Fabius Bile: Clonelord

by Josh Reynolds

  Igori eyed her warily. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A respectful tone would be nice.’

  Igori flipped her knife up and sheathed it. ‘That I have not killed you is respect enough, I think. Talk.’

  Savona smiled. ‘Tried to kill me, you mean. Tried.’

  Igori shrugged and crossed her arms. ‘Talk.’

  Savona stepped back and kicked the servitor’s head across the deck. ‘I heard that your dogs sent one of Alkenex’s spies running, with teeth marks in his ceramite. Is this true?’

  Igori frowned. ‘Yes. He should not have disturbed us.’

  ‘They will be back, and in force. If not immediately, then later. When the Manflayer cannot protect you.’ Savona swung her maul down and planted the head against the deck. She leaned forward on the haft. ‘They do not like you very much.’

  ‘Predators do not concern themselves with the opinions of prey.’ A flicker of movement above caught her eye. The Twins. They had been watching from the high places, as they always did. Watching Igori, waiting for her to show some sign of weakness, so that they might challenge her and take command of the pack as they had been born to do.

  Savona laughed. ‘Oh, very good. Did he teach you that?’

  ‘The Benefactor has taught us much. But there are some things we have learned for ourselves.’ Igori rested her palm on the hilt of her knife. ‘Like not to trust those altered by the warp.’ She signalled Maysha and Mayshana with a glance, and they rose, ready to act.

  Savona nodded. ‘A good lesson. But you do not have to trust me to listen to what I have to say. You have enemies. Your Benefactor has enemies. They are on this ship and they will seek to do him – and you – harm. But you also have allies.’ She touched her chest-plate. ‘Myself, for instance.’

  Igori kept her features neutral. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because those who move against you will also move against me, in time. I am not Legion, and they will seek to purge me from my position. But they will come for you first. Already, Alkenex seeks to subvert your Benefactor in the eyes of some. He has even visited Diomat, in his silent cage, though the Dreadnought ignored him, as he ignores everyone who is not the Chief Apothecary.’

  ‘And so? What is this to me?’

  ‘I am trying to warn you. To propose an alliance against a common foe.’ Savona gestured, as if bemused. ‘Surely even you understand that.’

  ‘Why come to me?’ Igori pressed.

  ‘We are two of a kind,’ Savona said.

  Igori shrugged. ‘We are nothing alike.’

  Savona smirked. ‘But we are on the same side.’

  Igori stretched. ‘No, we are not.’

  Visibly annoyed now, Savona leaned forward. ‘I need to speak to him.’

  Ah. There it was. Savona needed her, not as an ally, but as a go-between. ‘So go.’

  ‘Your kin guard the way. No one gets through, without permission.’

  Igori smiled. ‘Do you have permission?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you cannot speak to him.’

  Savona bared her fangs. ‘I could fight my way through, if I wished. Is that what you want?’ She lifted her maul, her thumb caressing the switch that would activate the power field. ‘Are you so arrogant that you can casually dismiss me?’

  Igori’s smile faded. ‘You are all alike. Prey that thinks itself a predator. Soft things, wrapped in hard shells. We eat you, the way you eat mutants.’ She bared her strong, even teeth. ‘And yet you never understand until it is too late. You think we are weak, because we are not so strong as you. But the bovid is stronger than the lupines that hunt it. Is the lupine weak, then?’

  ‘Compared to me? Yes.’ Savona pointed her maul at Igori. ‘If you think you are strong enough to deny me, come ahead.’

  Igori whistled.

  Savona spun as she registered the soft scrape of feet on the deck. The Twins lunged for her, one high, one low.

  Maysha let his sister lead the dance, as was his way. Mayshana swept her blade down, forcing Savona to block it, before vaulting away from the riposte. Maysha seized the opening when it was offered, and his blade came closer still, scraping paint from Savona’s chest-plate. She snarled and kicked out at him, nearly taking his head off with a hoof.

  Igori watched the duel carefully, analysing Savona’s movements for weakness. All prey had a weak point. Some were arrogant. Others were stupid. A few were cunning. Most were a mix of all three. They thought their armour and strength made them invincible. But the Gland-hounds had learned how to turn invincibility on its head. Isolate and overwhelm. Bait and trap. Simple tricks, for simple hunters.

  Savona was quicker than most. More observant. But that would not save her. The Twins’ knives scratched and scored her stolen battleplate again and again, never deeply and never for long, but enough to make the point.

  The power maul crackled as it punched through the air. One touch, and their flesh would blacken and crumble from the bone. So the Twins made sure to avoid its touch. They leapt and rolled, moving like acrobats. It was the eldar in them, Igori thought. That extra twist in their genetic makeup, giving them greater agility than their predecessors possessed. The Twins were faster than she had ever imagined being, and she could not help but feel a twinge of envy at their grace.

  With every generation, the Gland-hounds drew further from the template. They were refined and perfected by the hands of the Benefactor, century by century. And soon, they would be complete. Soon, he would step back from them and set down his knives, so that they might take up their own.

  Igori did not think she would live to see that day, whatever the Benefactor said. It seemed too far off, unreal and inconceivable. She pushed the thought aside. She was old, but she had a few centuries yet.

  Savona’s power maul slammed down, crumpling a deck plate. Maysha vaulted away, laughing. Savona started after him, her hand falling to the bolt pistol on her hip. Igori drew her knife and sprang. Her long arms wrapped around Savona’s neck, even as her legs scissored about her middle, pinning the renegade’s arms. She pressed the edge of her knife to the underside of Savona’s throat.

  ‘You’re dead,’ she whispered. ‘As simple as that.’

  Savona froze.

  ‘He made us to hunt your kind.’ She spoke softly into Savona’s ear. ‘To pry you open and fetch him the prize within. That was our purpose, and now, it is our joy.’ She nuzzled the woman’s cheek, inhaling her scent, enjoying the smell of her growing agitation. ‘It is the dearest ritual of our people, the cracking of ceramite and the cutting of the black carapace. You are our sacrificial animals, and we offer you up to him.’ Igori pressed the knife slightly, drawing a thin trickle of ichor from her captive’s flesh. ‘You are stronger than us, but we are many and our numbers swell. Soon, we will hunt the last of you, and that will be a day filled with sadness and rejoicing, for we will have fulfilled one purpose, and become free to find a new one. If you wish to see that day, you will deactivate your weapon, and drop it.’

  Savona hesitated. Then, did as she was bidden. The weapon fell with a thump. ‘Now what?’ she asked.

  ‘Now, we take you to the Benefactor. You wished to see him, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Igori slid off her. She wiped a line of ichor off of the blade and licked it from her finger. She smiled as Savona retrieved her maul.

  ‘Next time, you will ask more politely, I think.’

  Chapter fifteen

  Renegades

  The combat-servitor staggered, shuddered and, finally, slumped, leaking its noxious fluids all over the deck. Arrian’s blow had nearly severed its head from its reinforced neck. This model had been an ugly thing, all jointed legs and bladed limbs – a withered human head, set into the shell of some great insect. It had come no closer to hurting him than any of the others he’d faced since his arrival.

&nb
sp; Behind him, the doors hissed open. Someone entered the chamber. He ignored them and looked around. Whoever they were, they would make their purpose known soon enough. Broken, twitching mechanical bodies lay scattered around the training chamber. He’d dispatched more than a dozen of the machine-slaves, and would see to their repair later. They were not in such ready supply that they could afford to be discarded. Besides which, they learned from every encounter. Repaired and rearmed, they might prove a bit more of a challenge next time. Or not.

  ‘Clean it up,’ Arrian said, as he slid his gauntlet along the edge of his blade, cleaning it of oil and effluvia. Vatborn hurried to clean up the mess, grunting softly to one another. There were more of them than he was used to. More and more of them every time, and he wondered which generation this was. The hundredth? Two hundredth? Impossible to tell, without dissection.

  ‘An impressive display, World Eater.’

  Arrian turned, smearing oily handprints across the flat planes of his battleplate. ‘Is it my turn, then?’

  Alkenex smiled. Like Arrian, he wasn’t wearing his helmet. There was a faint resemblance between them. Two of a type, gone down similar paths of hardship. Handsome faces, reduced to battered acceptability. That was as far as the resemblance went, however. ‘Your turn for what? I merely wished to speak to you, one legionary to another.’

  Arrian snorted. ‘And yet you have not spoken to Saqqara or Khorag.’

  ‘I do not speak to slaves or monsters.’

  ‘I am flattered. Most would consider me one or the other.’

  ‘I do not know what you are yet. That is why I am here.’

  ‘To test me. To probe my loyalties.’ Arrian spun his blade. The other still rested in its sheath on his hip. ‘As you have done for many, these past few weeks of travel. Quietly, but surely. You are a man of contemplative means, prefect. You take your time.’

  Alkenex nodded. ‘Binding two armies together is never a simple thing.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve encouraged so many honour duels, among the more foolish members of the Twelfth Millennial? I have been called to collect gene-seed more than once.’

  Alkenex smiled faintly. ‘That is part of your function.’

  ‘Curious, how in every case, it was not one of your warriors who’d suffered a mortal blow. In fact, to date, none of your warriors have suffered so much as a scratch.’ Arrian grinned. ‘Save that one who tried to bully his way through Igori’s pack.’

  ‘My warriors are veterans. The Twelfth Millennial are sadly out of condition. Fabius indulges them overmuch, keeping them sated and lazy, rather than hungry.’ Alkenex tapped the pommel of his sword. ‘I will have them in fighting trim before we reach our destination, one way or another.’

  ‘And does that include us, as well?’ Arrian fell smoothly into a practice stance, blade held at a sharp angle. He moved in a loose circle, blade slicing the air.

  ‘It may. Fabius was never one for the battlefield. But his Consortium…?’

  ‘We were all Apothecaries, prefect. We all fought.’

  ‘But not as part of a battle-group. Not for some time.’ Alkenex watched him.

  ‘Is that why you are here then? To test my skill?’

  ‘If you like. It is common, in certain circles, to ask what one did at Terra. A test of resolve, and a question of character. The answer one gives speaks volumes.’ Alkenex drew his sword and flourished it. ‘So… what did you do at Terra, Arrian Zorzi?’

  ‘I went into the forest to pray,’ Arrian said. ‘And then I killed my brothers.’

  Ha! You say it so simply, dog-brother. You killed us and took our skulls, one by one. Briaeus’ voice was a quiet rumble of discontent. Where the others murmured, he rasped and roared. Arrian tapped his skull to calm him.

  Alkenex gestured to the skulls. ‘Those brothers?’

  ‘No. They came later.’

  ‘What did you pray about?’

  ‘That I might hold fast to my faith, even as nail after nail was ­hammered into my mind, my soul. An old faith. A simple faith. Not in god, but in man. In myself.’ He reversed the blade in his hand, moving swiftly. ‘In the heat of battle, I keep my mind. Nothing shall ruffle the equanimity of my spirit. I will not sheathe my blade, still wet. I will not move, until it is time.’ He turned, slow now, but somehow still swift.

  Alkenex mimicked him, copying his languid movements. One blade, rather than two, but with a similar grace. ‘In danger of death, he maintains his composure,’ he said. ‘I, too, have read that book, war hound. All of us have.’

  ‘And yet, so few of you understand it, even now.’

  ‘I was there, you know. When Fulgrim killed the last of them.’ He laughed softly. ‘The Sabazian Brotherhood – duellists and agitators on a backwater world. And yet, somehow, they wounded us. A wound that still bleeds, even now.’ He turned, sword flashing. Arrian circled him. They fought slowly, their blades never touching. It took skill to fight without fighting.

  ‘The deepest wounds always do,’ Arrian said.

  ‘You are wise, for a dog.’

  Arrian felt a spark of anger, but forced it down. ‘And you are trying to provoke me. Do you yearn for a true duel, swordsman? Your kind love their duels. Their meaningless contests of honour and skill.’

  ‘What is honour to the butcher?’

  ‘Nothing. Less than nothing.’ Arrian turned, more swiftly now. The Nails squirmed, stirred by his rhythms. He breathed easily, forcing himself to remain calm. That was always the hardest part. The Nails acted on biorhythmic stimuli – grow stressed, angry, agitated, and they bit. Remain calm, and the ever-present pain was nothing more than a dull ache. ‘What is honour to you, swordsman?’

  ‘This.’ Alkenex stepped back and held up his sword so that Arrian could see the streamers of silk hanging from the pommel. ‘These tatters are all that remain of my honour,’ he said. ‘The last gasp of better days. I rescued the shreds of our Millennial banner from the mud of Terra, after my brothers had cast it aside and trampled it in their haste to butcher the squalling inhabitants of a hab-block.’ He laughed. ‘What need had we of banners of mere silk, when there was innocent flesh to be flayed and stretched across our banner poles?’

  ‘Flesh rots,’ Arrian said.

  ‘As does silk. Honour is fleeting, as is pleasure. Pain, as well. Existence is but a collection of endings, one piling atop the next.’ He spun the blade and pointed it at the World Eater. ‘But every ending is at once a door and its key. All leading to the next beginning.’

  ‘Is that why we are on this journey, then? In search of yet another beginning?’ The Chief Apothecary had not told him in so many words what the object of their quest was, but he had some idea of what it must be, given the situation. That Fabius had not deigned to share that information with him was something of an annoyance. Then, perhaps the Chief Apothecary simply trusted him to figure it out on his own.

  ‘You disapprove?’

  Arrian laughed softly. ‘You speak of beginnings and endings, as if this were not still the same old story, played out across the same stars. The story begun at Ullanor, at Isstvan, has not yet ended. It will never end, while we live and fight.’

  Alkenex frowned. ‘Is that what you truly think?’

  ‘We call it the Long War for a reason, brother.’ Arrian sheathed his blades without flourish. ‘It will all end in fire, but not soon. And we may not be here to see it.’

  Alkenex did not sheathe his own blade. He stared at his reflection, stretched along the gleaming length. ‘You sound like Fabius.’

  ‘He is wise, in his generation.’

  Alkenex’s frown deepened. ‘He is a fool. He has always been a fool. Where others see beauty, he sees only ugliness. Where we see a better way, he sees only wasted potential. His attentions are fixed firmly on the ground, while we seek to reach the stars above.’ He lifted his sword. ‘And if you sp
end too much time with him, he drags you down with him.’

  Arrian smiled. ‘I have always been more comfortable in the mud, than among the stars. A flaw in the gene-seed, I suspect.’ His smile faded. ‘But I do not think you came here to speak of such things, prefect. I think you came with a question.’

  ‘I did. And you have answered it.’ Alkenex sheathed his blade. ‘It was not the answer I wished, but the one I expected.’ He looked at Arrian. ‘I was not at Skalathrax.’

  ‘Nor was I.’

  Alkenex hesitated. ‘Many among my brothers have spoken dismissively of the Eaters of Worlds, but I have never held to that view, whatever you might believe. I think, maybe, in another world, in another time, we might have been friends, Arrian Zorzi.’

  ‘And I think we can but make do with the world we have, Flavius Alkenex.’

  Alkenex nodded and turned to go. As he did so, he called out, ‘Words to remember, come what may.’

  Arrian watched him leave. He sighed, and tried to ignore the laughter of the dead, as he wondered whether he or Alkenex would join their number first.

  Merix met the renegade on neutral ground.

  An unused flight deck, covered in the detritus of a forgotten conflict – the shattered hulks of fighters and escorts rising from the cold mist that billowed out of the ventilation shafts. The environmental controls for the hangar had been rerouted to other, more important areas, leaving the deck a frosty necropolis of mostly forgotten war machines. Frost crept across Merix’s armour, and the deck crunched softly beneath his tread, as he strode through the graveyard of voidcraft.

  Mutants, swaddled in thick, insulated environmental suits and patchwork void-armour, worked to salvage what they could from several of the junked fighter craft. They ceased their efforts and scattered at his approach, quick and quiet as shadows. Evangelos, stalking in his wake, growled at the creatures as they fled. The lupine mutant shadowed his master closely, as always, clutching its autogun to its chest. Evangelos grunted and looked at its master, its yellow eyes gleaming in the dim light.