Part 20 (1/2)
”What are you doing?” demanded Hathor Maat.
”Stopping this,” said Ahriman. ”Release them.”
Hathor Maat stared at him, and then glanced at Magnus. Ahriman leaned in and gripped him by the edge of his pauldrons.
”Do it!” shouted Ahriman. ”Stop it now!”
”It's done,” snapped Hathor Maat, pus.h.i.+ng Ahriman away.
Ahriman turned back to the s.p.a.ce Wolves, letting out a shuddering breath as the energies of the Pavoni diminished. The grey-armoured warriors lay on the causeway, their charge broken, their impetus lost. Amlodhi Skarssen struggled to his feet, battling against rogue impulses tearing through his body. Skarssen's eyes were filled with blood, and his entire body shook with the effort of standing before his enemies.
”I... Know... You,” hissed Skarssen, fighting for every word. ”All... Of... You.”
”I told you to stop this!” cried Ahriman, rounding on Hathor Maat.
”And so I did,” protested Hathor Maat. ”I swear.”
Ahriman felt a ferocious surge of power beside him and saw Hastar shaking as hard as Amlodhi Skarssen. Ahriman reached into his aura and felt a hot pulse of terror mixed with aberrant energies.
With a sickening sense of horrified recognition, he understood what was happening.
Hathor Maat saw it at the same time, and they barrelled into Hastar, knocking him to the ground as he began thras.h.i.+ng in the grip of a violent seizure.
”Hold him down!” shouted Ahriman, tearing at the pressure seals of Hastar's gorget.
”Please, no,” begged Hathor Maat. ”Hold on, Hastar! Fight it!”
Ahriman tore off the warrior's helmet and threw it aside, looking down at something he had hoped and thought never to see again.
Hastar's flesh seethed with ambition, writhing and twisting in unnatural ways, the meat and bone of his skull bulging with fluid growth. The warrior's eyes were terrified, uncomprehending orbs filled with red light, like coals from a smouldering forge.
”Help me,” gasped Hastar.
”Flesh-change!” shouted Ahriman.
He fought to hold Hastar's body down, but the changes wracking his body were as apocalyptic as they were catastrophic. His armour buckled as the body beneath it expanded so furiously and violently that the breastplate cracked down its centreline, the flesh beneath alive with change. Energised veins of electricity threaded his pallid flesh, sheened with glittering h.o.a.r-light sweating from the agonised warrior's suddenly malleable flesh.
Hastar screamed, and Ahriman's grip slackened as the horror of Ohrmuzd's death surged from the locked room of his memory. Hastar threw them off, his expanding body swollen with grotesquely misshapen musculature, encrusted growths, mutant appendages and slithering ropes of wet matter.
With the gurgle of wet meat and the crack of malformed bones, Hastar's body was suddenly upright, though any semblance of limbs was impossible to pick out in his erupting flesh. Swelling bulk and crackling energy patterns writhed across his flesh, and his screams turned to bubbling gibbers of maniacal laughter.
”Kill it!” shouted a voice, but Ahriman couldn't tell whose.
”No!” he shouted, though he knew it was futile. ”It's still Hastar. He's one of us!”
The Thousand Sons scattered from Hastar's terrible new form, horrified and terrified in equal measure. This was their greatest fear returned to haunt them, a horror from their past long thought buried.
Unchained energies whipped from Hastar's appendages, his torso and legs fused in a rippling trunk of glowing, protean flesh. Frills of half-formed membranes flapped in unseen winds, and a hateful laughter bubbled up from vestigial mouths that erupted all across his flesh. Hundreds of distended eyes, compound like an insect's, slitted like a reptile's or milky with multiple pupils boiled to life and popped with wet slurps every second. No part of the creature's anatomy was fixed for more than a moment.
A dreadful, wracking sickness seized Ahriman, as though his innards were rebelling against their fixed shapes, his entire body trembling with desire for a new form.
”No!” cried Ahriman through gritted teeth. ”Not again... I will not... succ.u.mb! I am Astartes, a loyal servant of the Supreme Master of Mankind. I will not fall.”
All around him, the Thousand Sons were on their knees or backs, fighting the virulent power of transformation as it spread from Hastar with the speed of the Life-Eater virus. Unless this power was dispelled, they would all fall prey to the spontaneous mutations that had once nearly ended their Legion.
”I survived before,” snarled Ahriman, clenching his fists. ”I will survive again.”
Determination gave him strength, and he flexed his mind into the Enumerations, distancing himself from the pain and his trembling flesh. With every sphere he attained, his mastery of his corporeal form increased until he could open his eyes once more.
His every muscle ached, but he was still Ahzek Ahriman, of sound mind and body. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the s.p.a.ce Wolves coming to their senses on the causeway. Either they were beyond the reach of these transformative energies or they were immune to its effects. The damage the Pavoni had wreaked upon their nervous systems was coming undone, and Amlodhi Skarssen took faltering steps towards the Thousand Sons, his axe unsheathed.
A surging wave of power erupted behind Ahriman and he rolled onto his side in time to see Magnus the Red step towards the hideously transformed Hastar. Unchecked energy had destroyed the warrior of the Pavoni, but it empowered Magnus. The creature Hastar had become reached out to Magnus, as though to embrace him, and the primarch opened his arms to receive him with forgiveness and mercy.
A thunderous bang sounded and Hastar's body exploded as a single, explosive round detonated within his chest. Silence descended, and Ahriman distinctly heard the heavy tink of a monstrous bra.s.s casing striking the ground.
Ahriman followed the trajectory the sh.e.l.l had taken, tracing a smoking line back to a giant pistol gripped in the fist of a towering giant clad in grey ceramite and thick wolf pelts.
The Wolf King had come.
A faded poem, last read in a dusty archive in the Merican dustbowl, leapt unbidden to Ahriman's mind. Supposedly transcribed from a commemorative monument, it marked the beginning of an ancient and awesomely destructive war: By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled; Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard 'round the world.
SURROUNDED BY A pack of fur- and armour-clad warriors, bearing great axes and bloodied harpoon-like spears, Leman Russ approached the Great Library of Phoenix Crag. Though Ahriman had seen the Wolf King before, Leman Russ at war was an entirely different proposition to Leman Russ at peace. One was brutally fearsome and intimidating, and the other utterly terrifying, an avatar of destruction as monstrous as the bloodiest culture's renditions of their G.o.ds of murder, war and death combined.
A living engine of destruction, Ahriman saw Russ clearly for what he was: pure force and will alloyed into a living weapon that could be aimed and loosed, but never called back.
The Wolf King reached the end of the causeway, and Ahriman saw Ohthere Wyrdmake at his side, the Rune Priest's expression impossible to read. Together with his enormous wolves, Leman Russ marched towards the Thousand Sons. Ahriman expected the Wolf King to charge wildly towards them, to confirm every negative caricature his detractors painted, but he came slowly, with infinite patience and infinite fury.
His packwarriors awaited his return, aching to do harm.
All Ahriman could hear was the footsteps of Russ as he marched across the causeway. His stride was sure and measured, his expression set in stone. His frost-s.h.i.+mmer blade leapt to his hand, a weapon to cleave mountains. Magnus went to meet him, his curved golden sword bound with the power of the sun: Two war G.o.ds marching to battle, the souls of their Legions carried with them.
Ahriman wanted to say something, to halt this inexorable confrontation, but the sight of the two primarchs drawing together with murder in their hearts robbed him of speech.
Before either one could speak, a blistering sheet of light flashed into existence between them, a coruscating fire that s.h.i.+mmered with the light of the brightest star. Impossible images were thrown out by the light, faraway places and the bitter tang of incense, burned plastic and reeking generators that thrummed with power.
A hard bang of displaced air boomed from the mountainside, and the light was gone.
A broad-shouldered giant in battle armour of granite grey with skin of gleaming gold stood in its place.
”The Urizen,” whispered Ahriman.
”THIS ENDS NOW,” said the golden-skinned warrior.
He stood between Magnus and Russ like the arbiter of a fistfight. Ahriman's previous impression of Lorgar was utterly dispelled as he looked upon the soulful features of the Word Bearers' Primarch. His eyes were kohl-rimmed and filled with infinite sadness, as though he bore the burden of a sorrowful secret that he could never, ever, share.
Lorgar's armour was dark, the colour of stone that has lain beneath the ocean for aeons, its every perfectly-nuanced plate worked with cuneiform inscriptions taken from the ancient books of Colchis. One shoulder-guard bore a heavy tome, its pages yellowed with age, fluttering in the disturbed air of his teleportation.