Speculum Enigmate Chapter 29
The sound of fighting rang in the slums, explosions and screams echoing down the narrow alleys and dank alcoves. It sounded in the ears of pickpockets and thieves, it smothered whore's entreaties and drowned out the secretive muttering of burly men with scarred knuckles. None could hear and not know that war had come. Yet here there was no panic, perhaps the only place in the city that could say such a thing. The reviled and downtrodden criminal-caste had long been accustomed to the worst, it was a daily occurrence for them. So instead of fleeing they merely gathered together and pulled out a surprising amount of small arms.
In a dilapidated hovel, Manaar watched a meeting between the Righteous Man and Inquisitor Vevara. The retinue had made a swift exit after leaving the undercity, abandoning the Space Marines as they sought more important objectives. Manaar knew this criminal had many contacts and secret ways, means the Inquisitor could use.
"Is it done?" Vevara asked.
"The whelp was smuggled into the Jade Citadel without comment," Fysk replied with a smug tone.
"Impressive," Lumix remarked, "The Fortress is on lockdown."
Fysk smiled coldly as he boasted, "Not to me, I see many things the snobs try to hide."
Vevara didn't feed his ego but stated, "That part of the mission is complete, next I need your guns."
"Hold on," Fysk protested, "I never signed up to fight your war."
"You have no choice," Manaar countered, "War is coming, whether you will it or not."
Fysk crossed his arms as he said, "We can handle whatever comes our way. This is our patch and we will defend it."
Vevara shook her head and argued, "Not against what's coming. There is far more at play than you know. The taint of the alien lies upon Pascum, this is a Xenos infestation."
Fysk didn't sound impressed as he retorted, "This slum may be a squalid hole, but it's our squalid hole. Anybody who sticks their noses in uninvited will be shot, alien or otherwise."
Manaar sighed at his foolish intransigence but Eirk lifted a finger and said, "Hear that? Earthshaker batteries at work. Their ordnance will rip this neighbourhood apart like cardboard. When they turn the big guns on this place you won't even see the men who kill you. They can level this district from miles away."
Fysk looked doubtful but he asked, "And how is it better to go haring off with you?"
Vevara stated, "It's the best chance you have. Amassing our forces may be the only chance we have to turn this around."
"Statically speaking she is correct," Lumix asserted, "The probability of survival on your own is less than one point seven three percent."
Fysk grimaced as he hissed, "To think we have to fight alongside snobs like the Genic Council."
"No," Manaar corrected, "This Genic council is the root of the infestation. Their domes have been burned to the ground."
Fsyk's face broke out into a grin as he crowed, "You should have opened with that. Saw the fires but didn't know what started them. So, that old fishwife Tyvis is disgraced… that means there's a power vacuum. Looks like it time for a new man to rise. You've convinced me, I'll gather my best lads and bring out what guns we have."
Manaar was disappointed by the man's base greed, his first thought being to grab more power for himself, yet they needed him. The Inquisitor's retinue could not fight off the spawn of the Great Devourer alone. Manaar also had to find his prey, he was starting to doubt he would ever get within arm's reach of his objective ever again. Like it or not he needed Fysk and not just for his guns. Manaar sidled up to Fysk and leaned in to ask, "Did you recover my item?"
Fysk frowned as he replied, "Your fancy box? Yes, I got it out."
"And my other requests?" Manaar inquired.
Fysk nodded as he said, "It's all waiting for you upstairs."
Manaar turned to the Inquisitor and declared, "I must prepare."
Vevara shrugged, "Do what you must but be quick; we shall have to move soon."
Manaar needed no more prompting to depart. He climbed a rickety staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He was eager, his heart pumping in his chest in anticipation. Behind sealed doors in his mind emotions were stirring, dark and violent impulses growing more intense as the knowledge that soon they would be freed filled him. Soon he would shed his hesitant and doubting identity and would adopt a more violent persona.
He reached the top of the stairs and opened a drab door to find a bare room, bereft of furniture or adornments. The wooden floor was unvarnished and a small window let in a beam of red light. There were two items of import in the room, the first being his chest, smuggled out of the Jade Citadel and brought to this location. The other was a small Mon-Keigh boy, shaven-headed and nervous. He was gripping a small white bird in his hands, its head jerking about as it looked for danger.
Manaar stepped within and closed the door as he said, "Stand still and say nothing." The boy nodded but he had already turned to the chest and began running his hands over the top as he brushed it with his mind. The psychoreactive wraithbone responded to his mental impulses and slid back, revealing the contents. Inside was a suit of red armour, laden with wraithbone conduits, armaments and the bulky form of a Warp-jump pack. It was his Aspect armour and the time had come to don it. Koshano had told him he would know when the moment was right and Manaar knew this was that moment; the certainty filled him head to toe.
Manaar did not simply grab his armour; there were rituals and sacred practices to be observed first. He reached within and collected a paint pot and a coarse brush, a selection of body-inks, a small knife and four fat candles. He laid these out in the proscribed fashion then took up the brush and dipped it in red paint. The first thing he did was draw a wide circle upon the floor, perfect in form and unmarred by a shaking hand. This was important; Manaar had to be committed to the moment, if he accepted imperfection in even the smallest detail then the entire ritual would fail.
The circle complete Manaar knelt at the cardinal points and drew runes of the dead gods. To the north he drew the rune of Asuryan, to honour the supremacy of the Eldar race and he intoned in his races' ancient tongue, "With this mark, I pledge that the Eldar shall never fall." To the south he drew the rune of Kurnous, to invoke the spirit of the hunt and he recited, "With this mark, I vow to never relent while my quarry yet abides." To the west he drew the rune of Isha, to pay respects to the living and he pronounced, "With this mark, I swear to fight for the generations yet to be born." Finally to the east he drew the rune of Morai-heg, to venerate the lost and he declared, "With this mark, I make my oath to kill for the generations departed."
Manaar stepped back from the circle and felt the locks in his psyche turning, releasing wisps of the darkness in his spirit, but he was not done yet. Manaar set a fat candle by each rune and lit them, filling the room with scented smoke. Then he reached within the chest and drew forth his armour. A red bodysuit, perfectly contoured to his form. Then ablative plates of carapace armour and his vambraces, from which protruded a pair of phase-blades. He laid these out around the circle with mathematical precision. Then he took up a bulkier item: an armature bearing a pair of death spinners, along with a neural-interface so he could control it like his own arms. This was followed by the bulk of his warp-jump pack and finally his helmet. His hands tingled as he held it, knowing it to be far more than a helm, it was his war-mask and when he donned it his soul would be complete.
Yearning to complete the ritual Manaar hurriedly stripped off his attire, leaving him naked in the room. He collected the body-inks and stepped into the circle and knelt with his eyes closed. He breathed deeply of the smoky incense and felt his soul gripped by wicked emotions, the urge to kill and slay seeping from behind his mental barriers. He was no longer the Manaar who had entered the room; he was a more purposeful and determined being, shorn of doubt and hesitation.
Manaar waved the boy closer and took up his knife. The child stood outside the circle and held out the bird. Manaar reached up with his knife and cut away a handful of feathers. The bird squawked and flapped at the slight pain but Manaar gripped the feathers like a brush and dipped them into the inks. He used the feathers to begin painting icons of battle onto himself, a record of the wars he had fought in and a perfect record of the lives he had taken. Stroke by stroke his life was laid out upon his skin. As he did this he began to sing an ancient lament of his people. He sang of loss and woe, of the fall of worlds and the forgetting of wonders. He sang of the destruction of the Eldar empire and the birth of their eternal enemy. He sang of his people's pain and anguish, feeling the torment grip his soul as he experienced the despair of an entire species. Yet in the darkness there was hope, for he sang of the coming of Asurmen and the first Aspect Warriors, the creation of the Pheonix Lords and the salvation found in the Paths.
Manaar's soul was aflame, torn by grief but buoyed up by hope. His mental doors were opening, filling him with the most extreme sensations he was capable of experiencing. This was why Aspect Warriors were treated with caution, for he was no longer hiding his emotions and obsessions, he was embracing them. Manaar at this moment was as dangerous and unbalanced as the ancient Eldar had been before their fall. All that remained was to channel this feeling into purposeful action.
Manaar reached out and took up his bodysuit, drawing it over his limbs with sure and certain movements. Then he fitted the outer plates, each piece slotting home with steady clicks. He tested his phase-blades with squeezes of his hands, the deadly implements sliding from his wrists over the backs of his hands like a feline exposing its claws. The armature was a more difficult prospect but he fitted it with practised hands, the deathspinners hanging from his torso like he had four arms. He swung these about with neural impulses, wraithbone filaments responding to his thoughts like they were a part of him. Finally he shrugged the warp-jump pack over his shoulders, its weight settling over his back as the connections drew together and bonded to him.
One thing remained, his helm, and he took this up with one hand. He gazed into the eyesockets and knew he was committing himself to a perilous course of action, setting his feet on a road filled with danger and temptation. One slip and he would die or worse this feeling could consume him, trapping him forever in this Path. The risk of becoming an Exarch was a danger every Aspect Warrior danced with daily, for there was no more extreme an experience than battle. Yet Manaar did not quail, his heart beat with eagerness for the violence he would unleash, relishing the thought of the bloodshed to come. But first he must seal the deed by taking an innocent life.
Manaar's arm flashed and the tip of his phase-blade found the Mon-Keigh child's throat, tearing jugular veins open. The child didn't even have time to scream as he collapsed, gore fountaining high and painting the circle with rich warm blood. The Manaar who entered the room would have been shamed by the deed, torn with doubt and self-recrimination but the Warp Spider had risen to dominance and he revelled in the murder rush.
This was the secret of Furta-Rith, hidden from all others, even the Phoenix Lords. The Craftworld was dedicated to the preservation of the ancient civilisation of the Eldar as it was before the Fall. The pinnacles of art and culture and philosophy had been taken from their homeworlds before they burned but so too had they brought a darkness with them. A cruelty and sadism that festered in their hearts. Such a corruption could not be allowed free reign, lest they become as the Dark Kin of Commorragh, but it must be honoured in some fashion nonetheless. On the Craftworld pens of lesser races were maintained in secret by the Aspect Warriors, stored like the cattle they were, for the benefit of a higher species. Every time an Aspect Warrior of Furta-Rith donned his armour he or she did so with an act of murder. This was why those who left the Path of the Warrior would never speak of their experiences, a shameful memory they sought to bury behind the rigid disciplines of new Paths.
Manaar reached out and dipped a clean feather into the spreading blood and then with hot vitae he drew the Rune of Kaela Mensha Khaine onto his face, the Bloody Handed God of War, and declared, "With this mark I vow I shall make a masterpiece of war. My blades are my brush and my enemy's bodies shall be my canvas. The suffering of my foes shall be my opus and their tears the crescendo in my art of murder."
The ritual complete Manaar fitted his helmet and the being that looked out from within was not the same. He was a violent and driven killer, taking pleasure in the destruction of his foes and the deaths of the enemy. All his former aspects were buried in a tide of vicious emotions, his commitment to the Path of the Warrior total and complete. Manaar the artist and pilot was gone, only the Warp Spider remained.
The Warp Spider knew why he was here, the memories of his weak and hesitant self were available but they lacked vigour and texture. Like the difference between reading of a storm and actually being caught in one, feeling the wind and the rain on one's face. The Warp Spider persona picked out situational details, names of enemy's and allies, like a meteorologist studying cloud formations. The other Manaar had not known how to reach his target and destroy it but the Warp Spider knew it was fated. He would draw out his prey and kill it, he owned no doubt that he would complete his mission. The way was clear and certain; he was the predator in the moment of the pounce.
Filled with steady confidence the new Manaar stood up and stepped over the cooling body of his victim without a glance backwards as he stalked to the door. His prey awaited and he would see it dead, no matter the cost.
