Ahriman: Exile (18 page)

It was not as he remembered it, as if the silence and darkness had slid a mask over the past. He remembered the screaming, the statues on the lower tiers looking down as the pyre grew, their carved skin blackening with soot. The fireglow had danced shadows across the walls. Smoke had spiralled up, underlit by fire, grey stained to orange and red.

The scars were still there, though. Lengths of chain and crude iron frames still hung from the higher tiers, the metal twisted by heat. The astropaths had screamed, even as fire filled their lungs they had screamed.

He looked down to the heat-cracked floor. It had been a mosaic of crystal and polished stone. At its centre a great eye had looked up at the astropaths when they gathered on the terraces. Images of saints and symbols had spiralled out from the eye to the chamber’s edge. Now the pattern was gone, the tiles melted and fused into an iridescent swirl of colour. At the edge of the floor he could see a face, its features still recognisable. A laurel circled its brow and it looked up at Ahriman with a serene expression at odds with its scorched surroundings.

He felt Astraeos approach. Caution and uncertainty layered the Librarian’s thoughts and questions bled from cracks in his armoured mind. But there was something else besides the unusual hesitancy.

He is changing,
thought Ahriman.
I am changing him. I am making him what I need: a pupil, an ally to stand by me when I have none. Does he know what I do, does he realise where it might lead?

‘What now?’ asked Astraeos.

‘Send Thidias and Kadin to guard the passage back to the gunship,’ said Ahriman. Distortion ran through his words. He could feel the wild surge of the warp churn just out of sight. It was responding to them, responding to the light of their minds and the dance of their thoughts.

‘Guard? There is nothing here.’ Astraeos gestured at the shadows clustering at the corners of the choral chamber.

Ahriman was silent as he walked to the remaining dark metal chests. He unlocked the lid of the first. Inside, a bronze bowl the size of a storm shield gleamed in the dim light. Circles and symbols spiralled from its centre to its rim. Ahriman lifted it out, his eyes reading the symbolic layers of the pattern. He had instructed Astraeos in some of what they needed to do, but he had never told him the entirety, he had never said it aloud. Astraeos had not asked, but the question and his doubts had boiled at the edge of his thoughts for days.

‘I thought we came here so that you could get answers,’ said Astraeos from behind him.

‘That is why we are here,’ said Ahriman, and turned towards the centre of the chamber.

‘But why here? The warp is close here. I can feel it as you can. This is not an auspicious place. This is a wound.’

Ahriman walked to the centre of the crazed floor and looked up, judging his relative position to the walls with a glance. With a careful flick of his hands Ahriman let the bowl go. It hung in the gravity-starved space, spinning around its centre, gleaming. At the chamber’s door Thidias and Kadin waited, listening. Ahriman let his thought glide out until it touched Astraeos’s mind.

+You know, Astraeos, you know why we are here,+ he sent. Astraeos flinched, but replied.

+You intend to perform a rite– +

+No.+ Ahriman’s reply severed Astraeos’s thought like a knife parting cord. He stood and looked up from the offering bowl. Astraeos had taken a step forwards, his body tensed, his hand unconsciously brushing his sword hilt. Thidias and Kadin were watching, deaf to the thoughts passing between the two psykers. +We are not performing a rite,+ sent Ahriman, and then paused.
Will an oath, still fresh and untested, hold him to this?
+We are here for a summoning.+

Astraeos was still, his hand resting on his sword hilt, his eyes on Ahriman.

‘Send the others to guard the passage as I ordered,’ said Ahriman, his voice crackling across the vox. He could feel emotion radiating from Astraeos, sending ripples through the aether like stones dropped into already churning water. Then the Librarian straightened.

‘As you will,’ said Astraeos, and bowed his head.

Ahriman watched as Astraeos set another bowl spinning at the edge of the chamber. Ninety-nine of them now floated in the choral chamber, spinning around their centres at different heights from the floor. Each bowl was the width of his palm, and fired from smooth black clay. Crystals of incense sat frozen in the bottom of each one. Ahriman looked around the chamber, taking in every detail as if it were fresh, comparing each object and alignment to the shape that he held in his mind’s eye. The black bowls floated in a pattern that created a multi-planed polyhedron. White candles formed a many-armed spiral across the cracked floor. Both bowls and candles formed alignments with each other, with the chamber, and with the cracks and melted patina of the floor. Ahriman had considered every value, every significance and detail. There was no accident, no chance of concordance or discordance in the design; it was the architecture of his intent made real. He looked down again to where the large bronze offering bowl spun at the centre of the design. Above it an athame held steady, the light of the glow-globes catching the silver of its blade and setting the marks etched on its surface dancing. The chamber was like the tight skin of a drum, ready to resonate to the intent and will of those within its bounds.

Slowly Ahriman touched the athame’s handle with his left hand. It began to turn, spinning with a heartbeat slowness.

+I am ready,+ sent Astraeos.

+Very well.+ Ahriman reached out to grip the athame floating above the offering bowl. +We will begin.+

X

Summoning

It was darker than Kadin had ever known. It was not that he could not see, for he could; it was that the darkness seemed to press on his eyes. Blackness hung over everything like a heavy curtain. Objects would appear in his green-washed view, sometimes so close that he could not believe that he had not seen them before. He would look ahead and see nothing, only to take another step and find a bank of machinery looming above him, or a thick vine of cabling barring his path. Several times he had looked back at objects he had passed, and seen nothing but blackness, and a fizzing hash of green static.

Long ago, on a world only he and his brothers now remembered, he had been born in the dark. They all had. In caves that no sunlight or starlight had ever seen, he had learned to read the flow of air, and sense by smell, touch, and sound. When they had come for him and raised him up to the light, he had remembered the dark. The dark was his father, and mother. So the Chaplains had taught, and Kadin had learned the mysteries behind those words. He was the darkness and the darkness was him. Except here, in the night-vision-tinted corridors of a dead station, he remembered the darkness that sometimes would bubble from the depths of his birth world. He remembered the shunned depths of caves where the beating of his heart was the only thing he could hear or feel. It had been a long time since he had remembered such things.

‘Nothing,’ he said into the vox, and heard a crackling echo of his own voice in his ear.

‘Understood,’ came Thidias’s voice, as stiff and controlled as ever even over the scratched transmission of the vox. ‘Threat signs are negative here.’

They had been patrolling the passages for close to an hour, following Astraeos’s order to guard the route back to the gunship. They moved alone, connected only by the vox and the locator icons pulsing in their retinal displays. Since they had begun Kadin had seen nothing, heard nothing, sensed nothing, but still he did not like it. Inside his helmet there was no sound other than his own breath and the buzzing whirr of his armour. The sounds should have been reassuring; he had lived with them for so long that to be out of his armour felt like the absence of a limb. But in the dark of the passages the familiar sounds felt alien, as if they belonged to someone else.

‘There is no need for this,’ he said as he turned into a wide tunnel of rivet-covered plates. There were marks from gunfire on the wall, and bolter casings on the floor, but they were as old and cold as the rest of the station. ‘There is no threat sign because there is nothing here.’

‘We are to patrol,’ replied Thidias, and Kadin could almost see him shrug. ‘Astraeos willed it of us.’

‘The sorcerer willed it,’ sneered Kadin. In front of him the passage stretched away beyond the limit of his sight. He switched to infra-vision and the corridor became a black space of perfect cold. He turned, looked down, and saw his footsteps as patches of green fading to blue. The vox clicked.

The vox clicked, but only static filled Kadin’s ear.

‘Returning to main route,’ said Thidias abruptly. Alone in the darkness Kadin shook his head.

‘Acknowledged. Proceeding on approach tunnel sweep.’ Kadin cut the vox and turned to start down the waiting passage. He stopped, his limbs and armour locked into sudden stillness.

Patches of heat dappled the passage floor in front of him, their edges bleeding to yellow and green. They led away into the cold dark of the passage he had been about to walk down. The most distant mark was already merging into the icy black. The nearest patch was bright red with fresh heat. It was right in front of him, and had a shape that was recognisable even in the blurred outline of a heat trace.

It was a footprint.

Kadin paused and then blinked his display back to bleached green.

Two eyes looked back at him from an inch in front of his face.

Kadin fired, and the flare of his bolter drowned the sight of glass-black eyes and pale skin. He stepped back, fired again. Static boiled up across his helmet’s display. Something was moving beyond the fog of distortion, something pale, with spindle limbs. He fired a burst, layering fire in a blind pattern.

His helmet display snapped back into focus, bright and clear. There was nothing in front of him. He opened a vox-channel.

A voice screamed in his ears. His fingers clenched on his bolter. He drew breath to shout.

Silence.

The passage was dark and empty in front of him. He blinked to infra-vision. Cold blackness. He looked down at his hands. The muzzle of his bolter glowed yellow-white from its recent use. He looked up.

Darkness. Complete darkness: the darkness of the caves of his human childhood. Somehow he knew that if he looked down again he would not see his weapon, even though he could still feel its weight in his hands.

There was no passage in front of him. He was alone. In his chest his hearts were beating in a forgotten rhythm.

Slowly, Kadin turned and looked behind him.

Ahriman breathed slowly as the chant rose in his mind. He was utterly still, his hands raised at his sides, palms open. His eyes were closed but he could sense Astraeos standing on the other side of the spinning offering bowl. Witch-light was fuming from their hands, pooling in their palms and arcing across their armour.

As Ahriman’s mind wove through the chants he felt Astraeos follow him, his will singing a simpler harmony. He could feel the Librarian struggle, his breath labouring and his skin prickling with sweat. Ahriman had prepared him as best he could, but this was no song made of sound and words; it was a flowing river of meaning and connection, words blended with symbols, with colours and sensations, each triggered in precise metre at the speed of thought. Both Ahriman and Astraeos were creating the chant, but it also created itself, spiralling wider with every passing instant, spinning patterns of its own. If any living thing had stood within the choral chamber they would have felt it, heard it, and seen it swimming before their eyes in broken colours. It was the music of the spheres, the primordial language of creation and destruction, the roaring fire of existence. And it was silent.

Ahriman felt the warp unfold into his mind like fire spreading through a dry forest. It flooded his sensations, overwhelming his sense of the physical. He was his flesh, the beat of his heart, the surge of his blood, but he was also the space around him, the stone walls of the chamber, and the flicker of the glow-globes. He felt the hard lines of reality soften as the laws holding the chamber together flexed in time with his pulse.

Slowly Ahriman opened his eyes. Above them the glow-globes exploded in a sphere of sparks. Opposite him Astraeos was shaking where he stood.

+Open your eyes,+ sent Ahriman. Behind the lenses of his helm Astraeos’s eyes opened. +Ready?+

Astraeos nodded once, and the strain of that movement bled across the psychic link to light stars of pain behind Ahriman’s eyes. Ahriman looked down at his right hand, flexed the fingers and extended it above the spinning bronze bowl. The blue gauntlet unlocked and peeled away from his hand, the sections pulled by telekinetic fingers. The flesh of his hand bleached white as it met the airless cold. Alarms began to ring in Ahriman’s ears. He focused on the athame in his left hand. His thoughts flattened like a mirror, reflecting the rising storm of aetheric energy with calm indifference.

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.