otherwise.’
‘Once, perhaps.’ Arrian smiled. ‘But not for a very long time. They worship him because of all the gods they know, he is the kindest. He does not punish weakness. He ensures their children live, and that hunting is plentiful. And he does not interfere beyond that. He does all the things a god is supposed to do.’
‘Blasphemy,’ Saqqara said. But there was hesitation there.
Arrian clapped a comradely hand on Saqqara’s shoulder. ‘Sometimes, brother, I wonder if the gods sent you to us not to bring us back to their light, but to help his flourish.’ He leaned close, whispering into Saqqara’s ear. ‘What greater honour to one of your Legion than to ensure the ascendance of a new deity?’
He patted the Word Bearer again.
‘Now, come. Let us go fulfil our god’s wishes, eh?’
When the hatch opened, a roiling fug of incense spilled out, choking the corridor. Saqqara grimaced and waved a hand in front of his face. He’d never managed to get used to the stink of excess mingled with uselessness.
A riotous discordancy followed the smell. Music, or something attempting to be music, attempted to crowd out all other sound. Space Marines bellowed mangled lyrics in voices gone rough and raw from screaming.
The command echelon of the 12th Millennial was gathered about a great table of jade and brass, purloined from some ruined palace elsewhere in the city. Some had been line officers during the Great Crusade, others only recently promoted to fill vacancies in the chain of command. Savona was hard on her subordinates – especially those that didn’t show her the proper respect. While most were of the Third, a few were nomads – drifters and mercenaries willing to fight for any warband that could meet their price or hold their interest.
‘Sybarites,’ he growled softly.
‘But useful ones,’ Arrian said.
‘That is debatable.’ Saqqara glared at his companion. Arrian’s taunt from earlier still weighed heavily on him. He did not often question himself, but the World Eater’s words had stirred his own recent misgivings. He pushed the thought aside. ‘I do not see her.’
Arrian shrugged. ‘Then let us ask someone.’
Only a few of the Emperor’s Children looked up from their entertainments as Saqqara and Arrian entered. The 12th was useless for anything not involving
combat. Discipline had largely fallen by the wayside, and only a handful of officers could motivate the warriors into recalling the soldiers they had once been. Not that those long-vanished heroes would recognise the disreputable creatures before him, Saqqara thought.
Their armour was a riot of colour, and decorations ranged from the sublimely grotesque to the savagely beautiful. Mutation was common as well. Altered physiognomies abounded – elongated jaws, horns, profusions of sensory organs. Limbs were made boneless and coiling, or jointed and bestial. Some bore prosthetics that more resembled gilded sculptures or scrimshaw than functioning limbs.
Monsters and fools. Saqqara almost pitied them. They did not understand how they’d been duped. They’d walked open-eyed into slavery, betraying one taskmaster for another, rather than grasping true power the way his Legion had. Why dedicate oneself to a single god, when there was a whole pantheon to be had? He shook his head and looked around the chamber.
‘Disgusting,’ he said. Arrian nodded in agreement.
Like the communal quarters the rest of the Millennial shared on the lower levels, it was a reeking sty. Tapestries of delicate weave hung in tatters from walls marked by impact craters and unidentifiable stains. The chamber had once been a communal bath, though the waters had long since been replaced by wine. Wine which had long since gone sour and rancid, with reefs of congealed filth floating atop it. Nonetheless, slaves lapped at it thirstily as their masters watched and howled laughter.
Empty bottles rolled underfoot, clattering across heaps of broken bones and butchered bodies – mostly animal, some not. Crates of ammunition were stacked haphazardly against one wall, and several shriekers were chained to another, their wings clipped and their bodies marked by burns and knife-play. The bestial bat-aeldari shrieked as Saqqara and Arrian passed them, and groped with splintered talons. Saqqara ignored them, even as his daemons whispered imprecations. The Neverborn longed to be loosed on live prey.
Atop the table, a knot of slaves danced in an awkward circle, surgically linked together by their hands. They trembled with exhaustion, but did not fall. Each one served as a counterbalance to their fellows, keeping them upright, but only just. Mutant musicians crouched in the corners, playing whatever instruments they’d managed to scavenge or crudely fashion themselves. The Emperor’s Children kept time, clapping and stomping with gusto. As Saqqara drew near, one drew a bolt pistol decorated with tassels of horsehair and carved bone, and shot one of the dancing slaves, encouraging the survivors to greater efforts. The warrior turned as Saqqara cleared his throat.
‘Look, fellows, our cousins have come to join the fun,’ he gargled. As he spoke, his necklace of finger bones rattled.
‘Hardly, Varex,’ Saqqara said. ‘Where is your commander?’
‘Come, come, Word Bearer. Take a moment for yourself.’ Varex tossed his weapon to Saqqara, who caught it with ease. He inspected the weapon and then fired at Varex’s feet, causing the warrior to leap back with a curse.
‘You’re right, that was quite entertaining. Where is Savona?’ Saqqara tossed the weapon back to its owner, heedless of the enraged expression on Varex’s scarred features. He heard Arrian stifle a chuckle.
Varex pointed. ‘Back there. With her fawn.’
Saqqara made to step past him. ‘My thanks. Please – continue to enjoy your pleasures. I will not interrupt you again.’
‘No,’ Varex growled, grabbing his arm. Saqqara looked down at his hand.
‘Arrian.’
‘Yes, Saqqara?’
‘Please ask Varex to remove his hand,’ Saqqara said. ‘My person is sacrosanct, and his touch pollutes me.’
‘Of course, brother.’ Arrian drew one of his blades and set it to Varex’s throat.
Varex froze. ‘You dare…?’
‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ Arrian said.
The sound of bolt pistols being readied echoed through the chamber as the music faltered. Saqqara looked around. Several of the other Emperor’s Children had risen from their seats and drawn their weapons.
‘Tell your friends to go back to their singing,’ Saqqara said.
Varex bared his teeth. ‘I think not. You two should leave. This place is only for heroes of the Third, not castoffs from lesser Legions.’
‘Is he insulting us, brother?’ Arrian asked.
‘I believe so,’ Saqqara said. ‘I count five.’
Arrian did not take his eyes from Varex. ‘Three for me, two for you.’
‘And Varex?’
‘Varex will not be a factor.’ Arrian tilted his blade, gently grazing Varex’s throat. ‘Unless you’d like to take the opportunity to exercise your pets?’
Saqqara tapped one of his flasks, causing the daemon within to thrash in excitement. The Emperor’s Children tensed. ‘It wouldn’t be much exercise,’ Saqqara said, smiling widely. ‘They are quite hungry.’ He looked at Varex. ‘Of course, there’s no need for any of this really. It was just an honest mistake, after all.’
Varex slowly pulled his hand away. ‘A misunderstanding,’ he said slowly. He stepped aside, allowing them to pass.
The music started up again.
They found Savona in an offshoot chamber, reclining on a couch, a goblet in one hand and a fluted decanter of something dark and alcoholic in the other. Nearby, a corpulent mutant clad in a stained smock and patchwork robes slashed wildly at an improvised canvas with a paint-lathered brush.
Bellephus, her second-in-command, stood at ease behind the couch, his hands resting on his weapons. ‘Word Bearer,’ he said, as Saqqara entered.
Saqqara ignored him. Bellephus was a brute by any definition of the word. He was clad in purple battleplate decorated with obscene verse, and wore a helm covered in fleshy growths that seemed to squirm in the dim light of the bay. Saqqara wasn’t certain what the growths were meant to be. Vestigial mouths, maybe.
Savona poured herself another goblet of wine and peered at them. ‘What is it?’
‘I – we – must speak with you,’ Saqqara said, fighting to keep the distaste from his voice.
Savona was taller than a legionary, but thinner – she had been mortal once, the spoiled daughter of a planetary governor. Now she was something else. She had slim, jointed legs ending in heavy black hooves, and a narrow face, framed by a mane of braided white hair. Sigils had been carved into her cheeks and brow, and three golden rings pierced one nostril.
‘I’m busy,’ she said.
‘Stop moving,’ the mutant snarled. Savona flung the goblet at it, forcing it to dodge aside. The contents splattered all over the canvas, eliciting a despairing wail from the creature. ‘My work – ruined!’
Savona sighed and shot the creature, ending its blubbering. She unfolded from the couch and took a long swallow from the decanter as she holstered her weapon. She looked at Bellephus. ‘Find me a new artist. Preferably one who doesn’t talk.’
Saqqara looked down at the body. ‘Vanity is a useless vice.’
Savona took another drink. ‘All vices are useless. That’s why it’s fun to indulge in them. What do you want, priest?’
Saqqara glared at her. ‘We must speak.’
She raised the decanter. ‘So you said. About what?’
‘The Chief Apothecary requires your services,’ Arrian interjected.
She lowered the decanter and licked her lips. ‘Why?’
‘Yours is not to question why,’ Saqqara said. ‘You serve him, as we all do. And he wishes you to muster your warriors.’
Savona smiled. ‘A raid? Finally. It’s been too long since the last one.’ Her fingers toyed with a necklace of spent bolt-rounds and aeldari spirit stones.
‘No.’ Saqqara frowned. ‘Not a raid. We go to… defend a world.’ The words tasted wrong, even as he said them.
She threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh, that’ll be different!’ She sl
ung the decanter away and turned. ‘Bellephus – cancel the portrait. We’ve got more important things to attend to than your vanity.’
She turned back to Saqqara and tossed off a lazy salute.
‘Leave it with me, Word Bearer. He wants an army? I’ll give him one.’
Fabius stood at the lectern, looking out over the gathered members of the Consortium. Studying them, he could not think of a more idiosyncratic band of misfits. There was no commonality to them save their chosen discipline.
All of them were Apothecaries, either by training or inclination, with a deep understanding of the human body in all its myriad forms. From there, they diverged sharply. Some were crafters of flesh and bone, others inclined to the augmetic or artificial. Some were mind-leeches, with a desire to plumb the secrets of the brain and nervous system in order to better control individuals or even planetary populations, while others were more interested in the alchemical possibilities of daemon ichor or xenos bile.
Contrary to the slanderous whispers of his enemies, the Consortium were not his servants. Rather, they were his students. Not quite his peers, for he had none, but close enough to be considered fellow travellers on the road to greater understanding.
Though some faces had changed, many had been with him since Harmony, or even before. Arrian. Khorag Sinj, the towering Death Guard. Emicos Shard and Aelian Hadal, both of the III Legion. Marag, who’d come fleeing the destruction of Caliban. Others had come later, seeking him out for his wisdom, or for his protection. The intractable Gorel, who bore no recognisable heraldry. Duco, one of the Night Haunter’s by-blows. Gemerax of Ironhold, a stolid son of Perturabo. For the most part, they were all outcasts from the ranks of their short-sighted brethren or uninterested in the petty struggles of fractured Legions.
The table they occupied was large, and carved from the curved clavicle of some sort of stellar leviathan. It had been a gift from a renegade princeps of Fabius’ acquaintance, carved by the hands of his servitor-slaves. It could seat a hundred, easily. At the moment, there was only a third of that number arranged about its length.
Positioning at the table was a matter of constant debate. Only the most favoured, like Arrian, could sit close to the lectern. Saqqara stood behind Fabius. As the Word Bearer was not an Apothecary, he had no seat at the table. Nor did he desire one.
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