Lukas the Trickster Read online

  He looked at Myrta. ‘I seem to suffer from a paucity of interesting opponents. Where are the cunning space lords and the scheming corsair kings of my youth? Surely I have not killed them all.’

  ‘You are quite greedy,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. That has ever been a failing of mine.’ His smile faded, the old ennui setting in. For all its restrictions, Commorragh had, at least, never been boring. There had been opponents aplenty, before he made the city too hot to hold him. Perhaps he needed to return, to renew himself in the deep waters of the Dark City. No, better – he would make them come to him. Yes. Delightful. ‘It is approaching midwinter, I believe,’ he said, swirling the liquid in his goblet with a loose gesture.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Myrta said. She sounded resigned.

  Sliscus ignored her. He gestured, tracing routes of transit across the star map, looking for anything of interest. Nothing stood out. A hundred humdrum worlds, fit only for the culling. ‘I haven’t been to a midwinter celebration in the longest time.’

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  Sliscus smiled and took another swallow. Chemicals flooded his system. The world was turning a pleasing shade at the edges, and he could taste the music rising from the lower tiers of the pleasure gardens below. ‘We should hold a party. A modest one, a few close acquaintances – no one who has tried to kill me lately.’ He frowned slightly, trying to think who that might be.

  ‘Is that wise, my lord?’ a new voice intruded. It was like the rasp of stone across metal. ‘There is still a bounty for your head.’

  Sliscus set his goblet down. One of his more recent guests stood nearby, examining a cascade of pale flowers that clung to a nearby statue. The effigy, an armoured, winged figure, had been acquired on some tedious little mon-keigh world. Whether the figure it depicted was supposed to be male or female, Sliscus couldn’t tell. It was ugly, regardless, even covered in the fleshy blossoms.

  ‘And what would you know of it, Jhynkar?’

  ‘Only what I have heard, my lord Duke.’ The haemonculus was a twisted, crooked thing. A tall, hunched form with long arms and an elongated neck. His face, such as it was, was a pale stretch of unblemished skin, pulled unnaturally taut by a cowl consisting of hooks and wires. More wires pierced the hollow flesh of his cheeks and brow, carry­ing electrical impulses from the cowl to withered facial muscles.

  Jhynkar was, like Sliscus, a voluntary exile from Commorragh. He had never revealed why he had left the demesnes of his fellow torturer-

  alchemists, and Sliscus had not cared enough to inquire. A haemonculus, whatever his sins, was useful to have around. And Jhynkar had made himself quite helpful. He had overseen the population of the pleasure gardens with all manner of delightful surprises.

  ‘And what have you heard, crook-bones?’

  ‘That you are not beloved in the spires of the mighty.’ Jhynkar spoke with obsequious earnestness. Myrta snorted. Sliscus laughed.

  ‘Tell me something I didn’t already know. What is life without danger?’

  ‘Long, my lord.’ Jhynkar smiled and lifted a flesh blossom with a thin finger. A tinny scream echoed from somewhere within the pallid folds of the flower. ‘They are so fragile,’ he murmured. He pulled back his finger – it was wet with something that looked like blood. ‘The best art always is. It is only through observance of the finite that the infinite can best be contemplated.’ He licked the tarry substance from the digit and turned. ‘Don’t you agree, my lord?’

  ‘I prefer something with colour,’ Sliscus said. ‘And besides, your flowers keep me up with their incessant trilling. I have stimulants for that. I don’t need a concert every time I enter my gardens.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘Burn them.’

  Jhynkar frowned. ‘These took me years to cultivate. I scoured hundreds of worlds for the correct genetic sequences.’

  Sliscus smiled. ‘Observance of the finite, remember? Burn them.’ He kicked his legs up onto the table and let his head fall back. ‘Make me something new, fleshweaver. My mind stagnates among these pallid vines. Give me a forest of bone instead, or sculptures of living glass. Something, anything to alleviate this consuming tedium.’ He made a lazy gesture. ‘Something to impress my guests.’

  The haemonculus paused. ‘Guests?’

  ‘For my party.’

  ‘What about the bounty?’

  ‘I expect some of them will try to claim it. It will be quite entertaining, I am sure.’ Sliscus sat up, and was on his feet in a moment. He was fast, faster than any crooked fleshweaver could hope to be. Jhynkar stumbled back into his flowers, which squealed. Tendrils caressed his grey flesh lovingly as Sliscus leaned towards him, a vulpine grin on his pale features. ‘It will be the talk of Commorragh. A midwinter feast of such artistry that generations to come shall gnaw their vitals in envy that they were not invited.’ He paused. ‘No. No, better than a feast. A hunt, I think. Yes, a midwinter hunt.’

  ‘It isn’t midwinter,’ Jhynkar stuttered.

  ‘It is if I say it is,’ Sliscus said mildly. He patted Jhynkar’s flaccid cheek. ‘I shall need some lovely decorations, my friend.’ He reached past the haemonculus and grabbed a handful of the pallid blossoms. They screeched in agony as he uprooted them and squashed them to a twitching pulp. ‘Something more substantial than this.’ He smeared the mess against Jhynkar’s robes. ‘Best get to work. You don’t have much time.’

  Jhynkar hurried to his chambers, deep within the pleasure garden.

  His laboratory was well hidden within a thicket of bloodmetal thorns. Pheromone dispensers kept the more inquisitive beasts from stumbling into it, and his wracks kept watch for bipedal intruders. The laboratory was an open chamber, crafted from woven roots and vines and sealed with a layer of vat-grown flesh. The capillary webs that stretched through the flesh flushed in silent greeting as he entered. He caressed it, and was rewarded with a shudder. The nerve endings of the meat shroud were especially sensitive, reacting to the gentlest touch as if it were the edge of a blade.

  The flesh rustled in delicious agony, and he drank it in. Its torment nourished him and kept his withered frame in fighting trim. Not that he did much fighting, if he could help it. He much preferred to spill blood under controlled conditions.

  At the centre of the chamber, hidden among folds of rippling meat, rose a tree. Not a true tree, but one of metal and meat grown from a techno-organic sapling. It now stretched up and out and over his lair. Its cabled roots and branches crawled across the floor and reached to every part of the pleasure gardens. Photonic screens bulged from the trunk like blisters of glass, and on them he could see every tier of the garden simultaneously. Soon, the tree’s reach might even escape the tesseract and permeate the ship itself. If he was careful, and if Sliscus was truly as unobservant as he appeared.

  The haemonculus grimaced. Nothing was as it appeared. He had learned that much, at least, from his old masters in the Hex, before they turned on him so cruelly and forced him to become a vagabond. Jhynkar had long ago come to the realisation that he wasn’t cut out for such hardship. Few haemonculi were. They were creatures of the mind, of theory and structure. When he managed to ingratiate himself with Sliscus, he had hoped it would lead to greater things. Instead, his hardships had redoubled.

  ‘He’s insatiable,’ he said. ‘His demand for innovation far outstrips the limits of possibility. If we were in Commorragh, an equilibrium could be maintained, but here – like this – no. Intolerable.’ He stared up at the photonic screens, hoping inspiration might strike. Around him, his wracks went silently about their tasks.

  The twisted creatures were all that remained of a crew of corsairs who had crossed Sliscus. They had been refashioned into living instruments of torture at the Duke’s behest. An evening’s entertainment that had tested Jhynkar’s endurance to the limit. After Sliscus had had his fun, he had generously allowed Jhynkar to keep his new pets.

  Ordinarily,
such creatures would have been volunteers, sacrificing their pitiful lives in order to escape the enemy known as ennui. These, being rather more resistant, had required more thorough methods of taming. Each of them was now but one part of a whole – their minds had been enslaved to a single neural network based on his own brain patterns.

  Instinctively, he touched the small, sharp outline of the neural emitter inserted into his skull. The signal it broadcast controlled the wracks, as well as a number of his deadlier creations. Besides allowing him to streamline the practical necessities of his work, it cut down on the number of assassination attempts he was forced to endure. He had learned that there was safety in numbers, so long as that number was one, and it was him.

  ‘I cannot work to my fullest potential under these conditions,’ he said. The wracks murmured sympathetically at his mental nudge. The lack of free will made for wonderful sounding boards. Even better, they were fully aware of what had been done to them. Their silent suffering was exquisite. Much more satisfying than Sliscus’ brutish efforts.

  On the screens, the pleasure gardens came to life. Shafts of false light speared down through jungle canopies, and slumbering beasts awoke. The tesseract’s cycle was linked to Sliscus’ moods, sliding between day and night at his merest whim. Soon he would set out on his morning’s hunt, seeking to whet his appetite for the bloodshed to come.

  Among Jhynkar’s other responsibilities was the selection of appropriate hunting grounds for Sliscus’ amusement. He gestured, calling up a free-floating hololithic projection of the system. Of those he had screened, none had seemed to elicit any interest from his patron. He had chosen them specifically for the profusion of certain genetic markers in the populaces, all of which he desired samples of for his own work.

  But Sliscus had no interest in such mundanity. In many ways, he reminded Jhynkar of the mad aesthetes who had populated his old coven. The Hex were known for their flair for the dramatic. They fed on applause as much as agony. Their realspace raids were inspired performance pieces on a vast and often shocking scale.

  Dilettantes, the lot of them. Their art was immature and shallow, lacking in any real thematic resonance or urgency. Would-be epicureans, wallowing in mediocrity. Jhynkar had more talent in a single finger bone than the entirety of the Hex. That was why they had exiled him, of course. They feared the truth of his art.

  And now, here he was, forced to serve the whims of a lunatic hedonist. He sighed and continued scrolling through the hololithic map. There had to be a suitable world here. He would find it, and then Sliscus would vent his whimsy on its populace. If Jhynkar were lucky, he might be allowed to extract raw materials from whatever was left.

  One of the worlds caught his eye. It sat on the outer edge of the map, isolated. There were smaller worlds nearby, but it stood alone regardless. He enhanced the view, studying the information that surged up in answer to his interest.

  Jhynkar smiled.

  Chapter Four

  HELHUNT

  641.M41

  Grey shapes crept along the rock face, intent on the icy expanse below. The howl had gone up, echoing through the halls of Jarlheim. It was the season of monsters, of wyrms and drakes and kraken. It was time for the Helhunt. And no warrior, whether Blood Claw, Grey Hunter or Long Fang, wanted to be left behind. As the Helwinter reached its zenith, monsters rose out of the dark of the world. And the warriors of the Rout raced eagerly into the depths of the Underfang to meet them.

  Lukas looked out over the ice from his perch. The Underfang encompassed incomprehensible distances, immeasurable even to his battle-plate’s augurs. Contradictory measurements spun across the internal display screen of his helm as his armour tried to accurately gauge his surroundings. Annoyed, he banished the display with a blink. He didn’t need the augurs to tell him what he already knew.

  As large as the Aett was, as high as its peaks stretched, its depths were even greater. The roots of the volda hamarrki drew nourishment from the planetary core itself. There were kingdoms tangled among those roots, distinct and inviolate.

  And greatest among them was the Midnight Sea.

  To either side of him, dozens of packs made their way slowly, carefully, down the rocky slopes towards the dark expanse below. Lukas was in no hurry, though he could sense the irritation of the Blood Claws crouched around him. He grinned. They needed to learn. A good hunter had patience.

  The surface of the Midnight Sea was marred by plates of thickening ice and banded on all sides by crooked cliffs. Rising from the black expanse were great towers of metal, the artificial capillaries that conducted superheated rock and magma from the mantle of Fenris to heat those incredibly cold waters. The ice was boiled to slush and steam around the magma conduits, but as hard as stone everywhere else. Ridges and crests of frozen water extended as far as the eye could see. A cold desert stretching beneath a sky choked with stalactites – the roof of the world, a monster’s maw.

  Here more than anywhere else, Lukas felt Morkai’s breath on the back of his neck. This was a place where the sons of Russ were no more than another link in the food chain. Of course, that was the lesson all good hunters had to learn. There was always something bigger and hungrier than you, waiting just out of sight. Not just here, but everywhere. There were monsters in the Sea of Stars, and worlds more savage than even Fenris.

  Lukas smiled and traced the scars that marked the surface of his grey battle-plate. He could tell the tale of each, if pressed. He had carved the totems welded to its flat planes with his own hands, and collected the wolf tail talismans that swung from his belt and shoulder-plates himself. He and the armour were one, and the massive wolf claw he bore was an extension of them both. He flexed the claw, watching the crackle of cryonic energies play across the talons. Between it and the plasma pistol holstered on his hip, there was little he couldn’t handle. He frowned. Save boredom, of course.

  Granted, he wasn’t alone in that. Most jarls tried to avoid being trapped on Fenris during Helwinter. When they couldn’t, they had to find ways to occupy the attentions of their disgruntled warriors. Without something to kill, the sons of Russ grew temperamental. Hunting drakes and kraken in the roots of the mountain was a good use of their time, and better training than the sparring halls could provide.

  Such activity kept blades and wits sharp, and if it cost a few lives – well, what was a hunt without some danger? Danger kept the blood cool and tempers even. Violence, like laughter, was a release valve for the Rout – a way of easing the thunder in their hearts.

  A skirl of static suddenly echoed in his ear. He tapped the side of his helm and turned to the hulking Blood Claw behind him. ‘Stop it, Kadir. Just say what you want to say.’

  ‘I thought I did.’

  ‘Not with the vox, pup. You know better. The storm crashed the terrestrial communications network a week ago.’ Internal communications had become erratic at best, and even the Chapter’s astropaths found their witchery put under undue strain. ‘Now, what is it? Do you see something?’

  ‘We are bored.’

  Lukas snorted. ‘Who’s “we”?’

  Kadir gestured. Dag and Ake crouched behind him. Unlike Kadir, neither wore helmets. ‘We are supposed to be hunting monsters,’ Ake grunted. ‘I’m getting stiff just sitting here.’ He slammed a fist into his battle-plate for emphasis.

  ‘Sitting is a part of hunting,’ Lukas said, turning away.

  ‘Says you.’

  Lukas laughed. ‘Well, I think it’s better than wringing yesterday’s mjod out of my beard. But feel free to wander off if you’re bored.’

  Ake grimaced. ‘Maybe I will.’ But he made no move to do so. Lukas shook his head, more amused than annoyed. Of all the Blood Claws bound to the Grimbloods, Kadir’s pack were his favourites. They were troublemakers and misfits. And they had made for apt pupils, once they got over the beating he had given them. They hadn’t yet allowed their thinking to
become ossified and bogged down in tradition and rite. There was much to be said for living in a mountain, but it did lead to a certain narrowness of thought.

  He had taught them much in the months since he had joined the Great Company, and had come to know them well. Kadir was in charge, mostly because none of the others had bothered to challenge him yet, and he was the smartest. Ake would challenge him eventually. He had a fire in his belly. Halvar and Dag were born subordinates, and would anchor any pack they joined. And then there was Einar.

  Lukas glanced aside, studying the Blood Claw, who crouched nearby with Halvar. Thankfully, both of them were downwind. Einar was shaped like a keg, with equally thick arms and legs. He didn’t lope so much as stump, and he lacked the swiftness of his brothers. But he didn’t need speed, given the flamer he clutched in his big hands. The flame gun had been wrought in the shape of a mountain drake, the barrel jutting between its jaws. A semi-flexible feed-hose in the shape of a coiling tail was connected to a heavy promethium canister attached to the bottom of his power pack. Extra canisters clattered against his chest-plate and thighs when he moved, and he radiated a fug of spilled fuel wherever he went.

  Lukas looked back at Ake and gestured to Einar. ‘Einar doesn’t seem to mind sitting.’

  Ake frowned. ‘How could you tell if he did?’ Einar didn’t talk much. He also hadn’t taken part in the initial brawl, when Lukas had joined the pack. He was either smarter than the others or he simply didn’t care. Lukas was still trying to determine which.

  Before Lukas could reply, a howl thundered over the slope. He rose smoothly to his feet. ‘Well, pups, you’ve got your wish. Our jarl calls to us.’ Grimblood was making his way down the slope, accompanied by his Wolf Guard. The baying of the huscarls was all but lost to the vastitude of the cavern, and they fired off weapons or boosted their vox-systems to the edge of tolerability to compensate.