Текст книги "Vulkan Lives"

Автор книги: Ник Кайм

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Enter the labyrinth

‘Go forwards, ever forwards and always down. Never left. Never right.’

– from the dramatic play, Thesion and the Minatar

Ferrus was already watching me when I rose again from death. I think he was smirking, though he always smirked now with that permanent rictus grin of his.

I clenched my fists and fought down the urge to strike the apparition.

‘Amuses you, does it, brother?’ I spat. ‘To see me like this? Am I weak then? Not as weak as you. Idiot! Fulgrim played you like a twisted harp.’

I paused, and heard my own heavy breathing, the anger growing within. The abyss, red and black, throbbing with hate, pulsed at the edge of my sight.

‘No answer?’ I challenged. ‘Hard to chide without a tongue, brother!’

I stood up, unshackled for once, and advanced on the wordless spectre. If I could have, I believe that I would have wrapped my hands around his throat and choked him as I had almost done to Corax in my mind.

I sagged, gasping, fighting down the thunderous beating of my heart. Feverish sweat lathered my skin, which glistened in the flickering torchlight. Another dank chamber, another black-walled cell. Curze had many of them aboard his ship, it seemed.

‘Throne of Terra…’ I gasped, collapsing to one knee, my head bowed so I could breathe. ‘Father…’

I remembered the words, such a distant memory now. Hehad spoken them to me on Ibsen. After my Legion and I had destroyed the world, turned it into a place of death, I renamed it Caldera. It was to be another adopted world, like Nocturne, and with it the Salamanders would be reforged. That dream ended with the end of the Great Crusade and the beginning of the war.

It pains me, but I will have to leave you all when you need me the most. I’ll try to watch over you when I can.

‘I need you now, father,’ I said to the dark. ‘More than ever.’

Ferrus clicking his skeletal jaw made me look up. His hollow gaze met my own and he nodded to the shadows ahead of us where a vast, ornate gateway had begun to appear.

It was taller than the bastion leg of an Imperator Titan and twice as wide. I could not fathom why I hadn’t noticed it before.

‘Another illusion?’ I asked, calling out to the shadows I knew were listening.

The immense gate appeared to be fashioned of bronze, though I could tell by looking at it that the metal was an alloy. I saw the vague blueish tint of osmium, traces of silvery-white palladium and iridium. It was dense, and incredibly strong. The bronze was merely an aesthetic veneer, designed to make it look archaic. A blend of intricate intaglio and detailed embossing wrought upon the gate described a raft of imagery. It was a battle scene, which appeared to represent a conflict of some elder age. Warriors wielded swords and were clad in hauberks of chain, and leather jerkins. Catapults and ballistae flung crude missiles into the air. Fires raged.

But as I looked closer, I began to see the familiar, and realised what my Iron brother had done.

Three armies fought desperately in a narrow gorge, their enemies arrayed on either side, loosing arrows and charging down at them with swords and spears. On a spur of rock, a warlord carrying a serpent banner held the head of a defeated enemy aloft in triumph.

‘It’s Isstvan V, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Curze, suddenly standing alongside me, where I realised he had been all along. ‘And it is not an illusion, Vulkan. Our brother laboured long over this piece. I think it would offend him to know you thought you had conjured it in your mind.’ He almost sounded defeated.

‘What’s wrong, Konrad? You sound tired.’

He sighed, full of regret.

‘We near the end,’ he said, and gestured to the gate. ‘This is the entrance to the Iron Labyrinth. I had Perturabo make it for me. At its heart, a prize.’

Curze opened his hand and within it was projected a rotating hololith of my hammer, Dawnbringer. Surrounding it and hanging from chains were my sons. The projection was weak and grainy, but I managed to recognise Nemetor from earlier. I was ashamed to admit that the other I couldn’t identify, but I could see that both were severely injured.

Curze closed his fist, crushing the image of my stricken sons.

‘I’ve bled them thoroughly, brother. They have only days left to live.’

I saw the blackness crowding at the edge of my vision again, and heard the throbbing of my heart in my skull. I felt the heat of the abyss on my face, saw it bathe my skin in visceral red.

With sheer effort of will, I relaxed my gritted teeth.

Curze was watching me.

‘What do you see, Vulkan?’ he asked. ‘What do you see when you stray into the darkness? I would have you tell me.’ He almost sounded desperate, pleading.

‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘There is nothing. You were gone for a while this time, weren’t you?’

Curze didn’t answer, but his eyes were penetrating.

‘I remember some of it. I remember what you tried to get me to do,’ I told him. ‘Did I disappoint you, brother, by rising above your petty game? Is it lonely in the shadows? Are you in need of some company?’

‘Shut up,’ he muttered.

‘It must burn you to know I beat your moral test, I resisted the urge to kill Corvus. I don’t claim to be noble, but I know I am every-thing you are not.’

‘Liar…’ he hissed.

‘Even though you have me at your mercy, you still cannot manage to drag me down. You can’t even kill me.’

Curze looked like he was about to lash out, but reined his anger in and became disturbingly calm.

‘You’re not special,’ he said. ‘You were just convenient.’ He smiled thinly, and walked around behind me so that I couldn’t see him. ‘I have enjoyed our game, so much so that when it’s over I will go after another of my brothers. And those I cannot kill, I shall break.’

I turned to confront him, to warn him off, but Curze was already gone. He had melted away into the darkness.

The gate yawned open, silently beckoning.

‘ I will break them, Vulkan,’ Curze’s disembodied voice declared. ‘ Just as I am breaking you, piece by fragile piece. And if you’re wondering if there are any monsters in the labyrinth, I can tell you yes, but only one.’

With Curze gone, I had little choice but to enter the Iron Labyrinth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Faith

Hiding at the edge of the tunnel outflow, Dagon gave the signal to advance.

Vogel went in first, knife drawn as he closed on his prey.

The earlier battle had hit the loyalists hard and there were fewer warriors than he had expected. Pity, it would mean fewer souls to offer up to the Pantheon. Perhaps he would offer up Narek’s soul too if he got in Vogel’s way again.

There were four of them, all Salamanders, sitting together with their cloaks wrapped protectively around their bodies. One, a Techmarine judging by his armour and trappings, was talking to the others. They must be discussing tactics. Two more were laid out under a tarpaulin, and squatting next to them, also huddled in drake hide, was the human the Word Bearers were looking for.

Heavy acid-rain was fouling the auspex, but the blademaster didn’t need his scanners to tell him the four legionaries with their backs to the tunnel were soon to be dead men.

Foolish to leave the human so lightly guarded, but then Vogel knew that the loyalists had taken a hammering at the manufactorum. He doubted there were many more left. He smiled, showing two rows of pointed teeth he had filed down himself, and remembered how the Dark Apostle’s warpcraft had revealed their enemies to him. The tunnels could have led to any one of fifty or more outflows. Vogel was certain that the loyalists would not be expecting an attack so soon.

Unsheathing a second blade, he crept quietly into the open, his footfalls masked by the rain. His fellow assassins were right behind him, but Vogel didn’t need them. He was going to kill all of these weaklings by himself.

Numeon clung to the side of the cliff, beneath the cascading overflow. Glancing to the right, he saw Leodrakk with his gauntleted fingers dug into the manmade rock face. On the left was Daka’rai, also clinging on. Three of their brothers were hiding on the opposite side of the gushing falls, obscured by the water. K’gosi and three more were submerged beneath the sink itself.

Numeon was blind to whatever was happening above. All he could hear was the roar of the water as it battered against his armour. Even through his helmet respirator, the air was foul and dank.

Soon…he told himself.

It was all up to Shen’ra now. All Numeon and the others had to do was honour his sacrifice.

Vogel had a hunter’s stealth but a maniac’s urgency. The latter tended to undermine the former, which was why Narek had only wanted him in his squad when he needed killers and could trust less to subterfuge. Had he been allowed to do this with Dagon and possibly Melach, Narek would have gone about it differently. Something about the scene before him, the quiet comradely conversation, the huddled figure of the stock-still human, gave him pause. He could have given voice to it, he could have suggested caution but instead he let Dagon give the all-clear to attack. After that, Vogel had rushed out to be first.

Narek was content to let him and followed on behind with Dagon, Melach and Saarsk.

Elias was amongst the vanguard too, the rest of the Word Bearers waiting in the tunnel if needed. Narek kept the Dark Apostle behind him, irritated that Elias had insisted on joining the kill-squad. Fear of Erebus and a loss of status amongst the XVII was a compelling motivator, it seemed.

Vogel had almost reached the Techmarine when Narek received a horrible premonition. His concerns, abstract at first, became reality and his warning could not then remain unspoken.

‘Their eyes…’ he hissed urgently over the vox to Dagon.

‘ What of them?’

‘Look!’

The three Salamanders sitting and listening to the Techmarine had dead retinal lenses. Their eyes, normally burning, should have cast a faint light through them.

It meant the eyes were not the only things that were dead, and that in turn meant–

Narek stood up and shouted, ‘Vogel! No!’

Too late, the bladesman plunged his dagger into the Techmarine’s back. It was a killing stroke, punched right through the legionary’s primary heart. Vogel wrenched out the blade. It was covered in blood. He was about to slay another when the dull thudof an object hitting the wooden deck drew his eyes downwards.

Blinking red, an incendiary rolled from the Techmarine’s open gauntlet. There was a smile etched on Shen’ra’s lifeless face as he released the dead man’s trigger.

The explosion immolated Vogel, and threw the others off their feet. Fire swept across the jetty, igniting a chain of grenades dug into and around the tunnel entrance. They cooked off in seconds, releasing a secondary explosion and effectively sealing the outflow behind a tonne of debris.

Smashed back towards the entrance and then away from it as the second blast hit, Narek was on the ground, stunned but alive. He’d dragged Elias down with him as he sought to keep the Dark Apostle from harm. Hate him he might, but he still had his duty to perform. Peering through smoke and fire, the huntsman saw four legionaries emerging from the sink with bolters raised. He threw his knife, piercing the neck of one before the Salamander had a chance to fire.

Dagon had his rifle up, preparing to execute a second ambusher, when a shot whined out from a distance and struck right through the side of his head. The sniper was dead before he hit the jetty.

Bolt-rounds from the submerged legionaries ripped Melach apart, the Word Bearer with his pistol only half drawn.

Prone, almost underneath Narek, Elias fired off a burst and clipped one of the emerging legionaries, who had now drawn blades and were charging through the water. Narek suspected they were low on – or even out of – ammunition, as a concentrated fusillade would have ended the fight quickly. He wondered what the loyalists might be saving their rounds for.

Six more hauled themselves over the edge of the outflow basin. One advanced ahead of the rest. He was a Salamander, a centurion.

A quick headcount made the odds fairly even, but of the many in the tunnel only a few had got out before the blast hit and sealed in the rest. The loyalists also had a plan and the advantage of surprise.

Elias was on his feet. He fired off a snap shot that took the Salamander officer in the shoulder. He staggered but kept on coming, swinging a hefty-looking glaive.

Narek had other concerns as the two from the sink drove at him. He parried one thrust with his rapidly drawn gladius. A second attack he trapped with his forearm and then dragged the legionary in, crushing his vox-grille with a savage head-butt.

Saarsk had engaged some of the Salamanders who had clambered up over the edge of the sink. He stabbed one and shot another before the sniper ventilated his chest, and the others dragged the Word Bearer down to finish him.

He saw Elias barrelled over as the Salamander officer hurtled into him. The two grappling warriors fell hard against the jetty, which cracked under their weight. A second later and the wooden jetty split, dumping everyone on it down into the filth. It doused the fire still crackling against Narek’s armour, and he used the sudden shift in terrain to put a pistol burst point-blank into one of his opponents. Grunting, the Salamander rolled over and sank into the water.

An elbow strike in the second legionary’s throat dented his gorget and partially choked him, freeing Narek of immediate enemies. The fall had split Elias and the Salamander officer apart. They were close to the edge of the sink and a long drop into the reservoir of filth below. Ignoring the other legionaries, who had started to regroup after the Word Bearers’ fast counter-attack, Narek went straight for Elias.

‘What are you doing?’ yelled the Dark Apostle.

They were outgunned, with a sniper rifle trained on them at distance. Everyone else in the kill-squad was dead or soon to be, and all their reinforcements were trapped inside the tunnel without any excavation gear.

‘Saving our lives,’ snapped Narek as he took Elias and himself over the edge of the sink and down towards the foaming tumult below.

Numeon rushed to the edge of the sink and almost jumped.

Leodrakk stopped him, hauling the captain back by his shoulder guard.

‘We’ve lost enough already,’ he said, but leaned over and sighted down his bolter.

‘Save your rounds,’ Numeon told him, embittered. ‘They’re gone.’

Putting aside his anger, Leodrakk relented and lowered the bolter. ‘We almost had him. That bastard.’

‘He’ll want revenge for this. We’ll see him again.’

‘Did you see his arm?’ asked Leodrakk. ‘He was wounded. Recently.’

‘But not by us.’

‘Not one of his own?’

‘No,’ Numeon said, pensive, ‘something else.’

After a few seconds of watching the tide of filth still plunging from the outflow and not seeing either Word Bearer snared by the current, they stepped away from the edge.

K’gosi was alive. His breastplate was bloodstained where a Word Bearer had plunged a blade into it, but he was otherwise unharmed. He had long since depleted his reserves of promethium and flexed his left gauntlet irritably. The right he held against Shen’ra’s chest.

‘We will remember your sacrifice, brother,’ he muttered softly, kneeling next to the Techmarine whom he had rolled onto his back in repose. The splinter of jetty Shen’ra rested on was about all there was left of it; the others were still up to their armoured shins in sewage.

The Techmarine was not the only casualty. Daka’rai was also dead, on his back in the filth with a knife jutting from his neck. Ukra’bar had taken a bolt-round point blank and would not rise again. The others all carried minor injuries, and none that would amount to the wounding inflicted by their brothers’ deaths.

All present bowed their heads, before Leodrakk spoke up.

‘We cannot even burn them.’

‘No, we cannot.’ Numeon went over to the prone form of the dead human, one of the sump-catchers, and retrieved K’gosi’s cloak to give back to him. ‘So we must honour them a different way.’

In his left hand he held up the fulgurite spear. During their fight, he had wrested it from the Dark Apostle’s scabbard.

Despair turned to hope at the sight of this mundane object, though none who saw it could explain why. It crackled with power, an inner golden glow that spoke of the Emperor’s grace and his near-divinity. Stringent steps and sanctions had been taken to refute the idea of the Emperor as a god, but his power had always suggested otherwise, despite the desire to move from superstition to enlightenment. But the past months had begun to challenge that paradigm. For the universe was not the sole province of mortals, be they human or alien – it was the realm of gods, too, and most of them were malign. The Word Bearers believed in them, even courted their foot soldiers for dark favours. They had faith, but what they believed in was horrible.

As he held the spearhead aloft, Numeon knew that he had faith too: faith in the Emperor and his design for the galaxy and humanity, and faith that his primarch was still alive. The power in the fulgurite seemed to ignite that belief; it ignited it in all of them.

He lightly traced his fingers over the sigil at his waist.

‘Vulkan lives,’ he uttered simply.

Every legionary standing before him replied. First K’gosi and Ikrad.

‘Vulkan lives.’

Then G’orrn and B’tarro.

‘Vulkan lives.’

And Hur’vak and Kronor.

‘Vulkan lives.’

With every new voice, the chorus became louder, until only one remained.

Numeon looked his Pyre brother in the eye, and saw the hurt and pain he held there from when Skatar’var had been lost on Isstvan. If any had cause to doubt, it would be Leodrakk. The memory of that day and their flight to the drop-ships left a canker of regret in Numeon’s mouth, but he kept his expression neutral as he regarded Leodrakk.

His gaze moving from Numeon to the spear to the sigil and then back again, Leodrakk nodded.

‘Vulkan lives.’

Together they turned their affirmation into a battle cry, shouting at the sky in defiance and as one.

‘ Vulkan lives!’

They would hold to this belief, and use it to give their cause much-needed hope.

For the first time since they had run from Isstvan, beaten and bloody, Numeon knew what he had to do. Going back to stand at the edge of the sink, he signalled to Pergellen, with whom he knew Hriak and John Grammaticus were also waiting.

It was time to talk to the human again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Human failings

Kharaatan, during the Great Crusade

Night had fallen over Khartor City for the last time. Through a combined effort of Imperial Army, both infantry and armoured, Titans from the Legio Ignis and two Space Marine Legions, the world of Kharaatan was at last officially deemed compliant. With the warriors’ work now done, the Imperial Administration with its army of logisticians, codifiers, servitors, engineers, manufactors, taxonomers and scriveners could begin the long task of recolonising One-Five-Four Six and repatriating it in the name of the Emperor and the Imperium.

Its old name of Kharaatan, together with the names of all its cities and other important geographical locations, would change. For now simple designations would suffice, such as the signifier it had been given when the war of compliance had been authorised by the War Council. In time, new appellations would be chosen in order to help colonists better adapt and think of the world as their own, as a loyal Imperial world with loyal Imperial citizens.

Kharaatan and all its associated trappings represented rebellion and discord. By changing its names, their power was revoked and supplanted it with another’s.

Part of this transformation began with the logging and transportation of the entire population of Kharaatan. These men, women and children, be they rebels or innocents, would never see their home again. Some would go to the penal colonies, others would be sent to worlds in need of indentured workers, some would be executed. But in the end, the cultural footprint of the Kharaatan people would disappear forever.

Logistician Murbo thought on none of this as he conducted final checks before the transporters’ departure. After what had seemed like days rather than hours of painstaking cataloguing and questioning, the Departmento Munitorum, assisted by Administratum clerks in battalion-strength cohorts, had finally rounded up and divided Khartor’s population. This was the last city. It had also been one of the largest. Headache didn’t even begin to describe the wretched pounding that was alive in Murbo’s skull, so his temper was short as well as his diligence.

As he rattled by the first transport, he didn’t notice the smell. He had a gaggle of servitors and a lexmechanic in tow, but they had long since been divested of the burden of olfactory sensation, so didn’t raise any question either.

It was dark, and a cold wind was coming in across the desert. Murbo wanted to be back in his lodgings aboard ship, warm and with something warming in his belly too. He’d been saving a bottle for just this occasion.

There were over fifty transports to check, log and verify before he was done, then he had to confirm passenger designation with the pilot and input said data onto his slate, which he now had in his hand. Administratum protocol was to make visual checks also, to ensure that no one was missed. In the chaotic scramble after a successful compliance that began on a war-footing, it was not uncommon for entire swathes of population to be forgotten about.

The first tranche of ex-Khar-tans, the prisoners bound for the penal colonies, had already gone. Murbo’s job was to despatch those people who were destined to become Imperial citizens on brave new worlds. He wasn’t sure who he pitied more, but his sympathy didn’t last. Rebellion reaped its own harsh rewards when it was against the Imperium.

He panned the weak lumen-lamp around the hold, saw the dead-eyed inhabitants contemplating their new lives, and approximated a head count. All seemed fine at first, but when he got to the second transport and was about to move on to the third, he paused.

‘Did they seem a little quiet to you?’ he asked the lexmechanic.

The hunched clerk seemed perplexed by the question. ‘I suspect they are contemplating the folly of rising up against the Imperium.’

No, thought Murbo, that wasn’t it.

There was nothing that Murbo wanted more in that moment than to be done with his business and be off to his quarters for the flight up to One-Five-Four Six’s atmosphere, but the ex-Khar-tans tended to be more vocal.

Then there was the smell, which, buoyed on the desert breeze, had begun to seem more noisome.

He increased the intensity of the lamp’s glow and went back to the first transport.

‘Oh Throne…’ he gasped, shining the light into the hold again.

Frantically, Murbo ran to the next transport and did the same again. Then he went to the third, the fourth, the fifth. By the time he reached the twelfth, he was violently sick.

Still doubled over, Murbo waved off the lexmechanic who went to help him.

‘Don’t look in there,’ he warned, then asked, ‘Who’s still planetside?’

Again, the hunched little man looked confused in his drab robes.

‘Besides us?’

‘Military,’ said Murbo, wiping down his chin.

The lexmechanic checked his slate.

‘According to the Munitorum’s log, all military assets have left the surface…’ he paused, holding up a withered-looking hand as he checked further, ‘but there are still two Legion transports on the ground.’

‘Hail them,’ Murbo commanded. ‘Do it now.’

Vulkan was alone standing in the broad expanse of the Nightrunner’scargo hold. Ordinarily it would be used for the transportation of weapons, ration packs and the myriad materiel required for war. This night it accommodated the dead. Caskets lined part of the hold’s east quarter, but the numbers were mercifully light, thanks to the swift and bloodless resolution of the Khartor siege. How many lives had been used to pay for that mercy… tortured, painful endings to lives… Vulkan knew all too well.

The bloodshed had not concluded with the massacre of Khar-tann City either. The riot during the settling of the Khartor citizenry had resulted in many deaths. And though he suspected his brother’s Night Lords had been partly responsible for that, he could not absolve himself of all blame.

Seriph lay before him within her casket. It was plain, unadorned, a simple metallic tube with a cryo-engine built in to retard putrefaction and ensure that the deceased reached their place of final rest unspoiled. The medicaes had cleaned up her wounds, but the bloodstain on her robes remained. Were it not for that and the grim pallor of her skin, then Vulkan might have believed she was merely sleeping.

He wanted to tell her that he was sorry she was dead, that he wished he had heeded her during the burning of Khar-tann and acceded to her request for an interview. His story should be told, he had decided, and Seriph would be the one to do it. But not any more. A corpse could tell no stories.

He bowed his head by way of mute apology.

‘Why this one?’ a voice asked softly from the shadows.

Vulkan didn’t turn, but he raised his head.

‘What are you still doing here?’ he asked, suddenly stern.

‘I came looking for you, brother,’ said Curze, coming to stand alongside Vulkan.

‘You have found me.’

‘I sense a little choler in you.’ Curze almost sounded wounded by it. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’

Now Vulkan looked at him. His eyes were brimming with undisguised vitriol.

‘Say what it is you came to say and leave me.’

Curze sniffed, as if amused by it all.

‘You didn’t answer my question. Of all the mortals who died to make this world compliant for our Imperium, why does this one matter so much?’

Vulkan turned his gaze forwards again.

‘I preserve life. I am a protector of humanity.’

‘Of course you are, brother. But how you threw yourself in harm’s way for her. It was… inspiring.’ Curze smiled, then the smile became a grin, and unable to maintain the pretence, he began to laugh. ‘No, I’m sorry.’ He stopped laughing, grew serious. ‘I am baffledby it. Yours is a bleeding heart, Vulkan. I know how you care for these weaklings, but what made this one so special that you would mourn her passing so?’

Vulkan turned and was about to answer when the vox-bead in his ear crackled. Neither primarch was wearing his battle-helm, but they were still connected to the battle group.

As one primarch’s eyes widened, the other’s narrowed, and Vulkan knew that Curze was hearing the self-same message.

Vulkan reached out for his brother, seizing him by his gorget and dragging him close. Curze smiled and did not resist.

‘Did you do this?’ Vulkan asked. ‘ Did you do this?’ he bellowed when Curze didn’t answer straight away.

The smile thinned and became the dark line of Curze’s pale lips.

‘Yes,’ he hissed, cold eyes staring.

Vulkan let him go, thrusting him back from his sight as he turned away.

‘You killed… allof them.’

Curze feigned confusion. ‘They were our enemies, brother. They took up arms against us, tried to kill us.’

Vulkan faced him again, enraged, almost pleading, abhorred at what Curze had done.

‘Not all, Konrad. You murdered the innocent, the weak. How does that serve anything but a sadistic desire for bloodshed?’

Curze seemed genuinely to muse on that. He frowned. ‘I’m not sure it does, brother. But how is that any different to what you did to that xenos? She was only a child, no threat to you. The rebels of Kharaatan were afforded a quick death. At least I didn’t burn them alive.’

Vulkan had no answer. He had killed the child in anger, out of grief for Seriph and retribution for the damage the rampaging xenos had caused. Perhaps it was also because he hated them, the eldar, for their raiding and the pain they had inflicted on Nocturne.

Curze saw his brother’s doubt.

‘See,’ he said quietly, coming in close to whisper. ‘Our humours are similar enough, are they not, brother?’

Vulkan roared and seized the other primarch, throwing him across the hold.

Curze slid, his armour shrieking as it scored the metal deck beneath. He was already on his feet when Vulkan came at him, and succeeded in blocking a wild punch aimed at his face. He jabbed, catching Vulkan in the chest and jarring his ribs even through his armour. Vulkan grunted, pained, but grabbed Curze’s head and thrust it down into his rising knee.

Curze rocked back, bloody spittle expelled from his mouth. Vulkan tackled him around the waist, giving his brother no time to recover, and brought him down on his back. A savage punch turned Curze’s head and cut open his cheek. He was laughing through blood-rimed teeth. Vulkan hit him again, shuddering his jaw. Curze only laughed louder, but choked a little when his windpipe was being crushed. Vulkan clamped his hands, his iron-hard blacksmiter’s hands, around his brother’s throat.

‘I knew you were no different,’ Curze hissed, still trying to laugh. ‘A killer. We’re all killers, Vulkan.’

Vulkan released him. He sat back, still straddling Curze, and gasped for air, for sanity. He would have killed him if he hadn’t stopped. He would have murdered his brother.

A little unsteady still, Vulkan rose to his feet and stepped across Curze’s supine body.

‘Stay away from me,’ he warned, out of breath, and strode from the hold to where his transport was waiting.

Curze stayed down, but turned his head to watch Vulkan go, knowing it was far from over between them.

I knew I was lost. I suspected it the moment I stepped through the Iron Labyrinth’s gates. This was not a challenge I could overcome, not something I could unravel. Here was a place seemingly infinite and of Firenzian complexity, wrought by a mind equal to my own.

No, that wasn’t entirely truthful. My mind was compromised, and so the featureless corridors of brass and iron that stretched before me were beyond my intellect to navigate.

Standing at the hundredth crossroad, each avenue I had chosen on the ninety-nine before it taking me deeper into the labyrinth and yet, at the same time, farther from my goal, I wondered what Curze had promised my brother in return for this gift.