[Grey Knights 03] - Hammer of Daemons

by Ben Counter - (ebook by Undead)

  “Eldar,” said Alaric, “more xenos.”

  “That’s Kelhedros,” said Haggard. “Believe me, my mother taught me to hate the alien just like the preachers said, but Kelhedros is one of the best fighters in Venalitor’s stable, and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t have a plan to get himself out of here.”

  “How long do we last?” asked Alaric.

  “Depends. A few were here long before me. Most don’t make it through their first fight. If you’re here at all it means you’re tougher than most. Venalitor keeps the best slaves, and carts them around Drakaasi on the Hecatomb to send them out against the other lords’ gladiators. This damn planet is one giant temple to blood, and the arenas are the altars. It’s a sacred business, you know, all this death.”

  Alaric slid off the slab and got to his feet. He was still wearing the piecemeal armour he had been given by the alien slave prior to the arena fight. He would have dearly loved to have his own war gear back.

  “In here, you do as you will,” said Haggard. “The weak are weeded out quick enough. But try to get anywhere else on the ship and the scaephylyds will know. Venalitor will have you hung from the prow or fed to the greenskins.”

  Haulvarn, the best soldier Alaric had ever fought alongside. Haulvarn would have been appointed a justicar with his own squad, and sooner rather than later. He could have risen higher than Alaric, to the ranks of the brother-captains, perhaps even a Grand Master in charge of whole armies and privy to the highest circles of the Ordo Malleus. Haulvarn was gone, and Khorne had taken his share of the death.

  “Make sure you stake your claim soon,” said Haggard. “Plenty of slaves didn’t come back today, and there’ll be a rush for their cells. Good ones are rare.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Alaric. He a saw a group of slaves clustered around one cell. They were on their knees. They were praying.

  Alaric went to join them.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lieutenant Erkhar raised his hands slowly, his eyes turned towards the cell floor. The horrors of this world would be matched by the splendours they would one day witness. They had to remember that, no matter how hard it got.

  Erkhar placed his hands palms down on the altar. It was a huge stone head, which had originally belonged to a statue of an idealised human, its face noble, with a long aristocratic nose and its hair in dense marble curls. It was presumably of some Champion of Chaos or aspect of Khorne, but it had long ceased to serve that purpose. It was beautiful, while so much on Drakaasi was ugly, and forgotten by the planet’s overlords. The believers had placed their faith in it. It was the face of the Emperor on Drakaasi, an icon of sin transformed by their faith into something beautiful.

  “That we must be tested,” began Erkhar, “is a measure of our faith. For such faith would mean nothing if we lived lives free of suffering. For every moment of pain, our Emperor, we thank you. For every brother and sister taken from us, we rejoice. For every victory of the enemy and the Blood God’s brood, we celebrate, for the true victory is the steeling of the faith in our hearts.”

  Around him, the faithful listened patiently. Most of them wore the same threadbare dark blue uniforms as Erkhar, and a few still had the insignia of the Imperial Navy. Some of them had joined the faithful later on, but the core of the congregation were the men and women who had been captured when their spacecraft, the Pax Deinotatos, was boarded and its crew handed to Venalitor as tribute.

  “They have celebrated the destruction of our brothers in the revolt,” said Hoygens, once a gunnery master on board the Pax. “We lost many faithful in those days, and games have taken place to mark the black lizard’s triumph over them. How can we take comfort from this? I feel my faith is shaken, lieutenant. I feel that something at my core is missing.”

  Erkhar stood up. In spite of the darkness and the grizzled face Drakaasi had given him, he still exuded the presence of an officer. “The Emperor takes away those crutches you use to hold yourself up, Hoygens! Rejoice in that emptiness. Think how much the sight of the Promised Land will fill you up, now that you have lost so much! Would that we all could feel such despair!”

  Erkhar was about to continue when he noticed the huge shape on the walkway outside the cell door.

  It was not a scaephylyd slave master, or even one of the Hecatomb’s more violent and spiteful prisoners. It was an enormous man, a clear head taller than the tallest man there, dressed in scrappy piecemeal armour that couldn’t hide his exaggerated musculature.

  Many backed away from him in fear.

  “Have you come to share in the Promised Land, stranger?” asked Erkhar.

  “It’s the Space Marine,” said Hoygens in a voice little more than a whisper. Hoygens had been the chief of a gun crew back on the Pax, and he was a big man, but he shied away from the newcomer. “They said Venalitor had got one alive. I didn’t believe it.”

  “I think there is much need for prayer,” said Alaric. “I would like to join you, father.”

  “I am Lieutenant Erkhar of the Emperor’s spaceship the Pax Deinotatos,” replied Erkhar. “I am not the father of anything, and may I ask your name?”

  “Justicar Alaric.”

  Erkhar smiled. “There is always room for a newcomer, as long as he has the capacity to believe. We were sent here to be tested, after all. Drakaasi is a torment for us all, through which the Emperor will know His own.”

  “You must have given some thought to escape, lieutenant.”

  “Many have tried before, lord Marine,” said Hoygens. “Believe me, I was nearly one of them in the old days, but every time anyone tries, they die. They either get cut down in the attempt, or they’re hunted down and thrown out to die in the arena. It’s just another kind of sport for them.”

  “Brother Hoygens is correct,” said Erkhar. “The closest anyone got was very recently, not more than a month ago. Hundreds of slaves made a break for it at the arena in Aelazadne. Some of the faithful were with them, but the Ophidian Guard were waiting for them, Ebondrake’s own, and they died to a man. They had spent many months in preparation, so it is said, but it all ended in a few hours.”

  “This planet is ruled by Khorne,” said Alaric. “Of course it would not be easy to escape, but I take it that fact has done little to dull your determination.”

  Erkhar shook his head. “Escape is a dream, Justicar, physical escape, anyway. You see, everything I have seen on Drakaasi has led me to conclude that we are here for a reason. The Emperor delivered us here, because this is the first step on the path to the Promised Land. If we stay faithful, we shall be delivered to that Promised Land. For every sin that is committed against us, one more glory shall be ours when the Emperor leads us there. It is the only way Drakaasi can be made to make sense.”

  “The Emperor created Drakaasi?” said Alaric warily.

  “No, Justicar. Drakaasi was created by evil men. The Emperor brought us here because we are His faithful, and it is only through suffering the works of these evil men that we can be made pure enough to ascend to the Promised Land. If you join us in our faith then you will be led there, too.”

  “Back in the Imperium, lieutenant, what you have just told me would be considered heresy.”

  “But we are not in the Imperium.”

  “No, we are not, and where is the Promised Land?”

  “I have preached that it is a place to which we will be delivered, a land of peace and plenty where there is no pain. As to whether it really is a place, or is somewhere inside us, is a matter for a man’s conscience. You, however, I feel, will not be content to seek this solace inside yourself. You want to escape, and get revenge.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Alaric.

  “You need allies. Not even a Space Marine can get off Drakaasi on his own. You thought that these poor religious fanatics would think you were some kind of icon sent by the Emperor, and that they would sacrifice their lives for your benefit. We are all equal on Drakaasi, Justicar, even Space Marines. If you want to get away from here, the Promis
ed Land is the only way. Faith will conquer Drakaasi, not you, and if you want to bring Duke Venalitor to task, perhaps you do not know enough about him.”

  “He bested me and took me prisoner,” replied Alaric sharply. “I am under no illusions as to his capabilities.”

  “Then you know why he is held in esteem by Lord Ebondrake in the first place?”

  “I take it you do.”

  Erkhar shrugged. “One hears things. Some of the slaves who were here when we were first captured, long dead by now of course, were there when Venalitor first raised the Hecatomb and took his place among Drakaasi’s lords. He bested a daemon, they said. The tale was passed down by generations of slaves before us. Its name was Raezazel. It was some magical thing the other lords despised. Venalitor hunted it down and defeated it. The other lords hated it, and that hate won him power. Hatred and power are the same thing on Drakaasi. That is the world we all have to endure.”

  “It sounds like you are willing to sit here and take whatever Chaos throws at you, lieutenant,” retorted Alaric.

  “When the Promised Land is in sight, Justicar, you will realise that nothing could be further from the truth. If you want to understand that truth, then join us. We will welcome you. Otherwise, fight and die, for without hope of the Promised Land that is all there is for anyone on Drakaasi.”

  Erkhar turned away from Alaric, placed a hand on the broken stone head that represented their Emperor, and continued to pray. By the time the congregation had finished entreating the Emperor for deliverance, Justicar Alaric had gone.

  Aelazadne!

  It is the song that brings the city into being, not the other way around. A million voices raised in song! A million more in pain! The chorus of Chaos, an endless tune to which dance the very nethermost daemons of the warp!

  The spires of the crystal city are a crown anointing the Blood God’s world, raised from the sands to resonate with the song by a divine hand! The masters of its choirs direct the Blood God’s song from the throats of its slaves, torturing the finest howls of terror and caressing the most beautiful of paeans to suffering. Was there any hideous thing so beautiful as Aelazadne? Were ever glory and horror such close soulmates as in that great crystal cathedral? Was any god exalted as Aelazadne exalts the Skull Lord of Drakaasi?

  —“Mind Journeys of a Heretic Saint,” by Inquisitor Helmandar Oswain

  (Suppressed by order of the Ordo Hereticus)

  “This damn song,” said Gearth, “it gets inside your soul.”

  “Stay strong,” said Alaric.

  “It’s all right for you. Your kind get your minds rebuilt to cope with crap like this. Some of us are just mortals.” Gearth was sitting in the corner of his tiny cage, which was suspended from the ceiling over an open sewer of gore and effluent. Alaric was in the cage next to him, and through the darkness countless cells hung, each holding one of Venalitor’s slaves. The slaves had been separated on the Hecatomb and locked into these tiny cages, which then rattled along chains and rails in the dark crystal depths of the city. The song had begun as the Hecatomb approached the city and had never stopped, but only got slowly louder, until it was as much a part of the place as the walls around them.

  The arena of Aelazadne was above them, and even here, deep inside the honeycomb of corrupted crystal on which Aelazadne was built, the song keened from every direction. The orks were singing their own song, a horrible sound, worse than Aelazadne’s music. The idea that any living thing could relish life on Drakaasi was obscene.

  “Do you know what we will be fighting?”

  “Heh? No one ever knows. I bet they’ve got something special for you, though.”

  “You must have thought of getting out of here,” said Alaric.

  “Yeah, thought about it plenty. Thought about being skinned and eaten by the flesh hounds, too, “cause that’s the best I could hope for if they caught me. The way I figure, there’s no way off this planet. The best I can do is make them suffer. Every now and again we get to face something in the arenas that they don’t want us to kill. When I come up against something like that, I’m gonna kill it. That’ll hurt them more than anything I could do if I broke out.”

  “But all the killing is for the glory of Khorne. Every time you kill out there, you are doing the will of Chaos.”

  “Then, when they send you out there, just curl up and die. I don’t care, Marine.” Gearth sneered. “I hear they killed your friend.”

  “That is true.”

  “The Imperium killed mine. The arbitrators dragged them around the back of the precinct fortress and shot them in the back of the head. There’s nothing good in the universe to fight for. It’s all going to hell. If you want to die out there then be my guest, but make sure you take a good look around first, Marine, “cause soon that’s what the entire galaxy is gonna look like.”

  “Then Venalitor didn’t have to do much to break you,” said Alaric levelly. “You were Khorne’s servant long before he ever found you.”

  Gearth spat at Alaric. Alaric ignored it. Men like Gearth were a natural by-product of the Imperium. The Imperium was a cruel place because the galaxy was cruel. Its people had to be oppressed, because if they were free to do and think as they wished, they would do horrible things that would lead the human race to destruction. Gearth was one of the many who didn’t fit into the mould the Imperium had prepared for its people.

  Sometimes Alaric wondered if the Emperor could one day awaken and show the Imperium a way to survive that did not require such relentless cruelty towards its citizens.

  “Do you really believe,” Alaric found himself saying, “that Drakaasi could exist without people like you?”

  Gearth gave Alaric a look full of hate. Before he could retort, Alaric’s cell was cranked suddenly upwards. It was hauled up a stinking narrow shaft, and a thin veil of reddish light picked out the claw marks along the sides. The sound of the arena crowd mingled perfectly with Aelazadne’s song in a terrible harmony that could have broken a lesser man than a Grey Knight.

  The light broke around him. The cage fell apart, and Alaric was standing in the centre of Aelazadne’s arena.

  The light was coming from a single opening in the stone sky above Alaric. Around him a labyrinth spiralled off in all directions. It was a buried part of the city, its buildings rotting bastions of stone, with empty windows like blinded eyes and broken doorways like teeth in shattered mouths. Aelazadne had always been grand, but now the excessive decoration had decayed into a parody of beauty, sculpted pediments sagging and faceless statues lying in severed chunks on the pitted ground.

  Alaric spotted tiny glistening eyes winking on the walls, swivelling to follow him. Through them, Aelazadne was watching. He heard the cheer as they focused on him, a new player entering their game.

  He spotted the first body lying close by, slumped against a collapsed wall in a pool of glistening blood. It had originally been human, but more than that Alaric couldn’t tell, for it had been torn clean in two. Alaric picked up the rusted blade lying by the corpse’s outstretched hand.

  Something lowed in the distance, deep and angry. Someone screamed. A cheer rose at the sound.

  Aelazadne’s song wove a different pattern here. Filtered through the layers of the city, its individual threads were clearer, and Alaric could pick out the voices, strangle sounds and gurgling, opened up to the glory of Khorne. He could pick out some of their words, too.

  They were telling him to be grateful, for very few were given the honour of such a death.

  Alaric flinched at a movement nearby. Another slave skulked from the shadows. He was armed with a club with an iron spike through it. Alaric realised the man was a mutant, his scrawny body disfigured with ruffs of waving cilia that wove up his neck and down his arms. He was dressed in ragged remnants of armour.

  “Where is it?” the mutant demanded.

  “Where is what?”

  “What they sent us here to hunt.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t even se
en it.”

  “Of course you ain’t. What, you fresh out of the sky?”

  “Yes.”

  The mutant looked Alaric up and down. “What are you?”

  “I was going to ask you the same.”

  “Touched,” said the mutant with pride, “in the blood.” Blood oozed from the fronds wriggling all over his skin. “Bleeding for His glory, weeping Khorne’s own tribute for…”

  A sound close by cut off the mutant’s voice. A second later a body crashed through a wall behind Alaric, bringing decayed chunks of marble crunching to the ground.

  Alaric rolled away from the destruction and just caught sight of the corpse out of the corner of his eye: another mutant, a multi-armed creature, its chest an open red ruin and its face locked in an expression of surprise.

  The club-armed mutant roared and charged into the seething darkness. A muscly hand grabbed him and dragged him through the ruin of the wall. The mutant screamed, and it was a scream that went on far too long for the enemy to be killing him quickly.

  Alaric ran around a corner, away from the enemy’s line of sight. He still had not seen it, save for its hand. He heard it lumbering away, issuing a deep rumbling growl, followed by a wet crunch that Alaric guessed was the mutant’s body being mashed against the ground.

  Alaric caught his breath. The monster was definitely huge, and judging by the mutant’s scream it had more in its arsenal than mere strength. He could smell it, too, a mixture of sweat and heady chemicals.

  Alaric had emerged into a rained town square built around a grand fountain. The fountain’s statues had lost their heads and hands and the water, if it had been water that flowed through it, had long since dried up. A sagging basilica stood along one side of the square, gutted by fire. The creature’s smell told Alaric that it had retreated in that direction. The sounds of its footsteps were all but hidden by the droning bass of Aelazadne’s song, but they were there, and audible enough for Alaric to know that the beast was still close.