Post by ForHim on Dec 21, 2008 16:43:30 GMT -5
The man stood in darkness, the vast chamber silent as the grave. He looked down on a world, a pearl of beauty stained by dark, malevolent cancer. Stained by his hand. All around him, The Eye rumbled with growing tension as the weapon prepared to fire. He was alone, but for the casket. It sat, low and squat, on the golden tiles of the floor, glowing with faint green light. Its surface was encrusted with runes and carvings, much like the shell of the huge vessel itself. Soon, the time would come for the casket to be opened.
“Truth.”
He sighed to himself, still gazing down on the war torn world. Something was rising out of the swirling pattern of clouds, breaking the still calm of the scene with its sparkling light. The light was green, a green that matched the glow of Truth. But it was the light of the Deceiver, come to face destiny.
The man glanced at the time. 9 minutes, 9 seconds. When the countdown was complete, Aithol would die. They came for him, even now. They came to stop him, to save the world and slay the villain. Heroes, they would be called. They came to do what was right. They came for Truth. He shook his head sadly, and ran his hand across the hilt of his sword.
Dhusgin seemed to purr with barely suppressed power, throbbing in his mind as it awakened to his touch. A prisoner. A servant. A tool. It had once known freedom, immortality. It had mocked and manipulated, it had played with mind and soul. Only the god that had spawned the daemon could command such a being. Yet freedom had ever been an illusion, and Dhusgin ever a slave. Even as its master was chained by emotion, so it was locked within a prison of steel, its purpose found in simple combat. A waste.
He heard the portal open, but did not turn. The brief blue glow cast dancing shadows in the dark of the bridge, then faded abruptly as the webway closed. Their footsteps were slow and uncertain. He felt their fear. But one among them felt nothing, came for nothing but purpose. A purpose as old as the gods. Solitaire.
“Welcome to the end.”
The man’s voice was deep and bass, holding in it the weary tone of the aged. The psychic resonance was smooth and liquid. Almost…soothing.
He could hear their quickening breaths, their pounding heartbeats. He could feel their trembling fingers as they gripped weapons slick with sweat. And still he did not turn. The man did not need to look into the heroes’ eyes. He knew them already, had known them longer than they had known themselves.
“Nexus. A name with a history, and not a pleasant one. A name soiled by the folly of a comrade. But a name you carry with pride, even now.
“Maltheus. Is that your name, Christian? It strikes me that a man who is Christian to a friend is Maltheus to a comrade. Have you ever wondered why?
“Barrachus. A name yet to be carved from the farbric of history. A name that could light the stars, or sink unheeded in the darkness. Or so you are told.
“McBaine. A common name, yet a name that carries its own meaning. A meaning won by blood and sweat. But have you ever considered the tears?
“Solitaire. I will not lower myself to the child’s name you give yourself, for the benefit of these men. I at least give them simple respect, but are they any more than vermin in your eyes? Your name matters not, for you are a tool, nothing more.
“And now we come to the final player in this little game. Tell me, heroes…what is my name?”
He turned now, his cloak dragging slowly on the smooth floor. They felt his gaze move slowly across their faces, as he studied the men who had come to kill him. He was tall, though not remarkably so, and his powerful frame was encased in gleaming metal, dark and gleaming as the shell of a scorpion. The black cloak hung loosely about his shoulders, but the hood was down, and the man’s head was bare.
His skin was dark and pocked, and ugly scars decorated his features. Two great coiled horns framed his skull, and a mane of unruly black hair crowned his head. A wisp of a beard twisted below a slit of a mouth, and the faintest suggestion of fangs dented his lower lip. Sunken cheeks and a sharp nose added to the man’s haunting appearance, but it was his eyes that stood out like stars in a clouded sky. They gleamed with such power, such intensity, that it seemed even the gods must cower before his stare. And as he locked gaze with each man in turn, staring long and deep into the souls of his would-be executioners, they knew his name.
“Balkoth.”
Four voices spoke as one, with sudden recognition. But Dancer stood silent, his shimmering mask betraying nothing of the face behind. Myriad expressions, countless faces both hideous and beautiful, regarded the man with dispassionate impunity. The solitaire began to advance, a silver blade swinging loosely in his grasp. Every movement fluid and calculated, the slow menace of a hunter in his step.
“You have come to put an end to change. You have come to save a world. You have come to defend the helpless, to uphold the righteous purpose shared by all who would stand against Chaos. You have come to find Truth.”
Balkoth was talking, not to the advancing Eldar, but to the four men who stood uncertain at his back, their weapons still trained upon him. Seeming to ignore Dancer, he went on, speaking with slow calm.
“Do you believe this? Do you really believe it? Have you ever wondered why you really do this? Who pulls the strings this time?
"The Imperium? A tyranny that holds humanity in an iron fist, under a banner of divine mandate. A machine, built of the flesh of its own architects. Every day countless men and women die for a cause they cannot understand, because they are told it is their purpose. Because they are told to hate all but the machine, to fight until their very destruction for the sake of their uncaring masters.
“The Eldar? For all their silvered words, all their ceremonies and enigmas, they care for one thing. Their own machine, delicate and cultured though it may seem, is of no more consequence than their dying species. They care for none but themselves, and they would sell the universe into destruction their own sake.
“Malal? Born of self-loathing, of regret and revulsion. Are these emotions any truer, any purer, than those which the Outcast strives against? Malal is Chaos, struggling against its own contradictions. A struggle that will never be resolved.
“You did not come for the sake of these things, you did not come on some great quest. You came for yourselves, for the emotions that rule you. And what is Chaos? Chaos is emotion, born of the passions of every mortal, every hero like yourselves. Why here, why now? Because I chose this place, this moment.
“Christian, you come for love. Your love for a woman has spawned hatred, and I have become the object of that hatred. Hatred drives you to vengeance, and that is why you stand arrayed for battle. But when you have killed me, will she live again? Will anything change, save for you and I?
“Nexus, you come to fight futility. You come to make a difference, to stand against the onset of destiny and prevail. But in your heart you know your purpose is as futile as it has ever been, and your actions have as little consequence as all that has gone before. You come to put an end to my life, but secretly you know it will change nothing.
“Barrachus, you come for your ego. To prove to your master, to the Inquisition and to all that look down upon you, that you are as worthy as they. But is a man’s worth defined in battle? Does strength, endurance and a, instrument of death make you more of a man? If you believed in your own worth, you would not seek to prove it. It is yourself that needs convincing, and you know already that you are unworthy of such a task.
“McBaine, you are here for its own sake. You seek excitement, you seek glory and success. The money has long ceased to matter, for it is the challenge itself that drives you. You will test yourself against all that stands in your way, because life is too short to back down. But when one day the challenge proves too much, your last thought will be to wonder just why you wasted what life you had.”
Dancer stood before him now, dropping gracefully into a fighter’s crouch. The blade gleamed, but Balkoth made no move to defend himself. His sword hung unmoving in its scabbard, and his eyes still stared past the solitaire.
“I am about to die. Apparently, this should worry me. But why? I am mortal, whatever else I may be. At some point, death is inevitability. Why should I care how long my life is? What is one life in the countless billions that infest the galaxy? You are ready to die, for your own reasons. You deem life of such value that I should fear its end, yet you believe your cause is worth dying for. You believe that your death will save the millions of lives on the planet below. So are a million lives worth more than one? Is life no more than a number?”
Nexus took a step forward, snarling as he raised his staff.
“Your words are no more than the whispers of your master, traitor. You are a puppet of Nine Eyes, like so many before you. And once you have served your purpose, you will be cast aside.”
“And will you not, Inquisitor? Does your precious Emperor care any more for you than Amon Dull for me? Does he even know you exist? Does he even care that I am a ‘traitor’? Does any of this make any difference to him?”
Maltheus brought his pistol to bear.
“We cannot know the mind of the Emperor. We can only have faith, and do our best to serve him. It is not for us to say what is right.”
Balkoth sneered.
“Is it not for us? Then who is it for? Who decides what is good, and what is evil? The Emperor, will be your answer. Because the Emperor is your symbol, your hope. Your master. But the Emperor has not spoken in ten thousand years. Who then, makes such decisions? And who made them before the Emperor existed? I will tell you, my brave heroes. No one. Because no one has that authority, they never have and never will. This is not a battle of good and evil. This is a battle of opinion. The Imperium versus Chaos. The Eldar versus Chaos. Malal versus Tzeentch. Who are the righteous? All, and none.
“You dare to come before me now, and preach the Imperial Creed? I was raised by the Creed, I know every word of its hateful doctrine. Every last pointless line. And I will tell you this of the Creed. It is a device, a mechanism for control of the masses. For control of humanity. To keep society alive, to keep the machine working. Because otherwise there is only Chaos. There is only emotion, there is only instinct. The true nature of our race is chained by order, and by the one strongest emotion we possess. By Hatred.
“A God is about to rise. A God of Hatred, born from all that you fight for. Born from mankind, and from the Imperium. It was always there, always waiting for this moment. Nothing has changed, but now this God has a name. Amon Dull. Fragmentor and Fragmented. But it could just as well be ‘Emperor’.”
A thundering crack sounded, shattering the very fabric of reality, as Mentirius tore into the chamber. The swirling currents of the warp closed behind the Ninth of Nine, as he swept towards the confrontation. A blazing inferno of green fire lit up the shadowy darkness, casting long shadows on the golden walls. And at its heart, an old man burned. He cast his gaze across the six, and his eyes came to rest upon Balkoth.
YOU…
Edited by - Mentirius on 13/11/2003 21:26:18
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:28:24
Balkoth turned, Dancer twitching like a coiled spring as he met the gaze of his protégé.
“Mentirius. You have learned much. What remains that you would hear of me? What is there left for you to ask of your mentor?”
He began to advance, leaving footprints that smouldered as the metal seared beneath his step. His voice was a booming chorus that echoed around the bridge and filled their minds like molten lead.
All that I am, all that I have ever been, was built on what you taught me! Built on lies…
“You speak of lies, Deceiver? Have you still not realised the purpose of this? Does Truth elude you still? You know nothing of Truth! Nothing of lies! You know nothing but what I gave you, and now you come before me, at the last. For what? I hold Truth, Mentirius. It has been waiting for you…”
Truth? Truth! Enough of Truth! How? Why? Give me that, give me that at least!
“I have given so much. And still you thirst, still you will never be content to die in ignorance. You fear it, Mentirius. That is what separates you from our miserable race. Ignorance is bliss, to all but you. For Tzeentch was ever thirsty for Truth…”
Tell me, Balkoth! If I must die ignorant, I will make you suffer before the end!
“There is no end, you should know that by now. Not for you…”
Mentirius rose into the air, tendrils of power trailing beneath him. The heat washed over them, and his eyes blazed as he drifted towards Balkoth. One hand went to his throat, and tore the broken hilt of a sword from its chain. The blade flared into life, a weapon of pure energy that writhed and crackled in his grasp. He looked deep into the traitor’s eyes…
Lies…
At that moment, Balkoth sprang, hurling himself into Dancer with a sudden burst of movement. The air around him seemed to ripple as he moved, and the solitaire was a blur of shifting colour as he struck, impaling the fallen Inquisitor on his blade.
The laugh began, an itch that grew from the voice of a child. A second voice joined it, and then a third. As Balkoth melted like smoke before their eyes, the children laughed, and the casket glowed with burning malice. Dancer bounded towards it, but the Magus was already there, reality seeming to shift around him as he placed gauntleted hands upon the golden lid. Something rushed through him, and the casket trembled as the catch snapped open.
“Know Truth…”
The solitaire became a blur of movement, the blade spinning in his grasp. He vaulted the obstacle, laying into Balkoth with deadly speed and grace. But Dhusgin met his blows, a blade of living metal that snarled with dark power. The clash of weapons rang out, and the Magus leapt back with surprising agility, dropping into a guard position. The daemon sword quivered in his hand, as Dancer paused. The casket was opening.
It was a mockery of everything. The destruction of all that Mentirius was struggling to hold onto, in one terrible moment. The Ninth of Nine looked upon Truth, and hope died. The light spilling forth was purest gold, as bright as a star. And at its heart…
The face of a child, soft and innocent. A body so tiny and frail, it seemed almost unreal. Six chubby arms, folded tightly against its little chest. Below the waist, it melted into a sluggish tail that hung pathetically in the fire of its broken prison.
Mentirius had seen the creature before. It had once stared at him imploringly from a glass tank, in the darkness of Secret’s Hold. He had looked into those eyes, and he had pitied this mutant, this freak he had created. But he could never remember when, or why, he had done this. Now all was clear. It had been spawned by a hidden hand, never by his own. He had taken it, and he had given it a name. To remind him of all that he was, and all that he must never become. Truth.
Redemption is lost, but Truth returns to you. We are one, Deceiver. And it is time for us to rise…
Edited by - Mentirius on 13/11/2003 21:29:03
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:31:58
An eye-blink, and Balkoth was gone, fading into the background like a wraith. Dancer whirled, crouched before the sudden light as Truth drifted slowly from the casket. The twisted child looked down on the solitaire, on Nexus and Maltheus, on Barrachus and McBaine. And the child laughed.
“But…eight have fallen…”
Nexus shook his head in disbelief, staff clenched in aching hands. Truth looked down with emerald eyes, and spoke with a voice he knew too well.
Poor, simple mortals… Ignatius the All-Nothing was a decoy, a puppet. Nothing more. Seven have returned to the whole, and shortly the Eighth shall join them. The Ninth shall claim destiny, and a God shall be born. Risen from the ashes of a stolen legacy, Hatred shall reign. I shall reign.
The Ninth is Truth
Suddenly, it all began to make sense. The words of Amon Dull fell with the weight of inevitability.
Five minutes, thirty-five seconds. The choir cannot be silenced. Aithol shall fall, and the White Child shall be born in Hatred. You are too late.
“It is never too late!”
Maltheus roared, and charged towards the daemon without another thought. Shots rang out as his pistol fired again and again, but the shells exploded against a barrier of sparkling light, and Truth turned a withering gaze to the enraged Inquisitor. Nexus, Barrachus and McBaine spread out, closing in on the casket, and Maltheus did not stop as he advanced relentlessly. The impotent hail of fire did not cease, as tears burned in his eyes, and Truth gazed back impassively. Nexus swung his staff high in both hands, psychic fire flickering along the mighty weapon, and Barrachus’ muscles rippled as he flexed his bulky powerfist. McBaine reached Maltheus’ side, a pistol in each fist, and opened fire on the creature, but his efforts were in vain, as it shrugged away the shots and spread its tiny arms.
Your kind never know when you are beaten. Let me show you.
Suddenly the light became dancing flame, and Truth unleashed its power, bolts of golden fire raining down on the Inquisitors. A missile exploded at Maltheus’ feet, throwing he and McBaine to the scorched deck. As Nexus walked slowly towards his foe, a crackling bubble of psychic force shielded him from the assault, and his eyes were locked upon Amon Dull. Sweat poured down his face as he struggled to resist the terrible power turned upon him, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Barrachus fighting to stay on his feet. The huge man was scorched and battered, his hair crackling in the heat as fire washed over him. Blackened though he was, he did not fall, his fist raised in a defiant gesture against the beast.
Maltheus struck the hot metal hard, driving the breath from his lungs. Somehow he kept hold of his weapons, but as he tried to rise, pain stabbed through him, and he doubled up in agony on the floor. He managed to look up, into those emerald eyes. Amon Dull’s laughter filled his head, as it drew back a single arm with deadly purpose.
This is it, Christian. Destiny awaits.
As the searing power of Chaos hurtled towards him, Inquisitor Christian Maltheus felt his life flash before his eyes. And in the sudden peace of that moment, one thought filled his head.
Not like this…
His vision blurred with the sudden impact, as something flashed across his view. The heat washed over him, but he felt no pain, as McBaine took the missile squarely in the chest, spinning away across the chamber in a blast of dark power. He struck the far wall with a dull thud, and crumpled limply to the deck.
Nexus and Barrachus hit Truth together, closing in from either side before it could hurl another attack. The Inquisitor’s staff came down in a wide arc, slamming into the daemon’s frail body and casting it to the floor. It bounced back with a flash of blinding light, but an over arm blow from Barrachus crushed it back down, and they laid into the child’s body with relentless fury.
Edited by - Mentirius on 13/11/2003 21:32:26
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:34:15
Dancer’s gaze flicked urgently across dials and numbers, as he scanned the panels below the view screen. The timer ticked ominously down, as the solitaire sought for an answer. The Eye must not fire… Behind him, the harlequin could hear the din of battle, as the humans battled Amon Dull. But to vanquish the daemon would not save Aithol, and the solitaire cared not for an empty victory. They had only to keep the beast distracted long enough for him to avert the bombardment.
“The answer is not there, son of Cegorach.”
The Eldar back-flipped instantly, landing deftly behind Balkoth in a blinding display of agility. A swift kick knocked Dhusgin from from the Magus’ hand, the daemon sword clattering on the floor. In a second, he held a handful on hair in one delicate hand, while the other pressed the razor edged blade to the Magus’ throat. His voice was a sinister whisper, as he hissed in Balkoth’s ear.
“Then where is it, Mon-Keigh?”
Balkoth gurgled, and Dancer released the pressure enough for him to speak, yanking his handful of hair for good measure.
“It cannot be stopped now, solitaire. The orders have been given.”
The hilt struck him in the face, smashing a fang from his jaw with a spray of red. The solitaire leaned closer, drawing the blade lightly across his neck. As hot blood trickled from the cut, the cold metal pressed against his windpipe, and the whisper snarled again, quick and venomous.
“Have you seen the Abyss, pawn of darkness? Have you stared into the very eyes of She Who Thirsts? Do you know what awaits your putrid soul?”
Balkoth’s answer was a cold rasp, as he felt something answer his silent call.
“Yes.”
He felt Dancer spasm suddenly, stiffening for a moment before falling silently away. Turned slowly, he stared into the blank eyes of the harlequin’s mask as crimson blood pooled around his dying body. The Eldar shuddered, as Dhusgin ripped itself from his back and flew to its master’s hand.
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:38:52
Mentirius stood in a red lake, the glistening blood stretching as far as he could see in every direction. Ripples spread slowly beneath him, even as he somehow stood on the surface, gazing up at the sun. It was green, burning with a yellow flame. The light of his dreams, hanging in a black sky. But there were no stars overhead, only the eye of Amon Dull. The eye that had stared from the depths of his mind all this time, seeing what he saw. Thinking what he thought. Knowing what he knew.
Once, he had stood here, locked in his own mind, and faced all that he had become. Faced his dark side, and prevailed. He had stood beneath the eye, and cleansed his soul. Lies. All lies.
What am I? Are there any answers here?
You are Amon Dull.
Amon Dull did not kneel before the Emperor. Amon Dull cares not for mankind, nor for the Eldar. Amon Dull did not stand against a galaxy to absolve Alessandro Nexus, nor give up Redemption to save Jaydred Taren.
The man who did those things is a fabrication, a daemon’s dream. He is a shell, soon to be cast aside. From his ashes, a God will rise.
The man who did those things was me. And I will not be cast aside.
The choice has already been made. It was made the moment Redemption left your grasp. Destiny cannot be cheated.
Nothing is certain. Things can still change.
But can you change them? Can a broken shell resist the tide?
You know the answer. We know what must be done.
I will not let you.
This is my dream. And it is over.
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:41:18
Nexus brought his staff down again, stabbing down into Truth’s chest with all his strength. But the tiny creature caught his weapon in one frail hand, its eyes unblinking as they mate his hateful glare. He wrenched at the force staff, but it was caught in an unbreakable grip, and the daemon slowly began to rise, floating before him until they were eye to eye. Behind Amon Dull, he saw Barrachus draw back his arm.
“Bravely done, heroes. But this is not your tale.”
Balkoth’s gauntlet slammed into the back of the Interrogator’s head, throwing him heavily from his feet. He hit the floor like a fallen tree, and did not rise. As Nexus grunted in anger, straining against Truth’s immortal strength, the Magus twirled his sword deftly, and levelled it at his chest. Dhusgin growled like a caged beast, quivering with anticipation as its master stepped back into a fighting stance.
Truth. I am the Deceiver. I deny you.
The daemon stared past Nexus now, to the advancing apparition that was Mentirius. His skin burned with psychic fire, and his eyes were windows into the currents of the warp. In one clawed hand, the sword blazed. Truth laughed with a child’s mirth, and threw the Inquisitor roughly aside, drifting towards the Deceiver with slow menace. As Nexus reeled, Balkoth stalked forward, every move graceful and calculated.
“Show me, Inquisitor. Show me your hatred.”
“It will burn the sight from your eyes, Balkoth!”
They turned, glancing suddenly across the battle scarred chamber to the wrathful voice. There stood Maltheus, sword in hand. His armour was scorched and his clothes tattered, but he was not beaten, and as Balkoth’s eyes narrowed, Nexus charged into him with his staff held high.
The Magus caught the blow on Dhusgin, throwing the Inquisitor away with an inhuman strength as the sword thirsted for blood. He laid into the armoured man with shocking speed; forcing Nexus back as he strained to block the storm of blows. Then Maltheus was there, and Balkoth spun, parrying a two-handed slash and twisting the blade to stab at his throat.
Nexus bulled into him, throwing him to the floor with the weight of his armour, but he struck back like a snake, springing to his feet and lashing at the Inquisitor’s legs. A low parry left Nexus’ face unprotected, and Balkoth lunged, head butting him savagely in the face and shattering his nose with a wet crack. Maltheus struck again, but Balkoth twisted aside and slipped past, raking his arm with Dhusgin’s jagged teeth. Pain coursed through the Inquisitor as he turned quickly, hearing his comrade fall heavily to the floor behind him.
The daemon sword shivered with excitement as the taste of Maltheus’ blood coursed through it. Weaving an intricate pattern in the air, Dhusgin sought his throat, and it was all he could do to fend away Balkoth’s onslaught, slowly giving ground to the Magus as he fought for his life. For more than five hundred years, this man had honed every skill, every discipline. The dark gods had given much to him, but he had taken so much more by his own hand, and his own iron will. Maltheus looked into his eyes, and he knew this. With sickening resignation, he realised he could not beat him.
As he felt the Inquisitor’s zeal slipping away, Balkoth closed his grip on Maltheus’ mind, feeling layers of defence crumble before his malevolent touch. He pushed deep into the man’s head, never slowing Dhusgin’s hail of blows. His voice was slow and compelling, seeping into the depths of his opponent’s psyche.
Drop it.
The Eldar power sword hit the deck with a metallic clang, and Maltheus dropped his arms limply to his sides. Balkoth smiled, a trickle of blood staining his lip from his broken fang. His eyes seemed to widen, swallowing all around him into those inky depths. The Inquisitor could not tear his gaze from those eyes, could not bring himself to pick up the sword. He felt something give, and the darkness poured in. The last thing he remembered was a child laughing.
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:44:51
Truth and the Deceiver floated high above the scorched metal of the deck, never breaking their stare. Gazes locked, wreathed in eerie light, they were outlined against the vast screen, like Gods soaring over the pearly orb that was Aithol. As the warped child that was Amon Dull faced the old man, the golden light rose from within, and it began to change, stretching and mutating as the time steadily ticked down. What had been a tiny baby expanded and rippled as it became a tall man, his torso bulging with corded muscles.
Six frail arms became long and powerful, bulging as Truth flexed them experimentally. A head of golden hair fell to Amon Dull’s shoulders, and his face was a flawless mask of mocking amusement as a forked tongue played about his lips. The stubby, sluggish tail lashed and coiled as it stretched out, growing into an enormous, scaled body. As golden coils writhed in the air, and Truth’s skin glowed with power, he loomed over Mentirius with terrible majesty, eyes of emerald light gleaming with malice.
One shall rise.
Nine shall fall.
Mentirius cast his burning sword into the daemon, a crack of thunder booming out as it struck. Amon Dull reeled, lashing out with his gigantic tail. It snapped like a whip, throwing the Deceiver across the wide chamber. He slammed into the wall with incredible force, leaving a deep impression. But even as Truth hurtled towards him, he flew back, jets of coloured fire trailing in his wake. They met with an explosion of power that made the walls shudder, exchanging brutal blows before they reeled away.
You cannot conquer yourself, Deceiver. This is futile.
The same could be said of humanity, and the battle against Chaos.
And it is just as true.
It is the battle that keeps us alive. It is our defiance that makes us human.
Defiance is nought but denial. Hatred rules humanity, Deceiver. In one minute, twenty-four seconds, we shall rule Hatred.
Truth said no more, as Mentirius rushed past, one arm catching his corded neck and crushing his throat. The momentum carried both into the view screen, the impact jarring the image for a second in a burst of green light. Six mighty arms closed on the old man, thick fingers becoming barbed talons as they crushed him to Amon Dull’s chest. But still he clutched at the daemon’s thick neck, the colossal power of the forces in opposition pounding the very fabric of reality. The air around them was a vortex of coruscating energy, as their voices screamed in the warp, their violence throbbing in the Immaterium.
It is your destiny! You made your choice!
The choice was not mine to make!
It has always been yours! You were born to make it!
The White Child was never made for you! Nothing can change that!
Everything changes! Kurnous is dead! Morai-Heg is dead! Only Tzeentch remains, and we are his Chosen!
Tzeentch is fickle, and the dice roll yet!
They are not your dice! Fate dances to my tune this time, and Aithol shall fall!
That is about to change!
Not by your hand, Deceiver! You had your chance!
It is never too late!
Truth slammed a fist into Mentirius’ stomach, his coils seizing the old man in an iron grip as they fell to the deck. It buckled beneath them, the metal melting and writhing at their touch, and still they fought. The Deceiver struck Truth full in the face, snapping his head back with sheer force, but the daemon’s neck stretched out, becoming long and ropey as it lifted the leering face high into the air. Mentirius struggled to strike at him again, but his legs were tangled in Amon Dull’s serpentine body, its terrible strength crushing his ancient legs like a vice. The air became an inferno, as the last of the Deceiver’s awesome power exploded outwards, withering Truth’s golden skin in the searing heat.
Amon Dull threw back his head, and laughed. He laughed with the voices of countless tortured souls, but Mentirius heard only the child. He felt it rise from deep inside, and this time he did not fight. The laugh burst from his throat, joining the chorus with its booming power.
Thirty…twenty-nine…twenty-eight…
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:47:23
Over a world about to die, a rising God fought its own fragmented mind. And even as Truth and the Deceiver battled tirelessly, still they laughed. The sound echoed in a billion ears, as Aithol held its breath. Deep within the rift that yawned far below, the writer heard it. S’airz, Lord of Change, instrument of Tzeentch and architect of destiny, looked to the sky, and saw the prophecy it had created fall into place. The souls of Goscarrigen and Phineas Amnon screamed as the Greater Daemon engulfed them, but they were insignificant. All paled in comparison to the imminent birth.
Somewhere, the White Child felt the darkness close upon it with icy claws, and the light began to fade. Somewhere, the White Child cried.
Twenty-one…twenty…nineteen…
Truth towered over the bridge, his blazing form growing and changing as he slowly crushed Mentirius in his grip. Still they laughed, but the chorus was swallowing the voice of the Deceiver, even as Amon Dull swallowed the last fragment of its being. An old man stared up from the depths of damnation, clinging desperately to what remained of his humanity. Mentirius could feel it slipping away, could feel his very being slipping away. But he would not give up, would not be taken by the darkness. The man who had been an Inquisitor would not be Amon Dull. He was more than that.
Sixteen…fifteen…fourteen…
Nine shall become One. One shall rise, at the birth of the White Child.
“I WILL NOT BE DENIED…”
The blade tore into Truth’s heart, a spear of darkness that clawed at the daemon with venomous power. Amon Dull shivered with agony, as the sword of Malal devoured him. Mentirius felt the coils loosen, golden light flooding from their scales as all was sucked towards the ugly spike jutting from the daemon’s chest. Truth sank to the swimming liquid of the mangled floor, Auron’s dark figure leaning heavily on the blade that impaled him.
The Doomed One began to shudder, black lightning playing around him as the weapon sealed his fate. The jaws of his God yawned at his back, as Amon Dull and his nemesis were dragged into Malal’s embrace. A rumbling snarl resounded through the crippled chamber. The light that had flooded the room was sucked into a vortex of dark energy, and for a moment, Mentirius stared into the eyes of the Outcast. Then all was silent, and the laughter died away. Mentirius stood alone, save for the fallen.
“Thus it began, and thus it shall end. You and I, Mentirius. But now you are the master.”
Nine…eight…seven…
He could hear the laughter. But it was his voice that rang out in that dark chamber, and the echoes of so many others filled his mind. Malal had been deceived. Amon Dull lived yet. In six seconds, the final change would destroy all that had been Mentirius, and Nine Eyes would rise under a banner of hatred. The White Child’s birth would split the heavens, with the agony of a dying world. He knew what he had to do. He held out a hand, and Maltheus’ pistol flew to his grasp. Shaking with emotion, he raised it to his mouth.
Six…five…four…
I think not.
Pain flooded his senses, and he fell to his knees, the weapon falling from his fingers. Deep within a tortured mind, Amon Dull laughed. He looked up, as the changes wracked his body. Balkoth stood over him, silhouetted against Aithol. He smiled, but it was not the mocking grin he had expected. It was a smile of pity.
Barbed spines burst from the skin of the Deceiver, as his wings tore free, spreading outwards like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Golden light poured from his skin. He felt Amon Dull closing around him, rising within him.
Three…two…one…
There is no end. There is only change.
But something tugged at his mind, in that final moment. A voice from the past, calling out words he had once spoken. Mentirius smiled, a single tear trickling down his cheek. It was the voice of a friend he had given everything for. At that moment, it was the best thing he had ever heard.
“Die well, my friend.”
A single shot rang out, and Mentirius slumped forward. The back of his head spilled its contents at Balkoth’s feet. Somewhere a child screamed.
As the countdown ended, a distant explosion rocked the ship violently, and an ominous rumble rose from the depths of The Eye. Balkoth knelt down, and plucked the symbol of the Inquisition from the pocket of his fallen pupil. Turning to stare down on Aithol, he sighed, feeling the presence of another at his side.
“Nothing changes, Alessio.”
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:50:15
As the daemonic choir was unleashed, waves of tortured emotion swept through The Eye, and the vast ship began to come apart, huge explosions tearing it apart from within. A vessel the size of a world died, fragments of golden machinery drifting away into the darkness of the void. Somewhere, deep within the instrument of Amon Dull’s destiny, something had failed. But a sleek shape rose like a phoenix from the heart of the destruction, looking down on all that its master had wrought.
Some might have recognised the vessel as Black Silence, command ship of Inquisitor Mentirius, and his master before him. Balkoth had built it to his own design, it was said. But not even Mentirius had realised it might have a twin. Futility, command ship of the Magus, swept gracefully out of its dying host, and soared into the darkness of open space. At the helm, two men stood silently, and looked down on their betrayal with grim satisfaction. Then the Black Ship was swallowed by the warp, vanishing without a trace into the pages of history. In a few minutes, nothing would remain of The Eye, and Amon Dull would be no more than a memory.
Far below it all, on the fields of Aithol, the Lord-Seer looked up on a bright sky, night turned to day by a second sun that hung over them like a dying God. Fate had run its course. Somewhere, a child laughed with delight.
They would bless their heroes; they would thank their Gods for this victory. But none would look to a traitor for praise and glory; no thanks would be given to Balkoth the Damned. So it had always been. But he had played his part. Nothing else mattered.
There is no end. But nothing changes…
“Truth.”
He sighed to himself, still gazing down on the war torn world. Something was rising out of the swirling pattern of clouds, breaking the still calm of the scene with its sparkling light. The light was green, a green that matched the glow of Truth. But it was the light of the Deceiver, come to face destiny.
The man glanced at the time. 9 minutes, 9 seconds. When the countdown was complete, Aithol would die. They came for him, even now. They came to stop him, to save the world and slay the villain. Heroes, they would be called. They came to do what was right. They came for Truth. He shook his head sadly, and ran his hand across the hilt of his sword.
Dhusgin seemed to purr with barely suppressed power, throbbing in his mind as it awakened to his touch. A prisoner. A servant. A tool. It had once known freedom, immortality. It had mocked and manipulated, it had played with mind and soul. Only the god that had spawned the daemon could command such a being. Yet freedom had ever been an illusion, and Dhusgin ever a slave. Even as its master was chained by emotion, so it was locked within a prison of steel, its purpose found in simple combat. A waste.
He heard the portal open, but did not turn. The brief blue glow cast dancing shadows in the dark of the bridge, then faded abruptly as the webway closed. Their footsteps were slow and uncertain. He felt their fear. But one among them felt nothing, came for nothing but purpose. A purpose as old as the gods. Solitaire.
“Welcome to the end.”
The man’s voice was deep and bass, holding in it the weary tone of the aged. The psychic resonance was smooth and liquid. Almost…soothing.
He could hear their quickening breaths, their pounding heartbeats. He could feel their trembling fingers as they gripped weapons slick with sweat. And still he did not turn. The man did not need to look into the heroes’ eyes. He knew them already, had known them longer than they had known themselves.
“Nexus. A name with a history, and not a pleasant one. A name soiled by the folly of a comrade. But a name you carry with pride, even now.
“Maltheus. Is that your name, Christian? It strikes me that a man who is Christian to a friend is Maltheus to a comrade. Have you ever wondered why?
“Barrachus. A name yet to be carved from the farbric of history. A name that could light the stars, or sink unheeded in the darkness. Or so you are told.
“McBaine. A common name, yet a name that carries its own meaning. A meaning won by blood and sweat. But have you ever considered the tears?
“Solitaire. I will not lower myself to the child’s name you give yourself, for the benefit of these men. I at least give them simple respect, but are they any more than vermin in your eyes? Your name matters not, for you are a tool, nothing more.
“And now we come to the final player in this little game. Tell me, heroes…what is my name?”
He turned now, his cloak dragging slowly on the smooth floor. They felt his gaze move slowly across their faces, as he studied the men who had come to kill him. He was tall, though not remarkably so, and his powerful frame was encased in gleaming metal, dark and gleaming as the shell of a scorpion. The black cloak hung loosely about his shoulders, but the hood was down, and the man’s head was bare.
His skin was dark and pocked, and ugly scars decorated his features. Two great coiled horns framed his skull, and a mane of unruly black hair crowned his head. A wisp of a beard twisted below a slit of a mouth, and the faintest suggestion of fangs dented his lower lip. Sunken cheeks and a sharp nose added to the man’s haunting appearance, but it was his eyes that stood out like stars in a clouded sky. They gleamed with such power, such intensity, that it seemed even the gods must cower before his stare. And as he locked gaze with each man in turn, staring long and deep into the souls of his would-be executioners, they knew his name.
“Balkoth.”
Four voices spoke as one, with sudden recognition. But Dancer stood silent, his shimmering mask betraying nothing of the face behind. Myriad expressions, countless faces both hideous and beautiful, regarded the man with dispassionate impunity. The solitaire began to advance, a silver blade swinging loosely in his grasp. Every movement fluid and calculated, the slow menace of a hunter in his step.
“You have come to put an end to change. You have come to save a world. You have come to defend the helpless, to uphold the righteous purpose shared by all who would stand against Chaos. You have come to find Truth.”
Balkoth was talking, not to the advancing Eldar, but to the four men who stood uncertain at his back, their weapons still trained upon him. Seeming to ignore Dancer, he went on, speaking with slow calm.
“Do you believe this? Do you really believe it? Have you ever wondered why you really do this? Who pulls the strings this time?
"The Imperium? A tyranny that holds humanity in an iron fist, under a banner of divine mandate. A machine, built of the flesh of its own architects. Every day countless men and women die for a cause they cannot understand, because they are told it is their purpose. Because they are told to hate all but the machine, to fight until their very destruction for the sake of their uncaring masters.
“The Eldar? For all their silvered words, all their ceremonies and enigmas, they care for one thing. Their own machine, delicate and cultured though it may seem, is of no more consequence than their dying species. They care for none but themselves, and they would sell the universe into destruction their own sake.
“Malal? Born of self-loathing, of regret and revulsion. Are these emotions any truer, any purer, than those which the Outcast strives against? Malal is Chaos, struggling against its own contradictions. A struggle that will never be resolved.
“You did not come for the sake of these things, you did not come on some great quest. You came for yourselves, for the emotions that rule you. And what is Chaos? Chaos is emotion, born of the passions of every mortal, every hero like yourselves. Why here, why now? Because I chose this place, this moment.
“Christian, you come for love. Your love for a woman has spawned hatred, and I have become the object of that hatred. Hatred drives you to vengeance, and that is why you stand arrayed for battle. But when you have killed me, will she live again? Will anything change, save for you and I?
“Nexus, you come to fight futility. You come to make a difference, to stand against the onset of destiny and prevail. But in your heart you know your purpose is as futile as it has ever been, and your actions have as little consequence as all that has gone before. You come to put an end to my life, but secretly you know it will change nothing.
“Barrachus, you come for your ego. To prove to your master, to the Inquisition and to all that look down upon you, that you are as worthy as they. But is a man’s worth defined in battle? Does strength, endurance and a, instrument of death make you more of a man? If you believed in your own worth, you would not seek to prove it. It is yourself that needs convincing, and you know already that you are unworthy of such a task.
“McBaine, you are here for its own sake. You seek excitement, you seek glory and success. The money has long ceased to matter, for it is the challenge itself that drives you. You will test yourself against all that stands in your way, because life is too short to back down. But when one day the challenge proves too much, your last thought will be to wonder just why you wasted what life you had.”
Dancer stood before him now, dropping gracefully into a fighter’s crouch. The blade gleamed, but Balkoth made no move to defend himself. His sword hung unmoving in its scabbard, and his eyes still stared past the solitaire.
“I am about to die. Apparently, this should worry me. But why? I am mortal, whatever else I may be. At some point, death is inevitability. Why should I care how long my life is? What is one life in the countless billions that infest the galaxy? You are ready to die, for your own reasons. You deem life of such value that I should fear its end, yet you believe your cause is worth dying for. You believe that your death will save the millions of lives on the planet below. So are a million lives worth more than one? Is life no more than a number?”
Nexus took a step forward, snarling as he raised his staff.
“Your words are no more than the whispers of your master, traitor. You are a puppet of Nine Eyes, like so many before you. And once you have served your purpose, you will be cast aside.”
“And will you not, Inquisitor? Does your precious Emperor care any more for you than Amon Dull for me? Does he even know you exist? Does he even care that I am a ‘traitor’? Does any of this make any difference to him?”
Maltheus brought his pistol to bear.
“We cannot know the mind of the Emperor. We can only have faith, and do our best to serve him. It is not for us to say what is right.”
Balkoth sneered.
“Is it not for us? Then who is it for? Who decides what is good, and what is evil? The Emperor, will be your answer. Because the Emperor is your symbol, your hope. Your master. But the Emperor has not spoken in ten thousand years. Who then, makes such decisions? And who made them before the Emperor existed? I will tell you, my brave heroes. No one. Because no one has that authority, they never have and never will. This is not a battle of good and evil. This is a battle of opinion. The Imperium versus Chaos. The Eldar versus Chaos. Malal versus Tzeentch. Who are the righteous? All, and none.
“You dare to come before me now, and preach the Imperial Creed? I was raised by the Creed, I know every word of its hateful doctrine. Every last pointless line. And I will tell you this of the Creed. It is a device, a mechanism for control of the masses. For control of humanity. To keep society alive, to keep the machine working. Because otherwise there is only Chaos. There is only emotion, there is only instinct. The true nature of our race is chained by order, and by the one strongest emotion we possess. By Hatred.
“A God is about to rise. A God of Hatred, born from all that you fight for. Born from mankind, and from the Imperium. It was always there, always waiting for this moment. Nothing has changed, but now this God has a name. Amon Dull. Fragmentor and Fragmented. But it could just as well be ‘Emperor’.”
A thundering crack sounded, shattering the very fabric of reality, as Mentirius tore into the chamber. The swirling currents of the warp closed behind the Ninth of Nine, as he swept towards the confrontation. A blazing inferno of green fire lit up the shadowy darkness, casting long shadows on the golden walls. And at its heart, an old man burned. He cast his gaze across the six, and his eyes came to rest upon Balkoth.
YOU…
Edited by - Mentirius on 13/11/2003 21:26:18
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:28:24
Balkoth turned, Dancer twitching like a coiled spring as he met the gaze of his protégé.
“Mentirius. You have learned much. What remains that you would hear of me? What is there left for you to ask of your mentor?”
He began to advance, leaving footprints that smouldered as the metal seared beneath his step. His voice was a booming chorus that echoed around the bridge and filled their minds like molten lead.
All that I am, all that I have ever been, was built on what you taught me! Built on lies…
“You speak of lies, Deceiver? Have you still not realised the purpose of this? Does Truth elude you still? You know nothing of Truth! Nothing of lies! You know nothing but what I gave you, and now you come before me, at the last. For what? I hold Truth, Mentirius. It has been waiting for you…”
Truth? Truth! Enough of Truth! How? Why? Give me that, give me that at least!
“I have given so much. And still you thirst, still you will never be content to die in ignorance. You fear it, Mentirius. That is what separates you from our miserable race. Ignorance is bliss, to all but you. For Tzeentch was ever thirsty for Truth…”
Tell me, Balkoth! If I must die ignorant, I will make you suffer before the end!
“There is no end, you should know that by now. Not for you…”
Mentirius rose into the air, tendrils of power trailing beneath him. The heat washed over them, and his eyes blazed as he drifted towards Balkoth. One hand went to his throat, and tore the broken hilt of a sword from its chain. The blade flared into life, a weapon of pure energy that writhed and crackled in his grasp. He looked deep into the traitor’s eyes…
Lies…
At that moment, Balkoth sprang, hurling himself into Dancer with a sudden burst of movement. The air around him seemed to ripple as he moved, and the solitaire was a blur of shifting colour as he struck, impaling the fallen Inquisitor on his blade.
The laugh began, an itch that grew from the voice of a child. A second voice joined it, and then a third. As Balkoth melted like smoke before their eyes, the children laughed, and the casket glowed with burning malice. Dancer bounded towards it, but the Magus was already there, reality seeming to shift around him as he placed gauntleted hands upon the golden lid. Something rushed through him, and the casket trembled as the catch snapped open.
“Know Truth…”
The solitaire became a blur of movement, the blade spinning in his grasp. He vaulted the obstacle, laying into Balkoth with deadly speed and grace. But Dhusgin met his blows, a blade of living metal that snarled with dark power. The clash of weapons rang out, and the Magus leapt back with surprising agility, dropping into a guard position. The daemon sword quivered in his hand, as Dancer paused. The casket was opening.
It was a mockery of everything. The destruction of all that Mentirius was struggling to hold onto, in one terrible moment. The Ninth of Nine looked upon Truth, and hope died. The light spilling forth was purest gold, as bright as a star. And at its heart…
The face of a child, soft and innocent. A body so tiny and frail, it seemed almost unreal. Six chubby arms, folded tightly against its little chest. Below the waist, it melted into a sluggish tail that hung pathetically in the fire of its broken prison.
Mentirius had seen the creature before. It had once stared at him imploringly from a glass tank, in the darkness of Secret’s Hold. He had looked into those eyes, and he had pitied this mutant, this freak he had created. But he could never remember when, or why, he had done this. Now all was clear. It had been spawned by a hidden hand, never by his own. He had taken it, and he had given it a name. To remind him of all that he was, and all that he must never become. Truth.
Redemption is lost, but Truth returns to you. We are one, Deceiver. And it is time for us to rise…
Edited by - Mentirius on 13/11/2003 21:29:03
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:31:58
An eye-blink, and Balkoth was gone, fading into the background like a wraith. Dancer whirled, crouched before the sudden light as Truth drifted slowly from the casket. The twisted child looked down on the solitaire, on Nexus and Maltheus, on Barrachus and McBaine. And the child laughed.
“But…eight have fallen…”
Nexus shook his head in disbelief, staff clenched in aching hands. Truth looked down with emerald eyes, and spoke with a voice he knew too well.
Poor, simple mortals… Ignatius the All-Nothing was a decoy, a puppet. Nothing more. Seven have returned to the whole, and shortly the Eighth shall join them. The Ninth shall claim destiny, and a God shall be born. Risen from the ashes of a stolen legacy, Hatred shall reign. I shall reign.
The Ninth is Truth
Suddenly, it all began to make sense. The words of Amon Dull fell with the weight of inevitability.
Five minutes, thirty-five seconds. The choir cannot be silenced. Aithol shall fall, and the White Child shall be born in Hatred. You are too late.
“It is never too late!”
Maltheus roared, and charged towards the daemon without another thought. Shots rang out as his pistol fired again and again, but the shells exploded against a barrier of sparkling light, and Truth turned a withering gaze to the enraged Inquisitor. Nexus, Barrachus and McBaine spread out, closing in on the casket, and Maltheus did not stop as he advanced relentlessly. The impotent hail of fire did not cease, as tears burned in his eyes, and Truth gazed back impassively. Nexus swung his staff high in both hands, psychic fire flickering along the mighty weapon, and Barrachus’ muscles rippled as he flexed his bulky powerfist. McBaine reached Maltheus’ side, a pistol in each fist, and opened fire on the creature, but his efforts were in vain, as it shrugged away the shots and spread its tiny arms.
Your kind never know when you are beaten. Let me show you.
Suddenly the light became dancing flame, and Truth unleashed its power, bolts of golden fire raining down on the Inquisitors. A missile exploded at Maltheus’ feet, throwing he and McBaine to the scorched deck. As Nexus walked slowly towards his foe, a crackling bubble of psychic force shielded him from the assault, and his eyes were locked upon Amon Dull. Sweat poured down his face as he struggled to resist the terrible power turned upon him, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Barrachus fighting to stay on his feet. The huge man was scorched and battered, his hair crackling in the heat as fire washed over him. Blackened though he was, he did not fall, his fist raised in a defiant gesture against the beast.
Maltheus struck the hot metal hard, driving the breath from his lungs. Somehow he kept hold of his weapons, but as he tried to rise, pain stabbed through him, and he doubled up in agony on the floor. He managed to look up, into those emerald eyes. Amon Dull’s laughter filled his head, as it drew back a single arm with deadly purpose.
This is it, Christian. Destiny awaits.
As the searing power of Chaos hurtled towards him, Inquisitor Christian Maltheus felt his life flash before his eyes. And in the sudden peace of that moment, one thought filled his head.
Not like this…
His vision blurred with the sudden impact, as something flashed across his view. The heat washed over him, but he felt no pain, as McBaine took the missile squarely in the chest, spinning away across the chamber in a blast of dark power. He struck the far wall with a dull thud, and crumpled limply to the deck.
Nexus and Barrachus hit Truth together, closing in from either side before it could hurl another attack. The Inquisitor’s staff came down in a wide arc, slamming into the daemon’s frail body and casting it to the floor. It bounced back with a flash of blinding light, but an over arm blow from Barrachus crushed it back down, and they laid into the child’s body with relentless fury.
Edited by - Mentirius on 13/11/2003 21:32:26
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:34:15
Dancer’s gaze flicked urgently across dials and numbers, as he scanned the panels below the view screen. The timer ticked ominously down, as the solitaire sought for an answer. The Eye must not fire… Behind him, the harlequin could hear the din of battle, as the humans battled Amon Dull. But to vanquish the daemon would not save Aithol, and the solitaire cared not for an empty victory. They had only to keep the beast distracted long enough for him to avert the bombardment.
“The answer is not there, son of Cegorach.”
The Eldar back-flipped instantly, landing deftly behind Balkoth in a blinding display of agility. A swift kick knocked Dhusgin from from the Magus’ hand, the daemon sword clattering on the floor. In a second, he held a handful on hair in one delicate hand, while the other pressed the razor edged blade to the Magus’ throat. His voice was a sinister whisper, as he hissed in Balkoth’s ear.
“Then where is it, Mon-Keigh?”
Balkoth gurgled, and Dancer released the pressure enough for him to speak, yanking his handful of hair for good measure.
“It cannot be stopped now, solitaire. The orders have been given.”
The hilt struck him in the face, smashing a fang from his jaw with a spray of red. The solitaire leaned closer, drawing the blade lightly across his neck. As hot blood trickled from the cut, the cold metal pressed against his windpipe, and the whisper snarled again, quick and venomous.
“Have you seen the Abyss, pawn of darkness? Have you stared into the very eyes of She Who Thirsts? Do you know what awaits your putrid soul?”
Balkoth’s answer was a cold rasp, as he felt something answer his silent call.
“Yes.”
He felt Dancer spasm suddenly, stiffening for a moment before falling silently away. Turned slowly, he stared into the blank eyes of the harlequin’s mask as crimson blood pooled around his dying body. The Eldar shuddered, as Dhusgin ripped itself from his back and flew to its master’s hand.
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:38:52
Mentirius stood in a red lake, the glistening blood stretching as far as he could see in every direction. Ripples spread slowly beneath him, even as he somehow stood on the surface, gazing up at the sun. It was green, burning with a yellow flame. The light of his dreams, hanging in a black sky. But there were no stars overhead, only the eye of Amon Dull. The eye that had stared from the depths of his mind all this time, seeing what he saw. Thinking what he thought. Knowing what he knew.
Once, he had stood here, locked in his own mind, and faced all that he had become. Faced his dark side, and prevailed. He had stood beneath the eye, and cleansed his soul. Lies. All lies.
What am I? Are there any answers here?
You are Amon Dull.
Amon Dull did not kneel before the Emperor. Amon Dull cares not for mankind, nor for the Eldar. Amon Dull did not stand against a galaxy to absolve Alessandro Nexus, nor give up Redemption to save Jaydred Taren.
The man who did those things is a fabrication, a daemon’s dream. He is a shell, soon to be cast aside. From his ashes, a God will rise.
The man who did those things was me. And I will not be cast aside.
The choice has already been made. It was made the moment Redemption left your grasp. Destiny cannot be cheated.
Nothing is certain. Things can still change.
But can you change them? Can a broken shell resist the tide?
You know the answer. We know what must be done.
I will not let you.
This is my dream. And it is over.
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:41:18
Nexus brought his staff down again, stabbing down into Truth’s chest with all his strength. But the tiny creature caught his weapon in one frail hand, its eyes unblinking as they mate his hateful glare. He wrenched at the force staff, but it was caught in an unbreakable grip, and the daemon slowly began to rise, floating before him until they were eye to eye. Behind Amon Dull, he saw Barrachus draw back his arm.
“Bravely done, heroes. But this is not your tale.”
Balkoth’s gauntlet slammed into the back of the Interrogator’s head, throwing him heavily from his feet. He hit the floor like a fallen tree, and did not rise. As Nexus grunted in anger, straining against Truth’s immortal strength, the Magus twirled his sword deftly, and levelled it at his chest. Dhusgin growled like a caged beast, quivering with anticipation as its master stepped back into a fighting stance.
Truth. I am the Deceiver. I deny you.
The daemon stared past Nexus now, to the advancing apparition that was Mentirius. His skin burned with psychic fire, and his eyes were windows into the currents of the warp. In one clawed hand, the sword blazed. Truth laughed with a child’s mirth, and threw the Inquisitor roughly aside, drifting towards the Deceiver with slow menace. As Nexus reeled, Balkoth stalked forward, every move graceful and calculated.
“Show me, Inquisitor. Show me your hatred.”
“It will burn the sight from your eyes, Balkoth!”
They turned, glancing suddenly across the battle scarred chamber to the wrathful voice. There stood Maltheus, sword in hand. His armour was scorched and his clothes tattered, but he was not beaten, and as Balkoth’s eyes narrowed, Nexus charged into him with his staff held high.
The Magus caught the blow on Dhusgin, throwing the Inquisitor away with an inhuman strength as the sword thirsted for blood. He laid into the armoured man with shocking speed; forcing Nexus back as he strained to block the storm of blows. Then Maltheus was there, and Balkoth spun, parrying a two-handed slash and twisting the blade to stab at his throat.
Nexus bulled into him, throwing him to the floor with the weight of his armour, but he struck back like a snake, springing to his feet and lashing at the Inquisitor’s legs. A low parry left Nexus’ face unprotected, and Balkoth lunged, head butting him savagely in the face and shattering his nose with a wet crack. Maltheus struck again, but Balkoth twisted aside and slipped past, raking his arm with Dhusgin’s jagged teeth. Pain coursed through the Inquisitor as he turned quickly, hearing his comrade fall heavily to the floor behind him.
The daemon sword shivered with excitement as the taste of Maltheus’ blood coursed through it. Weaving an intricate pattern in the air, Dhusgin sought his throat, and it was all he could do to fend away Balkoth’s onslaught, slowly giving ground to the Magus as he fought for his life. For more than five hundred years, this man had honed every skill, every discipline. The dark gods had given much to him, but he had taken so much more by his own hand, and his own iron will. Maltheus looked into his eyes, and he knew this. With sickening resignation, he realised he could not beat him.
As he felt the Inquisitor’s zeal slipping away, Balkoth closed his grip on Maltheus’ mind, feeling layers of defence crumble before his malevolent touch. He pushed deep into the man’s head, never slowing Dhusgin’s hail of blows. His voice was slow and compelling, seeping into the depths of his opponent’s psyche.
Drop it.
The Eldar power sword hit the deck with a metallic clang, and Maltheus dropped his arms limply to his sides. Balkoth smiled, a trickle of blood staining his lip from his broken fang. His eyes seemed to widen, swallowing all around him into those inky depths. The Inquisitor could not tear his gaze from those eyes, could not bring himself to pick up the sword. He felt something give, and the darkness poured in. The last thing he remembered was a child laughing.
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:44:51
Truth and the Deceiver floated high above the scorched metal of the deck, never breaking their stare. Gazes locked, wreathed in eerie light, they were outlined against the vast screen, like Gods soaring over the pearly orb that was Aithol. As the warped child that was Amon Dull faced the old man, the golden light rose from within, and it began to change, stretching and mutating as the time steadily ticked down. What had been a tiny baby expanded and rippled as it became a tall man, his torso bulging with corded muscles.
Six frail arms became long and powerful, bulging as Truth flexed them experimentally. A head of golden hair fell to Amon Dull’s shoulders, and his face was a flawless mask of mocking amusement as a forked tongue played about his lips. The stubby, sluggish tail lashed and coiled as it stretched out, growing into an enormous, scaled body. As golden coils writhed in the air, and Truth’s skin glowed with power, he loomed over Mentirius with terrible majesty, eyes of emerald light gleaming with malice.
One shall rise.
Nine shall fall.
Mentirius cast his burning sword into the daemon, a crack of thunder booming out as it struck. Amon Dull reeled, lashing out with his gigantic tail. It snapped like a whip, throwing the Deceiver across the wide chamber. He slammed into the wall with incredible force, leaving a deep impression. But even as Truth hurtled towards him, he flew back, jets of coloured fire trailing in his wake. They met with an explosion of power that made the walls shudder, exchanging brutal blows before they reeled away.
You cannot conquer yourself, Deceiver. This is futile.
The same could be said of humanity, and the battle against Chaos.
And it is just as true.
It is the battle that keeps us alive. It is our defiance that makes us human.
Defiance is nought but denial. Hatred rules humanity, Deceiver. In one minute, twenty-four seconds, we shall rule Hatred.
Truth said no more, as Mentirius rushed past, one arm catching his corded neck and crushing his throat. The momentum carried both into the view screen, the impact jarring the image for a second in a burst of green light. Six mighty arms closed on the old man, thick fingers becoming barbed talons as they crushed him to Amon Dull’s chest. But still he clutched at the daemon’s thick neck, the colossal power of the forces in opposition pounding the very fabric of reality. The air around them was a vortex of coruscating energy, as their voices screamed in the warp, their violence throbbing in the Immaterium.
It is your destiny! You made your choice!
The choice was not mine to make!
It has always been yours! You were born to make it!
The White Child was never made for you! Nothing can change that!
Everything changes! Kurnous is dead! Morai-Heg is dead! Only Tzeentch remains, and we are his Chosen!
Tzeentch is fickle, and the dice roll yet!
They are not your dice! Fate dances to my tune this time, and Aithol shall fall!
That is about to change!
Not by your hand, Deceiver! You had your chance!
It is never too late!
Truth slammed a fist into Mentirius’ stomach, his coils seizing the old man in an iron grip as they fell to the deck. It buckled beneath them, the metal melting and writhing at their touch, and still they fought. The Deceiver struck Truth full in the face, snapping his head back with sheer force, but the daemon’s neck stretched out, becoming long and ropey as it lifted the leering face high into the air. Mentirius struggled to strike at him again, but his legs were tangled in Amon Dull’s serpentine body, its terrible strength crushing his ancient legs like a vice. The air became an inferno, as the last of the Deceiver’s awesome power exploded outwards, withering Truth’s golden skin in the searing heat.
Amon Dull threw back his head, and laughed. He laughed with the voices of countless tortured souls, but Mentirius heard only the child. He felt it rise from deep inside, and this time he did not fight. The laugh burst from his throat, joining the chorus with its booming power.
Thirty…twenty-nine…twenty-eight…
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:47:23
Over a world about to die, a rising God fought its own fragmented mind. And even as Truth and the Deceiver battled tirelessly, still they laughed. The sound echoed in a billion ears, as Aithol held its breath. Deep within the rift that yawned far below, the writer heard it. S’airz, Lord of Change, instrument of Tzeentch and architect of destiny, looked to the sky, and saw the prophecy it had created fall into place. The souls of Goscarrigen and Phineas Amnon screamed as the Greater Daemon engulfed them, but they were insignificant. All paled in comparison to the imminent birth.
Somewhere, the White Child felt the darkness close upon it with icy claws, and the light began to fade. Somewhere, the White Child cried.
Twenty-one…twenty…nineteen…
Truth towered over the bridge, his blazing form growing and changing as he slowly crushed Mentirius in his grip. Still they laughed, but the chorus was swallowing the voice of the Deceiver, even as Amon Dull swallowed the last fragment of its being. An old man stared up from the depths of damnation, clinging desperately to what remained of his humanity. Mentirius could feel it slipping away, could feel his very being slipping away. But he would not give up, would not be taken by the darkness. The man who had been an Inquisitor would not be Amon Dull. He was more than that.
Sixteen…fifteen…fourteen…
Nine shall become One. One shall rise, at the birth of the White Child.
“I WILL NOT BE DENIED…”
The blade tore into Truth’s heart, a spear of darkness that clawed at the daemon with venomous power. Amon Dull shivered with agony, as the sword of Malal devoured him. Mentirius felt the coils loosen, golden light flooding from their scales as all was sucked towards the ugly spike jutting from the daemon’s chest. Truth sank to the swimming liquid of the mangled floor, Auron’s dark figure leaning heavily on the blade that impaled him.
The Doomed One began to shudder, black lightning playing around him as the weapon sealed his fate. The jaws of his God yawned at his back, as Amon Dull and his nemesis were dragged into Malal’s embrace. A rumbling snarl resounded through the crippled chamber. The light that had flooded the room was sucked into a vortex of dark energy, and for a moment, Mentirius stared into the eyes of the Outcast. Then all was silent, and the laughter died away. Mentirius stood alone, save for the fallen.
“Thus it began, and thus it shall end. You and I, Mentirius. But now you are the master.”
Nine…eight…seven…
He could hear the laughter. But it was his voice that rang out in that dark chamber, and the echoes of so many others filled his mind. Malal had been deceived. Amon Dull lived yet. In six seconds, the final change would destroy all that had been Mentirius, and Nine Eyes would rise under a banner of hatred. The White Child’s birth would split the heavens, with the agony of a dying world. He knew what he had to do. He held out a hand, and Maltheus’ pistol flew to his grasp. Shaking with emotion, he raised it to his mouth.
Six…five…four…
I think not.
Pain flooded his senses, and he fell to his knees, the weapon falling from his fingers. Deep within a tortured mind, Amon Dull laughed. He looked up, as the changes wracked his body. Balkoth stood over him, silhouetted against Aithol. He smiled, but it was not the mocking grin he had expected. It was a smile of pity.
Barbed spines burst from the skin of the Deceiver, as his wings tore free, spreading outwards like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Golden light poured from his skin. He felt Amon Dull closing around him, rising within him.
Three…two…one…
There is no end. There is only change.
But something tugged at his mind, in that final moment. A voice from the past, calling out words he had once spoken. Mentirius smiled, a single tear trickling down his cheek. It was the voice of a friend he had given everything for. At that moment, it was the best thing he had ever heard.
“Die well, my friend.”
A single shot rang out, and Mentirius slumped forward. The back of his head spilled its contents at Balkoth’s feet. Somewhere a child screamed.
As the countdown ended, a distant explosion rocked the ship violently, and an ominous rumble rose from the depths of The Eye. Balkoth knelt down, and plucked the symbol of the Inquisition from the pocket of his fallen pupil. Turning to stare down on Aithol, he sighed, feeling the presence of another at his side.
“Nothing changes, Alessio.”
Mentirius
Conclaver
United Kingdom
1326 Posts
Posted - 13/11/2003 : 21:50:15
As the daemonic choir was unleashed, waves of tortured emotion swept through The Eye, and the vast ship began to come apart, huge explosions tearing it apart from within. A vessel the size of a world died, fragments of golden machinery drifting away into the darkness of the void. Somewhere, deep within the instrument of Amon Dull’s destiny, something had failed. But a sleek shape rose like a phoenix from the heart of the destruction, looking down on all that its master had wrought.
Some might have recognised the vessel as Black Silence, command ship of Inquisitor Mentirius, and his master before him. Balkoth had built it to his own design, it was said. But not even Mentirius had realised it might have a twin. Futility, command ship of the Magus, swept gracefully out of its dying host, and soared into the darkness of open space. At the helm, two men stood silently, and looked down on their betrayal with grim satisfaction. Then the Black Ship was swallowed by the warp, vanishing without a trace into the pages of history. In a few minutes, nothing would remain of The Eye, and Amon Dull would be no more than a memory.
Far below it all, on the fields of Aithol, the Lord-Seer looked up on a bright sky, night turned to day by a second sun that hung over them like a dying God. Fate had run its course. Somewhere, a child laughed with delight.
They would bless their heroes; they would thank their Gods for this victory. But none would look to a traitor for praise and glory; no thanks would be given to Balkoth the Damned. So it had always been. But he had played his part. Nothing else mattered.
There is no end. But nothing changes…