Part 23

The Nine gathered.

They had once before, when I had called them each to me, but this was the first time they were united in purpose. Mordred did not come only for the offering of blood and skulls. Jakera did not only seek the wicked, flesh for her glass to carve. Veros knew this power was not gathered for his sake. Laena came in her own flesh, not that of another, and for once knew this was not about her. Pael joined us, his isolation broken willingly only due to his devotion. Kaeliss followed with her best approximation of humility, having never experienced it before. Boestro obeyed the summons in silence. Narissa lost her customary, petulant smile, her lips pressed in a grim line.

They came, each of them only because I had called, not because they hoped to gain something.

Katherine, the Ninth of Nine, I awaited them at the central bonfire. I stood at the podium reserved for priests, one at which I’d stood many times before. Now though, the Aquila, the two headed eagle of the Amorok faith, was scratched over with an eight pointed star. The deep lines of the Eye of Chaos were filled with my own blood.

I looked down upon them, the priest tied to a post between us, planted amidst the piles of charred wood. “Friends, welcome.” I cried, ensuring my voice would carry. All the village would soon gather and bear witness, for this was a day of triumph. “I’ve called you to witness a great ritual, the first we shall perform upon Latigia IV, and the last. For this day I will bring rebirth to this world claimed by the Amorok. I will bring a powerful new ally to us, and together we will restore the name this world once bore. The true name of our planet, and our people.”

The first of the curious, bleary eyed, began to emerge from their tents. I smiled in anticipation. There was much to be learned tonight, especially by those who doubted my earlier words. They would see the truth tonight whether they believed it or not. “Come! All who would witness the manifestation of Shii, come to me. A creature of the Immaterium will grace us with her presence. There is no higher blessing save having it share your flesh.”

My eyes turned to the struggling priest, panic in those orbs as he began to understand his chosen fate. A flicker of guilt churned my stomach, but I hardened it to iron. This man had tried to murder me. It was only fair I repay the favor. “Nine, bring me your blood, and we may begin.” I held my arms before me. Patient, beckoning.

One by one, the Nine cut a line across their palms. Some were hesitant, some willing, others disturbingly eager. But all bled themselves, and one at a time, placed their bloody hands into my outstretched palms. With each touch I felt the buzz of power build, for they were all chosen by the gods of Chaos, as was I. The sky overhead blurred to the color of oil, a slow and gradual shift, so subtle that none but I noticed it until the blood of all Nine stained my hands. And then, my own eyes blazed the same color.

Words poured from my throat, ones that I did not realize I knew. Harsh, guttural barks. Sweet, soothing whispers. Knowing but accusing whispers. Bloated but welcoming tones. Voices that did not belong to me spoke with my lips, sometimes several at once. Ecstasy, bliss, joy, rage, pain, agony, comfort, welcome, betrayal, knowledge, hunger, thirst, lust, they coursed through me in an endless tide, and my back arched with the potency of emotions I’d only ever glimpsed before.

Finally, a word I knew the meaning of burst from my throat, guttural and harsh.

“Khorskein!”

A red fleshed creature prowled from the shadows, the gathered tribe recoiling wisely from it with gasps and cries of panic. Reverse jointed legs tipped with black claws, crimson flesh pebbled with scales, a ridge of black hair along its spine. But it was the head and blade which drew the most attention. The skull was elongated, crowned by twisted horns. Eyes burned with bronze light, the weapon carried in hand the same color, a cruel blade as long as the creature was tall. It walked to our offering, lifted the blade, and with surprising delicacy, carved blocky runes into the flesh of the priest.

He screamed, and it became clear the blade burned furnace hot, the cuts cauterized as soon as they were made. It took several agonizing minutes of this for the Bloodletter to finish its work, my own body arcing with every sensation the sacrifice felt.

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It would not just be the priest paying for this blessing.

At last, the Bloodletter withdrew. Agony faded from my body, and the flood of sensations returned, though pain remained the uppermost. Leaning against the podium, I breathed the next word, the next name, my voice welcoming and friendly, if thick with phlegm.

“Burxaust.”

A reek filled the air, a shuffling, bloated thing of pallid flesh and grotesque bloating stepping from the darkness. Flesh bulged, tore in places, intestines and organs glistening in the open air. Those nearest it began to cough, to retch, but it paid them no mind. The single, jaundiced eye bore into our sacrifice, pupilless. A horn speared up from the forehead, a ragged sword of bone clenched in one hand. It walked up, dipping a hand into the putrid, black blood that coursed from one of its many wounds, and it began to paint.

Circles and arrows. Every symbol it wrote had three of each, and yet somehow each was unique. The priest writhed in disgust, in horror, knowing that the putrescence of this being was leaking into his veins. But there was no escaping this. There never had been.

Finally the Plaguebearer arrived at his face, drawing three circles there aligned as a pyramid. From between each an arrow thrust outward. Only once this symbol was complete did it turn ponderously, stumbling off into the dark as abruptly as it arrived.

The stomach churning revulsion that had overcome me, my insides emptied upon the altar, finally left as the reek faded. The lingering, violating touch of those sickened fingers remained, ghostlike on my skin, just like the burning runes. The blur of sensation was dominated by agony and disgust, but the others returned in the background, and a third name burst from my tongue in an insane, knowing, but paranoid whisper.

“Hzzorlaa.”

A many limbed ball of pink flesh tumbled into the square, illuminated by the light overhead, and by the many torches surrounding the clearing. Two legs? Four arms? Or more? Were those merely tendrils upon its head, or more limbs? It was impossible to tell, so quick and capricious were its movements. Long, grasping fingers trailed across the surface of the bound priest, the Horror dancing around it unceasingly. Only the gaping mouth, occupying the entire torso, was possible to focus on.

Everywhere the horror touched, the flesh of the priest began to writhe. It shifted and slithered, and the sensation of my own body rebelling against me filled my mind. Each place it touched, another rune resembling written flame burst into existence. Were it not for the insane capering, it would have finished in moments, but the process was drawn out into several minutes, as the others had been. Eventually though, it was finished.

The horrific writhing of flesh ceased as the pink monstrosity danced away, fading into the darkness. I knew then that if these were the servants of the other gods, I would always hold a special place in my heart for Slaanesh. However I hungered for knowledge, for the cathartic release of violence, or for a place to belong, the call of joy, love, and pleasure would always sound the loudest.

With that in mind, I rose one last time, my breath coming in gasps, energy draining from me as the ritual progressed. Oil burned in my hands and eyes. Then, a delighted and sultry whisper slipping past my pursed lips, I called to her. I’d dreamed often of Shiss since last we met, and the knowledge that she’d soon be back was delightful.

“Shiss.”

She sashayed from the darkness, her eyes glowing a faint purple. All eyes went to her, and for once the gasps weren’t of horror or revulsion. They were of delight. The air was heavy, thicker than it was moments before. I felt delightfully woozy, just a bit of a haze folding over my mind. Her feet a caress upon the ground, Shiss slid up to the priest.

There was little ritual about it this time. Purple mist drifted around her, slid over the skin of the priest, who swayed as a drunk would. Sigils appeared all over him where the mist touched, slender and curving symbols burning violet. She slid her claw over his cheek. Haraldo, that was his name. It came to me moments before he died.

Her other claw plunged into his stomach, and sawed its way through his sternum.

He screamed. Oh, Haraldo screamed. It shook the very heavens with his agony, while my own cry was soundless. But the agony that pierced my stomach, as it did Haraldo’s it was quickly replaced with bliss.

Shiss turned molten, an amorphous cloud, or possibly puddle, and the violet mass slid up her arm, then up her claw and into the open wound, her body dissolving behind the progress of this until all of her had vanished into the already dead priest.

It was like nothing I had ever felt. Or seen.

And abruptly the connection was gone, the ritual complete. And I no longer looked upon Shiss. I knew this for all the whispers of the Warp, they had stopped their formless muttering. Now they all chanted one name, over, and over.

Shiss’kill.

Shiss’kill.

Shiss’kill.