by Nick Kyme
Suddenly Zeth was running out into the open, shouting, ‘Plan is on!’ That got their attention, along with all the crazies and probably the Night Lords too… ‘You want to live, go for the Needle!’
Unquestioning, Brox and Kert dashed towards him, but then Vivo sneered, ‘You’re crazy chief, Needle’s a trap! We’re going to the stars with the angels!’ He was a rat but he had easy answers and the pack was frayed enough to listen. The hackles on the back of Zeth’s neck were tingling in anticipation of rending claws. He didn’t have time for this…
On impulse Zeth glared into Vivo’s eyes, opening the shutters to the terrible dark country so recently revealed by the Needle. Vivo only caught a glimpse of the truth, but it shredded his mind in an instant. By the time he hit the ground he’d already died a thousand times.
FLOATING ABOVE THE plaza, Yehzod reeled as a spike of blacklight energy ricocheted through him. It was just an echo, but its lingering malice almost shattered his astral projection. Coldly subsuming confusion to curiosity, the sorcerer scanned the plaza. He had glimpsed a mind behind the attack, but the scene below was an impenetrable quagmire of psychic torment. Gauging the screaming, scrabbling animals, Yehzod felt the first stirrings of unease. Could there truly be such a mind amongst these wretches? A mind that could focus the Black Star?
ZETH STARED AT Vivo’s corpse, confusion vying with horror vying with… joy? How had he done that? And why did he care when it had felt so good? And why could he taste blood?
Hearing the sudden murmur in the crowd, Zeth realised they were all tasting it. The blood was in the rain. Looking up, he saw the black rivulets pouring down from high above. Urgently he pulled Brox and Kert down into the shadow of the Needle, already knowing it was too late for the others.
Without warning the downpour exploded into a storm from hell. Glistening viscera, ragged limbs and unrecognisable raw fragments hailed down on the frantic mob as the hunters butchered their catch. With a chorus of hoots and harsh chirps they swept back and forth, showering the mob with gore as they spiralled ever lower. The ghouls were in turmoil, desperately ducking and diving to avoid the flyers, many slipping in the blood and tripping their neighbours.
Zeth saw a Night Lord glide low over the crowd, his clawed feet just skimming their heads. His helmet was carved into the visage of a snarling wolf, its lupine ears flaring into stylised bat wings, the eyes lambent with cold fire. As he swept over them he whispered, his harsh rasp somehow cutting through the chaos, ‘We are the darkness between the stars… Die for us… We are the promise of murder in your hearts… Kill for us… We are the truth behind the lies… Kill or die…’
It was like a trigger to some deep-rooted switch in their souls. First the razers went berserk, lashing out with crude clubs and cleavers, then the darkscars fell on unbelievers with their bone knives and the sane creeds fought back, shados and nailz and statiks all turning on each other in the name of True Night. And all the while the Night Lords circled above, taunting and tormenting, but only killing those who fled.
Watching his pack die, Zeth felt nothing.
ARMS OUTSTRETCHED, HAZ’THUR streaked between a pair of fleeing ghouls, neatly bisecting both at the waist, turning two into four. He spun, wondering how far their legs would run unburdened, but they just flopped over. This was poor sport and his blood sang to the tune of the rabid mob. Hearing the talonmaster finish his vainglorious speech Haz’thur knew it was time. Slavering with anticipation he jetted back into the clouds.
Watching his rival soar skyward, Zhara’shan felt his instincts prickle uneasily, but the newbloods demanded his attention. They fought with impressive ferocity but few promised any true depth to their darkness. Once again his thoughts turned to that strange, quiet ghoul. There had been something of the raptor vigil in its stillness and he wondered if it still lived. Intrigued, he flew towards the monolith.
ZETH SAW THE malevolent eight-pointed star reappear in the sky, blazing with fulfilment, glutted on the blood sacrifice of the ghouls. Recognising the moment, he chewed his lip, suddenly uncertain.
‘We going to be okay, chief?’ Brox asked, his eyes wide. The big ghoul had never been the sharpest player in the pack, but he’d always been loyal.
‘Just stick with the plan.’ Zeth said. ‘Go. Both of you.’ Nervously Brox and Kert ducked into the recesses of the Needle… and disappeared. Zeth knew this was the turning point. He could just slip away now and the Night Lords would never know. Come dawn he’d be King of the Spires.
But then the moment passed. It would never have been enough anyway. Zeth looked up and the wolf-helmed Nightlord was there.
THE GHOUL WAS looking straight at him. As Zhara’shan had soared towards the Needle its eyes had met his unerringly. As if it had been waiting for him. The strangeness had brought him to a standstill and now they took each other’s measure, the mayhem around them forgotten. Warily, Zhara’shan wondered what its connection was with the monolith. Was it another spawn of the Black Sun? Suddenly the ghoul’s eyes flicked upwards, its warning coming a heartbeat before Zhara’shan heard the thrusters. He spun with a snarl and Haz’thur’s clawed feet struck him squarely in the chest. The abomination’s blistering dive tore the talonmaster from the sky, pounding him into the plaza with savage force. Three ghouls burst into bloody ruins beneath him and the rockcrete surface cracked wide open. Instinctively Zhara’shan rolled aside as Haz’thur’s talons ripped towards him and the abomination crashed down onto the rockcrete.
His balance perfect, Haz’thur landed on his feet and spun after his rival, swinging down with those monstrous bone cleavers. Unable to recover, Zhara’shan could only roll and roll again, the shattered bones of his composite ribs tearing his chest like broken glass. A fraction too slow, he took a glancing blow to one of his shoulder pauldrons. The armour held, but it was enough to break the rhythm of his escape and Haz’thur was on him in an instant, a foot stamping down onto his chest and pinning him to the ground.
‘Your Long War is a lie…’ The abomination’s voice was hoarse with pleasure, his drool spattering over the talon-master’s armour. ‘And you were always blind to True Night!’
As the bone cleavers slashed down Zhara’shan ignited his jump pack. The explosive force tore him away from his rival, blasting him through the legs of the screaming throng. He gritted his teeth against the agony as he flashed along the rockcrete in a shower of sparks, the abused jump pack bucking and roaring under him like a living thing. Suddenly the exhaust jets spewed fire, scorching his armoured legs and leaving a wake of flame in his passing. Desperately he tried to cut the power, but the tortured machine-spirit was beyond tethering. Even as he fumbled for the locking clamps he knew it was too late.
Zhara’shan’s bold manoeuvre had sent Haz’thur crashing to the ground, his legs swept from under him. As he leapt to his feet a crunching boom echoed across the plaza, followed a moment later by the vivid bloom of flames against the sky. His eyes glittering, Haz’thur threw back his head and bellowed his victory to the stars.
His joy was lanced by a stabbing agony in his thigh and he whirled around, but his attacker was already springing away, its black dagger glistening with Haz’thur’s blood. Unbelievably it was just another ghoul, thinner than most and sickly pale. Glancing back, it flashed him a cold grin before ducking into the seething crowd.
With a bestial roar Haz’thur launched himself after his attacker, tearing into the throng like a primal tide of destruction, slicing and biting and crushing his way through the ghouls. Some tried to flee, others turned on him with their pitiful weapons, but all were reduced to shreds of meat and bone in his wake. And then he was through and his quarry was waiting for him.
It was less than twenty paces away, lurking beside the monolith, its eyes cold and calculating. Briefly a fading, rational part of Haz’thur’s mind surged up through the rage, cautious and questioning. What was this creature? How could its feeble blade even scratch his armour, let alone pierce it? He was a god beside this worm, so ho
w had it drawn blood?
As if sensing Haz’thur’s doubt, the ghoul pointed at him, then slowly, deliberately ran a finger across its throat. And then it ducked into the shadow of the monolith and vanished. Gone in an eye blink.
Not a ghoul, but a ghost…
Hissing, Haz’thur leapt to the spot the creature had occupied only moments before, furiously sniffing for a scent, searching the dark whorls of the Needle for a huddled shape. What trickery was this?
And then he saw them, those cold grey eyes, peering at him through the iron web. Inside the Needle! Lightning fast, Haz’thur punched through the crevice, but the ghost was already gone, ducking away into the darkness. A gleam of admiration flashed through the rage as Haz’thur scanned the weave of the monolith. Yes, there were ragged gaps aplenty for a worm to crawl through, but what kind of fool would hide inside that killing machine? The answer surged back on the crest of his rage: the kind that would taunt a raptor!
Suddenly he was savaging the Needle. The iron was hard but brittle and it buckled rapidly beneath his bone cleavers.
THE CORE OF the Needle was a hollow vertical shaft. Zeth guessed it ran the whole length of the hive and maybe even beyond, but he’d only ever gone a few tiers deep. Scrambling down its gnarled guts, he heard the hunter ripping its way inside. Iron fragments tumbled past, rapidly lost in the abyss below and he shuddered, wondering whether a fall into that darkness would ever end. But he wasn’t going to fall.
He’d made this climb countless times over the years, finding gaps in the weave that led to other tiers of the hive. Of course they were all abandoned, but there’d been plenty to scavenge and he’d prepared well for this night.
With a final screech of tortured metal the Night Lord broke through and Zeth abandoned caution, speeding down the shaft. He glimpsed the others waiting below, crouched in a chamber on the other side of the web. He was almost there…
Suddenly something vast and dark plummeted past, the ferocity of its wake almost dislodging him. It struck the side of the shaft below with a violent clang and ricocheted away into the darkness. Glancing down, he saw a flare of light bloom in the depths. A heartbeat later the shaft reverberated with the roar of an engine and the light came streaking up.
LEAPING RECKLESSLY INTO the Needle, Haz’thur had dropped like a stone into the abyss beyond. That warp-cursed ghost had tricked him! Rocketing furiously back up the shaft he swiped at his quarry, missing by a hair’s breadth as it slipped through another crawl hole. Furious, he jetted backwards and coiled into a huddled ball of spikes. Thrusters burning, he launched himself at the iron barrier.
THE CRASH OF the raptor’s entry shook the rockcrete corridor, but the sprinting ghouls didn’t look back. The shimmering glow-globes weren’t the only things they’d planted along this stretch of tunnels. Over the years they’d turned the place into a death trap and one misstep would kill them as surely as their hunter’s claws.
Leaping an almost invisible wire Zeth felt the panic rising in him. He’d planned for a better lead, but the raptor’s sheer physical power had surprised him. Suddenly all the years of scheming and scavenging seemed pitiful, but he held onto the Needle’s promise. He would taste the stars…
HAZ’THUR’S WILD CANNONBALL dive ripped through the web and carried him careening into the wall only thirty paces beyond. The impact pulverized the rockcrete and shook the whole chamber. Bellowing, he exploded from the ragged crater in a shower of debris, crashing down into a feral crouch. His head flicked about in rapid, avian jerks as he assessed the territory. Low ceiling, drab rockcrete walls threaded with pipes, passages branching off on all sides… Not a true tier then, just a service layer for the clockwork of the hive. It would be a maze of tight tunnels and cluttered chambers that would favour his prey and fight his bulk. Clever little ghost.
But he had their scent. There were three and they were close. Unable to jump, let alone fly in the confined warren, he skittered towards the exit… and the ground collapsed beneath his feet. Inhuman reflexes kicking in, he snagged the lip of the pit and leapt out, impelled by a jab of thrust. Peering back down he snarled at the nest of spikes jutting from the gloom. A trap? His ceramite armour would have crushed the pitiful spines like match-sticks, but the sheer arrogance of it affronted him. Did the prey presume to hunt him?
The traps came thick and fast after that, Haz’thur’s furious pursuit triggering a new attack at every twist and turn of the tunnels. Mostly they were variants on the same themes; crude pitfalls, collapsing ceilings and tripwires that released spring-loaded spikes or swinging girders. Occasionally there was something unique, a shower of acid or a rigged laspistol, but all were the clumsy toys of a child playing at war. At first Haz’thur’s instincts had compelled him to avoid the traps, but soon he was tripping them with scornful abandon, laughing as spikes shattered against his armour and dodging whirling debris with bravado.
By the time the prey came in sight his mood had grown almost sanguine and he was tempted to prolong the hunt. At thirty paces he teased them with a keening wail, enticing one of the three to glance back. Moments later the fool had impaled itself on a bed of nails. As he whipped past, Haz’thur beheaded the screaming wretch with a flick of the wrist. Predictably it hadn’t been the ghost. No, the ghost was sly, but even so its life hung by a thread only twenty paces long…
DRENCHED IN SWEAT, his heart hammering wildly, Zeth knew they couldn’t last much longer. Even Kert’s slip-up hadn’t slowed the hunter. When the fool had got himself spiked the dark thing inside Zeth had cheered, desperate for anything to delay those claws, but it hadn’t made a damned bit of difference. Even so, that shadow was now eyeing Brox hungrily, looking for an angle to make him count…
The placid ghoul’s breathing was steady beside Zeth’s ragged gasps. Dim but strong, that was Brox. And so very loyal. The idiot could have pulled ahead long ago, but there he was, sticking shoulder to shoulder with Zeth despite the devil breathing down their backs. Sacrifice the fool! Freeze him!
The thoughts lashed across Zeth’s mind with a brutal logic that shocked him. The worst thing was he knew he could do it. All he had to do was reach out with his mind and twist. It would be so easy and it made such sense! But Brox was the last of his pack… They swept round a corner and Zeth saw their destination looming just ahead. This was the endgame! They were so close, but so was the hunter…
Do it now!
And then they were bursting into the old generatorium storeroom, weaving through the heaped metal barrels, straining for the open hatchway on the far side. But then Zeth’s heart sank in despair. They’d never get the blast door closed in time! From outside the storeroom they’d have to turn and pull it shut. It would take precious seconds they’d never have… but if someone just pushed it from the inside…
Zeth glanced at Brox and the cold thing inside him reared up.
Do it!
EXPLODING INTO THE storeroom Haz’thur saw the bigger animal suddenly turn on the ghost, thrusting it into the tunnel beyond. Excited by their conflict he stormed forward, the reek of promethium assaulting his finely tuned sense of smell. Promethium? He felt the tripwire break.
STAGGERING FROM THE storeroom Zeth glanced back and caught a glimpse of Brox’s face. The big ghoul’s expression was tranquil, empty. And then the hatch slammed shut and the concussion followed an instant later. It buckled the solid metal hatch and tore the ground from under Zeth’s feet. Huddled in a ragged heap, he lay in the darkness long after the tremor had passed. Two thoughts hounded each other through his mind, vying for his soul: I didn’t… I did…
HAZ’THUR AWOKE TO a world of raw pain. Every breath tore through his chest like a gust of broken glass and his nostrils twitched to the stench of his own charred flesh. His remaining eye had fixed on the maze of fissures in the ceiling above. There was significance to be found in that twisting conjunction of empty spaces. Besides, he couldn’t move his neck, or anything else for that matter. Only the claws of his left foot still offered the ghos
t of a twitch. The ghost… The ghost had killed him. The same ghost that was looking down at him now with those cold, grey eyes. As it knelt over him something dark slithered behind the grey and suddenly he was gazing up into twin black suns. For the briefest instant he knew fear, and then the black thorn came down.
WHEN ZETH EMERGED from the Needle the sky was streaked with red and the plaza swam with it. The bodies were everywhere, razers and flesheaters and darkscars all alike in the unravelled simplicity of death. The survivors were gathered in a bewildered huddle, almost as ragged and bloody as the dead, their faces slack with the shock of just being alive.
The raptors were there too, but now they were still and silent. It was as if the sun’s rays had petrified them where they stood, transforming them into dark statues. Their wolf-helmed leader crouched amongst them. His armour was a scorched wreck and his hunched posture spoke of barely contained agony, but he was alive. That was good, Zeth thought. He would need allies amongst them.
His eyes found the ones who would decide his fate. A faceless creature was skimming silently over the dead, the seething swathe of its robes never quite touching the ground. It was like a spectral carrion bird, seeking some arcane logic in the weave of the carnage. An armoured giant stalked silently by its side, the tapers of his sable cloak wet with the blood of trampled corpses. Sorcerer and lord. Once again the words just slipped into Zeth’s mind, along with an understanding that these ancient nightmares were not to be approached boldly. They would come to him in their own time. So Zeth waited, eyes fixed on the gore-spattered ground. And finally they came.
‘Have we bled this world so dry?’ The lord’s voice was a desiccated whisper. ‘So dry… that such a stunted creature can endure the harrowing?’
The sorcerer made no reply, but Zeth suddenly felt the barbed tendrils of its mind reaching out…
Digging into his soul… Tearing through the walls like paper… Seeing through to his edge…
