Book Two: Corruption's End
Chapter 75: Patience
"All that is mortal must die. The only variable is when." - Opening lines of the Book of Patience
Surety. Death.
Amat's heart thudded in his breast, and he felt a smile crawl across his face. This is what he was built for. He was not meant to protect -let alone mind- a witch. No matter if she was his only friend.
"Duulamor!" He cried again. "Where are you, xenos? We must have words!"
The Vindicare assassin stood before the gates of the Black Library once more. They were mighty, sure, but they didn't intimidate him. Not when a purpose beat clear in his breast. Not when he knew his mother's face.
His fist hammered against the gates, the sound resonating through the greeting chamber. Impossible given the size of the doors, but Amat had spent enough time in the Black Library to know what the Harlequins thought of 'impossible'.
Slowly, the statues turned to face him, their eyes blank and unseeing.
"Let's talk about your offer!" Amat cried. "Don't make me use my rifle!"
"And what makes you think that would accomplish anything?" Duulamor asked.
Amat whirled to find the Harlequin towering behind him - a pillar of black robes and a horrible smiling visage. "Greetings assassin-man," he purred. "What's going on? What's the plan?"
"Ahriman's here. Your plan failed," Amat said.
"Did it now?" Duulamor leaning down, his face mere inches from Amat's. The Assassin could could could could
Hahahahahahahawhatdoyouknowhuman
smell his breath and it smelled like mother's perfume hahahahahaha
"Pray tell… how?" Duulamor asked.
"Enough games," Amat said, asserting control of this thoughts. He ran through the Book of Patience in his head, its verses giving him strength. "These next few minutes could decide the fate of the galaxy, so I'd appreciate it if you dropped your gimmicks."
The Harlequin did not budge. "Gimmicks?" He asked. "Such a crick, that word. So cruel of you to liken them to petty tricks." His neck distorted, loud pops sounding out through the entrance hall. "Very well, state your piece."
"Your offer," Amat began. He looked into the Harlequin's black eyes and he saw nothing but a yawning abyss, a pit for drowning children while the elders laughed and laughed and laughed. "I know you never meant for me to accept."
"Oh? Elucidate, please," Duulamor said, coyly resting his chin upon the back of his hand.
"You just wanted to torment me," Amat said, "knowing full well I would decline. Yet I would like to accept it anyways. Partially."
Duulamor threw his head back and cackled, the sound rattling Amat's bones. "Humans!" The Harlequin boomed. "Humans are such fascinating creatures! Yes! Yes, yes YES!" His hand slashed the air dramatically. "Eldar are so predictable, you know? So dreadfully boring without Master Cegorach's touch. Ah hee hee hee. Ah ho ho ho."
"I will not remain in the Black Library, but rather, I will defend it." Amat pointed behind him, to the war party, to the electric blue runes that whorled around a pair of solitary figures. "Send me out there. The city. Allow me to do what I do best. What I was built for."
"Built for?" Duulamor asked. "If you knew what you were built for, you'd go as mad as me. Ah ho ho ho. Ah hee hee hee. But you want to fight, do you? Serve the Black Library?"
"Aid it," Amat corrected.
"And your friend," Duulamor corrected further. "That is your priority after all. Your mission. Whatever would Palla say?"
"It-" Amat swallowed. "It doesn't matter."
"And the hundreds of daemons? Do they matter aught?" Duulamor asked.
"Every second you waste brings them closer to your home, xenos." Amat returned. "You know what I'm capable of."
"Yes, but I am afraid you do not."
Amat straightened. "I serve the Emperor in all that I do. And you're delaying."
"Am I?" Duulamor asked, nodding at the assassin. Amat turned, to see that he was no longer pointing at the war-party, but at the remnants of an enormous clock. Wrought from ancient glass, its face depicted all manner of ancient runes and glyphs, yet its hands were broken, hanging low.
Behind the clock, Amat saw daemons.
"Good luck - you're running out of time!" Duulamor cried from everywhere and nowhere. He had teleported Amat and all his wargear to a broken clock tower and disappeared. Now, the Black Library was behind him, a massive slab of black crystal and sleek wraithbone. Looking up at it, it seemed to take up the whole Webway, the core of a structure greater than Amat could comprehend.
But it didn't matter whether or not he could comprehend the Webway. He just needed to fight within its walls. With a grin, he examined the battlefield-to-be. He stood atop a massive clock tower, one that afforded a prime overview of the dead city that spread out below him. A gentle breeze caressed his cheeks, and he realized he'd removed his mask.
He pulled it on, scratching at his stubble one last time. Even though it itched incessantly, Yang was right - it looked pretty good.
Preparation for his final mission had taken all of ten minutes, his course plotted, every move readied. Now there was nothing to do but wait.
Satisfaction. Peace.
These were things Amat had not known quite some time, yet staring down an army of daemons, serenity filled him once more. Sadness too - he'd not wished to part from Yang, nor his Lady, but he was no use to them as he was.
Broken. Unwhole.
No longer a true Vindicare, unfit for the synskin that cloaked him. He cradled Yang's lasgun, examining the inscription on its side - 'Red Like Roses fill my dreams and brings me to the place you rest'. Before, he had no idea what the words meant. Now he did, and wished he didn't. Amat had no use for headaches anymore.
Making friends with eldar, the insatiable curiosity that had awoken in him… he shook his head. This was a better fate.
"Once more unto the breach," he murmured, quoting the Book of Patience, "for relentlessness is rewarded by the Emperor, and the dispensation of His Justice is a task that must be undertaken many times over. So, my quietest of kin, once more. Once more."
Below him, the daemons swarmed over the ancient eldar city, bloodthirsty and howling. He could smell their uncanny stink from his perch. It curled his lip, and sent a comforting spike of hatred through his heart.
Yang's lasgun barked, throwing out a single lance of red that speared a blue horror in its foul hearts. It burst into a cloud of black particles, halting the tide of daemons in their tracks.
Yes. Come to me.
Taking advantage of their hesitation, Amat burned through the entire battery in ten seconds - fifty-two maximum-intensity blasts that vaporized every daemon they touched. Whether they were amorphous blobs of chaos or tentacled abominations from the blackest pit in the Warp, they all fell to Amat's crimson rain.
He ejected the battery, replacing it in a millisecond. Smoke poured from the barrel, and Amat could feel its hateful heat. No matter. Only six batteries remained, then he'd be forced to use his exitus rifle.
The second battery was spent in a matter of seconds, picking off the largest and most threatening daemons. They were scaling the clock tower now, Amat's presence demanding their attention.
He could not draw them all, but he could attract enough. Buy time. Perhaps, in his final moments, he could achieve a feat that would stand forever in the halls of the Vindicare Temple - a shot at Ahriman himself.
One round, shield-breaker. The stuff of legends.
And had he not been conscripted into the service of legends recently? The thought brought him a smile as he yanked out the third battery and slammed another in its place. The barrel was orange now. It was not designed to spit out high-intensity fire for so long. Best let it cool.
With a flick of his finger, he activated his detonator. Explosions blossomed in Niurvenah, each fireball claiming the existence of a dozen daemons. The clock tower rocked under the force, and the structure began to shudder and crumble. Time to go.
Slinging his satchel over his shoulder, Amat backed away from his firing position. Remembering where he'd laid the line, he crouched. Below him, countless daemons howled. Yet he knew no fear.
Amat exploded into a breakneck sprint, one that took him to the very edge of the clocktower. With a burst of muscle, he leaped from the edge, falling two stories before snagging the steel cable he'd lain earlier.
His arm ached, but he'd known greater pains. The Vindicare assassin flew through the air, descending towards another dilapidated ruin. Away from the Black Library. Away from the Void-Whisper. Away from Yang.
He unleashed a one-handed barrage, baiting as many daemons as he could to follow him. They obeyed, a multicolored tide of infinite hate. Landing on the top of an ancient monument with a practiced roll, he emptied the rest of the battery and tore his cable down. Amat unslung his exitus rifle and loaded a turbo-penetration round. With practiced fluidity, he fired at the clock tower's structural supports.
One shell snapped the wraithbone rebar in half, the second sent it tumbling to the bottom of the Webway. The tower crushed hundreds of daemons as it collapsed, spewing ichor and dust in equal measure.
Amat thanked the Emperor that his foes were merely minor spawn. It seemed as though Ahriman had not plied his contacts in the Warp for more potent daemonic support. Likely out of greed for the Black Library's treasures.
Gives me a fighting chance.
He shook the thought away. Fight as though you've already died.
The empty shell casing rang off the monument roof, a replacement hastily loaded. Furious howls told him the daemons were nearing. No time to the cable around a crumbling wraithbone spire and wrapping the end around his fist, he dove off the roof. Onto his next destination. Closer to Ahriman.
Even while he cut down his foes, Amat watched the sorcerer's ship approach. Its prow was visible now, emerging from a cloud of inky smoke that enveloped the vessel and spilled into the Webway.
One round, shield-breaker.
Landing on the roof of what was once an apartment complex, he pivoted to face the tide of daemons. Still, they came. A roar shocked him from his routine - it was too close.
He swivelled, facing down a horror that had laid in wait. It was an ugly thing, bristling with spines and tentacles. It swung for him, a limb unfurling to slash him in half. Ducking, he launched himself forwards, using the momentum to thrust a kick into the daemon's center mass. His foot connected, and the daemon flew from the roof, an unseeable mouth screeching.
Amat fired Yang's lasgun into the rest of the daemons, faster than he'd wanted, a few shots centimeters away from where he wanted them. Growling, he ripped a brace of grenades from his webbing, hurling them over the edge of the apartment building.
Once they detonated, he plunged into its depths, slamming the final battery into the lasgun. It had served him well, but it was at its limits. Ammo was scarce now, and the gun poured acrid smoke.
The apartment building was just as empty as he hoped, long wraithbone hallways studded by compact rooms that had been stripped bare millennia ago. As Amat descended a staircase, the building rocked under the weight of the daemonic assault. He grinned and continued. Despite what the Black Library implied, he wasn't much like Yang at all - except, perhaps, for one thing - he enjoyed his service to the Emperor.
A dozen daemons burst through the stairwell ceiling, an amorphous mass of chaos rendered into flesh. One lasbolt was enough for each. Ichor and steaming remnants showered him, and he pressed on, knowing more would soon pour through the rent in the wraithbone.
Inside his satchel, the portrait of his mother watched.
I'll make you proud. You'll see. I'll be with you shortly.
Faster, faster, faster he tore through the apartment building. Behind him, claws, tentacles, and hooves devoured the wraithbone halls, desperate to taste Imperial flesh. For now, they would be denied.
Sliding around a corner, Amat huffed. The Emperor is with me today. A window was waiting for him, just where he'd prayed one would be. Taking a moment to catch his breath and let the daemons catch up, he readied himself, drawing his exitus pistol and whispering a prayer into its receiver.
The daemons were meters behind him now. He moved.
With a burst of speed, he dove through the window. Spinning, he couched his pistol against his chest and fired into the crowd of daemons behind him. Crowded as they were, they burst apart under the unrelenting force of a turbo-penetrator round. Amat did not watch them flounder and panic - he was in freefall.
Grunting, he shifted around and readied his grappling hook. A practiced toss hooked it on the window of a neighboring tower. Quickly, before the tension snapped his arm in twain, he hooked the cable into his synskin's built-in rigging. An instant later, his body was torn from its fall, thrown forwards by sheer momentum. Near the apex of his swinging ascent, he disengaged the hook. He sailed through the air.
His hand caught the rooftop of a long building, one that stretched out for an entire kilometer. Unslinging his exitus rifle, he repeated his first tactic with the monument, a few shells crippling the apartment building's ability to stand. Hundreds of daemons were still inside, and they were obliterated under the metric tonnage of collapsing wraithbone.
Amat sprinted towards the end of the roof. He wasn't able to plan beyond this point in his flight, but he had some time to consider his options. The Emperor had blessed his progress so far, but eventually, His grace would expire. Still, the daemons pursued him. Dropping to his knee, he spun and fired a round from his exitus pistol. It landed true, carving a path through the heart of a dozen daemons.
It was hardly a challenge. Amat was - is? - a Vindicare, and he was built for far more difficult task, one that inched ever closer. Ahriman's ship was fully visible now, a blasphemous construction wrapped in heretical text, its hull a deep, dark blue, its trim a searing, sickening yellow. Amat pressed on.
The daemons were thinning now, ever more reluctant to hound after their ferocious prey. He wasn't sure how many he had killed. Hopefully, it had been enough.
I still might survive, a heretical part of him interjected. I can return to the Temple with honor.
No. No, no, no. You cannot think like that. You've always fought with honor. You've merely been introduced to things an assassin was not supposed to know. Become something an asssassin is not.
Amat shook his head, focusing on the task at hand.You're an assassin, Cognomen-Designate Amat. No, that wasn't right. I am Amat. A human, serving the Emperor as too few can. And Amat is throwing his life away to put his mind to rest, to bury his curiosity, to strangle his doubt in its cradle. No, he was fighting to secure a fighting chance for the Imperium, for humanity, for Order itself.
He smiled once more, even as his mind roiled.
Yang would laugh at him if she knew his plight. If anything, she'd call him an idiot and clap his shoulder, her fingers lingering a second longer than they should. He had chosen his path. But despite it all, Amat was glad for a brief glimpse of life outside the Vindicare Temple. He didn't deserve it. It wasn't for him - he was made for other things. It was beyond his duty.
A tower loomed beyond, one that stood at the edge of his current path. There, he would make his stand, wait for Ahriman's ship to near. Then, he would fire his final shot.
His best one.
As the final echoes of the collapsing apartment building faded away, Amat realized that the daemons had abandoned their pursuit, allowing him to prepare for his final assassination. He had not been ordered to fell Ahriman, but he figured the High Lords of Terra wouldn't be terribly offended by his initiative.
One round, shield-breaker. The one meant for Yang. Click-clack. He'd made it to the top of a tower, its top floor bare of a roof and stripped of all walls except for a small collection of wraithbone pillars. Laying prone, he sighted in his scope.
The sorcerer's ship was still beyond his range, but that was rapidly changing. Amat only had one shot. It was very likely he'd need more than one round, but that was a concern for later. The sheer number of rubrics and hexes that shrouded Ahriman were likely staggering, but the traitor was not expecting a Vindicare assassin today. He had taken the Harlequins by surprise.
Perhaps, Amat mused. After seeing the madness that lay in Duulamor's eyes, he doubted the Harlequins had told Pyrrha - or anyone else - the full truth.
The Prodigal Sons' flagship neared. Amat would not fire at his most extreme range - the shield-breaker needed maximum velocity. Now, there was little to do but wait. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in...
Hold on.
There was a scrabbling noise, one that grew ever closer. Amat broke his trance, whirling around to face the new threat. A brazen hell-beast clambered to the top of the tower, a daemonic engine with teeth like Space Marine knives and long, shackled horns - a juggernaut.
Atop its back rode a bloodletter, a minor daemon of the Blood God. It sneered when it saw Amat, its long, forked tongue slipping out between its fangs. It was larger than most of its type, with stringy, coiled muscles couched underneath its crimson skin.
"Asssssasssssin," it hissed. At its words, a dozen of its kin joined its side, scaling to the top of the tower. Amat said nothing, his pistol braced to end the daemon's existence. They were speaking to him.
"Let'sssss... not be hasssssty," the bloodletter cooed, laying its daemonic blade against its shoulder. "We are... not here for you."
"Then begone," Amat said. "I can't imagine you're here with Ahriman." Were he the assasssin exemplar, he would have blasted this thing into pieces the instant it reared its head. Yet, a newer, more discerning part of him knew that the appearance of bloodletters amidst Ahriman's greatest meant another plot was afoot - the servants of the Blood God had no interest in the Black Library. "Satisfy my curiosity before I send you back to the Warp," Amat continued. "What are the likes of you doing here?"
"What elsssssse?" The bloodletter hissed, a wicked grin crawling across its features. "Matterssss of Blood."
Amat sighed. "I don't know what I expected," he said, squeezing the trigger. The juggernaut and its rider burst apart, showering its comrades in blood. They roared, and charged.
He fired again, as fast as he could. Dozens bloodletters clambered to the top of the tower, the thirst upon them. They closed, faster than Amat could keep them at bay. A snarl behind him told him all he needed to know - he'd been encircled.
His fist lashed out, striking a bloodletter in the jaw and scattering its fangs. He spun, letting loose with the last gasps of Yang's lasgun. Brilliant red lances met scarlet daemon-flesh, carving holes through the horrid creatures. Amat struck another one, his heel cracking its skull. His exitus pistol barked, carving a swath of gore through his foes.
It was not enough.
Pain struck him as a warp-tainted sword bit into his calf, just below his right knee. Amat growled, blowing off the attacker's head with his pistol. Blood seeped from his wound, slow and languid.
Emperor protect me. Emperor protect me.
He fell, unable to keep his balance. His hand met the gash in his leg, trying to stem the flow of blood. No luck. It leaked through his fingers, painting the stark white wraithbone floor a violent crimson.
"Well?" Amat demanded through clenched teeth, his exitus rifle braced against his shoulder. "C'mon! I'm right here! What are you waiting for?"
Laughter erupted from the bloodletters, a harsh barking sound. It rang with the song of brass, with war chants and the shrieks of indiscriminate slaughter, with his blood as it spattered on the wraithbone floor, staccato and wet.
Amat fired his rifle one last time, and awaited his place beside the Golden Throne.
AN: Sorry to leave you all on another cliffhanger! Hopefully you enjoyed Amat doing his Vindicare thing. Next chapter, we'll see what Yang has to say about this development.
Thanks so much to everyone for all your reviews as of late! It really means a lot to see everyone enjoying this story so much. :)