‘Osxia is slippery and has no love for Metzuh,’ replied Bezieth, ‘but I’ll wager there’s more to it than our new friend here is letting on.’
The half-forgotten prisoner beneath Bezieth’s heel was laughing, a horrible choking sound as he drowned in his own fluids. ‘You should tell them the rest!’ the prisoner coughed. ‘It’s a fine jest and well-deserved.’
‘What did you do, Sotha?’ Naxipael’s tone was icy.
‘I did nothing!’ the dracon spluttered. ‘Osxia sent the word to Vect, I had no part of it.’
‘What word?’
‘That Metzuh was completely lost and… needed to be purged.’
The prisoner laughed again, blood bubbling from his mouth in a pink froth. ‘We intercepted your messenger!’ he babbled in a rush of words. ‘We sent it upward with an addition of our own and now Vect thinks Hy’kran is lost too. You’re all as good as dead!’ The prisoner coughed, convulsed and then loudly expired with wild laughter etched on his blood-flecked lips.
Bezieth and Naxipael exchanged an inscrutable glance before stepping away from the corpse of the prisoner to discuss the revelation with more privacy. Kharbyr could guess what they were thinking. If the supreme overlord received word that entire tiers of Low Commorragh were lost he would activate certain ancient failsafes. These served to lock areas off from the rest of the city with impenetrable fields of energy. Vect had used them before when incursions from beyond the veil grew to the point where they threatened the city.
Assuming the outer wardings held the entities would be trapped, growing progressively weaker as they destroyed all the living creatures capable of sustaining them. When the time was ripe the overlord’s forces would re-enter the sealed area and make it a point to hunt down anyone still alive on the not unreasonable assumption that they must have been possessed to survive. Talon Cyriix had met a similar fate back in the day when one of its archons decided that allying with daemons was a good way to overthrow the supreme overlord.
That was if the outer wardings held. If they didn’t then the sealed areas would become living hells like accursed Shaa-dom – lost forever to the anarchic energies of the void. Would Asdrubael Vect even get the message? If he did, would he believe it? Kharbyr had no clue, but the great tyrant had a well-deserved reputation for ruthlessness that would certainly encompass sealing off whole tiers of the city if he believed they constituted a threat. He caught sight of Xagor returning from tending the other injured, the wrack glared with professional disdain at the corpse of the prisoner as he passed it.
‘Amateur talents,’ Xagor sniffed quietly as he looked at the archons still deep in conference.
‘They got what they needed,’ Kharbyr said. ‘Apparently word has gone up to the tyrant to seal off both Metzuh and Hy’kran.’ Xagor shivered visibly at the thought.
‘Lies come easily from dying lips,’ Xagor said. ‘The master teaches us to return to the same question over and again without death interceding.’
‘I’m sure he does, but right now even the possibility that it’s true is enough to kill us all, so in this case I’d take the risk of believing a dead informant.’
‘This one thinks it is not his choice to make.’
‘You need to think about what the master wants more,’ Kharbyr sneered. ‘Us caught in the middle of inter-kabal wars or us hiding out somewhere safe.’
‘Let this one know when you find that place,’ Xagor nodded eagerly. ‘Xagor cannot cure whole kabals of clients, too many hurts in each fight.’
Kharbyr gazed up the grooved slope to where the next step lay out of sight. If he remembered correctly the next step was copper-coloured, the one after that was bronze, then silver and then gold for Dhaelthrasz just one tier beneath Sorrow Fell itself. Unconsciously he rubbed at the flat metal pentagon in its hidden pocket again and a thought struck him.
‘We’re going the wrong way,’ Kharbyr muttered to himself. ‘We need to be going down, not up.’
‘This one does not understand: death above, death below, death wherever we might go,’ Xagor half-sang in his flat, monotonous voice.
‘Look – the upper tiers are full of kabalites on high alert, the whole place is in anarchy right now and getting mixed up in their fighting is going to be nasty. The lower tiers might get completely sealed off. What’s a place that’s always in anarchy, even without a Dysjunction?’
‘Sec Magera,’ Xagor replied promptly.
‘That’s right, Sec Magera – Null City. We go there and join whoever’s strongest.’
‘Xenos and outcasts,’ Xagor spat with surprising distaste.
‘Which is why they’ll be concentrating on just surviving, not treachery and revenge like the kabalites are doing. Besides I have friends there that can help us if they’re still alive.’
Xagor nodded slowly at Kharbyr’s words. ‘How to escape without consequence?’
Kharbyr looked over to where Naxipael was arguing with the Hy’kran dracon, Sotha. Bezieth stood nearby looking thunderously angry. The other survivors from Metzuh and the remaining Hy’kranii warriors had picked up on what was going on and were clustering around the archons in two discrete groups. The nearest arch into the parkland adjoining Latiya’s steps on this tier was less than hundred metres away.
‘Now is as good a time as any,’ Kharbyr said, tilting his head towards the arch. ‘Move that way like you’re checking the bodies or something then just walk out quick and quiet. I’ll follow you in a moment.’
Xagor immediately sidled off with exaggerated nonchalance, poking and prodding at the fallen Azkhorxi as he went. Kharbyr turned back to where Naxipael and Bezieth were now arguing with Sotha. The followers of both sides were eyeing their opposite numbers resentfully and violence was in the air. Kharbyr started pondering how he could turn that into a big enough distraction to secure his own getaway.
CHAPTER 14
THE LIVING SWORD
Morr turned his back on the collapsed Harlequin and took a step towards the colossal statue of Arhra looming at the end of the hall. Drazhar responded instantly, racing forward and bounding over the intervening pits faster than a running Gyfrlion. An instant later he landed before Morr, physically barring his path with demi-klaives held ready to strike. The two incubi stood in frozen tableau like twin colosii with tension crackling in the air. Neither moved, staring rigidly at one another as they locked in a silent battle of wills. Moments seemed to draw into minutes and still neither twitched so much as a muscle.
The tableau shattered into sudden violence without warning. The swiftness and ferocity of the first exchange was too quick to follow with the naked eye, with no hint of who had been the first to strike. Only glittering after-images were left by the ballet of leaping blades: Morr’s klaive licking downward, one of Drazhar’s demi-klaives deflecting the blow even as he whirled to unleash a devastating riposte with the other. Drazhar’s twin blades hewing, mantis-like, Morr leaping aside to avoid being driven back into a pit.
Motley finally began to regain some control of his treacherous limbs after Morr’s paralysing nerve-jolt. He still felt sick to his stomach as he pulled his legs beneath him and shakily stood. The duelling incubi paid him no heed. They were caught in their own universe where there was only Morr and Drazhar, like twin neutron stars whirling around a common axis. Any attempt to interfere in their contest now would be instantly fatal. All hope was lost, Motley was forced to admit, and all he could do was watch the tragedy unfold while marvelling at the deadly skill of the combatants.
Both were masters, of that there could be no doubt. The difference in armaments made the contest one of speed against strength. Even mighty Drazhar, the living sword, could not block Morr’s heavier klaive as it swept through its lethal arcs. Neither could Morr match the darting speed of Drazhar’s demi-klaives. The battle was constantly shifting, always moving, always dodging among the irregular patchwork of open pits and sol
id slabs without so much as a downward glance. The footwork and agility alone was breathtaking, the scream of their blades tearing through the air was terrifying.
The fight raged back and forth through the hall, around and across the pits, up to the feet of Arhra and back again. Grotesque shadows cast by the duellists capered and leapt around the walls as if an army of daemons fought through the hall, all eerily silent except for the scuff of armoured sabatons against stone and the soughing clash of blades.
The two incubi broke apart after a particularly furious passage of arms, frozen once again in tableau. Drazhar crouched with demi-klaives held at the ready, one arced overhead like a scorpion’s sting, the other pointed unwaveringly at his opponent’s heart. Morr’s armour was mauled and he dripped crimson from a score of small wounds. The towering incubus swayed alarmingly for a moment and Drazhar rushed forward to deliver the coup-de-grace against his weakened opponent… and almost lost his own head in the attempt. Morr’s klaive hissed forward faster than a striking snake. With an unbelievable twist Drazhar caught the hurtling klaive on both of his blades and was physically driven back, heels scraping, across the stones.
But that was the last of Morr’s strength, a last gasp. His recovery was slow and sloppy as Drazhar – relentless as ever – came bounding straight back onto the attack. The demi-klaives rained down like a hammer on an anvil, sparks flying as Morr’s klaive swept aside each attack in turn, but each defense was a little slower now, a little weaker as Morr’s lifeblood drained from him, and with it his prodigious strength.
Motley saw the death blow coming in the most vivid detail, unfurling with agonising slowness. Morr’s klaive hooked out too far to return by Drazhar’s first strike, the second strike coming as an uppercut. The hooked tip of the demi-klaive gleaming as it curved up in a perfect parabola and caught Morr beneath the chin. A flash and Morr hurled back as if he had been launched. Morr landed at the edge of a pit with a crash, his shattered helm spinning away into the darkness, his klaive skittering across the flagstones as it fell from nerveless fingers. Drazhar leapt on his fallen enemy, his merciless blades raised for a decapitating strike. Motley covered his face with his hands and turned away, unable to watch what would come next.
To live as a true eldar is to live on a knife edge, to live as an archon is to live at the very point of the knife. Yllithian repeated the catechism to himself as he mounted the steps to the landing field at the top of the White Flames’ fortress. So the insufferable tyrant Vect had summoned him like a slave – Yllithian would go and brazen it out like the pureblooded Commorrite that he was with a smile on his face and murder in his heart. Survival was important now, survival so that he could set about wreaking the most consummate revenge.
Yllithian had ordered the seneschal to assemble all the warriors and auxiliaries that could be spared from the immediate defense of the fortress. Without counting his personal barque it came to just five Raiders full of warriors with an untidy mix of scourges, hellions and reavers to escort them. It was a substantial enough force for a time like this, but certainly not enough to rescue him from Corespur if Vect knew more than Yllithian hoped he did. Then again, the supreme overlord was always careful to ensure that no single force in Commorragh could hope to assail Corespur under the best of circumstances. The White Flames’ fortress, mighty and storied as it was, was nothing more than a child’s model in comparison to the enormity of the supreme overlord’s demesne. The forces on hand would have to suffice.
Looking over the warriors Yllithian noticed a certain air of reluctance about them – downcast eyes, backward glances, a nervousness that was readily spreading to the undisciplined hellions and reavers. He thought it appropriate to address his retinue and remind them of their obligations so he raised his voice so that it would carry to all of those assembled.
‘Hear me! Our city is in peril and our supreme overlord calls for our aid in setting all to rights – as well he should, knowing the power of the White Flames! We go now to Corespur to hear his counsel and accept his just commandments. Now is not a time for fear, now is a time for strength and rigor of the highest order, any who stand before us are abominations to be destroyed, any who fall along the way are lost. Now I bid you by my lawful command as your archon and master in all things, obey me now or I shall end your existence before you take your next breath. Look up! Look up and gaze upon what we must overcome ere we reach our destination this day!’
As one they looked up into the hellish, vaulted skies over High Commorragh and beheld a scene from nightmares. The Ilmaea were weeping black tears. The stolen sun’s ragged coronae flared with multi-hued energies from beyond the veil and dripped foulness. The suns gazed down from the heavens like monstrous burning eyes in whose awful light there could be seen twisting clouds of their pinioned offspring. What could be glimpsed of the warding beyond the now twice-stolen suns was a vivid riot of colour: thick brush strokes of blue and purple clashing against swirls of jade and emerald, lugubrious clouds of grey and brown swelling out of nowhere only to be dispersed by flickering storms of blue-white static.
Another storm was about to break upon them. Etheric energies crackled through the air, ghostly fire danced on pinnacles and livid thunderbolts made the whole fortress quiver with their impact. Harsh cries and screams were carried on the rushing winds, alien tongues crying out in languages that were forgotten before the eldar race ever took to the stars. Yllithian gazed upward without fear and noted with pride that his kabalites obeyed promptly and without question. A few individuals had fallen to the ground convulsing horribly at the sight, it was true, but they were weaklings best disposed of now before they failed him later.
Satisfied, Yllithian stepped aboard his personal barque, a singular grav-craft of quite stunning beauty. Its fiercely jutting prow was inlaid with ruby and alabaster depicting the icon of the White Flames. The graceful lines of the barque’s narrow hull swept majestically backward from the prow before flaring to accommodate pods containing gravitic engines at the rear. Yllithian mounted the open platform at the centre of the barque and settled himself into a richly appointed throne. His incubi bodyguards moved to take their positions at long-throated splinter cannon and disintegrators ranged on mountings along the barque’s bulwarks. At a nod to his steersman Yllithian’s craft smoothly ascended from the landing field. A swirl of Raiders, scourges, jetbikes and skyboards rose below his craft and swiftly oriented themselves around the barque. Yllithian gestured again and the barque shot forward like an arrow released from a bow.
The jagged landscape of High Commorragh lay before them, its dark towers, bladed spires and sharp-spined steeples pushing upwards in mad profusion. Fires were burning in many places, the winds pushing dirty streamers of smoke outward like tattered banners. Partially collapsed towers and ruined manses jutted out of the haze like broken teeth. Here and there the flash of weapons fire lit the darker recesses between mountainous spires. Vicious battles were being fought, no doubt, neighbours exorcising their pent-up frustrations and ambitions against neighbours, kin set against kin. Some of Yllithian’s own allies were fighting down there, but in comparison to the awesome energies roiling overhead their squabbles seemed petty and inconsequential. Yllithian and his retinue swept implacably onwards across Sorrow Fell.
Yllithian indicated for his steersman to climb higher to avoid weapons fire striking at them from below. It was a calculated risk to accept the greater odds of lightning strikes and flying daemons coming against them but Yllithian knew all too well the awful accuracy and potency of the armaments in use by the warring kabals. He would take his chances with daemon claws rather than suffer his meagre force being gutted by a burst of well-directed lance fire from ambush. As they rose thunderbolts smote the air with retina-burning strokes of raw energy all about them. The crash and roar of the storm shook every cell in the body, jarred the skeleton and made the ears quail at the unleashed violence. There was blinding flash and a pair of hellions simply vanished,
their racing skyboards instantly smashed into flaming fragments falling away from the formation.
Yllithian’s retinue raced on through the tumult, throttles open to the maximum and engines screaming. A reaver was transfixed by another spear of lightning, its power plant detonating instantly in a silent blossom of orange fire. A sleek-hulled Raider was struck and dropped away trailing smoke and flames. Tiny, flailing bodies spilled from its deck as its steersman fought for control. The Raider disappeared amidst the jutting spines and towers beneath with no sign of recovery.
Yllithian’s retinue began bobbing and weaving instinctively – as if they could somehow spoil the aim of the random discharges. Yllithian rebuked his steersman for his stupidity while inwardly reflecting that he had personally experienced artillery barrages that were less terrifying in their intensity. The untutored mind always refuses to believe that it cannot somehow avert the random strokes of fate. Yllithian had taught himself better than that. His barque had inbuilt force fields that would shrug off the lightning if he had the misfortune to be struck. His only concern, and it was a slight one, was that a sufficient fraction of his force would survive the ordeal to be of use to him in what was to come.
Bellathonis made his way down through the White Flames’ fortress quite openly. He leaned on Yllithian’s patronage shamelessly to get him past the obstructive incubi, paranoid warriors and overly-inquisitive trueborn that he encountered along the way. The mere mention of the archon seemed enough quell any desire to impede him, so it was really all quite gratifying. The lower reaches of the fortress were in a shambles. Fewer and fewer White Flames kabalites were to be seen, and those that were flitted cautiously through the shadows. The smell of burning was everywhere and Bellathonis came across occasional bodies scattered through the twisting corridors and deep cellars. Psychic phenomena began to manifest as he went lower still: walls that wept crimson tears, hazes of frost and oily mists that muttered and sang in alien tongues.
Path of the Dark Eldar Page 52
