Hammer Of Daemons Part 19

THEY HAD VERY little time. In less than an hour, they guessed, they would be herded out towards the arena of Drakaasi's capital, and then it would be too late. So they had gathered in an empty cell on the Hecatomb, with men posted to give the warning in case the scaephylyds came to search them out and administer lashes. That so many of them were together at once was enough for them to be broken up and thrown into isolation cells.

'You,' said Corporal Dorvas.

'Yes,' said Alaric, 'me.'

The corporal was the highest-ranked survivor among the Hathran Armoured Cavalry who had been brought to Drakaasi. The Hathran Guardsmen had found themselves moved between arenas, brutalised and murdered, until they had been boiled down to just the kind of hard-bitten survivors that Lord Ebondrake needed for Vel'Skan's arena slaves. Dorvas was thin, his cheeks were hollow, and his remaining eye was sunken and dark. He still wore the remains of his Hathran fatigues, which contrasted with the makes.h.i.+ft knives he wore in a belt across his chest.

You killed us,' he said, 'a lot of us, at the Scourge!

'I did,' said Alaric. 'I almost fell to Khorne, but I did not fall all the way, and I was brought back.'

'Some of us finally lost the will when they realised that a s.p.a.ce Marine had turned to the enemy. First you abandon the line at Pale Ridge, and then you were the executioner in the arena.' Dorvas's voice was level, but there was so much hate in him that he was almost quivering with it.

'You can hate me, corporal, and refuse to have anything to do with me. Or you can put that aside for a few hours and cooperate with us. If you do the latter you will have a chance of getting off this planet.'

Dorvas sat back and looked at the other people gathered in the chamber. Erkhar, the evangelical ex-Naval captain stood on one side of Alaric. On his other side was Gearth, who even to an outsider's eyes was obviously a psychopath, and a killer of impressive pedigree. Haggard the surgeon and the alien Kelhedros completed the ragged escape committee of the Hecatomb's slaves.

Alaric couldn't quite imagine what it must be like seeing them for the first time. The s.p.a.ce Marine and the eldar in one place without trying to kill each other was remarkable enough.

'What are our chances?' asked Dorvas, sounding unimpressed.

'I wouldn't have smuggled you in here,' said Kelhedros, 'if there were no point in doing so.'

"You're lucky I didn't kill you the moment you put your xenos hands on me,' said Dorvas to the alien.

Then you understand why I had to use uncultured methods,' said Kelhedros smoothly. Alaric trusted only Kelhedros to make it off the Hecatomb and back on again without detection, and at Alaric's order he had brought the blindfolded Dorvas onto the lower decks.

Then what's the plan?' asked Dorvas.

'Kill 'em all,' said Gearth with a smirk.

That's it?' asked Dorvas.

'It's a bit more subtle than that,' said Alaric, 'but, essentially, yes.

With the help of Vel'Skan's arena slaves we can force an uprising in the arena. If it happens during the contests the confusion will be great. Believe me, the crowd can be a weapon for us if we know how to use it.'

'So I hear,' said Dorvas. They say a s.p.a.ce Marine caused the riot at Gorgath. I'm guessing it was you, since there aren't too many s.p.a.ce Marines around. Except even if you're right, there are some old boys among the arena slaves who remember the last revolt. Every single one of the runners died. Even if we break out, we can't hold the arena, or anywhere else, against the Ophidian Guard.'

The big guy here says he has a plan for that,' said Gearth. 'He isn't being too open with it, though.'

The fear of any revolt being crushed is what really keeps us here,'

said Erkhar, 'us and all the other slaves on Drakaasi. If we are to overcome that, Alaric, we need to know that there is at least a chance that we can survive the aftermath of any escape.'

That's right,' said Gearth. 'Golden boy here might be willing to go out with a bang for his Emperor, but the rest of us would like a couple more years to enjoy that freedom.'

All eyes were on Alaric. It was true. His word had got him this far.

It was time for him to be honest.

'Who among you,' he began, 'has heard of Raezazel the Cunning?'

RAEZAZEL WAS ANCIENT indeed when Tzeentch's web of fate snared him.

The daemon had spent thousands of years in service to Tzeentch, but of course he had not truly served the Liar G.o.d, since Tzeentch did nothing so mundane as dispense orders. He manipulated, he bled half-truths into the minds of foes and followers so that they converged at a point in s.p.a.ce and time that Tzeentch had conceived in ages past.

Very rarely, he spoke to the souls of his servants. It was a great honour, and yet a thing to be greatly feared, for he still lied. It also meant that Tzeentch was displeased enough to commit the great mediocrity of speaking to his servants as a G.o.d.

Tzeentch required souls, new servants, perhaps, or fodder, or maybe playthings to be caged in a maddening labyrinth in the warp, so that Tzeentch could observe their torment with a smile on his thousand mouths. He required souls nonetheless, and the holier the better. The more they believed in the corpse-emperor, the false G.o.d entombed on Terra, the sweeter the terror and madness would be.

Raezazel the Cunning was tasked with finding such souls and delivering them to Tzeentch. Why they were needed did not matter to Raezazel. Quite possibly, Tzeentch needed none of them, and it was merely the act of their abduction that would set in motion some impossibly complicated sequence of events that Tzeentch wished to come to pa.s.s. It was of no consequence. Tzeentch came to Raezazel in dreams and portents, and spoke to him in a thousands voices that innocents were required, and that was all that mattered.

Raezazel had taken many forms in the past. It was inimical for one such as him to appear as any one creature for long, but for Tzeentch, he was willing to take on a face of mediocrity. He became a human.

He made this human magnificently handsome, glowing with charisma. With the irony of which the Liar G.o.d was fondest, he made every word of this human seem the truth. He came to a belt of isolated worlds and proclaimed himself a prophet, flitting between these childlike worlds and beguiling their people. It was not easy.

Many of them were hard-bitten missionaries of the Imperial Cult, who denounced Raezazel the prophet as a heretic, and implored the people to take up arms and burn him at the stake. A few even claimed he was a daemon from the warp come to tempt them towards some horrible fate, and it was a perverse pleasure to Raezazel that some of them should have stumbled across the truth in their anger.

Raezazel was too brilliant to fall to the torches and pitchforks that the mobs raised against him. For every Emperor-fearing citizen who wanted him dead, there were two or three more who looked upon the bleakness of their universe and sought to find something more in Raezazel's promises. His cult grew, and soon, without any further prompting from him, preachers spread his word. n.o.bles and governors fell under the spell, for they knew more than anyone how tiny and insignificant any one person was, and they yearned for something more in their lives.

That was when Raezazel invented the Promised Land. He would take them somewhere free of suffering and hatred. There would be no more t.i.the takers forcing them into poverty, no preachers turning every innocent thought into sin, no law to keep them in fear. They would be free.

They found a s.p.a.cecraft and used all the cult's resources making it warp-worthy, and making it home to thousands of followers. An altar to Raezazel was built inside it, along with coundess shrines to saints and holy spirits that had sprung up in the cult's minds without any suggestion from Raezazel. The s.p.a.cecraft was holy ground, a mighty ark that was both the symbol and the means of the cult's salvation.

On the day when the craft was to be consecrated and launched, Raezazel appeared to them and told them how they were going to get to the Promised Land. The great warp storm of the Eye of Terror, the weeping sore in the night sky, was their destination.

There, hidden among the Eye's corrupted worlds, was a rent in this cruel universe through which the faithful could reach the Promised Land. The Eye of Terror was a test, an icon of fear through which the faithful had to pa.s.s to prove that their souls were resolute enough to deserve entry into the Promised Land. There, the true Emperor would receive them, and they would live in bliss for eternity.

The s.h.i.+p was launched. Raezazel was on board, basking in the glory of an altar built to him, mocking the congregation with every word and blessing. The s.h.i.+p reached the Eye of Terror, and the wayward tides of the warp there were calmed, perhaps by chance, perhaps by the impossible will of Tzeentch. The s.h.i.+p surfaced from the warp to be confronted with a bright slash in s.p.a.ce, the tear in reality beyond which Tzeentch waited to consume or torment the thousands of pilgrims singing Raezazel's praises.

The pilgrims, though, were only human, and they were fallible.

Their navigation had failed to take into account one of the many worlds that drifted across the Eye of Terror on the echoes of the warp's haphazard tides. One such planet was in their path as the s.h.i.+p exited the warp, and the s.h.i.+p was caught in its gravity well, its course spiralling down towards the surface.

The pilgrims screamed. Raezazel raged in frustration. He had come so close to fulfilling Tzeentch's will. He would surely have been elevated to something higher in grat.i.tude for delivering the pilgrims, granted a sliver of insight into the great mystery of the universe. Now some mundane technical matter had forced his plan awry. Raezazel stayed on the s.h.i.+p, using sorcery to force it back onto its course, but Raezazel's powers were not enough to compete with the gravity of a planet.

Through the s.h.i.+p's viewscreen, the pilgrims saw the immense eight-pointed star scored into the planet's surface, formed by ca.n.a.ls and rivers filled with blood, and a few of them realised what fate their prophet had truly led them into.

The s.h.i.+p crashed into a city, and its structure was sound enough to keep it intact, but the minds of its inhabitants were not so sound.

The madness and murder that followed were so terrible that the whole planet heard the echo of it. Raezazel slipped out of the s.h.i.+p and hid among the planet's terrible, blood-soaked cities, and eventually would be challenged and defeated by the young champion Venalitor.

This was the truth that Alaric had unravelled from Raezazel's fevered memories.

The name of the planet was Drakaasi.

The name of the s.h.i.+p was the Hammer of Daemons.

SOME TIME AFTER the conference between the escape committee, Alaric found Lieutenant Erkhar in the faithful's hidden shrine.

Erkhar was there alone. His faithful were elsewhere, silentiy praying for deliverance from the cruelty of Vel'Skan's games.

Erkhar was sitting with his head bowed in front of the severed statue head that served the faithful as their altar.

'I know how you feel,' said Alaric after a while. You try to hear the Emperor, and filter out His words from the mess of your own thoughts. He's in there somewhere, but it's the warp's own job to find Him.'

Erkhar looked around. It seemed he hadn't heard Alaric approaching.

'I suppose you have to speak with me, Justicar.'

Alaric came closer. He saw that Erkhar' face was long and pale, like a man in shock. You don't believe me.'

'I do not know what to believe. I have my faith, but that is something different.'

You know that what I told the others is true, Erkhar. The book on which you based your preaching was found on this planet, was it not? I believe it is the writings of a follower of Raezazel's. When Raezazel's mind touched mine I saw everything. I saw what the Hammer of Daemons really was. It is not a magical weapon after all. It's not a metaphor for your suffering. It is a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p, and it is still here'

'So everything we believe is just the product of corruption and lies,' said Erkhar, 'woven by a daemon.' He took his prayer book from inside his uniform jacket. It was tattered and torn by the years.

He handed it to Alaric.

Alaric read for a while. Erkhar sat looking at him, and Alaric could not fathom what he must have been thinking with everything he believed in shaken so profoundly.

It was the s.h.i.+p's log, written by a captain whose mind was taken up with religious visions. The daily entries read like parables. The s.h.i.+p was described as a metaphor for faith, its journey as a voyage for the soul. The captain's thoughts were written down as sermons or hymns. Without knowing that there was a real s.h.i.+p it would have been easy to believe that the Hammer of Daemons was just one more metaphor among many.

'The faith is not a lie,' said Alaric. 'How many of your faithful would have survived without it? How many would have become corrupted?'

'What do you care?' snarled Erkhar. 'Never did you believe, never.

We were a resource to be exploited, and now this daemon claims to have brought the Hammer here.'

' I saw into its mind,' said Alaric. 'It was as clear as day.'

'How do you know this is not just more lies?' Erkhar got to his feet. Alaric had told him that everything he believed was a fiction, and his disbelief was turning to anger. This could be the daemon's last curse to break us apart, to take away the only thing we have left. Or just another part of some plot to do the Liar G.o.d's bidding.'

'I doubt Raezazel's plan included failing to possess me,' said Alaric.

'As one who claims to fight the daemon, you trust them very easily. What proof do you have that the Hammer is even here?'

'None!' barked Alaric in frustration. 'Of course there is none! But it is all we have. I believe I know what the Hammer is and where it is, and how it can get us off this planet. How much closer have you ever been to escape? Maybe this is all a lie, maybe the Hammer was never here. Maybe the d.a.m.n thing won't fly any more, but it is sdll the best chance you will ever get. How long are you going to wait for the Promised Land, Erkhar? Undl the last of you are dead or mad?'

Erkhar shook his head. 'You're using us even now,' he said. You need a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p crew. My faithful and I are the closest thing to it.

Otherwise you'd leave us here.'

'No,' said Alaric. We're all going. I need you to fly the Hammer, that's true, but more than that, I need to hurt Drakaasi. Think about it, lieutenant. If the planet's best slaves disappear from under the lords' noses, at the height of their greatest games, what will the consequences be? Think of the insult to their G.o.d. Think of the recriminations. If nothing else, imagine the looks on their faces when they realise we have fled. Sooner or later you will die here and your skull will be a part of Khorne's throne. If you had a chance to avoid giving diem that much, is your duty not to take it?'

'Survival is not enough.'

You will defeat Khorne, is that not enough?'

Erkhar slumped back down against the makes.h.i.+ft altar. He looked up at Alaric, and there were tears br.i.m.m.i.n.g in his eyes. 'I want to leave this place... I want that so much... and now that chance is here, but what if it is just another lie? There have been so many, Justicar, about the Imperium, about the Emperor. Now the lies of daemons and the desperation of condemned men have brought us here.

Where can the truth be in that?'

Think of it this way,' said Alaric, kneeling down so that his full height didn't tower so much over Erkhar. 'If we fail, we die. I believe that when we die, we join the Emperor at the end of time, to fight by his side against all the darkness of the universe. That is not such a bad thing. To die trying to wound the pride of the Blood G.o.d... well, that is quite a story to tell all the other ghosts.'

'Emperor forgive me, I want to leave here. I want to... I want to die. I cannot see my faithful suffer any more. I am just a man. The saint would stay here. The saint would suffer, and become a martyr, to show the galaxy what will-power and the Emperor's word can do.'

The saint would lead his followers off Drakaasi and back to the Imperium so he can preach to the rest of the galaxy what he has learned,' said Alaric. 'You might be just a man, Erkhar, but that is all any of us are. If we survive this, you will be something more. If we don't then we die a good death, which is more than most citizens will ever get.'

'It will hurt them,' said Erkhar, 'you promise that?'

'I promise, lieutenant. Fly the Hammer of Daemons off this planet, and they will never forget the shame.'

'All of us will leave. Everyone you can get.' 'Everyone.'

'Then we will be with you.'

TWENTY.

THE HECATOMB WAS loosed from its moorings on the broadsword docks, and hauled by teams of scaephylyds through the gorget of a ma.s.sive breastplate lying on its back. Inside was darkness, broken by the blinking red eyes of thousands of flying daemons roosting in the underside of the breastplate. The s.h.i.+p was hauled through the sump of gore lying under Vel'Skan, the detritus of endless sacrifices on the altars of the city above. During particularly holy times, so many were sacrificed that the sump of blood rose and the most ancient parts of the city were drowned in it. It was a good omen for the blood to reach the high tide marks etched onto the city's weaponry. In antic.i.p.ation of the closest fought battle for Drakaasi's t.i.tle, the blood rose very high indeed.

The Hecatomb reached the prison complex, based in a huge and elaborate nest of bra.s.s struts and steel blades that had once been a t.i.tanic piece of torture equipment. The complex was beneath Vel'Skan's arena, and housed the city's arena slaves, among whom were the remnants of the Hathran Armoured Cavalry.

The Hecatomb was moored at the prison docks, to keep Venalitor's slaves from mixing with the arena slaves. Venalitor left, accompanied by an honour guard of scaephylyds in dramatic tribal armour, hand-picked from the scaephylyd nation, which Drakaasi was only just learning existed beneath its deserts.

Many of Venalitor's slaves went through final training sessions to keep them sharp, carefully selecting which weapons and armour they would take into die games. Many of them prayed. A few of them wept, convinced that their end had come at last, and that they would die under the eyes of Vel'Skan's citizens. The orks were unusually quiet, with One-ear growling to them in the crude orkish language for hours. Not all of them knew that Alaric had planned an escape. Fewer still knew the sheer insanity of what they would have to do after they got out of the arena, but all of them knew that it would suit Venalitor for them all to die, as long as it was before the eyes of the audience.

'I AM READY, Justicar,' said Haggard. 'I'll fight.'

'I know you will,' said Alaric. 'I couldn't stop you if I wanted, could I?'

'And would you want to?'

'It would help us if you were alive at the end,' replied Alaric.

'None of us can say what will happen, but I'd be willing to bet that we'll need a sawbones at the end of it.'

'None of that will matter if we don't make it at all,' replied Haggard. 'I was a soldier. I can fight. It would help if you got me a gun at some point, though. I only just sc.r.a.ped through bayonet drill.'