A Lure Diabolus

The Grey Knights cannot resist the bait as the forces of Chaos tempt them closer. The trap is set but will anyone survive? A story told from the point of view of Chaos, and in particular the Lady Viscerion, who is a nasty piece of work. This was originally written for the Black Library compo at the beginning of 2006. 7,300 words Writing time :3 days Finished :8th May 2006 Download as Word file Download the synopsis for this story (as submitted) as a Word file

Two pairs of eyes watched the Thunderhawk gunship as it burst through the low belly of the clouds, retros flaring like miniature suns atop columns of smoke. The blackened hull of the craft steamed from the heat of its headlong plunge through the atmosphere, and still it dropped like a stone towards the barren soil. The far hills echoed with the building roar of the engines, the cool mountain air throbbing in time to the screaming pulse of the jets, drowning out thought itself as the cracked earth rattled and trembled beneath two pairs of feet.

Lady Viscerion stole a glance at her lord and master, Lieutenant Kryull. His lips were drawn back to reveal teeth made of jagged bone and gums black as soot. His eyes were locked on the gunship, as if he could draw it to him by force of will. As perhaps he had already done, she conceded. In daring his plan was worthy of Erebus himself. Too bad the Dark Apostle didn’t know about it.

She felt the gunship land a fraction before she heard it. Looking over she saw it disappear behind a billowing, fiery mountain of dust and ash, and with an inverse thunderclap the colossal sound rolled away as the engines died. It took a moment for the ringing to die and the bruised alpine silence to draw back in.

Chunks of earth and stones hurled in the air began to fall, and dozens of them sizzled and bounced high above as they met the oily smear of the prison’s forward shield.

Viscerion moved to her master’s left side, careful to pass in front and never behind, one gloved hand stroking his ornate breastplate as she walked. Her voice was as sweetly alluring as poisoned honey. “Like an eagle diving on carrion, my lord.”

Kyrull stared at the pluming clouds that wreathed the now-hidden ship. “Only to find a scorpion in the corpse.” He breathed out, a deep, hissing sigh of anticipation, and then stepped back into the bunker.

His human followers had not moved since he had arrived on the surface, and they stayed on one knee, heads bowed, weapons on the floor. He walked past them, oblivious, through the demolished security screens and into the lift. Viscerion joined him and together they descended into what had once been Salmanticae prison.

“Lower the forward shield,” said Kyrull. “Let this eagle through.”

“My lord? They’ll know it’s a –“

“No questions, my lady, not even from you. Not with so much at stake. They already know it’s a trap, even if they didn’t have an Inquisitor to hold their hands.”

“And the primary shield?”

“It must remain. The field it generates will prevent them using their portation devices, even once they're inside. They will have to advance on foot, and I want to keep them together.”

(…don’t let it kill me…)

Viscerion found the shadow-land minds of her human puppets in the control complex and implanted Kyrull’s orders. She had left another puppet in the bunker above and slid into its mind, seeing what it saw. She/ it saw the dust settling around the Thunderhawk, saw the ranks of the enemy already deployed. The ash settling over them could not, in this case, hope to disguise their identity. Grey by name and grey by nature, these Knights of the false Emperor were here in unprecedented numbers. As well they might, given the prize deep in the bowels of this once-Imperial prison.

The oil-slick of the forward shield swirled, coiled and drew aside, and despite herself Viscerion felt a tremor of delicious fear rush in her veins. This day would be dark and glorious.

She felt the lift grind to a halt, and snapped back into her own mind. The doors opened, sending the severed heads of the Arbitrators mounted on the lift walls juddering on their meathooks. She planted a kiss on the crushed brow of the most handsome of them and followed after Kyrull, whistling to herself.

(…don’t let it kill me…)

This block, the deepest in the prison, had been used for the Imperium’s most dangerous prisoners, those awaiting transport off-world. Viscerion was sorry she had never got to meet them, the prison having been cleared of all but the Arbites before Kyrull’s forces reached these hills and fell upon them. They would doubtless have been an entertaining bunch. The large cell at the end of the block had been used – and, hopefully, abused – for interrogations and excruciations; Viscerion had wanted to sleep there until Kyrull seized it for his plan.

The round cell had been stripped of its instruments and racks, leaving only the bare, concrete floor with its beautiful tapestry of stains and the half-dome ceiling of concrete panels that arched overhead, now adorned with the exquisite markings of the Pantheon, the air still spicy with the tang of sweat, blood and sweet, sweet fear. And in the middle now, adding immeasurably to that heady scent, was their prize, their trophy. Their lure.

Brother-Captain Colgrevance of the Grey Knights. Alive, if not well. Not well at all, Viscerion was pleased to see. The thick cables that emerged from his exposed cranium wound together and sank back into the hissing device that constrained his massive form. Ribs of adamantium pierced his naked body in dozens of places, the ends welded to his very bones. He could no more leave the device than this prison could rise up out of the earth.

Capturing him – and alive at that – had been Kyrull's finest hour, even if it had cost him most of his squads and all of his ships, but even that would pale into insignificance should they succeed today. The bold made their own fate, Viscerion knew.

The agony Colgrevance was in was palpable; it seeped out into the air like blood into water, radiating away in tangible waves of pain that filled the prison. Even Kyrull, who was not sensitive to psyker currents, could feel it, much to his delight. Viscerion revelled in it; to a psyker as she was it was like swimming in the laughter of the Pantheon itself.

She put the tip of one finger on the greasy side of one of the thick cables and traced along it, to where it met with the white bone of the captive’s skull. The bald scalp had been peeled back and now sat rumpled like an old, bloody rag crowning his sweat-streaked, agony-etched features. She drummed her fingers on the exposed bone. His eyes, rolled back until only the whites were visible, never flickered, but she caught another surge of ecstatic agony from him as the device increased its psychic torment. The levels were nearly at maximum, and she felt delight that, enemy though he was, he was strong enough to bear the incredible pressure, strong enough to give her the extended pleasure of watching the device kill him oh-so-slowly.

She kissed him then, long and hard on the mouth. Biting down, she came away with a bloody shred of lip between her teeth, which she spat into her palm and offered to Kyrull. He took it, with a faintly puzzled look on his face, and tossed it away. He then checked the device carefully.

“My lady; my twisted, deadly lady. Return now. Await their strike. You will be my eyes and ears.”

She bowed and left, the psychic wind strong at her back as the device shredded Colgrevance’s powerful mind.

(…don’t let it kill me…)

#

She moved the puppet to the viewing platform. This was going to be fun, and she wanted to see everything as it happened.

She reached far below to her Lord Kyrull, carefully crafting a link, a psychic tendril that would allow him to see as she saw, hear as she heard, feel as she felt. It was not the first time, and Kyrull delighted in thinking of new situations where he could enjoy a ring-side seat in her head. Battle was only one of them.

They could both see through the puppet’s eyes now. The dust had settled, but the Imperials had not advanced, despite the forward shield being lowered. Bombardment, then. She laughed as the human-puppet caught this thought from her, realising with its pig-brain that it was about to die. She forced it to laugh, too.

Outside the bunker, the air grew greasy in the dull afternoon light. The barren, rocky ground started to brighten, as if catching sunlight that wasn’t there. Silver-blue sparks crawled across the bare soil as particles of dust began to rise into the air. More and more were drawn upwards. The light intensified, a clear circle now apparent, centred on the bunker. It contracted.

Above, the clouds boiled and seethed, thinning in some invisible wind.

Pebbles were rising off the ground now, streaming upwards as the pool of light closed inwards faster and faster, brighter and brighter. Viscerion, deep underground, felt the puppet’s skin begin to crackle and spark, its very flesh being tugged against gravity, panic running in its veins.

Then the circle of light picked out only the bunker, and the puppet’s eyes flashed to steam as the light turned into a nova. Viscerion’s link was severed, and she staggered slightly.

She waited. It would only take a few seconds. The ion-path now complete, the battle-barge Siege Perilous high in orbit would trigger its bombardment lances. A pinpoint strike, with no forward shield to absorb it. The bunker would be –

She cried in delight as the chamber around her shuddered, the towering Marines standing nearby rocking as the pulse of surface devastation rippled through the bedrock that encased the prison.

She turned to Mael as dislodged dust trickled down, dancing off his power armour, but missing her entirely. “They will port into the ruins, but no further. The primary shield will prevent that, although they will be able to tear a hole and pass into the prison soon enough. Harry them, my lovely Champion, harry them and lead them to where they must go.”

“And you, my lady? Will you lead us against these fools of the corpse god?” Mael stepped closer.

“Our Lord Kyrull is watching.” It was as much a warning as an answer. Mael might get familiar, and Viscerion didn’t want to see him dead. At least, not yet. “And so I will not lead you. I will be – around. Watching. You will not see me.”

Mael turned to go.

“And Mael,” she called.

He turned back, but she had disappeared.

<Try not to get yourself killed> came the thought in his head.

#

The Terminators appeared amid the choking dust and dense smoke, apparitions of ghostly giants, nemesis weapons glowing in the gloom.

The bunker was completely gone, the bedrock beneath their armoured feet fused, glassy and only just solidified. The furnace heat went unnoticed as the Terminators hunted around, rapidly finding what they were looking for. The primary shield; an opaque pool, its surface an oily swirl, perfectly flat and smooth lying right at the centre of the lance strike. Powerful though the shot had been, it could not penetrate the shield, although it had vaporised everything above it. Only psyker energy could punch a hole through to the prison beneath.

The Terminators gathered around the exposed shield, charged their weapons and focused their combined powers. Inquisitor Irriagon arrived to add his fearful abilities to the onslaught, and the oily swirl darkened and began to seethe.

#

Viscerion had only just got into position when she felt the backwash in the warp. The lights in the prison dimmed before brightening again. The Imperials had rent a gap in the shield, large enough to pass through, although the shield itself still stood.

First would come the Terminators, possibly the greatest and deadliest spearhead the Imperium possessed, then the thrice-cursed Inquisitor and, lastly, the Grey Knight marines. Together, a force that could end wars. A force that could banish daemons - daemons Viscerion would not even dare to name. A force that would never, ever have come so far and so fast and in such numbers had it not been to rescue their beloved Brother-Captain. Their pathetic honour would be their undoing.

(…don’t let it kill me…)

Clinging lightly to the ceiling of one of the side-chambers, cloaked by the dark power of her mind, she watched the large marshalling hall. At one end, scores of Kyrull’s humans, massed like sheep in an abattoir, faces glazed with gore-soaked thoughts of glory. Their rune-covered barricades and heavy weapons would do them no good, but it would draw the Imperials in the right direction, towards Mael and his forces, and their doomed resistance might look convincing.

She felt and shared Kyrull’s thrill of glee as the wall at the far end of the hall exploded inwards. Chunks of glasscrete thundered down in a hail of debris, and between them came the Imperials, hated titans of war. Halberds spitting mind-fire and chests adorned with their cursed, painful texts they advanced as one, implacable and irresistible. The autoguns of the defenders opened up, but the incredible armour of the Grey Knights was more than equal. They never once broke stride as all around them the ricocheting hail of bullets chewed a storm of dust and chips out of the concrete walls and floor.

The leader of Kyrull’s humans yelled something above the furious noise and from the chambers at the sides of the hall leapt dozens more defenders, many of them beautifully twisted by the truths of the warp. Their twin waves broke in plumes of blood against the immoveable wall of the dead Emperor’s finest.

Viscerion felt the lust for battle tugging at her, thick cords in her gut seeming to draw her forward, but she bit through her tongue, tasted blood and fought it down. Not yet. Not yet.

Then the storm bolters of the Terminators opened up, and the entrenched defenders began to die like flies in a furnace.

#

“Justicar Caradoc.” Inquisitor Irriagon’s voice came loud and harsh through the grille in his gorget.

Caradoc stopped and turned, as behind him his squad of Grey Knights mopped up the surviving cultists and began to burn the bodies. “Inquisitor.”

“There is a witch here. She will burn 'fore sundown, but there is more. You feel it?”

“I do, Inquisitor. It is him, it is Brother-Captain Colgrevance. He is – in pain.”

“But not physical pain, Justicar. Some abomination that claws at his mind. I felt it as soon as we passed through the shield.”

“Aye, as did every one of us. He lives, and my heart rejoices to learn it, but the Ruinous Powers will rue this day. Our Chapter's vengeance will ring down the ages.”

“They may seek to confound us, to –“

(…don’t let it kill me…)

Irriagon and Caradoc stared at each other. All around the hall, every single Grey Knight stopped dead as the words rolled through their minds.

Irriagon took a deep breath. “Pay no attention to their lies. That is not your beloved Brother-Captain. He could never plead for his life like that. It is a trick of the Great Enemy, and a transparent one -”

(…don’t let it kill me…)

Irriagon blanched, as Caradoc and several other Knights cried out. One of the Terminators swept a concrete column away in fury.

“It is Colgrevance, Inquisitor,” said Caradoc through blood-drained lips. “Each of us knows our Brother, many have known him for centuries.” He gritted his teeth. “Myself included. How they have done this, I cannot say, but his shame will be purged. Our shame will be purged.” He turned away from Irriagon, revulsion clawing at his face.

In the shadows, Viscerion watched, and in the control complex far below, Kyrull howled with pleasure at the Grey Knights’ torment. The fact that Colgrevance could even form words in his agonies was remarkable in itself, but how sweet the fact that his supposed saviours had completely misunderstood them.

#

Viscerion slid through the shadows and the tunnels of the prison, easily able to get ahead of the advancing Imperials. Her abilities were unaffected by the waves of psyker-pain now flooding up from below, but the Grey Knights were clearly disturbed and were unable to maintain their much-vaunted Shrouding, let alone see through her darkening-veil.

The Inquisitor had taken to muttering to himself; some wretched litany or other. She could taste his unease, feel his flesh crawl.

She and Mael led them on, like rats in a maze, appearing in ambush before fading away and letting the enraged Imperials slaughter the worthless cattle Kyrull had assembled for the purpose.

The prison’s halls and chambers ran with black blood, but it was a river that led the Knights in one direction only, flowing deeper and deeper into the bowels of Salmanticae, towards the half-dome cell and its lone occupant.

(…don’t let it kill me…)

#

<I don’t want them to think this is too easy> came Kyrull’s thought in her mind. <Not one of them has fallen. I really don’t want them thinking at all. Have Mael give them a squad or two>

Viscerion acknowledged and found Mael’s mind. She sank for a delicious moment into the liquid fire of his rage. He wanted to fight, his whole being ached for it, ached for blood and death and howling fury, and she let the maelstrom of his mind engulf her for an incandescing instant. And then she banked his fires with a thought – such rage could undo them all, sweet as lust though it was.

<At the core, my furious Champion. Send two of your squads in with the cattle. Make the Imperials hurt, my love, make them hurt, but you must stay back>

“Let me -!”

<No!> then softer <No. Do not disobey me in this, my lovely Mael. Go now. The core. Do it well, and you will please me>

She could feel his anger at her hissing and spitting in his mind as she left.

#

The core of the prison was a deep well roughly the shape of a cross; the space left between the four, titanic subterranean columns that made up the wings of the prison. Footbridges ran around it on every level, many of them arching out over the void.

When Viscerion reached it the Imperials had made their way almost to the bottom in a tight group, and Mael had only just sprung his ambush. Already his cultists were engaged, and being slaughtered in fountains of ruby blood, but Mael knew how to launch a surprise attack.

As she made her way down the power conduits and lift gantries she saw two of Mael’s squads erupting out of the side of one of the huge, windowless columns just above the Imperials, dropping amongst them in an avalanche of grey concrete and red power armour. Kyrull’s voice in her head urged her to get closer, to better enjoy the carnage, but she needed no such urging as she dropped from scaffold to walkway to support strut.

(…don’t let it kill me…)

She hung single-handed in the air, about thirty feet above the melee, looking down with savage lust as Mael’s marines tore into the Grey Knights’ rear lines with power axes and flamers. They would die, that was assured, but could there be a more splendid death, she wondered?

One Chaos marine had his right arm and most of his right shoulder removed in a single sweep from a Knight’s halberd. As if the mortal injury was no more irritant than the buzzing of a fly the marine spun and planted his axe in the chest of the Grey Knight, the charged blade sinking through the ritual armour like coals through ice. The wounded Grey Knight kicked the marine to the ground, tore out the axe and beheaded his dying foe with a one-armed sweep of his nemesis weapon. He staggered, and bent forward, his halberd dropping heavily to the gantry.

Viscerion needed no more invitation than that. She let go, scything through the cold air and drawing her wyrd-blade as she fell. Both hands on the grip, point straight down, she fell upon the wounded giant like an arrow from heaven. The psy-wards of the armour could not keep out the wyrd-blade and the twin points drove through the exposed joint at the back of the Knight’s helm. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Storm bolter fire flashed in her direction and Viscerion flipped backwards off the massive body of the Knight, out into the well, falling free again until she snagged her arm into some power cables and swung away into safety, laughing like a banshee.

<How dare you disobey me? You are my eyes and ears>

She laughed again, and then, dangling by one hand, slowly licked the wyrd-blade clean, knowing Kyrull could taste as she tasted.

<Tell me you didn’t enjoy that as much as I did, my Lord>

A grunt. <My Lady. My silent angel of death. What am I to do with you?>

<Whatever you will, of course. They are nearly at the deepest level>

<Then retire to your little sanctuary and I’ll see you when it’s all over>

#

Kyrull’s second-last surprise for the Imperial’s were the Arbites. Or what was left of them once the cultists had performed the necessary rituals. Twisted and blasted remnants of what they had once been, but blindingly fast and still wearing their carapace armour, the warped ones fell upon their former allies as they advanced towards the cell at the end of the block.

The Grey Knights had little difficulty in cutting a path through them, and Kyrull had known this would be so, but the thought of them murdering what-had-been-Arbites had been amusing him for weeks. Still, so close were the Knights to the psychic torture of their beloved Brother-Captain, their fury was chilling to behold.

The massive cell door at the end of the block lay open, and as the Grey Knights approached they slowed to allow Inquisitor Irriagon through.

(…DON’T LET IT KILL ME…)

Within the cell they could see Brother-Captain Colgrevance, become one with the dread machine that impaled him body and mind. Irriagon had to call Caradoc’s name twice before the Justicar allowed himself to be restrained from rushing in.

Kyrull, watching now on a glow-panel in the control complex, leaned forward. “That’s it. That’s it. You know it’s a trap, so take your time, but watch him writhe while you do. Take your time, my doomed Inquisitor.”

Irriagon examined the door to the cell as carefully as he could, wave after wave of excruciation threatening to swamp him in a sea of pain. He struggled to keep his mind focused. He could see no wards or symbols, nothing to indicate the cell itself was a trap. But he knew it was. Somehow it was. But the pain. It was overwhelming.

(…DON’T LET IT KILL ME…)

“We must go in, Inquisitor. To come all this way…” said Caradoc, his jaw set and his voice straining with the effort.

Several levels above, Viscerion stepped into a spherical machine thickly lined with psy-baffles. She closed the hatch behind her, and readied herself.

Kyrull’s hand reached for the control glyphs. Even though he wasn’t a psyker, he was still going to feel this, he knew. Before they had plugged Colgrevance into that device, it had fed on every psyker his servants had been able to seize, Viscerion excepted, of course. Their torment, and now Colgrevance’s, had been stored in that machine over months – a colossal battery of raw psyker energy. All it needed was a mind powerful enough to channel it and release it. A mind like Colgrevance's.

Irriagon stepped into the darkened cell, closely followed by the Justicars, Caradoc at his right shoulder.

Kyrull looked on in amazement as the bare, ivory skull of Colgrevance came up, the greasy cables bending as he moved, as the tormented man tried to look at his Brothers. His cracked lips twitched, spasmed. He couldn’t be, could he? Was he going to try and speak? This was just too good! Kyrull’s hand hovered over the glyph, while his tongue played over his jagged bone teeth.

“Trap…” Colgrevance breathed the word, forcing it out through the crescendo of agony. “Psychic…devastator…kill…you…all…” He drew in a long, rattling breath, his eyes rolling back into his head. “Don’t…let…it…kill…me…” Another gasp. “You…must…kill…me…first…”

Kyrull relished the moment as Irriagon realised the nature of the trap and of his mistake, as he raised his bolt pistol to kill Colgrevance, as he started to shout a warning. Then Kyrull’s finger hit the glyph.

All the power stored in the device was released in an instant, channeled through the awesome might of Colgrevance’s mind. Unable to stop it, the Brother-Captain unleashed an assault beyond the power of any psyker, and Kyrull got to see at first hand just why this unique device was called a Devastator.

Every glow-panel and glyph display in the control complex exploded around him in a nova of sparks and glass shards. Every lux-panel splintered and burst, plunging the prison into impenetrable darkness. Kyrull gripped his scarred skull in both hands as the pulse swept through him and away, through the prison and beyond, driving outwards in a lethal radius.

As the blinding pain subsided, he shouted for the cultists to activate the emergency power. Slowly a baleful, reddish light began to dispel the blackness, and Kyrull ran from the control complex, Mael and his other marines close at his heels.

The sight that awaited him in the prison block brought the darkest delight to Kyrull’s cruel and twisted heart. He stopped, the realisation that his plan had worked slowly dawning on him.

Before him the floor was covered in the bodies of Grey Knights, each of them dead where they lay, their Aegis hoods no match for the holocaust Kyrull had unleashed.

Wordlessly he walked forward, a savage glee mounting within him, stepping over and past dozens of armoured bodies and finally the dead Inquisitor himself, bolt pistol still clenched in his hand. He turned, saw his warriors standing, stunned, at the far end of the block.

With a cry he leapt atop a fallen Terminator, its massive form barely moving despite his own weight, and looked at the wealth that lay around him. The finest equipment the Imperium had to offer, an Emperor’s ransom in weapons and armour. It would need to be properly consecrated first before any of them could use it, but with this he could build a Host – one that would be invincible. They could crush any force the Imperium could throw at them, take whatever they wanted, kill till the stars themselves burned red with blood. And if any other tried to challenge them, if even Erebus tried to take it for himself? Well, his daemons would have a hard time against armour and weapons purpose-built for daemon-killing, thought Kyrull with a snort. With this he could conceivably challenge Erebus himself. Reason enough not to tell him, as Viscerion had counselled.

Ah. Viscerion. A pity, but she was just too dangerous to keep around. Even walking in front of you, she could still find a way to stab you in the back.

“Mael. Asmodeus. Get the cattle in here. I want the armour stripped, the bodies burnt and everything in the loading bay within the hour. The psy-blast should have reached their gunship as well – Asmodeus, take your squad up there and secure it. Should be nothing but servitors left. It won’t be long before the battle-barge realises what’s happened and starts firing on us. The shield won’t hold forever, and I want to leave in that Thunderhawk.”

“All Praises, my Lord,” called Mael, and his cry was instantly echoed by the others. “Is the Lady Viscerion joining us? I thought she would be here by now.” His tone had turned dark, and dangerous.

“She didn’t let you fight the Imperials, did she, Mael? Bad mistake. She really does excel at making enemies. You’ll be horrified to hear, then, that her psy-chamber –“ Kyrull tilted his head in a look of mock sadness, “- her psy-chamber developed a fault. I meant to warn her. A tragic accident, so, no, the Lady Viscerion won’t be joining us. She's received a life sentence.”

Kyrull's widening grin froze on his face. He was not seeing the cell block strewn with dead Imperials; he was seeing the outside of the psy-chamber. He was seeing through her eyes. Gloved hands played across a glyph-panel in the side of the sphere, green icons winking steadily across the board. It was in perfect working order; the sabotage he had carried out apparently repaired.

<I also excel at killing my enemies, my Lord>

<I knew you would betray me, wytch, but I underestimated you ->

<You always have. It's not just eagles who should beware of scorpions>

<I know a tale about a scorpion. I'll tell it to you as I feast on your lungs, wytch>

A lance of pain seared through his mind, and he fell heavily to one knee, clutching his head. The pain faded as quickly as it had come, echoing laughter fleeing along with it, and he opened his eyes to see his marines watching him uncertainly.

“The bitch Viscerion lives, and plans treason, as I knew she would. Mael, take your squad and bring me her heart. And anything else that takes your fancy.” Fury shone in the Champion's face and he rushed from the block, eager to obey. “Asmodeus, remain here for now. The gunship can wait.”

#

Mael's power axe glowed brightly in the ruddy light of the stairwell as he ran upwards, his squad of four marines close behind him. The sound of their revving chainfists and the thunder of their footsteps rang off the steel walls.

The security doors leading into the block ahead lay open. In the centre of the floor, Mael could see the huge psy-chamber where Viscerion had been protected from the effects of the Devastator. Of Viscerion, however, there was no sign.

He strode into the block, axe held ready, bolter hunting for his target in the gloom. His squad spread out without a word. Every cell door was open, and they started checking them one by one.

They were about half-way down the block when they heard Mael's gurgling laugh, stopped and turned.

“How long have you been there?” asked Mael, the twin points of the wyrd-blade that tickled his throat preventing him from turning around.

“Long enough to get bored. I was about to start whistling, see if you noticed.”

There was a pause.

“Are you going to remove your blade, my Lady?”

“Are you going to give me a reason to, my darling Mael?”

Mael growled, like rocks grinding. “Our deal? That reason enough?”

“Remind me.”

“You're playing a dangerous -” He stopped as the twin points slid effortlessly half an inch into the flesh of his neck.

“Remind me, my brave Champion.”

“You get the gunship and your pick of the Imperial's equipment. I get to dance in Kyrull's entrails. And I get the rest of the equipment.”

“He sabotaged my sanctuary and tried to kill me. New deal. I get to dance in his entrails. The rest stands. Deal?”

Mael turned, hissing as the black blade sliced through the meat of his neck, but as he expected Viscerion made sure it was only skin deep. He stood facing her, and grimaced his best version of a smile as she withdrew the wyrd-blade. “Deal, my lady. Can we go and kill him now?”

“A moment. I want to make him sweat a bit more first. This won't take long.”

#

<My Lord. Thank you for sending me the entree. While you wait for the main course, enjoy this>

Kyrull's vision swam, resolving rapidly. He was perched in the shadows of a darkened cell, clinging like a reptile to the wall. Below him one of his warriors entered, oblivious to his presence. Kyrull felt the wyrd-blade sigh in his gloved hands and he dropped, landing crouched on the damp concrete floor before the massive, armoured figure. Before it could react, he moved faster than he had thought possible, lunging upwards with the twin-pointed blade held in a thrusting stance. The points pierced the marine's faceplate, the daemon-blade slicing through the ceramite, cutting clear through the warrior's brain stem.

Before the giant fell he was out of the cell, moving like shadows over silk, flowing with the darkness behind a veil of wytch-night. Up, the walkway above, hugging the cold wall. Heart beating faster now, senses changing, warping as the killing haze descended. Crouched, he saw movement. Spun, faster now, racing. Time elastic. Something huge looms, the blade again. In and out, once, twice. Move on again, as behind the behemoth topples silently, words and more cut from it. Jump, kicking off, spin in mid-air. Perfect motion, fluid, like a gossamer scarf on a breeze, gliding, touching ground for an instant, solitary concession to gravity. Faster now, two giants, alert. Guns blaze anger, sound and fury, but always two steps ahead. Circle, on the wall, now the ceiling. Drop between. Dark blade flashing amber in the blood-red light, wyrding-edges will not be denied, tasting their lives, hungry for more. Two fall clutching at throats, guns and voices silenced.

Mael. Champion Mael. Here he comes, cloaked in fury. Bellowing, cloak billowing, futile noise, gun blazing, always two steps ahead. In and out. Take his ear, why not? Roar of pain chasing him into the shadows. Flip, kick off, always behind the veil. Behind him. Take his other ear. Whirl as he ducks, rolling, back into the shadows. Bullets spray, everywhere but here. Deaf now, may as well make him blind. Leap and land, legs on his shoulders. Stab once, twice and away. More cries of pain, so sweet, but time to end it. Dart back in, open his throat, hot spray of scented, blackest blood. Mael sinks to his knees, gurgling, hands grasping. Plant a kiss on his gore-soaked lips. And away. Sweet darkness.

<see you soon, lover>

#

“So, what are you going to do, my Lady?” Mael asked as Viscerion turned and walked towards the stairwell.

“I've just done it. Oh, he'll get a surprise when he sees you.”

#

Kyrull stood, cold fury burning within him like a star at the heart of a glacier. The vision Viscerion had sent him faded, although he ensured that the killing fury it had aroused did not similarly subside. She had disposed of Mael, and was coming for him. Good. He would be waiting.

He glanced around the cell block, armoured bodies still strewn around, although the human cultlings had already cleared the cell itself. Honing his rage to a white-hot flame he picked up one of the humans, shaven head clasped in a single black gauntlet, the wretch screaming and kicking. Kyrull walked up to Asmodeus, holding the man out in front of him.

“Asmodeus, get rid of the cattle. I don't want her using them against us.” He pressed the flailing man's head against Asmodeus' breastplate, pushing until wet snapping sounds sent the man's limbs jerking spastically before they finally stilled. He let go, and most of the body dropped to the ground, but his anger was not satisfied. “Set up your squad here – this witch is not the only one with some surprises left.”

#

Kyrull stood with Asmodeus and his squad of four marines like statues in the centre of the block, weapons poised, surrounded by the Imperial dead in the dim, blood-shot light. There was only one entrance and, darkening-veil or not, it would take a ghost to pass through it without tripping the det-blocks lining the corridor. There would be no more tricks from the wytch once she set those off.

Without warning the corridor mouth disappeared in a plume of smoke and dust, driven out by an intense drum-beat of noise. Kyrull bellowed a vengeful roar. “Bring me the traitor-bitch’s corpse, and I will entreat the Pantheon with her entrails.”

Asmodeus and his squads leapt towards the settling cloud, bolters and axes at the ready. They paused as they approached the edge of the plume, their daemon-enhanced senses trying to pierce the gloom.

They caught a glimpse of shadowy giants and then Mael and his squad were upon them, barely scratched by the blast, screaming their bloodlust into the chill air. They fell upon each other without quarter, every swing of an axe a prayer to Lorgar, every bolter round a verse from His Epistles, daemonic strength crashing against itself until the whole cell-block shook. Under the crimson emergency lights their red armour was almost invisible; only the black edging stood out like shadows in blood. And the blood; the blood flowed like darkest wine until only Asmodeus stood, his armour torn and his power-axe destroyed, and Mael eviscerated beneath his cloven feet.

Asmodeus turned, and if he felt anything but majesty in the butchery of his fellow Champion, it did not show in his gore-streaked face. His jaw still quivered from the battle-lust as he spoke. “It is done. All Praises, my Lord, it is done. Perhaps this time he –“ a kick indicated the corpse of Mael, “- will stay dead.”

“Don’t be a fool, Asmodeus. She lives. Mael and his squad were a distraction. She’s here – find her!” Kyrull drew himself up, and roared into the dust-stained air. “Wytch! Show yourself. You cannot hide from me, whore. And your beloved blade will simply dull its edge on this armour.” He slapped one gauntleted hand against his breastplate, obscenely delicious carvings writhing under his touch. “I knew you would turn on me, my little scorpion. You’re not as smart as you think you are.”

The faintest of metallic scratches came from the guards’ walkway above the side-cells. Asmodeus growled and leapt straight up, his hooves leaving dents in the floor-panels as he landed on the walkway. He stopped, sniffing the air, his great head hunting this way and that. He turned and leant over the parapet, looking down on Kyrull. “There is no sign of –“

He stopped suddenly, his eyes going wide. Slowly, a twin-pointed blade emerged from his gaping, pitch-black maw as thick, oily blood began to ooze past his lips. The blade began to turn with a grating sound and Asmodeus’ eyes rolled back into his knotted skull. The blade-points vanished and the giant’s corpse toppled forward, landing with a dull crunch on the body of a Grey Knight.

Kyrull was already firing and the walkway and the concrete wall behind erupted in a blaze of flashes and eruptions of debris. He emptied most of his clip, and then stopped, panting. The debris pattered to the ground and silence once again chilled the ruddy air.

The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. “How did you know I would turn on you, my sweet Lord? I was as loyal as the night.”

Kyrull stilled his rage, reaching out with his warp-gifted senses to try and find her in the sanguine gloom.

“Indulge me. Say it is my last request,” came the disembodied, alluring voice.

“You are a scorpion, my love. It is your nature.” Kyrull kept moving, massive but silent as the grave. “You can no more withhold your sting than you can forget to breathe. It was just a matter of time, and a suitable lure, of course.”

“You must admit, we had some good times, you and I. I’m going to miss you.”

The voice was clear now, and he whirled. There she stood, in profile before the open door of the cell, her beautiful face hidden in shadow. He raised his bolter, and then slowed, as his eyes widened in amazement.

Viscerion heard the same sound and turned too, a dark laugh escaping her lips. Behind her, the naked body of Colgrevance moved, trembled.

She laughed again. “Don’t tell me your xeno device failed, too? With such a litany of errors, no wonder the Pantheon has abandoned you.”

Colgrevance’s bone-white face came up, shuddering with the effort.

Kyrull raised his bolter, but his aim wavered between the wytch and the captive. “He was at the eye of the hurricane he unleashed, and must have been spared its effects. No matter. He will die shortly after you.”

Colgrevance’s eyes opened, and then he spoke. “God…Emperor…grant…me…strength…” He gritted his teeth and Viscerion felt the weak psy-impulse, the last dregs of his once-mighty strength. “Terminus…”

Kyrull’s bolter wavered. “Terminus? What the –?”

A loud click sounded from the Knight corpse lying at his feet. Spreading out in a ripple, like stones on glass, came click after click from every suit of power armour littering the long cell-block. A low whine filled the air, rapidly building in volume and pitch.

Kyrull spun. He was completely surrounded by the Imperial dead, and the sole exit from the block was too far away. The whine was almost at a crescendo now. The cell, he realised, there were no Imperial bodies in the cell. He looked over.

Viscerion stood framed in the doorway, one gloved hand on the glyph panel, a smile sweet as death on her pale face. He started to run towards her, bolter discarded in his panic. The whine from the suits of armour was almost painful now.

As the massive cell door began to slide shut, and the noise threatened to split the air, Viscerion blew him a kiss.

<Missing you already>

The door slammed closed a fraction of a second before he rammed into it, but the thick adamantium barely rang. He turned, gasping. The intense whine stopped abruptly. A smile began to form on his face. By the Pantheon, the booby-traps had fail–

#

Viscerion barely felt the pulse of the devices’ explosion through the huge cell door. Dust rained down from above, but missed her altogether.

She prowled over to the Devastor device, useless now, and its captive, still impaled on its prongs. Two gloved fingers lifted Colgrevance’s head. She bent close, the faintest draft of his breath on her face. She kissed him once for his strength, and twice for his courage, and the third time she slid her wyrd-blade under his chin until the twin-points poked out the exposed white bone.

Debris meant that the cell door would not open all the way, but it was enough for her to get free. The cell-block was unrecognisable, and it looked as if one or two floors of the prison above had partially collapsed. Good, thought Viscerion. There would be a way out.

Something gleaming in the rubble caught her eye. One of the Terminator’s halberds, one of their legendary nemesis weapons. That would have to do; this scorpion wanted a new sting. She picked it up, careful to avoid touching the hateful images engraved along its haft, and began to skip lightly over the debris. Somewhere above, there was a gunship waiting for her.

Her whistling echoed in the ruined, buried chamber long after she had vanished.

THE END

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