The sounds of artillery and gunfire receded as the White Scars pressed into the plantation, though the vegetation caused the sounds to echo unpredictably. Something caused Sarik to slow down, some inkling that something was not quite right. He halted, and gestured for the silent order to be passed down the line. Within seconds, the two squads had stopped moving, each Space Marine stood motionless against the night.
Then Sarik realised what it was that was niggling at his subconscious mind. To his enhanced senses, the complex but entirely natural aromas of the fruit trees tasted somehow… tainted, as if some other substance had been mixed in with them. Or, he realised, as if the juices of the fruit were being used to mask something else…
Sarik made a hand-gesture warning to alert the battle-brothers of a potential ambush. He took another deep breath, and this time he was sure. The fruit scents were being deliberately employed to mask something entirely different, something oily and alien.
Sarik raised his bolter and scanned the ground up ahead. The plantation was well tended, so there was very little in the way of ground cover in which an ambusher could conceal himself. Sarik tracked first left, then right, seeing no sign of an enemy using what little cover the tall tree trunks would offer. Then a gentle gust of wind sighed through the plantation, carrying with it a cocktail of smoke, cordite, blood and…
Sarik froze, forcing every muscle in his body to remain still. Though he kept his eyes locked on the path ahead, he knew that his enemy was directly above, suspended in the canopy.
Sarik breathed again, and this time there was no mistaking the oily scent of alien skin. It could only have been the alien savages his friend Lucian had reported. His gorge rising, he recalled the promise he had made himself when he had first read of these aliens’ repulsive practices. Not a single one of his warriors would suffer such a fate.
Not wishing to give the alien ambusher any clue that he was aware of its presence, Sarik continued tracking his raised weapon across the ground up ahead, but his eyes were not scanning the ground, but the tree canopies. It was only when an air-bursting explosion half a kilometre distant cast the entire scene in a brief, flickering glow, that he caught sight of a mass of bodies suspended high up in the trees to the right.
Guessing the alien in the canopy directly above him was a sentry for the larger ambush group up ahead, Sarik made his decision. In a single, fluid motion he bent his arm at the elbow and fired a burst directly into the air. The bolts struck flesh, and exploded an instant later, showering Sarik with a fine rain of oily gore.
Proceeded by the snapping of branches and the rustling of leaves, a ragged mass of limbs and quills slammed to the ground in front of Sarik. He had no time to waste with an examination, but a brief glance confirmed that this alien was not a tau. It must be one of the carnivores Lucian had faced the previous night.
“The night-howler!” Sarik bellowed in battle-cant. “Swooping from the peak!”
He had never used that particular phrase before, but the beauty of using battle-cant was that his warriors could infer his meaning with reference to the culture of Chogoris. Night-howlers were creatures of legend. According to the old tales, they had once lurked in the equatorial mountains, waiting for passing travellers whose bodies they would drag away to consume in their caves.
Sarik was up and firing as his warriors pounded forwards to his side. His shots slammed into the canopy up ahead, and without needing to be told his warriors followed his example, adding the weight of their fire to his own. The throaty thump thump thump of a heavy bolter opened up from the right flank, and an entire tree was torn to shreds, along with the three aliens that had waited in its canopy.
A piercing shriek filled the air, sounding to Sarik like some wailing banshee from nomad myth. Shadowy figures dropped from the trees all around, landing silently and bounding forwards on whiplash-muscled legs.
And then the Space Marines and the aliens were upon one another. Curses and oaths clashed with screeches and hisses, and both groups loosed a final volley of fire before clashing in the brutal mass of hand-to-hand combat. The aliens fired their musket-like rifles from the hip as they closed, livid bolts of blue energy slamming into white power armour. A battle-brother of Sarik’s squad was struck square in the chest, a chunk of his chest armour torn away to reveal the flesh beneath. Another was struck a glancing blow to the helmet, the entire left side of his faceplate shorn away.
But the Space Marines’ weapons were far more deadly, for the aliens wore no more armour than the occasional shoulder pad. Sarik fired his bolt pistol at the closest alien as it screamed in towards him. The bolt buried itself in the rope-like tendons of the creature’s hip, lodging in amongst the flexing musculature. Then the mass-reactive round detonated, and the savage’s entire leg was shorn off to cartwheel through the air trailing a comet-like plume of blood. The alien crashed to the ground at Sarik’s feet, but still it came on, screeching hatefully as it used its barbed rifle to pull itself upwards.
Sarik put a bolt-round into the alien’s head, and it went down for good.
Then the entire plantation seemed to erupt in savage fury as the two groups merged into one another. A spiked rifle barrel swung in towards Sarik’s head and he ducked, the spike catching on a vent of his back-mounted power pack. That was all the opening he needed, and he pistol-whipped his attacker, staving in its bird-like skull with the butt of his bolt pistol.
Another creature leaped in from the right, its spiked rifle held two-handed like a stave. The alien came in high, feet first, and before Sarik could reach his chainsword it had slammed into him, one foot on each of his shoulder plates. The savage was surprisingly heavy, and its muscles so powerful that Sarik was pushed backwards under the weight and power of the impact. Instead of resisting the weight, Sarik rolled backwards with the alien’s momentum, his back striking the ground as his opponent was suddenly forced to struggle for balance. Then Sarik brought his legs up sharply, his knees striking the alien in the back and powering it overhead to strike a nearby tree. Sarik was up in an instant. The alien was stunned, struggling to regain its feet. Sarik made a fist and unleashed such a pile-driving punch that the alien’s head was pulped into the tree trunk.
A brief lull in the melee allowed Sarik to draw his chainsword and thumb it to screeching life. The fight was finely balanced. The aliens were no match for the Space Marines on a one-to-one basis, but they outnumbered Sarik’s force three or four to one. Sarik looked around for a means of tipping the odds in the White Scars’ favour. Then he saw it.
Twenty metres away, beyond the swirling combat, stood an alien that Sarik knew instantly must have been their leader. It was tall, and robed in a long cloak of exotic animal hide. Its olive green skin was daubed with swirling patterns of deep red war paint, applied, Sarik guessed, from the blood of the fallen Rakarshans. The alien was screeching loudly and gesticulating wildly as it issued its shrill orders to its warriors.
“You!” Sarik bellowed, pointing his chainsword directly towards the alien leader and gunning its motor so that its teeth wailed a high-pitched threat. The alien heard him and turned, its beady, bird-like eyes narrowing as they focussed on him. It seemed for an instant that the swirling mass of the raging close combat parted between Sarik and his foe, affording a clear path between the two.
The alien ceased its racket, and turned fully to face Sarik, the dreadlock-like quills sprouting from the back of its skull bristling with evident challenge.
“You hear me,” Sarik called mockingly. “Face me!” Knowing the alien would not understand his words, Sarik put as much symbolism into his tone and body language as possible, so that even a brain-damaged gretchin would get the message and understand he was being issued a one-to-one challenge.
To Sarik’s surprise, the alien nodded. It might have been coincidence, but Sarik was struck by the impression that the savage somehow understood his tongue, though he could not see how. It screeched again, and every one of its warriors nearby leaped backwards, disengagi
ng from the Space Marines. Several of Sarik’s warriors pressed instinctively after their foes, but Sarik stilled them with a curt order, and silence descended on the plantation as both groups of warriors eyed one another grimly.
Sarik stepped forwards, and the alien leader strode to the centre of the clearing to meet him. Another air-bursting shell exploded high overhead, and for the first time Sarik was afforded a clear view of his enemy. The alien was tall, taller even than a Space Marine, who were counted giants compared to the bulk of humanity. Its muscles were like steel cables, and it appeared not to have an ounce of fat on its lean body. The leader wore its ragged animal-skin cloak as if it were a stately robe of office. Apart from that it wore no other garments, but numerous leather belts and bandoliers hung with pouches and fetishes were wrapped about its torso.
As it came to a halt, the alien threw one side of its robe back over its left shoulder, revealing a sword scabbard at its belt. Sarik’s eyes narrowed as he saw that the blade was obviously a power sword, its guard worked into the form of the aquila, the Imperial eagle and icon of humanity’s faith in the Emperor. It appeared then to Sarik that the alien was actually boasting of its possession of the weapon, as if the Space Marine was expected to respond in fear or admiration.
“I’ve seen a power sword before, bird brain,” Sarik growled.
The alien’s beak opened and it issued a sibilant hiss. Its warriors repeated the sound until it echoed around the entire plantation.
Sarik decided to play along. “I come in the name of the primarch,” he called.
“Honoured be his name!” his gathered warriors responded, drowning out the aliens’ hissing.
Energised by his brothers’ proud war cry, Sarik raised his chainsword high and rushed in towards the alien. He expected his opponent to reach for the power sword and attempt to parry the attack, but to his surprise the alien made a casual gesture with its clawed hand, and Sarik’s blade rebounded as if from an invisible barrier.
“Psyker…” Sarik spat, raising his chainsword to a guard position. That changed things.
“So the power sword’s just for decoration,” he said, seeking to distract his foe and buy time to engineer an opening. The alien hissed in response, its worm-like tongue writhing in its beaked mouth.
“The Librarians will hear of this,” Sarik said, as much to himself as to the alien. “Even should I die.”
As he spoke, Sarik worked his way around his opponent, then circled back the other way, all the while seeking to gain the alien’s measure. He feinted to the left and the alien gestured again, invoking its invisible psychic shield. He feinted right and it did so again. A third feint further to the left told Sarik all he needed to know.
Sarik gunned the chainsword to maximum power and raised the weapon high for an obvious downward strike. The alien raised its hand and as the blade descended its screeching teeth were deflected once again. But the ruse had worked. Even as the chainsword came down, Sarik was drawing his bolt pistol with his left hand. The alien never saw the pistol coming, and Sarik had correctly surmised that the shield was a highly localised effect only able to protect the alien leader from one quarter at a time. The bolt pistol spoke, and a mass-reactive round penetrated the alien’s chin, lodging deep inside its skull.
Amazingly, having a large-calibre micro-rocket slam into its head barely registered with the alien. It stepped backwards beyond Sarik’s reach, and screeched its anger at the Space Marine, its eyes wide.
Then the bolt-round detonated, and the alien’s headless body toppled heavily to the ground.
“Take them!” Sarik bellowed, and twenty boltguns levelled on the aliens. Within seconds, the ground was littered with shattered and burned alien corpses, trampled beneath the armoured boots of the rapidly redeploying White Scars.
Brielle seethed inside, drawing on every ounce of her noble-taught discipline to remain outwardly calm. She was standing in a ceremonial robing chamber belonging to the water caste, and it was lined with rail after rail of garments of office. Having been disrobed by water caste attendants, Brielle was being fitted for the finery of an envoy such as Aura.
Aura had not joined the spectacle, leaving it to a group of more junior members of his caste. The first time she had sworn at one, Brielle had learned that none of them spoke her tongue.
Everything was happening too fast. The tau had fallen for Brielle’s gross exaggeration of the crusade’s strengths, and that had without a doubt bought her time and saved lives on the ground. But the tau empire was small and concentrated, and its fleets were able to respond to local threats far quicker than would be the case in the Imperium, where populations were separated from their neighbours by huge gulfs of space. The tau fleet, of which the Dal’yth Il’Fannor O’kray was now a part, was inbound for Dal’yth Prime in massively overpowering strength.
“Ow!” Brielle spat with unconcealed irritation as one of the attendants manhandled her ankle. He was trying to get her shoe off, but he was unfamiliar with the human ankle arrangement, for the tau’s lower legs were reverse jointed. She flicked her foot and the shoe came off, the attendant scurrying off after it.
That was another thing that annoyed her. Though the tau were treating her with politeness, they had no idea of personal space. She had submitted to the ritual disrobing, though only grudgingly, and the attendants had treated her more like a mannequin than a living being. It occurred to her that the tau’s collective philosophies were probably the cause, the needs of the individual being secondary to the needs of the many. At first she had been reticent to stand bare before the attendants, but they had proven entirely disinterested in her body. She told herself that was a good thing, but it just served to annoy her even more…
Another attendant approached, carrying in his arms a folded shimmering, silver robe. It was made of the same material as the robe worn by Aura, though Brielle noted its embroidery was not quite so intricate. The attendant came to stand in front of her, and with a gesture he ordered her to hold her hands out to either side. Another attendant joined the first, and together they draped the silver robe over her shoulders so that it covered her body from neck to feet. The material felt cool, and although it covered her entirely, Brielle was nonetheless pleased with the way it draped across her form and accentuated her curves. Her thoughts were not rooted in vanity, however. Even as a second layer was being lifted over her head and fastened around her waist, she was calculating which of the Imperium’s merchant families might be interested in acquiring such fabrics, and how much they might be prepared to pay.
More of the attendants closed in, the idiot who had had such trouble with her shoes lifting one of her feet gingerly. She looked down and saw the monstrosity that he was about to place on her foot. “You’ve got a lot to learn,” she told the uncomprehending alien. “No way am I wearing those… hideous things. I’ll go barefoot, thank you.”
The water caste attendant looked up at her as she spoke, and seemed to get the message, backing off and taking the ugly, tau-made shoes with him. Others closed in from behind, and a fine array of interwoven braids was applied around her waist and neck, cinching the silver fabric and completing the costume.
Brielle regarded herself in the wide mirror. Her robes glinted in the white overhead light and her dark, plaited hair tumbled down her shoulders and across her back. The costume resembled nothing she had ever seen a human noble wearing, and she felt a deep unease at the sheer alienness of her reflection. Then a soft hiss sounded from behind as a door slid open, and she saw in the mirror the envoy Aura step into the chamber.
“Mistress Brielle,” Aura said as he came to stand beside her. “Your transformation is almost complete. Soon, you shall not only wear the trappings of a senior water caste envoy, but you shall wield the power of one too.”
Almost complete? Brielle turned towards the envoy, her mind racing but her expression congenial.
“This,” Aura reached towards Brielle’s neck and pulled aside the robe’s collar. “I bring you a g
ift; a far more appropriate adornment for one of your station.”
Brielle looked down and saw that Aura was holding the aquila pendant she still wore on a slender chain about her neck. In his other hand, he held the tau equivalent, a bisected circle, with a smaller circle within the first.
Her gorge rose as Aura’s alien hand closed around the eagle, the symbol of humanity’s faith. Despite all she had done in turning aside from her family and the crusade, she had nonetheless never abandoned her faith. And now, that was exactly what the tau expected her to do.
It was too much.
Brielle stood stock still, staring at her own reflection as Aura removed the eagle and passed it to a water caste attendant. Then he took the chain of the pendant, and placed it over her head, the symbol of the tau empire settling on her chest.
“Now, you are one of us,” said Aura. “The fleet closes on Dal’yth Prime, and your duty awaits.
“The Greater Good, awaits.”
“I’m going alone, Naal,” said Brielle. “This is complicated enough already.”
Naal turned his back on her, stalking to the opposite side of Brielle’s quarters to stand at the wide viewing port. Dal’yth Prime glinted in the distance, and the blue plasma trails of a hundred tau vessels formed a blazing corona around the planet.
“You won’t be coming back,” said Naal.
Brielle forced down a blunt reply. He was right, but she had to make him think she was sacrificing herself for the Greater Good, and not thinking of her own future.
“I may be,” she said softly. “If I am able, I will.”
“They won’t let you, Brielle,” said Naal. “Grand will have you in his excoriation cells the instant you step foot on the Blade of Woe.”
Brielle sighed, knowing that the possibility was all too likely. “Not if my father is willing to protect me. He wields the Warrant of Trade. That still means something.”
“And Grand wields the Inquisitorial rosette,” Naal replied. “As well you know.”
[Rogue Trader 03] - Savage Scars Page 17