by Various
He swung his bolter up towards the one closest to him, and a gun drone smashed into him, knocking the weapon from his hand. Thursk’s other hand snapped out, snagging the drone. He yanked it in front of him as the burst cannon spat. The storm of projectiles chewed the drone to pieces and drew sparks from his armour, staggering him. He saw the other Stealth suits closing in. He’d made himself a target. He hurled the smoking, spitting drone at the closest and leapt for his axe, where he’d left it leaning against the strongpoint. He snatched it up as the burst cannon chewed the ground around him.
The wounded White Scar fired at the Stealth suit, drawing its attention. Thursk launched himself at it while it was distracted, and his axe sheared through the barrel of its weapon. It slashed at him with the ruined gun, and he ducked. As it made to leap out of range, he lunged and hooked it with his axe, hauling it forward. The tau inside squalled as he wrapped his arm around the suit’s shoulders and drove it headfirst into the wall of the command centre as hard as he could. Metal buckled and the alien voice was stilled. He shoved the dead weight aside and rose, axe ready. The dead alien’s comrades had retreated, their jetpacks carrying them back to the wall and then over it. They had accomplished their task, however. The fire warriors had retreated back through the breach.
Thursk hauled the wounded White Scar to his feet and helped him walk to the command centre. The warrior grunted his thanks. Thursk set him down and rejoined the others outside.
‘They’ve tried the blade, now they’ll use the hammer,’ Kor’sarro said, his voice carrying clearly through the vox-channel. ‘Dig in, and ready yourselves for the storm. They’ll send in their assault troops as soon as the dust has cleared.’ The khan saw Thursk and gestured to him. ‘The Phobian is in command.’ He strode towards Thursk and knocked a knuckle against his aquila. ‘We’ve got some time. They’ll need to regroup, and Ambaghai’s snows will keep them at bay for a little while. I’m going to see if Old Shatterhand has done as he promised. Hold the line, brother.’
‘My khan,’ Thursk said. Kor’sarro nodded and entered the command centre. Thursk looked around at the watching White Scars, and took a steadying breath. ‘Well, you heard him. Dig in. It’s still a long way yet until morning.’
Kor’sarro moved through the darkened base. The comm-bead in his ear sparked and spluttered, and he winced and tapped at it. The local frequencies were still being jammed. He needed to be in amongst his warriors for the vox to work. He’d left a Space Marine named Cholk in the command centre, in an attempt to boost the signal using a spare vox-unit. The White Scars had learned over the centuries of incessant warfare that specialisation was the enemy of effective battlefield operations. Or, so it was, at least, for their sort of operations. Every White Scar had to be an army in and of himself, capable of fixing his own bike, or seeing to his own hurts on the move. The Star-Hunt would not be slowed.
As such, the warriors under his command had picked up their fair share of skills. Cholk knew almost as much about long-range communication as one of the ordu’s own vox-specialists. He hadn’t been happy at being left out of the fight, but sacrifices had to be made for the successful prosecution of a hunt.
Kor’sarro smiled at the thought, but it faded as his nose caught the sharp tang of blood. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword as he stepped into the central chamber of the command centre. Cholk was dead, his armour ripped and torn, the black carapace visible, and the contact nodes exposed and bloody, as if he’d been caught in an explosion, his hand only bare centimetres from his bolter. The vox-unit was smashed. The hologram spun around and around, showing Rime Crag from every angle. He saw markers indicating what he thought were Cemakar and the others, moving along the ridge. More markers, ones he didn’t recognise, closed in, boxing the convoy in. The markers flared and faded.
‘Traps within traps,’ he muttered. It was an artful strategy, taken at a remove. He’d been baited in, and his fangs, claws and scales plucked from him piecemeal, shearing him of his weapons. And it was only part of a greater whole, he knew. That was what made it all so galling.
He’d come to Agrellan, convinced he was the hunter. Instead, he’d become the hunted, and Shadowsun was on his trail, chivvying him along to a point of her choosing. He looked around, senses strained to their utmost. He looked at the hologram again, and saw two markers that were similar. Something about them, about the colour and the crude slashes that designated them, prodded his memory. One marker was on the ridge, and involved in the affray around the convoy. The other was inside the bastion.
His thoughts crystallised. The base hadn’t been defended because it was a trap that much was obvious. But there were obvious traps, and more subtle ones. The tau had expected them to hold, or to run, and had planned for either contingency. They knew that it would be difficult to pry the White Scars out, once they’d dug in, and difficult to slow down, once they’d begun to move, but why bother when your goal is the death of one, rather than many?
Metal creaked. Whatever had killed Cholk hadn’t been a tau. Too quiet, too vicious… he caught a whiff of an acrid, avian odour and grunted. Shadowsun wanted to bring him to heel, so she’d dispatched the best hunting dogs at her disposal to set their teeth in his legs. While the tau harried, distracted and disorientated, the true hunters struck out at their prey.
‘I hear you,’ he said, softly. ‘I smell you.’ He drew his blade slowly. They were all around him, though he hadn’t noticed them when he’d entered. They’d masked their odour, somehow, or else had been hiding elsewhere in the bastion. He frowned. He should have ordered a search of the bastion after all.
The first of the kroot came at him from the side. He caught sight of leathery muscles and rattling spines as it sprang for him from out of nowhere, seemingly appearing out of thin air. The kroot squalled as it chopped down at him. He intercepted the blow with Moonfang, and the alien’s crude weapon shattered. Before the creature could react, Kor’sarro brought the tip of the blade across its throat as he drew his bolt pistol. As the first kroot fell, he was already firing at the second, which slithered across the wall at him with reptilian speed. The second alien tumbled down, its skull burst by his first shot. But there were more. Blades scissored down, carving gouges in his armour as he whirled. The rubbery hides of the kroot swam with the colours of the command centre as they bled into view, coming at him from all directions, quills rattling. They carried only blades, likely hoping to avoid the attention of the bastion’s defenders. They crouched on the hologram dais, clung to the walls and stalked across the floor, croaking and clicking to one another in their debased beast-tongue. Kor’sarro smiled and stepped back, arms spread. ‘Come then, beasts. Come to the huntsman.’
The kroot swarmed forward. Kor’sarro backhanded one with his pistol, and fangs broke and flew as the beast’s avian head snapped backwards. He blocked a knife that dug for his gut, and chopped through an exposed neck with Moonfang. Alien blood splashed across the consoles as he pivoted, slashed and spun. His attackers did not retreat, leaping on him with harsh cries. They seemed eager to claim the gift of death, and Kor’sarro could not bring himself to deny them.
As he fought, he marvelled at the complexity of the snare that he had found himself in. Shadowsun had laid traps within traps within traps, paring his forces down, peeling away his weapons and defences, like a hunter isolating a lone bovid from its herd. But there was something he was still missing. So he fought, and in the fighting, found understanding. The answer, when it crystallised, made him laugh out loud. He brought Moonfang down on the skull of the last of the kroot, killing the alien warrior instantly. Then, without a spare glance for the bloody wreckage he left behind him, he strode out of the command centre.
Shadowsun was here. For all her cunning, for all her skill, she was still a huntress. And no hunter, however skilled or canny, could resist being in at the kill. Kor’sarro smiled. The night was not yet done, and he had an oath to fulfil.
‘I hear you huntress, I hear the sound of your horn. And Kor’sarro Khan is coming!’
Chapter Four
Jebe rolled onto his face and pushed himself to his knees. His armour was covered in scorch marks and dull grey patches where the colour had been stripped from it by his fall down the slope. He had held onto his sword, despite everything. That was some comfort, though not as much as he’d hoped. The explosion that had consumed the Whirlwind had hurled him down the slope, and he felt ever metre of that journey in his limbs and skull.
Snow spun in lazy circles about him, and smoke boiled down off Rime Crag. He used his sword to lever himself to his feet. His power armour had absorbed the brunt of the Whirlwind’s demise, but the flesh of his face felt raw, and there was blood on his gorget. The air tasted foul as well, and for a moment, he found himself wishing that he’d worn his helmet.
Angrily, he pushed the thought aside. His khan did not wear one, so the champion would not. That was the way of it. He was the khan’s will, the company’s will, made manifest. Above him, he heard the whine of servos and pistons, and saw the massive outline of the alien battlesuit move through the smoke and the flames. He could hear the dull boom of bolter fire. Someone was still alive up there, and fighting.
Somewhere below him, snow crunched. Jebe turned. Lightly armoured tau warriors were moving up the slope towards him. Pathfinders, was what the Imperial briefing had called them. He hadn’t been listening closely. Jebe didn’t see much point in naming something that had been as good as dead the moment it set foot on an Imperial world. The red beams of several markerlights played across his battered armour, and he grimaced. His hand darted for the bolt pistol holstered on his hip, only to find the holster empty, and tattered from the explosion. He didn’t waste his breath on a curse. Instead, he whirled and sprinted up the slope. Behind him, the night was lit up with pulse bursts. They struck the slope all around him as he pushed his battered body to its limits. If he could reach the ridge, the smoke and flame would guard him from being shot down like a dog.
And he’d get to fight something worthy of his blade. His eyes locked on the bulk of the alien battlesuit as it stalked through the smoke and snow. That was prey worthy of the champion of the Third. The smoke enfolded him like a mother’s arms.
The ridge was covered in debris. Flames rippled through the air, streaking the night. He could smell spilled blood and oil. Broad shapes flickered eerily through the smoke, like hunting beasts following a scent. They were moving in pursuit of three of his brothers, one of whom was being dragged or carried between them. They fired at their pursuers, but between the snow, the smoke and the shimmering camouflage of the latter, their shots went wild. Jebe lifted his blade to his lips and kissed it lightly. Then he began to hunt the hunters.
They had no idea he was there. They were too intent on the limping, straggling figures ahead of them. When he struck them, it was without warning, and with every ounce of speed he could muster. His sword chopped into metal, as his boot snapped out and up, catching a second xenos in the chest. Armour buckled as the alien fell, and Jebe tore his sword free and sent it slashing out to catch a third hunter in the shoulder. He ducked under the latter’s burst cannon as it flailed out at him, and grabbed it as he bobbed to his feet. He reversed his sword and slid it into the hunter’s chest as the burst cannon began to fire. He jerked the body around, so that the fusillade caught the remaining hunters.
As the last of them sank down, wreathed in smoke, he ripped his sword free and let the body fall. He looked at his brothers. There were three of them, one supported between the other two. ‘Running like whipped curs, brothers? Is that how the warriors of the Star-Hunt act?’
‘It is when we’re the ones being hunted,’ one of the Space Marines said matter-of-factly. ‘We were regrouping, with haste.’ He had lost his helmet, and the scars on his face stood out against his soot-blackened flesh, as did the gleaming metal campaign studs that lined the side of his skull. He carried a power glaive loosely in his free hand, and by its condition, it had seen much use.
‘We do not need to regroup,’ Jebe said. ‘The Khagan once said, “Be the centre of every engagement, and victory will come on wings of smoke and wind.”’
‘We were being the centre,’ the other White Scar said. He jerked his head in the direction they’d been going. He carried a battered bolter, its sling wrapped tight around his forearm. Polished bones and golden bells dangled from cords threaded through holes punched in his gorget. ‘We were just going to be it over there, behind cover.’
Jebe made to argue the point, when an energy burst skidded across his shoulder plate. He whirled about and saw the pathfinders approaching through the flames and smoke. The heavy shape of a large, cylindrical drone floated above them, its weapons oscillating. He looked back at the others. ‘Over there, you say?’
Cemakar bit back a groan as Tolui pried the fang of burnt metal out of his belly. Blood pumped around the wound and then quickly began to coagulate. Cemakar resisted the urge to touch it and said, ‘How bad, boy?’
‘Remember when that genestealer bit you?’
‘Vividly,’ Cemakar said. They were hunkered behind a section of wreckage from the Razorback. Tolui had managed to angle the vehicle at the last moment so that the blast had struck its side, rather than its front, sparing them the worst of it. Even so, the blast had been strong enough to tear the Razorback apart and knock what was left off the ridge and down the slope. Flames crackled nearby, and the falling snow turned to steam before it reached the ground thanks to the heat radiating from the wreckage.
‘Worse than that,’ Tolui said. ‘Do you feel like you’re dying?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Cemakar said. He levered himself up onto his elbows. ‘How many survived?’ He could hear bolter fire above them, and the comm-bead in his ear crackled. Someone was still fighting. That meant they had a chance, however slight.
‘Enough to make them wish they’d killed us all, first pass,’ Tolui said. His helm was dented and scorched free of paint, and one of his eye-lenses was cracked. From the smell, Cemakar suspected that the helmet had been melted to his driver’s face. Tolui gave no sign that he was in pain, and Cemakar decided not to ask. Tolui had never been what one could call attractive anyway. ‘I salvaged the portable vox-unit.’ He hefted the boxy communications pack.
‘Good. Keep at it,’ Cemakar grunted, as he grabbed hold of the smouldering wreckage and began to pull himself to his feet. Pain rippled through him, but he pushed it down. Pain was just a reminder that he still had a job to do. When it stopped, well, that was when it stopped mattering. ‘I’ll buy you what grace I can.’
Tolui grabbed him. ‘Given that my legs still work, what say I lead the dance old man?’
‘My legs still work,’ Cemakar spat. ‘Besides, I hate those things. I can never get them to work.’ He gestured plaintively. ‘Give me a bolter, or a knife or… something. Anything,’ he said. He tasted blood and hawked a gobbet of something dark onto the ground. Tolui handed him the vox-unit. Cemakar sighed and slid back down. ‘Fine,’ he grunted. He glared at Tolui. ‘If I survive this, I’ll have your skull mounted on my bike.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Tolui said. He rose into a crouch. ‘I’ll be back directly.’
‘Take your time,’ Cemakar said. ‘I’ll just beat any enemies who come along to death with this hunk of uselessness.’ He patted the vox-unit.
He watched Tolui creep through the smoke and then looked at the vox-unit. It squawked at him and he grimaced. ‘Where are you Khwarezmian? Never around when your brothers need you,’ he growled. He fumbled with the device, trying to pick up a frequency. They were still being jammed. The tau had done a good job. He leaned his head back, his mind suddenly awash with pain. Space Marines were built to die slowly, by increments, rather than all at once. It was unseemly to go too quickly into the howling dark.
After all, if you died too quickly, the
tech-brothers couldn’t cram you into one of their boxes. He shuddered slightly, thinking of the Ghost Warriors. Being interred in the sarcophagus of a Dreadnought was at once a high honour, reserved for only the mightiest warriors, and a fate that no White Scar would wish on a brother of the ordu. To never feel the wind or the thrum of engines again was a horrifying thing.
He looked around him, taking in the wreckage. A wave of sadness washed over him. As an aspirant, he had hoped to be called to the harness and hydraulics of the tech-brothers, to commune with the machine-spirits. Instead, he had taken another path. But in his twilight, he had been allowed to move as he wished, and he had become a master of tanks. The purr of the great engines had been his balm and as welcome as the voices of old friends. He had ridden with them into battle after battle; they were as close to him as any hunt-brother. He touched a chunk of twisted metal.
‘I am sorry, my friend,’ he muttered. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, a shadow had fallen over him. He looked up. The battlesuit loomed over him, like death incarnate, stinking of spilled fuel and burning metal. How had it got so close without him hearing it? The lens in the centre of its square head whirred and clicked as it focused on him. Cemakar eyed it, and hefted the vox-unit in a considering fashion. Then, with a grunt, he tossed the device aside. He looked up at the battlesuit. ‘Well? I haven’t got all day,’ he said.
The battlesuit raised the cannon-like weapon that occupied its left arm, and he heard the sound of it cycling up to fire. He spat again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He waited. The construct hesitated, as if listening to some voice only it could hear. It began to lower its weapon. A chill coursed through Cemakar’s heart as he caught sight of the slowly advancing tau warriors, moving towards him from below, weapons at the ready. Not death, then, but captivity. ‘Oh that won’t do,’ he muttered, marshalling what remained of his strength. For a White Scar, captivity might as well have been death. If you couldn’t get free, you died in the attempt. He began to push himself to his feet. The tau paused, startled by his sudden movement.