Manflayer - Josh Reynolds

Home > Other > Manflayer - Josh Reynolds > Page 38
Manflayer - Josh Reynolds Page 38

by Warhammer 40K


  Ichor spurted from the grille of its mask as it sank down, clutching at itself. She gave it no chance to recover. A second blow snapped its neck. Panting, she turned. Her display fuzzed, auto-senses confused by the toxins blanketing the air. She could hear boltguns and the vox was a riot of voices, but the handful of warriors who’d accompanied her were dead or as good as. It was time to fall back.

  ‘Bellephus – can you hear me?’

  ‘I am here,’ he growled. ‘Status?’

  ‘The apothecarium is compromised. Meet me with as many of the Twelfth as you can find. We need to–’

  Blast-pistols thundered, interrupting her. She turned as the energy scorched her armour. Targeting runes flickered, settling over the shapes of several wracks moving cautiously down the narrow corridor. She grinned and launched herself towards them, moving with mercurial speed. Her first blow smashed one from its feet, and sent it flying back down the corridor. Her second and third broke the last of them, and left a tangle of xenos bodies at her feet.

  ‘Weaklings,’ she spat.

  A strange hum pierced the silence. An insect shape hove into view at the opening of the corridor. It was a bloated thing, a war engine of some sort, but organic as well. An array of blades, manipulators and the like dangled from its clattering gauntlets, and a tail-like appendage rose over its back, with a sting in the form of a pair of splinter cannons. She’d heard of such things before – pain engines, some called them. It surged towards her with an eager hum, splinter cannons chewing the walls and floor of the corridor.

  She retreated before it, not wishing to risk the sheer volume of firepower. It surged after her, more quickly than she’d anticipated. It slammed into her with the force of a runaway battle tank, sending her hurtling back down the corridor.

  As she struggled to her feet, the pain engine reared over her, blades flashing. It made an eager mewling sound, and she groped desperately for her maul. Serrated blades glanced off her armour as she twisted aside.

  A silver blur interrupted it. The pain engine swung away with a scream as a power axe was embedded in its skull. Quin appeared a moment later, heavy armour grinding as he charged full tilt into the engine, slamming it against the wall.

  ‘Up, woman,’ he roared. ‘I cannot hold it for long.’

  As she scrambled to her feet, he ripped his axe free of the pain engine’s cranium. It knocked him sprawling with a thunderous clang, and its splinter cannons opened up. He staggered to one knee as the volley washed over him. Quin roared as his battered armour sparked and tried to get to his feet.

  Awkwardly, he slammed his axe into its armoured cranium again. It wobbled, and she slammed her maul down, battering its rounded shell. Caught by the narrowness of the corridor, it tried to turn, screeching and slashing wildly. She caught hold of a loose hose and hauled herself onto its carapace.

  ‘Keep it occupied,’ she shouted.

  ‘What?’ Quin demanded, parrying a blow from the pain engine’s bladed limb. ‘Are you mad? Get down from there and fall back.’

  Savona ignored him. Raising her maul in both hands, she drove it down like a spear. The thick armour cracked and split, disgorging stinking effluvia. The engine shrilled in what might have been pain, and drove Quin back against the wall, hard enough to stun him. It whipped back and forth wildly, trying to dislodge her. As it thrashed, she spied a bulging tumour of ganglia and neural fibres clumped along its stumpy neck. Without thinking, she plunged her free hand into the mass and tore it loose. A juddering spasm ran through the beast and it sank down in a pitiful heap. She fell from its back as it went still.

  Panting, she rose. Behind her, she heard a creak. She turned, and the pain engine lurched up with a screech. It struck her – hard. She crashed against the wall and fell. She felt something give inside her, and cried out in anger and frustration.

  ‘What does it take to put this damned thing down?’ she howled, as the engine scrabbled towards her.

  The roar of boltguns was loud in the corridor. Dozens of shots struck the creature, and it slumped once more, dead at last. Through the smoke, Savona saw Bellephus, Varex and several other warriors approaching.

  ‘It is time to leave, my lady,’ Bellephus said as he eyed Quin.

  ‘What?’ Savona shook her head, trying to clear the blood from her eyes.

  ‘I took the liberty of preparing Butcher-Bird. I’ve already called for a tactical withdrawal on the Twelfth’s vox-channel. Anyone still alive will meet us in orbit.’

  ‘What about the others?’ Savona asked, without thinking.

  ‘They are not of the Twelfth,’ Bellephus said simply.

  Savona looked at Quin. ‘And you?’

  ‘As you said, I have spent too long hiding away.’ He looked down at his axe. ‘I am ready for something new, I think.’ He looked at her. ‘Something interesting.’

  Savona laughed harshly and turned. There was a transit shaft nearby. It would take them where they needed to go. ‘No worries on that score. Come. Let us leave the lieutenant commander to his glorious defeat.’

  She laid her maul across her shoulder.

  ‘It is time we chart our own course.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Last Stand

  ‘They are fleeing – cowards,’ Salar said, pounding the rail of the raider. ‘Even as I said.’ He turned. ‘All power to the forward thrusters – I want the corpses of every one of those mon-keigh hanging from our prow by day’s end!’

  ‘That would severely overbalance us,’ Kysh said, without thinking. He closed his eyes as the words left his mouth, but could still feel Salar’s unwavering stare. ‘Oh. It was a…’

  ‘Figure of speech, yes,’ Salar said. ‘Remind me – why haven’t I killed you yet?’

  ‘Luck?’

  ‘The bad thing about luck, Kysh, is that it eventually runs out.’

  ‘I will keep that in mind, my lord.’ Kysh cracked an eye. Salar had already turned away. Kysh sighed in relief. He turned back to his sensors.

  The mon-keigh were evacuating. Trawlers and aircraft were carrying them through a webway node situated far outside the city. Salar, with the keen eye of a predator, had spotted the evacuation effort immediately, taken every raider that could be spared and gone hunting. Now they were arrowing towards the shimmering gate and the lines of evacuees crossing through it.

  ‘There’s something almost offensive about it, isn’t there?’ Salar said, one hand on his sword. ‘Mon-keigh, using our technology.’

  ‘Very offensive, my lord. We shall punish them most strongly.’

  Salar’s reply was lost in an ear-splitting shriek. A nearby raider was enveloped in flames. Salar cursed.

  ‘More speed, damn you. They can’t hit all of us!’

  Privately, Kysh thought they were doing a good job of it. The enemy – he hesitated to call them mon-keigh – were bloated things, their armour painted in garish hues and their weapons unlike anything he had ever seen. Sonic energy danced through the air in a stomach-churning gavotte. Anything it touched was reduced to fiery motes.

  The sonic weapons had accounted for several raiders as well as their crews, but there was only a handful of the hulking warriors and Salar had many, many raiders. So far, they were winning on numbers. The enemy were scattered, defending the gate. But they were fighting as individuals rather than as a unit, and that made them easy to pick off or evade. As Kysh watched, one of them was caught in a crossfire and fell with a despairing shriek.

  Kysh yelped as a glancing shot took out one of their control ports. Salar bellowed curses at the unfortunate helmsman as their raider veered towards the webway node and slammed prow first into the parched earth. Kysh was nearly hurled over the rail.

  Smoke boiled from the side of the raider, and something was burning. Before Kysh could ask for orders, Salar was vaulting over the rail.

  ‘Follow me, fools
! There’s death and plunder to be had,’ he howled.

  Kysh shook his head and looked at the others. ‘You heard the archon! Follow him!’

  It was an old tactic. If your raider went down, you hoped that another one would swing by. And the best way to make sure of that was to head towards the prey. Salar was a traditionalist, if nothing else.

  They moved in a dispersed formation, using the rubble that littered the ground for cover. The enemy were preoccupied with the remaining raiders. They wouldn’t notice Salar until it was too late. The mon-keigh were scattering, seeking cover. Those that found it fired at the approaching kabalite warriors, and Kysh allowed himself a moment of admiration for their prey. They were brave, at least. Breaking brave prey was always more satisfying.

  Salar had drawn his sword and was muttering to himself. Kysh didn’t like his archon’s choice of blade. A weapon that spoke wasn’t really a weapon to be trusted, in his opinion. Then, suddenly, Salar stopped. Kysh froze and the others did the same at Salar’s gesture.

  A massive figure stood between them and their prey. He was bigger than the others, his armour more garish than anything they’d yet seen. It was studded in odd protrusions and additions – things like broadcasters or amplifiers. The air throbbed around him with painful intensity.

  ‘No further,’ the giant said. His voice reverberated in a way that made Kysh’s marrow turn to water.

  Salar laughed. ‘I’ve been looking forward to killing another one of you. You’re not the one I was hoping for, but you’ll do.’ He darted forward, blade singing out.

  The giant raised his hands. The air convulsed.

  An instant later, the djin blade screamed as it shattered. Salar’s shocked curse was cut short as a pulse of solid sound struck him and reduced him to a red smear on the air. It was over in moments. A short, sharp death-song.

  ‘I am Ramos,’ the giant rumbled. ‘Bull of the Eighth. I shattered Lugganath with my song, little aeldari. What do you imagine I will do to you?’

  Kysh wiped what was left of Salar from his face. He glanced at the others, who met his gaze expectantly. He was in charge now, it seemed. After a moment’s calculation, he looked back at the giant.

  ‘Understood,’ he said, in badly accented Low Gothic. He turned and gestured. ‘Back to the raiders. It’s time to leave.’

  ‘What? But–’ a warrior began.

  Kysh shot him.

  ‘I said, back to the raiders. Anyone who doesn’t want to leave, feel free to stay.’ He paused. ‘You will be missed, and your share of the plunder will be divided among the rest of us.’ Then he continued on his way.

  Slowly, one by one, the others followed.

  When the first blast struck the hatch, he nearly ordered the few remaining mutants to pick up their weapons. Instead, he gestured to the secondary hatch across the chamber.

  ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Your service is at an end.’

  They hesitated, uncertain. He hefted Torment and slammed the sceptre down on a cogitator, flattening the machine.

  ‘I said, go.’

  They went, swiftly. Fabius sealed the hatch behind them, destroying the control pad. He doubted they would escape the city. But this way, they had a chance. A second blast rattled the hatch in its frame. The vox crackled.

  ‘Lieutenant commander.’

  ‘Ramos,’ Fabius said. ‘Report.’

  ‘Evacuation complete. The last of them have passed through.’

  ‘Igori? Mayshana?’

  Silence. Then, ‘We have not seen them.’

  He closed his eyes. ‘Can you hold the gate?’

  ‘I think that is within our capabilities.’ Ramos sounded almost amused.

  ‘Do so. An hour more. If you cannot hold – then seal it.’ He deactivated the vox as a third and final blast tore the hatch from its housing. A pall of smoke billowed in.

  Fabius went for his needler. A blast-pistol spoke, and he found himself flung backwards into a bank of machinery. He collapsed onto his hands and knees, wheezing. His armour had held – though only because the weapon had been on low power. Smoke rose from his scorched chestplate and burnt coat. He’d lost his needler, and Torment lay out of reach.

  ‘Well. Here we are again.’

  Fabius looked up. Hexachires was surrounded by his slave-assistants, and accompanied by several of his fellow haemonculi. Fabius recognised none of them.

  ‘Hello, Hexachires. Was that you knocking earlier? I was distracted, forgive me.’ He made to stand, but froze as drukhari warriors filed into the chamber behind the haemonculus. One, a female with a jewelled monocle over one eye, held a blast-pistol aimed at his skull.

  ‘No, no, Fabius, don’t get up,’ Hexachires said. He clasped his hands together in pleasure. ‘Oh, this takes me back. You on your knees, me standing over you, your punishment yet to be decided. Almost makes one nostalgic.’

  ‘I am not prone to that particular illness.’

  ‘Oleander says different. Don’t you, Oleander?’ Hexachires turned and gestured. ‘Now don’t be shy. Come out where he can see you.’

  Fabius watched in bemusement as a broken, hunched figure crept out from within the crowd of xenos. He did not recognise the being before him, but said, ‘I see the Harlequins did not kill you, Oleander.’

  ‘No,’ Oleander said, his voice a harsh rasp.

  Fabius shook his head and pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the weapons trained on him. ‘There’s a story here, I suspect. Sadly, I do not think I have time for it.’

  ‘Oh, there’ll be plenty of time for reminiscing later, on the way back to Commorragh.’ Hexachires smiled down at Fabius. ‘We have so much to talk about, you and I. Including a recent discovery of mine.’ He snapped his fingers, and the crowd of drukhari parted, allowing a grotesque to lumber forward. In its heavy claws, it clutched a sheath of shimmering crystal. And inside that sheath…

  ‘Melusine,’ Fabius said.

  ‘So you do know her. How exciting. Oh, Fabius, what have you been up to?’ Hexachires laughed delightedly. ‘A daemon-child. Truly a marvel. I cannot tell you how excited I am to dissect her in front of you. The thought of it gives me chills.’

  Fabius looked down. Things were moving too fast. He had anticipated none of this. But it was too late to change anything. He met Melusine’s gaze, but her eyes gave nothing away. She seemed almost… serene. He shook his head.

  ‘You always did get ahead of yourself, Hexachires.’

  ‘Now, now, don’t be a sore loser, Fabius. You’ve made a good effort, but I caught you fair and square.’ He turned to his wracks. ‘Take him.’

  ‘Wait,’ Fabius said.

  Sensing something in his tone, Hexachires held up a hand. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You should know… I took a page from your notes,’ Fabius said. ‘After our last encounter, I decided to ensure any future confrontation would be solidly in my favour.’

  ‘What are you gibbering about?’ Hexachires stiffened as Fabius’ words sank in. ‘A bomb?’ he asked. ‘Really, Fabius, do you expect me to believe…’

  Fabius laughed. ‘Not just a bomb. Something much worse.’

  ‘Another virus, then.’

  Fabius smiled. ‘Of sorts. An artificial bacterium, derived from a parting gift of yours.’ He reached into his coat and pulled out a sample jar. ‘Recognise this?’

  Hexachires looked at the other haemonculi. ‘Should I?’

  Fabius laughed. ‘I shall never fathom how a being so utterly lacking in curiosity can be so clever.’ He hauled himself fully upright. ‘In our last encounter, I was shot by a hexrifle. Luckily, I was prepared for such an eventuality. Can you say the same?’

  Hexachires laughed. ‘The Glass Plague? Are you seriously threatening us with that?’ He looked around. ‘Where is your delivery system?’

  Fabius smiled grimly and tapped his ch
est. ‘My death – or removal from this world – will activate the explosive devices situated throughout this facility. A mixture of plasma and phosphex detonators. A modified form of the plague will subsequently be released.’

  Hexachires shook his head. ‘We will be gone by then…’

  ‘Perhaps, so long as your citadel remains inviolate. Only your citadel – the citadel I built for you – is here, isn’t it?’

  Hexachires stiffened. ‘Madness.’

  ‘Genius,’ Fabius snarled. He coughed and clutched at his chest. It felt as if the impact of the blast had shaken something loose in him. ‘Mighty though that leviathan is, it is still made of meat. And the plague will take it as surely as it will take you. There will be nowhere to hide. Not for you, or any who followed you here.’

  He paused, making a show of listening. ‘Wait – do you hear? It sounds like a new player has entered the game.’ The crash of cymbals and the cackle of daemonic laughter echoed through the entry hatch. Fabius’ smile widened.

  Hexachires silenced the sudden babble with a sharp gesture. ‘Your confidence comes perilously close to hubris, Fabius,’ he said. ‘I think you are bluffing. If you had such a weapon, why not activate it immediately?’

  Fabius bowed his head, struggling to catch his breath. He could feel his hearts flagging, and his limbs felt heavy. ‘I am going to die here. But I will not pass into history unaccompanied, Hexachires.’ He looked up, fixing Hexachires with a feverish glare. ‘This is my funeral pyre, and you are the dogs laid at my feet.’

  ‘We are at an impasse, then,’ Hexachires said, after a moment of silence.

  ‘Only if you are unimaginative,’ Fabius grunted. He wiped blood from his mouth and extended his hand. ‘I appear to be dying.’

  ‘And?’ Hexachires said. ‘I know you have other bodies. Ones I have not found.’

  ‘But they will not be me.’ Fabius tapped the side of his head. ‘This mind – this me – the me who… embarrassed you, will die here. Surely that is a moral victory, at least?’

 

‹ Prev