[Grey Knights 03] - Hammer of Daemons Read online

  —“Mind Journeys of a Heretic Saint,” by Inquisitor Helmandar Oswain

  (Suppressed by order of the Ordo Hereticus)

  “Good crop this year,” said Lord Ebondrake.

  “Indeed, my lord,” replied Duke Venalitor.

  “Khorne will be pleased to see them die.”

  The torture garden gave Venalitor and Ebondrake an excellent view of Karnikhal’s slave market. The market was one of the largest on Drakaasi. It was built into the site of a dried-out cyst like a meteor crater. Hundreds of slavers’ blocks were embedded in the tough skin of the ground, each one with several new slaves chained to it. The shouting of slavers rang out, punctuated by the sounds of whips and cracking bones.

  Lord Ebondrake flexed a claw idly, like a stretching cat. “The warp speaks of you, Venalitor.”

  “Then I am blessed, my lord.”

  “It says you have brought the Blood God a very particular prize.”

  Venalitor bowed. “It is true. The Imperials fought us at Sarthis Majoris. They were swept aside, and many were taken alive.”

  “More than just Guardsmen, though, so the seers say.”

  “You shall see, my lord.”

  Lord Ebondrake padded to the edge of the torture garden’s balcony. The garden was a place of reflection for Karnikhal’s elite, where they could consider the dismembered bodies displayed where they had died on the intricate torture devices arranged on the obsidian. A rebel might be granted a final honour in death, to be slowly tormented on a frame of silver, to serve as inspiration for the garden’s visitors.

  Lord Ebondrake was a huge reptilian creature. He bore a resemblance to dragons of various human myths, and perhaps this was not a coincidence, since Ebondrake had presumably chosen his form at some point in his distant past. He had scales of jet-black, yellow feline eyes and countless bony spines, on which were sometimes mounted the heads and hands of those who had displeased him.

  His long, sinuous body and enormous wings moved with a speed and grace alien to his size, and he brought with him a majesty that marked him out instantly as the de facto ruler of Drakaasi. For the occasion, Lord Ebondrake wore armour of obsidian and brass, cladding his massive scaly body in a way that echoed the stern armour of his personal troops, the Ophidian Guard. He was accompanied by a detachment of these elite armoured warriors, who followed their master at a respectful distance. They were the most powerful fighting force on Drakaasi, with their black envenomed blades and eyeless helms, and their presence was a constant reminder that strength at arms was the ultimate decider in Drakaasi’s power struggles.

  “I have no doubt there are rumours,” said Ebondrake, “of where my rule shall take us next.”

  Venalitor weighed his words carefully for a moment. “One hears things. I am aware of a great undertaking.”

  “We have stayed on this world too long,” said Ebondrake. He stretched out his wings as if indicating the expanse of Drakaasi’s bloodshot sky. “This filthy rock, this lump of bloody dirt, it is too small a place to contain the worship due to our god. Do you not agree?”

  “This is a fine world,” said Venalitor simply, “but there is always room for more blood.”

  “Ha! Have some imagination, duke. Think what we could do. We leave Drakaasi only to enslave, and return our captives to this world to watch them die. On Sarthis Majoris you did just that. However, if all Drakaasi’s lords made a common cause and took our best followers out into the stars, whole worlds could fall to us. Drakaasi will be a monument to our bloodshed.”

  “You speak,” said Venalitor, “of a crusade.”

  “Of course. Even now the one they call the Despoiler leads his armies out of the Eye. Countless other champions of the warp are doing the same all across the galaxy. There are rich pickings in the wake of such bloodshed. The Blood God’s own crusade can only grow as more fall to our cause. By the time we return to Drakaasi the Blood God will have his own empire in the Eye. Would that not stand as a greater monument than all our games put together?”

  “I can see it, my lord,” said Venalitor, letting an edge of wonder into his voice.

  “No, duke,” said Ebondrake, “you are young. You have not fought long under Khorne’s banner. What you see is just the beginning. It takes this ancient creature to understand what Drakaasi could truly be. Soon, all the lords will know of my crusade, and they will be united under me. For now, there are more pressing matters. You say you made a fine haul at Sarthis Majoris?”

  Venalitor followed Ebondrake’s gaze down over the market. Thousands of captives were for sale, some of them from Venalitor’s recent victory, others handed over in tribute to Khorne by pirate raiders, or captured in battles across the Eye of Terror. Most of them were human, for the human forces of the Imperium were battling the servants of Chaos throughout the Eye. Some others were aliens: slender eldar, orks, a few strange creatures plucked from the far corners of space.

  “Come,” said Venalitor, “I have wares to show.”

  Together, Lord Ebondrake and Venalitor descended the winding stairway down to the cyst floor. Everywhere they went the slavers, all servants of one of Drakaasi’s lords, bowed or saluted at Ebondrake’s presence. The wretches who inhabited Karnikhal scurried away in fear, or prostrated themselves on the ground, whimpering and pathetic.

  Most of Drakaasi’s population was human, or at least originally human, and some said Ebondrake had taken on his draconic form solely to mark himself apart from the scum of the planet’s cities. The sounds and smells of the slave market crowded all around, sweat and misery, mingling with the heavy rotting blood stench of Karnikhal itself.

  Many of Drakaasi’s other lords were there examining the slaves on offer. Tiresia, tall and ebony skinned with a great longbow carried at her side, was picking out new quarries for her court of feral killers, and cultured assassins to chase down in their next great hunt. Golgur the Pack Master was purchasing the weakest, most pathetic slaves to throw to his flesh hounds, two of which he led around the market by chains.

  Scathach was making a rare foray from his fortress, probably to buy combat slaves to train his soldiers, and turned one of his heads to follow Ebondrake and Venalitor making their way between the slaving blocks. Scathach had long forsaken the Traitor Legions, but he still wore the power armour of a Chaos Space Marine, and the soldiers who followed him formed a neatly drilled regiment quite at odds with the bloodthirsty rabble many lords gathered around themselves.

  “Lord Ebondrake, my kind are honoured,” said a booming voice. Up ahead of Venalitor there was a great cauldron of steaming blood, containing the toad-like form of a giant daemon. The cauldron was carried by blinded slaves, their spines horribly bent by the daemon’s weight. Two slaves poured ladles of blood over the daemon’s pasty skin as it addressed Ebondrake. On the daemon’s chest there was a weeping scab in the shape of a stylised six-fingered hand. The same symbol was branded on the chests of the slaves who carried the daemon.

  “Arguthrax, what manner of sacrifices have you brought for the altars and arenas of our world?” said Ebondrake.

  Arguthrax waved a dripping hand towards the slaving block beside him. Dozens of bronzed, muscular men and women were chained there, many still shouting curses at the slavers watching over them. “An entire tribe, my lord,” said Arguthrax, “a most violent and savage people, yes! Their rage echoed long in the warp. They spoke unto their most ancient god, our god, and brought my servants forth! And so they were enslaved, and soon they will learn to bow before the will of their god. Ha! See how they still rage! Imagine such anger turned for the Blood God’s glory!”

  “More savages, Arguthrax?” said Ebondrake. “There is always need of their kind for the arenas. The Blood God ever demands his fodder.”

  Arguthrax could not keep the anger from passing over his revolting face. “Then it is a blessing that the Blood God will hold this offering in such high esteem.” Arguthrax turned his burning black eyes on Venalitor. “What have you brought, upstart youth, that pe
rmits you to walk alongside our lord as an equal?”

  Venalitor smiled. Arguthrax hated him. Most of Drakaasi’s lords hated him, since compared to most of them he was young and brilliant. They hated each other too, of course, and tolerated one another only because Lord Ebondrake had forged from Drakaasi an immense temple to Khorne that required all their attentions to maintain. Arguthrax, however, an ancient and evil thing spawned within the warp, harboured a particular dislike of usurpers like Venalitor.

  “Observe, honoured daemon,” replied Venalitor simply.

  Venalitor’s servants tended a grand pavilion of crimson silk that dominated one side of the slave market. Many of his servants were Scaephylyds, creatures native to Drakaasi, who had inhabited its mountains and canyons before the first lords of Chaos had set foot on the planet. They were scuttling insect things who, though despised by everything else on Drakaasi, were devoted to Chaos and to Venalitor himself. Dozens of them scurried over the pavilion, and the largest of the number, the slave masters, swarmed around the opening to the pavilion as the silks were pulled back.

  Lashes drove human slaves out of the pavilion into the market. They were streaked with blood, chained together at the wrists and ankles. They were all men, and almost all of them had the same tattoo on their shoulders: Imperial Guard, soldiers of the weakling Imperium, finally reduced to the slavery that was their lot in life.

  “This is it?” said Arguthrax. “These wretches are barely fit to feed the flesh hounds. For this you waste our time? The Blood God will spit upon such an offering, Venalitor. Such failure is heresy!”

  “Patience, daemon,” said Venalitor smoothly.

  A quartet of scaephylyd slave masters emerged, hauling thick brass chains. They dragged a hulking human form out of the pavilion, half again as tall as any of the Imperial Guardsmen. Another followed it, similarly huge. Slabs of muscle rippled beneath their skin, which was streaked with grime and dried blood. Beneath the filth were scars, old battle wounds and the marks of extensive surgery. The dark shape of the black carapace was just visible under the skin, with metallic ports in the chest and biceps where power armour could read off vital signs.

  One of the men had broad, expressive features and a service stud in his forehead, while the other had a face as solid and unflappable as a slab of granite. They both strained at their chains, but the metal had been forged in the hottest volcano of Drakaasi’s mountain ranges, and they held fast. Each man had a Collar of Khorne around his neck, a fact that was evidently not lost on Lord Ebondrake.

  “Space Marines,” said Ebondrake, “and alive. You have outdone yourself, Venalitor. It has been many years since a living Astartes was brought to Drakaasi.”

  “Not just a Space Marine, my lord,” said Venalitor proudly.

  “No: psykers, sorcerers. It will please the Blood God to see them die.”

  “More than that.” Venalitor snapped his fingers and a scaephylyd slave master scurried up, cradling the shoulder pad from a suit of Space Marine power armour in its front legs. Venalitor took the shoulder pad and held it up for Lord Ebondrake to see the device emblazoned across it. The ceramite was deeply carved with devotional prayers in High Gothic, and it bore the symbol of a sword thrust through an open book.

  “A Grey Knight,” said Ebondrake.

  “Two Grey Knights,” replied Venalitor. He looked purposefully at Arguthrax. “Daemon hunters.”

  Arguthrax sneered. He would never show obvious weakness in front of Ebondrake and especially Venalitor, but he was leaning back in his cauldron to put as much distance as he could between himself and the Grey Knights. Their very presence was anathema to the daemon. It gave Venalitor savage joy to think that something like fear might be blossoming in Arguthrax’s corrupted mind.

  “I take it that these specimens will not be for sale,” continued Ebondrake.

  “Indeed not. I myself shall see that they reap the greatest glory for Khorne. It is not something I can trust to another. I shall take them back to the Hecatomb and make them ready for the next games.” Venalitor waved a dismissive hand at the Imperial Guard prisoners. “As for the rest of them, they are for sale. It is not for me to hoard the Blood God’s sacrifices for myself. There is one further thing.”

  Slaves hauled forwards a sled, on which was displayed the rest of the Grey Knights’ armour. It was still stained with the blood of the battle on Sarthis Majoris.

  “A tribute, my lord,” said Venalitor. Arguthrax snorted derisively.

  “Gratefully received, duke,” said Ebondrake, “rare trophies indeed. Have your slaves take them to my palace.”

  “It will be done.”

  “So,” said Ebondrake, eyeing the Grey Knights, “Karnikhal’s games will see the hunters of daemons slaying their own for the Blood God’s glory. Let it not be said that Khorne does not appreciate such humour.”

  Ebondrake turned and began to pad through the rest of the market to inspect the other prisoners being traded between Drakaasi’s lords. None of them would come close to the rare prize of a pair of Grey Knights, and no lord could boast such warriors in their arena stables. Venalitor cast Arguthrax a final look before heading for the pavilion. His slave masters had much to do, for Karnikhal’s games marked the beginning of a great season of worship in Drakaasi’s arenas, and the quality of Venalitor’s slaves would determine how quickly he could rise to prominence among the planet’s lords. With Grey Knights fighting under his banner, the games would be very good indeed for him.

  From his palace in the warp, Khorne would be roaring his approval as the hunters of daemons were sacrificed in combat for his glory. The warp would not soon forget Duke Venalitor of Drakaasi.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “This is the Hecatomb,” said Haulvarn. “I heard one of them saying its name.”

  “One of them?”

  “The slaves: the insect-things.”

  “Then what is it? A prison?”

  “A ship.”

  Alaric strained against his chains, but he knew it would be useless. He was chained to the wall of a tiny dark cell, barely big enough for him to stand hunched. The floor was crusted with old blood and covered in a layer of filthy straw. Everything stank. Men had died in these cells.

  Alaric could just make out Haulvarn’s outline through an iron grille in the wall. Alaric had passed out some time after being presented at the slave market. It took a lot to rob a Space Marine of consciousness; it was surely the collar that was weakening his mind.

  “Did you see it?” asked Haulvarn.

  “What?”

  “The dragon.”

  “Yes.” Alaric recalled it, looming over him as if in a nightmare. It was not a dragon at all, of course. A dragon was a mythological creature, a symbol, or the name given by primitive humans to large lizards indigenous to countless inhospitable planets. “I saw it, and the bloated one: the daemon. Even with my mind blunted it could not hide its nature. The knight, the one in red armour, was the one who took us at Sarthis Majoris.”

  “I saw you fight him. It was valiant, Justicar. For a few moments there was hope. Many more vermin died because of your example.”

  Alaric sighed. “He bested me and took me alive. Our example has not finished yet.” He was just able to make out his fellow Grey Knight’s features through the grille. “What of the others? The squad?”

  “Thane died,” replied Haulvarn. “I saw him go. As for Dvorn and Visical, I do not know. We were swamped and separated. Perhaps they were taken prisoner, too, but I have not seen them. Emperor forgive me, but I do not think Sarthis Majoris ever had a chance.”

  “Probably not,” said Alaric. He could feel the cell floor tilting, and hear distant rumbling through the body of the Hecatomb. It was a ship, after all, creaking as it sailed.

  “Where do you think they are taking us?” asked Haulvarn. “Are we to be sacrifices?”

  Alaric held up his hands, chained at the wrists. “I think they have greater plans for us,” said Alaric. “A simple knife across the t
hroat is rarely enough to sate the Blood God. They will have something more elaborate in store for us, I feel.”

  “And who do you think ‘they’ are, Justicar?”

  Alaric paused for a long time. Who indeed? The very nature of Chaos meant it could not be classified. In spite of the volumes of forbidden lore in the libraries of Encaladus, in spite of the learning filling the minds of inquisitors, Chaos could not be divided into categories or dissected like a specimen. Chaos was change, it was entropy and decay, but it was also an abundance of life and emotion, warped birth as well as death. Every time someone like Alaric thought they understood an enemy born of Chaos, that enemy changed, not just to confound the hunter, but because change was a part of its essence.

  “Wherever we are, Haulvarn, and whoever has us, we cannot ever answer that question. We will never understand this place or these creatures. If we were to ever understand them then our corruption would be complete.”

  “They can corrupt us.”

  “Yes.”

  “The collar leaves us defenceless.”

  “Not completely, we have our training, but yes, we are vulnerable.”

  “Then it could happen.”

  Alaric knew exactly what Haulvarn meant. No Grey Knight had ever fallen. They had died, or been crippled, or had their minds flayed away by the fury of the warp, thousands of them, entombed in the chill vaults beneath Titan, but none had ever fallen. Alaric and Haulvarn could be the first.

  “It will not,” said Alaric. “It does not matter what trinkets they use to strip away our defences. We are Grey Knights. Everything else is details.”

  “I shall share in your faith, then, Justicar,” said Haulvarn. Alaric couldn’t tell how convinced Haulvarn was. Alaric wasn’t even sure if he believed it.

  “We will escape,” continued Haulvarn.