Killing Ground w4u-4

by Graham McNeill

  With that dreadful pronouncement, he turned away, leaping through the gap in the wall blown by the explosion of the generator building. The remaining Unfleshed swiftly followed him, and Uriel saw that they were moving towards the simmering city of Barbadus.

  With awful certainty, Uriel knew that this night's bloodshed was not over.

  FOURTEEN

  Leto Barbaden watched the fires raging to the north of his city from the highest garret of his private library. He knew the source was the Screaming Eagles' compound, but he felt nothing for the men and women he knew must be dying beneath the pall of smoke, a dark smudge against the night sky.

  He knew the reasons for the attack, but cared little for them. The people of Barbadus were venting their aggression against their conquerors. It was the only reaction the corpse of a beaten populace could make against their rulers, the last, spastic, gasps of a body that did not yet know it was dead.

  That it was only natural was no excuse, however, and he had already ordered more units onto the streets to keep the peace, with force if need be. He would have order, even though blood would be spilt and lives lost to enforce it.

  Barbaden turned away from the shielded window and laced his hands behind his back as he descended the iron screw-stair to the main floor of the library. He had known that the early years of his governorship would be difficult; it was the lot of great men to deal with difficult times, but it was a measure of their greatness how they dealt with them.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed the marble floor of the library, taking a deep breath of the musty odour of his books, papers and manuscripts. He had painstakingly assembled the books over decades of war, transporting them from campaign to campaign. The solid, reassuring feel of the facts and figures bound to their pages were a constant comfort to him and he slid a gold-spined volume from the shelf, a biography of Solar Macharius, as he made his way to his drinks cabinet.

  He had always admired the great Lord Solar, a man of singular vision and determination who was only undone by the cowardice of lesser men. It was the curse of genius that, so often, their greatness was thwarted by the shortcomings of their contemporaries. Lord Solar Macharius had reached the edge of known space, had stood at the very edge of the galaxy, and had dared to meet the gaze of the halo stars.

  Only tremulous men who laughingly called themselves warriors had prevented him from conquering those stars for the Emperor. Only the weakness of spirit of his followers had prevented Macharius from achieving his true potential. Leto Barbaden had long ago decided that no such weakness, in him or others, would hold him back from achieving his greatness.

  He poured a generous measure of raquir before sitting in the room's only chair and opening the smooth, vellum pages of the book. His beloved words stared out at him, their beauty containing immutable facts and the course of history in every cursive line and illuminated letter.

  Leto Barbaden loved to read volumes of history, the more detailed the better, for he was a man to whom the minutiae of history were the choicest sweetmeats. History was written by the victors, an aphorism as old as time, and thus Leto Barbaden knew that his position in history was assured, at least on this world.

  Where others might see cruelty, he saw strength of will.

  Where others saw coldness and lack of emotion, he saw resolve.

  Leto Barbaden knew he was humanity without the drag of conscience or emotion.

  He embodied reason and logic uncluttered by emotion, for emotion was a failing of those without the courage of their convictions.

  Some might call him a monster, but they were fools.

  This was a harsh, grim galaxy and only those who could detach themselves from the ballast of emotion could rise above such petty concerns as morality or right and wrong to do what needed to be done.

  He had known that since Colonel Landon had been killed at Koreda Gorge along with his senior officers. The men had called him Old Serenity, a name Barbaden found absurd. How could a name like that be suitable for a man who made war his profession?

  Landon would not have had the stomach for the conquest of Salinas. His passions were too close to the surface and he cared too deeply for his men to have succeeded. To Landon, bringing his men back alive in the face of the steel teeth of war was all important, but Leto Barbaden knew that if there was one resource the Imperium was not short of, it was manpower. Machines and weapons were precious commodities, but soldiers could always be replaced, and so too could populations.

  It was a truth Barbaden had come to early in the war against the Sons of Salinas, realising that no matter how many people he killed, there would always be more. People were ugly, brutish confections of meat, bone and desires, living sordid little lives and breeding like flies as they went about their pointless lives.

  It seemed inconceivable that no one else was able to see this, that life was nothing to be valued so highly.

  He alone had understood this stark fact when he had ordered the destruction of Khaturian, knowing that the scale of such killing would so inflame his enemy's passions that they would have no choice but to meet him in battle.

  Sylvanus Thayer, who had proved to be a worthy adversary until the death of his family, had led his warriors into an unwinnable battle, and Barbaden smiled as he remembered the sight of the scorched battlefield that had seen the Sons of Salinas destroyed.

  Once again, emotion had destroyed a potentially great general.

  He read for another hour, sipping his raquir and flipping to quotes from Solar Macharius that he had long ago memorised. His finger trailed down the page until he found his favourite.

  'There can be no bystanders in the battle for survival,' he read aloud. 'Anyone who will not fight by your side is an enemy you must crush.'

  Barbaden smiled as he read the quote, recognising the genius inherent in those few words.

  Brevity and clarity were traits he admired and attempted to emulate.

  A knock came at the door and he said, 'Enter.'

  The doors opened and the frock-coated Eversham entered, his face pale and his steps hurried. Barbaden lifted his head from his book, seeing that his equerry carried an encrypted data-slate and noting his unkempt appearance.

  'Your formal attire is somewhat dishevelled, Eversham,' said Barbaden. 'Smarten up before I have you broken down to kitchen scrubber.'

  Eversham looked set to speak without smartening up, but had the sense to pause and fasten his collar and straighten his coat first. As the man opened his mouth to speak, Barbaden cut him off.

  'Are you familiar with the works of Lord Solar Macharius?' he asked.

  Eversham shook his head, and Barbaden saw that it was taking all his iron control not to speak out of turn. 'No, my lord. I regret I am not.'

  'This is one of my favourite quotes, ''The meaning of victory is not to defeat your enemy but to destroy him, to eradicate him from living memory, to leave no remnant of his endeavours, to crush utterly his every achievement and remove from all record his every trace of existence. From that defeat no enemy can ever recover. That is the meaning of victory''. Rather inspiring isn't it?'

  'Yes, my lord,' said Eversham, 'very.'

  'You are sweating, Eversham,' noted Barbaden. 'Are you unwell?'

  'No, governor,' replied his equerry, holding out the data-slate, as though anxious to be rid of it.

  'Tell me,' began Barbaden, ignoring the slate, 'what is the nature of the trouble at the Screaming Eagles' barracks?'

  'We don't know yet, my lord. There are reports of gunfire and several explosions, but we have been unable to make contact with Colonel Kain or any of her staff.'

  'Very well, order two companies of palace guard to find out what is happening and to secure the site.'

  'Of course,' said Eversham, once more offering him the data-slate.

  'What is this?' asked Barbaden.

  'An astropathic communication,' said Eversham. 'The Janiceps received it earlier this evening and the Diviner Primaris has just fini
shed his interpretation.'

  'A communication from whom?'

  'I don't know, my lord,' replied Eversham. 'It came in with the highest priority prefix. It is evidently for your eyes only. No sooner did the diviner transcribe the words than a telepathic mnemo-virus implanted within the message erased his mind, completely.'

  Curious, Barbaden took the proffered slate and slid his finger into the reader, wincing at the pinprick of the gene-sampler. With his identity confirmed, the slate flickered into life and the words of the brain-dead diviner scrolled down the screen in silver letters.

  He read the body of the message and his eyes widened in surprise.

  Slowly, and with deliberate care, Barbaden handed the slate back to Eversham. He closed his book and laid it on the table next to the chair. He rose to his feet and smoothed the front of his tunic, struggling to control a rising panic that stirred in his breast.

  'Prepare my private embarkation deck on the upper spires,' he said. 'We are about to receive some important visitors.'

  The trail of the Unfleshed was not difficult to follow, for they had not been careful in their passage. Their tracks were easy to see, but even had they moved without leaving imprints on the ground, the debris of their course would have been easy to recognise.

  Uriel rode in the commander's hatch of a Chimera, its width only barely able to accommodate his genhanced girth. He had been forced to leave his armour in the care of Enginseer Imerian back at the compound, for there was no time to encase himself within it and no telling how long the charge in the backpack would last. If he survived the night, he would return for it in the morning.

  Beneath him, Pasanius and five soldiers rode in the Chimera's troop compartment, bloody and in shock at the ease with which their fastness had been breached and their colonel slain.

  Two more Chimeras, laden with those soldiers still fit enough to fight, followed behind Uriel's, racing through the dim light of the city's outskirts as they followed the trail of destruction unleashed by their quarry.

  In truth, Uriel didn't know exactly what he hoped to achieve by following the Unfleshed. If the entire company of Screaming Eagles could not defeat them, what chance did this ragtag assembly of force have?

  He only knew that he had to catch them, if for no other reason than to salve his own conscience. The destruction wrought at the Screaming Eagles' compound was his fault, and the guilt of what his foolish trust had allowed to happen weighed heavily on his soul.

  How could he have been so blind to the bestial core of the Unfleshed? Yes, their outward appearance was that of monsters, but Uriel had seen past that to what he had believed was the human nobility at their heart.

  Though he felt sure that some darker power was at work within them, he knew it would have found no purchase in souls that were pure. Some rotten canker must have lurked at the heart of the Unfleshed for this power to latch onto, and Uriel cursed himself for a fool for not seeing it.

  The deaths of these soldiers were on his conscience, no matter what they might have done in the past to be deserving of retribution. Uriel pushed such thoughts from his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

  The Chimeras rumbled through the streets of the city, the buildings around them tall and metallic, squat and brick-built. The variegated architecture of Barbadus sped past them, flickering faces at shuttered, window-, less openings watching them fearfully as they passed. That death was abroad on the streets of Barbadus was common knowledge, the breath of its passing emptying the streets of all but the most curious. Even those few lingering pedestrians quickly abandoned whatever task they were about to be clear of the streets as Uriel's desperate procession sped past.

  Death was hunting tonight and it would take whoever called its name.

  Though it was too far away and too dark to make out any details, it was clear that a tremendous battle was underway at the Screaming Eagles' compound. Flames licked the sky and the rattle of gunfire had ceased.

  'Whatever was going on over there's over now,' observed Pascal.

  Nisato did not reply, staring into the distant flames as if to discern some answer from the darkness. Pascal Blaise claimed not to have any knowledge of what had happened, and, much as Nisato wanted to disbelieve him, he knew in his gut that the man was telling the truth.

  This had nothing to do with the Sons of Salinas, but if not them, then who?

  'We should get out of here,' said Pascal Blaise. 'If she's right and whatever hit the Screaming Eagles is coming here…'

  Nisato nodded and turned back to Mesira. She had resumed her earlier position on the bed, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around them.

  'Mesira?' he said. She looked up, her tear-streaked face no longer drawn into the scrunched expression of fear and guilt it perpetually wore. 'What happened out there tonight? Do you know?'

  'It's the Mourner,' she replied. 'He's killed her and now it's my turn.'

  'Killed who?'

  'Colonel Kain. I felt her die. It was painful.'

  'For you?' asked Nisato.

  'For both of us.'

  Pascal Blaise joined him at Mesira's side. 'Kain's dead? You're sure?'

  Mesira nodded and Nisato saw the hollow satisfaction in Blaise's eyes.

  The leader of the Sons of Salinas looked up and met his gaze. 'Don't expect me to shed any tears for that bitch,' he said. 'Kain led the Screaming Eagles into Khaturian. She had the blood of thousands on her hands. She got what she deserved.'

  'And what do you deserve, Pascal?' said Nisato. 'What do any of us deserve? Haven't we all got blood on our hands? Do we all deserve to die?'

  'Maybe,' shrugged Blaise. 'Maybe we do. I've killed men, yes. I've shot them and blown them up, but I don't feel any remorse. The men I killed came as invaders to my homeland. What else could I have done? If soldiers with guns attack the people you love, you'd fight them, wouldn't you?'

  'I suppose,' said Nisato, 'but—'

  'But nothing,' snapped Pascal. 'This was our world. We were loyal to the Golden Throne, but Barbaden wouldn't listen to us. He killed our leaders and butchered our soldiers. What kind of people would we have been if we hadn't resisted? And don't pretend you're better than me, enforcer. I can't imagine that your hands are any less bloody than mine. How many terrified soldiers have knelt before you, begging for their lives before you shot them in the name of the Emperor? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands even?'

  Nisato rounded on Pascal Blaise, his anger rising with every accusation hurled in his face.

  'Yes, I've killed men too,' he snarled, 'and every one of them deserved his fate. They had faltered in their service to the Emperor.'

  'Then perhaps we are not so different after all,' said Pascal. 'Perhaps right and wrong are just matters of perspective.'

  Nisato sighed, the anger draining from him as the truth of Pascal Blaise's words sank in. He sighed and sat next to Mesira, running a protective hand through her hair.

  'There is no right or wrong in our professions,' said Nisato. 'The present changes the past from moment to moment. We can only pray for the future to vindicate our actions.'

  Mesira looked up at him, smiling. 'I'm not afraid any more,' she said.

  'No?'

  She shook her head. 'No. All these years I've lived with what I saw, what I allowed to happen. Now it's over. He's coming for me and I'll be at peace.'

  'I won't let anyone harm you,' said Nisato, 'I promise.'

  Mesira smiled and Daron Nisato had never seen her more beautiful. The cares and troubles she had worn like a second skin fell away, leaving her luminous, as though a gentle light shone within her bones.

  'You don't have to worry about me, Daron,' said Mesira. 'It's going to be all right.'

  'I hope so.'

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek, the touch of her lips on his skin electric, sending a pleasurable, warm sense of peace through him. 'You are a good man, Daron, better than you know.'

  Mesira Bardhyl stood, taking his hand, and he al
lowed himself to be pulled to his feet. She reached out to take the hand of Pascal Blaise and said, 'If this world is to survive, then it will be men like you that will save it. You have both done terrible things in your lives, but they are in the past. All that matters now is the future. Old hatreds must be put aside and new bonds forged between the people of this world. Do you understand?'

  Nisato looked from Mesira to Pascal. Her words were like a cool stream that washed him from his decaying suit of skin to the very core of his marrow. Was this some psyker magic? Had whatever madness possessed her to wander naked from her home unlocked yet more powers within her?

  Whatever flowed from Mesira, he could feel no evil within it and let its healing light bathe him with its restorative powers.

  'I understand,' he said, seeing the same illumination within Pascal Blaise. Without knowing how, he knew that they would both be changed forever by this contact.

  Mesira released their hands and Nisato felt a sting of disappointment at the withdrawal of her touch.

  The door opened behind her and Cawlen Hurq reentered the room, a rifle slung over his shoulder, and the pistol, which Nisato had returned to him before he'd left, clutched in his fist. Nisato felt nothing for Hurq; not hate, not fear, nothing. It was as if all the rancour and posturing that had passed between them had been erased.

  'Cawlen,' said Pascal, taking a moment to recover from the contact with Mesira. 'How many men have we got here?'

  'Including us, eight,' said Hurq, 'but I've sent the word out and there'll be others arriving soon. What are we expecting? Falcatas?' The man's tone was eager and Nisato felt pity for him, so caught up in his hatred was he.

  'No, I don't think so,' said Pascal. 'I'm not sure exactly, but stay alert.'

  Nisato took Mesira's hand and followed Pascal Blaise as he made his way towards the door. She took his hand willingly and together they descended the stairs he had climbed earlier that evening.

  Cawlen Hurq pushed open the door to the bar and they entered the smoky, sweat-pit of the common area. The heat and stench of the place took Nisato's breath away, despite him only having left it recently.