by Marc
The few warriors present stirred in their saddles. Many spat into the earth, their sharpened teeth glinting in the stark light.
‘I came home seeking the traditions I had long held in highest honour in my heart. On other worlds Atillans fight, united by their love for their homeland, their brother horse and the freedom to which we aspire. I say that this warlord, Talthar, is little more than a brigand. I say we ride against him. I say we string him from the gates of his own damned fortress and let the carrion feast on his innards. Through battle we will know the truth. In battle we will find victory. By battle we will save Atilla’s soul and restore the tribes to their glory!’
Faces turned away and heads dropped. The ground was stirred by soulless hooves, dragging against the earth.
‘Do not turn away! You must trust in the ways of the ancestors. We will overcome this man. He is no daemon. His fortress is but earth. Our steeds tear up the earth as they ride; his fortress is nothing!’
‘It is no use, Al’Kahan.’ Alyshfa’s husband, Ke’Than, turned to him from his saddle. His dark braids and scarless face betrayed his youth. His eyes were keen and tough, like black pearls. Ke’Than jabbed his stump in the departing crowd’s direction. ‘Their spirits are broken.’
‘They no longer have the hearts of true Atillans.’
‘Things have changed.’
‘Changed for the worst, Ke’Than.’
‘Perhaps, but then nothing lasts forever.’
Al’Kahan jumped to the ground. He reached down and grabbed a handful of rich, black soil. ‘I have travelled to many worlds and one thing never changes. There is always war.’ Al’Kahan stood casting the dirt aside. ‘If change is what Atilla wants then change is what she will get. Go and talk to them. Tell them I know how to crack open this fortress.’
FEWER HAD COME than before. Al’Kahan looked out into a crowd of faces, grim and unimpressed. He looked to the low ridge above him. There Ke’Than sat, awaiting his instructions.
Al’Kahan turned to the crowd. ‘Not even stone is impenetrable.’
He waved his sabre in the air and KeThan kicked his steed into life. The beast thundered across the ridge, throwing up earth all about it. Ke’Than gripped hard to the reins and lowered his hunting lance in the crook of his injured arm towards a broad boulder before him. The warrior braced himself as a great explosion ripped through the stone. Shards of rock, like leaves from a tree, fell down around the assembled riders.
The crowd gasped.
Al’Kahan held up his own hunting lance. ‘I have twenty of these explosive heads. Your lance shafts are not as strong as those of steel, so they will have to be reinforced. But with them we can break open that fortress. We can defeat this warlord.’
THE CHILL WIND of dawn passed through Al’Kahan’s hair. It moved the long grasses that grew on the highest parts of each hill. Below him, a morning mist was starting to rise. Around Al’Kahan were gathered fifty riders from the broken clans of Kapak Valley. Riders of varying ages sat atop a mixed rabble of mares and geldings, their faces filled with grim determination. They were few. The boys amongst them had never seen battle, nor ever killed a man.
Al’Kahan turned to face them. His stallion shifted beneath him. His eye passed along the row of riders before them.
‘I will not lie. Today, we ride outnumbered. Today, we fight against a superior force, behind walls of stone. Today, we may lose our lives.’ Al’Kahan reached around to the furs he’d brought from the starship.
‘But these are things you all know.’ He started to unwrap the large bundle. ‘I promise you this: whilst this day may not be fought in the traditional way, you will not dishonour your ancestors. They will look upon you with great joy – for you fight to free their sons, the founder’s children – our brothers who lie in the bowels of that fortress.
‘Let me promise you this also.’ Al’Kahan produced a plasma rifle and several grenades from the furs, their Imperial Guard insignia plainly visible, ‘With these weapons we will conquer! We will ride with the force of a thousand and crack open the walls of their fortress like lightning from the heavens. We will split their heads and bring the full fury of the clans upon them!’
The riders cheered. Al’Kahan swivelled his horse and plunged down into the mist towards the plains in which the fortress sat. White tendrils quickly enveloped him as he dived, near blind, down the steep incline leading to Talthar’s fortress. The riders followed into the miasma, the sound of their steeds and beating hearts the only sign that they did not ride alone.
After what seemed like many hours, the ground levelled out and the mists thinned. The fortress, the size of a small star cruiser, loomed ahead of them. It was jagged and sinister, and pieces of scrap metal soldered to iron stakes rose in vicious angles from the ground before it. These would slow down the cavalry. Its walls looked climbable, for the stone was roughly hewn – but peppered with murder holes and lookout towers as it was, this would be nigh-on impossible. Al’Kahan’s men slowed; struck dumb with apprehension, some began to falter. Strong actions were needed.
Al’Kahan, plasma rifle in hand, unleashed a volley of burning power that ripped though the iron stakes and lit up the entire valley in white light. The tense air was filled with static. His men rallied and rode like the crazed, relying on the experienced warrior’s skill with the rifle to destroy the pikes that threatened their charge. Al’Kahan desperately tried to destroy each barricade before his men collided with them, but some riders struck the barbs. But he kept on firing; if the charge was slowed, they would become bottled up and be shot to ribbons.
The riders rode on, the remnants of the deadly barricades now just ash. Men appeared at the fortress walls. Shotguns and rifles added dull staccatos to the high-pitched cry of Al’Kahan’s plasma rifle.
‘Face away!’ Al’Kahan cried as they neared the fortress. Imperial Guard-issue flash grenades rose high into the air, detonating at spaced intervals like fireworks. The men behind the barricade screamed, blinded by the flash. The riders resumed their charge.
‘Lances!’ Al’Kahan cried out over the sound of his weapon.
The riders obliged, lowering the explosive tipped weapons to face the stone walls. ‘Level up!’ The riders pulled alongside one another, creating a convincing line. The hooves, like thunder to the lightning of Al’Kahan’s weapon. A storm of retribution was in full sway.
Too late, the doors to the fortress opened to release the warlord’s own riders. Al’Kahan’s men braced themselves as their lances struck the wall. The tips exploded, ripping great holes in the stone. Sharp rabble ripped at their faces and tore at their furs. One rider fell beneath a hail of debris; his mare kept running. The warlord’s riders swept around to follow Al’Kahan’s men.
‘Hawk’s Shadow and Desert Thorn take the compound! The other clans with me!’ Al’Kahan cried above the havoc. The riders separated. Al’Kahan’s force turned and prepared a charge.
The enemy riders had the better speed. ‘Keep going!’ Al’Kahan called, pulling four grenade pins. He threw low and hard at the oncoming riders. Startled faces broke into screams of fear as the grenades hit the ground and went off, tearing earth and flesh. The enemy charge fell short. Now his riders had the momentum. Horse met horse, rider set upon rider and a desperate battle broke out.
Al’Kahan wielded the plasma rifle as a club, knocking a rider to the ground to be trampled under the churning hooves. Sabres flashed as Al’Kahan’s men jostled with the warlord’s. The slow press of horse’s bodies was like a giant python, gradually constricting around the battlefield. Men desperately clung to their steeds; to fall was to die under this crush. One of the warlord’s men made a rash for Al’Kahan, sprinting across the backs of several close-pressed horses. Al’Kahan turned and released a volley from the plasma rifle. It went wide, barely slowing his attacker.
The rider leapt upon Al’Kahan and they both slid towards the ground. His attacker stabbed again and again with a short knife. Al’Kahan felt the blade penetrate hi
s side. Without thinking, he smashed his forehead into the attacker’s face. Al’Kahan rolled to one side and let the screaming man fall beneath the stamping hooves of his enraged mount.
After regaining his saddle, Al’Kahan saw that his men had gained the advantage and had all but finished what remained of the warlord’s cavalry. Al’Kahan pulled at the dagger in his side.
THE MEN OF Hawk’s Shadow and Desert Thorn hurdled through the holes in the shattered wall and passed into the warlord’s compound, Ke’Than at their head. The place was filled with the booty of war; strange machines traded from merchant pirate’s lay sprawled about the fort, while coal-black pipes, like spilled entrails, made riding hard. Women and children ran for the mud huts and stone houses that lined the walls. A mass of warriors armed with pistols and sabres rushed from their barricades. They looked shell-shocked and desperate.
Ke’Than snatched his sabre from his saddle and swung it high above his head. With a clean stroke he beheaded an oncoming warrior before the man had a chance to react. Another drew a shotgun on him. The weapon cracked out across the air. It clipped Ke’Than in the shoulder. Barely noticing, Ke’Than brought down his sabre hard. The warrior brought his shotgun up to parry the blow. From the back of the horse the blow was savage. The warrior’s wrist snapped, the shotgun singing free from his hands. Both warrior and weapon fell to the ground, the gun misfiring as they collided together. Soft tissue sprayed across Ke’Than’s face and he turned away. Around him, his clan had the advantage over the remaining warriors. In the distance, a dark shape appeared on the far side of the melee.
‘Who is it?’ Al’Kahan arrived at Ke’Than’s side.
‘Talthar, the warlord.’ the other sneered.
Covered in dark furs, criss-crossed with black straps and leather harnesses, Talthar charged forward on the back of a giant black stallion, a whirling chainsword in one hand. Al’Kahan groaned out as the foreign weapon sliced through sabres and limbs alike. The warlord’s face had a crazed look, his scars and toothless grin slick with the blood of Al’Kahan’s men. With tearing precision, he cut down five men in but a few seconds.
‘Here!’ Al’Kahan screamed and drew the warlord’s attention. The warlord commenced a charge. Al’Kahan spurred his horse towards him. They crossed the short distance neither slowing, their eyes wild.
Al’Kahan leant and whispered to his mount; ‘Brother horse, I thank you for your spirit and blood.’
The warlord was upon him, the chainsword spitting gore. Al’Kahan pulled hard against his mount’s reins. The inexperienced creature buckled and fell to the ground, the momentum from its charge causing it to slide hard into Talthar’s own steed. The black stallion stumbled over the sliding Al’Kahan. In this instant, Al’Kahan jammed the butt of his plasma rifle against his shoulder and fired. The white blue light, mercury bright, cut up through horse and rider. Talthar screamed as his leg was engulfed in searing agony. His monstrous steed crashed to the ground on top of Al’Kahan.
The old warrior felt a biting pain scream through his leg. Something had torn and his foot was bent at a weird angle. Close by, Talthar howled. He was still alive, covered in the gore of his steed, his chainsword cutting a path through the smouldering flesh about him. Al’Kahan rolled to one side as the savage weapon tore through his cloak. He dragged himself across the ground, his tired arm muscles straining to move his substantial bulk.
‘I will… have… your head!’ Talthar wailed, dragging himself after Al’Kahan.
‘You have offended our ancestors! You will die!’ Al’Kahan shouted back, looking for a weapon.
‘You are no different to me.’ the warlord shrieked, swinging the chainsword wildly. ‘You offend our ancestors with your alien weapons.’
‘Never!’ Al’Kahan cried, reaching his plasma rifle and snatching it up.
The warlord swung, the whirling blades of the chainsword spinning furiously towards Al’Kahan. Al’Kahan fumbled with the rifle. It had not charged fully. He brought the gun up to meet the chainsword, waiting for the biting pain of its serrated teeth. The sword dug deep into the rifle’s fuel cell. A flash of white-blue flame leapt up the sword and through the warlord’s body. He screamed briefly and collapsed, a charred husk.
Shaking the noise from his head, Al’Kahan looked up through the gore and saw a group of riders assembled above him.
Ke’Than grinned down. ‘We are victorious, mighty Al’Kahan. You have restored us to glory!’
A LARGE FIRE burnt high that night. The thick scent of bison meat filled the air for miles around. The broken tribes were united, joined to sing of blood and glory. None would pass to sleep without the aid of ale. One soul was not present: the greatest of the Hawk’s Shadow, Al’Kahan. Once the wisewoman had done her work, the old war commander passed from the camp quietly, early in the festivities, his leg braced. Al’Kahan left his old hut and disappeared into the darkness of the Atillan night.
At dusk on the next day, Al’Kahan found himself at the starship, the air fouled with its noxious fumes. By one of the entry gates, a lone figure stood. Al’Kahan dismounted and approached.
‘I thought as much.’ Commissar Streck said. ‘I could see it in your eyes the day that you left.’
‘I owe as much. Without the Emperor’s weapons, we would not have won.’
‘Ah yes. You defeated the tyrant. Good for you.’ Streck shifted slightly; his black coat creaked. ‘Why not stay and be their leader?’
‘I no longer know this place.’
‘You are one of us, then?’
‘No.’ Al’Kahan strode past Streck towards the towering starship. ‘I am an Atillan.’
ORK HUNTER
Dan Abnett
KEYSER, WHO THEY call the sergeant but who wears no rank pins I can see, calls a halt. He gets up on the limed trunk of a massive fallen cypress and stands, sniffing the air.
We wait, thigh deep in the stinking soup below.
The wet air seems to fill my lungs with steam, and I want to cough, but the Skinner nearest me, a lean brute with charcoal-blackened eye-sockets and piercings down his ears, fixes me with a savage glare as if he can tell what I’m thinking. Keyser waves three scouts ahead, and that leaves thirty of us, twenty-two Skinners and eight Jopall Indentured. I’m halfway down the file, the swamp water bubbling and oozing around my legs, dust flies swirling round me.
The silent halt seems to last an eternity. There are spiders in my hair. I can feel them.
Captain Lorit, looking as out of place as the rest of us Jopall in his white-flecked, jade green fatigues and white peaked cap, wades forward. ‘What are we—’ he begins.
The Skinner they call Pig, standing to the captain’s left, surges forward and takes my commander in a choke hold, clamping one greasy paw across his mouth. The captain struggles, wild-eyed, and Pig tightens his grip. The reason for Pig’s nickname is self-evident – slabby and fat, with vastly developed muscle groups stretching his tattered tunic, he has a face ruined by scars and a ragged snout of flesh where his nose was bitten off.
Pig’s muscles tighten further and the captain begins to turn blue. We Jopall look on in silent disbelief.
Keyser drops his hand and the Skinners un-freeze and move again. Pig releases the captain and throws him, gagging, face down into the water.
Keyser’s jumped down off the cypress by then, and drags the captain up with one hand.
‘He assaulted me! That man assaulted me! Put him on a charge!’ The captain spits out weed and slime, indignant. Keyser doesn’t put Pig on a charge. He punches the captain in the throat and silences him. The Skinners laugh, an ugly sound. Pig snorts, a far, far uglier noise.
‘I thought we covered this in basic back at Cerbera. When I signal silence out here in the Green, I mean silence.’ Keyser’s voice is as sharp and taut as a wire. He says this to the captain, who is too busy grovelling and vomiting in the liquid mud to listen attentively.
HE TURNS TO the rest of us. ‘We’ve got a scent of the ‘skins. Close by, no
more than a kilometre. Arm, load and follow. No noise. Especially you skinbait.’
That’s what we are to them. Not Imperial Guard, not fellow troopers, not noble soldiers from the Jopall Indentured Squadrons. No matter most of us are from good, up-hive stock, no matter our comrades are even now defending the walls of Tartarus Hive against the Invasion.
We are skinbait. Nothing. Lower than scum.
For these Skinners set the value of scum. There are juve-gangs from the Tartarus underhive I’d have more respect for.
It is my considerable misfortune, mine and the other members of my squad, to have been sent to Cerbera Base to undergo jungle warfare training with the ork hunters just as the war for beloved Armageddon began. There is no hope of rejoining our company or hive. We are stuck for the duration, seconded to one of the most notorious units of ‘skull-takers’, the so-called Keyser’s Skinners.
Once in a while, from very far away, we hear the thump of artillery or the scream of ram-jets. Open war is being waged in the lands beyond the jungle, far away. It may as well be on another world. Word is Yarrick himself had returned. Oh to be part of that!
Oh to not be part of this… I believe the Skull-takers have been fighting the feral greenskins for so long, they have begun to mirror what they fight. The least of them are painted and pierced, the worst have implanted tusks jutting from their jawlines. All have ork finger-bones, teeth and ears dangling from them as grisly trophies. They have no official chain of command. They respect no rank or authority other than their own. I have been told they elect their leaders. Think of that!
We edge forward now, slopping through the pools of mire; thick, sticky fluid like mucus. Dragonflies, with stained-glass wings as wide as a man’s arm span, cross the glades, beating the air louder than the blade-fans of the air-cars in Tartarus’s elite district. Skaters as big as my hand skitter across the sheened water.