by Cavan Scott
Death Mask
Cavan Scott
Storm clouds were forming around Hive Vinter, blocking the light from Sanctus. Guard Captain Holt shivered despite the oppressive heat. His scowl intensified as the first drops of acidic rain started to fall, sizzling against his mottled green carapace armour.
The larger of the two cyber-mastiffs he held by heavy chains growled as the downpour started in earnest. Wisps of steam rose from the implants visible through old fighting scars in what was left of its flesh. It had fared better than its brother, a smaller but still impressive hound almost completely covered in metal plates. The pair slunk ahead of Holt as he patrolled the defensive wall, glaring out with glowing, amber eyes. No one dared argue with Holt while his two pets were on their leash.
And when he let them go… well, you’d better start running.
All around, his men were hunkering down behind their weapons, lasguns and autocannons aimed at every possible exit of the hive. None of them complained about the stinging rain even as it raised angry welts on any patch of skin that was exposed to the elements. They wouldn’t dare. They had a job to do and their orders were clear.
They had been here two weeks now, holed up behind the defensive perimeter that had been erected around the hive. Ten-foot walls, topped with gun stations and sentry points. How many times had he walked the gantry around the cordon, gazing at the hive itself? How many days watching that strange green mould creeping from every joint, as if the building itself was decaying? Like meat gone bad.
He could almost taste the rot. Throne knew what it was doing to their lungs, breathing in that stench day after day. But here they would remain, until the job was done. Until they’d fulfilled the orders Holt had been given.
No one was getting out of that hive alive.
As if to question his resolve, a sharp crack drowned out the steady hiss of the falling rain. The cyber-mastiffs reacted with a frenzy of barks as Holt twisted around, careful not to slip on the nowslick walkway. Acrid smoke plumed from the mine that had detonated in the middle of the no-man’s-land that surrounded the base of the hive, indistinguishable shadows moving through the dense fog. Another blast followed, just metres from the first, sending more debris high into the air.
‘Runners, sir,’ the sergeant nearest Holt reported, never looking up from his rifle sights.
‘Wait for a target, Sergeant Lang,’ Holt ordered.
That was easier said than done as more and more mines blew, one after another, shrouding the hive in thick mires of choking black smoke.
‘There,’ Lang barked, his lasgun shifting as the smoke started to lift. A bloodied man floundered in the roiled earth. He was missing an arm, his clothes reduced to rags. Holt raised his laspistol and fired, putting the poor soul out of his misery. His body slapped into the mud.
‘Good shot, sir,’ the sergeant said, as the mastiffs threatened to pull Holt over in their haste to get to the others that were now staggering forward. These few had survived the first wave of mines, a mixture of fear and relief on their faces as they hurried towards the cordon occupied by Holt and his men. Some were crying, others were shouting, yelling for the Guardsmen to hold their fire. When he was younger, less experienced, Holt may have listened to their pleas.
But time and experience had taken their toll. Now he barely heard the cries for mercy.
‘Shoot to kill,’ Holt bellowed and his Guardsmen obeyed the order without question, lasguns shrieking louder than the citizens they were slaughtering.
There was every chance they were innocent; sheep driven across the minefield. But their loss was acceptable if it meant keeping the heretics festering inside their traitorous hive. One by one they fell before any more mines could be trampled, clearing the way for the real threat.
‘And here they are, the unholy scum,’ sneered Holt as the first shots rang out from the hive doors. Without the need for another order, his men shifted their aim away from the last hopeless stragglers to the cultists that were now streaming from the hive.
The mastiffs were desperate to be freed, to sink their metallic teeth into the wretches, but Holt kept them firmly on the leash, watching as the first fatalities tumbled to the ground. Victory for the Ninth Jensen Regiment was assured; there was no way the cultists could withstand the full force of his men’s guns. He could almost hear the praise that would be lavished upon him from his superiors. His worth would be proved once and for all, his ticket away from this insignificant siege, payback for the two weeks stuck in the mud around this accursed hive. War was coming to Ghul Jensen. Everyone knew it, even if they didn’t know exactly what threat was racing towards the hive world. Holt had his suspicions and would be there, in the thick of it, for the glory of the Emperor – and himself.
A shell slammed into the defensive wall, forcing Holt to duck. What in the name of the Eye was that? Last time the cultists had tried to run the stockade, they had been armed with simple handguns, crude rifles at best. But this?
Another missile whistled through the air, taking out an entire section of the barbed wall. The screams of his own men joined the battle cries of the enemy, who were flowing onto the field now, more than Holt had expected.
The captain slapped his laspistol against his thigh, the magna-lock holding it in place as he retrieved a pair of field glasses. The grainy image zoomed in on the cultists and Holt cursed beneath his breath. On previous escape attempts, the cultists wore nothing than leathers and their savagely-tattooed hides. Not now. Now they were sporting hefty armour, twin-barrelled ripper guns spewing hot metal from their drums, and that wasn’t the worst of it. Behind this advanced guard, a trio of massive exoskeletons waded into the mud – crude yes, but intimidating all the same. They’d obviously started life as heavy-lifters for the hive’s manufactorums, designed to carry unwieldy parts on the production line, but the cultists had been busy. Armour plates were riveted across the chest cavities to protect the operators, flamers and missile launchers mounted on each pneumatic arm.
‘Man the autocannons,’ Holt screamed, shouting to be heard over the increasing barrage. ‘Fire!’
Within seconds the gun-turrets sounded, a thunder to rival the storm overhead and the last noise the cultists would ever hear. The exterminators carved through the advancing force, silencing at least some of the heretic’s weapons.
Some – but not enough.
For every armoured cultist the Guardsmen mowed down, two more were ready to take their place, each bearing arms more powerful than the last.
Holt’s mind raced. He had two options. Deactivate the rest of the minefield remotely and give the order for his men to surge forward, taking the battle to the enemy, or bring fire down on their very heads from above.
Holt’s scarred lips twisted into a smile as he barked into his vox. There was no contest.
‘Skyraptor, take them down.’
Guardsmen cheered as the sound of Skyraptor’s engines filled the air. The Vendetta gunship swung around Hive Vinter, spotlights illuminating targets on the ground for the twin-linked lascannons to send to the mud.
One of the exoskeleton-clad heretics swivelled towards the looming aircraft, its shoulder mounted missile-launcher zeroing in on the gunship’s cockpit.
Skyraptor’s pilot fired first, reducing the exoskeleton to scrap.
‘You’ve got your toys,’ Holt grinned, his laspistol kicking in his hand, ‘And I’ve got mine.’
The cultists didn’t know which way to attack. The Vendetta swooped low, blazing death, while Holt’s guards continued the barrage from behind the containment wall. The cultists were outgunned, plus they had made a fatal mistake showing their hand.
If they were manufactur
ing weapons such as these inside the hive, Holt thought, he may be able to persuade command to bring the entire building down. When the news of the uprising within Vinter first broke, defence forces were sent in. The battles were fierce, the cultists sacrificing themselves – and their prisoners – to defend their newly won territory. The decision had been made. Shut them in. Don’t let them pass. Let the cultists starve in the mouldering tower.
All it would take is a few well-placed missiles. Holt had made the recommendation before, only to be told it was a waste of resources.
‘Just keep the miscreants within Vinter’s walls, Holt. And remember your place for Throne’s sake.’
Better to defend the other hives. Better to keep watching the skies.
They’d been wrong and he would prove it.
The Vendetta’s engines whined as it came about for another sweep. The cultists were already breaking rank, running back for the exit. The sound of battle was incredible, almost drowning out the sergeant’s shout.
‘Sir, head’s up!’
Holt glanced up just in time to see something hurtling down from on high. Something large.
‘Incoming,’ the captain yelled, willing the Vendetta to bank out of the way. The pilot slew the gunship to the side, but not fast enough. The falling object smashed through the Vendetta’s port wing, sending the craft spiralling out of control., Skyraptor ploughed into the defensive wall, its lascannons still firing, a ball of flame blossoming into the rain.
Holt was thrown from his feet, his vox filled with the dying screams of his men.
‘What is it, sir?’ Lang asked, boggling at the steaming metal cocoon now half buried in the ground, metres away from Skyraptor’s burning wreck. As the cultist’s assault began anew, a hatch blew from the side of the pod, neatly taking out an armour-clad attacker. The sergeant’s face blanched behind his visor. ‘Could it be the Angels of Death, sir? Have they sent reinforcements?’
‘I don’t think so, sergeant,’ Holt replied, watching as another cultist rushed towards the pod, firing into its cramped quarters. The advance didn’t last long. A single shot from within downed the heretic, a haze of bone and brain matter exploding from the back of his head.
The captain was right. The figure that burst from the pod couldn’t have been more different to a Space Marine. Yes, it wore black armour, but it was as sleek as members of the Adeptus Astartes were imposing. It raced out of the pod, a heavily modified bolt pistol thundering in one hand, a power sword growling in the other – but it was the thing’s head that caused Holt to gape. It was completely encased in a bone-white death mask fashioned after a human skull, red eyes glowing above a grinning skeletal mouth.
‘Sir, what is it?’ the sergeant spluttered as the thing’s power sword neatly separated a cultist’s head from his shoulders.
‘A distraction,’ Holt replied, struggling to hold the mastiffs back, the hounds driven wild by the newcomer’s scent. They pulled on their chains, eager to get away, even as more cultists fell at the mysterious aggressor’s feet. ‘Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be here. Bring it down.’
‘But sir, the cultists–’ began Lang.
‘Bring them all down!’
Lang didn’t argue. Without another word he brought his lasrifle about and discharged a volley straight into the back of the macabre figure that was mowing down more cultists than Holt’s own men.
Not that it even seemed to notice. One of the armoured cultists lumbered forwards, swathing the skull-faced brute in promethium. The stranger disappeared beneath the flames, but still didn’t stop. It barrelled forward and slashed across the exo-skeleton’s rough chest-plates, opening the armour up in one solid strike. Whether the blade cut through the cultist’s flesh Holt couldn’t see, but even if the heretic survived the initial assault, the bolt lodged in his brain finished him once and for all.
The cultist toppled back, the weight of his exo-suit pulling him down. Even then, the death-bringer didn’t stop. It vaulted forward, planting a booted foot on the cultist’s chest, propelling itself through the air, still peppering the cultists with bolts as it leapt.
Autocannon shells were already churning the mud around its feet when it landed on the other side of the fallen exo-skeleton, a round finding its target and knocking the killer from its feet. The power sword flew from its grip, but the creature didn’t stay down. It rolled with the impact, springing back up to its feet as if it had just been stung by a wasp rather than hit with a shell that should by rights have ripped him in two. It continued running towards the open doors, not even pausing to slash at the tattooed cultist that stood in its path, opening the heretic’s inked cheek with the needle-like talons that extended from its empty hand.
So that was the real reason it was here. Not to aid the fight, but to get inside the hive. Not while Holt still had breath in his lungs.
‘Rend!’ the captain screamed at the mastiffs, finally loosening his grip on their restraints. The two hounds charged forwards, the chains flailing behind them, catching wounded cultists as they tore past. They covered the no-man’s-land in seconds, and yet incredibly – impossibly – the death-bringer seemed ready for them. Without even flinching, it turned, dispatching the first mastiff with a single clinical shot. Practiced. Fluid. Like an assassin from hell. Holt screamed in frustration as the beast’s corpse slid to a halt in the mud, the smaller of the two dogs threw itself at the assassin, ready to close servo-powered jaws around that fearsome grinning mask.
‘Rip his head off,’ Holt yelled, reaching for his magnoculars to witness the mauling – but as they focused, a strained gurgle emanated from the back of the captain’s throat.
‘No,’ he spat. ‘That’s not possible.’
The assassin was wrestling with the mastiff, holding the hound’s jaws open with its gloved hands. The claws he had seen carve open the cultist’s face were now embedded in the side of the dog’s face, the augmented animal’s body going into some kind of seizure.
With a sudden jolt, the assassin ripped the jaws apart, splitting the dog’s head open like a ripe fruit. With barely a shrug, he pushed himself free of the still twitching body and reached for his bolt pistol that had been thrown aside during the attack.
Screaming with rage, Holt charged for the nearest gun-turret, roughly shoving a guardsman out of the way to get to the controls. He swung the autocannon around, finding the assassin in the sights and fired. The rest of his men joined the assault, the Assassin struggling to get to his feet as round after round thundered home.
‘Die, won’t you?’ Holt howled as the gun-tower bucked. ‘Just di–’
As one, every remaining mine in no-man’s-land erupted, sending mud and body parts high into the air. In his fury, Holt hadn’t seen the embattled assassin press a stud set into its belt, didn’t hear the sudden shrill tone that was perfectly masked by the percussive rumble of the autocannon. He wasn’t even prepared as shrapnel peppered the containment wall, a sliver of metal slicing straight through his protective visor, carving its way into the soft jelly of his right eye.
The pain would come later. For now, he was pulling himself back up from where he had fallen, knocked back by the combined force of the blasts, blood pouring from burst ear-drums.
With his one good eye, Holt scanned the battlefield, searching for any sign of the stranger.
There was none. As the sergeant ran up to him, Holt slumped to the ground, shock finally taking hold. Whatever that thing was, it had entered the hive – and Emperor help anyone who got in its way.
High in the Spires of the hive, Governor Vinter coughed violently, blood splattering across the rich dark brown rug. He’d purchased it just months before. Genuine Carnadon pelt. The best gelts could buy. How he’d loved slipping off his boots and feeling its deep soft pile beneath his toes. So luxurious. So extravagant.
‘The lower levels would kill for a carpet like this,’ he’d joked to his
aide, pouring himself another glass of amasec.
It didn’t seem so funny anymore.
The governor had forgotten what it was like to be comfortable. He had no idea how long he’d been hanging from the wall of his chambers, nailed to the frame of his own official portrait, the cult leader’s idea of a sick joke. It could have been days, maybe weeks. Time had lost all sense of meaning. The memory of the heretic’s brutish face as the nails had been rammed home was all that was clear.
‘I don’t know much about art, governor but I know what I like.’
Why wouldn’t they just let him die?
Vinter tried to glower at the cult leader, rocking back and forth in front of the makeshift shrine he’d erected on the other side of the office. It was useless. The governor couldn’t even summon the energy to glare anymore. Instead he let out a long feeble moan – the greatest act of defiance he could manage.
The traitor stopped mid-chant, looking over his abnormally large shoulder.
‘Quiet!’ the brute rumbled. ‘I’m praying!’
‘So sorry to disturb you,’ the governor murmured, amazed at how weak his voice sounded.
The cult leader turned back to the flayed skull that sat in the middle of his makeshift shrine. He reached up, caressing the heavy brow that formed a thick ridge over tiny, impossibly small eye sockets. His fingers lingered on the huge jutting jawbone, the large pointed canines. The heretic’s head dropped into a deep bow before he rose to his full height. Even after all this time, Vinter was always surprised how big the traitor was. He must have been easily seven foot tall and seemed just as wide, muscles bunching beneath his heavily-tattooed skin. The governor felt sick to his stomach just looking at the freak, his broad back a pincushion of metal studs.
Or perhaps he was still nauseous from when Big Bruvva had broken both his legs. Surely he hadn’t snapped them with his bare hands, as Vinter remembered. That was impossible wasn’t it? It had to be another of the fevered dreams that had plagued him on the rare occasions that he’d managed to sleep hanging here.