The Omnibus - John French

by Warhammer 40K

  Blood. It always comes to blood, he thought. That was the way of things, and always had been. He heard Astraeos moan. Around him, storm winds smeared the choral chamber’s features. A candle kindled close to him, its flame flickering impossibly in the vacuum. Then another lit, and another. Frost began to form on his left arm, creeping up from the athame. At the edge of the room, the servitors began to twitch and spasm. Thick sparks arced across their bodies. Somewhere, at the edge of hearing, Ahriman could hear the chattering of crows. The flesh of his bare hand was blue with cold. He could smell ozone and incense. +Now,+ he thought, and stabbed the athame into his bare palm.

  Blood bubbled into the air. It formed spheres of deep red, gloss-sheened in the candlelight. There was no pain, just a numb ache. Everything had become silent and still, as if a wall of crystal had descended around him. There was just the blood, spurting out under its own pressure. In the long-dead rituals of wizards and mystics, this moment had many names. It was a moment of balance, of supreme control. His lips split as he spoke the name, dredging its syllables from an oubliette of memory. The sound left his mouth and the hanging spheres of blood began to spin together. The last phrase came from his mouth with a sound like cracking cartilage. He heard Astraeos scream.

  ‘You are summoned,’ roared Ahriman, and the words echoed in the airless gloom. Around the chamber, flames leapt from the floating bowls. Smoke and sound filled the room. He could hear screaming, the screaming of the dying as they were lowered into the pyre of his memory. The floating mass of blood began to burn. The bronze bowl was glowing, shedding its covering of hoar frost in viscous dribbles that fell towards ceiling and floor. Then the bowl fell and the blood fell with it, splashed against the bronze, exploded back up, and froze.

  Ahriman stepped back, and drew his sword. Astraeos was staggering, his hand scrabbling for his own blade. The candle flames leapt higher, molten wax falling upwards. The light caught the shape of the frozen blood spray and cast it against the blackened chamber walls. Ahriman glanced at the shadows and froze. The silhouettes of feathered wings and overlong limbs spread and danced across the walls.

  In front of him, the frozen blood was spreading like the branches of a growing tree. It pulsed as it grew, discolouring and charring as it flowed into the shape of veins, muscle and bone. Shoulders formed. Arms. Hands. A head. A mouth opened in the glistening meat, and moaned with the pain of its birth. The sound of a beating heart shook the chamber. Skin spread across the raw flesh of the body. At last the figure stood tall, its hands by its sides, its bare flesh rippling as details resolved. Eyelids formed and closed over hidden eyes. Hair grew from its scalp to fall to its shoulders in a dark wave. It smiled, showing white teeth, and opened its eyes. They were the yellow of amber, the pupils black holes.

  ‘Ahriman,’ breathed the figure, and its voice rattled with the sound of dead winds and dry bones.

  Across Carmenta’s back, sensor arrays turned as she circled the station. Her weapons and engines were aching, the tension from being held in a state of readiness bleeding into the rest of her being. She kept circling, listening for signals, watching for movement.

  Nothing. There was nothing. Again she cycled through augur settings, sifting for the energy markers of Ahriman, Astraeos and their entourage. They had vanished from her senses as soon as the gunship had entered the station. She could not even raise the gunship. She could launch another vehicle, servitor driven, bonded by a close mind-link. No, she would not do that; Ahriman had been clear.

  ‘Wait,’ he had said. ‘If the matter goes awry, you will know.’ But she had waited and the more she waited the more she wondered if the silence could roar any louder. Should she launch another shuttle? Should she flee, or fire?

  No; she would obey. She would wait in silence.

  ‘Mistress.’ The voice reached her as a thought. She pulled part of herself back from watching the station, and formed her voice into something digestible by a human mind.

  ‘Egion,’ she said. The Navigator had stayed awake, ready to guide her if they needed to flee.

  ‘I can see something, mistress,’ said Egion, in a voice that trembled as it formed in her head. Somewhere far away, where she was still flesh wrapped in cables, her skin prickled with cold.

  ‘What can you see?’ she said, pushing as much calm into the words as possible.

  ‘I can see it even when I close my eye,’ he said, and the thought carrying the voice was so weak that she could hardly hear its meaning. She realised that if he had been standing in front of her, he would have been moaning.

  ‘Tell me what you can see,’ she said. A wash of emotion leaked across the mind-impulse link, a haze of awe and fear, like watching emotions play across someone’s face as they look at something just behind your shoulder.

  ‘Silence, mistress. I can see only silence.’

  ‘I do not understand, Egion.’

  ‘I looked, just once, and now it’s all I can see.’ His voice had begun to fade.

  ‘Egion–’

  ‘Silence, mistress, the warp is silent, it is dark and calm. It is never so. Never.’

  ‘Why–’

  ‘It is waiting, mistress,’ said Egion, his voice rising in forced strength. ‘I can see it, I can feel it. I know it. It is waiting.’

  The daemon wore his brother’s face, of course. Ahriman let out a long breath as he looked into Ohrmuzd’s countenance. It was the image of his true brother, not as he died, not even as he had lived as a warrior of the Thousand Sons, but as Ahriman remembered him: young, unchanged, human. But of course it was not Ohrmuzd, nor was it human.

  ‘I command and bind you to the purpose for which I called you,’ he said, and the daemon grinned at the words even though there was no air to carry the sound. ‘By these swords I hold you to this place and my will.’ Ahriman pointed the tip of his sword at the daemon. On the other side of the circle, Astraeos mirrored the movement. The daemon flinched, then grinned and bowed its head.

  ‘It is good to see you again, brother,’ it said, its voice deep and resonant.

  ‘You are not my brother,’ said Ahriman, his voice level.

  ‘Oh, am I not?’ The daemon tipped its head to the side, and looked down at the floor. Ahriman could feel its presence testing the bindings like a thief probing a lock. It would not get free; he was certain of his work. He could command it to change its shape if he desired, but he would not; questioning such a creature was a dance of lies and wills.

  ‘You are a creature of the warp, a lie, a falsehood,’ he said, and sent a measure of his will at the daemon. The splinter of power pulsed through the chamber. The daemon fell as if whipped. Black cracks spread across its skin, and dribbled thick yellow fluid. It panted, curses spilling from its lips in a dozen tongues. It appeared to take a breath, and the cracks in its skin closed. It looked up at Ahriman, rubbing its jaw, an amused expression on its handsome face.

  ‘Would you like to see how Ohrmuzd died again?’

  Ahriman felt another shard of power crack from his mind before he could think. The daemon fell back to the ground, its skin flaking off. Beneath the skin was something that looked like the matted feathers of a dead crow. It pulled its knees to its chest, whimpering and weeping. Slowly the smooth skin closed, and it stood again, nodding as if in apology.

  ‘I am sorry. You have questions,’ said the daemon, looking at Ahriman. ‘You do, don’t you?’ It cocked its head. ‘That is why I am here, that is why you called me?’

  ‘By the nine hundred words I bind you to answer what I command,’ said Ahriman. The daemon laughed, a high false laugh.

  ‘So formal, Ahriman.’ The daemon turned to where Astraeos held his sword drawn, his body locked at readiness, then craned its head to look at Ahriman over its shoulder. ‘This is the apprentice? What fate will you doom him to, Ahriman? Or is this another attempt at redemption?’ It stretched its head back and seemed to breathe deeply through its nose. ‘How many mortals did you help burn here?’ It flicked its head back t
owards Astraeos. ‘You should ask him.’

  Ahriman saw Astraeos flinch, but the daemon was already turning back to Ahriman, grinning, delight dancing in its eyes. ‘Is that why you chose to come back? To wallow in sorrow for your sins?’

  Ahriman said nothing. The daemon shrugged.

  ‘I seek knowledge,’ said Ahriman. The daemon seemed to sigh. ‘I seek knowledge of Amon.’

  ‘Another whose trust you rewarded with betrayal,’ said the daemon, and it was no longer grinning but standing still, arms by its side, its face solemn.

  ‘A brother came seeking me. His name was Tolbek. He came to drag me to Amon’s knees. I have sought the other exiles of my Legion but they are dead or with Amon.’ Ahriman paused, but the daemon did not move or speak. ‘Do you know of what I speak?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the daemon, and rolled its eyes. ‘Of course I know of what you speak. All we do is watch you, because your pitiful scrap of a Legion is our only concern.’

  ‘Why does he seek me? What does he intend?’

  The words seemed to hit the daemon like a physical blow. It shuddered, its whole body briefly losing its pure lines before settling again. Its chest heaved, and it spat black phlegm onto the floor.

  ‘I cannot say,’ said the daemon. Ahriman raised a hand, and his disgust forced the daemon to its knees.

  ‘You will tell me.’

  ‘I cannot say, because I do not know,’ whimpered the daemon.

  Ahriman extended his hand and formed a fist. The daemon crumpled with a sound of cracking bones and popping joints. It crouched on the ground, holding its head and rocking backwards and forwards.

  ‘It is hidden from my eyes, from the eyes of all our kind.’ The daemon looked up at him, speaking from behind fingers that pulled at its own skin. Black and yellow blood was running over its knuckles. ‘You should be flattered, Ahzek. For such powers to be bent to hide the truth from you, it is almost an honour.’ It smiled, its yellow eyes flicking up at Ahriman. ‘Almost.’

  Ahriman was about to speak, but the daemon spoke before he could.

  ‘But do you want to know why he hates you?’ Its cheeks twitched with seeming pleasure. ‘That I do know.’ Ahriman watched the daemon’s tongue flick over its teeth and lips.

  Because I destroyed them, and broke the hope I promised them, thought Ahriman. The daemon was nodding.

  ‘Because you were right,’ said the daemon. Ahriman felt ice slide down his spine. ‘Because you saw truly but failed. That is why.’

  For a second Ahriman could say nothing, and just stared back at the daemon’s yellow gaze. Then he shook himself and asked something that had occurred to him as he had watched the daemon manifest.

  ‘One of your kind came to me before Tolbek appeared,’ said Ahriman, remembering the image of a crow, and the light burning in Karoz’s eyes. ‘I am fate come round at last,’ it had said.

  ‘I know nothing of that.’

  Ahriman nodded. He had expected no other answer. The relationship between the creatures of Chaos was as complex as it was fluid. There were countless daemons, each a fragment of the daemonic consciousnesses that some called the Gods of Chaos. The gods spawned daemons and swallowed them again at whim. Within the ranks of daemons, there were creatures of greater and lesser power. There were creatures that hunted mortal souls like wolves, and had little intelligence beyond their instinct to hunt and devour. There were lesser servants, soldiers and attendants, that swarmed to their god’s will. Above them were the greater choirs, and the princes who had ascended from mortality in their god’s service. The daemon that stood before Ahriman was a princeling of the pantheon of Chaos, a creature that must once have been mortal but who had slipped the bonds of flesh. A fragment of its name learned long ago had allowed Ahriman to summon it and bind it to answer him.

  ‘What is the path to finding the truth I seek?’ asked Ahriman.

  ‘A path of lies,’ said the daemon. It crouched, shoulders hunched, its back rising and falling as if it were struggling to breathe. Its skin looked pale and clammy, the muscle beneath wasted. Ahriman paused; through the binding he could feel the daemon’s essence twist like a fish pulled from water, dying in air it could not breathe.

  ‘From where can I learn the answer I seek?’ said Ahriman, and the daemon twitched at the question. It was trembling, its now bone-thin fingers pawing at its mouth. It is dissipating, thought Ahriman; its form and presence were draining from the physical world, back into the great ocean of the warp.

  ‘From Amon himself,’ it said. ‘No other can speak the answer you seek.’

  Of course, of course, but then what did I expect? That Amon would be less than the sorcerer and strategist that he was?

  ‘Where is he?’

  The daemon snarled, showing teeth that were now black and rotting.

  ‘Tell me. You must tell me,’ said Ahriman.

  It shook its head. ‘I will show you,’ said the daemon, and extended a skeletal hand. Ahriman did not move. The daemon was bound to his will, but to touch it, to make a connection with it, would strain those shackles. It was a risk. ‘I cannot lie to you. You know that your binding does not allow me to utter falsehood.’

  I have to know. I have come this far. I have to know.

  ‘There is not much time, Ahriman. If you wish to know then I must show you the path to what you seek.’

  Ahriman looked at the open palm of the daemon’s hand. On the opposite side, Astraeos started forwards. Ahriman reached out, and touched the daemon’s hand.

  Fingers closed around Ahriman’s wrist. Cold spread up his arm and laughter filled his ears.

  ‘Thank you, Ahriman. Thank you,’ said the daemon, and its pleasure made him feel suddenly sick. A pattern unfolded in his mind, layered with formulae, metaphor and ritual; a path through stars and space and impossibility. ‘I spoke truth, this is the path. I give this to you, Ahriman, but you will never see the path’s end.’

  Ahriman tried to pull himself back, to pull his hand away, but could not. He could see both the warp and the physical realm, like two pict feeds overlaid. The daemon bloomed in the warp around him, becoming a snake covered in burning feathers. It spiralled around him, pulling him into an embrace of fire. In the physical realm, the daemon still wore his brother’s face as it roared with glee. It stepped towards him and Ahriman felt the bindings he had placed on it shatter, each one a bright nova in his skull. He saw his mistake, then, and the trap that waited to swallow him.

  He had summoned and bound the daemon, but beneath those bindings were others which wove through it at a deeper level. Someone had already bound the daemon to a different purpose, someone who had guessed what he might do to get answers. He had summoned the daemon, but it served another.

  Ahriman’s battle plate glowed red under the daemon’s grasp. His skin was blistering against the inside of his armour. The candles on the floor rose into the air, the tallow melting in an eyeblink. The bowls of incense crashed to the floor. Shards of black porcelain fell towards the ceiling. The servitors standing at the edge of the room burst apart, exploding into spheres of blood mist. Green ball lightning crackled over the walls. Out on the edges of his aetheric sight, Ahriman could see vast shapes made of the shades of night. The shapes bulged and swelled with thousands of hungering faces and reaching hands.

  The daemon looked down at him. It no longer looked like Ohrmuzd, it no longer looked like anything even slightly human. Ragged black feathers pushed through its pale skin. It reached out a taloned hand and touched Ahriman’s forehead. The metal of his helm buckled and cracked. Armour integrity warnings screamed in his ears. The air in his armour stank of carrion meat and hot metal. He thrust his mind at the daemon, trying to draw power to him, finding only the constricting presence of the daemon choking his soul.

  ‘I will be free,’ whispered the daemon, and the whisper echoed, rising in volume and changing until it filled Ahriman’s ears. He tried to move his sword hand but it moved so slowly, and the daemon’s mouth was opening wi
der and wider. ‘I will take your mind to my master, and I will be free.’

  Ahriman felt his strength wither. He had failed. He was nothing, a heretic and fool whose reach had exceeded his grasp, a remnant who should have fallen to dust long ago.

  The daemon shrieked, and suddenly its grip on Ahriman vanished. It writhed, clawing, its back arching. The point of Astraeos’s sword projected from its chest. Blood and pus bubbled from the wound, sheeting down its torso.

  Behind the daemon, Astraeos let go of the sword’s hilt. The shadows behind the Librarian were moving, forming shapes of limbs, tentacles and teeth-ringed mouths. Astraeos’s shoulders were shaking, thick plates of ice cracking from his armour as he moved. He looked at Ahriman and sent a single word.

  +Run.+

  XI

  WARP BREACH

  ‘We must run,’ screamed Egion.

  Carmenta felt terror, and it was not all her own. Egion was crying in her soul, his terror bleeding through the mind-impulse link. Her engine’s flames fluttered and misfired. Stars and darkness blurred in the sensors that were her eyes.

  Don’t let me go, she moaned. Please don’t let me go. The Titan Child’s engines spluttered and died. It streaked forwards on its momentum, the station looming closer by the second. Hold on to me, she pleaded. Something is coming for us, for us all. Do not let me go.

  In her cable cradle, her body went into convulsions. She retched oil and blood through the mouth slot in her lacquered mask. She was drifting, her mind unanchored. Voices whispered in her ears, telling her of things she had forgotten, of the darkness of a labour hab, of the broken turning of a fan and the chopped light falling across the body of a man curled on a soiled pallet. He twitched and gave a hacking breath. His eyes opened. She had thought he was looking at her, but he would never see her again. The air had reeked of urine, mould and rust; she had forgotten that. How could she forget that? It was not a memory, it was the present. She was not the Titan Child. She was not Carmenta. She was nothing but a girl staring at her father’s face and watching his blood-pink spittle dribble down his cheek. She could see the cogged tattoos of service under the runnels of spit.