To Annemarie, the wonderful fate-weaver and plot-maker.
Blessed by the Great Schemer and Architect you are.
May your pen never run out of ink.
The tomb-world of daemon king Kzairacht. A blasted wasteland, covered in towering mountain ranges and plunging, jagged valleys. The outside hid a gem, a masterpiece of architecture.
The Impossible Labyrinth of King Kzairacht.
Well, it was only impossible when one played by the paltry laws of physics that governed the Materium. Here, towards the centre of the Eye of Terror, such a thing as a hollow planet with a glass labyrinth inside it was a small matter.
Technomancer Xavier had at first, in his genetically engraved habit, tried to approach Kzairacht Ursh like any other Iron Warrior is wont to do: with logic.
That had not panned out so well when his servo skulls came back with scans from inside the labyrinth that implied that the planet was larger on the inside.
'Of course it is,' Xavier had muttered to himself as he recalled the anti-physics of Medrengard. As he thought of his new home, a wave of combined bitterness and hope washed through him. Perhaps there was a future for the Legion despite the horrors that they had unleashed on the populace of Olympia? No hope for redemption, not that he sought it, but a hope for a future. Perturabo still walked among them, after all.
He put on his modified mark III helmet, made to accommodate for his growing psychic power. That alone was a puzzle to him. Not many Sons of Olympia had shown that gift before the Council of Nikea. Unlike Legions such as the Thousand Sons, the Iron Warriors never held many librarians in the first place. There were rumours of what had happened to the Sons of Magnus of late, but Xavier had heard nothing solid, so he left it as unconfirmed rumours.
He stepped out of his Thunderhawk that had taken him to the surface of the planet and gathered up his squad. The relatively modern craft stood in stark contrast to the armour and weaponry of Xavier and his brethren. He, just like them, was armoured in the old mark III plate. Some parts had been replaced with the newer mark IV and V. Xavier had taken to carrying a staff of psycho-reactive material, to aid him in focusing his growing powers. It was difficult coming to terms with it, but to him it was just another problem to be solved.
Just like the orders given to him by the newly appointed Warsmith Eduard Arno. Warsmith Arno, recognising Xavier's talents, had ordered him to create daemon engines such as those seen marching by the Sons of Horus.
Black Legion, Xavier corrected himself.
But daemon engines required daemons to summon and bind, and Xavier knew the process would be easier if he held a daemon's true name. Which was how he'd come by King Kzairacht.
It had been arduous finding out the planet existed in the first place, getting to it even worse. The small escort ship that he had procured to carry him and his squad of warriors here had nearly been swatted to dust in the churning sea of the inner rings of the Eye.
But he held all the information he needed to make this endeavour successful. Luck and fate smiled on those that came well-prepared. The outcome of battles were decided long before they even started. It was not just something Xavier had picked up through his readings of treaties by both Horus Lupercal and Perturabo, but something that he knew on a deeper, more profound level.
He knew it to be true because his soul told him so. It had started to matter far more to him lately as his psychic abilities grew and he cultivated them. He had found they carried him true about as often as cold logic would. It was irritating in some ways, which was why he had opted to use tried and tested methods of information gathering to find the tomb-world.
The first thing he had tracked down, after finding out about the daemon king and his grimoire of True Names, was the location of the planet, and a map -as far as that was possible- of its interior. Xavier knew it'd be patchy and fraught with discrepancies, but it was better to have a vague idea of his goal that no idea at all.
He lead his warriors into the cave mouth they had landed their Thunderhawk by. It was far from the ideal entrance, but precious few places on the surface of Kzairacht Ursh offered decent landing space even for a modern machine as a Thunderhawk. With simple clicks of binary, he sent his three servo-skulls out ahead of himself, to scout and map ahead. He highly doubted there to be another living soul on the planet apart from him and his eight companions. They had detected nothing in orbit and no vox-chatter had been overheard during their days on the surface.
As they descended into the labyrinth, Xavier couldn't help but marvel at the sheer scale of it. He heard grumbling from his companions about angles being off and someone -he thought it was Tawreich- muttering about walking in the ceiling like a spider, but Xavier was utterly taken in by the magnificence of their surroundings, he paid no heed to their petty notions of logic. This was beauty. This was the unfettered perfection of form, free of the restraint of the basic three dimensions.
The servo-skulls, in their simplicity, took no heed to the warped dimensions inside the planet's crust either, zipping about, chattering and redrawing the map displayed inside the visor of Xavier's helmet continuously.
Descent, though slow and tedious, was safe. By Xavier's estimate, they were a few days out from the Thunderhawk when the map displayed on his visor pinged, shifted and redrew itself as a highlighted line in front of him. He smiled to himself and set the pace higher, his squad tailing him without question.
Xavier was so engrossed in being close to his goal, a goal he had spent several decades working towards and it finally bearing fruit, that he did not notice the indicator for the servo-skull that had completed the task of drawing the map to the daemon king's tomb, winked out.
Xavier and his squad entered the central hall of the Tomb of the Daemon King, a magnificent circular domed hall with a total of nine entry paths from adjoining corridors of the Labyrinth, where the walls themselves seemed to glow with an eerie blue light that seemed to come from within the striated glass walls themselves. Xavier held up his hand to slow down the squad.
They were not alone.
By the casket of the daemon King stood a small squad of Astartes, five strong. Their armour shimmered in blue and gold, eldritch fire dancing from their eyes. Xavier estimated the armour to be the more modern mark IV and V, but the helmets were wrong. Very wrong.
The leader, clad in heavy robes shimmering in silver and white, was lifting the Grimoire of True Names from the daemon king's casket. A tall staff of silver covered in glittering gemstones rested against his shoulder. Nearby lay the smouldering remains of the servo-skull that had discovered the chamber.
'Stop right there!' Xavier called, his voice echoing strangely through the thin atmosphere of the chamber. The four blue armoured Astartes raised their boltguns against the advancing Iron Warriors, yet their leader was in no hurry to turn, as he carefully picked up the large tome. He only seemed to turn to Xavier and his squad as if they were a secondary thing.
'That belongs to me,' Xavier announced. He knew his battle-brethren had raised their bolters as well. They outnumbered the small squad of blue-clad Astartes by three.
'Really now?' the leader of the squad called back, and Xavier recognised the mellifluous accent of one born of Prospero. So they were dealing with Thousand Sons? They certainly did not look like it. However, that meant that the leader was a sorceror, without doubt, as the headdress and force staff had hinted at.
'Is your name in it, Iron Warrior?' the sorceror asked, and Xavier almost heard the wry smile hidden by the other man's helmet.
'I out-number you, Thousand Son,' Xavier retorted. 'And I have you against a wall.' Which was true. The Thousand Sons had the casket of the daemon king at their backs, with Xavier's squad blocking any exit.
A hard bang! rang through the air and the helmet of the battle-brother left of Xavier exploded, showering his nearby comrades with shrapnel. Instead of letting his brothers react instinctively and counter-attack, Xavier issued a psychic impel for them to stay their hands. Fingers locked millimetres from depressing triggers.
The headless corpse of the unlucky Iron Warrior toppled to the floor almost sedately, settling with a dull thud.
'A psyker?' the sorceror asked.
'Technomancer,' Xavier replied. The sorceror had not even moved. Neither had any of the other Thousand Sons. Yet one of his brethren was dead. Psychics? No, Xavier had not felt anything direct. It had been a bolt. But mark III helmets were mostly proof to bolt shots. He needed more information.
'Of course. Trust Perturabo to give you another name to hide the truth of the matter. But a rose is a rose is a rose, as we said on Prospero. And as far as out-numbering us goes, I would consider the odds evened… technomancer.'
Xavier stood his ground.
'Hand me the grimoire, or I will release my hold on my brothers.'
'And risk destroying it?'
Xavier felt his anger flare at that. Who was this man? How powerful a witch was he?
Suddenly, one of the Astartes behind the sorceror raised his bolter and fired. Xavier instinctively ducked to the side. He saw the muzzle flash, but heard no bang.
He realised what had happened earlier with his now-dead battle-brother.
With a snarl of anger, Xavier released his hold on his brothers and backed off, telling them to retreat. Mercifully, their discipline was strong and no stray shots were fired. He was certain that would have been all the sorceror would have needed to order his companions to fire another shot with those armour piercing rounds. Xavier could not risk it.
As they backed off, Xavier saw the Thousand Sons break off too, retreating back up one of the opposite corridors of the one the Iron Warriors had entered from. Apart from the sorceror, the Thousand Sons all moved strangely stiffly.
At least he had solved the mystery of the suddenly decapitated brother-marine. The sorceror had bent time, firing in the future to cause damage in the past. Xavier had no doubt to the conclusion. They were within the reaches of the Eye. If the tomb world could be larger on the inside, why would not time be distorted and easily so?
It just meant he had to find a new way to deal with the sorceror and his squad.
Two could play at the time-twisting game.
Osis Pathoth clutched the Grimoire of Kzairacht close to his chest, leading the way for his four Rubricae. He had not brought more as he had not expected to find any one else on the planet. Scans of the orbit had shown negative. He should have known better than to trust an auspex within the reaches of the Eye of Terror, especially so close to a planet dedicated to one of the Great Schemer's own vassal kings.
The Iron Warrior sorceror was new to his powers, but Pathoth was convinced he had already worked out the little time trick. With a bit of luck -the thought made him smile- it would be a while longer until the Iron Warriors had figured out how inferno charges on bolts worked.
What he was dead certain was going to happen though, was an ambush. Yet where? Where would the Iron Warriors lay in wait for him? It was unlikely they would try to intercept him and his Rubricae inside the Labyrinth. They were fewer and had better fire power. Pathoth moved to the middle of his squad as the thought crossed his mind, sending two Rubricae up to the front.
No, that would not be tactically beneficiary for the Iron Warriors at all, despite their Mark III plate. Besides, Pathoth new of no way through the Labyrinth from the set of corridors the Iron Warriors had entered through to the one he was using. The thought occurred that they did not have a complete map, but had mapped their progression as they descended the Labyrinth. That explained the servo-skull. Not a scout, but a mapping-tool.
So, would they meet him in combat in orbit? Pathoth had arrived on board a strike cruiser, and despite the fact that he had not brought all his Rubricae with him -far from- he somehow doubted that the Iron Warriors brought more firepower in the sky than him. Their armies had been badly beaten at the Siege of Terra, the Iron Warriors limping across half the galaxy, collecting their bastions, before retreating to the Eye.
Pathoth recalled the Iron Cage incident. He had heard of it. A most delicious blow to Rogal Dorn, but the action had cost the Iron Warriors almost as bad as the Imperial Fists.
But he could not put the possibility of them outnumbering him in the void beyond all reasonable doubt, and he could not contact his strike cruiser at the time, even less could he rely on the auspex readings, as they had shown no ship in orbit. Pathoth could not risk an orbital skirmish, and he assumed neither could the Iron Warriors, with so many unknown factors.
That left only one place where they could intercept him:
Before he boarded his Thunderhawk gunship for transport into orbit. Which meant they would have to make it out of the Labyrinth ahead of him and collect their transport, skim along the edges of the planet, scan and avoid the auspices of the Thousand Son strike cruiser in orbit.
Tall order. Very tall order.
Still, Pathoth urged his Rubricae on, increasing their pacing, making them almost break into a run as they ascended through the corridors of the Labyrinth of Kzairacht Ursh.
Pathoth swore loudly to himself, though not out of surprise, when his squad emerged from the Labyrinth entrance and one of his Rubricae was reduced to slag, the keening shriek as the soul left its prison ringing in Pathoth's ears. He swore because the Iron Warriors had figured out they needed heavier weapons, and had brought them.
He wasted no time, knowing the area approach to his waiting Thunderhawk transport would be a killing field. He strengthened the kine shield around his squad as they retaliated.
The crackling bark of inferno bolts flying split the thin air of the valley and rock escarpments exploded as the bolts struck but causing no harm to the Iron Warriors hiding behind them. The opposing Astartes lived up to their reputation of siegecraft, having built simple cover quickly and expertly enough to deny Pathoth the satisfaction of an easy victory.
Another Rubricae went down as concentrated melta-fire and heavier bolts overpowered the kine shield Pathoth put up. Ordering his remaining two Rubricae to fall back and seek cover, Pathoth changed method. He sought out the bright mind of the fledgling technomancer using his third eye and sent an impulse for parlay.
He was met with a vicious, hate-filled snarl.
Pathoth tried again, this time sending the image of the grimoire as well as an impulse of violence.
A few moments later, the fire of melta and bolter abated from the kine shield.
Xavier came down from one of the escarpments, joined by a few other of his squad, amongst them one carrying an autocannon, which explained the heavier bolts hitting the kine shield.
'I could easily over-power you,' Xavier stated as he approached Pathoth.
'Yet you agree to parlay,' Pathoth retorted.
'By overwhelming you and your... whatever they are, they are not brethren no more, are they, sorceror?'
Pathoth shook his head. 'Not quite.'
'Very well, I could, but that would put the grimoire at intense risk, and we both have a stake in it surviving. You even more so, as its fate currently entwined with your own.'
'An astute observation, befitting an Olympian,' Pathoth replied.
'So, the deal will be to split the grimoire?'
Pathoth shook his head again.
'Defacing such a book is unthinkable.'
'Then what do you propose?' The question in the technomancer's voice rang of true curiosity.
Pathoth held out the Grimoire of True Names tantalisingly close to Xavier's hands.
'In exchange for my safe travel back into orbit and out of the system, you get the grimoire.'
'What prevents me from blowing you and your transport out of the sky after you've taken off?' Xavier asked, not rising to the bait but unable to point out the flaw in the logic.
Osis Pathoth flipped the grimoire over and showed the back of the cover. A silvery scarab brooch clasped itself fast there, its eyes glowing red.
'This is a psy-activated flare. One tiny command from me and the book goes up in witch-fire.'
'What reassurance can you offer me that you will not just activate it when at a safe distance?' Xavier asked, still not convinced.
'It is not booby trapped,' Pathoth explained, growing ever more exasperated at the paranoia of the technomancer. 'You are quite free to try to pry it off as soon as it is in your hands, which I have no doubt you will.'
'And you think this will keep me occupied long enough?' Now there was genuine curiosity to the voice again.
'Think of it as a puzzle box. So, yes, I do think it will keep you occupied long enough for me to get off this planet safely.'
'And if not?'
Pathoth shrugged. 'That is for the Great Schemer Himself to decide.'
Xavier frowned behind the mask of his helmet, not quite convinced by the words of the Thousand Son sorceror. Yet, he sensed no immediate danger from the scarab brooch set on the back. He felt a psychic link between it and the sorceror though, so he found it believable that it indeed was remotely activated.
What bothered him most was the sudden fatalism of the sorceror. If he was so unconcerned with his fate, then why the eager machination to get off the planet?
'Do we have a deal?'
Xavier looked the Grimoire of True Names with hunger in his eyes.
Half a century of intense search.
Warsmith Arno would be unable to deny his usefulness when he returned with this.
The 14th Grand Company would stand stronger than ever, their disgrace forgotten.
Xavier reached out and took the book from Osis Pathoth.
'Deal. Now go.'
As the thunderhawk climbed back up through the thin atmosphere of Kzairacht Ursh, Osis Pathoth allowed himself a long chuckle. He was safely out of the reach of the fledgling psyker now as was his own reach to the brooch.
Not that that would have made any difference. The scarab brooch was quite harmless, itself just a piece of jewellery part of Pathoth's own raiment. He had simply lighted up its ruby eyes with witch-fire to give it a more harmful appearance.
But the true victory was rolled up in a scroll-carrying tube by his waist. As the transport stopped bucking and started its approach to his strike cruiser, Pathoth reached down and unclasped the tube.
As he unscrewed the gilt butt of one end, he silently lamented that he would not have the chance to see the expression on the technomancer's face as he realised the pages holding the names of the most powerful daemons were gone from the grimoire.
Pathoth knocked the other end of the tube gently and a roll of ancient parchment slid out into his waiting hand. He unrolled it to have a look at the names and runes inscribed, unable to hold back the laugh growing in his throat.
'Unthinkable,' Pathoth chuckled. 'Nothing is unthinkable in the Eye, my dearest technomancer!'
Pathoth had use of these names, and had no intention to share them with an upstart Iron Warrior, especially as his intent was to thwart one of his own brethren with this. Eventually.
Yet it felt undeniably good to have taught the most suspicious of Astartes, the Iron Warriors, a lesson in true paranoia.