Ahriman: Exile by John French Page B

the Titan Child dived into the warp. Perhaps it had been there before, blotted out by the drive for survival, numbed by the euphoria of wielding powers he had so long denied to himself. He had walked from the bridge and lost himself in the tangle of the ship’s passages, letting his mind play through what had happened, the vision, the emissary, what he had done and why. As the intoxication had failed the guilt had come, pouring into his thoughts like a black cloud. He had failed, he had been weak.
    I should have let it play out , he thought. As he watched the servitor take more clicking steps into the chamber, the yellow light of the glow-globe clasped in its hand revealed more signs of violence and decay. The light reflected back from something amongst the ruin that glinted like polished crystal. He took a step closer, and bent down. Then he realised it was a pair of eyes, glassy and dead, staring from Gzrel’s fungus-masked face.
    I am a sorcerer , he thought, looking into the eyes. The powers that I wield are the powers of daemons and cruel gods. There is no higher ideal, no redemption by knowledge. He let out a shaking breath. Anger rolled through him, feeding on his guilt and feeding it in turn. I have failed again, I am weak and I did not have the strength to let my fate take me . For an instant he thought of walking to an airlock and letting the storms swallow him.
    He looked up from Gzrel’s empty stare into the eyes that he had been avoiding since he entered the chamber. The two Rubricae stood where they had been. He could feel the ghost essences within each suit of armour whispering at the edge of his mind. Anger hissed in those whispers, like shouts of frustrated rage caught and scattered by the wind. He stood and walked until he was standing in front of them, his eyes level with theirs.
    Rubricae battle plate was deep crimson, edged in silver and hung with strips of papyrus. Ahriman’s eyes flicked over the armour of one, picking out small marks and signs that spoke of the warrior who had been the flesh within the metal. They were few, but enough for him to name who the Rubricae had been in life. With the name came a face, a tone of voice, and a memory of a quick laugh and wry smile. The Rubricae had been one amongst a Legion, but Ahriman could remember the names and faces of all his brothers.
    He looked closer at the armour, looking with his mind as well as his eyes. Sigils snaked through the armour, in places etched into the ceramite, in others woven invisibly into the deep substance of every plate and join. To Ahriman they looked like chains of blue fire. From within the armour he felt the spirits thrash at their bindings, like caged predators smelling the blood of their captor.
    Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his hand, and reached out with his armoured fingers. He touched one of the pauldrons.
    A chill spread across his hand. Ahriman tried to pull his hand away, but not quickly enough. The Rubricae’s fist closed around his wrist. He felt the plates of his own armour buckle, and heat spread from the grip. The Rubricae’s eyes blazed at him. He tried to pull away, but it drew him close.
    +Ahriman,+ hissed a voice in his mind. He could feel the pleading and anger in the voice, grating together like iron and stone.
    ‘I…’ He began to speak, but the grip grew tighter. The binding sigils on the Rubricae’s armour shone brighter and brighter. Ahriman’s arm was burning with heat as the ceramite under the Rubricae’s grip buckled. A second hand gripped his neck and lifted him off the floor. The iron fingers began to close slowly on his throat.
    +Ahriman,+ said the voice again, and its whisper overwhelmed his thoughts.
    He was drowning, he could not breathe, he could not feel, he was blind. He was tumbling through a universe of darkness and shadow, of glimpsed futures and broken memories. He could not remember where he had been, or why he had been. He remembered a figure in red armour, a blue sky streaked