[Grey Knights 03] - Hammer of Daemons

by Ben Counter - (ebook by Undead)

  “Burn, daemon. Pick your hell and stew there.”

  “Was there ever a prisoner who so loved the bars that kept him captive? Let go of this, Alaric. All that sets you apart. No man can expert to be more than human. Give up on that dream and live.”

  Raezazel was right. Alaric was completely alone, set apart from the human race he was sworn to defend.

  He looked once at his reflection and accepted that it was a small price to pay. Every servant of humanity had to make a sacrifice to their duty. This was Alaric’s.

  Alaric looked up at Raezazel. Then he stepped off the edge of the pinnacle and fell.

  He plunged into the ocean, and the ocean became air. It was a void without light or substance, only the wind in his ears.

  “Take what you want,” said Raezazel’s voice in his head. “Take it. What is there to existence but that?”

  The cold void tore at Alaric. It had fingers like ice, and it would tear him apart. Alaric wanted to land somewhere, to get his bearings, and find Raezazel so that he could work out what the next trick was.

  Land appeared under him. Alaric thudded into it. It was dry and sandy, and went on forever. He wanted to see where he was.

  A sun bloomed in the eye like a white flower. Alaric looked around, but the featureless plain stretched in all directions. He searched for some landmark to get his bearings by.

  He glimpsed a city in the distance. It was a fine Imperial city with the buttresses and granite eagles familiar to him from the fortresses of Titan. Suddenly he was there at his threshold.

  “Take what you want,” said Raezazel.

  Power, thought Alaric, the power to conquer and do my duty. The power to destroy evil.

  He was the city’s king. His court surrounded his throne, bowing before him, a hundred Imperial nobles, and representatives of all the Adepta. He had an Inquisitorial seal on his finger and a document in his hand, signed with the initial “I” and a drop of blood. It gave him the world, and all other worlds upon which his imagination could settle.

  “I want you dead,” said Alaric, “you and all your kind, dead.”

  He was at the head of his city’s army. Only it was not a city any more, it was a kingdom, one of many on this world that all owed him fealty. He was in armour as magnificent as that of a primarch, and the soldiers around him were Space Marines, legions upon legions of them, millions of them, and they revered him as a king and a brother. There was nothing they could not do.

  “You can have what you want,” said Raezazel. “There are ways. There is nothing within the bounds of human imagination that cannot be granted to you.”

  “You offer me power?” snarled Alaric. “You think I would betray myself to you for this?”

  “You cannot deny your desires, Grey Knight. Look around you. Everything you desire, you have. You can have it, and more, forever.”

  Alaric wanted lightning in his hand to strike down the daemon. He had it. He wanted Raezazel in front of him, ready to execute. The daemon was kneeling before him. All he had to do was take what he wanted.

  “All this I desire, it is true,” said Alaric. “It comes to my mind unbidden, as you know well, but there is one thing I desire more than anything, one burning need, which you cannot fulfil.”

  “Name it,” said Raezazel.

  “I desire a universe where your kind cannot exist,” said Alaric.

  Raezazel’s mouths opened and closed dumbly.

  The force of the paradox was too much even for a servant of Tzeentch.

  Alaric’s legions disintegrated. His city blew away in a tide of ash, and his world imploded.

  Alaric was at the end of time.

  Before him, impossibly, a battlefield stretched on forever, and he perceived every inch of it.

  Mankind had gathered, every righteous man and woman who had ever died. Here were the primarchs: Sanguinius, achingly beautiful on wings of silver feathers; Leman Russ, striding titanic at the head of a host of wolves; Jaghatai Khan on a chariot made from stars. The greatest legends of the Imperium had gathered, and behind them the Space Marines and Imperial Guardsmen, the simple citizens and redeemed sinners, who had rallied to face evil at the end.

  The Emperor commanded them all. Clad in blazing golden armour, He was the most magnificent sight that Alaric’s mind could behold. Majesty streamed off Him. There could be no doubt that He was the master of mankind, a god, humanity’s future given form.

  Alaric’s fallen battle-brothers stood around His golden form. He recognised Thane, who had died on Sarthis Majoris; Lykkos and Cardios, lost on Chaeroneia; Canoness Ludmilla, slain by Valinov on Volcanis Ultor; Justicar Tancred; Inquisitor Ligeia.

  “Justicar Alaric,” said Tancred with a smile. Tancred was huge, even by the standards of a Space Marine, built for the Terminator armour he wore. He clapped Alaric on the shoulder. “You have joined us. We are complete!”

  “This is it? This is the final battle?”

  “Of course! The sons of Russ call it the Wolftime. To the Khan’s men it is the hunting of the greatest quarry. To a Grey Knight it is the final battle against the enemy. See! There they stand, waiting to die!”

  Alaric followed Tancred’s gaze across the battlefield. The indistinct shadowy mass of the enemy stood waiting for the Emperor’s charge. Four mighty generals loomed in the background, one crowned with horns, another a wizard in billowing robes. One was a writhing snake-bodied thing, and another was a bloated heap of decay. They were mighty, and they were terrible, but they would fall. They could not stand against the Emperor and His faithful.

  “It cannot be,” said Alaric. “I have not earned this.”

  A hand took his, tiny in comparison. It belonged to Inquisitor Ligeia. She was an ageing, but handsome woman, striking in her deep blue, jewelled gown. Alaric admired her as much as he admired the Grand Masters of his own order. She smiled at him sadly.

  “Why do you deny yourself, Alaric?” she asked. “You have done so much. Who is to say you have not won your place at the Emperor’s side? Look, there is the Castigator, the daemon you destroyed on Chaeroneia.” Alaric could see the daemon titan’s form among the shadows of the enemy. “And there is Ghargatuloth, the Daemon Prince we slew together. Think on all the foes you have sent to this place. Think about those you saved. You redeemed me, Alaric. My death was not in vain, and I owe it to you. There are so many like me. Are they not worth something?” She took hold of his arm and pulled him close. “You belong here. You deserve this. Your duty is done.”

  “Is Raezazel there?” asked Alaric.

  “It matters not,” said Tancred. “He is one amongst many. He is nothing compared to others you vanquished. You are just one man, you cannot hope to banish every daemon from the universe.”

  “Those are not the words of a Grey Knight,” said Alaric. “While even one of them walks in real space, or broods in the warp, our work is not done. I will not stay here unless Raezazel is there, destroyed, among the enemy. Is he there? Can any of you see him?”

  “You disappoint me, Justicar,” said Ligeia. “I thought you would understand your role in the galaxy better than this.”

  “Those are not the words of Inquisitor Ligeia,” said Alaric. He looked up at the golden form of the Emperor towering over him. It was like staring into the sun. “And you, my Emperor! Do you see in me one who deserved his place here? One who lets his consciousness slip away from him while a daemon dances through his mind? One who is brought into the presence of the enemy and cowers away from his duty?”

  The Emperor looked down. A hundred mouths opened in his face.

  “Is this all you can do, Raezazel? Is this the best you can offer me? A sham victory against the warp? Is this what you will play, over and over again, in my mind as my reward?”

  “I am getting closer, Grey Knight,” said Raezazel. “You cannot deny that. It is only a matter of time.”

  Brother Tancred and Inquisitor Ligeia dissolved into molten gold. The battlefield was flooded with it, and it closed,
white-hot, over Alaric’s head. The primarchs and the Emperor disappeared from view. Alaric fought to breathe.

  He would not die, not yet. Raezazel still had to toy with him.

  He drew a ragged, desperate breath. His hand found something to hold on to, and he dragged himself above the surface of the golden ocean.

  A tower of frozen blood rose above him.

  Alaric laid a hand on the blood. It melted under his body heat into a handhold. Grimly, forced on by the inevitability of it, Alaric began to climb.

  Fallen fortresses rose from the ocean all around. Alaric knew, by some instinct, that each one represented a champion of the warp that Alaric had killed. They were all gone. There was just one left.

  Alaric reached the top of the blood tower. The melted blood was smeared all over him, and its smell and taste filled him up. The whole world seemed made of it. He dragged himself over the battlements.

  He forced himself to his feet. Duke Venalitor stood in front of him.

  A sword had appeared in Alaric’s hand. All he had to do was spear Venalitor through the chest, or slice his head off, or open up his abdomen and watch the life ooze out of him as he held his guts in.

  Then it would be over. Haulvarn would be avenged.

  Venalitor dissolved away. His armour, plate by plate, came away from his body and spiralled up towards the stormy sky. Finally his two-handed blade clattered to the floor and liquefied like mercury.

  There was nothing inside the armour. Venalitor, like this whole world, was a lie.

  “Did you think you would find him here? Rip him apart, and vanquish him? This is in your mind, Alaric,” said Raezazel. The daemon descended from the sky on silver wings. “Venalitor is very far away. If you try to hunt him down without me, he will stay just out of reach. You know this, Alaric. He is too strong and too clever for you. I am the only way.”

  Alaric knew it was true, and felt that truth dragging him down. He could deny it, but he knew he would be lying to himself. He wanted Venalitor dead, and he would not have what he wanted. He had been bested by Venalitor once before, and on Drakaasi Venalitor was protected by all the followers of a Chaos Lord, by a whole planet beloved of his god. With Raezazel, Alaric could kill Venalitor.

  “No,” said that tiny part of Alaric that still remembered what he was. “None of this is true. You are a daemon. You are a lie, and everything you say is a lie. There is another way.”

  “Really?” asked Raezazel. “Name it.”

  Then, Alaric realised his one chance.

  “I have read,” he said falteringly, “from the pages of the Liber Daemonicum. I have looked on the warp and felt madness touching me. I have heard the whispers of the daemon in my mind. I have seen… I have seen a dead world come back to life, a cannibal planet consuming its own to survive. I have seen good men and women murder one another at the behest of a madman. I have fought on a cursed world for the delight of the Dark Gods. I have seen so many things… so much that could not possibly be real.” He looked up at Raezazel. The daemon was beautiful, but its very substance was deceit. “I am not a Grey Knight. How could one such as I see what I have seen and keep my mind?”

  With the last of his mental discipline, Alaric took in everything that he had seen: bodies torn by daemon’s hands, glimpses of the warp, the hateful realm of Chaos on the other side of reality, heroes driven to madness and evil, whole planets devoured, and the psychic aftertaste of millions of screaming deaths.

  It added up to an absolute certainty that the galaxy of man was doomed, and that Chaos was the inevitable state of all things.

  “I am the hammer,” said Alaric. “I am the mail about His fist! I am the spear in His hand! Though we are lost, I am the shield on His arm, I am the flight of his arrows!”

  Too late, Raezazel realised what Alaric was doing. With Alaric’s psychic shield still protecting him, there was no way that the horror of such things could affect Alaric as they would a normal man. However, with the Collar of Khorne removing that shield, Alaric’s mind was vulnerable, not just to creatures like Raezazel, but to Alaric himself.

  He had something to hold on to. He was the Hammer, he was a Grey Knight. He grasped that idea and clutched it to both his hearts. It was all he would have left. It had to count.

  “I am the hammer! I am the sword! I am the shield! I am a soldier of the battle at the end of time!”

  Alaric let all the horror hit him at once: everything he had seen, everything he had done, the friends he had lost, and the lives he had taken.

  “No!” yelled Raezazel with the voices of a hundred mouths.

  Alaric lost his mind.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Venalitor’s strategic chamber on board the Hecatomb suited the workings of war. The strategium table dominated the room, a map of Drakaasi picked out in ivory and gold on its surface. The rest of the room was in darkness, so that Venalitor could concentrate on the matter of his campaign against Arguthrax. Venalitor wore the robes of a priest of Khorne, and his sword was propped up against the table. The two-hander never left his side.

  “The daemon will be dealt with in due time,” said Venalitor impatiently. “Just tell me the latest casualties.”

  The scaephylyd slave master held a scroll in its forelimbs. It unrolled the scroll with its mandibles. “The Hand has struck back,” it said.

  “The leaders of the Army of Crimson Hate were slain in the night.”

  “We didn’t get all of the Hand?” asked Venalitor irritably. “Damnation. They really are vermin.” Markers representing his forces, and those of Arguthrax, were arranged around the map like pieces in some game of strategy. “Can the Crimson Hate still fight?”

  “They are squabbling amongst themselves,” replied the slavemaster. “To decide who will be their new generals.”

  Venalitor reached over and picked up the marker representing the Army of the Crimson Hate. He could ill-afford to lose them, especially considering the sacrifices he had made to acquire their loyalty. He threw the jewelled marker across the room. It bounced off an obsidian column, and skittered behind a shrine to Khorne in his aspect of the Red Knight.

  “Others?” asked Venalitor.

  “Arguthrax has hit the sleepers,” continued the slavemaster. “Our agent in the Wild Hunt of Tiresia was murdered but an hour ago.”

  “How did Arguthrax find him?” snapped Venalitor, in disbelief. His spy in Tiresia’s court was so subtle and cunning that he didn’t even have a name, just a face so bland it left no mark in the memory.

  “We know not,” said the slavemaster. “Also the tactician in Scathach’s army, who was in our employ, was discovered and denounced. Scathach executed him.”

  “Hmm. That is less of a surprise. War Master Thorgellin was less subtle in his methods. At least there was a proper execution. That would have been something to see, Scathach has quite an imagination. What progress have we made?”

  “The campaign against the Tribe of the Fifth Eye is a success,” said the slavemaster. “The Disciples of Murder have pushed them back to the ocean. The final push has commenced.”

  “Good, and what of Arguthrax’s sleepers?”

  “They are well-hidden. My scaephylyds are hunting them down. Many scaephylyds have been found to be suspicious, and have been liquidated, but there are no confirmed spies among us.”

  “Your kind were a good choice to serve me,” said Venalitor. “Without me, you would have been exterminated sooner or later. It is difficult to corrupt those who owe their existence to their master.”

  “Indeed, it is so,” said the slavemaster, but there was no indication in its cultured Imperial Gothic of whether it took this as an insult or not.

  Venalitor sat back in his throne, a black stone echo of the fabled Skull Throne upon which Khorne sat while observing all the murders committed in his name. Khorne would know how to deal with an enemy like Arguthrax.

  Venalitor could not claim to know the mind of his god. Nevertheless, it was certain that, presented with a
problem like Arguthrax, Khorne would show no mercy.

  “Bring them all out of the woodwork: everything that has ever paid fealty to us, every oath that was sworn. Examine the rolls for every supplication and tribute. How many creatures on this planet have offered their loyalty to me out of convenience, trusting their cunning or power to avoid their obligations? Show them they were wrong.” Venalitor stood up. “Use the Army of Crimson Hate to enforce this in the open. Use the rest of our sleepers to do so in the shadows. I can always get more followers.”

  “It will leave us open, my lord.”

  Venalitor looked the slavemaster in its many eyes. “Victory is given to he who will go further than the next man. Arguthrax is ancient. His connections are thousands of years old. He will not throw them away in war. I am young. I have no allies or followers that I am not ready to expend. If I am the only one who is left, if everyone who has ever knelt before me is dead, then I will still have won if Arguthrax has lost. That is my advantage over him. Make it so, slavemaster, and do not rest until every obligation has been called in.”

  The slavemaster, bowed again, rolled up the scroll, and left the chambers.

  Venalitor sat back down and looked at the map in front of him. He moved the markers around, each one a finely wrought statue of a daemon, or a warrior of Chaos. Some of them were spies, elite agents hidden in the courts of other lords, who in spite of their immense value were not above being used as foot soldiers in the war. Others were hapless cults created to be sacrificed, drooling madmen competing for the right to die for their master. They all had their uses.

  There was one piece that Venalitor could not move around at will. It was a tiny obsidian dragon with eyes of amber. It represented Lord Ebondrake, watching over Drakaasi from his palace in Vel’Skan.

  Ebondrake was still the ultimate power on Drakaasi. He had expressly forbidden the war between Venalitor and Arguthrax. The truth was, even if Ebondrake would never admit it, that taking on both Venalitor and Arguthrax could be beyond even Ebondrake and his Ophidian Guard. That was how delicate the balance of power on Drakaasi could be.