Fabius watched him go, images of Flavius spread out and sliced open on his examination slab dancing in his head. Then, he turned and picked up the Harlequin mask. He sat in silence for a time, studying the bloody xenos mask, while the vatborn scurried about him, checking his armour’s functions.
Alkenex had asked a pertinent question. Why were the Harlequins still pursuing him, even after so many centuries? What purpose did such harassment serve? Perhaps it was simple entertainment – did they consider him a target of opportunity? Had he offended them, by slipping their net on Lugganath? Or maybe it was something more sinister.
‘Is this why you haunt the dreams of my creations, child?’ he murmured. Melusine was still trying to deliver her warning, though he had no idea what she was trying to warn him of. Nor, it seemed, did she.
He thought of the varied futures he had been witness to, in Lugganath’s grove of crystal seers. And the portents and omens he had seen since. In some, he succeeded, in others, he failed, but always his survival predicated on turning from his path. It seemed that to raise up his New Men required that he die first. An outcome he was nominally comfortable with, but one that grew increasingly more questionable – his death now would leave them rudderless. They were still as children. Still imperfect. He needed more time.
He could not die until his work was done. But eventually, even a rational mind must bow to an excess of fact, no matter how fanciful it might seem. In the decades since he had become aware of the Harlequins’ interest in him, he had begun to question the nature of fate – his fate, and that of his creations.
‘Bow to fate. Bow to fate.’ The words came out like a curse. ‘What fate? Fate is the name the ignorant give to causality. It is a factor, not of cosmic rigour, but of simple action and reaction. One made a choice, and all that happened after sprang from that choice. Ripples in a pond. But those ripples were not preordained. They could not be.’
To believe in fate was to resign oneself to the limits of one’s existence. Something Fabius Bile had never been able to do. Fate said he should have succumbed to the blight that ravaged his body. Fate said he should have sunk deep into the mire of depravity that had claimed his brothers. Fate said he should have been dead a thousand times over. ‘Yet here I stand, unbowed, if not unbent.’
He looked down at the mask, tracing its ever-changing contours gently. He smiled. ‘If I possessed a poet’s soul, I might say that that, then, is my true fate. To be the rock in the stream. Unchanging and unwavering.’ He looked down at the hooded shapes that tended him and his smile faded. ‘But for how much longer will that be the case? What will become of you then, my little ones? What will become of all that I have built, when I am gone?’
He wondered whether the Corpse-Emperor, on his Throne, had had similar thoughts, in those hours left to him before he had given the order to damn himself to an eternal half-life. ‘Did you wonder, in those final moments, whether your path was the correct one?’ he said aloud. ‘Did you spare any thought for what might come of hovering over your creations for an eternity, like some grim shadow that they will never escape?’
No. No, that did not sound like the Emperor of Mankind at all. He would have simply made the choice, certain that his was the only way. ‘As he was, so must I be. Certain and sure. Without certainty, there is doubt and in doubt, failure.’
His fingers tightened on the mask, crushing it to fragments. ‘I will persist until my work is done. And then, no longer. I will not stifle them, as you have. When they no longer need me, I will go, and gladly, knowing that I have left behind a legacy that shall endure forevermore. Let the galaxy burn, so that my children might rule that which rises from the ashes.’ He swept the fragments aside.
‘But not today. Not yet.’
The aft observation bay echoed with the sounds of perfection. A soaring clamour of voices, raised in song, ecstasy and pain. The sound of hunters on the trail of the most elusive quarry. And the 12th Millennial were dedicated hunters indeed. Their former commander, Kasperos Telmar, the Radiant King in His Joyful Repose, had set them on the trail, and they had continued to follow it even in the wake of his death.
Many of them now occupied the bay, hurrying along their own avenues of perfection. Then, there was nowhere else for them to go, at the moment. They had been confined to the bay by the Vesalius’ new masters for the duration of the journey. Most were all too happy to submit to the confinement. It was little different to the normal state of affairs. Some were not, and occupied themselves plotting against those who’d imprisoned them.
Savona stalked along the upper berth, above the bay, seething in frustration, Bellephus trailing in her wake, as always. Her hands itched for lack of weapons. She wanted nothing more than to assert her superiority over these newcomers, but they had denied her every avenue of challenge. As if she were not worth their time. She ground her fangs at the thought. It was always thus, and had ever been, since the first moment she had set her hoof on the Legion road.
Once, she had admired them – to her, they had seemed the apex of the universe. Angels wrought in the shape of men. When they had come to her little agri world, seeking slaves and supplies, she had gone with them willingly, as a bride to her groom, draped in the blood and skin of her family. She had offered up the hearts of kin, and been made a serf for a Legion that had forgotten what such things were for. She had worn a golden torc about her throat, and endured pain and pleasure in such gross quantity that one had bled into the other, until it was impossible to tell which was which.
She had sacrificed a life of grey drudgery on the altar of sensation, and remade herself beneath the loving gaze of a god. Her old life had offered her but one path – Governor’s daughter to Governor’s wife to Governor’s mother, and finally, to Governor’s widow. A flat circle of placid moments. But now, her life was a web of possibility, with a million strands. That alone was worth all that she had endured, and would yet endure. A gift from the gods.
The battleplate she wore had been another gift from her master, as he lay gasping out his miserable life on a world of iridescent dust and singing winds. She treasured her memory of the look in his dimming eyes, as she crept towards him through the stinging dust, knife in hand. How he had moaned as she’d pried his armour off, one plate at a time, exposing the withered meat beneath. How it had hummed as she placed it on her own body. It had sunk its barbed contact nodes deep, and spread a rough, newborn carapace beneath her scarred flesh. It had found her to be sweet soil, and had drawn what it needed from her meat and marrow, making her over into something worthy of itself.
Now it was something like a second skin, filling her head with its satisfied purr, even as they grew ever more inextricably intertwined. She did not think she could remove it now, even if she wished. It was her, and she was it. And yet, despite this, and even though she wore their heraldry, she was not Legion.
Some of them stared at her as she passed among them. They moved aside, like predators giving way before another carnivore. There was respect, but no deference. She had no rank, no authority save that which she earned by virtue of her own savagery, over and over again. For a time, she had been content in that. The Radiant King in His Joyful Repose had been an indulgent master, and she had abused that indulgence mightily. But now, in his absence, the old pecking order was re-establishing itself. The minds of her warriors, never energetic at the best of times, sank into old mires of discipline and hierarchy too easily.
So, she had begun to kill those who eclipsed her. Never openly, for to do so would surely turn the 12th Millennial against her. If there was one taboo remaining to the renegade Space Marines, it was that – her hands were not worthy to take the life of a Legion brother. So, instead, she let them do it, with only a quiet word of encouragement in the right ear, or a meaningful glance. Duels and rebellions, accidents and angry confrontations, whittling down the chain of command, one rusty link at a time.
Soon, they wou
ld have only her to look to, for none of them would wish to take on the burden of leadership. And once at the top, it would be a simple matter to stay there. She was strong, but not so lost in her own strength as to forget her weaknesses. And then would begin the true work – breaking down the last of the old ways, and reforging them into a warband worthy of her. The 12th Millennial would die and be reborn as something stronger. But only if they all survived the next few days.
‘Eidolon,’ she said, glancing at Bellephus. His brothers called him the gutter-poet, though she’d never heard him recite any. He had served her since before she’d joined her fate to that of the 12th Millennial, a warrior in search of a master. Some of them were like that – ever eager to turn the reins of control over to another, whether mortal or Neverborn. His excesses were those of the devoted servant. Sometimes he seemed more an extension of herself than his own being.
‘You’ve heard the stories,’ Bellephus said. Despite the coarseness of his appearance, his voice was as smooth as silk and almost musical. ‘He died and came back, thanks to the Manflayer. Some say that he was slain a second time, during the Siege of Terra, by some forgotten champion of the Corpse-Emperor. Some think that the creature that now bears his name is an imposter. Others say that there were many Eidolons, each grown from a drop of his spilt blood by the will of the Dark Prince.’
‘Yes, very interesting. But what is the truth? Have you ever seen him?’
‘Once, in better days. Long ago, and under different stars. And what is truth, really, save the shadow of a lie?’
Savona snorted. ‘As helpful as ever, Bellephus.’
‘I but live to serve, my lady.’
Savona frowned. Whether this Eidolon was the original or not mattered little. The only thing that mattered was the battle-barge following stolidly in the Vesalius’ wake, the warriors that now occupied every deck of the frigate, and what that portended for her ambitions.
A lupine beast, clad in scavenged battleplate and crudely dyed robes, stepped into her path suddenly, drawing her from her reverie. It bared its teeth at her, in not-quite challenge. While they had been denied their slaves in Fabius Bile’s service, the warriors of the company had attracted a fair number of serfs from among the mutated crew of the Vesalius. Creatures seeking masters less remote, or perhaps more predictable, than the one they called Pater Mutatis. For their part, the Space Marines had accepted this subservience as their due.
More mutants scurried about the bay, on various errands – requisitioning ammunition or supplies, carrying messages between the company officers, and a handful delivering challenges on behalf of their masters. Others, like this one, warded their master’s privacy with a feral devotion. The creature growled softly, malformed paw toying with the hilt of the blade thrust through the filthy sash of silk that girded its waist. Savona considered breaking its neck, or ordering Bellephus to do so, but then decided that it might be judged rude. ‘Merix, call off your cur.’
‘It is all right, Evangelos, she is expected.’
At its master’s voice, the creature bowed its too-wide skull and stepped aside, letting Savona past. Merix stood near the edge of the upper berth, a canvas stretched across a frame of metal and bone standing upright before him.
It was a sign of respect, that he was left to his isolation. Space was at a premium, but the warriors of the 12th still refused to impose on Merix. Like Savona, he had been one of the Joybound, but unlike her, he was of the Legion. Though he was not of the 12th, they had nonetheless adopted him as a sworn brother. And Merix returned their respect with grave consideration, when he bothered to acknowledge it at all.
As she approached, he dipped his finger into a bowl of char, and then drew it across the canvas. Both char and canvas had come from the same source. The mutant had been singularly ecstatic about sacrificing itself on the altar of Merix’s art. Now, he drew on its flayed flesh with the substance made from its bones, sketching the unsettling perfection of its asymmetrical features from memory. An ouroboros of interpretation. The char rested in the cracked dome of the mutant’s skull, which he was using as a pallet.
‘Still at it, then?’ she asked.
His armoured finger scraped across the canvas, pulling a black line behind it. ‘Memory is an imperfect thing, removing, as it does, all flaws. Or else exacerbating them beyond credulity. You cannot trust memory, Savona. It lies as often as any daemon. But memory can be tamed. Broken to the pallet. Made perfect. So I have broken this creature down, and now I shall recreate it, from its base components. In order to prove my memory is perfect.’ He glanced at her. ‘Yes, I am still at it, as you put it. I will be at it until I get it right.’
‘Why?’ Savona said.
‘Why not?’ Merix eyed her. ‘Perfection is the most elusive prey. One must chase it wherever it leads. In war, and in art. Else it is a hollow quest, and thus flawed.’ He dipped his finger in the char again. ‘Then, you’ve never really understood what drives us.’
Savona snorted. ‘I understand well enough.’
Merix shook his head. ‘You understand nothing. What were you, before you were this? We seek only to become the most perfect version of ourselves. I know this, and so do my brothers. Even Bellephus there, standing so silently at your shoulder. You, on the other hand, seek only to indulge your rampant desires.’
Bellephus chuckled and Savona glanced at him, eyes narrowed. He fell silent at her look and she turned back to Merix. ‘And are my desires worth less than yours?’
Merix nodded. ‘Yes. Because your desires are base – instinctual. You are an animal, gorging itself on easy prey. We are hunters of thought. We stalk the soul of the thing, while you merely tear at its flesh.’ He pointed a char-stained finger at her. ‘And no matter how much gene-seed you devour, you will never be like us.’
Savona laughed. ‘You forget, I’ve seen you at your amusements, Merix. I have fought with the Legion for centuries – peddle your high-minded philosophies to someone who hasn’t watched your brothers burn entire worlds, simply to snort the ashes.’ She turned. ‘Did you hear – they have confined Diomat. Set a constant guard on his refuge.’
‘Wise,’ Merix said. ‘Diomat loose is a terrifying thing.’ He paused. ‘I never thought the lieutenant commander would free him. Then, he is mad.’
‘He isn’t mad. He’s vile – cantankerous – an utter bastard, but not mad. He merely follows his whims, the same as we do.’ She made a show of studying his work. ‘He seeks perfection, the same as you.’
‘A strange sort of perfection,’ Merix said, adding another line of black to the stretched skin. ‘Then, Fabius was always a bit odd. Even in simpler days.’ He paused. ‘I knew him, then, though I suspect that he does not remember. He oversaw the rites of my gene-implantation. As he oversaw those of many here, eh, Bellephus?’
‘Indeed,’ Bellephus said. ‘He cut me open and teased out the threads of my future with delicate care. An artist’s touch, our Chief Apothecary, even then.’
Merix nodded. ‘In those days, he always had the air of a man striving against the inevitable. He would stare at us for days, seeking some imperfection visible only to him. Later, we learned of the blight, and it all made some sense. But I think he never stopped seeing flaws where there were none.’
Savona snorted. ‘It does not take an Apothecary to see the flaws in you, Merix. You are nothing more than a collection of wounds held together by an overinflated ego.’
‘And who gave me many of those wounds, Savona?’
‘You’re welcome,’ she said prettily. She turned to watch the 12th at its amusements. ‘No one seems concerned.’
‘And why would we be?’
She glanced at him, considering. She had come to determine where Merix’s loyalties lay – with the Chief Apothecary, or with his Legion. One meant that he still had value. The other meant that his usefulness as a figurehead had come to its inevitable end. Merix was
respected, even loved, by some among the company. In contrast, Thalopsis had been feared and few had wept to see him dispatched.
‘Our fate is tied to that of the Manflayer,’ she said finally.
‘For the moment.’
‘Yes, but the moment stretches, and we are still in it. We are prisoners on this ship.’
‘And we weren’t before?’ Merix looked at her. ‘We are his slaves, as surely as we were Kasperos Telmar’s. I have had centuries to come to terms with that, as have the others. Better a strong leader than no leader at all.’
‘Then why did so many revolt, when I – when Thalopsis began his coup?’
‘For the same reason you did, I assume – boredom. Spite. He ignored us, we forced him to pay attention, and an amusing evening was had by all.’ Merix hesitated. ‘Except for Thalopsis.’ He sighed. ‘What are you truly worried about?’
‘They say we are going to Harmony.’
‘Yes. The graveyard of the Third, where the last true measure of our strength was spilled across the ashes of Fabius’ hubris.’
‘Very pretty. What is it like? What awaits us there?’ She had heard the stories, of course. The only thing that moved faster in the Eye than the Neverborn was gossip. Of the Singing World, and how its eternal hymn had been interrupted at the last by a dying ship, hurled by a sorcerer’s will. Of the echoes of a world’s death-scream, which had driven weaker planets from their orbit and shattered moons. Of how a Legion had defied the Warmaster – and how that Legion had died.
‘Us? Nothing, I suspect. We are blunt instruments, fit only for the purpose we were designed for. But for Fabius Bile…?’ Merix scraped a line of ash across his canvas, and sat back. ‘I suspect that what awaits him on Harmony is quite awful indeed.’
Chapter eight
Judgement Of The Phoenix
Fabius slumped into his restraint throne aboard Alkenex’s personal gunship, Phoenician’s Blade, eyeing the real-time hololithic projection of their destination. The flickering image of the daemon world rotated slowly, blurts of nonsense information scrolling upwards to either side. It had been more than ten thousand years since he’d last been here. Time had not improved it. They had entered Harmony’s orbit twelve Terran-standard hours earlier, after being escorted through a crude network of orbital defence arrays by a flotilla of salvaged gunships and assault fighters.
Fabius Bile: Clonelord Page 12
