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The Warp
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There was no perception of how long he was not. But then, all of a sudden, he was again, and there was fire and pain, and the laughter of cruel gods.
This was all horribly familiar, and for a terrible moment, Asim thought that he had died, that his last-ditch escape had failed – that he had missed some trap in the pact that had guaranteed his escape, and was trapped in the Warp forever.
Then the flames dimmed, the laughter faded, and he found himself back aboard the Hand of Ruin, an unimaginable distance away from the Kemyros system.
The sounds of the Forsaken Sons' flagship surrounded him. A ship was never truly silent, but anyone who lived aboard one for some time learned the different undercurrents, and could differentiate between one ship's symphony and another's, as well as pick up the nuances relating to the ship's current status. Right now, the Hand of Ruin was sailing through the Warp, and Asim felt the slight tremor indicating that the engines were being pushed close to their limit. It was a faint and distant sound, though. He was in the deep holds of the vessel, several decks away from the areas patrolled by Legionaries no matter in which direction he went.
Mortal slaves, and mutated wretches descended from them, scurried away from him as he made his way through the ship's corridors. His left leg was still petrified inside his armor, making his advance an awkward limp as he was forced to rely on his rune-marked staff for support. Most of the systems of his armor had been fried, including the vox, and he didn't feel strong enough to call for assistance telepathically. There were things in the Hand of Ruin that even the Forsaken Sons were cautious of, and a psychic call might draw them to him.
There was another reason for his reluctance, however. Asim was one of Arken's Chosen, but he had failed in his appointed task. The Imprisoned had been released, but not bound to the Black Crusade's cause. All the assets he had been entrusted with to make his lord's will a reality had been lost, even Carthago. He didn't think Arken would kill him for it, but the Sorcerer of Blood had enemies, even within the warband itself. The Forsaken Sons were, by and large, free of the infighting that his research had shown him plagued so many other fragments of the Nine Legions, but that wasn't an absolute. Rivalries existed between warriors and squads, even among the warband's core of veterans Arken had rescued from the Siege's undignified end.
Asim's own position as leader of the Coven had earned him the enmities of several warriors, and he knew there were other Sorcerers who coveted the position. The sorcerous experiments he had conducted along the Fleshmasters had also drawn the hatred of many of the Unbound, though those were less of a problem – very few of them were left aboard the Hand of Ruin, most of them having been dispatched to Berrenos as part of the Unbound Host. He didn't think any of them were likely to take advantage of his weakness, but after barely escaping one disaster, he had no intention to tempt fate. The Dark Gods' sense of humor was a twisted thing, and he suspected it would amuse them greatly to have him murdered by his own brothers after miraculously escaping death at the hands of the False Emperor's chosen executioners.
For days, Asim walked. At some point, he had to defend himself from one of the mindless beasts that haunted the deep holds, killing it with his staff before forcing himself to eat its flesh to replenish his diminishing strength. Always he sought to go up, toward the populated decks.
Eventually, he reached the lowest levels of what might be called civilization aboard the Hand of Ruin. The tribes that lived there were awed and terrified of him, and he quickly dominated them, using them as messengers to bring word of his return to their overlords. Finally, a squad of Forsaken Sons came down and found him.
After verifying that he was who he claimed to be – which involved another member of the Coven touching minds with him to ensure he wasn't a daemon wearing the Sorcerer of Blood's skin – Asim was brought back to his quarters. On the way, he was told that his arrival had been detected nine on-board days earlier, as the Imprisoned tore through the ship's Geller Field and deposited him in the deep holds. His arrival had triggered a series of daemonic incursions as the predators of the Empyrean took advantage of the breach.
Within the safety of his quarters, Asim managed to use sorcery to restore his leg to flesh, though it remained stiff. He stayed in his armor, not trusting his thralls to help him remove it while he was so diminished. He managed to make a few repairs himself, but it was clear he would need to make the trip to the forges and ask the hereteks under Merchurion to assist him to restore it to full functionality. He spent another hour painstakingly going over the wards engraved on the inside and outside of his helmet, sorcerous seals meant to guard his mind and soul from the Neverborn, before being satisfied he had repaired the damage they had sustained during his impromptu trip through the Sea of Souls. Only then did he allow himself to rest, closing his eyes as he sat cross-legged on the ground, inside the warding circle that covered most of his room's floor.
A few hours later, he was summoned by Arken.
The Awakened One was staring straight into the Warp when Asim came to him. The lord of the Forsaken Sons stood in an observation bay atop one of the warship's spires, behind a gate guarded by two of his Terminator bodyguards who had let Asim pass only reluctantly. Apparently, they knew his abrupt return was the reason for the daemonic incursions whose damage Asim had seen on his way there, and weren't happy with anything that interfered with the plans of their lord at this late hour.
Still, Asim had been called by Arken, so they let him pass without protest. The Sorcerer of Blood made his way up a spiralling staircase made of living bone, somehow strong enough to bear his weight without cracking, and entered the observation bay. The detritus of observation devices that had once occupied the chamber had been pushed to the side, leaving an empty space at the center of which stood Arken, his unblinking eyes fixed upon the raging maelstrom beyond. They had changed since Asim had last seen him, transformed into twin pits of hellfire by the terrible boons the Dark Gods had bestowed upon Arken for the Black Crusade he had unleashed.
Asim wondered what his lord saw. Like everyone else, the Sorcerer Lord saw things in the unfiltered Warp. Unlike most people, however, his training meant that he could see those things without going mad. He was used to drawing upon the energies of the Empyrean with his brain, after all – seeing them with his eyes was almost relaxing by comparison.
The tides of the Immaterium were held at bay by the Geller Field surrounding the Hand of Ruin, but the Sorcerer Lord could still see faces there. Millions of human faces, dancing and shifting before he could get a good look at them. There were shadows there too, of great monsters with burning red eyes and open maws that hunted down the human echoes. Asim felt that he knew where they were.
"We are sailing into the Graveyard," confirmed Arken, still staring into the Warp. "An entire Sub-Sector wiped out by the Orks centuries ago, its population eradicated so thoroughly the Imperium still hasn't tried to recolonize it. Even now, the Warp echoes with the screams of those who perished in those purges, and the horror of their final moments. Much as I would like to laugh at the Imperium's weakness for being unable to face a bunch of greenskins, what we have learned of this Beast does make the dismal performance of our cousins more understandable. Especially after how Guilliman's reforms crippled them."
Asim remained silent, and walked to the side of his lord. Arken continued : "Did you know that the Azarok system lies in this region ? The Orks targeted it first, destroying the Sector's high command with one of their attack moons before spreading to the rest of the Sub-Sector. Kemyros became the capital of the Sector after the war, but the Sector's name remained the same. Dekaros told me that apparently, the request is still logged in the gears of the Administratum, somewhere on Terra."
Again, Asim remained silent. Finally, the Awakened One finally turned toward his Chosen. "Alright. Tell me what happened, Asim."
Asim told him, leaving nothing out of his report and making no excuses for his failure. When he was done, he fell on his knees, bowing his head and awaiting his judgement. He felt the weight of Arken's gaze upon him, and his instincts were screaming at him to get up and fight for his life, but he ignored them. Even if he had been inclined to such base treachery, in his current state, he held no illusion as to his chances anyway.
"Are you certain," asked Arken softly, "that Fel Zharost – that Khyron is dead ?"
Asim blinked. That hadn't been the response he had expected. "As certain as can be," he replied. "Carthago burned herself alongside him, and I felt the power imbued into that fire."
"I see," mused Arken, his eyes briefly flickering to the storm outside. "Then it is working. Good. Excellent, even."
His gaze returned to Asim, and he gestured impatiently. "Get up, brother. Carthago's loss wasn't anything I hadn't planned for. I am glad you managed to escape. The unbinding of the Imprisoned One is a lost opportunity, but you made the correct decision in choosing to release it once it was clear no bargain could be made."
"… I don't understand," admitted Asim as he rose to his feet. It was a dangerous thing to say, and not one he would ever have spoken aloud if the two hadn't been alone. "How is this anything but a dismal failure ?"
Arken looked at him for several seconds, pondering whether to share more with his Chosen. Eventually, he decided to go ahead and do so.
"It all comes down to what the Grey Knights, or at least their current leaders and most ancient members, really are, brother," he began. "We are fighting to rewrite a fate cleaved from the heavens by the False Emperor Himself, in the final days before He was maimed and His power broken. Such a thing cannot be done without sacrifices, and sacrifices only have meaning if they truly diminish the one making them."
Understanding struck Asim like a thunderbolt. It should have felt like a betrayal, but it didn't, perhaps because Arken had never made a mystery of how he viewed the entire warband, including himself, as a weapon to wield against the Imperium until it broke. He took good care of that weapon, yes, but that was only in order to continue to inflict damage upon the empire they had once built.
"You used us as bait," said Asim quietly. "Not just Carthago and I – all of us."
"You left Illarion to die beneath the broken tower," Arken pointed out. "It was a diversion from your work, but one that the Imperium couldn't afford to ignore. I did the same with you, with all of my Chosen I scattered across Azarok. Pareneffer alone succeeded in the mission I gave him, though it cost him his life."
"Then … The others are all …?"
"Yes," confirmed Arken. "You and Mahlone are the only ones who escaped. Pareneffer, Karalet, the Unfettered … they were all hunted down by the Grey Knights and killed. But they forced the Imperials to separate their forces, because they couldn't allow even one of them to continue their activities unchecked. It took a band of the Grey Knights' greatest killers to slay Hektor Heker'Arn. They sent the finest blades of their entire Chapter to Andros' Rest, veterans of the Scouring whose false names are cursed by entire choirs of Neverborn. And now, thanks to the Blood Champion's sacrifice, they will be too late to join the Imperium's final attempt to stop us."
"At the cost of the strongest warrior in the entire warband, and several of our best Daemonists," said Asim. "Not to mention that we lost our chance to awaken the slumbering world-soul of that world. With it, we could have turned every Imperial soldier and Blood Angel descendant on that world to our side, one way or another."
Arken nodded. "Yes. A heavy price, I agree. Ezyrithn was quite disappointed as well when I told him the news."
The Firstborn of the Sha'eilat had been the one to tell the Forsaken Sons about the world that the Imperium called Andros' Rest, and the psychic construct that laid beneath its surface, left there from the time when the Children of Isha ruled the galaxy unopposed. As legacies of the Eldar Empire went, it wasn't all that grand, but it would have been a fine weapon, if it could have been awakened in the fullness of its bitter fury.
The psychic gestalt had been driven mad by the Fall of the Eldar, and the unattended shard of their war god within it had turned from honorable warfare – as if such a thing existed – to pure, bloody-minded fury aimed at all living things. When the Orks had invaded Andros' Rest during the War of the Beast, the violence had been enough to make it stir, turning the decadent Imperial nobles into guerillas who had survived years of brutal conflict with the greenskins. With it fully awakened, Hektor could have launched a new Blood Crusade, tearing a path of mayhem and slaughter across the stars.
Ezyrithn would have loved to see it, for all that his darkling soul belonged to Slaanesh, the opposite power Hektor Heker'Arn had served. Defiling relics of his people was something that gave the xenos great pleasure. Asim had asked him if he knew any details about the Imprisoned before leaving, but apparently that had been before even his time.
"But that is my point," continued Arken. "For all his might, Hektor Heker'Arn was still struck down. Mere martial prowess cannot explain this. The Grey Knights sent squads to do the job of armies, like we once were for the Imperial Army during the Great Crusade. The power of the False Emperor within them bends chance and destiny to ensure their triumph, Asim, and it is strongest among the oldest of them, who received it directly from Him."
"This is what you discussed with Abbadon," the Sorcerer of Blood realized. "When you used Gerion and that witch he brought along from Eldur to make contact with him."
Asim hadn't been present when that had happened, being busy elsewhere in the Wailing Storm. But it had been an impressive feat of sorcery, and he had discussed it at length with Gerion, before the mortal had been sent with the Unfettered to assist him in his mad experiments. Gerion hadn't remembered much of the actual discussion, though : the demands of the spell, combined with his awe at the sight of Abaddon's projection, had been enough to warp most of his memory of the event, and the witch hadn't been even less useful when he had questioned her.
Not that he had pressed too far for answers. Arken's sorcerous meeting with the former First Captain of the Sons of Horus, who had since become Warmaster of the so-called Black Legion, was something only the Chosen knew, with Gerion and … Meriana, yes, that had been her name, being sworn to secrecy. The Forsaken Sons weren't part of Abaddon's grand army of renegades, but the implication that they might be wouldn't have been good for morale.
Arken nodded. "Ezekyle knows many things. Some were revealed to him by his spies, others by his seers, and still others by the Gods themselves. He doesn't trust any of them blindly, but the threat of the Grey Knights was confirmed from many different sources."
"And what did Abaddon tell you of them ?"
"He told me that the False Emperor created them to be His secret weapon in the wars to come. Even as Horus' fleets advanced on Terra, the manipulative bastard was planning for the ages to come." The Chaos Lord's gauntleted hands tightened into fists. "Even now, we do not know how much of this He planned out. But we do know that the Grey Knights are key to his plan."
The fire of Arken's eyes suddenly flared, the eldritch power feeding off the warlord's emotions as he continued.
"As long as the founders of the Grey Knights live, there can be no true victory against the Imperium. They are His ace in the hole, and He has made them so powerful, so warded against doom, that any plan they stand against will fail, no matter how grand. And that, Asim, is unacceptable.
Asim almost took a step back. To his sixth sense, the hatred that radiated from the Awakened One was a physical thing, a pressure on his mind and soul. Arken was no psyker, even now, but he had drunk deep of the Dark Gods' cup in order to gain the power and knowledge needed for the Black Crusade, and it had left marks on him. Past the reinforced windows and the Geller Field, the tides of the Warp themselves reacted to the Chaos Lord's fury, twisting into images of burning worlds and infinite armies of black-clad monstrosities.
It had been a long time, he reflected, since Arken had let loose his emotions like this. This, this was the rage at the core of his soul, the fury born in the crucible of the Siege's shameful ending and the defeat of the rebels. It was the rage that had united the Forsaken Sons, and cowed worlds and daemons alike into terrified obedience. Most of the time, it burned cold, and was bound by ruthless pragmatism, but every so often, one could catch a glimpse of the true rage that laid beneath – a rage that would destroy the galaxy in the name of vengeance if it could.
Part of him felt honored that Arken trusted him enough to show him this, while another was worried he might succumb to his rage and lash out at anything or anyone in sight. But the will of the Awakened One was strong, and after a few moments on the knife's edge, he restored his mask of calm.
"That is why they must be bled," Arken went on as if nothing had just happened. "They must be weakened. Their champions must be cast down, their secret knowledge burned, and most important of all, their leader, Janus, whose true name has been burned from the Warp itself even more thoroughly than Fel Zharost's was, must die, so that whatever He planned for him is brought to naught. The Nightmare Fleet is a weapon, a threat, powerful enough to bend destiny by its mere existence. Powerful enough to draw him out of hiding, away from the path the Corpse-God forged for him."
Asim had to ask. "Do you even intend to unleash it, or is this a bluff to draw the Grey Knights out ?"
Arken laughed, with more than a hint of madness in it. "Of course I do ! My plan couldn't work if I didn't. And make no mistake, Asim, I want to. With the blessing of the Ruinous Powers and the head of Janus, I could control the Nightmare Fleet, and use it to wreak bloody vengeance upon the entire Imperium !"
The scale of the Awakened One's plan was breathtaking. He sought nothing less than to make a move of his own in the Great Game, to play at the same level as the Dark Gods and the Emperor themselves.
Arken smiled, and it was a cold and dreadful thing, revealing filed teeth engraved with a mix of Cthonian and Chaotic runes that shone with the same inner light as his burning eyes.
"And do you know the best part ? Janus knew exactly what I was doing, but he had no choice. I forced his hand and made him splinter the host he had gathered to crush us. Now, when we finally face one another, his sword of light will have been reduced to a dagger. And it won't be enough. I will kill him, and with his death I will bring all of the False Emperor's plans for him to naught."
"If you can kill him," pointed out Asim. "I doubt it will be easy."
"Nothing worth doing is ever easy, brother. I have … prepared for this. And you have just brought me proof that the theory behind it works : after all, Carthago was able to kill Khyron."
There was more to it, Asim knew. He didn't know who the Grey Knights' leader (their equivalent of a Chapter Master, he supposed), this 'Janus' was, but to have one such as Fel Zharost as a subordinate, it must be a figure straight out of legend. Khyron had already been far more powerful than Fel Zharost had ever been, so how much stronger would his superior be ? But he could tell Arken had told him all he intended to for now.
"I understand," said Asim at last. "What is our next step ?"
"You join us at an auspicious time, your method of travel notwithstanding. We left Nerel mere days ago. The vagaries of Warp travel made it so that the Imperials were hot on our trail, however : they arrived just as we left. And you will be surprised to hear that the slaves of the False Emperor have made common cause with the Eldars," explained Arken with something that could very generously be called a smile.
"Then you found it ?" asked Asim.
Arken nodded. "Yes. The location of the Nightmare Fleet is ours, and Merchurion has cracked its secrets. Your brethren of the Coven have troubled the Warp behind us to prevent the Imperials from just following us, and I have left Orpheus and the followers of the Dark Prince to hold the cemetary-world."
"It won't be enough," said Asim. "Mikhail is strong but has little talent for strategy, and the servants of Slaanesh have little thought for tactics anyway. Unless their foes do something monumentally stupid, they won't be able to win."
"They do not need to. All they have to do is delay them long enough for us to gain enough of a lead so that we can make our preparations at the Nightmare Fleet's prison."
"Does Orpheus know that ?"
Arken nodded. "He does. Truth be told, I am not sure he cares. He had his own reasons to want to stay behind, as did they all once they saw the Eldar with the Imperials."
Asim considered this. It … made sense. Those who followed the Path of Excess were not the most concerned about their own survival, lost as they were to the quest for more. Arken had managed to coral them to his purpose this far, but he had never been able to really trust them on the battlefield, except as an instrument of terror. With his plan moving into its final stages, removing such a random element from the board made sense. The arrival of the Eldar in the game would also have made retaining control over them more difficult : Slaanesh forever hungered for the xenos' souls, and the Dark Prince's champions would balk at being denied a chance to fight them.
Arken returned to contemplating the madness-inducing tides of the Warp. "We will meet up with the remnants of the Unbound Host and the other raiding flotillas soon, then make our way toward the Nightmare Fleet. For now, Asim, return to your quarters. Rest and recover your strength, for I shall doubtless have need of it before the end."
Asim left the observation bay, and made his way back to his quarters, pondering the words of the Awakened One and their implications. He was halfway there when a voice echoed in his mind :
+Asim.+
He froze. That voice … it wasn't the voice of the Herald. The daemon had been curiously silent since his escape from Kemyros. But he knew that mental voice nonetheless : he just hadn't expected to ever hear it in his mind again.
+Carthago ?+ he tentatively pulsed back.
She was dead. He had seen her die, and while he did not mourn her (she was a xenos abomination after all, and some conditioning couldn't be completely overcome no matter how hard he tried), he did feel regret at the circumstances of her demise. Yet it was her voice, he was certain of it.
+Asim,+ repeated the voice. +Are you here ? I am cold, Asim. Why am I cold if I burned ?+
A figure emerged from the shadows, moving slowly. It was Carthago, but it wasn't all of her. Her body was translucent, and she didn't radiate the aura of barely-controlled power she used to. Nevertheless, a cautious scan of her aura revealed that it was her, and not some daemonic spirit trying to deceive Asim by taking her appearance.
She was dead, he realized with a start. Her body had perished in the fire that had killed Khyron, just as he had thought. But it appeared that, to a psyker of her power, death didn't mean the same thing it did for most mortals. Somehow, her spirit had survived the demise of her flesh and had followed him here. But the Geller Field was still up, and it wouldn't have made a difference between a bodiless mortal spirit and a daemon – the difference between the two was a matter for philosophers as much as scholars of the universe's forbidden truths. Perhaps she had come along with him when the Imprisoned had breached the Geller Field, only showing herself to him now for reasons unknown.
Regardless of the reason, she wasn't unscathed. It was clear from her words that her mind had suffered from the process, even if she had never been what one might call eloquent. That was to be expected : the soul of an alpha-plus psyker would have drawn the Neverborn like sharks to spilled blood. How much of her memory had been lost before she had managed to push them back ?
This was a fascinating discovery, and Asim intended to study it in full. Space Marines did not know fear, but all Sorcerers knew what waited for them beyond death, and any chance of avoiding it was one worth pursuing. Becoming a ghost, a wraith haunting past acquaintances, was a poor fate, but still better than the alternatives – and perhaps, with study and arcane calculations, he could … improve on what Carthago had achieved through instinct and sheer power.
+Come with me,+ he sent to Carthago, before continuing to walk toward his quarters. She did so, silently following him, unseen by the slaves and Legionaries they passed on the way.
She cannot escape forever, suddenly said the Herald of Blood as Asim walked by a gleaming brass icon of the War God.
Under his helmet, Asim smiled. He hadn't thought he would be rid of the Herald so easily, but having it thwarted was always good news. +You tried to devour her, didn't you ? And you failed. She is too strong for you.+
She is dead, replied the Herald, its voice seething with anger. Her bond to you is the only anchor she has left to your side of the Veil. Her soul will feed us, father. It is inevitable.
The Sorcerer of Blood chuckled. +Is that so ? Interesting. Then perhaps something can yet be salvaged from this whole debacle.+
Your schemes have come to naught. The fallen king has fled, ranted the Herald. It fulfilled its pact with you and escaped before the Gods could devour it. But they will have their due, father. Before the end, all debts will be paid.
"I owe you nothing," Asim said out loud, staring at where his reflection should be and instead the horned visage of the Herald stood. "All my pacts, all my bargains, have been paid for."
It was true. Asim had been very careful to pay back all the boons he had asked for, having seen first-hand what the Warp could do to those who indebted themselves to the Powers. Pacts and contracts weren't inviolate, and the Dark Gods could force their will upon their followers at any time, but a debt owed was a foothold in the Materium.
Or at least, that was how Asim thought of it. He wasn't arrogant enough to think his interpretation of the Sea of Souls was the correct one. But it was a useful perspective, and as long as he clung to it, it provided him some measure of protection. It wasn't perfect – even with it and the Rubric coursing through his soul despite him not having set foot on the Planet of Sorcerers since the gathering of the Nine Legions, his body was riddled with mutations under his armor. But it had kept him from madness and degeneration, despite the terrible powers he had manipulated in the warband's service.
The Herald laughed, and Asim felt Carthago cower behind him.
You aren't the only one on this ship who has made promises to the Gods, father. The chains of oaths can be pulled both ways.
The voice of the Herald faded away. Then, to Asim's surprise, so did its image, replaced in the brass by the Sorcerer Lord's own reflection, something he hadn't seen in decades. He hesitantly reached up and pulled his helmet off, seeing his own face for the first time in decades in the brass.
The color of his skin seemed to be the same dusky tone that prevailed among the natives of Prospero (it was difficult to tell on the brass). Chalk-white lines ran across his head, however, forming serpentine patterns all over his skull that criss-crossed with blackish veins. The color of his eyes had changed too : they were now kaleidoscopes of color.
All in all, he judged, he couldn't complain about his looks. He had certainly seen worse among the other Forsaken Sons.
He replaced his helmet before something could take advantage of his exposed mind, and resumed his walk to his quarters, Carthago following behind as he thought in silence. Had whatever had happened between Asim, the Imprisoned, Carthago and the Herald damaged his connection to the Khornate daemon ? Or was it just that the Herald's attempts on Carthago's spirit had drained its strength below the point where it could maintain its haunting of the Sorcerer ?
More importantly, however, what had its last words meant ?
AN : As always, please tell me what you thought of this chapter. Nothing else to say ... except that the next part of the Roboutian Heresy is almost done.
Stay safe,
Zahariel out.