‘Come out, come out wherever you are,’ shouted a Wyldern in a singsong voice.
Snowdog heard the snap of more ammunition being loaded and nodded to Tigerlily. Like a coiled spring, the young redhead rose and hurled a throwing knife with unerring accuracy. The thin blade plunged into the eye of the nearest Wyldern and he crumpled wordlessly.
Tigerlily ducked back as gunfire blasted sparking chunks from the metal table she sheltered behind. Her black catsuit had been torn by a spinning shard of the table and Snowdog could see she was really mad now. As soon as the Wylderns were distracted, Snowdog rose from behind the bar and yelled, ‘You picked the wrong bar to patronise, boys!’
He put another Wyldern down with his first shot and winged a second before they reacted and sprayed the bar with fire. Snowdog leapt aside, hundreds of bullets turning the bar to matchwood as he rolled.
Silver burst from hiding, a pistol in each hand. Her long, white hair was pulled in a severe ponytail and her ice-blue eyes were cold and unforgiving. She calmly double tapped another two Wylderns before spinning back behind the pillar, her long black coat billowing around her.
‘And then there were two,’ he muttered, seeing the sudden fear and confusion of the remaining two Wylderns. He stood and walked from behind the bar, sauntering into the middle of the blood-soaked killing ground. Bodies littered the place and it reeked of gunsmoke.
‘Didn’t expect this kinda welcome, did you?’ asked Snowdog. ‘We’re the Nightcrawlers, and you interrupted our business here.’
‘We’ll kill you all!’ shrieked one of the Wylderns, but there was no conviction in his voice.
‘I don’t think so, man,’ said Snowdog, catching sight of Jonny Stomp and Lex on the upper balcony of the Flesh Bar, circling behind the Wylderns. He shook his head. Where else would (Jonny and Lex be but with the girls and sex drugs, sampling the wares before doing the job?
‘What do you say to you guys putting your guns away and letting us get on with this, huh?’ said Snowdog.
He could see their hesitation and knew he had to appeal to their sense of self-preservation before their stupidity or bravado could resurface. He said, ‘Look, no one else has to die here, okay?’
His voice was soothing and he slowly lowered his shotgun, taking in their high-priced clothing and coloured hair. Their faces were pierced with metal spikes and their full features spoke of healthy eating. Expensive looking electoos writhed up their arms and around their necks, throbbing in time with their racing heartbeats. These were rich kids on some narcotic high: he could see it in their eyes.
And suddenly it all made sense. They were thrill killers. Rich kids who killed because they were bored and because they could. But now that the tables had turned, the killing frenzy had gone out of them.
He continued to slowly walk towards the Wylderns and set his shotgun down on the bar. ‘You just want out of here in one piece.’
The Wylderns nodded and Snowdog spread his arms.
‘I can understand that,’ he said, ‘but it ain’t going to happen.’
His eyes darted up towards the balcony.
‘Now, Jonny,’ said Snowdog mildly.
The Wylderns registered puzzlement for the briefest second before all one hundred kilogrammes of Jonny Stomp landed on them, smashing them to the ground. Jonny swiftly rose to his feet and dragged the first Wyldern to his feet, snapping his neck with a dry crack and rounding on the other as he tried to scramble away.
‘No, please!’ he begged. ‘My family’s rich, they’ll give you any—’
‘Not interested,’ said Jonny and thundered his fist into the young Wyldern’s face.
Blood and teeth flew as Jonny beat the young man to death with his bare hands.
Snowdog turned and lifted his shotgun from the bar, resting its barrel on his shoulder. He took a deep breath now that the fight was over, running a hand through his bleached and spiked hair as he leaned on the splintered bar. Flickering neon bathed his rugged features in an unhealthy glow and glass tinkled as it fell from shattered frames.
He rapped his knuckles on the bar. The dazed barman rose to his feet, hands clasped on top of his bloody head.
‘Okay, man. Now where were we before all this unpleasantness?’ said Snowdog.
He grinned ferally. ‘Oh yeah, now I remember. This is a raid, hand over all your money.’
‘GOOD TAKINGS?’ ASKED Lex, eyeing the pile of cash on the upturned crate.
Snowdog eyed Lex suspiciously. ‘Good enough, Lex.’
He pushed the money back into his small backpack and rose to his feet, flipping open a carton of bac-sticks and dragging one out. He pulled a brass lighter from his pocket and lit the aromatic stick, drawing in a lungful of smoke. He lifted the backpack by the straps and dumped it on his iron bed-frame.
Snowdog sat on the bed and watched as Lex shrugged and sloped off to join Jonny Stomp in the front room of their current hideout. Night had well and truly fallen and the glittering lights of the valley sides shone in through the holed roof and windowless frames. There was a sharp chill and Snowdog could feel a harsh winter coming on the air.
Lex was a problem. Snowdog knew it would only be a matter of time before Lex got himself killed. Normally, Snowdog would have cut him loose and moved on, but no one knew explosives like Lex. The things he could cook up with everyday items were beyond belief and many of the Bronzes had cause to regret an over-eager pursuit of the Nightcrawlers when they’d run into one of Lex’s booby traps.
Lex didn’t say much about where he came from, but Snowdog had seen a cog-toothed tattoo on his upper arm and guessed he’d once been apprenticed to the tech-guilds that worked the factory hangars and forge temples further down the valley. He’d come to them nearly six months ago and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why he’d been kicked out of the guild. Lex was an addict, probably had been for years, permanently strung out on kalma or spur and was too dumb to realise that routine chem-screens would pick them up.
He banished Lex from his thoughts and rested a hand on the score from the bar. There was enough here to pay for some real big guns, then they could really carve themselves some turf. And he knew just the guy to get those weapons from.
Yeah, it had been a good heist, but the Wylderns had stolen the show and that bugged him. How was he supposed to build the Nightcrawlers into the most feared and respected gang in the Stank with practically no one left alive to spread the word? Perhaps they should have let the last Wyldern live, but Snowdog quickly dismissed that thought. Trying to stop Jonny Stomp from killing someone when his blood was up wasn’t a healthy option if you wanted to stay alive yourself. The big man was a stone-cold killer, pure and simple, but he was useful and trusted Snowdog utterly.
Which just went to show that Jonny wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but Snowdog would take what muscle he could get. He took a last draw on the bac-stick then dropped it on the floor, crashing it out beneath his boot. He stretched and lay down on the bed.
Snowdog was of average height, but was blessed with a wiry musculature that belied his whipcord-thin body. He wore tiger-striped combat fatigues, tucked into a heavy pair of boots he’d pulled from a dead Bronze and a white t-shirt with a faded holo patch of a mushroom cloud that expanded and contracted as he moved.
The score at the Flesh Bar would keep the wolves from the door, but he’d need to think of another pretty soon if he was to keep his crew together. They would follow him for as long as they thought he was good news. But he needed a regular gig that would keep the cash flowing with the minimum amount of effort.
He looked up as he heard a tap on the doorframe and smiled as Silver strolled up to the edge of his bed and sat beside him.
‘Some day, huh?’ she said.
‘Some day,’ agreed Snowdog. ‘Where’s Tigerlily?’
‘She went off to a pound club with Trask,’ answered Silver sleepily. ‘Kominsky’s, I think.’
‘Maybe I’m getting old, but this pound music is something
I just don’t understand. Loud music I get, but it’s like a sonic assault on the senses.’
‘A lot of people like it,’ pointed out Silver. ‘Hell, even I don’t mind it.’
‘So why didn’t you go with her?’
‘I couldn’t be bothered with Trask. You know what he’s like with stimms.’
‘Tigerlily obviously doesn’t mind.’
‘That’s cause she’s too young and dumb to realise what a loser he is.’
‘You’re cynical tonight.’
Silver smiled and Snowdog felt himself loosen up as she bent down to kiss him.
‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘And besides, what can Trask do for me that I can’t get better from you?’
Snowdog chuckled, remembering the last time Trask had gotten overly amorous towards Silver after a heavy night on the stimms. The poor bastard hadn’t walked straight for a week afterwards. He decided to change the subject. ‘How’re the rest of the troops?’
Silver shrugged, ‘Okay, I guess. Lex is getting antsy and Jonny wants to head out to bust some heads. He keeps talking about taking on the High Hive gangs.’
Snowdog chuckled. They’re gonna find Jonny face down in the sump if he thinks he can take on the High Hive gangs. ‘Tell him he’d better stick to busting up Jackboy parties if he knows what’s good for him. We ain’t ready for that kind of action yet.’
Silver yawned and slid off her long coat, pulling her albino-white hair free of its ponytail and allowing it to spill around her shoulders. She climbed over Snowdog to lie with her back to the wall, laying her arm across his waist and resting her head on his chest. Snowdog kissed her forehead and put his arm around her shoulders.
‘Did you notice that there weren’t any citizens’ militia units around the Flesh Bar?’ asked Silver, pushing her hand beneath his t-shirt and running her fingers through the hair on his stomach.
‘Yeah, I did. That was kinda weird, wasn’t it?’
‘I wonder where they were? Normally you can’t move in the upper valley without seeing at least a few of them.’
Snowdog nodded slowly. ‘I don’t know, but now you mention it, the whole city has been pretty wired recently, on edge. I seen a lot of Bronzes, but it’s been pretty quiet in the way of soldiers. I wonder why? And those Wylderns. Normally they’d never dare hit a bar that close to the High Hive.’
‘What do you think is going on?’
‘Damned if I know, hon, but if it keeps the militia and the Bronzes off our backs, then I’m all for it.’
Snowdog could not have been more wrong.
THREE
URIEL WATCHED THE landscape speed past the Thunderhawk, circling round white-capped mountains of soaring majesty. A hard winter was coming to this part of the world and the beauty below was breathtaking. Frozen mountaintop lakes glittered in the thin light and the rugged splendour reminded him wistfully of the landscape surrounding the Fortress of Hera.
The Thunderhawk banked, following the line of the mountains, and Uriel caught a glimpse of the black gunships of the Mortifactors as they turned in formation with those of the Ultramarines. His expression turned sour as the memory and taste of Lord Magyar’s blood surged strong and vivid through his senses.
The Chapter Master of the Mortifactors had laughed, calling him brother, and slapped his palms on Uriel’s shoulder guards, leaving bloody handprints. How any Chapter descended from the blessed Roboute Guilliman could have fallen so far from his vision of a sacred band of warriors was utterly beyond him. He also had the feeling that it had been his drinking of Magyar’s blood that had convinced the Chapter Master to send his warriors rather than any bond of shared brotherhood. How could such a Chapter operate, let alone thrive, without recourse to the Codex Astartes?
Upon returning to the Vae Victus, Uriel had immersed himself in prayer and rituals of cleansing, but the lingering vision that ripped through his mind could not be purged. He could not deny the feeling of power he had experienced drinking the blood and he knew that part of him, Emperor forgive him, longed for that power again.
In the month it had taken them to return to the Tarsis Ultra system, there had been precious little contact with the Mortifactors, a situation the Ultramarines were more than happy with. It had been a shock to everyone to know that a Chapter founded from their honourable legacy had changed so much.
They would fight alongside the Mortifactors, but Uriel knew there would be no renewal of brotherhood and no pledges of loyalty sworn anew between the Chapters.
They would face the common threat and that would be the end of it.
He realised he was clenching his fists and slowly released a deep breath.
The Thunderhawk began descending as they cleared the mountains and Uriel tried to shake his angry thoughts, returning his gaze to the world below.
They flew over ordered farming collectives, their sprawling fields a striking green amid the patchy white frosts of oncoming winter. Gleaming train tracks and hydroways snaked across the landscape, efficiently connecting the scattered communities and, every now and then, Uriel caught a glimpse of a silvered land train speeding between them.
The view was eerily reminiscent of the surface of lax, sometimes called the Garden of Ultramar, one of the most productive worlds of the Imperium. Uriel briefly wondered if the inhabitants had also built their own version of Iax’s fortress city of First Landing.
So far as he could tell from the air, Tarsis Ultra looked to be a model world that would not have been out of place in Ultramar itself. But Uriel knew it had not always been this way.
Ten thousand years ago, it had been enslaved by the lies of heretics for decades, before its liberation by Roboute Guilliman and the Ultramarines during the Great Crusade. Its grateful populace had incorporated their liberators into their world’s name, that they might always remember and honour them. When the Ultramarines Legion moved on to fresh campaigns, Roboute Guilliman left the foundations of an ordered world, established on ideals of justice, honour and discipline, instead of the blasted wastelands many of his brother primarchs’ victories left. Guilliman left teachers, artisans and people skilled in the ways of engineering and architecture to help with the rebuilding of Tarsis Ultra.
Its civilization was remade in the image of Ultramar, its society ordered and just, its people content and productive. Once more, Tarsis Ultra became a functioning world of the Emperor. Its output was prodigious, but unlike many other industrial worlds, whose unthinking plundering of their natural resources led to them becoming polluted, toxic deserts, sustainability and a careful husbanding of resources assured that Tarsis Ultra remained a verdant and pleasant world.
After the grim revelations regarding the Mortifactors, Uriel was looking forward to setting foot on a world touched by the primarch. What he had seen on the Basilica Mortis had shaken him to the core, and it would do him good to see a physical reminder of Roboute Guilliman’s legacy.
And what he had seen thus far of Tarsis Ultra and its defences had impressed him greatly. Hulking star forts hung in geo-stationary orbit above the primary continental mass and already a sizeable fleet had been assembled in the months since their warning of the approaching tyranids had been given.
The Argus, a Victory class battlecruiser, and veteran of the First Tyrannic War, headed a detachment of fearsome vessels of war, including the Sword of Retribution, an Overlord battleship, three Dauntless cruisers and a host of escort ships. Flotillas of planetary skiffs, laden with the men and women of the Imperial Guard, were constantly shuttling back and forth from the planet’s surface and four vast transport ships hanging in orbit. Within days, the entirety of two vast regiments, the 10th Logres and the 933rd Death Korp of Kreig, would be deployed to Tarsis Ultra.
More ships were being diverted to the system by segmentum command at Bakka and fresh regiments raised from nearby systems and sub-sectors, but they would not arrive for several months. For now they were on their own.
Lord Admiral Tiberius was even now planning the strategy
for the combined naval forces with Captain Gaiseric of the Mortifactors strike cruiser Mortis Probati, and the commander of the fleet, Admiral de Corte, a student of Lord Admiral Zaccarius Rath himself.
‘Two minutes,’ came the pilot’s voice over the speakers.
Uriel shook himself from his reverie and watched as Learchus paced the length of the Thunderhawk, his normally stoic features alive with anticipation. It seemed as though Learchus was more anxious than anyone to set foot on Tarsis Ultra.
Pasanius sat opposite Uriel, looking relaxed and unconcerned that they were about to see a world touched by their primarch. His heavy flamer was stowed above him and he nodded to Uriel as the Thunderhawk came about for its final approach.
‘This should be interesting,’ he said.
‘Interesting?’ laughed Learchus. ‘It will be wonderful. To see the handiwork of the blessed Guilliman halfway across the galaxy is proof that our way of life is the way forward for humanity.’
‘It is?’ asked Pasanius.
‘Of course,’ said Learchus, surprised that Pasanius had even queried his statement. ‘If the way of life we have followed for millennia thrives here, it can thrive elsewhere.’
‘Is it thriving here?’
‘Obviously.’
‘How do you know? You haven’t seen it yet.’
‘I don’t need to see it, I have faith in the primarch.’
Uriel let his sergeants argue the finer points of Guilliman’s vision as he caught his first glimpse of Erebus city, a dark scar on the snow-covered flank of a vast mountain filled with silver towers. A huge reservoir glittered on the adjacent plateau, high above the kilometres-wide valley mouth, its rocky slopes crowned with white marble buildings and elegant, columned structures. A wide, statue-lined road rose through the centre of the valley, towards the first of the city’s defensive walls, throngs of buildings crowding in on all sides. The interior of the city was a glittering spiderweb of silver and white.
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