Bastion Wars

by Henry Zou

  ‘Overlord...’

  Opsarus turned away. ‘Leave.’

  Muhr blinked and felt his consciousness resettle in the physical plane. When he opened his eyes, he was in his tower again, surrounded by the familiar pipes and boilers of his laboratory. He rubbed his eyes blearily. As he did so, he realised he clutched something in his palm.

  He opened his hand slowly. There, cradled by the folds of his flesh, was a crystal shard.

  Chapter Twelve

  The plainsmen took Barsabbas northwards. They left the lowlands to spread out behind them, heading towards the darkening skies and the ruins of the deserted north. Soft sand gave way to a barren, rocky topography. The planet’s surface here was scoured dry.

  The great muster of kinships was spread beneath the shadow of dormant volcanoes, a range of mountains they called the Weeping Sisters. Acres of tents and shade awnings surrounded the basking silver snakes of various road trains. In the dunes north of the encampment, a kilometre-long stockade of wagons had been drawn up to protect the exposed flank. What few firearms the plainsmen possessed were there, facing the enemy. Flocks of outriders on their birds roamed there, patrolling up into the mountains themselves to crow’s-nest the region.

  They spotted Barsabbas and his convoy winding their way through the narrow mountain shoulders. A dozen riders were dispatched to meet them. Together they rode down into the encampment.

  Barsabbas counted the numbers with a cursory auspex sweep. He calculated the readout in his head, subtracting an estimation of non-combatant families and livestock signatures. The total, even with a generous estimate, would be no more than twenty thousand fighters. It was a gathering of road trains, women and children. A mass exodus, not an army.

  He had hoped for more. Twenty thousand men would amount to little more than a speed bump against a well-drilled company of Chaos Space Marines. He needed the plainsmen to occupy the enemy in order for him to infiltrate unnoticed into the deep north. But they would have to do. He would adapt.

  The road train pulled to a steaming halt. Barsabbas alighted from the road train’s cab, dark eldar in tow. Outriders had ridden in advance to bring news of his arrival. Plainsmen rose to meet him, jostling crowds in bright red shukas. They chanted his name. Children spilled from their parents’ tents, eager to claim first sight of the Red God. Women wreathed in brightly coloured neck rings peered sheepishly at him from behind drawn shades. The plainsmen braves, trotting on their predatory birds, came out to regard him with a martial suspicion. They looked like savage men, and Barsabbas understood how his Chapter came to use their ancestors as genestock. Lithe and narrow-waisted, they donned war crests of feather and hauberks of woven bark strips. He recognised the lineage of bronze skin and high cheekbones on many of his fellow brothers. Drovers, hunters, stock tenders, shamans, they all came to see him and exult in his coming.

  As they threaded through the throng, Barsabbas could see a massed ring of hand-painted caravans shaded by a large canvas awning. That would no doubt be the command centre. Its conspicuousness annoyed Barsabbas. It was a large, vulnerable and easily identifiable target. The plainsmen may have been brave, but they certainly did not know war.

  A procession of chieftains from the gathered kinships rode out to meet him. They were all elders, men with sun-creased faces, long and wizened as if etched from aged wood. Their shukas were freshly re-dyed and left traces of red pigment on their shoulders and arms. At their front, riding several paces ahead upon a black and grey talon squall, was the elder of the entire gathering. Gumede had told Barsabbas of his name, Ngokodjou. Gumede had also warned Barsabbas of his insufferable superiority.

  ‘I am Ngokodjou Akindes, the elder of elders, wisdom of the dunes to the west. You may call me Ngokodjou,’ said the elder as he drew closer. He lazily swatted a fly from his face, seemingly unimpressed by the Chaos Space Marine.

  Barsabbas did not reply. He studied the haughty chieftain. The elder of elders was a fat man, thick with meat, while those around him were gaunt and emaciated. He was tall too, and carried the arrogance that came to those who were imposingly tall and knew it. Pendant earrings hung like heavy tendrils of gold and onyx from his ears and he carried a recurve bow across his lap. Barsabbas decided he did not like the man. There was a shrewdness to his crescent eyes, an animalistic cunning that told Barsabbas he would be difficult to deal with.

  ‘I have heard of you already,’ Barsabbas replied bluntly.

  ‘My reputation precedes me wherever I go,’ said Ngokodjou, choosing to take the words as a compliment. ‘I too have heard of you. We are equals, you and I, and more similar than you would know.’

  Barsabbas snorted. The man had grown accustomed to speaking to his kin as if they were ignorant. ‘We are not the same, human. Do not speak to me like that.’

  Ngokodjou’s eyes flashed with anger. Barsabbas detected a trace of vehemence, fleeting and then gone. But the smile never wavered on Ngokodjou’s face. ‘Of course, koag.’

  In any other place, at any other time, Barsabbas would have shot him through the throat and taken his necklaces as trophies. His trigger finger twitched involuntarily. But he needed the plainsmen. They thought him to be a benevolent and godly spirit, and he needed to exploit that for now.

  As if sensing the enmity between them, Gumede stole close to Barsabbas and bowed to Ngokodjou. ‘We should bring the koag into the house of elders. Times may be hard but we must not neglect hospitality.’

  They brought him bowls of gruel. They gave him jugs of curdled caprid milk. A dancing file of children brought them dishes of dried apricots and small, tart berries.

  Barsabbas consumed only a small amount of milk to replenish his protein stores.

  Wrestlers entered the tent to perform their ritual matches. Young dancers with supple waists danced and chanted in unison.

  Barsabbas grew impatient.

  He sat awkwardly on a spread of beaded blankets, his hulking form barely contained by the low awnings. The tent was filled with clapping elders. It seemed that the arrival of a ‘Red God’ was seen as a portent of victory.

  ‘We should plan our attack,’ Barsabbas said finally.

  ‘We defend here,’ announced one of the chieftains proudly. The others agreed with him by clicking their tongues and nodding sagely.

  ‘No. We need a strategy, supplies, logistics, reports of enemy disposition, structured formations,’ Barsabbas said.

  Ngokodjou sneered at him, as if he had been waiting for those words. ‘But if you are so powerful, then why do we need to do so? With the powers of a god, surely the dead will fall,’ said Ngokodjou. It was a direct challenge.

  Barsabbas imagined choking the man’s jowls with his hands. ‘You will face more than just the dead. There will be human fighters with guns. Other threats too, warriors like me, but many times in number.’

  The tent grew very quiet. The dancers ran off in a hurry, leaving their hand chimes and tall drums.

  ‘Warriors like you?’

  ‘They follow a different path, but yes.’

  ‘Tell us what to do, koag.’

  ‘Is there disease in the camp?’

  ‘Very little,’ said one of the southern chiefs. ‘These gathered kinships are mostly from the deep southlands. When they fall ill, we tie them up.’

  ‘Tie them up?’ Barsabbas burst out with deep, bellowing laughter. ‘Why do you not just kill them?’

  ‘The families will not allow it,’ said another. ‘But before the plague takes them, we bind their hands and feet. That way, when they...’

  Barsabbas shook his head. He could not understand the strange attachments these humans seemed so adamant to cling to. Why risk infecting the entire camp, hundreds of thousands of people in close proximity, when it would be more efficient to leave the infected to die under the sun? There was no logic to it. Why leave someone infected to the care of healthy and vulnerable ki
n?

  A Chaos Space Marine would have been efficient. They would sever an arm before infection set in, and would certainly execute a comrade if sparing him meant compromising the effectiveness of the Chapter. Barsabbas was disgusted by the humans’ weakness.

  ‘We must preserve our strength. Your army is small and we cannot afford the numbers to dwindle under a plague. We will bring the fight to them. We will push north. The enemy will come, I know how they fight.’

  ‘What about our great conveyors? Or our kin?’

  ‘Take them with us,’ Barsabbas said. He did not relish their slaughter. But he needed their diversion, and twenty thousand warriors alone would not be enough, especially with plague slowly but steadily spreading through the camp. It would be a sacrifice, but a necessary one.

  There had been a time when the Cauldron Born had been many different ships. There had been a collision of abandoned ghost drifters that had welded the superstructure together by the grinding pressure of mega-tonnes. Gradually, the hulk grew larger, gathering a gravitational pull by virtue of its fattening girth.

  Drifting into the Eye of Terror – that legend-haunted region of space – the space hulk began to take form. Daemons and malevolent spirits of the Eye found a home in its cavernous catacombs. There it drifted, a shapeless wreck forced into perpetual motion, gathering size like a ghosting ball of dust.

  It was eight thousand years before Gammadin found and tamed this vessel, grafting his own flesh tissue into the drifter’s heart and binding it with Chaos witchcraft. From there, the ship grew organically, shaping itself to Gammadin’s will. Flesh cauliflowered over the skeletal metal and fused with the dormant engines. It became a living creature, long and lithe. Its daemon spirit made it receptive to the warp, a conduit of energy.

  A sacred place to open the warp to the material plane.

  It would take many days for the temple to be prepared for summoning.

  First, the temple would need to be swept and cleaned, the wards redrawn and rechecked. Teams of menial slaves climbed scaffolds, using their bare hands and feet to scale sixty metres on yielding wooden supports. The walls were scrubbed clean of psychic residue.

  Working vigorously, the slaves did not look at Muhr as he entered the chamber. They did not even dare to acknowledge him. The witch ghosted up the dais’s steps and across its marble surface. Set in the centre was a bowl filled with mandrake roots in fresh blood, drowning like swollen dolls. When the warp rift was invoked, the offering would draw daemons like a droplet of blood drew sharks. Every daemon had their own preference. Yetsugei would only answer to a summons of blood and mandrake. Even the slightest change in offerings could result in unwanted visitations.

  Muhr cupped the bowl in his hands and began to chant. He was not meant to be here and he rushed the words, almost stumbling over the syllables in his haste.

  The bowl contained three large mandrake roots, the roots resembling pudgy human limbs and torsos, sitting in a thin pool of blood from a suffering human. It was a very specific ingredient that could lure many minor warp denizens. This blood had belonged to a slave called Sufjan, or so he had been told. The slave had apparently died an insufferable sort of demise.

  Muhr finished his chant and drew the crystal shard. The tiny figure inside, like a painted doll, did not stir. Muhr dropped the gem into the bowl. It hit the surface with a guilty plop, before sinking to the bottom.

  Hiding his intentions behind an air of solemnity, Muhr descended from the platform, nodding with satisfaction.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sabtah picked his way through the armoury, shifting apart a quagmire of discarded weaponry. Kicking aside a tower shield, Captain Hazareth stood in agitation, waiting for Sabtah to speak.

  ‘What do you mean, betrayal? Hazareth asked finally.

  ‘Muhr has too much at stake to be undone by this summoning. He will do something to prevent its execution. It’s only logical,’ Sabtah replied.

  Sabtah watched Hazareth’s reaction carefully. The captain continued to make his way down the vault, pushing over another shelf of weapons as if to dispel some nervous energy. A wave of short stabbing swords and daggers spilled onto the ground. Hazareth picked through the mess thoughtfully before giving Sabtah a solemn, appraising look.

  ‘What does he stand to gain?’

  Sabtah knew the captain had a right to be curious. Feared and accursed, Hazareth was considered neutral. He supported neither Muhr, Sabtah nor the minor factions that struggled for power. Hazareth was the consummate warrior and he cared not for Chapter politics. But Sabtah trusted Hazareth. He knew that the captain valued martial capacity above all else, and Muhr’s betrayal would be a direct impediment to the combat abilities of the Chapter. This argument was the only way to get Hazareth on his side.

  ‘Muhr has always advocated a patron. First it was Abaddon, two centuries ago. Muhr had suggested to Gammadin that we pledge our allegiance to the Destroyer. Gammadin would have none of it. He has always been hungry for greater power, greater recognition.’

  Hazareth thought judiciously. ‘What is wrong with power?’

  ‘It will come at the cost of Blood Gorgon autonomy.’

  The captain nudged a pile of swords, but had clearly given up searching for anything.

  ‘It will cost us our identity,’ Sabtah continued. ‘We may not be a Legion, we may not have a dominion, but we are free. We have always been free. Alliances with any greater force would not bode well for our independence. The Death Guard, the Black Legion, the Renegades Undivided. It would all be the same.’

  Sabtah could tell Hazareth was still suspicious. ‘But why would he harm Hauts Bassiq?’asked the captain.

  ‘Because his patron wishes to claim Bassiq for himself. Muhr is simply serving a purpose, weakening us from the inside, so that his Overlord can claim the world with minimal losses. In exchange for his aid, his overlord will accept Muhr under his patronage. It is a pact, but not one that I wish this Chapter to fall under.’

  Hazareth didn’t reply. He had spotted something amongst the disorganised piles. He picked it up. ‘Is this it?’ he asked.

  He held in his hands a dagger. Its handle was polished black wood and its blade was dirty steel. Chipped and worn, the serrated blade was engraved with an arcane script. Sabtah had claimed the weapon six centuries ago from an agent of the hated Ordo Malleus. With its ordinary appearance, Sabtah had initially regarded the piece as nothing more than a trinket. It had taken some four centuries before he ascertained its true nature, and since then it had collected dust in Sabtah’s weapon vault, lost between forty-metre-high stacks of plundered weaponry.

  ‘That’s what we came here for,’ Sabtah said. He kicked his way through the vault and took hold of the knife. Rifles and lasguns scattered like dry leaves before his boots.

  ‘A fine weapon,’ Hazareth said, handing it to him.

  ‘A daemon weapon. A she-bitch,’ Sabtah said, tossing the knife from palm to palm. The haft vibrated as the daemon within became agitated.

  ‘You think you will need it at the summoning?’ Hazareth asked.

  ‘I believe Muhr will show his hand there. Yes.’

  Hazareth plucked a warhammer down from a nearby wall mount. ‘Then you have First Company’s support, Sabtah. You were Gammadin’s bond and I uphold my fealty to you.’

  Sabtah smiled. ‘If something should happen to me, Hazareth, I need you to kill Muhr. The Blood Gorgons must remain as we are and always have been. We are nothing without our history and our tradition. Don’t let Muhr change that.’

  ‘I will punish him,’ Hazareth promised.

  ‘Good.’ Sabtah drew from beneath his nail a sliver of black, no larger than a splinter. ‘This is my genecode. It will access most of the vessel’s defence systems and security scans. I am bonded to Gammadin and whatever Gammadin can access, you will be able to too.’

  Hazareth receiv
ed it in the tip of his index finger. The splinter curled like a dying earthworm before burrowing beneath his cuticle with a slight sting. ‘When will I need this?’

  ‘As long as I live, never,’ Sabtah began. He paused, his brows knitting. ‘But one day, I have no doubt you will. Keep it close and tell no one.’

  The ship’s bay sirens wailed with the passing of a new cycle. A new day.

  Deep in the temple pit, Muhr and his nine were completing the last of their monophonic liturgy. The coven surrounded the wide dais, their vox-speakers generating a constant, steady drone of plainchant. The rims of silver bowls were rubbed, letting their harmonics peal and stretch.

  The wards had been drawn by morning. A spider’s web of interlocking, overlapping polygons and flat geometry radiated outwards in mutually supporting glyph work. Several external seals, large pentagrammic stars, reinforced the initial containments and spread up into the walls with sharp, linear lines.

  Only thirty hand-picked Blood Gorgons and their slave retinues formed a circle around the pit. They each carried a black tapestry. Thirty black tapestries in all, one for each of the warriors lost on Hauts Bassiq.

  Slowly, the air grew cold. A wind began to gather as the chants climbed in rhythm. Frost settled down on them like a coarse fog. The wind boomed, thrashing against the interior.

  The chanting stopped. The wind stilled abruptly.

  Slowly, at the centre of the dais, the air began to bend and tear. It buckled.

  Wet frost was coating the dome, running in sheets down the walls and collecting in droplets across the domed ceiling. The coven of Chirurgeon-witches sounded their singing bowls with odd, polyrhythmic melodies. Haunting and drawn, they channelled the psychic focus of the coven.

  Slowly and deliberately, Sabtah stepped onto the dais. He was alert, his eyes darting, but his body was fluid and relaxed. He turned and gave the surrounding Blood Gorgons a salute, extending his power trident horizontally before him.