Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 34

Xavaar floated in a sea of pain, lost to the world. His mind registered the cutting of knives and the breaking of bones but only as a distant buffeting. Raw torment pounded at the edges of his consciousness, rocking his soul to and fro, but he remained above it all, like an aquatic sailor cast adrift in a life raft, riding towering waves in his tiny craft. It was the teachings of the Librarius that allowed him to do this, separating his mind from his body. A step down from astral projection, not quite leaving his flesh behind, though the temptation was great. To soar free of his ruined body would end his suffering but he knew if he did so he would never come back, he would fly in the warp as a spirit, until all sense of identity eroded and his essence dissipated into nothingness, assuming he wasn't gobbled up by a Daemon. So he endured the pain, content to wait it out.

Eventually torment ceased and his mind stirred. With great trepidation he allowed physical sensations to return to his awareness and recoiled from the damage done. A roaring ache was the first thing he sensed, the tearing of muscle and the breaking of bone making itself known. Trauma enough to kill a man thrice over, and keep an Astartes down for a good while. His body burned hot where Transhuman implants worked to rebuild his frame, piecing him back together one sinew at a time. Xavaar knew he'd been tortured extensively, but curiously he was back in his armour. That was unusual, he shouldn't be, they'd taken it from him, the other Claws who hadn't turned, coming at Kharkul's bidding to round up the insurrectionists.

Xavaar tried to move but was annoyed to find he couldn't shift an inch. He was bound by the limbs, torso and neck, his armour fixed to a hard surface by Plasteel chains so thick even power armour couldn't break them. He sensed he was sitting at an angle, his backpack propping him up, but all that meant was his head lolled back at a painful angle, fixed there by chains driven into his skull. His leather mask was absent, leaving his face a raw visage of wet muscle and grinning teeth, sustained only by spellcraft. Something about this seemed eerily familiar but Xavaar couldn't put his finger on it, so extended his awareness to his eyes and ears.

Sight drifted back and he found himself staring into red heavens. The depths of space painted before him as a smear of hues, bereft of stars or peaceful black. It took up most of his vision but he pulled his eyes to one side and saw white walls and a smooth floor, his lonely observatory, he concluded, he's been imprisoned in the very room where he'd begun the conspiracy. He suspected he knew whose idea that was, but he had other concerns. Laying diagonally across from him was another Night Lord, in midnight-clad but similarly bound to the floor, compelled to stare into the heavens endlessly. He couldn't see the face but going by the armour markings it was Arkqas, still alive it seemed. He cast his eyes the other way and saw Cantus' boot nearby and beyond a torso that could have been Juru, he couldn't see any further but guessed the rest of the insurrectionists were here, all bound as he was.

"Urrrgh," Xavaar breathed as he found his tongue seemed to be covered in crusty blood.

Arkqas' voice drifted into being, "He's awake, at last."

"Finally," Juru spat, "Get him to break us free."

"What... hit me?" Xavaar groaned.

"Kharkul, repeatedly and with great vigour," Arkqas explained, "He enjoyed breaking your bones one by one, until he realised you'd retreated inside your head. That pissed him off no end."

"Don't remind us," Cantus growled, "That's when he got the idea to cut off our eyelids."

"He cut off your eyelids?" Xavaar wheezed, "Why?"

"Don't know but I suspect it's another part of his torture," Arkqas replied, "All of us look like you now, well, around the eyeballs anyway."

"Can we skip the backstory and move on to getting us out of here?!" Juru interjected angrily.

Xavaar marshalled his thoughts and extend his mind, trying to reach out and touch another consciousness. He had no talents in telekinesis or biomancy, but if he could ensnare a mortal's thoughts he could steer them to release the captives. To his surprise he found his talents blocked, hemmed in by potent wards and psychic barriers. He couldn't hear another mind, he couldn't send or receive, he was stuck inside his own skull.

"Slight problem," Xavaar declared, "I appear to be psychically shackled."

"That would be the null spikes we implanted into your cerebellum," came a sneering hiss.

Xavaar's eyes flashed upwards to discover Savare stepping into view, grinning at the prone Sorcerer with a leer of contempt. Their betrayer seemed to have freedom to move, where they did not and his armour gleamed with fresh marks and kill runes, claiming a high station in the hierarchies of lost Nostramo. He affected the visage of a gang-lord, one who commanded many streets and evoked fear in his underlings.

"Traitorous filth!" Cantus spat.

"Well yes," Savare snorted, "Aren't we all Traitors here?"

"I'll gut you for this!" Juru snarled.

"Save the useless threats," Savare sneered, "Those chains won't part so easily, you're trapped here and you'd be well advised to conserve your suit's energy, you're going to need it."

"What have you done?!" Xavaar barked.

"Many things," Savare chuckled, "Torturing you all was fun, for a few hours, but the annoying thing about Space Marines is we're so accustomed to pain. So many ways to avoid dealing with it, so many mantras and creeds to shelter behind. When a few of you tried to sink into hypnotic comas we knew we'd need a better plan. That's why we cut into your heads and removed your sus-an-membranes."

"You did what?!" Cantus snarled as he thrashed in his chains.

Savare chuckled, "Oh yes, no pleasant rest in dreamless sleep for you curs. You'll be awake to experience every moment of what is to come. And to see it in its full glory we removed your eyelids."

Arkqas' voice intruded, "Savare, you betrayed our Brotherhood and think yourself smart, but you're a fool to think Kharkul is any better than us. He cares nothing for you, he'll drain every drop of usefulness and then discard you like a spent ration can. You know it, you know the Red Flayer will turn on you. There's a better way to survive than endless betrayal, a better way to live than watching for the knives at your back."

"Trying to appeal to my better nature!" Savare laughed, "That's funny, we all know I don't have one."

"No," another voice intruded, "He really doesn't."

Every voice fell still as Kharkul entered the observatory, his pace measured and heavy. Xavaar saw him stride nearer, four surviving Bladeslaves following in his wake. The Red Flayer seemed inordinately pleased with himself and well he should be, his mutinous underlings had been defeated and his powerbase was secure. Xavaar knew he'd come to gloat but refused to give him the satisfaction and glared resentfully.

Kharkul loomed over him and remarked, "Returned unto us, I see."

"If you've come to nag us to death, we'd rather get it over with quickly," Xavaar snorted.

"So predictable," Kharkul sneered, "That's why I knew you'd turn on me. Took you longer than I expected actually, but at least you had the kindness to gather all disloyal Claws into one place for me. I thank you for securing my ascent to ultimate power."

"That's not your power," Xavaar spat, "That trick with binding the Bladeslaves to your lifeforce, you didn't come up with that yourself."

"True, I had to consult with several Daemons to learn the secret," Kharkul admitted.

"That explains a lot," Arkqas snorted, "You were never smart enough to think for yourself."

Kharkul growled, "Enjoy your little barbs, mad dreamer, they will be your last. I assure you the power is mine now."

Xavaar snorted, "If you believe that then you're an idiot. Power taken from Daemons is never what it appears, they lie and they deceive and just when you think you've mastered them, it turns out you've been the puppet all along."

"That kind of thinking is why you remain so small, a petty little conjurer, dabbling in dark lore when you could have bathed in it. The things I could have done with your psyker nature at my disposal."

Cantus snorted, "I do believe that's the first time I've ever heard anyone wish to be a psyker."

Kharkul's anger spiked as he snapped, "Enough! It's time to explain the nature of your punishment. We tried knives and hammers and the screws but you all proved annoyingly stubborn, what is torture without the screaming? So, I devised a better way. You shall remain here, and stare into space, for as long as your armour can sustain you. Days and weeks and months of looking into the void, as Oblivioni Cavum rotates to face the sun."

A chill gasp of horror ran through the room and Xavaar's eyes travelled to the edge of the window as he gasped, "The star..."

Kharkul gloated, "Oh yes, pure unsullied brilliance, raw light pouring into your eyes, filtered of course, we wouldn't want your optic nerves burning out, but enough to inflict unspeakable agony. For sons of Nostramo such a vision is no less than hell itself. But that is not what makes your torture perfect, for the punishment to be truly unbearable you must be offered hope of it ending. That is why Oblivioni Cavum will continue to rotate, taking you away from the star once more. You will endure unspeakable agony, counting the seconds until respite comes, only to know you must suffer again, and again and again. You won't retreat into your minds; you won't become catatonic or shelter behind Hypno-indoctrination, because the hope of respite will force you to remain alert. I can't torture you eternally, but I can torture you repeatedly, for as long as you live."

"No," Xavaar breathed, "Not that, anything but that."

But Kharkul turned to Savare and ordered, "Go prepare my Stormbird, I have important business abroad."

Savare left with a smug stride but Kharkul turned back to the Skinned Man and took something from his belt. It was a scrap of leather, his mask, and it was dangled over his face as Kharkul taunted, "In a minute you will be pleading for this back, and I may be willing to grant it, but only if you tell me what I need to know. Apotheosis, tell me how to complete my ascension to Daemonhood."

Xavaar glanced at the rim of the window, seeing magnesium flares lick around the edges. The pane was darkening to block most of the light, else they would burn out their eyes in heartbeats but still not enough to block all the searing rays. In moments they would be looking into the brilliance of a star, even a tiny percentage of which would cause their eyes to boil in their skulls, torment unimaginable to one born of Nostramo.

Desperately Xavaar blurted, "A sacrifice! You must make a sacrifice, the bigger the better, something significant. The Ork's leader, they must have one, a ritual kill will draw the attention of your patrons."

"A sacrifice," Kharkul hissed suspiciously, "I killed the Raven's leader, that didn't bring about my apotheosis."

"Because you sacrificed to Chaos Undivided," Xavaar urged, "The slowest route to power, to ascend you must choose one god and dedicate yourself to their creed. Only then will you have what you crave."

"My thanks. I shall remember you when I become immortal, not fondly, but take comfort in knowing your name shall be with me in eternity," Kharkul laughed as he dropped the mask just out of reach and walked off.

Xavaar jerked in his chains, struggling to reach his mask but to no avail, he was bound tight and unable to move. Though his servo motors growled he could not budge at all and lay helpless as a bug pinned to a corkboard. Cries of dismay and anger rang across the room as the magnesium licking the edge of the roof crested the lintel, preparing to pour into the room and fill it with aching brilliance. Wisps of liquid gold ran over the walls as Oblivioni Cavum turned towards the local star, bringing its fierce rays to the lidless eyes of the Night Lords.

Cries of anger became screams of excruciating torment as the star illuminated the room, filling the eyes of all trapped within. Purest light, without relent or compromise bathed the Night Lords and for the first time in their post-human lives they cried tears of despair. Optic nerves, adapted to near pitch blackness, were sent into overload, stabbing shards of pain into the brains of all. Xavaar felt his body bathed in a sea of liquid magnesium, eyes boiling inside his skull as his tongue roasted in his mouth. The anguish was beyond bearing and he longed to flee into the safety of catatonia but he couldn't, the knowledge that relief was coming dangled in his mind, a countdown of seconds already begun in his head. Without wanting to he would force himself to endure the torment, a prisoner of his own indomitable will.

"Make it stop!" screamed Cantus.

"My eyes!" wept Juru, "I can't take it!"

"Hold fast Astartes!" Arkqas shouted, "Two hours until relief!"

Xavaar wasn't listening, for a connection was made in his mind. The vision of the future, of his own death, he suddenly grasped the context. This was what he had foreseen, this torture chamber of light, he had glimpsed it in his visions but not understood what it meant. He had focused on the wrong part, avoiding death, when he should have been wary of the prison itself. An elementary mistake he had been foolish to make. And yet in that mistake was a faint prospect of release. If the vision was true then events had yet to play out to their fullest extent. There was another actor yet to enter the scene. He had seen it, seen the arrival of one most unexpected into this drama, as saviour or executioner was up for debate, but right now Xavaar would take either option, death was a kinder fate compared to this agony. So, he wept tears of anguish as he breathed a forlorn hope into the ether, "Sedaxus... Sedaxus is coming."