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Fire Made Flesh – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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1

Tempes Sol of the Mercator Lux felt a tingle run along his arm just before the thunderbolt struck. It was a soothing sensation, the neurone circuits implanted beneath his skin supping upon the static like it was a vintage amasec, even through the craft’s hull. But the flash also illuminated the cargo bay where he sat, and by its light he caught a glimpse of the secure hold at its rear.

He shuddered involuntarily, switching his gaze to the pew opposite, where the agents of House Delaque were strapped into their flight seats. There were four in total, though only one he knew by name. The remaining trio were interchangeable, their gaunt frames concealed by black longcoats, their hooded faces pale and hairless. All lacked eyes, returning his gaze through view-lenses wired directly into the orbital socket. It made it difficult to read them, and Sol wondered if that was the primary motivation for getting the ocular enhancements.

Still, he had passed enough time with them now to detect vague hints of discomfort as the craft shuddered, battling against the fury of the storm. They were flying low, riding the magnetic waves generated by the mile-long tendrils of the Fulgur-Net. Through the misted viewport and unending downpour, he caught a glimpse of the net’s towering lightning-lures. They drank deep from the perma-storm and, in turn, fed the reserves of the Mercator Lux. His craft rode their waves, suspended on the ambient electromagnetic energy of the net. But the storm ever raged, and the magnetic waves were neither calm nor predictable. The agents of Delaque were not easily shaken, but as the craft lurched and bucked he noted the tapping of a foot and shifting of shoulders. None could quite conceal their unease.

None but their leader, Anguis.

She sat directly opposite, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a spark of amusement playing on the right side of her lips. She was the only one of them who bore a distinguishing feature: a silver scar adorning her left cheek.

There was a second flash. Closer this time. The craft rolled as the oarsman nimbly rode the storm-surge. The Delaque furthest from Sol twitched, fingers darting into their longcoat on reflex. The others glared in reproach, except Anguis, whose face split a smile, though the left side of her mouth remained downturned. It appeared to be nerve damage, but Sol had resisted the temptation to enquire after the cause of the injury. A dozen answers could be offered, but none would be true. Perhaps the scar was for his benefit, a fleeting method of identification. He had no doubt she would shed it along with her name once their partnership concluded.

‘Perhaps we should have chosen a better day for it?’ she said. Her voice was quiet, little more than a whisper, but Sol assumed she must be addressing him. The agents rarely spoke to one another. Not unless they intended to be overheard.

‘The storm has raged for at least a thousand years, and extends over a hundred miles across the Ash Wastes,’ he said. ‘It would be a long wait.’

‘You don’t get bored of rain?’

Sol shrugged. ‘There’s a reason this region is known as the Stormlands.’

‘It makes for a thrilling journey,’ she said, glancing at her fellow agents. ‘Though I fear Number Sixty-Two is struggling to keep their food down. Perhaps you could offer reassurance?’

Sol glanced at the agent. There was a time he had memorised their numerical designations, but he’d soon come to realise these too were in constant flux. He was fairly confident this had been Number Sixteen yesterday; their holster bore a faint but tell-tale lasburn.

‘We are flying low and between the lines of the Fulgur-Net,’ he said. ‘The majority of the storm’s localised output will be drawn by the lightning-lures. The craft will sometimes be washed by the splash but the hull has a modified conversion field to mitigate the worst of it. Our oarsman has ridden the surge many times. We have no one more experienced.’

‘Thank you. Very reassuring.’

‘Yes,’ Sol replied, ‘though less so when you consider that he was barely our third most experienced oarsman the last time I made this journey. The others…’

He spread his hands.

‘I see,’ Anguis said, arching her one good eyebrow. ‘House Delaque has a saying about how some secrets are best kept. I fear that was one of them.’

Sol shrugged. ‘The net is a relic. Our meteoro-techs have catalogued the storm’s geography and temperament. But the net is neither fully operational nor fully understood. There are gaps, stress points. If it were to abruptly fail, or there was a surge directly between the lines, we would not survive.’

Anguis smiled her half-smile. ‘Well, there are always risks.’

‘Indeed,’ Sol said. ‘But you requested our business be conducted somewhere secure, and there is nowhere more secure than the Needle. The atmospheric interference disrupts external surveillance, and the location is only accessible to those who can ride the Fulgur-Net.’

The Delaque leader nodded politely, then was silent. Sol retrieved his data-slate, feigning interest in the flickering screen whilst he watched her from the corner of his eye. He suspected the Delaques were communicating somehow – perhaps a vox-channel wired directly through the vocal cords and inner ears, or a visual display via their optical implants. They seemed silent, but they seemed many things when it suited.

He found himself ill at ease.

It was not the journey itself. He had been born in the Stormlands and the voyage was routine to him. But the thunder had lulled, and with the agents silent he could hear something, even over the hum of the vessel and distant clash of lightning.

There was a scratching coming from the rear hold.

He tried to ignore it, keeping his gaze fixed on the data-slab, but he could not escape the sound. It was like the scuttling of an insect, or rats moving through the walls. Except, if he listened closely, between the scratches he could also make out words. A whisper.

‘You seem nervous?’

He glanced up. Anguis was staring at him.

‘I do not fear the storm.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Like you, I have every faith that we will pass through this tempest.’ She smiled. ‘Yet you are nervous. Why?’

‘Perhaps I fear this endeavour is ultimately futile.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Or perhaps something less elusive is troubling you?’

As one, the Delaques turned, their collective gaze falling on the cargo bay door.

‘It is quite secure,’ Anguis continued. ‘The wards and negation field are fully functional. Should either fail we have contingencies in place. There is no reason to be concerned.’

Sol offered a thin smile of acknowledgement. He could not see why Anguis would knowingly place herself or her agents in danger. He had no cause to doubt her words, at least not on this.

But he swore the whispering was getting louder. He could almost make out a word.

Salvation.

Lord Silas Pureburn of the Mercator Pyros gave every appearance of listening as the accused made her case. He was seated on a modest throne, mounted on a wide dais suspended several feet above the ground on jets of crystal-blue flame. As his gaze fell on the accused, he adopted a well-rehearsed expression, carefully crafted to convey the solemnness of the situation. His focus appeared fixed on the pitiful figure, as though in that moment her testimony was all that mattered to him.

Of course, it mattered very little. He had heard such entreaties a thousand times from a thousand mouths. Whatever excuses she mustered would not affect the outcome. If she truly had leverage or influence the matter would never have needed to go to trial. But Lord Pureburn held firm his belief in the importance of the process. It was vital for the accused to make her case publicly, amongst her friends and neighbours within the settlement. It was just as important that they witnessed said hearing, so none could later argue justice was not done.

Still, it was hard to pay much attention when her delivery was so stilted. She was saying something about children, gesturing to a pair of juves crying in the crowd. Pureburn glanced in their direction, offering a sympathetic nod whilst taking the opportunity to assess the throng. He could feel the tension, the settlers caught between loyalty to their neighbour and fear of the repercussions if they opposed him.

Not that he could be opposed.

He was a Guilder of Mercator Pyros, the Promethium Guild. He looked down on them from a throne that carried the sacred flames of the God-Emperor. His personage was guarded by a score of Cynders – surgically modified bodyguards who obeyed without question, their faces concealed by iron helms. Behind them stood a towering figure of flesh and steel, one hand ending in a smouldering brazier, the other in bladed fingers the length of a fighting-knife. The cybernetically enhanced creature was his Pyromagir, the sacred steward of his flames. With a word it could reduce the crowd to burned flesh and scorched bone. There was no hope of opposing him.

But, he mused, true power lay not in such simple tools. For he was patron to the fanatics of House Cawdor. Their missionary work was long-established in this settlement, and it was their spies who first alerted him to the accused’s crime. She had dared syphon promethium from the settlement’s main fuel line. It was a clumsy effort, as likely to blow her to pieces as provide a reliable source of power. Now he considered the matter, perhaps that would have been a preferable outcome. The consequences would have been the same, as would the lesson. But he would not have needed to sully himself by descending this low into the underhive.

His gaze shifted to the accused. She was rambling now, merely postponing her inevitable fate. She was a remarkably unremarkable woman, no affiliation with one of the lesser Houses, nothing notable in her appearance or cadence. It was regrettable, if consistent, that her final words would be so trite. Still, he gifted her a few more precious moments before raising his hand for silence.

‘Children of the God-Emperor,’ he began, addressing the crowd. ‘For my penance I must pass judgement over this sorry situation. The accused has outlined her defence. I accept that her actions were not malicious, that her misguided theft was in support of her family. As a prosperous man so blessed by the God-Emperor, I might consider overlooking the matter, if the theft only related to my personal property.’

He paused, letting his words sink in before turning from the crowd, directing his gaze to the rear of his throne. There, mounted on a chamber of polished plasteel the height of a man, was a crucible of burnished bronze. Within it, a shimmering flame warmed both flesh and soul. It generated neither smoke nor ash, only the divine light of the God-Emperor.

Lord Pureburn stared into the flames for some time, as though lost in thought. He waited for the first murmurs from the crowd before turning back, his expression grave.

‘Before you blazes the Eternal Flame of the Pureburn family,’ he said. ‘It was once a spark cast from the God-Emperor’s own blade, back when He crusaded across the galaxy. And though He has long since ascended to the Golden Throne, we have not forgotten this gift. The Pureburn family have ensured the flame has burned for thousands of years, never once going dark.’

They were his now; he could see it in their eyes, in the way shoulders slumped and recognition dawned. None would dare oppose him, even the accused’s closest kin. None would risk blaspheming against the God-Emperor.

‘The crime is not just against the Pureburn family,’ he continued. ‘It is a crime against the God-Emperor himself. We know His vengeance. Who can forget the plains of Salvation, where warring gangs of outlaws attempted to syphon His blessed fuel? They are but ash, now, consumed in the fires of His retribution. That is the fate that awaits all who place themselves above Him – they invite death not only upon themselves but also those closest to them.’

The accused was weeping now, seemingly surprised by his ruling. Two members of House Cawdor were already beside her, their faces concealed by grimacing masks. Nooses, symbols of their own mortality, were hung around their necks. They led the weeping figure towards the squalid structure that passed for the settlement’s church, its threshold decorated by ancient braziers that spewed more smoke than flame.

Between them, the pyre was waiting.

As they bound the still weeping woman to the stake, a noise pierced the murmur of the crowd – the plaintive cry from somewhere in the press of bodies of a juve witnessing the end of their childhood. The sound was an irritant, unbecoming to so sombre a ceremony.

For a moment his gaze strayed to the chamber mounted below the Eternal Flame.

It was tempting to open it just a crack, offer the crowd a taste of true power. But no, he had lingered here too long. He could see it in the settlers; red veins creeping into the whites of eyes, fingers twitching in repressed fury. There was no gain in fanning it further.

One of the settlers was dragging the children away, their sobs growing more distant. It was gratifying to know at least someone in the cesspit had a sense of propriety. Pureburn lowered himself back onto the throne, wincing slightly. His back ached and his legs were stiff, his true penance for passage downhive. But he bore the pain with pride for, despite the discomfort and filth, it was important work. As one of the masked executioners raised the smouldering torch, he surveyed the crowd. Despite their anger and fear, most bore expressions of resignation. None would dare steal from him again. This woman’s death would guarantee it.

As the accused’s screams were swallowed by the roaring flames, Lord Pureburn glanced to the data-slate imbedded in the dais, eyes narrowing as he reviewed recent acquisitions and profit margins. He frowned, his good humour spoiled. There were leaks everywhere, each drop of wasted promethium draining his profits. Despite his tireless efforts in hunting down thieves and fraudsters he was beginning to suspect his real enemy was the infrastructure. The network of promethium pipes was a thousand-score years old, and beyond dilapidated. But any work aside from a patch job would involve shutting down distribution across several sectors. The loss of revenue would be significant, but the greater risk was his customers seeking alternative suppliers. Then again, if he did nothing, his holdings would slowly bleed dry. The Pureburn family, perhaps the eldest of the Mercator Pyros, would vanish into history. It was a chilling thought.

The screams had quietened now, the purifying flames concluding their work. The crowd were dispersing, encouraged by the Cawdor missionaries. But one of the church elders was approaching him. He offered a short bow, his face half hidden by a snarling mask but his eyes visible, if blank besides a fanatic’s zeal. His mouth split open, unveiling a motley assortment of broken teeth. Lord Pureburn nodded in response and, through tremendous force of will, did not react to the man’s odour.

‘Pardon, milord,’ the masked man said, bobbing his head once again for good measure, ‘but, by the God-Emperor’s grace, we have received a message through the church’s vox-
channel. They asked me to convey it to you personally, milord.’

‘Indeed,’ said Pureburn. ‘And the message is?’

‘Periculus has risen.’

Lord Pureburn stared down at him. The man shuffled from one foot to the other.

‘Milord?’

‘I need to use that vox-channel. Now!’ Lord Pureburn barked, tapping a sequence across his data-slab. As one, his conclave snapped into focus, his Cynder guard converging on the dais. Lord Pureburn rose from his throne to address them.

‘Our Periculus has been found. I need to know if a claim has been made upon it. Are the factorums still functional? Has the Mercator Sanguis been tasked with providing hive serfs? This information must be mine within two hours. Go!’

He watched, detached, as the conclave scurried to carry out his commands. It did not seem possible that this relic had been uncovered just when he needed it most. Then again, the Cawdor simpletons lacked the intellect to lie or deceive, and if Periculus had indeed been rediscovered there might be one last chance at preserving his family’s legacy.

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A Black Library Publication

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This eBook edition published in 2021 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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