Extremus Fors Chapter 10
"Remember, you must present yourself as an asset, one they need. Use allure and guile, insinuate yourself into their culture, so you can rise within it," droned the lecture.
"I know," Rebre retorted with exasperation.
"Don't think it will be so easy girl," the voice retorted, "You are no match for them physically, you must be cunning. Observe, learn and use their mythos to your advantage."
"I can do this, I've done it many times before," Rebre snapped.
It was true, the sorceress' memories were coming back to her. There were still vast gaps in her understanding, she had no idea how she came to be on this world, but she knew who she was and what she could do. For nearly a day she'd been left in her prison, abandoned to fret over her fate. More fool them, all the barbarians had done was give her time to recollect her wits and test the extent of her powers. Rebre was once more in command of her faculties, ready to begin her labours.
A muffled growl from the chest made her smile coldly. With a little help from the mirror she had cast potent wards over the noxious sword. Glamours of insignificance and perception filters to hide it in obscurity. It wouldn't pass before anyone versed in sorcery, but to the casual eye the chest and its contents would seem entirely uninteresting. Even if someone broke in to thieve their eyes would slide off the chest like boots on ice. Rebre could move freely, sure the sword was safe.
Once more the voice spoke, "Time is not your ally, already hostile forces move against you. You must claim these degenerates for your cause, make them love you, make them wiling to die for you. Only then can you dream of departing."
"I understand," Rebre replied.
"You better, someone's coming."
Rebre looked to the door, just as it was pulled aside. Revealed within was the young woman, Millic, swaying slightly on her piston legs. She looked excited, as if bearing important news and her eyes sparkled. Rebre saw the flush of her skin and the pulsing of adrenaline in her system and decided to make a start. Before the woman could say a word Rebre stirred her fingers in a mystic pattern, causing pheromones to extrude from the air. Addictive hallucinogens that would befuddle the mind and make those who breathe them susceptible to suggestion.
"Big news!" Millic cried without preamble, "Raiding party is coming in, chief Lugdac is home!"
"Excellent," Rebre said calmly, "Take me to him,"
"Nah," Millic sniffed as her face flushed, "Gotta… gotta… keep you here… in case he… wants to chop you up… for…"
"You would make your lord come and go like a servant?" Rebre spake, "Surely a great leader like he has people come to him, not the other way around."
"I…" Millic murmured as she shook her head, "I… can't."
"You will take me to him," Rebre breathed as she increased the mix in the air, "You will be rewarded for your initiative."
"Yeah," Millic blinked, "Yeah, makes sense. Come on you, gotta see the big chief."
With a wave of her hand Millic ushered Rebre out of the room. The Sorceress moved slowly, head held high. She cast an imperious visage, despite her rough attire, graceful and commanding. No magic was required for this, merely a deep understanding of human psychology. Authority was a mostly non-verbal condition, conveyed with body language, inflexion, expression and timing. With a look a true leader could make the mighty humble themselves, asserting their right to order about those who could beat them down with one hand. Rebre was a master of such mannerisms, and were any to see her they would perceive a queen walking with her escort, not a prisoner and guard.
Millic lead Rebre down a cold dark corridor, notably absent of guards the Sorceress noted sourly. Her breath steamed in the air as soon as she left the warmth of her room and there was a faint smell of mildew in the air, which she suspected was from wherever they cooked the algae meal she had eaten. Down a flight of black steps they proceeded, then out a rough-hewn door, into a vast cavern. Rebre nearly missed a step as the view opened up, the bottom of a long crevice with scores of stone dwellings dotted randomly about. She cast her eyes over the settlement and saw buildings large and small, some long as a factorum, others barely big enough for two people to lay down in. They looked to be made from piled up from rocks, haphazardly stacked in the most primitive fashion and none with more than a single story. The settlement was flanked by sheer ice walls, rising to a roof formed of frozen ice, cutting off the sky above but glimmering faintly with diluted daylight.
She glanced back over her shoulder and saw the building they were leaving was set in the centre of the camp, and grander than any other, with soaring black walls and hundreds of open doors carved into the surface. A faded symbol was carved into its frontage, a skull set inside a cogwheel, with lightning bolts flaring out from the spokes. A variant of the Tech-Priest icon, a passing memory told her, making this some sort of abandoned Forge-fane. The icon was faded and worn, very old, far older than the collection of huts that made up the settlement. Perhaps these people were descended from the inhabitants of the derelict Forge-fane, or perhaps they had merely stumbled across it, either way their knowledge had faded greatly.
Rebre saw hundreds of people milling about, lounging before open doors or tending to cooking pots. Bright colours were splashed over their jerkins, predominantly yellow and many had hair dyed the same colour, formed into spikes with fatty gels. They wore rough furs and leathers, all dyed with greasy tallows rendered from blubber, everything they owned was formed from the most primitive materials, yet there was not a one among them who did not bear some form of Augmetic implant. Piston legs, staring ocular lens, gland-stim injectors, embedded rebreathers or guns where hands should be. That such folk as made the rough huts could fashion technomantic replacements seemed impossible, but they clearly had. Their degeneration of knowledge had clearly been uneven and patchy, someone in this rabble retained a vestigial understanding of technology.
Millic strode into the bizarre camp as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Rebre followed, drawing many stares, a lot of them hungry. She refused to show nervousness, keeping her head high but twitched her fingers, casting glamours to throw webs over their eyes. They saw her as a powerful and alluring figure, one to be respected and admired. The spell managed to keep any of them from getting ideas of eating her, but sadly drew another sort of attention.
Into their path stepped a wiry man. He was thin as if starving, but his muscles were fed by stim-injectors stapled to his back. One eye was a staring augmetic and the right arm was a nothing but a metal lever, tipped with a stubba gun. His teeth were entirely missing but he licked his lips and said, "I'll trade you an adrenal gland for that one."
"Shove off Klagga," Millic spat, "She's not for eating."
"Dun wanna keep her," Klagga hissed, "Just wanna borrow her. Three adrenal glands for one night , that's fair."
"Where scum like you get an adrenal gland?!" Millic scoffed.
"Claimed 'em on that last raid into Firewaste clan turf, my kill-claim, as is proper. Kept 'em in ice, nice and fresh."
Millic however spat onto the icey ground and snarled, "Get lost."
"Why you little bitch!" Klagga spat as his gun arm came up.
He was halted by a burly arm grabbing the limb, fat fingers wrapped around the thin attachments. It was connected to a bulky man, with obscenely swollen muscles. Tubes bored through his skin, feeding steroids into his bulk from pulsing bladders set on his shoulders. Big and strong, but his eyes gleamed with intelligence and through an iron jaw he growled, "You causing trouble Klagga?"
The wiry one swallowed and said, "Nah, Goresh, just bartering."
"Go away," Goresh rumbled, "Now."
Klagga didn't waste a second to prise his arm free and scurry off. Goresh cast his gaze over the crowd and everyone hastily averted their eyes, returning to whatever tasks they were busy with. Rebre recognised a leader among the clan, one with authority. Yet Millic stood proud before him, as if equals. Not the warlord then, probably one of his enforcers. A trusted strongman, to impress the ruler's will over the followers. Not her goal, but a useful stepping stone.
Rebre focused her spells upon this one and purred, "I thank you, you saved me."
"Nothing to it, gotta keep the scum in line," Goresh snorted, "Lazar knows they get ideas the second you turn your eyes from them. Question is, what's she doing out of her room?"
"Big chief Lugdac will want to speak to her!" Millic exclaimed as if it were her idea.
"He won't like this," Goresh rumbled.
But Rebre soaked the air around him with pheromones as she crooned, "Surely the great Lugdac will not want to be kept waiting. He will want to be informed of my arrival."
Gorash blinked slowly as he breathed in the stimulants then said, "Lets… get some grub and talk about it."
He marched over to a hut, where a scraggly woman was stirring a cookpot. The plasteel cauldron was being heated over a geothermal vent, hot enough to beat back the chill in the air. Rebre noted dozens of such vents dotted around the camp, accounting for the random scattering of huts and determined this settlement was built to take advantage of the natural heat-source. The Forge-fane was merely an added bonus, the warmth and protection from the elements were what made this camp valuable.
"Food now," Goresh ordered.
"Course," the woman exclaimed grabbing a ceramic bowl, "Anything for Lugdac, Lazar smile upon his worthiness."
Goresh grabbed the bowl and downed a portion then handed it over. More algae Rebre noted, but she took a swallow then passed it on. Millic finished it all then wiped the back of her hand and asked, "Chief grab any good stuff?"
"Raided the Nightsider clan," Goresh sniffed, "Got some Old Tech, or so he sent. Slagged a few of the runts and got away clean, so meats back on the menu."
"Any sign of the Undying?" Millic probed with a treble in her voice.
"Not today," Goresh affirmed.
Millic sighed in relief, "Thanks be to Lazar, last time we ran into them a dozen of our best got killed, and they took off with as many youngsters."
Rebre was lost by that and asked, "Who is Lazar?"
"You don't know?"Goresh hissed suspiciously.
Rebre hastily redoubled her spells and said, "I am stranger in these lands, tell me of your god."
Millic's speech was becoming stilted on the rush of pheromones but said as if reciting a childhood tale, "Lazar is the lord of Cold Steel, the maker and provider. He hid the Old Tech at the beginning time, when the sun shone bright. He carved out the underworld in the time of nightfall… He looks down upon the Clans of Sinew and Steel and smiles. He warms the heart of the world so we can live… he protects us from the Undying."
"One day he's gonna send the Star Queen to lead us back to the sun," Goresh said, his tongue loosened by the pheromones in the air, "Till then we abide, growing strong on his gifts of Old Tech."
Rebre smiled coldly at their primitive myths, seeing opportunity unfold. Here was something she could use. Yet it was then that a great clamour arose from the far side of the camp. All heads turned to look and Rebre saw a tall wall surrounding the camp, made from sheet metal and piled stone. Atop that wall warriors were punching the air, cheering at something beyond. All Rebre could see from her point of view was a glacial roof, an icy span forming the sky above, but she guessed the clansmen were cheering their returning lord. This Lugdac had returned home, and Rebre was eager to greet him. She was already preparing the spells she would use to ensnare his mind, ready to capture his will within a web of pride and ambition.
Rebre would soon be taking the next step on her journey, but little did she realise that her efforts were detected. Far away from the camp and high above another smelt warpcraft on the wind and grinned. On the surface of Lujan Minoris, a thousand leagues distant, a warrior paused, scenting the trace with eager hunger. A pale face was split by mirth and long fingers wrapped around the hilt of a Charnabel sabre as the prey was flushed from hiding. His quarry had revealed her location at last and after a journey of a hundred years, or a week depending on where one stood, his prize was at last within reach.
Jubila, warlord of the IIIrd Legion, beloved of Slaanesh and blood-vassal of the Daemon-Primarch Fulgrim laughed into the howling wind, "Rebre, I have found you at last!"
