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Fabius Bile: Manflayer – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

Gene-Cache

Emil studied the sleeping god, and wondered what its flesh would taste like. He traced a fat finger through the condensation that covered the glass surface of the gene-vat, exposing the face of the being that slept within. It looked like a young man with narrow, angular features – not handsome, particularly. Then, Emil knew that he had little room to judge such things himself, given his own appearance.

Emil was elephantine in his bulk. In all outward respects he was simply one more obese aristocrat in a galactic hegemony overflowing with such. But his creator had ensured that Emil was so much more than his appearance. Carefully cultivated rolls of fat hid slabs of gene-augmented muscle and bone.

He had been born in a vat much like the one before him. He’d had another life before then. Before the Benefactor had made him strong. A life of hardship and privation. But then the Benefactor had come, on a day of fire and blood, and scooped Emil and the others up. Hundreds of them, some no more than babes in arms. As their parents screamed beneath the flensing knives of the Benefactor’s brothers, Emil and the other children had been shepherded aboard landing vessels. Emil could not recall the sound of his mother’s voice, or her touch. Instead, he remembered the look of pleasure on the Benefactor’s face as he spilled from the gene-vat, squalling and confused. He remembered the words of praise, as he strangled his first mutant. And the blows of chastisement as he killed one of his own packmates.

Emil smiled at the memory, and licked blubbery lips. He had discovered early on that he possessed a gift for the omophageac intake of data. He learned by eating. The more he ate, the more he learned. And the more he learned, the greater his hunger grew.

Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief. He knew that what he considered was blasphemy. The clone was his responsibility. The Benefactor had entrusted him with the guardianship of the gene-cache and all that it contained. He tore his eyes from the insensate clone and looked around.

Shelves of genetic samples lined the walls, and stasis-cylinders containing harvested organs and gene-seed were hooked up to powerful generators. Racks of cloned flesh quivered between tensile enhancers, and calcium slurries burbled as newly flayed bones were broken down into a chemical broth, suitable for further use. Fabrication units hummed, crafting artificial components for use in joint-strengthening modifications or combat enhancement. Mewling vatborn scurried everywhere, arranging these components in their proper places, or attaching them to partially assembled skeletal frameworks. Others tended the neural nets growing in their trays, or programmed code into the various cogitator systems that kept everything running.

In all ways, it was a treasure hoard. And Emil was the dragon who guarded it.

He was not the only one. There were others. His brothers and sisters, seeded across the galaxy by the Benefactor as he made his great pilgrimage. All of them responsible for similar caches, some greater, some lesser. But all valuable. All important to the Benefactor’s great work. And in each one, a god slept.

‘Pater Mutatis,’ he murmured. Almost against his will, he turned back to the gene-tank and its contents. The Benefactor had many bodies – some young, some old. Each was him, and each slept until he desired its awakening. They were, in all ways that mattered, the Benefactor. Did they not have the Benefactor’s face? Did they not wear his panoply?

His gaze flicked to the sealed vault at the other end of the cache. The one that could only be opened by the Benefactor’s biometric pattern. Emil sucked on his teeth and wondered, not for the first time, if, in devouring the Benefactor’s clone, he would gain the ability to open the vault and sample the secrets within.

His reverie was broken by a soft chime from his dermal vox-implant. ‘What?’ he growled, annoyed by the interruption. He sealed the alcove containing the gene-tank, hiding it from view.

‘Governor Vargas, the enemy has penetrated the orbital defence net. Entering troposphere in T-minus–’

Emil cut the link with a snarl. The vox-operator had sounded frightened. Then, perhaps he had reason to be. Beleghast’s defences were impressive. Emil knew this because he had overseen the construction and positioning of the orbital batteries himself – the net was designed to fold around an approaching enemy, trapping them in an interlacing cage of lance fire and torpedo bursts.

He strode to a cogitator bank, shoving aside the vatborn at work there. His fingers danced across the keys, drawing up a hololithic sensor-map of Beleghast-Primus. Quickly, he overlaid the current situation reports. Strategic planning was one of many skills he’d gleaned from the remains of a defeated opponent, and he saw the attackers’ game at once. They’d somehow managed to jam the sensor grid, effectively cutting themselves a hole in the planet’s defensive net. Now they were pouring through the gap, and scattering across the planet. Even at this stage, he could see that it had none of the hallmarks of an invasion. This was a raid. Well, Beleghast had endured such before and would again.

He activated his vox-link, and patched it into the command frequency, overriding all other voices.

‘Scramble atmospheric defence wings Bravo and Excel, signatory-code Vargas-Epsilon. Commander DeKalb?’

‘Governor?’ DeKalb sounded more surprised than respectful. Emil made a note to punish him, in the event of his survival.

‘I want you to–’

He was cut off by a burst of static that degenerated into mocking laughter. He cycled through the secondary and tertiary channels, but it was the same. The invaders had jammed all frequencies. Emil swore and slammed a fist into the wall, denting the reinforced panel. Vatborn, all too familiar with his rages, scattered.

It didn’t matter. So long as the cache remained secure, the rest of the planet could burn. Even so, it rankled. He was the one who would have to explain–

A sudden sound interrupted his thoughts.

He turned. Smoke slithered around the edges of the sealed vault. Something was burning. He sniffed the air. A cutting tool of some kind. A plasma arc, perhaps. Someone was in there. Someone who shouldn’t be.

He spent a moment considering whether to call in the guards positioned outside the cache. He dismissed the idea. Was he not one of the Benefactor’s children? Was he not superior to any creature that walked or crawled in the galaxy? Whatever was coming, Emil Vargas was more than a match for it.

He growled low and long, and stalked towards the vault. He barely flinched when the doors toppled to the floor, still sealed. Smoke billowed, filling the chamber. Emil had no difficulty seeing the thin, spiked forms spilling out into the chamber.

Unfortunately for them, they did not register him until it was too late. He was among them in moments, his heavy fists crunching through their armour. Bodies flew, slamming against the walls. Others fell and were crushed beneath his heavy tread. Splinter-weapons hissed, and he roared as they stung him. His fat insulated him like carapace armour, and his speed was such that any who got a shot off did not have time for a second.

Emil rampaged through them, and the survivors fled back the way they’d come. Hungry now, Emil pursued. When he saw what the vault had been hiding, he paused, momentarily nonplussed.

A portal of shimmering wraithbone rose against the far wall. A metal ramp descended from it, and beyond the milky surface of the portal he could make out the ribbed canyons of the webway. He’d seen it only once, but it had struck him as a desolate hunting ground.

Right now, however, it was full of prey. He bared his teeth as more drukhari emerged from the portal. Pragmatism warred with hunger, and won. He tossed aside the broken body of a xenos and turned to retreat.

‘Is that any way to greet guests?’

The voice spoke High Gothic with a curious accent. Emil turned, despite himself. The drukhari was tall and slim, one eye hidden behind a golden monocle of curious design. She held a heavy pistol in her hand, aimed at his head.

Emil snarled, and leapt.

The ship was sleek and arched like a contented felinoid. It had no colour, no heraldry, instead bending the light around it and hiding itself among the solar plains. A predator of the galaxy’s dark rim, invisible to its prey’s senses. Or so its captain fancied.

On the ship’s observation deck, Archon Peshig lounged atop his command throne, fanning himself. It was always so cursed hot aboard the Sygilax. The heat-scrapers hadn’t worked in decades, much like every other nonessential system on the cruiser. Funds were tight, and Peshig was loath to waste them on anything that didn’t immediately and directly benefit him – clothes, weapons and slaves, in that order.

‘My arm is tired,’ he said. One of the several slaves within earshot took over the fanning duties, allowing Peshig to focus all of his attention on other matters. He glanced lazily at Hexachires. The lord of the Synod of Scars stood nearby, surrounded by a host of hunched and masked wracks.

Master Hexachires was tall and thin, his body mostly hidden beneath robes of flensed and tanned flesh. His face was covered by a mask of gently shifting skin, its features changing one moment to the next. Tendrils composed of hybridised metal and muscle tissue stretched from a reinforced spinal column. Several of these grisly limbs held him aloft, and his withered legs were bound together by straps of leather and left to dangle.

The haemonculus’ mon-keigh pet crouched nearby, silently observing the operation. Peshig grimaced as he studied the beast. It smelled of musk and blood. It was a hulking brute, all muscle and violent impulses, barely restrained by means Peshig didn’t entirely understand. It wore only a featureless iron helm reminiscent of a wrack’s mask, and a loincloth, exposing rangy limbs and scarred flesh.

As he watched, Hexachires reached out as if to stroke the creature’s head. It jerked away, as if startled, and the haemonculus chuckled. The sound sent a chill down Peshig’s spine. He often wondered how he’d come to the notice of a creature like Hexachires. While the Thirteen Scars were not among the most powerful of Commorragh’s haemonculi covens, they were far more influential than his tiny kabal. But Hexachires seemed to prefer dealing with dozens of smaller kabals rather than a few large ones.

Perhaps because they were easier to play off of one another. And to replace, when they’d outlived their usefulness as patrons. Whatever the reason, he was cautiously grateful. Without the bargain he’d made with the old monster, his kabal, the Bloody Blossom, would have been doomed to extinction. As it was, this expedition might well be the making of them. Soon enough, he might have his choice of haemonculi.

But for the moment, it was his duty to be a good host. He cleared his throat.

‘The raid is going well. Lots of explosions – that usually means Salar is enjoying himself.’

‘So long as your fellow archon holds to the strategy I devised, he is free to do so,’ Hexachires said. His voice was a rough growl, as if he’d been chewing broken glass. ‘Have the Voidraven bombers launched?’

‘Just now. They should be entering the troposphere in the next few seconds.’ Peshig leaned forward and signalled one of the warriors standing at a nearby cogitator dais. ‘Fennysh, be a sport and bring up the feed from Klux’s bomber. Our guest would like to see if his creations work.’ Peshig was proud of his little air force – a handful of bombers and Razorwing jetcraft to escort them.

Hexachires sniffed. ‘I know that they work. I designed them, after all. The question is whether that dissolute rabble you call pilots can deploy them properly.’

Peshig smiled. He took no offence. The pilots were rabble, and a rowdy lot to boot. All of them of noble birth and prone to overindulging in expensive vices, which made buying out their contracts incredibly cost-effective. Klux was the worst of the lot – overbred and stupid, unless it involved flying. But when he was in the air, he was worth every headache he’d ever given Peshig.

‘Klux, dear boy, can you hear me?’ Peshig asked.

Klux’s voice echoed through the deck’s communication link. ‘I’m busy, Peshig.’

‘Archon Peshig, Klux. Remember we had that discussion about respect? I’m sure you do – it got rather pointed. How’s the new kidney, by the by?’

Klux was silent for a moment. ‘I’m busy, archon. What do you want?’

‘Prepare to deploy the special payload our guest has devised.’ Peshig glanced at Hexachires, who nodded. ‘Pick a good spot – we want a bit of a show, after all.’

‘Acknowledged.’ Klux cut the link. He’d never been one for chit-chat. Peshig turned back to Hexachires.

‘It’ll take him a few moments to locate a spot. Enough time for Salar to satiate his bloodlust, I suppose. And for Avara to reach her own target. Are we sure about the latter, by the by? She’s going to be quite upset if there’s no portal.’

Hexachires’ flesh-mask twisted into a leer. ‘According to the schematics we discovered last time, he’s begun installing them in the larger cache-facilities. A misstep we shall take full advantage of.’

‘What I’d like to know is how he got hold of them in the first place. That sort of technology should be beyond the skill of any mon-keigh.’

Hexachires grunted. ‘He stole them, obviously.’

‘And this facility will have something of worth in it, I trust? Because the last three and everything in them were naught but ashes when we finally got through their defences.’

The mon-keigh laughed. ‘I warned you,’ it croaked. It had an awful voice. Like rocks grinding together. Peshig frowned.

‘I don’t care to be addressed by such a creature. Please discipline it, Hexachires.’

‘In a moment.’ Hexachires leaned forward. ‘I think your pilot has found what he was looking for.’

Peshig turned back to the screen. ‘So he has. I told you. Klux is quite the pilot, when he’s sober. Which isn’t often, admittedly.’ The picter units were mounted on the bomber’s prow, and they showed a wide thoroughfare expanding as the Voidraven swooped low over the hab-blocks. ‘So many statues,’ Peshig murmured. ‘Why do they need so many?’

‘Short lives make for short memories,’ Hexachires said idly. ‘They need to be reminded of their history on a nigh constant basis otherwise they’d forget everything.’

Peshig shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How such a dim-witted species has propagated itself to such an extent I shall never understand.’

Hexachires laughed – an ugly, oily sound. ‘Intelligence and fecundity are two distinct spheres. And there’s something to be said for sheer momentum.’

Peshig chuckled politely, though he didn’t find it humorous in the least. Creatures like Hexachires might be content to watch their race dwindle into irrelevance, but Peshig felt the call of the ancient empire in his veins. Not that he had any intention of answering that call, but it was there and he acknowledged it, as well as the myriad factors preventing him from doing anything about it. Though he would never say so publicly, he was grateful for those obstacles. It was more fun to grouse about what could be than to exert oneself in pursuit of dreary goals.

He spied a familiar banner on one of the screens – Salar, archon of the Hanging Skull, standing atop the rail of his personal raider, gesticulating inelegantly with that damned blade of his. On the screen, a flock of Hellions swooped past, answering Salar’s call. Warriors fired from the deck of the raider, adding to the confusion in the streets. Mon-keigh were fleeing in all directions, trying to escape the swarming drukhari.

Salar was a lanky creature, clad in partial armour and silks. His arms were bare, and his hair was unbound, giving him a vaguely piratical air. In contrast to its wielder, the sword he held was a beautiful thing, all graceful curves and impossible edges. Salar talked to it – and sometimes, Peshig suspected that it answered. He frowned, watching the rival archon indulge himself. Unlike him, Salar enjoyed leading from the front. Then, Salar was a psychopath with a poor sense of fashion. He also smelled faintly of gun-oil, something Peshig might have found invigorating under different circumstances. As it was, he quite detested Salar. The other archon was an uncultured bully, lacking in the wit to even make a proper witty retort or cutting jibe. For a drukhari, he was remarkably akin to a mon-keigh.

Peshig paused, considering. He filed the observation away. A good insult always bore repeating, especially if one could find an audience.

‘Launching payload.’

He turned as Klux’s voice echoed across the deck. He watched the missile speed ahead of the diving bomber and impact against the street below. As Klux pulled up, the picter units attached to the aft section of the bomber recorded what happened next.

The missile had not detonated on impact. Rather it jutted from its crater like a hurled spear. As Peshig watched, panels were ejected from the missile’s length, and miniature aerosol emitters emerged. In moments, a greenish-yellow haze, filled with what looked to be flickering arcs of electrical energy, had permeated the surrounding area, and soon rapidly filled the surrounding streets.

‘I still don’t understand why the missile has to be fired so low,’ Peshig said.

‘Any higher and it might damage the delivery system,’ Hexachires said.

‘Why not simply make the explosion the delivery method?’

‘Because it would disperse too quickly. There is enough powdered wraithbone in each missile to take out a mon-keigh city of moderate size. And the emitters can keep processing it for hours. So long as the missile remains intact, the dispersal system will do its job.’

Peshig spied an approaching raider heave to out of the thickening murk. The warriors aboard wore psychic bafflers, which prevented them from feeling the effects of the wraithbone gas. Theoretically, at least. Hexachires claimed to have field-tested them, but one could never be sure with a haemonculus.

The mon-keigh, however, had no such protections. As the wraithbone mist filled the streets, the already panicked citizens were driven into madness. Some attacked each other, others fell to the ground weeping. A few killed themselves. The effects were instantaneous and irreversible. In the chemical haze, lit by arcs of soul energy, the humans succumbed to their own base instincts and became little more than beasts.

‘No less impressive now than it was the previous three times,’ Peshig said. ‘I could honestly watch it all day. Unfortunately, one has duties when one is archon.’ He pushed himself from his throne. ‘Weapons, please.’

Several slaves hurried forward carrying his wargear. His gun and sword belt were strapped about his waist, and adjusted so that they hung fashionably low. A third slave polished the plates of his armour to a high sheen, while a fourth bound his hair back. When they’d completed their tasks, Peshig scattered them with a gesture.

‘Would you care to accompany me planetside, Hexachires?’ he said. ‘Stretch those leathery limbs a bit? Get some blood on your boots, as my warriors like to say?’

Hexachires didn’t look at him. ‘I think not. I am no warrior. Merely an academic. I shall watch from here, if it pleases you.’

‘Of course, of course. My ship is at your disposal. Should you require anything, simply inform my slaves.’ Peshig paused. ‘You will, of course, be there when Avara does her part?’ he asked carefully.

Hexachires turned. The constant shifting of his mask made his expression all but impossible to read. ‘I would not miss it. And you will recall our bargain – the cache-facilities and all they contain are mine, to dispense or retain as I see fit.’

Peshig flapped a hand negligently. ‘Oh, certainly. I have no interest in a mon-keigh fleshcrafter’s tools. Only guns and slaves have any real value, after all.’ He knew the lackadaisical comment would annoy Hexachires. He gave a jaunty wave as he strode past the haemonculus and his servants.

‘Do enjoy the show, Hexachires. We’ll try and save a few slaves for you.’

Oleander Koh surreptitiously touched the edges of his helm. The interior was barbed, biting into his cheeks and scalp, and cortical hooks were sunk deep into his skull. Rivulets of dried blood stained his neck, shoulders and chest. He tugged at the helm, and felt his flesh tear. It was a good pain.

On the viewscreens that dotted the observation platform, a world was dying. The raid was less a military strike, and more an artistic performance. There was a definite theatrical flair to Hexachires’ strategy, and Oleander suspected that the haemonculus was a frustrated showman. He glanced at his captor, but the haemonculus was seemingly enraptured by his handiwork. He probed the joins of the helm.

He had been worrying at the seals for weeks, weakening them. Soon, he might be able to remove it entirely. He’d lose most of his face and scalp, but that was an acceptable sacrifice. He hissed slightly, as he jostled one of the cortical hooks.

Without looking at him, Hexachires drew a curious, archaic-looking baton from within his coat and pressed a rune on its length. A jolt of pain surged through Oleander’s frame. Not the sweet pain of wounds taken, or of a lash, but rather a spike of agony driven straight into his central nervous system. He convulsed, groping at the helm.

‘Do not touch it,’ Hexachires said, turning. ‘How many times must we go through this? I will not have you ruining my work with your clumsy fingers.’

Smoke rose from Oleander’s exposed flesh. Coughing, he tried to rise. Hexachires patted his shoulder in almost paternal fashion. ‘The harder you struggle, the worse it will be,’ the haemonculus said. ‘Surely you have learned that lesson by now.’

‘I… I’ve always been a slow learner.’

Hexachires snorted. ‘It took quite a bit of effort to determine what sort of frequency would work on a creature like you. Pain and pleasure are comingled in your mind in some fashion. I had to figure out how to bypass those overgrown neural networks and carve a new path.’ He leaned close. ‘Of course, I couldn’t have done it without your master. It was he who first suggested such a thing. He even made a few prototypes, though mine is far superior to his primitive efforts.’

He turned back to the screens.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it has a certain brute appeal.’

Hexachires turned, flesh-mask shifting to show his displeasure. ‘I don’t know why I expected a mon-keigh to appreciate a work of such artistry.’

Oleander forced a laugh. ‘Artistry? You launched a missile. You poisoned the atmosphere. It’s hardly subtle.’

‘Art doesn’t have to be subtle,’ Hexachires said. ‘Indeed, subtlety often robs a work of impact.’ He turned back to the screens. ‘Look. See. A push of a button, and a world dies screaming. What better proof of my genius than that?’

‘I can think of several.’

Hexachires tapped the pain-baton again, and Oleander fell onto his face, screaming. ‘You won’t steal my satisfaction with this moment. In a few hours every living thing left on this world will be dead, or utterly insane.’ He leaned down and caught Oleander’s chin. ‘We were the masters of this galaxy, you know. Every world was but a garden for our pleasures, and every species a source of entertainment. And then it all came apart in our hands. And as we lay in pieces, you ugly little mon-keigh came down from the trees and decided you were in charge.’

‘There used to be a saying on Terra, about possession being the whole of the law.’

Hexachires released him. ‘And whose possession are you, hmm?’ He gave the activation rune on the pain-baton a gentle caress. Oleander stiffened as another thrill of agony ran through him. But only for a moment. ‘I will hear no more bucolic homilies from your depressing little mudball of a home world, Oleander. I am under quite enough stress at the moment as it is. Now where was I?’

‘We… we came down from the trees…’ Oleander said, through gritted teeth.

‘Ah, yes. You and all the rest of the by-blows. The unintended consequences of a plan gone awry. And now look at the galaxy – it’s filthy. Messy. All these little fiefdoms, waging their little wars.’ Hexachires stroked the top of Oleander’s helm. ‘You’re just a weapon with an overinflated ego, you know. What do you call yourselves? Oh yes – Astartes. Just tools. Humanity’s answer to the Krork, only less effective. How does it feel to know you are second best at the thing you were made to do?’

‘You tell me.’

Hexachires clucked his tongue. ‘Did I mention the stress I’m feeling?’ He tapped the rune on the baton and Oleander convulsed, curses dribbling from his blistered lips. ‘You shouldn’t provoke me. I might decide to get creative with your torments.’

Oleander fell to his hands and knees, panting. As he did so, he heard the jingle of bells.

‘We did not deliver him into your care so that you could torture him,’ a new voice intruded.

Hexachires stiffened. ‘Is it my fault that you did not think to forbid it? Consider it payment for services rendered.’ He turned. ‘I won’t insult you by asking how you got in here, clown. Instead, I’ll just skip to the second most obvious question and ask why you’re here.’

A thin shape, clad in intricately patterned clothes of onyx and viridian, stepped into view, clutching a long staff. High, trilling laughter echoed across the deck. Kabalite warriors, slaves and wracks all hurriedly looked away or found other places to be.

‘Rest assured, I come with great purpose, oh Lord of Knives.’

Hexachires sighed. ‘That is not an answer.’

‘No. And yes.’ More laughter, sharp and savage. And unpleasantly familiar. Oleander hunched forwards, trying to block it out, to no avail. The sound crawled into his head and ate at his composure like acid. His eyes darted around, trying to look anywhere but at the newcomer. He felt the end of the staff slip beneath his chin and lift his head.

‘Hello, Count Sunflame.’

Oleander stared at the creature he knew as Veilwalker. He made to rise, to throttle the aeldari, but a surge of pain caused him to convulse instead.

Hexachires laughed. ‘Now, now, my pet. Settle down.’ He looked at the Harlequin. ‘He must really despise you.’

‘I betrayed him.’

Hexachires sniffed. ‘Treachery is meat and drink to this one. She Who Thirsts has her hooks set deep in whatever passes for his soul.’

Veilwalker shrugged. ‘Be that as it may, he still has a part in the drama to come. Else we would have left him to the tender mercies of Lugganath.’

Hexachires laughed. ‘Yes, I heard about that. Did you truly feed all those souls to She Who Thirsts? Granted, they were not important souls – but still, one must question the wisdom of such a plan.’

‘That the reason is not easily apparent is no proof of foolishness. Every gambit, every trick – it is all part of the same story. The only story that matters.’ Veilwalker pointed at the haemonculus. ‘A story you are part of as well, oh Lord of Knives. That is why we gave him to you.’

Hexachires chuckled. ‘And I have had much pleasure from him since. Once, I locked him in his own mind, able to perceive all that occurred but unable to move or speak, and left him in the high eyries, where spire-bats fed his flesh to their young.’

Oleander groaned softly, remembering the exquisite pain. The creatures had flayed him to the bone over the course of a week.

‘And then there was the time that I–’

‘Enough,’ Veilwalker said softly.

Hexachires looked at her. ‘I decide that, clown. Not you.’

‘I meant only that now is not the time for idle reminiscences.’ Veilwalker looked down at Oleander. ‘I wish to speak with him.’

‘Feel free.’

‘Alone.’

Hexachires hesitated. He was a suspicious creature, as any drukhari was. ‘Why?’ he demanded.

Veilwalker looked at him. ‘Because that is how this story goes.’

Hexachires stared at the shimmering mask for long moments, then turned away. ‘Fine. You have your little chat. I will be over here, enjoying the fruits of my labour.’ He moved away, to more closely observe the carnage playing out across the screens.

‘You can’t trust him,’ Oleander said, when he was out of earshot. ‘Whatever hold you have on him – it won’t be enough.’

‘But for now, it is sufficient.’ Veilwalker leaned on her staff. ‘Do you know why we have danced this dance for you, Oleander? Do you perceive the greater narrative before you – or only the part you play?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The future is a tangled skein. Only by tugging on the right thread can you unravel it. But for each action, there is a reaction – the thread becomes more tightly tangled, or significantly looser. The path to the desired ending is neither straight nor easy.’

‘You tell me nothing I do not know.’ Oleander touched his helm. ‘This is hardly the ending I desired, when I made my bargain with you all those centuries ago.’

Veilwalker sighed. ‘We did not choose this role for you. You chose it, and freely.’ The Harlequin leaned forward, mask shifting and shimmering with the light. ‘It was never about your brothers, you know. Never about their fate. United or scattered, their story is written. As is yours.’

‘Is that why you let us break a craftworld?’

‘Yes,’ Veilwalker said softly. ‘We sacrifice a million to save a billion yet unborn. The future of the aeldari race is a tenuous branch, overburdened with possibility. It must be pruned and shaped, and you are part of that.’

‘I care nothing for your pestiferous race.’

‘And we care nothing for you. Your name will not be remembered in our stories and songs, save in the most allegorical fashion. You will die alone, unsung and unremembered.’

‘Is that how Count Sunflame’s story ends, then?’

‘That is how all stories end, eventually.’ She looked down at Oleander. ‘When we took you from Lugganath, mon-keigh, it was not kindness that compelled us. You still have a small part to play in the great drama. And you will perform it with all skill, for it is your chance of escape. It is your hope of victory.’

Oleander stared at his reflection in her mask. ‘Victory?’

Veilwalker stepped back, spinning her staff. ‘Of sorts.’

Hexachires rejoined them. ‘All sorted then? Everyone satisfied with their part in this little drama? Good. Peshig has made planetfall. And Avara has secured the cache.’ He looked down at Oleander. ‘Come, Oleander. It is time you earned your keep. I want you to sniff out his secrets for me.’

‘And what do you intend to do with them?’ Veilwalker asked.

‘Why, I intend to send a message to our quarry, of course.’

Hexachires laughed.

‘One he will not be able to ignore.’

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A Black Library Publication

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Cover illustration by Lie Setiawan.

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(2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media; and

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 you attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.