Twisted - Guy Haley Page 3

  Around the other fires silent figures squatted. Maloghurst searched them. ‘Where is your mistress?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Bring her back. I want to speak with her.’

  ‘You cannot. She is no more. She was consumed. Erebus destroyed her. If you want help, you must ask it of me.’

  ‘I am haunted.’

  ‘The Neverborn attach themselves to those who show promise. You are talented, but untutored. Your master gives you more power than you can safely wield. By creating the Luperci you have opened yourself to risk. The being that dogs you senses a way in through your mind. It will happen, and it will destroy you.’

  ‘You will help me,’ said Maloghurst. It was not a question.

  The boy looked up sharply, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. ‘I will? And what will the great Maloghurst do for me? You are the servant of the chosen one, but even you do not get to make demands of Tsepha.’

  Maloghurst glowered down at the boy. ‘Your life will be forfeit if you do not.’

  The boy chuckled wetly. ‘And if it is, so what? Did you not hear my previous words, noble warrior? You cannot kill me.’

  Maloghurst’s gauntlet dug into his cane. His other hand hovered over his dagger.

  The boy glanced at it. ‘A holy knife. You have learned much, but not enough.’

  ‘You will help me,’ rasped Maloghurst, ‘or I will put your undying nature to the test.’

  ‘Then you will have no help, and I will not die. Such a sad way to end a life, so full of promise, with a failed experiment. A waste of everyone’s time.’

  ‘There is a price, then?’

  The boy discarded the thighbone and poked at the fire with his unprotected hand. Fatty smoke curled off blackening flesh. He showed only fascination, and no discomfort.

  ‘We will have what we have been asking for these last months. Access to the Warmaster.’

  ‘Why should you have it?’

  ‘Because you will die if we do not.’

  ‘I am expendable,’ said Maloghurst. ‘A pawn in the game. I need a more compelling reason than my own fate.’

  ‘Damnation, then. You know that is what awaits you. Is that compelling enough? You argue disingenuously. Why are you here if you do not care for your own fate?’

  ‘I did not say that I do not care. Answer me.’

  The boy got to his feet and tilted his bloody eyes upwards. Maloghurst had no knack for telling the ages of the unenhanced. Tsepha’s host was pre-adolescent, though probably not by much. Younger than the boys recruited into the Legion, perhaps? His head came as high as Maloghurst’s belt.

  ‘We are the people of the one true faith,’ said Tsepha. ‘It was we who opened the eyes of the Warmaster to the lies of the Emperor. How foolish you must feel, now that you also see. The lies were obvious, and the truth in plain sight. All around you was the evidence of his falsehood, and you ignored it, clinging to a creed every bit as dogmatic as those you denounced. How many times were you confronted by it? And now you are converts, with the zeal of those whose eyes are uncovered. But we are servants of the gods of old. We could teach you so much more.’

  ‘I have heard this offer before, not least from the serpent Erebus. You seek influence. You seek power through access to Horus Lupercal. That I cannot allow. This war is not being waged for the advantage of the cults of Davin.’

  The boy shrugged. ‘Then you will die and burn forever, and we will have it anyway.’

  Tsepha’s blackened hand blurred, and became pallid and unharmed again but for the weeping ritual cuts incised into the skin. Tsepha held it up and gave a bloody grin.

  Maloghurst remained silent. The muttering of Davinites was curiously peaceful in the dark. There, in that metal cave, it was easy for a moment to forget exactly where he was. The whispers were absent. The presence of the millions of tonnes of the Vengeful Spirit all around him receded.

  ‘What must I do?’ he said eventually.

  The boy smiled in quiet triumph. ‘Fulfil your promise. There is a ritual that can be performed. It will armour your soul against the Neverborn. Your own power will be increased. A fair bargain, I think.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. Or you will be lost. Today?’

  Maloghurst grunted. ‘So be it.’

  ‘Then at ship’s midnight. There is a place we can use.’

  The location entered into Maloghurst’s mind. An embarkation cavity, a docking point for supply lighters a few hundred metres from their current position.

  ‘I will be there.’

  ‘I know you will,’ said the boy.

  In a circle marked carefully in blood and bone dust, Maloghurst concluded his ritual. He bowed eight times before the holy octed large upon the wall. In his hand he held a bolt shell casing on a chain. It was stoppered with black wax, sealing his own blood inside. He muttered the words that Horus himself had passed to him. The shell emitted a strange radiation not native to the material realm – when he opened his eyes, he could no longer see it. His ruined face essayed as much of a smile as it was able.

  In the circle it was completely silent. Neither the noises of the ship or the whispers of the daemon-kin troubled him within its circuit. The faint tremor of the deck plates was the only reminder that he was aboard a starship at all.

  The opening of the door broke his concentration. The flames on the black candles wavered.

  ‘Aximand,’ he said. ‘Who let you in?’

  ‘I am of the Mournival, Mal. I can go where I wish. Where have you been? Lupercal wants to see you.’

  ‘I cannot. I have matters to attend to, as you can see.’

  Aximand’s eyebrows rose on his face unevenly. His features were lopsided, and somewhat grotesque under certain conditions. Once the living image of his gene-father, his mutilation should have destroyed the likeness. Somehow, it had made him look even more like Horus. He was a caricature of a demigod.

  Both of them were twisted now, in their own way.

  ‘You are refusing a summons from Horus? You are bold,’ Aximand said. ‘Or is there something else going on in that labyrinthine mind of yours?’

  Maloghurst rounded on him. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Aximand made a face of mild surprise. ‘Perhaps not. I hear you mumbling to the gods. You are becoming as unhinged as Lorgar’s Seventeenth.’

  ‘You have witnessed the power that is mine to command.’

  ‘I have. The Luperci are impressive, Mal. But to do so much…’ Aximand looked at the trappings of Maloghurst’s ritual with a complete lack of interest. ‘We are warriors, not priests.’

  ‘I am no priest, Little Horus. The Luperci are a weapon. This is another.’ He held up the bolt shell on its chain.

  Aximand frowned. ‘There is nothing there.’

  ‘There is. I cannot see it either, but I know that it is there. The power of the warp acts more effectively than any cloaking device. You too could wield such power, if you were not so narrow-minded.’

  ‘Narrow-minded I may be, Mal, but I’m not stupid enough to disobey a direct summons from Horus.’

  Maloghurst gripped his cane. ‘Tell him I will attend him later.’

  ‘I will not. Tell him yourself.’

  ‘I am occupied, Aximand. Lupercal will understand.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little presumptuous, even for you?’

  ‘Our lord is party to everything that goes on aboard this ship, Little Horus. He will understand.’ Maloghurst took up a message tube and slipped the bolt shell into the tightly rolled parchment secreted within. He twisted on the end cap, activated the gene-seal, and held it out to Aximand. ‘Give these orders to Sergeant Gryben of the 43rd.’

  ‘I’m not your errand boy.’

  ‘You will do as I order, captain,’ Maloghurst said. ‘It is not a request. Tell him to open
it carefully, to tip out the chain within and wear it around his neck.’

  ‘I did not see anything,’ said Aximand.

  ‘That is the point. And he will not be able to see it either. You should urge him not to lose it…’

  Aximand held out his hand and took the message. ‘What did you put in here?’ he rolled the tube over. There were no marks upon it.

  ‘A guarantee of sorts. Do not concern yourself with it. Deliver it, and do it now. Tell no one.’

  ‘What are you up to, Mal?’ Aximand muttered. His curiosity was piqued.

  ‘You will see. Or maybe you will not. It is of no consequence. All that matters is that I will succeed.’

  Maloghurst stepped out of his circle. The ceaseless growl of the Vengeful Spirit rumbled in his ears, and the whispers began anew.

  Down in the lower decks, the whispers were not whispers at all, anymore. There were many wicked voices on the air, their words disconcertingly clear. The one that Maloghurst strained to hear was not among them. Knowing where your enemy is was far better than not knowing. Every voice gave him pause.

  A handful of thralls and serf menials went about their business. They looked at him sidelong, wondering why a legionary would be about in such a place so often. It was becoming easier to tell the faithful from potential traitors, for they wore their marks of devotion to the old gods, and there were more than a few whose manner betrayed their fear at the whispers. The truly faithful were perturbed, but also delighted. Only the servitors seemed unaffected, stomping about on careless feet much as they always had done.

  Little matter if they were true to the Warmaster’s cause or not. As long as they worked. Menials were materiel. No one cared for the opinions of a round of ammunition.

  Maloghurst turned onto an access way that was only lightly used. A number of the lumens set in the ceiling had blown out, others flickered at a frequency that bothered the eye. Here, the voices blended seamlessly with the rumbles and clatters of a living starship. The Vengeful Spirit had found its voice.

  A hatch hissed upwards in front of him. Colder air awaited. A sequence of seven small shuttle docks chained together by short lengths of corridor lay ahead. The rear walls of the hangars could be retracted, opening up the way to large loading doors that sealed supply routes heading deeper into the Vengeful Spirit. All were closed. There were galleries around the bays, maintenance runnels for the cranes that ran around the rooms on rails. Otherwise the hangars were featureless and utilitarian.

  Maloghurst passed through four bays on the way to his destination. Each was deserted, all but one empty of craft. The long launch tubes on two showed signs of damage. Sheets of plastek, tattered from heavy use and marred with dust, wafted in ventilation breezes.

  The door to the fifth bay opened, revealing chanting and rough music. The hangar wall was down and the bay was full of Davinites. Nearly their full complement, Maloghurst thought. Good. The coarse hair that furred their bodies was thick with symbols painted in blood. They stopped mid-motion, freezing whatever dance they had been performing into an eerie tableau vivant. All eyes turned to the Space Marine.

  Rakshel came to him. Maloghurst’s enhanced olfactory sense detected the sweet chemical signifiers of narcotics in his breath and sweat.

  ‘You came, noble warrior.’

  ‘Why would I not?’

  Rakshel shrugged. ‘You are wearing your armour.’

  ‘I always wear it. I cannot move well without it.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Rakshel. ‘We shall remove it.’

  A rough octed had been set against one wall. Beaten brass, platinum etched with writhing, patterned green copper and dull iron made up the arrows of its wheel. Stout chains and manacles hung from it.

  ‘Chaining me is not necessary,’ said Maloghurst.

  ‘Oh, but it is necessary,’ Rakshel replied.

  ‘I will not allow you to chain me.’

  ‘Your kind know no fear. Why are you frightened? Either you are chained, or you leave.’

  Maloghurst made a noise deep in his chest. ‘Very well.’

  Rakshel gestured to his fellows. They came forward with disarming tools, and clumsily stripped Maloghurst of his battleplate. The legionary drew in a ragged, hissing gasp as his respirator was removed. His breathing became laboured without it.

  The Davinites supported his enormous bulk and guided him to the octed.

  Maloghurst. Come to me.

  All in the room heard the words. The Davinites looked up at their speaking.

  ‘We must work quickly,’ said Rakshel. ‘The Neverborn is here!’

  The manacles were snapped shut hurriedly. When the Davinites were satisfied that Maloghurst was restrained, they stepped back and leered at him. Maloghurst tugged at the links uneasily.

  Warning klaxons blared. The rotating light above the left-hand loading door spun round and the door opened, its hazard striped plasteel giving way to darkness beyond.

  The born-again shaman Tsepha stepped through, the body of the boy he wore gleaming with white lime. The bloody marks of the cuts and his inhuman eyes showed through, bright crimson. He wore only a loincloth. In his hand, he bore a glassy black blade that weeped tendrils of black smoke.

  ‘You have come. You are a fool,’ gloated Tsepha. ‘Twisted, the Sons of Horus name you. Twisted by their measure, but not by mine. A race of giants, bred for war. You are no subtle blade.’

  The boy stepped in front of Maloghurst. With a quick slash, he opened a cut across the Space Marine’s scarred torso. Maloghurst bit back a shout. The wound burned like the cold of the void.

  ‘Horus has become a god. Every eye of the empyrean is turned upon his progress. The blood of one so valued by the Warmaster is a worthy sacrifice.’

  ‘He will kill you all!’ snarled Maloghurst. He tugged at his chains with sudden, impotent anger.

  From behind Tsepha, Rakshel smiled.

  ‘He will not. You are a pawn, you said. We all are. For the pawn, all power demands payment. Erebus knew this. But you would not listen. Now you will pay for your petty spells and your Luperci. Your time has come. Horus requires a steady hand to guide him. We will provide it.’

  With a bloody grin, Tsepha began a low, guttural chant. The temperature plummeted. Behind him the Davinites began their vile dance again. A slow drumbeat set their rhythm, growing faster by steady increments.

  Tsepha passed the knife before Maloghurst, jabbing downwards with it in time to his chant. Maloghurst arched his back and roared with pain at each insult. A network of cold spread across his skin, deep into his bones, a disgusting squirming accompanying it.

  ‘MALOGHURST! I COME!’ shouted the voice. And it was insubstantial no longer. This voice troubled the air, not only the soul.

  A dark shape appeared at Tsepha’s shoulder.

  ‘Take this worthy sacrifice, oh Qwiltzuk-Ikar! Part the veil of the world and step through. Assume the form and flesh of Maloghurst the Twisted!’

  The dark shape solidified, becoming a column of writhing smoke, then a vortex of shining black liquid. Suggestions of limbs appeared within, only to be snatched away by the endless rotation. Long pseudopods reached for Maloghurst’s face.

  The chained legionary began to laugh. Rakshel was amazed. Tsepha faltered.

  ‘My turn now,’ said Maloghurst. ‘I thank you for the daemon’s name.’ He began to chant, under his breath at first, then louder and louder. A fresh incantation that blended with the Davinites’ pounding drums and Tsepha’s own summoning, threatening to undo it from within. The language was hard and old.

  ‘He knows the speech of the Neverborn!’ hissed Tsepha. The boy fought back, shouting louder, before gritting his teeth. Blood ran from his eyes.

  ‘Qwiltzuk-Ikar! Qwiltzuk-Ikar! Qwiltzuk-Ikar!’ shouted Maloghurst. Ancient words raced from him, driving back the questing feelers of the manifesting
daemon.

  Qwiltzuk-Ikar turned its attention upon Tsepha. The shaman waved his knife about threateningly, howling and barking words that should issue from no human throat.

  ‘Gag him!’ screamed Rakshel, pointing at Maloghurst.

  The Davinites rushed forward. Two clamped their hands about Maloghurst’s head, but he bucked and shook them off ferociously. A third carried a spiked muzzle.

  Maloghurst paused in his incantation, his jaw worked and he spat full into the cultist’s face. The Davinite shrieked and fell back, hands clapped to his eyes. Vinegary smoke streamed from his burning face as he fell to the floor. Another approached, but Maloghurst stopped him with a glare.

  ‘No!’ screamed Rakshel.

  The last syllables of Maloghurst’s incantation slipped free of his twisted mouth.

  Tsepha fell backwards as if struck. He cowered on the deck before the column of oil.

  ‘Take him,’ ordered Maloghurst.

  ‘Yes,’ said the daemon.

  The liquid flew at Tsepha, forcing its way into his eyes, mouth, ears and nose. The possessed boy convulsed so hard that his head struck the deck and left a bloody print upon it.

  Then the stolen body exploded. Wet meat, steaming in the chill of the docking bay, slapped into the walls.

  Something took his place. Neverborn.

  Qwiltzuk-Ikar unfolded itself, a gangling monstrosity twice the height of a Space Marine. Multiple arms unfolded. Fingers tipped with blade claws flexed. It shook itself free of blood like a dog coming out of a river.

  ‘Free. I am free,’ it hissed. ‘And you are not my master.’

  ‘What have you done?’ screamed Rakshel. ‘It is without control!’

  ‘I did not intend it to be controlled,’ said Maloghurst. He yanked hard on his restraints, parting the links of the chains with contemptuous ease. He stepped free from the octed. The daemon growled, lunging forwards with half a dozen arms. Maloghurst spoke the creature’s name, spat five syllables that pained him to speak, and held up his hands.