[FICTION][40K] Sorcerer (Prologue) (there might be more one day)
Brad Hann
is the gift of Tzeentch. Within the insane rantings of the demented can
be found the hidden nuggets of prophecy and true power, for those who
know the secret of sifting the true gems from the mere gibberish.
Surely, say the tribal elders, such wisdom can only be bestowed by the
Chaos Gods themselves? It follows logically, then, that those who
receive such a gift must indeed be the truly blessed.
If such be the case, then surely the woman called Yel, of the Onyx Tier
tribe, was amongst the most beloved of all servants of the Changer of the
Way.
Like the others of the tribe - like the men and women of all the tribes
of this world - Yel bore the stigma of mutation and physical corruption.
Such was not abhorred by the followers of Tzeentch, unlike the servants
and lackeys of the false Emperor of Humanity who hunted and slew any man
with the slightest devation from what they told themselves was the
Emperor's Divine genetic template. Indeed mutation was adored by those
who worshipped the Great Mutator. Could there possibly be any greater
mark of the love and adoration shown by Tzeentch to his worhippers than
for him to bestow upon them such tangible proofs of His own preference
for unremitting Change?
Yel was still recognisably of human stock. She had no more than the
standard number of limbs, for example, but the beginnings of a tail
protruded from her coccyx and her skin was so pale as to be almost
transparent - a network of blood vessels was clearly visible beneath the
dirt and grime that covered her naked, unwashed body; a complex tangle of
red lines that could perhaps represent just one of the many twisted
schemes Lord Tzeentch would be plotting at any given moment. Her eyes
contained no iris or pupil, but instead were marked by Tzeentch's serpent
rune, picked out from the whites of her eyeballs in flecks of gold. Such
a mark of power afforded severe alteration to her ocular sense, such that
she occasionally caught glimpses of the future and, even rarer still,
insights into the hearts and minds of those around her. Perhaps it was
this overwhelming nearness to the Grand Conspirator that drove her
fragile human mind beyond the breaking point; nevertheless her talent was
revered by the tribesmen of the Onyx Tier, and on those occasions when
the bubbling insanity grew too much to control and she burst into
cackling oration, the tribal Shaman listened attentively on the off-
chance that he could discern some information which would prove useful to
the prosperity of himself and, to a lesser extent, the rest of the tribe.
Such pearls of wisdom, however, were few; or else so deeply embedded
within her babbling that the Shaman was unable to intuit them, and rather
than call attention to his own deficiency he simply dismissed almost all
of what she said as nonsense.
Indeed, so used were the tribesmen to her random outbursts, that it came
as little surprise that she declared a growing shadow visible beneath the
translucent skin of her belly was the result of a union between herself
and an immortal Daemon servant of Lord Tzeentch.
Many believed her claim without question, for none of the tribesmen chose
to acknowledge the child as their own - nor was there cause for any of
them to fall under suspicion, for though Yel was revered as a prophet,
she was not loved among her people.
Others, less gullible or more suspicious, told themselves in the privacy
of their own minds that she had simply whored herself to rival tribesmen
once too often.
The truth would likely never be known. Those who had the power to deduce
it, through sorcery or alchemy or the ancient science of genetics, would
not be inclined to care one way or the other.
+++
On this particular day, the sun rose an angry scarlet orb, heat haze
rising from the volcanic plains over which it hung giving the appearance
that it did indeed drip blood. Standing at the gates of the stockade was
the Messenger. Taller than the tallest man of the tribe, clad from head
to toe in brilliant blue armour stained a deep purple by the crimson
light of the sun. Clutched in its left hand was its weapon - an ancient,
gold-chased bolt gun; at casual ease for the moment, yet something in the
Messenger's stance showed that it could have the weapon raised and firing
before the tribesmen could even think to cower, should such be its
intent.
None had seen it approach during the night. The men and women on watch
at the palisade swore that it simply appeared from the night's shadows as
they were dispelled by the rising sun's illumination. It made no
threatening move - indeed it made no move at all; nor did it shout a
challenge or a hail or a greeting, but merely stood in eerie silence.
The Shaman alone knew the nature of the Messenger. It was a spirit-
warrior - battle bretheren of the Thousand Sons legion of Chaos Space
Marines. No physical being was encased within that man-shaped shell of
ceramite; the spirit of the noble marine it had once protected lay
entrapped within, controlling its every move under the direction of the
Sorcerers of the Thousand Sons.
Crying praises to the heavens, the Shaman knelt reverently as the wooden
gate was hurriedly opened to admit the Messenger to the compound. The
Messenger ignored him as it strode inside. The sound of its footsteps
echoed loudly as it strode to where Yel sat scratching at the gravel with
fingers already bloodied.
Perhaps the Messenger's arrival was the harbinger of Yel's labour.
Certainly no true follower of Tzeentch would entertain the notion of
coincidence. Nevertheless, Yel took a single look at the blue-armoured
form, gave vent to a great cry of agony, and doubled over, clutching at
her swollen abdomen.
Hearing the cry, the Shaman came running - for, in addition to his duty
of spiritual guide of the tribe, he also provided any medical care (such
as it was) that they might require. Gently he laid her on the ground,
gesturing curtly for his apprentices to hold her down.
A ruddy stain - deep, shadowy purple, as of a colour bright red but seen
through the muting veil of a heavy gauze - was spreading away from the
foetal shadow visible within her womb. The veins beneath her skin flared
angrily for a moment, before a tide of blood burst forth from her loins,
staining her thighs crimson and splashing the Shaman's face and chest.
"Hold her, Tzeentch take you!" the Shaman bellowed as she thrashed in
agony. The apprentices struggled to hold her arms and legs still against
the inhuman strength lent her by her pain.
With a final scream, a bloodied shape slipped from between her thighs. A
great gout of blood swiftly followed - more blood than any human body
should conceivably hold, hosing the Shaman and his apprentices with
crimson. Nevertheless, despite it being her death warrant, the birth
calmed Yel.
"My beautiful boy..." she whispered, trying to lift a hand to touch the
child expelled from her womb. But she lacked the strength even for this.
Her eyes rolled, her head slumped back, and her crooning turned into a
sighing exhalation. Her lungs did not fill again.
Carefully the Shaman wiped the blood and birth fluids away from the
child. Beneath, its skin was a healthy pink, and a tiny growth of blond
hair was matted to its scalp by the remnants of blood and placental
fluid. On any Imperial world it would be declared a healthy blessing
from the Emperor, but here...
"Cursed," uttered the shaman, then again, louder, "Cursed!" He held the
infant high, so that all the crowd could see its perfect features,
ignoring the trickles of blood which ran down his arm. "See, the whelp
lacks all marks of favour. Its very presence is an offence to our God.
Already it has killed its own mother. We must sacrifice it to avert the
further wrath of Lord Tzeentch!"
"Aye," called the tribesmen. "Sacrifice! Sacrifice!" And accompanied
by the chant, the Shaman carried the child to the Messenger and knelt
reverentially before it.
"O Lord, hear us!" he intoned. "Accept our humble sacrifice and bless us
with your favour!" And, raising his sickle high, he prepared to slice
open the child's throat.
"Nay," spake an unknown voice, deep and booming. The shaman halted,
aghast at such interruption. Who would dare say against him? His head
raised; his eyes travelled upwards towards the ceramite visage of the
Messenger.
"Nay," said the voice again. Indeed it did issue forth from the unmoving
helm of the Messenger. The Shaman knew something of the ways of the
Legion, and knew that the Messenger itself did not speak; rather its
presence was merely the focus for some distant Sorcerer to project his
commands from the hidden safety of his own lair.
"But Lord..." said the Shaman. "See for yourself how vile this creature
is." He held it up to the Messenger's unflickering red gaze.
"Surely..."
"Nay, I said," interrupted the Messenger, curtly dismissing the Shaman's
plea. "This child is Marked; the Mark is visible to eyes not so wrapped
up in their own petty affairs. Let it be known that this child is to be
cared for until such time as it can take care of itself."
It turned its burning gaze down on the cowering Shaman. "Any who defy
this command shall find themselves praying for swift death."
The Shaman was a proud man, and vain. Such rebuke, even from a Messenger
of the Sorcerers, he took as personal insult. Better, he thought, to cut
down this creature that denied him, lest the men and women of the tribe
lose all respect for him - worse still, one of his apprentices might
sieze this opportunity to usurp his position. In his ignorance he truly
believed himself more than a match for a mere dead man, even when the man
in question was once a space marine.
But the Messenger - or rather, the Sorcerer who controlled it - had far
greater power than any mere tribal shaman, no matter how arrogant. To
any mind who had studied so long and hard at the feet of the Great
Conspiritor, such a petty man was as transparent as glass; his intentions
clearly visible in his voice, his expression, the unconscious tensing of
his muscles. Before he could even summon the power of his mind or raise
his sickle towards the Messenger, it gripped its bolt gun in both hands
and fired, a single bolt that caught the Shaman between the eyes and
exploded from the back of his skull, scattering blood and brains in a
wide arc behind him.
Weapons sprang forth from the hands of the tribespeople. Spears and
arrows, and even the occasional charge from a laspistol or slug from a
stub gun or autopistol bounced harmlessly from the Messenger's armoured
bulk. Standing unflinching under the hail of fire, the Messenger calmly
planted its feet and swung its weapon in a wide arc, snapping off a
single shot at a time. Each bolt lodged firmly in the body of a cultist
before exploding, shattering heads and chests and severing limbs. With
cries of terror many of the tribespeople turned and fled.
The Messenger had no interest in pursuit. Those who fled were allowed to
live. Those who did not, were slain. Finally the weapon fell silent.
Apart from the screaming child lying between the Messenger's ankles, the
only tribesmen in the immediate vicinity were broken corpses.
Slowly, unused to the awkward movement, the Messenger knelt and placed
its finger on the child's forehead. There was no visible sign, yet
something passed from the distant Sorcerer through his minion and into
the child. Far away, safely ensconced within his tower, the Sorcerer
nodded to himself in satisfaction.
It was some hours before the survivors dared return, by which time the
Messenger was long vanished. They stared at the blood-covered infant,
lying amid the pulped bodies of the slain, screaming its hunger. Those
who looked upon it then were filled with fear and loathing, but were more
afraid of the promised retribution at the hands of the Sorcerers than of
a squalling whelp, no matter how vile its unblemished body may be. Rough
hands picked it up and carried it into a hut to be washed and fed and, if
not loved, then at least protected.
And overhead, the crimson slowly drained from the sun as it rose above
the airborne pollutants, returning it to its warm, golden shine.
--
To email me, you will need to remove the superfluous ".au" from my
address.
If you can't figure out which one that is, I probably don't want to hear
from you.
SecretAgent1945
Hil...@webtv.net
Now that's good fiction.
Please continue the story!
Deb
CoJ Bearer of the Circlet of Power, worn on the wrist simultaneously
with the Sacred Green Hat #7
"What profit has not the fable of Christ brought us!"
~ Pope Leo X
Flashbart
MPG.156385c13...@bne-csvr.qld.hotkey.net.au...
<snip excellent story>
Damn. Now *that* was great fiction.
Please write books and stuff.
-Bart
Asmodea Drey'Haus
you!
Asmodea Drey'Haus
RT Maitreya
>
> Madness, or so the primitive tribes on the Planet of the Sorcerers say,
> is the gift of Tzeentch.
Awesome. Very well done.
RTM