Papa Gallo, the unofficial but acknowledged leader of the group, pulled back his hood and approached the two men guarding the door. The shorter of the pair racked his shotgun and jammed it in his face.
‘We’ve come for shelter from the monsters,’ explained Papa Gallo.
‘Shelter’s not cheap,’ came the muffled reply.
Pappa Gallo laughed, turning to face the wretched people behind him. ‘Look at us. What do you think we can offer you? We don’t have anything left.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ laughed the other man, eyeing the younger women. ‘What do you say, Lomax? I bet we could come to some arrangement with these good people.’
‘Shut up, Trask,’ said the man who had spoken first. ‘That’s for Snowdog to decide.’
Pappa Gallo sighed. They might live through this winter, but if they did, they would emerge more desperate than before.
DEEP IN THE shadows of the rained habs, crouched beneath a buckled sheet of corrugated iron, a creature watched the column of refugees through multi-faceted eyes, scenting the fear and despair as coloured washes through its various senses. Its flesh rippled a silvery grey as its chameleonic scales mirrored the surfaces around it and, with a stealth surprising for such a large creature, it slipped away from its shelter.
Its reserves of fatty tissue were low and it would need to kill again to replenish them, the freezing temperatures of Tarsis Ultra almost too much for even its fearsome adaptive qualities to cope with.
Since its virtual hibernation in the grain silos of Prandium, the beast, a species known by Imperial troops as a spook or mantis stalker, but more correctly as a lictor, smoothly loped across the snow to shadow the shambling people. It leapt onto the wall of a crumbling brick building, powerful intercostal muscles lashing fleshy barbs towards the top of the wall, which retracted to pull the beast rapidly up the sheer surface.
Long scythe-like claws unsheathed from chitinous hoods on its upper arms and dug into the wall as it smoothly swung its muscled bulk onto the roof.
Worm-like tendrils surrounding its jaw scented the air, and the beast set off again, following the column of refugees from on high.
Pheromone sacs situated along the ridge of its armoured spine atomised powerful attractants that would serve to lure more tyranid creatures to this place. Thus far it had roamed the city unmolested, careful to avoid the many dangers in such a heavily populated place.
But now the overmind, for whom it had travelled far ahead, was upon this place and it could afford to throw off its stealthy mantle and kill with all the ferocity it had been bred for.
The lictor stalked to the edge of the roof, squatting on its haunches as it watched a figure detach from the column and approach a building that stank of prey.
TRASK LET LOMAX do the talking as his eyes roamed over the women, though it was hard to spot the lookers thanks to the winter clothing most were wearing. He rested his shotgun on his shoulder and wondered again how the hell Snowdog had managed to pull one over on all these people. One moment of foolish altruism had spread the word throughout the city that he was running some kind of refuge from the cold and the aliens.
It made Trask want to laugh fit to burst at the thought of how wrong people could be. Those that had been allowed to stay were paying through the nose for everything they needed: shelter, food and even basic medical supplies. Some wanted narcotics, an escape from the terror, and that was available too. Also at a price. And if someone couldn’t pay with hard currency or in valuables, then there were always other ways. A man with a comely wife or daughter could obtain things a single man could not, and amongst Snowdog’s gang, there were plenty willing to accept that currency.
Snowdog had put a stop to that because it didn’t bring any profit, which hadn’t stopped Trask of course, he’d just had to become more circumspect.
In a group this size there was sure to be some money to be made and a few fillies to pluck. As he was contemplating the prospect of fresh conquests, a blur of motion caught his eye atop the smashed ruins of the old munitions factory. He raised a hand, squinting against the glare and through the flurries of snow.
What the hell was that?
He couldn’t see anything now, but he was sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.
There! There it was again! Something dropped from the roof of the building, landing in a snowdrift with a piercing shriek. Whatever it was, it moved like quicksilver, charging into the mass of refugees before he could shout a warning. He brought his shotgun down and racked the slide as the screaming began.
Bright arcs of blood sprayed the snow and Trask caught sight of a neatly severed head fly across the street. Screams of terror echoed from the side of the valley as people scattered from the deadly killer in their midst. Trask saw a clear space form around a collection of gory rags that only superficially resembled human remains. A blurred creature pounced from the bloodbath onto the back of man carrying a swaddled infant.
The man went down in a tangle of limbs as a giant set of bony claws stabbed downwards, skewering him to the street. His death cry made Trask flinch in terror.
The thing moved fast, darting through its feast of victims and eviscerating anyone within reach of its claws.
Papa Gallo grabbed Trask’s long coat and shouted, ‘You’ve got a gun damn you, use it!’
The old man’s hands shook him from his paralysis. Trask punched the old man away and stepped onto the road. He levelled his shotgun. Screaming people streamed past, too many to stop and he let them go, figuring Snowdog could sort out this mess later.
Lomax joined him. ‘What the hell is it?’ he yelled.
‘Damned if I know,’ replied Trask as more and more people buffeted him. A knot of people trying to escape down a side street were brutally hacked down by the murderous assailant and Trask levelled his shotgun as he saw the murderer clearly for the first time. Its hide was slathered in blood and gore and whatever chameleonic properties it might once have had were now rendered moot.
It stood on two legs, nearly three metres tall, its body powerfully muscled and ridged with bony armour plates. It was bigger than any of the beasts Trask had seen so far and its upper claws were gargantuan, hooking blades that clove people in two with each swipe. Beneath those monstrous claws, muscular arms ending in fierce, taloned fists lifted shrieking victims to its fang-filled jaws.
It spun quickly, its stock of victims exhausted, moving rapidly across the icy ground towards him and Lomax.
Suddenly he was struck by the absurdity of what he was doing. Why the hell was he risking his neck for these dumb people?
He turned tail and sprinted back for the warehouse as the beast charged.
Lomax spun and shouted, ‘Where the hell—’ as Trask ran, but was cut off as something shot from between the bony plates of the creature’s chest and punched clean through his body. Lomax dropped his gun and stared in shocked disbelief at the barbs protruding from his chest before being yanked off his feet and stabbed to death by the monster’s claws.
Trask ran like he’d never run before, tossing aside his gun, arms pumping. He took the steps to the warehouse two at a time, slipping on the ice on the top step and falling face first onto the concrete.
It saved his life. Gigantic blade talons smashed through the wall of the warehouse where his head would have been. He whimpered in fear, rolling aside as the talons came at him again, striking sparks from the ground as he desperately evaded the alien’s attacks. He squeezed shut his eyes, feeling his bladder empty in naked terror.
A shotgun blast fired, deafeningly close, and he screamed. More gunshots sounded. A howling screech of pain echoed.
Something whipped by his face, a spatter of warm liquid splashed his* face and neck. He curled into a ball and waited to die.
After long seconds, he plucked up the courage to open his eyes. The creature was gone, and relief washed over him. He wiped stinking slime from his face, looking up to see Snowdog and Silver staring down at him, disgust clea
r on their faces. Wisps of smoke curled from the barrel of Snowdog’s shotgun and Silver had both her pistols drawn.
‘Man, I don’t know why the hell I keep you around,’ snapped Snowdog, offering him a hand up. He smiled weakly at Silver, who didn’t even deign to look at him, too busy taking in the horror of the massacre before them.
‘Where’s Lomax?’ asked Snowdog.
Trask tried to answer but the words wouldn’t come.
‘I asked you a question, man,’ said Snowdog.
‘He’s… he’s gone,’ managed Trask. ‘That thing got him.’
‘No thanks to you, I’ll bet,’ sneered Silver.
He tried to shoot her a venomous look, but it came off as merely petulant.
‘Did you see what it was?’ asked the albino-haired gang leader.
‘No,’ said Trask, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t, but it was big, man, real big. Bigger than anything we’ve seen. It was fast too, fast like on spur or something, you know?’
‘It was fast all right,’ shot back Silver, ‘but not fast enough to catch you, eh, Trask?’
‘Frag you, Silver,’ said Trask, some of his cocksure attitude returning now that the monster was gone.
‘Not this lifetime,’ she said, spinning on her heel and heading back inside the warehouse.
‘Get yourself cleaned up, Trask,’ snapped Snowdog. ‘We got work to do. These people ain’t gonna get fleeced all by themselves, now are they?’
Snowdog turned and left him standing on the icy steps, the wetness in his crotch beginning to freeze.
Feeling his earlier fear turn to anger and resentment, Trask followed Snowdog inside, rubbing at a stinging patch of skin on his neck and face.
THE DOORS WERE emblazoned with the caduceus, a staff with two winged snakes entwined around it, and even before Uriel pushed them open he could hear screams and smell the stench of death and blood.
The walls of the District Quintus Medicae facility rang to the agonised cries of over a thousand wounded men, the reek of antiseptic sprays and camphorated oils unable to mask the bitter stench of infected flesh and weeping wounds. His breath misted before him, the temperature of the room close to freezing. Sisters of the Order Hospitaller scurried through the long, vaulted chamber, their flowing white robes stiffened with dried blood. The desperation and fear in this place was palpable and it tore at Uriel’s heart to see so many brave men brought low by the vile aliens.
Shrieks of wounded men and sobs of those soon to go under the bone saw echoed. Three orderlies held down a screaming Krieg Guardsman, his legs nothing more than thrashing stumps, as they attempted to clamp the spray of blood from his femoral artery. Stretcher bearers passed Uriel, carrying a woman whose arm was severed just above the elbow and Uriel could see the wound had festered, no doubt frostbitten as she had lain awaiting rescue. The stump wept pus onto the rough blanket that covered her.
Droning priests chanted the Finis Rerum from high pulpits, but their words were inaudible over the screaming.
It seemed that the screaming would never stop. He watched one of the sisters pull a sheet over a dead man’s face and nod to the orderlies. Uriel was no stranger to death, but this simple evocation of human suffering touched him in a way he could not explain.
The woman looked up from the corpse and saw him. She wiped a dirty sleeve across her eyes and limped around the bed towards him. Her blonde hair was pulled in a greasy ponytail and Uriel could see she had not slept in days. Her smoky blue eyes were dull and bloodshot, but she had strength in her, that much was obvious.
‘Brother-captain,’ she said. ‘Sister Joaniel Ledoyen, senior nursing officer at your service, but we are sorely pressed, so
whatever you need, please be quick.’
‘Why is it so cold in here?’ asked Uriel.
‘Because one of those damned… things hit our generator before the first attack and the blasted tech-priests haven’t been able to get us a new one,’ snapped Joaniel. ‘Now do you have any more stupid questions, or can I get on with trying to save some lives?’
‘I am sorry, sister, I am weary from the battle and my manners escape me. I am Brother-Captain Uriel Ventris and I need to find a soldier I had brought here. His name is Pavel Leforto and he belongs to the Erebus Defence Legion. He saved my life and I wish to offer my thanks.’
Joaniel’s expression softened and she pointed to a nurses’ station in the centre of the chamber.
‘There. My deputy, Ardelia, will try to find him for you, though you should be prepared for the fact that he may be dead.’
‘As the Emperor wills,’ said Uriel. The corner of the woman’s mouth twitched at the familiar phrase and she nodded.
‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do,’ she said and turned away.
Uriel watched Sister Joaniel Ledoyen limp towards the next bed and the next bloodstained soldier, then turned on his heel and marched to the nurses’ station.
IT TOOK AN hour to locate Pavel Leforto. The bed Ardelia first indicated held only a pitiful wretch whose burned face was encased in gauze bandages, but was obviously not Pavel as his shoulder was uninjured. Eventually, Uriel located him on the second floor of the building, his upper shoulder and neck wrapped tightly in a plasflesh bandage. An intravenous drip bag was wedged under his arm – presumably to keep it from freezing – which in turn was draped outside the sheets to allow the liquid in the bag to flow.
His eyes were closed, but his breathing was deep and even. Even Uriel’s limited knowledge of human physiology told him that Pavel Leforto would live, though he would have a vivid scar to remind him of his battle with the tyranids. Uriel remembered the last time he had seen Pavel’s face, screaming and contorted in agony as Pasanius had rushed him back to the triage station. His features were at peace now, oblivious to the cries echoing from the floor below and the miasma of death that filled this place.
Clutched in the sleeping man’s hand was a hololithic slate, and Uriel bent to lift it, seeing the image of a homely, but attractive woman with two beaming children clutched close to her. Uriel stared at the picture for several minutes, seeing the love these people had for this man through the grainy image. Pavel Leforto had a family to cleave to, a home to defend and a future to protect.
Things he could never have.
Replacing the picture, Uriel removed a purity seal from his armour and set it on Pavel’s chest, before retreating from the bed, unwilling to disturb the wounded soldier’s rest. He left the -upper floor and made his way down to the medicae building’s vestibule. Through a low arch to his left he saw a small passageway that led to an open doorway, from which a warm, softly glowing light spilled. He caught the soothing scent of incense over the stench of blood and stepped through the arch and into the medicae building’s small chapel.
Simple and elegant, the chapel was spartanly furnished, the only concession to ostentation a semi-circular stained glass window depicting sisters of the Order Hospitaller ministering to the sick and providing alms to the needy. Uriel felt a peace and serenity he had not experienced in many months, as though a dark shadow that smothered the better angels of his nature could not violate this holy place.
He closed the door and walked to the end of the nave, bowing to the effigy of the Emperor and kneeling beneath His majestic gaze.
‘Emperor of Mankind, in this time of war I seek the solace that only you can provide. Too often I feel hate poisoning my dreams. A darkness gathers in me and I fear for my soul in the coming days. Help me to overcome the taint that was placed within me and save me from becoming that which I have spent my entire life fighting in your name.’
Uriel took a shuddering breath and said, ‘I am afraid that I may soon lose sight of what it is to serve you, that I am not worthy of your love.’
‘No, Captain Ventris,’ said a voice behind him. ‘All who serve the Emperor are worthy of that.’
Uriel spun, rising to his feet. Sister Joaniel stood framed in the light from the window, the warm colours impartin
g a ruddy, healthy glow to her skin.
‘Sister,’ said Uriel. ‘I did not notice you.’
‘I know, I’m sorry for disturbing you. Would you like me to go?’
‘No, no, of course not.’
‘Then may I join you?’
‘Yes, please do.’
Sister Joaniel nodded and limped to the end of the nave, genuflecting before the Emperor’s statue and wincing as her hip joint cracked noisily. She sat on the front pew and said, ‘I often come here when I have time. It is very peaceful.’
‘It is,’ agreed Uriel moving to join her on the pew, dwarfing the Adepta Sororitas nurse. The timber creaked under his bulk. ‘I felt as though a great weight might unburden itself from me here.’
‘You carry a burden?’ asked Joaniel.
Uriel did not answer, his eyes cast down at the polished wooden floor. Eventually he said, ‘You heard what I was saying when you came in.’
‘True, but I do not know what you were referring to. Would you like to talk about it? I have counselled a great many warriors who carried emotional wounds as well as physical. Trust me, it can be very cathartic to give voice to thoughts that trouble you.’
‘I do not know, sister… I am… not good at expressing such things.’
‘Does it have something to do with the soldier you came to see?’
‘No, more to do with a monstrous alien I fought on a distant world.’
‘What kind of alien, a tyranid?’
Uriel shook his head. ‘No. To this day I am not exactly sure what it was. All I know is that it was an ancient creature, old when the galaxy was young, that lived for slaughter and revelled in murder. An inquisitor I knew called it the Bringer of Darkness, and such a name was aptly given, for it could reach into a man’s thoughts and drag his basest instincts to the fore.’
Uriel’s hands began to shake as he relived the battle beneath the world on Pavonis. ‘I saw men rend and tear themselves apart in an orgy of bloodletting and I felt my own urge to kill driven to new heights that sicken me to this very day. Visions of madness and death surrounded the creature and when its mind briefly touched mine, I saw everything, all the slaughter in the universe, and it bathed my soul in blood.’
The Ultramarines Omnibus Page 58