Ahriman: Hand of Dust by John French Page A

father, the word which followed me as I had fallen through the warp. Seconds had become years and years seconds. I had passed through fire, light and ice so bright it was blinding. All the while the last word spoken to me by my father had followed me, and with it the fact that the Rubric had failed – that I had failed.
    Pride – last of sins – it finds us in the end. Always.
    I reached for more water and saw the figures watching me. I should have sensed them approaching, should have heard their thoughts and read the paths of their next moments before they reached me. But I did not. My mind was a dull stone in my skull.
    There were five of them. Their armour was the ochre of dried bone. Their weapons glinted in the light of the Eye above. I stared at them, my hand halfway to my mouth, the water draining between my fingers. They looked at me for a long moment, and then one spoke in a voice like gristle cracking between teeth.
    ‘Who are you, who comes to our realm?’
    Who am I? I thought.
    I am Ahriman , came a thought that sounded like a distant shout fading into the distance.
    Banishment . The word rang clear and fresh through my mind. I looked down at my hand. The water had drained away.
    I am failure, I thought . I am the sinner chained to life for his hubris while all he valued became dust.
    I looked up.
    ‘I am Horkos,’ I said.
    The memory fades. The sun is setting in a final glimmer of red fire.
    I am still banished, I am still an exile, but I am no longer broken by the burden of the past.
    I see fading light. The last rays of the red sun catch the motes of dust as they spread through the air. I see the future in their dust dance. Possibilities and unborn fates spin before my eyes, each one a universe that shall live, or shall remain unborn. I see worlds burn, and ashes become the beds of the children of humanity. I see all that was, and I see how it may end. I see hope. We will rise again. Salvation will come, even if it takes ten thousand years.
    The sun has set, and this dead land of ashes and dust is an ocean of black velvet beneath my feet. I let my hand fall, and watch with my mind as the last of the scattered dust settles with the night. I turn. Behind me a sea of eyes glow bright in armoured faces. They wait, silent, watching.
    ‘Come, my brothers,’ I say. ‘It is time’

About the Author
    About the Author
    John French is a writer and freelance games designer from Nottingham. His work for Black Library includes a number of short stories, the novellas Fateweaver and The Crimson Fist and the novel Ahriman: Exile . He also works on the Warhammer 40,000 role playing games. When he is not thinking of ways that dark and corrupting beings can destroy reality and space, John enjoys making it so with his own Traitor Legions on the gaming table.