Ahriman: The Dead Oracle Read Online Free PDF Page B

passed through me, cold, shivering with implication.
    ‘That is it? He is arming himself against… against what?’
    ‘Against everything that could try to stop him.’
    ‘And he makes me a weapon for that war.’
    ‘He neither adds nor takes away from your nature. You are as you are.’
    Menkaura began to fade as he spoke.
    ‘There should be payment.’ I called after him. ‘Those are the bindings on you, brother – an oracle’s words must be bought.’
    He shook his head as his features sunk into the blackness.
    ‘The payment has already been given,’ he said, and was gone, as though he had never been.
    I stared at the void.
    Then I found myself looking into the face of Ahriman. There was no blink, no transition, just the brightness of lights, and the sound of the Sycorax suddenly in my ears. I sat in a chair of black granite, in a chamber of tarnished bronze. My armour hung from the walls in polished components, and my staff rested in a rack of bone.
    +You dreamed deeply and long, brother,+ Ahriman sent.
    I did not reply. I was flicking my awareness through my mind and body searching for a sign of how much time had passed.
    Ahriman spoke again, this time with his true voice. ‘You have my thanks, Ctesias. I know it cost you.’
    My body felt leaden, my thoughts sluggish in my skull. Fatigue washed through me. Bright colours smudged my eyes. My tongue was a dry leaf in my mouth. Any wounds I had suffered had gone, but the shadow of the binding hung over me, pressing in through every sensation. One does not simply swallow the true name of an exalted daemon and then shrug it off. Everything – as never fails to be proved true – has a price.
    ‘You lied to me,’ I spat back at him, my anger suddenly raw and fresh. He tilted his head, the gesture half an acknowledgement, half a question.
    ‘I did what I had to, brother. As did you.’
    ‘What are you doing Ahriman? Why did we go to the Oracle? What do you intend for us now?’
    ‘ Us ?’ he said, and the thinnest hint of a smile touched his eyes. ‘I thought you were not part of anything beyond yourself.’
    I shook my head, suddenly feeling deeply tired. Ahriman nodded, and turned towards the chamber’s door.
    ‘Rest, brother,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Rest, and dream.’
    ‘I do not dream,’ I protested, but he was already gone, and the words rang hollow in the still air. ‘I do not dream,’ I said again, more quietly, shaking my head as my eyelids flickered over my sight. My mind and limbs felt heavy, as though the act of returning to consciousness had used up my full store of energy. I was draining down into blank oblivion again, the features of my new chamber sliced away as my eyes closed.
    In the black flicker of my eyelids I saw again the face of Menkaura, and heard words I was not sure had been real.
    ‘He is arming himself against… against what?’
    ‘Against everything that could try to stop him.’

About the Author
    About the Author
    John French has written several Horus Heresy stories including the novellas Tallarn: Executioner and The Crimson Fist , and the audio dramas Templar and Warmaster . He is the author of the Ahriman series, which includes the novels Ahriman: Exile and Ahriman: Sorcerer, plus the short story ‘Hand of Dust’. Additionally for the Warhammer 40,000 universe he has written the Space Marine Battles novella Fateweaver , plus a number of short stories. He lives and works in Nottingham, UK.