Brothers of the Snake Page 19

  'They will send petitions to Karybdis.’ Khiron said softly.

  'Let them.’ said Priad. He took the golden digit from his belt pouch and activated it. A tiny holoform of Mabuse appeared. 'Exalted Chapter Master Seydon.’ the holoform began. 'With my dying breath, I commend Damocles to you. They will undoubtedly receive rebuke and censure for abandoning their duty of care to the Imperial nobility. However, there are certain facts that must be made known to you-'

  Priad snapped the holoform off.

  'I don't think we have anything to be ashamed of.’ he said.

  Far below, the flash of their landing ship reflected off the muddy plains and temporary seas of Iorgu. Bright as a serrated knife from the daylight winking off its ridged bows, the Imperial barge loomed ahead of them like a rising star in the eastern sky.

  Part Seven

  Greenskin

  Undertaking To Ganahedarak

  I

  The soft bank of sediment sand shelved away before him and sloped down into the darkness of the trench. Above him, the world was a pale blue vista where the sunlight penetrated. It was a serene place, and Aekon felt he might have been standing on a sandy beach under a clear blue sky. Except for the vicing pressure, the enveloping cold and the booming roar in his ears.

  He took another weightless step down the bank, his bare feet lifting slow mists of sediment around his ankles. He was naked but for a thong and a strap-belt around his broad torso that supported a small, draw-string bag.

  How long now? Sixteen minutes. He'd been counting carefully, but those in the phratry who knew such things said it was easy to lose count. After seven or eight minutes, despite the closed function of an enhanced pulmonary system, despite osmotic oxygen exchange, despite metabolic toxin dispersal, the mind would begin to cloud. Poison accumulated in the bloodstream, adding to the effects of temperature and pressure. Errors would start to creep in.

  If he had miscounted, even by a half minute, if his mind had clouded, then it was already over, and he was dead. And a fool.

  Some in the phratry had warned of the narcosis dreams. The calm serenity that overtook the unwary or the ill-prepared. The dreams were comfortable, they said. Beautiful. They made a man believe he was fine, and that he could last down there forever. They were the symptoms of a death already half-complete.

  Aekon kicked off from the bank, and reached out with his powerful arms to drag himself further down into the weight of water and the darkness of the trench. He felt the slowly increasing burn deep in his lungs, the lactic acid in his muscles, the profound pressure stretching the skin of his face and chest. His limbs seemed leaden.

  Just a little further, a little deeper. Sixteen and a half minutes now, by his steady count. His secondary heart began to thump harder. The blackness of the trench embraced him. From the soft lip of the bank, the trench dropped away, virtually perpendicular to the upper seabed. The water became colder almost immediately. Too far from the sunlight, ten or twelve degrees cooler than the water above. He kicked with his legs, head down, arms cleaving the water like oars. His head felt like it had been wrapped in metal, and that metal wound tight. A few pearl bubbles escaped the corner of his lips.

  He was down in the blackness now, in the cold bosom of the trench. The trench. It had no other name, even though it had been a special site for the phratry since the earliest times. A place of self-testing, of endurance and courage, of risk and bravado. A place where a man might literally leave his mark.

  A place where a man could make a testament of his own strength that only those others as strong – or as foolish – could see it.

  Seventeen minutes. His eyes, rendered responsive to optic-therapy since his fourteenth year thanks to the occulobe, read shape and form in the lightless depth. He resolved the first of the offerings scattered in the mud at the base of the trench. Blades, shields, cnokoi, the tips of sea-lances, beads, bones, slivers of armour plate, totems and charms, icons and trophies, all ghost-pale in the gloom, fronded with the sugary white filigree of lime and algae. Each offering was inscribed with a name or mark, though some were too sea-smoothed to read any more.

  Seventeen twenty. Aekon crawled forward, and chose a likely place, a smooth curl of mud between a bronze figurine and three lance-heads. The lance-heads had been planted cup-down into the mud so they grew like a little crop of sprouting blades. The bronze figurine, which may have once been the great primarch but which had lost all likeness, stood askew, its face turned to the azoic darkness of the trench, as if it had no desire to be a witness to the foolishness of men.

  Aekon kicked his legs to stay in place, and pulled open the drawstring bag. It flopped slowly and heavily in his numb fingers as the current took it. He reached inside and removed his offering. It was the munition clip from an autorifle, still packed with live shells. He'd taken it from a cultist he'd slain during the assault on the Sacred Mound on Iorgu. That had been his first undertaking as an Iron Snake, and as a member of Damocles. The cultist had been his first battlefield kill. It was a good offering, appropriate, and he'd marked it with his name and the symbol of his squad.

  He placed the clip on the mud, and pressed it down with his hand so that it wedged in far enough not to be dislodged by the trench current. Then he made the sign of the aquila across his chest.

  He thought of Iorgu for a moment. His first undertaking, all right and - aside from two uneventful sentry missions – his only undertaking in the two years since he'd been inducted to the phratry and Damocles. Certainly the only one in which they'd been blessed with combat. He ached for combat, ached for-

  He blinked. He ached, full stop. Thinking of Iorgu, he'd let his mind slip for a moment. He'd stopped the count.

  Was this it? Was he already clouding? Already dreaming? He longed to draw a breath.

  He rubbed his eyes with his white, shrivel-tipped fingers, hoping to coax some clarity back into his vision and his mind. He was done here. He had done what he had come to do. All that remained was the return. Back to the surface.

  For a moment, in the blackness, Aekon could not remember which way that was.

  He sank a little, and his toes touched the mud. The sensation made him flinch. He looked down, saw the trench bottom, and his straining, pounding mind performed the simple logic of up and down. He bent his thick, powerful legs and kicked off the sea floor.

  It grew lighter as he rose, straight up the cliff of the trench. A pallor invested the sea above, a cyan glow. He kicked his burning legs. The water grew warmer as he passed the lip of the trench and came up into sunlit bottoms. Beams of light, golden, shafted down through the blue, like ladders from the surface far above. Fish glittered by in patterned formation. Going up was faster than the crawl down. How long? Five minutes? Four?

  Could he last that?

  Aekon began to think he couldn't. He was kicking still, rising, occasionally sweeping with his weary arms, but his mind was drifting. He thought of childhood friends, of a hound he'd once owned. He thought of the small village house where he'd grown up, before his selection and induction. He thought of a woman who might once have been his mother. He thought of his first sea-lance, half-size, a boy's model. All these things, like fast-changing picts on a viewer. He couldn't concentrate or focus. He was seeing things.

  Things like the merman who had come to claim his life, and carry his soul away to sleep in the Endless Ocean. Tall and broad, beads of air trapped like quicksilver in the contours of his musculature, his legs kicking together like a beaknose's flukes. The old god of the sea, bearded and grey, a sea-lance in his hand.

  The merman came closer, powering down through the light. His face was grim, his eyes narrow, his jaw jutting, like Khiron's face wh-

  No, not like Khiron. It was Khiron.

  The Apothecary of Damocles surged towards Aekon and reached out his hand. Aekon's mind woke up at once, shocked into clarity.

  He recoiled from Khiron's reaching hand and shook his head. Khiron frowned at him. Aekon shook his head again. No hel
p. I'll do this alone.

  He began kicking again, head back, almost convulsing his way towards the surface. Khiron swept in behind him in a graceful turn, sea-lance at his side.

  From the blue of the mid-range into water that was silver and yellow in the sun, water that teemed with bright shoals and drifting sea-ribbon.

  So close now. So close.

  They came ashore, up the white-gold sand of the empty beach. Beyond the crescent shore, the forests rose, green and thick and lush around the headland. The Ithakan sky was a delicate blue, the sun fierce.

  Aekon saw nothing of it. He splashed up through the breakers, bent double, gagging and choking, his head pounding. He tried to force the sphincters of his multi-lung to relax, but his chest was burning and they had been locked tight for too long. His skin was pimpled white, drained of colour, and the sun burned his back.

  Khiron waded in after him, his sea-lance across his shoulder. He was breathing cleanly, clearing his throat and lungs.

  'Relax your throat,' he said.

  Aekon fell onto his knees on the hot grit of the sand. He retched and brought up a small amount of sea water.

  'Relax,' Khiron said again. 'Untense. Your lungs will unlock if you stop forcing them.'

  Aekon nodded. The constriction in his chest was just beginning to fade, and the fire in his heavy limbs was going out. He looked up at Khiron.

  The Apothecary had stuck his lance into the sand and was leaning on it, standing on one foot. Every few seconds, he switched to the other foot, sparing himself the painful heat of the sun-cooked sand.

  'Shade.’ Khiron said.

  Aekon became aware of how much the sand was burning his knees and shins and the tops of his feet. He rose unsteadily and followed Khiron to the dark shadow of the tree-line. It was cool there, and smelled of wet vegetation. Bird calls rang out of the deep forest.

  Aekon sat down on a log and forced himself into a relaxation exercise, the limbus, that eased muscles to the extremities and calmed the mind.

  You think I'm a fool.’ he said at last.

  Khiron shrugged. 'I think you're young. I think foolishness and courage are sometimes different faces of the same coin.'

  Aekon looked around abruptly. 'Priad...?'

  'Is not here. And knows nothing of this. Nor will he, unless you choose to tell him.’

  'He would hate me for it.'

  'Brother-Sergeant Priad does not hate. Hate's a strong poison, Aekon. You know that. There's no more room for hate in the mind of any phratry member than there is fear. Hate clouds and muddles the mind. Like deep, cold water.'

  Aekon looked down at his own feet.

  'No warrior needs hate or fear, son. They get in the way of efficient warfare. Priad would not hate you. He might even understand. But he would cast you out of Damocles.'

  Aekon groaned.

  'He'd have no choice. You know that.' Khiron had leaned his lance against a tree and was carefully tying his grey hair up in a pleat across his crown. 'Phratry rules. Trench offerings are a forbidden test. You'd be bounced back to petitioner.'

  'But you don't agree?' Aekon asked.

  'Because?'

  'Because... you said you wouldn't tell Priad.'

  'I obey the edicts of the Chapter without question.’ Khiron said. 'But I am an Apothecary, and so I have some latitude. I came to the beach and went for a swim. I saw nothing.'

  'Thank you.’ Aekon said.

  'Don't thank me with words.’ Khiron said, dismissively He walked a few paces away and gathered up his kit from where he had left it: his leather training cuirass and greaves, his knife-belt and carrying pouch, his red linen chiton, and his sandals. He began to get dressed.

  Aekon watched him. 'How did you know, Brother-Apothecary? How did you know I'd do this?'

  Khiron pulled the chiton over his head, shook down the hem of it, and began to strap on his cuirass.

  We come on a nine dayer to the remote Cydides Isthmus, a place of good forest country and hills for cross training and exercise, and fine sea-inlets for swimming trials. But every soul in the phratry well knows that the Isthmus is also the location of a certain bay and a certain trench, celebrated in the informal lore of the Chapter. On long exercises like this, there's always one young buck who slips away to tiy his strength and become a member of that secret honour club. I kept my eyes open. It's usually one of the younger men, so I figured on you or Dyognes, or perhaps one of the petitioners. I decided it was you.'

  'Why?'

  'Because the petitioners are an unimpressive rabble, and not one of them has the wit or guts to try it. Because Dyognes, in my opinion, has nothing to prove. Because you are the youngest of all, and feel you are in the shadow of the whole squad, including Dyognes.’

  'Am I so transparent?' Aekon asked. 'So... weak?'

  Khiron smiled. He was lashing up the cords of his sandals. 'That was just a guess. In truth, it was one little thing. On a nine dayer like this, the order is for basic kit. Bare minimum. Training armour, shield and lance, oil and whetstone in one pouch, vox relay in the other. I noticed you carried an extra pouch, inside the rim of your shield, small, but heavy. Your offering.’

  Aekon laughed. 'I should know better than to try and hide something from the likes of you.’

  You really should.’ Khiron fitted his greaves around his calves and then stared at Aekon. 'Well? Did you make it?'

  Aekon pulled off his strap belt and held out the little, sodden bag, empty. He couldn't stop himself from grinning.

  Khiron raised his eyebrows. Well done. So, you're a trencher now. One of the foolish few.’

  'It didn't feel foolish.’ Aekon said. 'It felt like a proper test. We're too safe in our war plate, too safe in our augmented bones and muscles. Every day, we wake and feel like gods. It was good not to feel invincible for once. To find the limit of even this post-human flesh. To feel danger, pure and genuine.’

  'And fear?'

  Aekon shook his head. 'Not fear. Not for a moment. But I felt I was being tested as a man might be tested, not a superman.’

  'Medes.’ Khiron said, hefting up his combat shield and fitting his arm to the grip.

  What?'

  'That's not you, that's Brother-Captain Medes talking. Don't bother denying it, I've heard him. Medes of Skypio squad, bravest of the brave. It's said that Skypio himself started the honour club and to this day, they practise the rite, in defiance of the Chapter edicts. By merit of being the foremost, the elite of the elite, Skypio is allowed some freedom by our Chapter Master. Don't get drawn in by their recklessness.'

  'I wouldn't, brother.'

  'Yet you made the dive. In the history of our phratry, Aekon, thirty-seven brothers have died swimming for the trench. That's why it's forbidden. It's a waste of good men.' Khiron paused. 'Also,' he added, 'I imagine that's precisely why young men persist in doing it. Would you rather have made Skypio, son?'

  'Of course not.’

  'Is Damocles not good enough for you?'

  'No!'

  'Then we'll speak no more of this. Get your kit. We should rejoin the others before our absence is noticed.'

  Aekon rose. He balled up the empty bag and threw it into the undergrowth. Khiron followed him down the beach to where Aekon had left his kit, wrapped in the bowl of his shield and hung from a low bough where the ants couldn't invade it.

  'How long?' Khiron asked as Aekon was dressing.

  'How long what?'

  'You must have made a count. How long?'

  'Twenty-six.’ Aekon said.

  'Not possible.'

  'I'm fairly sure. Twenty-six. Give or take ten seconds. My count did slip, but it couldn't have been less than that.'

  'Your count was wrong.’ Khiron said. 'No one manages over twenty-three.’

  II

  They moved through the sunlit jungle depths, silent as glaciers. Andromak twenty paces to his left, Pindor twenty more to his right. The air was close and clammy, and mottled flies drowsed in the creeper-swathed gloom.
Shafts of sunlight speared down through the canopy, as straight and firm as the lances they gripped across their right shoulders.

  Shields up, rims to their eyes, shield-shoulders tilted forward. Priad flexed his fingers around the hardwood haft of his lance. They'd removed the blade tips, and fixed those razor-sharp warheads inside the dishes of their shields for safety. In place of the blades, their lances wore blunt, bronze practice heads.

  The glade was quiet, except for birdsong and the drip of moisture. Priad looked across at Pindor, and the old warrior gestured with his eyes. Ahead, to the right.

  They took up positions, becoming statues, entwined in the root systems of ancient trees. Now Priad himself heard movement. Something approaching, quiet, but not quiet enough.

  Wait... wait...

  A searing pain shot through the meat of Priad's left calf. He breathed in, not making a sound, and slowly turned his head to look. In amongst the roots around his legs, a green-back viper, two metres long, had made its hidden nest. Disturbed, it had sunk its fangs into his leg under the back of his knee where the sides of the greave met. Its bite was still in place, pumping venom into his flesh.

  Priad did not move. His leg began to burn, as if a heated poker had been rammed into the marrow of his shin-bone. A pulse began to thump in his throat and in the base of his skull. Local hunters in the Isthmus used green-back venom to tip their ape-arrows. One scratch would kill a full grown simian big enough to feed a village for a week.

  The pulsing and the fire grew worse. Priad remained still. The viper disengaged, its sacs spent, and coiled away into the root bole. Priad could see the glistening red puncture wounds where the blood was weeping out, refusing to clot. He remained calm, allowing his enhanced system to cope. His implanted haemastamen began its rapid ministry of his enhanced blood, altering its constituent make-up to fight the venom. His secondary heart and oolitic kidney started their conjoined detoxification work, pumping and filtering his tainted bloodstream. Larraman cells sped to the wound and, on contact with the air, formed a skin substitute to close it, overwhelming the anti-coagulant properties of the snake venom.