El’Uriaq’s secret followers trickled in from every corner of Commorragh both high and low. Petty archons came striding in the midst of their silent bodyguards, armoured sybarites rubbed shoulders with light-stepping succubi, mechanists walked beside beastmasters, gang lords exchanged taunts with flesh traders. All wore masks to conceal their identities, although some chose to flaunt themselves openly by wearing the barest mockeries of silk or crystal. The poet-philosopher Aclyriid duelled the philosopher-poet Pso’kobor with barbed words and mockeries, while the vivisectionist Zeelatar pointed out distinctive hides hanging from the walls and held forth on the virtues of the different slave races under varying states of duress.
‘Sunlight! A lack of sunlight for greenskins, oh yes! All that vaunted toughness becomes as soft and malleable as boiled tubers!’
Many that came wondered at their numbers, the strength that they were a part of never made manifest to them before now. Each had thought themselves privy to secrets held by few others and now they found themselves in a company hundreds strong. A glittering river of warriors, assassins, leaders and spymasters flowed ever deeper into the golden halls, gathering rivulets and tributaries to itself as it drew nigh to the great amphitheatre below.
There waited El’Uriaq in his court, decked in the radiant finery of an earlier age. His robe of shifting midnight hues was slit at the chest and wrist to reveal glimpses of the bright armour he wore beneath as if he were clad in storm clouds that flashed with lightning. The crown of eight stars was upon his head and the ruby sceptre was in his hand and he looked lordly indeed, kingly even although the eldar had foresworn having kings long before. On the steps of the dais was a veiled female clad all in dazzling white, with a chain running from a collar at her throat to the foot of the throne as though she were an intractable pet or dangerous beast. Whispers flew through the throng at the sight of the veiled woman. Surely this was El’Uriaq’s pain-bride, the pure heart rumoured to grant true immortality to whomsoever could master her.
Ranked tables about El’Uriaq’s throne groaned beneath the weight of assembled provender. Plunder from a million worlds had been gathered for his guests: star-metal casks winked alongside spun crystal bottles, heaped trenchers of squamous ocean world delicacies wobbled beside platters of rare meats taken from every part of the Great Wheel, euphoric tinctures and narcotic powders were there in plenty.
‘Welcome, my friends!’ El’Uriaq called to the masked multitude as they spilled in. ‘Kindly find the places appointed to you! Hurry now! I am anxious to begin the evening’s entertainments!’
Entertainments were also there in plenty: musicians and dancers waited at the margins, along with savage looking slave-gladiators, orators and mimes, restrained slaves to torment in situ and loose ones to dominate at leisure. As the guests filed among the tables they found individual settings with plaques inscribed with messages thus:
‘The Aphor of the eleventh district’
‘The right hand of Xarlon’
‘The master of the stone road’
Each held a clue that would be understood only by the conspirator and El’Uriaq himself, a reference to a coded missive from their past communications, in some cases now made dreadfully clear. Some took their seats with relief, flattered by the personal attention and evocation of past success, others sat filled with foreboding as they recognised their messages as inferring some oversight or failure on their part.
‘The broken promise of the sprawls’
‘The Fortress Unvanquishable, save for Sacnoth’
‘He who loved well, if not wisely, Cymbelline’
Some were reluctant to take their places at first, but as more and more of their compatriots were seated they found themselves alone. Beneath El’Uriaq’s searing gaze they hurried to comply until all of the assembled host sat at their tables at last. Archon Yllithian, clad in subtly differing lustres of black and wearing a crow mask, had found his setting to read:
‘Beloved Primogenitor and primus’
Which he took to be a moderately encouraging sign, unless El’Uriaq believed that like the titans of old he should consume his parent. He placed the cylindrical container he was carrying beside a spindly bone chair and took a seat before glancing around disinterestedly at his table partners. He recognised several petty archons among them but the bulk seemed to be lowborn scum of one sort or another. Nyos wondered if El’Uriaq was deliberately insulting him by placing him in such company. At his side a rough-handed warrior wearing a mask with bulging jewelled insect eyes looked around with interest.
‘What’ve you got there, brother? Something to share and share alike?’ he said, gesturing at the container jocularly.
‘Nothing for the likes of you,’ Yllithian replied with contempt. His neighbour seemed to be under the mistaken impression that he was at some kind of social event to make friends. Yllithian was labouring under no such delusions. El’Uriaq bringing together so many of his followers could only mean one thing – that he was ready to act. The conspirators’ banquet was an old institution in Commorrite lore, a final step to cement the plotters’ commitment and weed out any naysayers. Not all of those that had entered the amphitheatre were going to leave it alive; instead they would become examples of the price of disloyalty in order to bind the rest together.
As the last guests were seated a fanfare of horns and trumpets blew to silence their chatter. El’Uriaq stood up proud and splendid upon the steps of his throne and spoke to the throng. By some artifice of the amphitheatre or his own powers his words were carried clearly to every ear as if he stood close at hand. They were low and thrilling, replete with all the power and confidence of his magnetic personality.
‘Do you feel it, my friends? Do you feel history being made? This is a moment that will be cherished in our fine city for generations to come. They will look back upon this night with reverence, the night when the first blows were struck against the shackles of tyranny encompassing their lives.
‘The tyrant told you that I, El’Uriaq, had fallen beneath his blade. He lied. He told you that no rival could match his guile and purpose. He lied again. He told you the city would flourish beneath his rule. He lied once more. Who here still believes in the lies of Asdrubael Vect?’
A chorus of denouncements and vitriolic curses at the perfidy of the tyrant echoed around the amphitheatre from the assembled guests. Many of the lowborn drew weapons and clashed them together ferociously, eager to show their hatred and contempt for Vect. El’Uriaq smiled radiantly as he allowed the clamour to die away.
‘So! Now I bid you feast and take your ease, for we have hard fighting ahead of us if our city is to be freed from bondage. I will speak with each of you to hear your concerns and further share my plans; for now relax and enjoy the hospitality of my court. To the future! To the doom of Vect!’
Another, perhaps more heartfelt, cheer erupted, drums thundered and pipes skirled in the tumult. Dancers stepped lightly among the tables to perform as the music calmed to a more languorous refrain. Yllithian turned his attention to a plate of jellied pin-stars harvested from sunless seas, pushing the luminous echinoderms around with a silver-tined fork. The accoutrements of each table were rich and finely crafted; the plates, bottles, chalices, goblets, bowls, the multitudinous and highly specialised knives, forks and spoons – all were made with fantastic artistry and skill, but all were mismatched with one another. No artisan of Commorragh had made these things to unify form and purpose as only eldar hands might do, rather they were articles of plunder taken from a million worlds. El’Uriaq’s feasting tables had all the riotous barbarity of a pirate’s lair.
The thought depressed Yllithian. Were there not artisans enough in the dark city to make goods of their own aesthetic? He already knew the sad truth. The kabals prized plunder more highly – what could be taken had become worth more than what could be made with their own hands. The chaotic diversity hid a message for the keen observer – El’Uriaq had reach. Even from hiding he could pluck treasures
from anywhere in the galaxy at his whim and scatter them before his followers. Yllithian had no doubt that it was a display that impressed the lowborn members of the assembly, but it left him feeling cold.
Hoots and cheers drew his attention to where two gangly slave-gladiators were hacking bloody chunks out of one another in an impromptu bout between two tables. Beak-faced and quill-haired, the avian-looking creatures wielded hook-tipped staves with creditable gusto, hissing and screeching as they gave and received wounds. One eventually pinned the other down and tore out its still-pulsing heart before consuming it, to the great amusement of the immediate onlookers.
Sudden awareness of a presence at his elbow made him glance around sharply. An obese castrato in a furred animal mask stood beside him.
‘Lord El’Uriaq bidth that you may attend on him now,’ the castrato lisped, holding out his fat white hands to gesture towards the throne. Yllithian saw that a triumvirate of warriors in bull masks were stepping down from the dais after speaking with El’Uriaq. His time had come. He picked up the container beside his chair and pushed his way between the revellers towards the throne.
From beneath gauzy veils of white Laryin watched the Dark Kin at their sport, forcing herself to take it in. Her whole body ached and she wanted nothing more than to crouch down and block everything out but she stood stiff and silent as the nightmare washed over her. She liked to think that it was pride that kept her so upright and unbending, that she simply could not give in to the urge to grovel before them. Fear of punishment was most likely the true motivator. She’d been ordered to stand and so stand she must. She’d also been shown that her body was capable of betraying her will in the most craven fashion and she’d found she hated that part of herself more than the pain. Against her wrist a hard, elongated diamond shape was digging into her flesh, surprisingly warm, almost pleasant to the touch.
A smallish Dark Kin wearing black with a crow mask was approaching the throne. Laryin’s attention was caught by the container he carried, a cylinder of burnished metal with a handle at the top. El’Uriaq actually rose and descended the steps to greet this one of his followers; he was obviously a valued minion. Laryin wondered what was in the tithe he’d brought. Something about it fascinated her, a forgotten sense of insight that tickled at the back of her skull.
‘Ah, my primus!’ El’Uriaq roared in delight, sweeping up his smaller follower with a hug that evidently terrified him. The crow-mask recovered quickly after El’Uriaq released him, bowing low and making his offering.
‘What’s this?’ smiled El’Uriaq with his eyes glittering more sharply than his eight-starred crown. ‘A gift for me?’
‘Indeed, a memento of past times,’ Crow-mask replied with an impish grin, ‘the contents being perfectly harmless of course, as I’m sure you’re quite aware.’
Laryin could see that the grin was just as much a mask as the beak and feathers worn above it. Hard, calculating eyes behind the mask flicked at her for an instant before returning to El’Uriaq.
‘Naturally,’ El’Uriaq said soothingly. ‘Allow me to reframe my question – whose head do you bring to me?’
Crow-mask opened the container with a flourish, hinging open a curved lid to reveal another thing out of nightmare. The metal casing held a cylinder of crystal filled with colourless fluid. What was in the liquid was almost hidden by long, dark hair that floated slowly around it, but it was undeniably a severed head. Laryin took an involuntarily half-step back, the chain at her throat clinking gently as she did so. El’Uriaq turned and hissed at her playfully, freezing her with terror.
‘Don’t be like that, Laryin, you have more in common with Angevere than you might think.’ He turned back to crow-mask, smiling broadly. ‘Quite wonderful. May I?’ El’Uriaq took the container and lifted it to stare at the contents more closely. Crow-mask was watching El’Uriaq’s face intently as he did so, so intently that curiosity overwhelmed Laryin’s usual fear and she looked too.
She was surprised by what she saw on the monster’s too-handsome features. Warmth and tenderness were written there, fond memories and sad recollections. She had never seen him look so… mortal before, even vulnerable. In that instant she also saw the thing that looked out through El’Uriaq’s eyes. She saw it only for a moment, a flash of the terrible all-consuming fire that dwelt within his soul, an entity that gazed out at the world with obscene triumph and unspeakable malice. Laryin swayed and almost stumbled at the sight, the amphitheatre seeming to pitch beneath her feet. Crow-mask and the monster were speaking in low tones but she barely heard them over the pulse of blood in her ears.
The diamond shape against Laryin’s wrist ached warmly. Despite her brave words to the renegade she wasn’t sure that she had the strength to endure the river of fate flowing over her. The weapon he’d left gnawed at her mind constantly. One blow and it could be ended. She had made no conscious decision to bring the weapon with her or to use it but a part of her mind still clung to it like a talisman. It represented having some kind of choice for her now. The only choice she could still make.
Yllithian saw the beast unmasked in El’Uriaq too, only for an instant but that was all it took. The flash of it seared his mind and it took all of his considerable will not to draw back immediately. Fortunately El’Uriaq seemed too enraptured by his gift to sense anything amiss – just as the damned haemonculus had predicted. Yllithian felt as if ice water were flooding into his veins, his knees suddenly seemed treacherously weak. The thing was talking to him, and a part of his mind was screaming at him to respond.
‘–she speak?’ asked the thing that looked like El’Uriaq.
‘Indeed she does,’ Yllithian replied, his well-worn instincts for dissimulation mastering his fear and rushing to the fore to save him. ‘The – ah – haemonculi fitted a vocal synthesiser to the casket. She had a nasty habit of using mind speech she had to be cured of before she’d use it.’
The El’Uriaq-thing laughed heartily. ‘Well now,’ it said to the head, ‘all your running and cleverness brought you to this, Angevere? I never imagined I would become better looking than you.’
Angevere’s synthesised voice sighed like the wind through winter-stripped branches. ‘My life is fulfilled knowing that you are complete once more, my immortal lord,’ she said.
‘Indeed it is, we’ll have a great deal to talk about, you and I, when time permits. For the present speak me a prediction, since now you have become a crone and I’ll hear your sweet voice no more.’
In the amphitheatre El’Uriaq’s guests were beginning to slake their lusts in ever more outrageous fashion. Pipes skirled hauntingly over the clamour of cries and screams. As Angevere spoke her thin, insidious whisper seemed to mute the sounds of revelry.
‘The Dysjunction approaches, the city will be riven asunder. Blood shall wash the spires and beasts shall stalk the streets. As they suffer beneath the lash of destiny the citizens will cry out for salvation but they will have no succour. Three shall rise but only one will endure.’
El’Uriaq smiled again, the picture of indulgence. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Everything I would hope for from a doomsayer.’ He glanced about and then looked at Laryin with a knowing smirk. ‘Come here, darling, I have a special job for you.’
Laryin walked forwards unwillingly. The diamond shape on her wrist burned like a brand. She took another step, almost within arm’s reach of the daemon meat-puppet and the monstrous thing it held out to her. Now that the time had come she found that her choice was already made. She tensed her arm to lash out, probably the last action she would ever take. Her mind’s eye expanded with the skein of possible outcomes. El’Uriaq slain, standing over his body splashed with crimson… El’Uriaq alive, seizing her wrist and twisting it back… Laryin dead, white dress blotched pink with leaking lifeblood… The drums pulsed louder in her ears, matching the rhythm of her heart.
+Don’t.+
Mind speech. Laryin hesitated. It was the first time she had heard it used in the dark city; even the re
negade had not dared to use it when he was alone with her. El’Uriaq looked at her sharply, his eyes seeming to pierce the veils and bore straight into her quivering soul… searching… probing. Crow-mask cleared his throat suddenly.
‘Perhaps we should move on to more pressing matters, honoured host? I did not intend to distract you from your other entertainments this evening, forgive me if gift-giving was inappropriate.’
El’Uriaq’s attention shifted to the eldar dressed in black and the moment was broken, his good humour returning flawlessly. ‘Not at all, my friend, you’ve made me very happy,’ he said. Laryin hurriedly reached out and took the horrid casket from him before backing away. Any excuse to move out of his immediate presence was welcome. El’Uriaq was deep in conversation with crow-mask and ignored her.
+Very good,+ the voice came into her mind again, stronger now but still only the barest whisper. +Remain calm. He needs fear to read you clearly.+
+Who are you? Where are you?+ Laryin thought back softly, whispering inside the monster’s lair.
+The answer is in your hands, don’t pretend you hadn’t already guessed.+
Laryin had guessed. She nerved herself to lift the casket up and look at the face in its drifting nest of hair. El’Uriaq had called her Angevere. The crow-masked one was turning to leave and Laryin felt an illogical stab of loss at his going. He had helped her, probably saved her.
Path of the Renegade Page 30
