The Outcast Dead

  ‘Of course,’ says the neurolocutor. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘Place your hands at my temples and focus your mind on everything you learned from Kai, every dream you shared, every word you spoke. All of it.’

  Hiriko nods and does as Athena says, standing behind her and placing a hand on either side of her head. Athena’s fingers close over Kai’s plucked eyes and she rolls the glassy orbs dextrously around in her palm like a conjurer. Dried spots of blood smear her skin, and Nagasena wonders if that will help her divine Kai Zulane’s location.

  ‘How long will this take?’ asks Saturnalia.

  ‘As long as it takes,’ says Athena. ‘Or perhaps you would like to try?’

  Saturnalia does not reply and Athena’s head sinks to her chest as she enters a nuncio trance. Her breathing deepens, and Nagasena moves away, feeling a sudden chill as her mind reaches out into invisible realms he cannot even begin to understand.

  While Golovko’s men kick down nearby doors and barrage any inhabitants they find with questions, Nagasena casts his eyes around this squalid refuge, and feels nothing but remorse for the fate that has seen these men condemned as traitors.

  Nagasena scabbards his sword as Saturnalia approaches. Though their goals are aligned, it is never wise to bear an unsheathed blade in the presence of a Custodian.

  ‘How could the World Eater have known they were being observed?’

  Nagasena shakes his head. ‘I do not know, but in the end it is irrelevant. These men are Space Marines and I am coming to realise that we have underestimated them.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘They were created to be the ultimate warriors, and it is easy to assume they are nothing more than gene-bred slayers whose only purpose is to kill and destroy. But they are far more than that. Their minds have been enhanced beyond mortal comprehension and their brains work in ways I will never be able to replicate.’

  ‘Are you saying you cannot hunt them?’ asks Saturnalia.

  Nagasena allows himself a small smile. ‘No, nothing of the sort. For all their genhancements and physical superiority, they are still men at heart.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What is the biggest factor slowing their escape?’ asks Nagasena.

  ‘They are carrying a wounded man,’ replies Saturnalia. ‘The Death Guard will not survive much longer. They should have left him at the crash site. To risk everything by keeping him with them is illogical.’

  ‘Would you leave an injured Custodian behind?’ asks Nagasena.

  ‘No,’ admits Saturnalia.

  ‘They are still bound by their oaths of brotherhood,’ says Nagasena sadly. ‘They are acting with honour. Not behaviour I would expect from traitors.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘And you were mistaken,’ says Nagasena, ignoring Saturnalia’s question and pointing to the spattered trail of blood on the ground. ‘They are carrying two wounded men.’

  ATHARVA BATTERED A fist on the painted metal door and waited for an answer. The building was a ragged lean-to built at one end of a refuse-cloaked square partially sheltered by tattered canvas awnings. A number of narrow streets led here, and ironwork crows were perched on many of the surrounding buildings, staring impassively down into the square like mute observers. Though they remained out of sight, Atharva knew at least a hundred pairs of eyes were upon them.

  ‘Just kick the damn door down,’ snapped Tagore, and Atharva saw the pulse of the veins at the side of his head. The neural-implants grafted to his skull fizzed in the cold air, and Atharva wondered what damage it was wreaking in the delicate mechanisms of his brain.

  ‘We need this chirurgeon to help us,’ said Atharva. ‘How well disposed towards us do you think he will be if we break down his door?’

  ‘You say that like I give a damn,’ replied Tagore, planting a foot in the centre of the shutter and battering it down with a single kick. The door crashed down inside a room dimly lit by a low-burning lantern of crude oil and animal grease. The smell of chemicals, hung herbs and spoiled meat that wafted out was potent.

  Asubha and Kiron dragged Gythua inside and deposited him on a wide cot bed that groaned in protest at his weight. Subha carried Kai over one shoulder, the astropath’s body looking limp and already dead. His aura was dull and listless, but Kai was not beyond saving and it would blaze fully once again.

  ‘Put him there,’ said Atharva, indicating a wooden bench pushed up against one wall.

  Subha gently lowered Kai to the bench and Atharva took a moment to survey their surroundings more fully. The room was made small by their presence, yet from what Atharva had seen of the Petitioner’s City, he suspected it would be considered expansive.

  The walls were hung with bundles of dried herbs, mouldering shanks of salted meat and curling sheets of paper depicting chemical structures and anatomical references. A number of tables sagged under the weight of heavy books and trays of rusting surgical equipment. Cupboards with cracked glass fronts contained hundreds of unmarked bottles of fluids, powders and crushed tablets. A bank of bio-monitors sat in the corner next to a petrochemical generator, though Atharva doubted any of them still worked.

  ‘Are you sure this is the place?’ demanded Tagore. ‘Looks like just another shitty house to me. You really think a chirurgeon lives here?’

  ‘The signs all pointed to this place,’ said Atharva, lifting a dusty copy of The Book of Prognostics from a nearby table. He saw other works by Hippocrates, scattered without thought for any system he could discern, amongst the writings of Galen of Pergamon, Abscantus and Menodotus. These were ancient texts and priceless beyond imagining, though woefully outdated.

  ‘What signs?’ asked Kiron, wiping a smear of resin from his shoulder. ‘How can people live like this?’

  ‘People live how they must,’ said Atharva. ‘And the signs were there for anyone with eyes to see them. This is a Serpent House.’

  ‘A what?’ said Subha.

  ‘A place of healing,’ explained Atharva, pointing to a mural on the door Tagore had kicked down. The door was in two pieces, but it was still possible to make out the image of a bearded man clad in a long toga who bore a staff with a coiled snake entwined along its length.

  ‘Who is that supposed to be?’ asked Kiron.

  ‘He is Aesculapius,’ said a hoary old voice from the shadows. ‘An ancient deity of the Grekians. Or at least he was until your ugly bastard friend put his bloody foot through him.’

  A lumpen shape rolled from a previously unseen bed at the back of the room, and Atharva now picked out the reek of the man’s unwashed body and sweat from the cocktail of chemicals hanging in the air. Tagore was on the man in an instant, lifting him up by the neck and pinning him against the wall. Killing fury lit his eyes as his fist pulled back to strike.

  ‘Don’t kill him, Tagore!’ cried Atharva.

  Tagore’s fist slammed into the wall, breaking it apart and sending a cloud of brick dust and fragments falling to the floor.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘You’re in my house,’ snapped the man. ‘I’m the chirurgeon, who do you think I am?’

  ‘Tagore, let him go,’ said Atharva. ‘We need him.’

  Reluctantly, Tagore lowered the man and pushed him towards Atharva.

  ‘My apologies, medicae,’ said Atharva. ‘We mean you no harm.’

  ‘Are you sure he knows that?’ said the man glaring at the World Eater and rubbing his neck. ‘And who in the name of the Emperor’s balls are you?’

  Wearing only a thin nightshirt, the medicae was an unimpressive sight. From the smell of him and the look of his eyes, he was a drunk and an imbiber of narcotics, but the signs had led them to this place, and there was likely to be no other practitioner of the healing arts close enough to be any use.

  ‘I am Atharva, and we need your help. What is your name, friend?’

  ‘I am Antioch, and I’m not your friend,’ said the chirurgeon. ‘It’s too bloody late
for this kind of thing, so what are you doing here, breaking my door down and insulting my housekeeping? I’m too drunk and messed up to do anything for you just now.’

  ‘This is a matter of life and death,’ said Atharva.

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ snapped Antioch.

  ‘He meant yours,’ said Tagore, looming over Antioch’s shoulder.

  ‘Threatening me?’ said Antioch. ‘Good one. That’s the way to get my help.’

  Atharva took the diminutive chirurgeon’s shoulder and led him towards the bench and table where Gythua and Kai were laid out.

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ asked Antioch, barely looking at them.

  ‘I thought you were the chirurgeon,’ snapped Kiron. ‘Can’t you tell?’

  Antioch sighed and said, ‘Listen, tell Babu Dhakal if he wants to keep injecting his men with growth hormones and messing with their gene-code then he can count me out of helping him get them back on their feet. He’s going too far now.’

  ‘Babu Dhakal? I don’t know who that is,’ said Atharva.

  Antioch snorted and looked up at him sharply, as though seeing him clearly for the first time. He peered from beneath bushy eyebrows and through rheumy eyes, studying Atharva and the warriors around him intently.

  ‘You’re not from the Babu?’

  ‘No,’ agreed Atharva. ‘We are not.’

  Antioch came closer and craned his head upwards, the reality of his situation now penetrating the fug of whatever narcotic haze was enveloping his brain. He rubbed his eyes with a stained sleeve and blinked furiously as though clearing it of grit.

  ‘You are of the Legiones Astartes…’ he breathed, looking from warrior to warrior.

  ‘We are,’ said Atharva, guiding him towards Kai. ‘And he needs your help.’

  ‘Help Gythua first,’ said Kiron.

  ‘No,’ stated Atharva. ‘Gythua can wait, Kai cannot.’

  ‘Gythua is a Legionary,’ protested Kiron. ‘You would put a mortal above him?’

  ‘I would put him above you all,’ said Atharva, before turning to Antioch. ‘Now heal him.’

  Antioch nodded, and Atharva almost felt sorry for the man, woken from a stupor to find angry giants demanding that he save two lives that hung by the slenderest of threads. Even a man as disoriented at Antioch could sense that his life hung on those same threads.

  To his credit, the chirurgeon rallied well, taking a deep breath and fetching a tray of surgical instruments that probably harboured more bacteria than a Biologis gene lab from the table opposite. He bent over and began to examine Kai’s bloody eye sockets.

  ‘Augmetic scarring. Input jacks torn out, and bruising around the ocular cavity,’ said Antioch, dabbing away the sticky blood on Kai’s cheeks with the sleeve of his nightshirt. He removed a sealed package from a bottle filled cupboard and tore the sterile lining to expose its contents. Without looking up from his work, Antioch laid a number of smaller packets on Kai’s chest and with care and precision Atharva hadn’t expected began to apply counterseptic gel to the inside of Kai’s eye sockets before packing them with what smelled like a mix of saline and petroleum gauze.

  ‘How did this happen?’ asked Antioch. ‘It’s wasn’t surgical, but it’s neat.’

  ‘I pulled his eyes out,’ said Asubha.

  Antioch glanced up, as though trying to work out whether Asubha was joking.

  He shook his head and sighed. ‘I won’t ask why. I get the feeling I won’t like the answer.’

  ‘The people hunting us were using them to spy on us,’ said Subha.

  Antioch paused and bit his lip. ‘So who hunts seven warriors of the Legiones Astartes?’ He held his hand up before Subha could answer. ‘That’s a rhetorical question, by the way, I definitely won’t like that answer. Now be quiet all of you if you want this man to live.’

  Opening a suture kit, Antioch began sealing Kai’s sockets with deft strokes of the needle, working swiftly and methodically on each eye. Sweat like bullets popped on his forehead, and Atharva could see the effort it was taking for the chirurgeon to maintain his composure and steady hand. With the sutures complete, Antioch wrapped a bandage around Kai’s head that, miraculously, appeared to be free of stains.

  ‘How is it a man of your skill comes to live in a place like this?’ asked Atharva as Antioch tied the bandages off and stood upright with a groan of relief.

  ‘None of your damn business,’ was the curt answer. ‘So, are you going to tell me what else is wrong with him or do I have to guess?’

  ‘He was drugged and repeatedly psychically interrogated by skilled neurolocutors.’

  ‘Of course he was,’ sighed Antioch, wiping his hands on his chest. ‘And I suppose that helping you with these men makes me an accomplice in whatever it is you’re mixed up in, yes?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Atharva. ‘That depends. Save their lives and we will be gone. No one will ever know we were here.’

  Antioch gave a bitter bark of a laugh. ‘Half the city will already know you are here, and the other half will know by morning. You think seven warriors like you can move through a city like this without attracting notice? However superhuman you are, you’re not that skilled.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Tagore. ‘We should not linger here.’

  ‘We’re not leaving before he treats Gythua,’ said Kiron.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ snapped Tagore angrily. ‘Don’t put words in my mouth.’

  Antioch ignored the altercation and rummaged through his cupboards to concoct a hybrid potion of chemicals from a series of unmarked bottles. He filled a cracked hypo with the end result and pressed the needle against the loose flesh of Kai’s arm. Before depressing the injector trigger, the wiry chirurgeon looked up at Atharva.

  ‘You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?’ said Antioch.

  Atharva chuckled. ‘I have fought alongside the Vlka Fenryka,’ he said. ‘You are going to have to do better than that if you are trying to offend me.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ he said, and depressed the trigger.

  Kai drew in a sucking lungful of air and his back arched with an audible crack. His muscles spasmed and a geyser of noxious fluids erupted from his mouth. Kai danced the dance of the hanged man on the bench, his heels rattling on the wood as his body evacuated itself from every orifice.

  ‘I’d turn him on his side if I were you,’ said Antioch, stepping away from the convulsing astropath. ‘There’s some clean-ish clothes in the back he can have once he’s done shitting and puking. He’s going to need them.’

  Tagore grabbed Antioch and said, ‘The astropath will live, yes?’

  Antioch’s face crumpled in pain at the World Eater’s grip. ‘The chem-purgatives should clean out his system, yes, but he’s so exhausted and worn thin it’s a miracle he’s still alive.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said Tagore pushing Antioch towards the Death Guard. ‘Now do the same for our brother.’

  Gythua was barely breathing, his body having suspended most of its surface functions to divert its energies into restoring itself. Atharva had seen Space Marines survive wounds more hideous than these, but without the facilities of an apothecarion to hand, he suspected Gythua had been broken beyond repair.

  Antioch bent over Gythua and, using the same instruments with which he had examined Kai’s wounds, he made a thorough inspection of the bloody craters and valleys torn in the Death Guard’s pallid flesh. From his expression, Atharva’s worst suspicions were confirmed.

  ‘This man should be dead,’ said Antioch at last. ‘For starters, this wound here looks like its ruptured his heart, and I think both his lungs have collapsed. And I don’t even recognise the organ this wound’s damaged. He’s been shot by energy weapons and there’s enough bullets in him to equip an entire squad of Army grunts.’

  ‘Are you saying you can’t save him?’ demanded Kiron.

  ‘I’m saying I can’t even begin to guess at the anatomy beneath what’s left of his skin,’ said Antioch
. ‘He’s beyond my help. Beyond anyone’s help would be my guess, but I think you all know that.’

  ‘Damn you,’ said Kiron, pressing the chirurgeon against the wall of his home. ‘You have to do something. Do you realise who this is? This is Gythua of the XIV Legion. He was the first Lantern Bearer, one of the original Seven! This man saved my life when we drove the Ringers from the equatorial ridges of Iapetus. He carried the Emperor’s banner and planted it in the dark heart of Cassini Regio at the fall of Saturn. Do you understand?’

  Atharva and Asubha prised Kiron’s fingers from the chirurgeon’s neck before his anger and grief overcame his intellect.

  ‘Kiron, let go,’ said Atharva. ‘Killing him won’t help Gythua.’

  ‘He has to save him!’

  ‘Nothing can save Gythua now,’ said Asubha. ‘He has walked the Crimson Path.’

  Kiron stepped away from Antioch, his fists balled and a perfect rage boiling behind his grey eyes. He stared in hatred at the cowering chirurgeon, but even as the need to break something threatened to turn his anger into murder, Severian called out a warning from his watchful position at the doorway.

  ‘Save your anger, brothers,’ he said. ‘A better target for it comes this way.’

  ‘Our hunters?’ demanded Tagore. ‘Who is it, Imperial Fists or Legio Custodes?’

  The Luna Wolf shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know who they are,’ replied Severian, looking back out the door into the square beyond, ‘but they are armed and they are definitely not Imperial.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Dark Imperium

  The Battle of Crow’s Court

  ALL OF IT was here, all of the echoes of truth retraced, all the wasting light and the garbled words of a million madmen. It seethed in the whisper stones, swirling around the length of the tower like caged electricity that must soon earth or else burn away the fool who has summoned it into being.

  Evander Gregoras swayed on the point of exhaustion, his body wasted and his flesh drained of life and vitality. He had not eaten or slept in days, the obsession to unlock the truth of what had come to this tower driving him to that liminal space between devotion and madness. A lifetime’s worth of text in touch-script filled the air, a static explosion in a library held aloft in the aetheric energy that engulfed the chamber.