[Imperial Guard 04] - Desert raiders

by Lucien Soulban - (ebook by Undead)

  “Good news,” Turk said.

  “Maybe,” Toria said. “It’s a fair distance from here and I’m not sure the spring will yield much. I fear we may be wasting more water trying to get at it.”

  “Still, we have to try,” Turk replied.

  “No,” Nisri responded. “I agree with Captain Toria. Our resources are thin to begin with.”

  “I think we have enough breathing room,” Turk said.

  “What happens if the fleet doesn’t return when they’re supposed to and we squander our water?”

  “Exactly what happens if the fleet doesn’t return and we’ve squandered our water while waiting? We’ll have nothing. We should do this while we have the luxury to gamble.”

  “I do not gamble. We’ll search for another oasis, a larger one.”

  “And while we search, we lose precious time.”

  “Lieutenant-colonel,” Nisri said, his voice low to avoid drawing attention. “The matter is settled.” He turned to Hussari and Toria. “Find me another spring, something larger.”

  Turk rose to his feet, his face flushed. “Excuse me,” he said. He shot Toria an angry glance and walked away.

  Toria sighed under his breath and rose as well. “Am I dismissed, sir?” he asked Nisri. Nisri nodded. Somewhere nearby, people began playing small drum jars, and more men were clapping their hands in rhythm.

  “Locust?” Ballasra asked, holding out a cloth with small blue insects. “For an indigenous species, they’re quite flavourful.”

  Commissar Rezail and Tyrell Habass sat with a group of men. Two Guardsmen, older members of the unit, played clay drums and slapped the animal hide stretched over the drum’s hollow top. Four more men with bare feet, their puttees wrapped around their ankles and under their heels, wielded glittering scimitars etched with the tribal markings of the Banna. The dancers moved slowly around one another in a slow dance pantomime, while the rest of the men clapped their hands in time to the beat.

  “Literacy is not widespread on Tallarn,” Tyrell said. “Many tribes remember history through oral traditions, and battles are recounted in war dances.”

  Rezail nodded. “The Turenag were once part of the Banna Alliance, but then, something about the Orakle divided them?”

  “The Tallarn,” Tyrell said with a wistful smile, “are always hot-blooded, always fighting, except in their duty to the Emperor. We almost had a civil war. The two greatest alliances, the Doraha and the Makali, grew very angry with one another, and they threatened to draw their vassal tribes into the conflict. If that happened, then over half of Tallarn would still be in blood.”

  “But a psyker brokered the truce,” Rezail said. “Right?”

  “Yes. In his honour, the tribes created an Orakle of the Emperor, a supreme scholar who would speak the Emperor’s wisdom. Throughout the galaxy, he would merely be an astropath, but among my people, the greatest of the astropaths becomes the Orakle, a mouthpiece for the Emperor’s guidance through the holiest of bonds, the Soul Binding.”

  “You believe in the Orakle of the Emperor?”

  “Believe? No, but we respect his elected position. He is a man, no more, no less.”

  “But some Tallarn venerate him, don’t they?”

  “The same way you venerate your Living Saints. The Orakle is a conduit of the Emperor’s will, no more, no less.”

  “But the Turenag don’t see it that way. When the Banna tribe agreed to the creation of an Orakle of the Emperor, a few tribes split from them on religious principles.”

  “Yes, and they formed the heart of the Turenag tribe. Then others joined, all of them believing the Orakle is a false idol. The Turenag and Banna have been quarrelling ever since.”

  Rezail nodded, and continued watching the war dancers. He was exhausted, his mind still throbbing from the heat. He could have slept where he sat, but there were far too many unanswered questions.

  “Tell be about the Orakle… the one that was murdered.”

  “One hundred years ago,” Tyrell said, whispering, “the Orakle of the Emperor was chosen from the Banna, the first of them to receive that honour. He was a strong man, beloved, and a son to all Banna. But the Turenag alliance not only refused to recognise him, they said he was warp spawn… corrupted. The Turenag sent assassins after him and killed the Orakle. It was a blow against all Banna. They retaliated, slaughtering entire tribes of Turenag in vengeance, and the Turenag retaliated in turn. At first, the war was only between Turenag and Banna, but then Banna raiders attacked and supposedly killed a village belonging to Doraha.”

  “Supposedly?”

  “It was never proven. Some say it was Turenag posing as Banna, to gain more allies. Some say the Doraha were already helping the Turenag, and the Banna retaliated.”

  “So, how did the Commissariat become involved?”

  “My tribe, the Hawadi, it was our suggestion.”

  “You suggested the Commissariat mediate the matter?” Rezail said. He was surprised. Most people feared the Commissariat and its rulings, for the fate of worlds often hung in their decisions.

  “Tallarn worlds were on the verge of civil war. There was much fighting, much murder, far too much. Even the Hawadi could not bring peace. The only thing the two tribes respected was the sovereignty of the Aba Aba Mushira. The Commissariat served the Emperor as men of war, not men of religion.”

  “I see,” Rezail said. “So you gambled. You thought that if the Commissariat ruled, then both sides would be forced to submit to the ruling.”

  “Yes, but the Commissariat remained neutral. They executed the agitators on both sides and issued a Writ Nonculpis for the surviving Banna and Turenag, saying the matter was settled.”

  “Not the answer you hoped for.”

  “No.”

  “Even if the judgement had put an entire tribal alliance to the flame?”

  “Better an alliance than the planet. Both Banna and Turenag so believed they were right that they were willing to risk Exterminatus. The Commissariat was very clear, though, saying that the Writ Nonculpis was to stop the fighting. There was to be no more civil war; but the fighting remained, hidden, but there.”

  “Aren’t they disobeying the Commissariat?”

  “It’s like the promise of salt, commissar. The Writ Nonculpis does not make men honest.”

  “I see your point,” Rezail said, watching the dancers swing their blades with poetic grace. “I see your point.”

  8

  Turk stood atop the battlement, the fire at his back, and watched the stars. He tried to pretend he was home again, staring at familiar skies, but the self-deception wouldn’t hold. This sky was too perfect, too unblemished, to pass for Tallarn’s polluted vistas. It was beautiful, but he could sense its strangeness. None of the stars called to him as old friends.

  At the very least, it dampened the sour knot in his stomach. Turk was argumentative to begin with, he knew that, and he enjoyed the respect that occasionally accompanied his position. Nisri, however, seemed determined to undercut him, to remind him that his voice held no sway in decisions. It was expected given the bloodshed between the two alliances, and while Turk could justify and reason through his situation, the fact that he was raised to despise the Turenag coloured his views. The thought of being subordinate to Nisri, a hated enemy, gnawed at him.

  “It’s not home, is it?” a woman’s voice asked. “Not quite?”

  Turk turned to find Kamala Noore walking up the duckboard ramp that led to his ledge. A chill ran down Turk’s spine… had she read his mind? Could she do that without him ever knowing?

  “I’m not reading your thoughts,” she said quietly. “Your face, however….”

  “I apologise.”

  “I don’t need an apology,” she said. “I’m used to the reactions. But some company, I’d like that.” Turk hesitated.

  “We don’t have to talk, I promise. Just let me enjoy your company. I’m tired of hiding in my tent.”

  Turk nodded and went back to studyin
g the stars. He could almost feel Kamala sighing, her body relaxing. She was beautiful, he knew, but she caught him staring before he could look away. “The Turenag,” he stammered. “How do they—”

  “You don’t have to make conversation for my benefit,” she said, blushing.

  “I want to know,” Turk said, facing her. “Do the Turenag treat you fairly?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I am a vessel through which corruption flows.” She turned to Turk. “How do I explain this? Ah… do you know the Turenag are so absolute in their faith that they possess no images of the Emperor? To paint him, sculpt him, or illustrate him in anything but words is to worship the image and not the power. To record his image is to deny his boundless nature. Omniscience, omnipresence, they cannot be recorded, and to do so is to imply that the Emperor has limits. It is the Turenag mark of absolute humility and absolute submission.”

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “The Turenag decided that to suggest that our power makes us greater than anyone else is also to suggest that we are closer to the Emperor in power. That implies that we are somehow closer to He that cannot be qualified. We become a point of definition, and you can’t have that in respect to the Emperor.”

  “I can see why that can be confusing. Perhaps if you read their minds,” Turk said, straight-faced, “then it would make more sense.”

  Kamala laughed. “A joke, lieutenant-colonel, thank you.”

  Turk shrugged, a modest smile on his lips.

  “But no,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to read a Turenag’s mind. Some tribes murder their baby daughters, and I know they kill psyker children when they have a chance.”

  “How did you escape?” Turk asked.

  “The Inquisition’s Black Ships found me first. I returned to my tribe when they drew up the regiment. I was battle-trained by then and more than capable of defending myself.”

  “Indeed,” Turk said. It was easy to stare into her black eyes and forget her power. Despite himself, Turk found he was swimming in her gaze, and she in his. It was a pleasant distraction from the road that he knew lay ahead.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “As the passage narrows, there is no brother, there is no friend.”

  —The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault

  1

  Day Seventy-Three

  “You think they forgot about us?”

  Sergeant Ballasra knelt down and checked the tracks again: more of Khadar’s indigenous rats, but a large pack this time.

  “The commissar lashed another five men. It’s getting worse at the camp.”

  Ballasra sighed and ignored the nattering Guardsman keeping him company in the open desert. He examined the tracks. There were at least eight different indents in the ground, the only indication of direction, a spray of sand from where their feet kicked back as they moved. He followed the tracks, and spotted them walking up the slope of a distant dune. They were too far away to determine their numbers.

  “And water,” the Guardsman moaned. “What I wouldn’t give to fill my bladder with water.”

  Ballasra motioned to Private Ignar Chalfous to join him. Chalfous pulled the two dromads by their reins and approached. They bayed and snapped their hooked beaks in displeasure.

  “More of the rats?” Chalfous sighed. “I’m tired of the rats.”

  Ballasra scowled at the young soldier. “No, young idiot. We’re not hunting these rats for food.”

  “So why are we following them?”

  Ballasra turned to the younger soldier and shook his head. “You’re from the city, aren’t you, boy?”

  “Yes. Dasra City in—”

  “Yes, yes, fascinating. What do the rats eat? What do they drink?”

  “Well, I assume, food and water,” Chalfous said, laughing at his own cunning. Ballasra simply nodded and waited for him to finish the thought.

  “Oh!” Chalfous said, finally understanding. “You’re following them to see if they lead you to water or scrub.”

  Ballasra shook his head. “Your parents must cry themselves to sleep every night,” he muttered.

  “Pardon?” Chalfous asked.

  “We’d best follow them before night comes,” Ballasra replied, shouldering his lasrifle.

  2

  Kortan studied the officers as he offered his report. Nobody smiled, and Kortan knew better than to bring levity to the moment. Everyone appeared on edge and dangerously quiet, trapped in their own thoughts. He noticed a few angry glances being tossed about… they were losing patience. The last two months had taken their toll, and they were looking for someone to pay.

  “We’re not much better off than before,” Kortan replied. “We’re down to a week of food and two of water.”

  “Water reclamation?” Nisri asked, his gaze fixed on the grey washed wall of the single storey command bunker. Most of the equipment had been turned off, with the exception of a vox and a single auspex device. It was dark, the lights turned off to conserve energy.

  “The solar stills are only collecting eighty quarts a day. That’s twenty gallons, enough drink for twenty men, forty with rationing,” Kortan said.

  “Is someone pilfering water?” Nisri said, exasperated.

  “No sir.”

  “Then how is this possible?” Nisri barked. “We’ve built over two hundred solar stills. That’s—” Nisri struggled, trying to think through the maths; he, like everyone else, however, was dehydrated and unfocused.

  “Two hundred quarts, fifty gallons,” Turk said impatiently.

  “I know,” Nisri said. “Don’t interrupt me again.” Turk mumbled something, his face marred by an ugly scowl.

  “What was that?” Nisri said. He looked predatory, dangerous.

  “I said,” Turk replied slowly, “we wouldn’t be in this predicament had you listened to me two months ago.”

  “This again!” Nisri said. “You would have had us wasting precious resources trying to get at water that might not even be there. Instead of running out of water in two weeks, we’d be dying of dehydration now, all to suit your pride.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Turk responded. “If you want me to agree with your decision, then you’d better make it an order. Until then, you made a mistake. You decided that cutting my authority was worth more than following a valid suggestion. And now, we might be months away from dehydration, not weeks!”

  “On my father’s blood, lieutenant-colonel, you will keep your mouth shut or I will shoot you for insubordination.”

  “Your father’s blood,” Turk said, sneering. “The same coward who raped and murdered the women of my tribe?”

  It was an instant flashpoint, the room moving from stunned silence into heated action. Nisri and Turk drew their weapons simultaneously. Men kicked over chairs as they reached for scimitars and guns. Nubis and the other Banna officers stood in front of Turk, while Nisri’s men guarded him. Bolters and laspistols were pointing in both directions. Kortan did his best to shrink into the wall. He didn’t want to take sides.

  The room was quiet for a moment, filled only with ragged breathing and angry glares. Knuckles whitened, and fingers slowly pressed on their triggers.

  A pair of las-shots punctured the silence.

  Commissar Rezail and Tyrell stood their ground, each one pointing a laspistol at one of the groups in the command bunker. They had everyone’s attention, the two holes punched into the far wall still smoking.

  “Enough!” Rezail said. His voice was a snarl, perfectly controlled and modulated, as per the Schola Progenium lessons on speech-craft and intimidation. It was enough to keep everyone’s attention on him. The angry stares did not diminish, but he could see realisation slowly creep into their expressions. They were on the edge of a precipice. They knew that, but they didn’t know how to back away from it.

  Rezail finally understood that the purpose of the Hawadi tribe wasn’t just to mediate. It was to offer both parties an exit from their predicament without losing face. The Tal
larn were too proud for their own good. They dug themselves into deep holes without thinking, and then relied on the Hawadi, or someone else, to defuse the matter without appearing the fools.

  What the two factions needed right now, Rezail realised, was a greater concern. If they really wanted to fight, there was little he could do to stop them from pulling the triggers. But, until then, he could offer them a greater threat: himself.

  “All of you, out!” Rezail barked. “One word of this to the men, one more outburst, and I will execute you like dogs.”

  The Tallarn tribesmen hesitated, but eventually, they sheathed their weapons. Rezail and Tyrell, however, did not.

  “Colonel, lieutenant-colonel, you two stay,” Rezail said. He nodded to Tyrell to leave with the others.

  When the three men were finally alone, Rezail said, lightly tapping the pistol against his thigh, “Any other unit… any other unit, and I would have you both executed for that pitiful display of soldiery.”

  “Nobody insults my father,” Nisri began.

  “Both your fathers are dogs,” Rezail snapped, “and they should have mounted better mongrels than your mothers.”

  Both Nisri and Turk looked at the commissar aghast, their faces working through the insult.

  “Now that we’ve dispensed with the petty idiocies,” Rezail continued, “you will not interrupt me again. Make no mistake, gentlemen, we commissars have executed generals before now for dereliction of duty and gross incompetence. Rest assured, neither of you would be the first regimental officers that I’ve shot.”

  Nisri and Turk both bit their tongues, but some of the colour had certainly left their faces.

  “In this case, I choose not to plant a las-bolt in your collective skulls,” Rezail said, almost sneering at them. “I need you both to keep your mutts in check. If I shoot one of you, I might as well kill every member of your tribe, but, make no mistake, I brought enough clips for the task. Cross me once more, just once, and I swear your men will suffer the consequences of your pitiful leadership.”