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Tantalus - Braden Campbell

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Tantalus

Braden Campbell

The Tantalus was nearly twice the size of a standard raider. Its rear half consisted of a crescent-shaped open area and a raised steering platform surrounded by a low but ornate railing. The rudder was elaborate and pointed. Amidships, the bow split into two protruding points that each housed an over-sized disintegrator. A single, elongated mast curved overhead and a delicate sail folded up tightly against it. On either side of the quarterdeck, enormous blades curved out into space. A trio of engines thrummed in unison on the underside of the hull.

It was a perfect fusion of form and function that harkened back to the long-lost time before the Fall. The use of negative space and sweeping lines gave it a feeling of lightness and agility that belied its size. Its black armour plating, polished to a mirror sheen, projected an aura of power and invulnerability.

Surasis Grief had overlooked no detail in its design. It was, simply put, his masterpiece. It was also unique. In a city where nothing was sacred and among a people with absolutely no compunction about theft or mimicry, there was still only one Tantalus.

And that, he knew, was why everyone reviled him. He was hated not because he had spent decades sailing his achievement between the spires of High Commorragh, destroying the aerial fleets of friend and foe alike and plundering their treasures. No, he was the greatest steersman and pilot the Dark City had ever known, and his gravcraft was unsurpassed. Taken together, they were simply the best. It was base, unsophisticated envy that empowered his detractors and drove the occasional upstart to challenge him for his title.

Ciav, of the Nightspur Covenant, was just the latest example. Until today, Grief had never so much as heard of him. But now, word had come that the jetbike champion was openly claiming that no one in Commorragh could best him. That his, not Grief’s, was the Dark City’s fastest, lithest, most heavily armed death machine.

Grief had put down many such claimants over the years. So many in fact that he sailed forth today to meet the foe with a feeling that bordered on disappointment. He struggled to recall the last time he’d met a real challenge, when he truly had to work to retain his reputation.

It was time to get under way. The crew was already assembled on the deck: thirteen of his best warriors, hand-picked for this assignment. As they busied themselves with the final preparations, they were overseen by Grief’s twin progeny. Nitholeh, his daughter, was obsessively applying her face paints. His son, Roteus, stood holding a long crystal cylinder up to one eye and surveying the cityscape ahead. Everyone was dressed in the reflective armour plating and particular shade of smoky grey that was the hallmark of Grief’s kabal. A black sigil, like a shard of broken glass, was emblazoned over each person’s heart. There would be no doubt that today’s actions would be the work of the Dark Mirror.

In accordance with a maritime tradition as old as antiquity, Grief was the last to come aboard.

‘Dread Archon on deck!’ Roteus called out as he scrambled to put his scrying glass away. The warriors froze where they were and snapped to attention. Roteus smiled and nodded at his father. Nitholeh seemed to take no notice, but produced a small vial from her belt, craned her head back, and squeezed several drops of black liquid into her eyes.

Grief adjusted the pistol that rested on each hip, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked slowly in between the petrified crewmen, nodding occasionally. He surveyed the sky, inhaled deeply, and motioned for his children to join him.

‘What do you think?’ he asked the two of them.

Nitholeh blinked rapidly as sensory-enhancing chemicals worked their way through her eyelids. Charcoal tears formed pools and cascaded down her cheeks. ‘Your crew seem ready,’ she said.

‘I’ve already laid out our course to Nightspur,’ Roteus said cheerfully, waving a rolled up parchment. ‘Ciav will never know what hit him.’

‘The weather,’ Grief scowled. ‘What do you think about the weather?’

When their faces showed nothing but confusion, he ground his teeth and continued. ‘The air today is very still, humid and smells of ozone. The light from the five suns is diffused. From this we know…’

Roteus searched for the answer on the deck plating beneath his feet. Nitholeh sniffed and gazed off into the distance.

‘…that an aetherstorm is brewing. Nitholeh, should we set out with sails compressed or unfurled?’

The young woman rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she sighed.

‘Unfurled,’ Roteus spat. ‘For greater speed.’

‘Muses! You’ve learned nothing, either of you.’ Grief made his way to the Tantalus’s elevated steering platform with powerful strides. ‘This is an alpha-strike attack run, Roteus, with an opening volley at long range. Sails unfurled would leave us without sufficient power to the weapons.’

He grasped the tiller tightly and unlocked it with a flick of his thumb. With his other hand, he began tapping keys on the main control panel. ‘It will be centuries at this rate before either of you succeed me.’

A moment of strained silence passed between the three of them, broken only by the sound of the engines rumbling to life beneath their feet.

‘You will remain here, at home. We will discuss punishment when I return.’

Nitholeth’s face snapped around, incredulous. ‘What?’

‘We assumed that we would be coming with you,’ Roteus said slowly. His eyes darted between his sister and father.

‘Your disappointment is my pleasure,’ Grief said. He lifted his head and barked to the crew, who immediately scrambled to their positions.

When neither Roteus nor Nitholeh showed any sign of moving, Grief turned to them and bared his teeth. ‘I said, get off my ship.’

His children nodded, and reluctantly made their way back to the docking pier. Their faces burned with hatred and embarrassment.

Grief made a quick mental calculation concerning velocity and atmospheric resistance, and moved his wrist imperceptibly. The gravcraft banked in reply and drifted gracefully away from the dock.

‘To Nightspur!’ Grief cried. His crew cheered in response, as the Tantalus began to accelerate away from the pier and towards the titanic, central bulk of Commorragh.

Nightspur was typical of the many toroid arenas built during the Age of Pain. It orbited around the exact middle of its habspire, a jagged skyscraper hundreds of stories tall, like a ring floating around the broken finger upon which it had been slipped. Seen from the outside, it was a featureless black halo encrusted with glowing grav-plates. The interior surface of the ring, on the other hand, was filled with all manner of obstacles: flame geysers, acid throwers, shrapnel-launchers, monofilament netting. Walls and barriers, festooned with spikes, appeared at random intervals and moved about in an ever-shifting pattern. Integrated heating and cooling units would produce all kinds of varying environmental effects, from blistering heat to blinding snow squalls.

No one had ever bothered to count the number of such arenas. There were several dozen, surely, all similarly sprouting out at twisted right angles from the central bulk of Commorragh. What distinguished Nightspur from its fellows were the inhabitants. Typically, reavers were little more than thrill-kill cultists. They cared very little for the well-being of their compatriots, and were more likely to slay their leaders than as to follow them. Collaboration was a foreign idea to them; they could work together only for the briefest of periods before resuming their deadly and destructive competitions against one another.

The reavers of Nightspur, however, were a closely-knit collective of former arena champions drawn from all across the Dark City. The impetuousness of youth had long since been bled out of them. Bound together by a wealth of experience, they were more than a simple gang. They were a covenant, and they called themselves such.

Every day, the reavers of Nightspur would train, racing at breakneck speeds through their lethal and unpredictable course. Their cooperative manoeuvres were a thing so rare amongst the true kin that they simply had to be seen to be believed, and thus the observation decks of the habspire were constantly filled by an incredulous but deep-pocketed audience.

An aetherstorm was brewing as the Covenant riders emerged onto the starting line. There were twelve of them, each wearing a glossy flight suit that was little more than a second skin. They turned their faces upward to where the onlookers were now pressing against the glass.

Ciav was the last to emerge. He adjusted his belt, and then pulled a pair of gloves from beneath his belt. His long, black hair was wrapped up in topknot and secured in place by a silver clip. His expression was cool and collected as he looked to his fellows.

‘How’s the crowd, Rayak?’ he asked.

The nearest pilot turned and smiled, accentuating the ragged scars that stretched across his left cheek. ‘A full house,’ he replied. ‘Or very nearly. Profits will be good today.’

Another of the reavers wrapped a spiked collar around her neck and cinched it tight. ‘They’re also anxious, Ciav,’ she rasped. ‘We’ve been holding for several minutes, waiting for you. Not good. Looks unprofessional.’

‘It couldn’t be helped, Tasu,’ Ciav said. Squinting, he looked up into the galleries. ‘Besides, they’ll be getting their money’s worth today. I’ve just received word that a very special guest is coming to join us.’

‘The one we’ve been waiting for?’ The woman raised an eyebrow.

‘None other.’

The shadow of a smile crossed her painted lips. ‘Oh. That’s different.’

Rayak shook his head. ‘Surasis Grief,’ he sighed. ‘Most decorated champion on the toroid circuit, back in the day.’

‘When I was young,’ Ciav replied, ‘I saw him win the Sec Maegra Marathon. He killed nearly fifty competitors that day. Eight of them right at the finish line.’

‘That’s all in the past,’ Tasu said. ‘He’s made too many enemies now, playing pirate.’

‘Still,’ Rayak said, ‘it’s too bad I never had the chance to meet him.’

‘You might still.’ Ciav slapped his gloves against his palm. The other members of the Covenant turned to face him. He took a moment to look each of them in the eye, and said, ‘Grief’s time is over. He may be good, but we’re better.’

He dismissed them with a nod, and everyone went to examine their jetbikes one final time. Tasu sauntered next to Ciav, affixing spiked cuffs around her wrists to match her neck guard.

‘What about that machine of his?’ she asked in a hushed tone.

‘The Tantalus? What of it?’

‘Are you really going to destroy it?’

‘That’s what we’ve been hired to do.’

‘No. We’ve been hired to eliminate Grief.’

Ciav raised a finger. ‘Deliver him, I think you mean.’

‘Don’t be coy. You know there’s no difference.’

‘I’ll do whatever has to be done.’

‘No doubt,’ Tasu said. She stopped next to her bike. It was long and flat, like a triangular-shaped blade. The preserved skull of some monstrous feline formed a part of the front hood. ‘But what of the gravcraft? You’ve made no mention of it. I’m not the only one who’s noticed. The others won’t dare confront you about it, though.’

Ciav looked at her coldly. ‘But you will?’

Tasu shrugged, waiting.

Ciav sneered and left her. He couldn’t give her an answer, because he didn’t have one. Not precisely. The day’s events were planned for, yes, laid out in exactitude, but only to a point. He and the Covenant would do what they were charged with doing and, one way or another, Surasis Grief would die. The fate of the Tantalus, however, was ambiguous. It was entirely possible that the Dread Archon would try to take it with him into whatever hell awaited those who died the True Death.

As he reached his own jetbike, Ciav was bothered by a feeling in his gut that he couldn’t quite identify. It was a slight ache in the centre of his ribcage, a flicker of nausea that might almost be called… regret? Ciav shook his head. Impossible! There was no such thing in Commorrite society. One achieved power and entitlement on the bloody, murdered backs of those from whom it was stolen. Grief was the greatest steersman in the Dark City. Ciav wanted to be recognized as such. Therefore, Ciav had to destroy Grief. It was a simple equation with no room for second thoughts.

Still, the feeling didn’t entirely fade away.

Ciav’s jetbike, like all such machines, had begun its life as little more than a bladed rocket with hair-trigger controls and seating for one. Although it was in top condition, it was of a classic, some would say very old, design. Unlike so many others in his field, Ciav refused to switch over to a newer, lighter chassis. The front two-thirds of his bike were taken up by a segmented ramjet with a pair of forced air intakes on the top, a pair underneath, and a final one at the front. He had installed several upgrades throughout, including splinter weapons, smoke launchers, and a pair of large, pointed wings. He activated the start-up sequencer, and the small control panel before him came to life. Diagnostics scrolled across a tiny display screen. Behind him, the engine began to cycle from a low rumble to a high-pitched, screaming whine. He took a pair of goggles from where they dangled off the altitude controls, and snapped them into place over his eyes. Then he locked his feet onto the accelerator plates and slid forward until he was nearly lying flat on his stomach. He glanced down along the right-hand side of the display bank to ensure that his spear was within easy reach and then waved an arm in the air.

All around him, the other members of the Covenant completed similar checks and brought their jetbikes to roaring life. A series of hand signals passed throughout the group, signifying that all was ready. There was no point in even trying to speak or use vox communicators at track level – no mortal sound could stand up to the cacophony.

Moments later, they were off, rising on fields of antigravitons and leaving blue-white contrails in their wake. Their first few laps around the toroid were a traditional warm up. They came together into various formations, from tightly-packed clusters to inverted deltas. They dodged and weaved their way through an expanse of floating spheres that fired silver darts tipped with poison. They ducked under walls of fire and soared over solid walls.

On their third lap, just as the onlookers were growing hungry for the real action to begin, a dark shadow fell across the Nightspur reavers and the explosions began.

Grief knew that there would be people watching. His opponent was an apparent narcissist, so he had been told, who always had to have an audience, even during routine practices. ‘Give them what they want’ was an adage that died hard in every reaver champion, himself included. He began his attack therefore with a suitable amount of dramatic flair – not only would he destroy this upstart, but he would ensure that it was Surasis Grief, not Ciav of Nightspur, that they would be talking about come tomorrow.

I will steal your celebrity, as well as your life, he thought.

He soared above the toroid track in a high parabolic curve, performed a barrel roll, and then came straight down. The undercarriage of his massive gravcraft shot past the crystal windows of the habspire observation decks. The rush of his passing shook the panes, and many an expensive drink was spilled by onlookers who leapt up suddenly from their seats. Grief levelled out at the last possible second, mere handspans above the track’s surface. The Covenant reavers were directly in front of him, arranged in the rows and columns of a classic assault wall formation. There was no way at this angle to tell which of them was Ciav, and so Grief simply fired at the lot of them.

The two cannons mounted on the nose of the craft were stock parts, pulse disintegrators commonly found on Commorrite starships. In a space-borne environment, they were considered somewhat low-powered. In the confines of the Dark City however, they were ridiculously strong. A dozen crackling energy spheres shot out from their barrels and detonated amid the reavers. Two of the bikes exploded instantly. The remainder fanned apart, and accelerated away.

Grief fired again, but to no avail. Ciav and his entourage were too far away now, fleeing along the inner curve of the torus at a fantastic speed. Grief would have to cut them off. He pressed hard on the tiller, and the racetrack dropped away suddenly. The warriors on the mid-deck scrambled to find a handhold as the gravcraft rocketed upwards.

‘Unfurl the sail!’ he cried.

Two of his soldiers pressed their palms against the glowing node at the base of the main mast. With a sound like a cracking whip, three boom arms dropped into place. The delicate material that spread between them was pitch-black and composed of thousands of tiny hexagons. Grief banked back and forth, rolling the craft from side to side, until at last, he caught an aethercurrent of sufficient strength. The sail seemed to light up suddenly from within, and the vessel lurched forwards with increased velocity.

The reavers had entered a maze-like section of the course filled with thick, blocky walls. Space was at a premium here and lines of sight were severely limited.

Grief knew the trick well. When pitted against a large and formidable foe, a jetbike squadron would often dive into hiding, like rabbits running for a briar patch to escape a hungry bear. Grief would not be so easily deterred. He didn’t waver as he plowed directly into the obstacles. The walls flew apart. Chunks of steel and rockcrete went spawling in all directions. Several of them struck the hull of his machine and ricocheted away without so much as scratching the paint.

The reavers, suddenly bereft of cover, fled madly. Now however, they had broken themselves down into three groups. A cluster of half a dozen continued to follow the toroid track, while a pair of smaller squadrons banked to either side of Grief. The Archon quickly scanned to see if his target was among them, but he was not. Despite the fact that he had never met Ciav, he would recognise his silhouette in an instant. His children had described his jetbike in detail: a classic, thovis-style frame with a vinnson-series engine, the exact same configuration Grief had used for most of his early career.

Behind him, the two smaller squadrons crossed each other in graceful arcs, and brought their weapons to bear. Grief clenched his jaw. It was a textbook back-stab manoeuvre and one that he couldn’t afford to ignore. If those bikes were armed with only anti-personnel splinter weapons, then he had nothing to fear. Poisoned glass could not so much as scratch his ship, no matter what volume they might throw at him. On the other hand, if they had been fitted with something heavier, as he assumed they were, then his engine assembly would be vulnerable.

All of this tactical analysis flashed through Grief’s mind in a heartbeat. He immediately cut his forward thrust and spun the gravcraft by ninety degrees. He and his crew were now sliding sideways through the air, starboard side presented to their onrushing attackers. His retainers stampeded to the railing and raised their rifles.

The reaver squadrons struck the Tantalus dead center with a hail of crystalline needles and two short-ranged dark matter streams. The splinters bounced away harmlessly, but the blaster shots caused a section of armour to buckle. There was an explosion beneath the feet of Grief’s crew, and a geyser of electrified gas came up through the intricate deck work. Grief’s crew returned fire through the billowing smoke. The reavers tried to peel away, but the nearest four were caught in the full fusillade. A storm of glass shards tore through their arms, legs, and faces. Their bodies flailed like ragdolls as they were knocked from their seats and dropped into the void. The jetbikes plummeted to the toroid track below and exploded.

Grief glanced to where a series of warning lights flashed on the main display board. The Tantalus’s controls were unresponsive, making him a stationary target. He drew his pistols in preparation for a second pass, but no further attack came. He frowned as he scanned the sky. The second group of reavers were a quartet of engine plumes, racing away at top speed. The third was nowhere to be seen.

Why wouldn’t Ciav and his followers seize this opportunity to hammer him with a barrage of blasters and heat lances? They were toying with him. It was the only possible answer. The arrogance!

He dropped his guns back into their holsters and descended the steps to the main deck. He pointed to two of his crew. ‘Pull up this floor plate. The rest of you, form a perimeter and stay alert. They may yet come back at us.’

The section of grating was hoisted up. While his crew formed a defensive picket around him, Grief waved away the reeking smoke and examined the labyrinth of machinery and conduits beneath. It took only moments to discern the problem: a power coupling had been torn apart by shrapnel, effectively cutting the main engines off from the central reactor. He wrapped his hand around the steaming, egg-shaped node, and pulled it free. Hot, viscous coolant, the life’s blood of his masterpiece, ran down his forearm and seared his skin. He took no notice, but quickly went to the base of the steering platform, where he kept a compartment filled with tools and replacement parts. He had been working for several minutes when a feeling of dread came over him. He needed to patch a final circuit, but had nothing among his spare parts that would suffice. Unless he could think of something, the disposing of Ciav would have to wait for another day.

Suddenly, the communications system called out his name.

‘Archon Grief?’ asked a voice he did not recognise. ‘Dread Archon Surasis Grief, are you there? Can you hear me?’

Grief bounded up to the tiller and depressed a button on the panel. ‘Who is this? How did you get this frequency?’

‘Oh, good,’ came the reply. ‘I was afraid we might have lost you to a lucky shot. Dread Archon, my name is Ciav. I’m the leader of the Nightspur Covenant.’

‘I know who you are,’ Grief growled. ‘You’re the arrogant little gnat who’s been telling everyone with an ear that you are Commorragh’s greatest pilot. That you’re the one to deliver me to the True Death when so many others have failed.’

‘If that’s what you’ve been told, then I will not argue otherwise.’

‘Well, I’m right here, you pathetic coward,’ Grief said, ‘but I see neither hide nor hair of you.’ Once again, he looked around him. All of the reavers had vanished. Above, the roiling, oily clouds were thickening. Nightspur’s observation lounges lay off to port, where he could clearly see a throng of onlookers pressed up against the glass. They pointed at his crippled transport, and snapped holopics. Doubtless, this entire spectacle was being streamed live across half the Dark City by now.

‘Obviously’ Ciav said, ‘your much-vaunted ship isn’t all you would have us believe. Perhaps you should limp back to port, old man. We can always try this again once you’ve had a nap.’

The part of Grief that knew he was being taunted was shouted down by the part that yearned to dish out a deadly lesson in humility. The onlookers in the window continued to gesture at him. More than a few were laughing. He looked down at the power coupling in his hand and nodded grimly. He grasped the side of his neck where his combat drug injector lay buried just beneath the skin. He dug his long fingers into the wrinkled flesh and, in a singular motion, tore the small device free.

The crew members closest to him grimaced at the display. He ignored the blood that ran down his shoulder and used the main feeder tubule from the injector to complete his repairs. Then, he marched to the open deckplate and snapped the power coupling back into its proper place.

‘I’m told you’re one to always play to an audience,’ he shouted. ‘That you always strive to put on a good show. I was like that too when I was your age. But do you know what eventually happened, Ciav?’

The Tantalus gave a satisfied hum as it returned to life. Grief signalled for his retainers to put the deckplate back and returned to the control platform.

‘No,’ came Ciav’s reply. ‘Pray, tell.’

‘There came a day – a terrible day – when I realized that my fans were simply usurpers-in-waiting. They didn’t just love me. They wanted to be me. Because I was now the best, you see. So I spurned them. I had to.’

The flow of blood from Grief’s neck wound was now running down the length of his arm and dripping from his fingers. He flicked the droplets away before tapping at the buttons on the tiller. The Tantalus spun so that its bow directly faced the windows of the observation lounges.

‘Allow me to demonstrate,’ Grief said, and he opened fire on Ciav’s patrons.

The first salvo caused the panes of crystal to crack and explode inward. The onlookers recoiled and instinctively threw their arms across their faces. A few grabbed whomever happened to be in front of them for use as a living shield. Grief fired again, and again. Energy blasts pounded into the room, ripping the furniture to shreds and setting the floor rugs on fire. No personal armour could withstand the assault. Anyone struck by the Tantalus’s disintegrators was killed instantly, exploding as the water in their cells turned to superheated steam. There was a mad scramble at the back of the room, as those who had managed to escape from being hit fought to be first to the exit.

A few brave souls took cover behind the gallery’s more solid objects. From behind the marble plinth of a statue or an overturned wierwood table, they returned fire with their sidearms. None of it was enough to pierce the Tantalus’s mirrored hull, however, and so Grief continued to destroy the room with abandon.

From behind, there came the sound of turbines screaming in unison. Grief glanced over his shoulder to see a cluster of jetbikes crest the rim of the toroid track and dive directly at him. Leading the charge was Ciav, spear raised above his head.

Grief had known that attacking the Nightspur Covenant’s patrons would force them to re-enter the fight. He immediately stopped his barrage, and pulled hard on the tiller. The Tantalus began to twist around to greet the onrushing reavers.

Ciav and his followers accelerated suddenly and cut a swath across the Tantalus’s passenger deck. The heavy blades mounted along their engines and sides scythed through Grief’s crew, lopping off heads and arms alike. Three of the bikes peppered the ship with tiny, barbed spheres programmed to explode at precisely knee height. Shrapnel radiated everywhere, ripping through armour and turning leg muscles into shredded ribbons. Then, in a second, they were past, arcing back up into the sky.

Grief pulled a piece of metal from where it had burrowed into his chest. As he tossed it aside, he noted that only five of his crew were still alive. His communication link to Ciav was still open, but his rage stifled all speech. He slammed down on the thruster controls, and the Tantalus shot forward. The bodies and limbs of the fallen crew rolled across the deck and spilled over the railing.

Ahead of him, the Covenant riders dodged and weaved. Grief fired his forward weapons and managed to hit four of them. They detonated into fiery clouds.

A single bike suddenly broke off from the main group and went into a dive. Ciav’s voice called out through the communicator. ‘I’ll admit she’s got firepower, that ship of yours. But is she anything more than a glorified gunboat?’

Grief took up the challenge by banking the Tantalus hard. To the few still alive in Nightspur’s ruined observation lounge, it appeared as if the great machine nearly rolled onto its side. The aether sail lit up once again. Grief squeezed the grip of the tiller, opening the engines to their fullest.

Ciav looked at his control panel and smiled despite himself. In his rear display, the Tantalus was coming about with all the grace and subtlety of an enraged voidwhale. Its engines were howling. Its aethersail glowed so brightly that the mirrored machine was painted with shifting neon hues.

That Ciav was able to so easily bait the Dread Archon with his own pride came as a disappointment. This was, after all, the man who had once won the Sec Mageara Marathon, and who had jousted against the infamous Silo Adai, actually knocking the woman from her bike. He had defeated the champion of the now-defunct Warp Rider gang. Even the Black Buzzards thought highly of him, and those maniacs were renowned for hating everyone. His skill, his focus, and his self-control were things of legend. He had inspired an entire generation of young eldar to hone themselves in the ways of the reaver. Surely Surasis Grief knew better than to let himself be goaded this easily?

Ciav pushed his rumination aside and focused on what he had to do next. He tapped the transceiver nestled against his throat.

‘Tasu? Rayak?’ he called. ‘Update.’

‘We’re still here,’ the woman replied. ‘Grief seems to have abandoned us. We’re following him now at a distance.’

‘His rear quarter is wide open, Ciav,’ Rayak added. ‘I could lance him to pieces right now.’

‘No,’ Ciav said.

‘Oh, come on!’ The burly reaver sounded like a child denied something sweet.

‘I said no!’

‘End it now, Ciav,’ Tasu hissed. ‘Why bother with this chase?’

‘To whip up the city. To make this the grandest of spectacles. That’s what our employers want.’

‘Our employers,’ Tasu said quietly, ‘or you?’

The lines were silent for a moment.

‘How many crew does he have left?’ Ciav asked.

‘Five,’ Rayak said. ‘Maybe six. It’s hard to tell at this range.’

‘Alright. I’m sure they won’t last. We’ll rendezvous at Coldheight, and keep your wits about you. I’ll have an audience in tow.’

‘That’s getting to be a dangerous thing,’ Rayak teased, ‘coming to see us.’

Ciav afforded himself a chuckle, thinking of the stupid fops who had paid for front row seating in Nightspur only to be the first ones vapourized by an infuriated Archon Grief. It mattered little. The Covenant already had their money.

‘Oh, Tasu, one more thing,’ Ciav said cheerfully. ‘Either challenge me outright for leadership of the gang, or don’t. One more questioning remark from you, and I will mount your head on the hood of my bike.’

The sound of the woman’s swallowing could be heard loud and clear. ‘Understood.’

‘Enjoy your tour,’ Rayak said.

Ciav tapped his throat mic again, ending the conversation. His line to Grief remained open however, muted until he should speak again. As he checked his speed, making certain that his bike could still be seen from the Tantalus without being close enough to be shot at, the Thirteenth Foundation of Vengeance ran through his mind. Above all else, the Dark City must endure. Well, disintegrators the size of the ones Grief was employing didn’t violate the last of Commorragh’s immutable laws, but they were certainly pushing the envelope. Ciav knew that if he wished to emerge victorious then it wouldn’t be through superior firepower. His tiny jetbike could never hope to match the Tantalus blow for blow. No, this was going to be a test of endurance; whoever wanted the title the most, would either claim or retain it. And that was as it should be.

‘Still there, Dread Archon?’ Ciav called over the transmitter.

‘You’ll not evade me, whelp,’ came the replay.

‘Good,’ Ciav said. ‘I’m counting on it.’

From Nightspur they travelled in a vaguely downward direction. The shipping lanes and thoroughfares they raced along contained clusters of traffic, mostly open-topped skiffs ferrying passengers or cargo. Ciav flitted around them with ease. Grief simply plowed through them. Wreckage rained down in his wake, crushing pedestrians, collapsing roofs, and starting fires. He took no notice. His singular focus was to catch up with Ciav. He would shoot him down, or better still, slice him in half using one the Tantalus’s massive, bladed wings.

That was proving more difficult than he would have liked, however. Ciav’s jetbike was simply faster than the Tantalus and try as he might, Grief could not close the distance. Still, he refused to break off his pursuit. At some point, Ciav would be forced to change his course or slow down, and then Grief would have him. Patience was all that was required.

They entered into the Bore, a wide tunnel that connected the midsection of the Dark City to the lower environs. A series of support columns divided the space in half. The neon hoops that encircled them provided the only light. It made for an odd effect as Grief rocketed past them; he saw things in a series of snapshots. Ciav was off his port bow. Now off to starboard. Now back to port. Things moved in slow motion, and even time itself became untrustworthy.

They turned sharply, and emerged onto an avenue lined with ramshackle buildings. The air was heavy with smoke and dust. Grief blinked in the sudden light and looked around, certain that he had lost his quarry. The crowds that filled the pavement and marketplaces below were comprised mostly of slaves, of many different races. The few vehicles he saw were rusted and ancient. He knew this place, even though it had been an eternity since he’d last been here.

‘Sec Maegra,’ whispered.

For a moment, Grief recalled the victory that had made his a household name. He had been one of two hundred and fifty reaver pilots who had raced through these very streets in a gut-wrenching, no-holds-barred marathon. In the end, it had come down himself and eight others. Grief squeezed his way into the middle of the pack, and intentionally overloaded his drive reactor. He leapt away, tucked into a ball, and rolled along the pavement. His flesh and clothing were torn to shreds while behind him, the explosion destroyed his competitors. Then, while the crowds cheered, Grief hauled himself up and walked across the finish line. He had been the first, and to this day only, person to ever finish a jetbike race on foot.

His nostalgia was broken by the impact of splinter shards against the Tantalus’s hull. Ciav had swung around and was driving straight towards him. Long, barbed chains were unravelling out behind it from spools mounted below the wings. Grief instinctively slowed so that he could fire back, but it was too late. As Ciav zoomed overhead, one of Grief’s crewmen was snared like a fish on a line and hoisted high into the air. He landed, limp and lifeless, somewhere among the gawking crowds.

The Tantalus spun on the spot, and fired wildly. Disintegrator blasts flew everywhere, and the front facings of several nearby buildings collapsed in on themselves. Ciav remained unharmed. He retracted the chains back into their housings, dropped to street level and went tearing through an alleyway.

Grief knew the side street was far too narrow to accommodate the Tantalus’s girth. Undeterred, he flew up over the rooftops. His shadow fell, vulture-like, over the tiny jetbike as it twisted and turned. He pressed a switch on the side of the communicator where the line remained open between himself and Ciav.

‘You hope to lose me in the streets of this slum?’

‘I have no such illusions.’

Ciav emerged into an open area filled with multicoloured cloth tents. He mowed through the marketplace shoppers without so much as blinking. Limbs and heads painted his jetbike with slashes of bright red. He released a trail of red smoke from the pods beneath his wings. Crimson clouds billowed out across the marketplace. Grief, undaunted, fired the Tantalus’s weapons. Crackling spheres of darklight energy cratered the cobblestone street and turned several onlookers into mist.

Ciav climbed hard, but one of the blasts caught his jetbike on its rear quarter. There was a burning sensation on his back, and he spun wildly for a moment before managing to right himself. He glanced behind him. Streams were trailing from his engine housing, and the back of his skinsuit had melted. He did his best to ignore the blistering of his skin, and accelerated away.

Behind him, the Tantalus ripped through the market at street level, pulverising anyone caught in its path. Then it too soared skywards once again and continued its pursuit.

And so it went. Wherever Ciav fled, Grief followed. They sped along the River Khaides, disturbing the gondolas of the lower-class barons who claimed dominion over its sickly grey-green waters. They flew out over Precipice Falls, where the river dumped itself into the void that surrounded the Dark City, and over the dilapidation of the Sprawls. They twisted their way through the Carmine Portspar, dancing around cargo skiffs and the blistered hulls of the battlecruisers docked there. They passed into High Commorragh, skimming the faces of the cyclopean statues that guarded its entryways, and tore through streets filled with the ornate pleasure craft of the city’s elite. They whipped through the aeries where the scourges squatted and cawed.

Always they moved higher, and at each new place Ciav dropped a pair of canisters behind him that erupted into red smoke. Grief assumed this to be some kind of distraction or means of misdirection, and an ineffective one at that.

They were far above High Commorragh now, climbing steadily towards the point at which the city’s uppermost towers vanished into a roiling layer of clouds. The wind was growing stronger and more frigid with every passing moment. The light from the Five Suns was becoming dim. Grief and Ciav hadn’t communicated for some time, each man focusing solely on either evasion or pursuit. It was Ciav who finally broke the silence.

‘Dread Archon?’

‘Yes?’

‘You’ve been true to your word. I’ve not been able to lose you, despite using nearly every trick in my repertoire.’

‘You’ve some skill, boy,’ Grief said. ‘I’ll grant you that, at least. But I think it’s time we ended this.’

‘I agree.’

‘Well then, come within the range of my guns.’

‘I think not. I’ll be entering the aether layer in a moment. My craft is small and nimble. I’m quite certain I can survive it. Can you say the same?’

Grief gave no reply. In truth, he had no sure answer. He frowned. They were nearing the altitude where a combination of atmospheric pressure, cyclonic spin, and various alchemical elements fused into the very superstructure of Commorragh, all combined. The result was a thick soup that was equal parts soot, water vapour, blood and exotic charged particles. Even when it was relatively calm, most pilots chose to go around, rather than through it. Grief had no idea how the Tantalus would handle the wicked turbulence or the freezing temperatures.

‘You should turn back,’ Caiv said.

Was that a hint of pleading in the upstart’s voice, Grief wondered briefly. He shook his head. No, he decided, Ciav was growing tired and this was his last, desperate attempt to escape. Grief watched the jetbike vanish into the wall of clouds ahead. The interior flashed with bolts of lightning. On the deck, his remaining four crewmen looked towards him, their faces were etched with worry.

‘Your orders, Dread Archon?’ one of them finally asked.

Grief ran a gloved hand across the Tantalus’s controls before tightening his grip on the tiller.

‘We finish the fight,’ he said.

Earlier in the day, his instincts had been correct: a storm had been brewing. Now, he flew into it headfirst. Almost immediately, the Tantalus was knocked about by hurricane-force winds. Great pillars of ash rose and sank about him, like the waves of some toxic sea. Bolts of energy flashed everywhere.

Grief knew without looking that his instrumentation was dead, rendered useless by the energy bursting all around him. He held the controls in a death grip and squinted. A torrent of freezing rain lashed his face and stung his eyes. The deck was awash in semi-liquid soot. The Tantalus’s sail, super-charged by the storm, glowed with rippling hellfire. There was no sign of his prey.

A wave of cloud, several stories high, began to form overhead. Its interior was pitch black. Its crest was electric blue. It hung suspended just long enough to take away the breath of those bearing witness to it, and then it collapsed. Grief heard his crew cry out as from a great distance, but he was already turning the gravcraft, pitching straight up to meet the tide directly. It was the only way.

He called for his crewmen to brace themselves.

The concussive force was like nothing he’d ever experienced. All sense of direction was lost. All sensation was diminished. They were drowning, he and the Tantalus. There was no light by which to see and no air to breathe. The entire universe had been reduced to nothing but suffocating darkness and choking liquid, accentuated by flashes of lightning.

And yet, there was a call: horrible, siren-like and not so much heard as felt. Let go, it said. Let go, Surasis, and come to me. Surrender your flesh, and enter my embrace.

Grief had no doubt as to whose voice it was, beckoning him from the inky depths. Mariners and pilots had heard it for millennia whenever the True Death pressed close. It was Her. The Eater of Souls. She Who Thirsts.

His feet went out from under him. He tumbled backward, arms flailing, and managed to latch onto the aft railing.

You’ve been bested, Surasis. Let go, she whispered.

‘No,’ he gasped. The chemical soup set his flesh on fire. The pressure in his lungs was unbearable. One by one, his fingers began to lose their grip.

And then they broke the surface.

The Tantalus emerged from the crushing wave in a spray of black droplets and electrical arcs. As it began to right itself, Grief shook the water from his eyes and gasped for breath. Agonizingly, he pulled himself back to the control platform. Holding the tiller once more, he looked about.

His crew was gone, washed away into oblivion. The Tantalus’s sail had been ripped clear, and the hull was now pockmarked and melted in several places. Still, the engines were running, and the controls were as responsive as ever. He wasn’t beaten yet.

Grief gave a wordless scream of defiance. The storm winds howled in reply.

It was impossible to say how long he battled the elements. Time had lost all meaning in the raging deluge. Minutes seemed like hours. At last, however, Grief spied something in the distance.

It was a thinning trail of red smoke, exactly like the ones Ciav had been leaving all across Commorragh. Grief turned and followed it, climbing ever upwards, until the darkness around him began to fade and the bone-chilling rain softened into snow. Then, suddenly, he was free. The frigid light of the five suns blinded him. As he blinked away tears, he heard the sound of applause. He looked down at his feet until his vision adjusted. Hoarfrost formed on his boots. The cheering increased. He raised his head and took stock of his surroundings.

The churning, bubbling aetherlayer lay kilometers below. Above him, the thin atmosphere faded into black. In every other direction, pointed spires and towers pierced through wispy tufts of grey clouds. He knew this place. This was Coldheight, the very apex of the Dark City. It was usually a remote and desolate place, but not today.

He had emerged from the storm clouds into the centre of a vast ring of vehicles and jetbikes. From atop every one of them, people were clapping and yelling with great enthusiasm. They were dressed warmly, with exotic animal hides and fur layered over leather and armour.

A voice called out from behind him. ‘Quite the sight, wouldn’t you say?’

Grief turned around slowly to find Ciav, seated on his jetbike and hovering nearby. He held a pointed spear that hissed whenever it was touched by an errant snowflake.

‘So many different cults and kabals. On any other day, they would be at each other’s throats, but for the moment they are not. Do you know why?’

‘They’re my victims. I’ve attacked, plundered, and beaten each of them in my time.’ Grief’s hands hovered above the butt of his pistols. ‘They’re unified by a hatred of me.’

‘Indeed. Some of them hate you because you stole from them, others because of the way you flaunt your ill-gotten gains before them.’ He pointed to a nearby raider whose hull was decorated with mirrored grey panels. Nitholeh and Roteus stood at the railing, looking on with great excitement. ‘Two of them hate you because you invested more time into this machine then you did them.

‘And some of us hate you because we can no longer admire you.’

Grief understood it all in a flash. His son and daughter had been the ones to first bring him the news that his title was being challenged. It was they who had told him all about Ciav and the Nightspur Covenant. Had he not ordered them off his ship, they would have doubtless been beside him even now, plunging knives into his spine.

‘Roteus and Nitholeh. This was all their doing. They used you to lure me here.’

Ciav stood upright. ‘No, they didn’t use me. I asked for this opportunity, and they formed their plans around my request. They wanted this to be public.’

Grief afforded himself a nod. ‘Sacrifice one father in order to gain a multitude of new friends. Greedy, conniving little wretches.’

After a moment, Ciav said, ‘Did you know that I watched your races when I was a youth? I studied your every technique. I even ride the same type of jetbike as you once did.’

‘It is a lovely machine.’

‘And yours as well,’ Ciav said. ‘But we can’t both be the best.’

‘No, we can’t.’

Four jetbikes had disengaged from the crowd and began flying wide circles around the Tantalus. They were trailing something behind them, Grief noted, some kind of thick, silver cabling he could not identify. It formed loops and whirls that twisted slightly in the wind.

The crowd had begun to chant a single word, over and over again.

Dannan. Dannan. Dannan.

The two pilots stared at each other unflinchingly.

‘They call for death,’ Grief said.

‘Then let the weaker of us provide,’ Ciav replied. With his spear raised high, he leapt across the space that separated them. In the same moment, Grief drew his pistols and fired. The shots went wide, and Ciav landed on the steering platform with cat-like precision.

The spear slashed downwards, leaving an electrified trail in its wake. Grief ducked to the side and slammed a heavy gun barrel into Ciav’s ribs. The reaver pilot folded in half and stumbled. Grief pressed the advantage with an immediate kick. Ciav winced, and swung the spear again. The tip pierced deeply into the Dread Archon’s right hip.

Grief staggered back, nearly tumbling down the steps to the main deck. Blood was gushing down his mirrored armour. He wished that he’d still had his drug injector.

Ciav vaulted over the control panel. Gripping his spear with both hands, he lunged forward. Grief jumped clear. Ciav tried again, but the old Archon was still able to dodge. Ciav spun the spear around his head and slammed the blunt end down hard. It caught Grief’s other leg just below the knee with an audible snapping of bone. Grief howled. His pistols clattered to the deck as he lost his footing and sagged against the forward railing.

Ciav took a step back and spat the blood from his mouth. Grief managed to pull himself up to a low crouch, and barrelled forwards. He caught Ciav around the waist, and together they crashed to the deck. The spear sailed over the guardrail.

They rolled back and forth with no sense of finesse, no hint of gladiatorial theatrics. Each man gripped the other by the collar and with his free hand punched his opponent repeatedly in the face. They dug at each other with knees and elbows. They scrambled to crush each other’s windpipes. It was base, brutal and gruesome.

At last, Ciav seemed to gain the upper hand. He drove his forehead into Grief’s nose, which promptly exploded in a fountain of red. The Dread Archon cried out and instinctively clutched his face. Ciav rolled away. He picked up one of the heavy pistols from where it lay and, panting, heaved himself into a standing position.

Grief stared up at him, awaiting the blast that would end it all. Ciav took a quick look around at the web of cabling that now surrounded the Tantalus. Then, he sprinted back to the steering platform, and launched himself across the void. He landed on his jetbike, pistol still in hand, and withdrew a small square control device from his belt. When he squeezed it, the silver threads flared to life. The Tantalus was surrounded by a cocoon of dusty, lavender light.

Grief wobbled as he rose to his feet. ‘What is this?’ he yelled.

‘A fractal web,’ Ciav said. ‘Ever hear of it?’

‘No.’

‘Not surprising. It’s very rare. It will slice into molecules any inorganic material it comes into contact with. And I can adjust its size however I see fit.’ He gestured with the small controller. The glowing cables contracted in a heartbeat until they nearly touched the hull of the Tantalus.

Two additional jetbikes settled into place beside Ciav.

‘Rayak, Tasu,’ Caiv said. ‘May I introduce Dread Archon Surasis Grief.’

Tasu sneered.

‘It’s really a privilege,’ Rayak blurted.

Grief gave a short laugh. Blood dropped from his face to splatter onto his boots.

Ciav lifted the control box out before him.

‘Well?’ Tasu hissed. ‘Do it. What are you waiting for, Ciav?’

‘Don’t fret too much over killing your childhood hero, son,’ Grief said. A grim smile crossed the ruins of his face. ‘After all, I had to kill mine.’

Ciav squeezed the tiny box. The fractal web imploded, the glowing cables compacting into a dense ball. The Tantalus, and everything that its captain was wearing, seemed to turn into purple smoke and then vanish. Grief plummeted, naked and noiseless, into the swirling aether layer.

All around, the crowds were cheering. Ciav looked towards Roteus and Nitholeh. They were holding their heads high, drinking in the victory. They appeared quite happy with the way things had turned out.

Tasu turned to him and said, ‘I didn’t think you’d really do it. Destroy Grief’s vehicle like that.’

‘I didn’t,’ Ciav replied. ‘I couldn’t. I’d just as soon smash a priceless sculpture.’

‘But the fractal web…’

‘Teleports inorganic material. Doesn’t disintegrate it. The Tantalus is safely stored away for now.’

He became lost in thoughts of riches. He could study the Tantalus, dissect it, copy it. Following today, it was a certainty that many in Commorragh would pay dearly for their own, personal version of the gravcraft. Or, maybe, he would simply keep it for himself, and resume the campaign of city-wide ransacking under the banner of the Nightspur Covenant. Honestly, he hadn’t yet decided.

Tasu bowed her head in acknowledgement of Ciav’s superior duplicity. ‘You truly are the greatest champion in Commorragh. I am yours to command.’

Rayak rubbed his scars thoughtfully. ‘You should take a victory lap,’ he said. ‘Make certain the people know who really won this day.’

Ciav slipped the control box back into his belt, settled into position, and began to slowly fly his jetbike toward cheering crowds. He circled Nitholeh and Roteus twice. The siblings regarded him coldly. They were no longer smiling. Their father had spoken the truth, Ciav conceded. They were simply too greedy and conniving to share power. The Kabal of the Dark Mirror would shatter very quickly.

Ciav waved and nodded to them, and then proceeded to make his way around the ring of onlookers. Their adoration was intoxicating. The discomfort that had been lodging in his chest was now completely gone. In fact, he had never felt so complete in all his life.

He had nearly completed his circuit when he chanced to pass a particularly large, open-topped yacht. Among the passengers was a young man, no more than twenty years removed from the birthing chamber. He wore a jacket in the same colours as the Covenant, and his long, black hair spilled around his shoulders. His face, as he regarded Ciav, was one of admiration.

For a moment, Ciav was amused at the sight. Then, the youth began to wind his hair into a tight knot, which he secured into place with a jagged, silver clip.

Ciav’s good mood vanished. He opened up the jetbike’s engines and abandoned the crowd.

Here was the day – the terrible day, as Grief had said - when he had to spurn his fans, because they no longer simply loved him. They wanted to be him.

How many, Ciav wondered, how many of the Dark City’s youth had witnessed today’s victory, this most memorable of shows? How many would, in the long years to come, mold their lives to emulate his? And how long would it be until one of them took away his title by sending him to the True Death?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Braden Campbell is the author of Shadowsun: The Last of Kiru’s Line for Black Library, as well as several short stories. He is a classical actor and playwright, and a freelance writer, particularly in the field of role playing games. Braden has enjoyed Warhammer 40,000 for nearly a decade, and remains fiercely dedicated to his dark eldar.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2014 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

© Games Workshop Limited, 2014. All rights reserved.

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ISBN 978-1-78251-492-3

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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.