Chapter 32: The Serpent's Ritual
Outside the pyramid, the cultists of Tzeentch were in total chaos, being slaughtered by the "steel demons" and their mortal thralls.
Inside the pyramid, the ritual had begun.
Ninety-nine Prophets stood at the ninety-nine points of a massive, glowing circle, each holding a ritual candle. In the center stood the Great Prophet, his skin a cold, unnatural blue. As the ritual began, all ninety-nine voices joined in a single, monotonous chant, their psychic power rising.
"In the cracks of all-time, the Architect speaks,
Weaving the great web, the nine cycles' secret.
The Feathered Serpent soars, with ninety-nine lights,
Illuminating lost dreams, and the future's dark hope.
By nine seas' rage, by nine mountains' might,
The Great Plot unfolds, the Serpent gives its word.
Nine hues of change, nine potent powers,
Betwixt law and anarchy, the threads are all drawn.
Nine suns shall rise, nine suns shall set,
The grand deception, the Serpent's revelation.
Nine shifting stars, nine falling feathers,
To guide the lost soul on the path.
By ninety-nine tongues, by ninety-nine prayers,
The Master's low whisper, the Serpent's high call.
In all corners of the world, the secret of nine:
It is the Alpha, the Omega, the making, the unmaking."
As the chant reached its crescendo, the ritual broke.
Several Prophets cried out, vomiting blood. They felt their psychic power being ripped from them, siphoned away, not into the ritual, but into the Great Prophet at the center.
"Great Prophet, stop!" one shrieked. "The ritual is out of control!"
The Great Prophet did not listen. He continued the ritual, his arms raised, drinking in their stolen power.
"Great Prophet, you must—" the beaked Prophet began, before his own head exploded in a spray of gore.
The two-headed Prophet was the first to understand the treachery. His two heads spoke as one. "He... he was never summoning the Serpent! We are the sacrifice! We are the ninety-nine!"
It was too late. One by one, the Prophets collapsed, dead or dying, their life-force drained.
In the center of the circle, only the Great Prophet remained standing, thrumming with stolen energy. He raised his head, his voice booming with power, calling not to the Feathered Serpent, but to his true master.
"Aetaos'rau'keres!"
"Soul-Harvester! Lord of Change! Winged Watcher! Eye of Tzeentch! I have completed the ritual! I offer you the souls of ninety-nine powerful psykers! Grant me your power! Pull me from this flesh, let me enter the Crystal Labyrinth and serve the Architect of Fate!"
The stolen Warp-energy in the chamber coalesced, forming a vast, shimmering projection. It was a creature of the Empyrean: a colossal, blue-skinned, bird-headed Daemon with massive, feathered wings and a golden staff.
The Lord of Change, Aetaos'rau'keres, had not truly entered realspace, but his image was enough. It raised one taloned hand, its finger glowing, and tapped the Great Prophet on the forehead nine times. It opened its beak, and a blasphemous, mocking voice filled the chamber.
"Ask not from whence the night-whisper comes,
Seek not the form that lurks in the shade.
For I am Aetaos'rau'keres, the Harvester of Souls,
And you were ever just a part of my play."
A cold dread filled the Great Prophet. He had been tricked. He frantically scanned the circle of the dead and saw it—the hundredth "prophet" in the circle, the one he had assumed was just an acolyte, was gone. All that remained was an empty robe, puddled on the floor.
There had never been 99 sacrifices. There had only been 98.
He had been deceived.
The raw, stolen Warp-energy inside the Great Prophet, now without a purpose, exploded. He screamed as the 98 corpses were ripped from the ground, flying toward him, and began to fuse into his flesh. Bone snapped, and skin tore as a massive, churning ball of flesh formed, pulsing with the raw, blue-green power of Tzeentch.
A moment later, 99 screaming heads—the faces of all the dead Prophets—burst from the surface of the new Chaos Spawn, followed by a mass of writhing, iridescent tentacles.
The projection of the Lord of Change cackled. "Heh heh heh... Ninety-nine souls, offered to the Master of Change..."
With a final surge of power, a small Warp-rift tore open in the chamber, and a tide of chittering, bizarre creatures poured through—giggling, misshapen orbs of blue, yellow, and pink flesh, hopping on spindly legs.
"Go," Aetaos'rau'keres cackled. "Go and spread the word of your master."
The new, massive Chaos Spawn, followed by its horde of Tzeentchian Horrors, smashed its way out of the pyramid.
Tami, standing guard at the pyramid's entrance, had been praying for the ritual's success. She was terrified, knowing the steel demons were almost upon them.
Suddenly, she felt a tremor. The pyramid shook violently, and then, with a deafening roar, the ancient stone structure collapsed in on itself.
She was frozen in terror. What had happened? Had the ritual failed?
A massive boulder was thrown from the ruins, crushing a dozen nearby guards. From the dust and rubble, a colossal, blue-skinned thing of raw flesh and screaming faces crawled, followed by a skittering horde of smaller, multi-colored daemons.
Before Tami could even react, one of the smaller Blue Horrors leaped at her. A huge, fanged mouth on its chest snapped open, biting deep into her shoulder, while a dagger in its third hand stabbed her repeatedly in the back.
She collapsed, the world turning grey. The Blue Horror, already bored, giggled and bounded away to its next victim.
As Tami lay dying, her last sight was of the great Chaos Spawn. She saw hundreds of faces trapped in its flesh, all screaming in silent agony. And among them, she recognized the feathered, horrified face of her own tribe's Prophet.