Emp-rah’s Eye

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  Emp-rah’s Eye – Guy Haley

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  A Black Library Publication

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  Emp-Rah’s Eye

  Guy Haley

  Flames leapt up from the half-barrel hearth and made the pictures dance. Simple things sketched in paints of pounded oxide, crushed fungi and dribble-down by-products. In the light of the fire, they moved with a sacred, secret grace.

  Daubings of Mother Rat twitched on flaking steel next to the Old Builders. The High Lord of the Spire gave silent judgement from his palace up by the world cave ceiling. Over them all was Emp-rah, the protector, depicted as a single staring eye. The figures were gods of the true people, as the ratskins called themselves.

  In front of the fire, close to the gods, was a man so old that even in the heat of the deep down underhive he was swaddled in a blanket woven with the patterns of fungus, rat, cogs, spin handle and other natural things. At his side sat a young girl holding a bowl of beaten metal, deep with potent medicines. She cared for him. Age clawed at his bones and his innards. The klaxons of his life ran out. He was not long from entering the Dark Cave whence no man came again.

  His name was Two Tails, and he was the story singer.

  Two Tails’ leathery skin was broken by a net of shadow. When the grub-oil lamps were lit, he was hideous, with deep wrinkles in his flesh like rumpled uphive cloth. At his throat his skin hung loose. He was bald, the brown of his scalp mottled with shiny pink blotches. What little hair he had was fine as a newborn’s and as dry as a corpse’s. His eyes were white and sightless. But he was far from helpless. They said he could hear and smell as sharply as a great duct rat, and that though his limbs were wasted thin as rebar, they were perhaps as strong.

  He was old. Old! No one lived to so great a tally of years, not ever, but he had. He was at least forty, maybe even – an impossibility to be whispered – fifty years old.

  Five others were in the telling cave. Five braves from the clan of the Five Eyes judged worthy of the journey. Five braves for Five Eyes, that was the custom. They were young but storied already in their deeds, their wrists and necks adorned with honour jewels of rat teeth, glass fragments and threaded metal nuts.

  As was the way of their kind they were totally silent, their sinewy bodies poised ready to move at the slightest threat. Yet for once their attention was not diffused through the structure of the caverns about them, rat-whisker twitching for peril, but focused, tight as a lasbeam, on the ancient man.

  ‘Listen,’ Two Tails said to the braves, ‘and I shall say you a story, a true tale of courage and of cunning.’ He whispered the telling, his voice a deathly croak from the Dark Cave itself, but his words… Well, his words were as sharp as plasteel ground to a killing edge. ‘Listen, and take in my wisdom. It may save your lives, in the trial to come.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘before the story, another story. Once, there was a story singer. Older even than I am now. Tuk-mar of the Shining Steel, he was called. Your grandfathers heard him sing his stories when they were babes at their mothers’ breasts. As boys your great-grandfathers heard his tales. You sit where they sat. You hear this tale from my mouth. So Tuk-mar lives, by blood’s continuation and by story, though he died thirty-five years ago. This is our way.’

  Thirty-five years! Two Tails paused to let the vast span of time sink into the minds of the braves.

  ‘Many thousands of times did the moaning voice of the uphive wail the passing of time through Tuk-mar’s life, and many thousands more has it done so since. This is an old story, a story of power. Listen now for the secrets I shall share. You will not repeat them to others of the clan, for four of you will die, and the last, the one who returns, shall take my place here, and not say these words until his time comes, and the Dark Cave yawns its welcome to you as it yawns now at me.’

  He coughed. One, two gentle huffs that turned into a throaty barking, then to gurgles and gasps for air. The girl offered up the bowl to his lips. Between corpse-breath exhalations he sipped the liquid from the bowl’s rim. The coughing subsided. He shuddered. When he continued, his voice was phlegmy.

  ‘Like me, Tuk-mar knew he was to die. Five braves like you were chosen from the clan, the best, the bravest, the most favoured by Mother Rat. They came to the telling cave, this cave, and were set before the story singer like you are now. They had names, like you do, and dreams and passions and rivalries. These things will soon be gone forever. Stories catch the truest things, but none can keep the wholeness of a brave’s soul, only a shadow on the wall.’ He gestured back at the dancing gods. ‘Their names were IkIk, who was brave, but sometime rash, and occasionally stupid. He was other things as well, but they are already lost from his shadow dance. None but I remember his passion for Ma-an, or his skill at teasing grubs from the chem-soil. And so it was with the rest. Kuma, quick but weak. An-so-ri, whose anger made him dangerous. Tu-or, who it was said was too kind for this world but whose heart hid dark desires from other men. And last of all Kopa, who never won at anything and thought he was going to follow Tuk-mar into the Dark Cave, the cave of death, as soon as his name was chosen for the trial.’

  Two Tails’ head swung across the small audience as if he could see their rapt expressions. One or two of the braves glanced sidelong at his fellows, wondering who would die and who would live. Two Tails tutted when he heard them move.

  ‘It is the story singer’s task to ensure the tales are kept, and sung correctly down the ladders of time. That as the klaxons wail, and the hours burn, the tales are sung and remembered. This is our history, and our soul.’ He drew in a deep rattling breath. No other followed for so long that the braves leaned forward, then he wheezed out and grunted.

  ‘When a story singer comes close to the Dark Cave, then news must be taken up, up and up!’ He pointed emphatically at the low ceiling, where crushed machine parts were fossilised in the ashrock. ‘Up there, to where Emp-rah looks down with His holy light. Emp-rah the protector!

  ‘There are many caverns in existence. Not just the thousands around us, or the ones in the spire. Beyond the spire, there is the world cavern. The world cavern contains many other spires which stud its floor like ferromites. Each spire has its own caverns, and its own true people. The world cavern is so huge you cannot see the ceiling. It is hidden by the rush of mist like one finds over chem-falls. From the top of the ceiling, the holy light of Emp-rah’s eye burns. The eye that knows all, and sees all.’ He shifted, rheumatic fingers tapped at the dusty floor. ‘But that is not the end of it. Our world cavern is only one world cavern in the greatest spire of them all, that of Emp-rah, called the great Spire of Terror! There are so many world caverns in the Emp-rah’s terror spire, hundreds, thousands, millions, each with their own spires and their own caves, on and on forever.’

  He let the notion sink in and listened for signs of fear, like the blind hunting centipede listens for weak prey movements in the dark to call it to strike.

  ‘We worship Great Mother Rat, for her children dwell near us and she is bounteous in her multiplicity of pups. Next to her love, Emp-rah seems distant. That is not His fault. It is not His business to watch every brave. His is the gravest of tasks. He protects every cave, no matter how big or how small. By the holy light of His sacred eye, He guides travellers from cave to cave across the dark spaces between. Without His eye, there would be only darkness forever, and everywhere. Think! Mother Rat gives us life, and food, and these are good things from a good god. Emp-rah is much more than this. He is the guardian of everything. He must be respected.’

  Again Two Tails paused, listening for signs of unworthiness, stuttering hearts, sh
arp breaths, half-uttered words. There were none. He smiled.

  ‘So, this is what IkIk, Kopa and the rest had to do, what you must do. They climbed up! Far away from our hunting grounds, uphive, yes, but further than that, through the lands of the cursed downcomers, and the fringes of the machine lands where the klaxon wail is loud enough to kill a man. Up further, up near the high heavens of the spire lords and their wrathful guardians. And then, out!’

  He paused. Young hearts beat loudly in his crumpled ears.

  ‘There, at the edge of the spire, you must call out into the world cavern. You must look into the holy light of Emp-rah’s watchful eye so that He sees you, and inform Him that the Five Eyes, His children, dwell still in the caves of the caves of the caves of the great Terror Spire. IkIk, An-so-ri, Tu-or, Kuma and Kopa were given the honour of this quest. Their doom is your doom. And so, to guide you, I will tell you the story of Kopa. Because of them all, it is the best known to me.’

  Settling back more comfortably into the fire’s warmth, Two Tails began.

  ‘Kopa was small, but fast. Not so fast as Kuma, but not so weak either. He was not as brave as IkIk, nor as furious as An-so-ri. He was almost as kind as Tu-or seemed, but sheltered none of his inner wickedness. Yes, a man can be wicked as well as kind. Truth is more complex than tales.

  ‘Kopa left this cave third. Like him, you will be set on your task at intervals of one uphive wailing, according to the drawing of lots. His gear was outside this cave as yours is now – his pouch of spore bread and skin of water, his knife, his ratskin cloak, his maul, his musket, his bullet bag and his powder. One of the two braves to leave before him had kicked the others’ possessions about to slow them down, and this aggrieved Kopa.

  ‘Kopa picked up his things, cursing the time it took to set them in their proper place. For a second he considered scattering the possessions of his fellows further, but he did not, because Kopa had a good heart.

  ‘He was away quickly, scurrying into the secret ways of our people, heading for Emp-rah’s light as fast as he could.

  ‘Young braves like you wander far through duct and pipe. In his youth, Kopa was no different, squeezing through narrow crevices into dome caves few men trod. But though Kopa had explored many hidden places, it was not long before he had gone beyond the bounds of our clan, and not long after that he had passed out of the caverns of our tribe to lands where the paths were unfamiliar, and the people speak a different way, and worship other gods.

  ‘Cautiously, Kopa went from the caverns of the rat into those of spider people. At that time there was war between Mother Rat and Father Spider, so Kopa kept his gun ready and his wits about him.

  ‘The spider people live in huge open caverns, some so big the far side hides in the dark, and the curve of the ceiling can barely be seen. Kopa kept away from signs of life, and found a way through a cave dome not much frequented. He crossed it fast, treading a plain of powder drier than bone, which hid shapes that could have been anything, or could have been nothing. He was frightened by the open air over his head, as you will be too.

  ‘“If I cannot bear the sight of this cavern roof,” he said to himself, “then I shall fall dead of fear in the world cave.” Kopa, not so brave as IkIk but brave nonetheless, forced himself on.

  ‘Darkness grew around him. Strange noises filtered through the cracks in the dome. The dust hung about him, parching his throat and cracking his nostrils. He was but half the way to the far wall, and already two shift klaxons had sung from above since he had started to cross.

  ‘Too tired to go on, he slept upon a high shelf of stone, hanging wire and metal around himself to warn off spiders.

  ‘The uphive song wailed far far away, waking him. He sat up and looked about, and saw nothing stirring in the dome of dust. The place was still as the grave. He slept again.

  ‘When he woke the second time he ate a little of his bread.

  ‘There was light in the dome, strange and constant. It had no source, and that unnerved him more and more, so he ran across the dome’s dryness, coughing on the powder his feet kicked free. It painted him all over. His nose bled. Small sips were all he took of his water to rinse out his mouth, and these he spat out, fearful of the poisons in the dust of that barren place. Nothing grew. Nothing lived. He smelled death on the wind.

  ‘Eventually, thirsty beyond endurance, he reached the dome’s far side. The rush of water drew him on through an ancient portal, and he emerged into a second space, where a bright river ran.

  ‘Water gushed from a high hole in a thin but powerful fall. The boulders around the rush were worn smooth, their reinforcing metal furred orange. In a thunderous fall the water came down not far from Kopa, running as a furious stream under a slab bridge of metal plate, where it immediately plunged turbulent into a dark lake dammed by a wall of broken stone. Far off in the lake a vortex turned, where it drained slowly into the levels below.

  ‘Kopa’s waterskin was slack, his throat dry. Eagerly he rushed over the bridge, unhooked his skin, meaning to fill its belly taut again in the clean flood. He swallowed dryly, a mouthful of grit down a throat of sand. But before he plunged the skin beneath the surface, a shape caught his eye.

  ‘There was a body face down near the water’s edge, half hidden by a boulder of ashrock. Kopa leapt up and jogged to the corpse’s side. When he rolled the body over he was met with IkIk’s sightless stare, and a face poison pale.

  ‘Kopa looked at the waterfall. No chemical tang or the smell of discharge hung over it. He almost drank, almost.

  ‘Still thirsty, he left, and went on, finding a way through the fractured rock near the fall into the spaces above the lake.

  ‘Another time of rest came. He found a hidden place, he set the wires about himself again, and held his weapons while he dreamed of water.

  ‘The next day he woke with a pounding head and dry eyes, and a mouth too desiccated to swallow bread. He passed a camp in a place of metal and dead machines that had been abandoned for some time. There he found a well. The spider people had marked it, and their signs were enough like ours for him to understand the water at the bottom was clean, and he gratefully filled his skin.

  ‘In this way Kopa wandered through the lands of the spider people for many klaxon songs, not once seeing any of them.

  ‘He wasted a long time searching for a way up from the dead and quiet lands, finding one not long before despair set in. A ladder led him up many levels before its end came, closed off by a door shut tight with melted metal. He backtracked, and left at the last exit three levels below. There he wandered a cavern full of the corpses of machinery. It was vast and dusty, and smelled of machine life recently doused.

  ‘Voices reached his ears. He unslung his musket, and ventured forward.

  ‘Around a campfire were a group of men. Kopa had seen uphivers before. He had helped drive them away from ratskin lands. This group was bigger than any he had seen, and better armed. He was alone. So he hid, and he watched.

  ‘He did not understand their speech. They were wicked looking, pale but fat with good eating. They laughed with each other in the way of all satisfied hunters. At the side of their camp was a pile of ratskin cloaks and spider headdresses neatly stacked, and a jumbled heap of bags and gear. They were scalpers, hunters of the true people, evil through and through.

  ‘Kopa had to get out before his cloak was added to their trophies. As he was about to leave, a man with his back to him turned to pick up bread, and Kopa spied a familiar object about his neck. It was Kuma’s necklace. Kuma’s pride was a teardrop of glass. No one else had a jewel like that. Now this uphive man wore it. Anger filled him, and the desire for vengeance.

  ‘He slipped forward silently. Close enough that his musket would not miss, far enough to run away from murder done. He sighted carefully on the man with his dead friend’s pendant. He breathed carefully, let the gun settle into his shoulder like it wer
e a part of his body.

  ‘A single squeeze of his trigger, and the man’s life ended, splattered red and grey from the back of his skull over his shocked companions. So easy, to end a life. They snatched up their guns, and shouted wildly, some shooting blindly into the dark. It was a small revenge. Kopa could not kill them all. Before the echoes of his musket’s shot had died, Kopa had fled into the small places the uphivers never see.

  ‘After his vengeance, Kopa slept little. There were more people in the places he walked, and none of them were of the true people, but all downcomers. From a ventilation shaft he saw a battle in an abandoned place, where hairless men fought female braves to the death. In a narrow duct he scared a scavenger hunting through a pile of scrap. They backed away from one another, weapons drawn. Kopa could have killed him, but he did no violence, and nor did the other man. They left each other warily, but unharmed. Kopa was wise. He knew that death need not rule our lives.

  ‘He took a risk, that is true. Many men would have killed the scavenger on sight, and who is to say they would be wrong? The uphivers hunt us. They come down from the spires, many of them driven out by the Spire Lord for crimes against their own kind. They take our caves. They are desperate men, and not lightly should any of our kind go where they are. Kopa had to. As he went deeper up into the caves the downcomers claim, he sought to evade them, but every way seemed to bring him towards some place where they gathered together, and every time he saw them their number had grown.

  ‘Empty domes prowled by outcasts and scavengers gave way to the downcomers’ farms, where spore mould grows imprisoned on nets and not springing up free where the hive spirits decide, and Mother Rat’s children are imprisoned in cages. At first the farms were isolated, easily evaded, but with every thousand paces Kopa went, the downcomers’ shacks got closer together, then closer still, until their fields of wire and bars had no gaps between. Kopa was seen, and shot at, and chased, but few can catch a ratskin.

  ‘Soon there were cleared roads between the farms, and caravans of goods carried by enslaved men upon them. They were quite unaware of Kopa’s presence as he watched them, sometimes from a few handspans away. More farms, then places where uphivers go for the many things they do not need but covet. There were places with light kept bottled in glass, and strange music, and the reek of foolwater. Places of heat and metal where men beat steel into knives and coax life into dead machines. More and more people. People everywhere, and not the true people. Not one of them.