Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 233
The palace of the Wind King was a monument to emptiness. Ancient towers echoed like chimes as the breeze gusted through empty windows and drifted through vacant stairwells. Vast auditoriums that once hosted gallas and ritual dances stood idle, the processionals were vacant and high pinnacles waited forlornly for stargazers to return and gawp at the galaxy beyond. Once this palace would have sung with the noise of productive activity and cruel delight, now it was nothing but a shell of its former glory.
Vitcos mused upon this as the prisoners were marched at gunpoint through doors wider than a Capitol Imperialis was long. They'd been freed of their sticky prison and compelled to follow at threat of instant death. Curiously they'd been left with their weapons, but with several hundred ghosts encircling them he doubted that mattered. The only thing keeping the ghosts from killing them instantly was Athra's invocation of the gods. Tradition alone stayed death, but that could change in an instant.
"To doom or salvation do we steer?" Vitcos muttered out the side of his mouth.
Athra shrugged, "That depends on how sharp your wits are."
"Will we be given fair hearing?"
"Most likely, the dead's witchsight is poor and your souls are barely flickers in the ether. They can't see you truly, so they assume you are who you say you are."
"Feign being Eldar?"
"Don't expect special treatment just for that, this is the height of decay in the Aeldari Empire, they forgot what mercy was millennia ago."
"And you have not?"
"Of course not, mercy is for drawing out the agonies of your victim for as long as possible. To squeeze out the most succulent morsel of excruciation. You see, unlike most of my kind, I understand delayed gratification."
That was hardly comforting and Vitcos bit down on a retort as they moved onto a balcony over a dried pool. That word hardly did the room justice, vast it was and echoing, the far walls so distant even his Transhuman sight could barely make out details. Fossilised remnants of wooden vessels stuck up from the dusty floor, their masts petrified and sails crusted strips of rag. Vitcos imagined the ancient Eldar performing mock naval battles in this room, clashing as the most primitive of mariners in ages before mankind even left the trees of Terra. He tried to conjure a word to encompass the decadence on display, but fell short. The most corrupt Hive-spire lordling was but a child playing at indolence compared to the Eldar.
Tachna was stomping along and asked, "This Wind King, what manner of ruler was he?"
Athra drew in a breath to explain, "Myth tells he was one of the eternals, those select few who chose to reincarnate beyond death. His age was impossible to guess, perhaps millions of years old, in your terms. His soul may have been imperishable but his mind was not. His sanity decayed with each rebirth; his grasp of reality febrile. But he had a mighty champion in Hythraal and none could unseat him. Though many tried. Across Calan Gaeav you will find the empty palaces of many would-be rivals, left as monuments to warn future generations."
Tvos gulped, "Then he won't let us off with a warning?"
"Ha," Athra smirked, "You're funny, I would say I will miss you when you're gone, but I would be lying."
"Wait, what?!" Tvos started.
But Vendrick butted in, "You've all gone stark raving mad, this palace is nothing but an empty ruin and these Automatons march us to our executions!"
Vitcos scowled, "Those who cannot hear shall not debate truth in these halls."
Athra agreed, "He means shut up and let us do the talking, and we might just get out alive."
Into a throne room they were marched, as long and echoing as the ocean-pool. This room was a vast racetrack, with discarded jetbikes and skimmers left strewn everywhere. The floor was tiled with black chips, glittering with reflected light as they moved. It circled inwards, coiling like a great serpent ringing around prey and at the heart of it all rose a throne shaped like a snake's head with its jaws open, Dromlach, the cosmic serpent venerated at the heart of Calan Gaeav.
Between fangs tall as a Knight Questoris awaited Trusitaan the Wind King. Vitcos was stunned by the image of the ghost, for it was the first old Eldar he'd ever seen. Withered skin was ridged like hardened oak and lips were absent, leaving yellowing teeth exposed. Eyes were sparks of madness in sunken pits and his brow bore an amber jewel encased in a gold circlet across a forehead brittle as parchment. His hair was lanky and knotted, clumping in an inelegant manner no living Eldar would tolerate.
"A million years indeed," Vitcos muttered.
"So they say," Athra agreed.
"And we must play the ritual part of travellers?"
"If you want to live."
Vendrick butted in, "It's just another blank automaton!"
Tachna hissed in warning, "When words are weapons, let silence be your armour!"
Trusitaan's head rose slowly and a voice dry as desert sand rasped, "Who dares interrupt the reflections of the Wind King?"
Athra stepped forward to declare, "Oh mighty ruler of Calan Gaeav, we are but humble travellers passing from the heart of the Empire to the hinterlands beyond. We come to beg your blessing on our travels."
"Many a day has it been since honest voyagers came to me without tricks, but why are you so dim to my eyes? You I see clearly but your companions are faint and indistinct."
"They are but young, their soulfires mere sparks," Athra lied, "I speak for all."
"Is this true?" Trusitaan asked as his decrepit head turned slightly.
Vitcos realised he would have to speak and chose to lie, "Humble are we, our guide speaks truth. The foolish seekers on the path walk with eyes to the heaven but the wise are wary of their feet."
Trusitaan nodded, "Poetry lives in your soul, but this is a world of action and swift spirit. What offering do you pledge?"
Athra waved off to the side and said, "This one soul is yours; I gift him as a tribute to your greatness. Make merry with his body and may his soul tears nourish your revels."
"What?!" Tvos gasped.
Two automatons surged forward and grabbed the magos by both arms. The Xenophile struggled to break free but could not resist their strength as they left him up, intending to carry him away. Vendrick's arm moved to grasp his maul but Vitcos snatched his wrist and held his hand away from it. Vendrick's helm did nothing to disguise his glare of anger, but the Smoke Jaguar shook his head to discourage any rash outburst. They were still surrounded by hundreds of foes, any hint of violence would result in instant death.
"What are you doing?!" Vendrick hissed.
"Sacrifices must be made," Vitcos whispered back.
Athra concurred, "Nobody comes to Calan Gaeav without offering blood, would you rather it would be one of your own?"
"You knew this would happen, that's why you insisted Tvos come!"
"Naturally, well maybe not this specifically, but I knew we'd be in need of a sacrificial lamb at some point. I told you I like to think ahead."
The magos was dragged away to a fate unknowable and Vitcos was not unhappy to see him meet a dark fate. A heathen since before his birth, meddler in sciences never meant to be explored and unleasher of war upon the worlds of men. Tvos deserved to suffer and then there was the fact he knew secrets of the Smoke Jaguars damning and bitter. To be rid of him for good brought Vitcos a secret smile under his helm.
Trusitaan's ghost leaned back on his throne, "Meagre tribute, but at least you know the ritual forms. Most vagrants who wash up on my shores are ignorant of the old ways."
Athra sketched a bow with a flourish, "Few are as learned as I."
"The old ways indeed," Trusitaan allowed, "Have you heard of the great star racers of the past, who sailed the corona of supernova and skimmed under the noses of the Old Enemy?"
"A superlative tale," Athra agreed in what Vitcos was sure was a bluff.
Trusitaan sighed, "Ah, but I was young then. The stars burned bright and the Empire was unrivalled. Not like these lesser days, when upstart races dare to cross the stars and call themselves mighty. Once we would have swept them away with a wave of our hand, but none care for such banal challenges. All is diminished, but I persist, I have sworn to see the stars burn out. Yet this last incarnation is strange... the days are long but the years short. Tomorrow has never felt more distant..."
Athra interrupted, "Wind King, shall we proceed to the challenge?"
Trusitaan blinked slowly, "Challenge... yes... the challenge. None may pass through Calan Gaeav without first facing my great champion. Earn his respect in the arena and your band has my blessing to venture forth into the galaxy."
"And if we beat him?" Vitcos dared to ask.
"None ever have, to face him and live is the best you can hope for. But be warned, failure to win his respect means your damnation is certain. Come forth Hythraal!"
From behind the throne stepped forth another ghost. A fierce warrior, strong of arm and quick of step. His eyes burned with passion and his bulk seemed oddly dense. Vendrick gasped in shock at the sight, but he could not see what Vitcos saw. The Smoke Jaguar forced himself to look beyond the ghost and beheld a giant in burnished steel, with broad plates and a heavy helm fronted by a blunt wedge. Diceramite in nature, but altered. Wraithbone growths penetrated the joints at the ankle, knee, hip, wrist, elbow and shoulder, sinking under within the hardened plates. The left pauldron was completely overgrown by Wraithbone, like barnacles clinging to the hull of a ship but the right still bore the mark of the Sanghuata. The helm was split from crown to cheek and into the gap more wraithbone had grown, roots deep and branch curving about like a single antlered horn. Witchfire burned in the eyes lenses and a slim diresword in hand glowed with psychic potential.
All were stunned to silence by the sight, unable to comprehend the blasphemy wrought in this place. No mere automaton was this but the corpse of a living warrior, changed and translated. A good and honest Space Marine, corrupted body and soul, trapped in the moment of death to be puppeteered by a Xenos ghost. Vitcos' acidic spit brewed in his mouth at the offence to the human form, his urge to attack held back only by sheer force of will.
"Well that was unexpected," Athra gulped.
"What trifold sorrow is this?!" Tachna growled
"Blasphemy most foul," Vitcos agreed, "An Astartes taken as a host for the champion of Xenos."
"It is worse than you know," Vendrick hissed, "That is not the corpse of some random warrior... it was Damiel!"