The Last Hunt

by Robbie MacNiven

  The hololithic chart chimed, its updates completed. The White Scars fleet, represented by the Chapter’s lightning bolt sigil, blinked across the system display as it made its way towards Darkand: three Sword-class escorts, the War Wind, Tulwar and Starsteed, and the twin Cobras, Falcon and Steppe Lord, flanking the Pride of Chogoris, the Fourth Brotherhood’s venerable capital ship.

  ‘What are your orders, khan-commander?’ Shen asked, his blind eye sockets staring out over his bridge. Bar those overseeing the most vital vox and augur systems, the dome’s zarts stood waiting for their master’s command. Joghaten gestured at the chart, Shen’s hardwired consciousness detecting the contact with the hololithic projection.

  ‘Set a course for Darkand,’ the Master of Blades commanded. ‘With the haste of the racing stallion. We have no time to lose.’

  The auto door hissed shut behind Qui’sin, sealing the Stormseer in the darkness of his scrying chamber. The only light came from the electro candles, their glow flickering across the ancient bones and faded rags that adorned the room’s walls.

  Most of the relics that surrounded the White Scar were many millennia older than he. Of all the Chapter’s psykers – the brother­hood of the Zadyin Arga – he had most recently completed the initiation rites. He had finished his study of the Arts of Heaven only five years previously, in his initiation in the high caverns of the Khum Karta and the stone-clad walls of Ayanga, the Lightning Tower. It was rare for one so young to be assigned as the sole Stormseer to a brotherhood, especially one as famously fractious as the Fourth.

  But in those five years, Qui’sin had seen much. Much of the mortal plain, and even more of the immortal, where spirits walked and daemons toyed with the souls of men.

  He relit one of the electro candles that had gone out, before setting himself on the prayer rug at the centre of the room. The shadows seemed to dance and slither around him, glinting off old bone and gleaming fangs. Apart from the low hum of his active power armour and the distant, dream-like throb of the Pride’s plasma drives, all was silent. Even Kemich, his bonded psyber-hawk, had been banished to her roost near the ship’s navigation blister. He inhaled, deep and slow, filtering the scents of the psychically charged room.

  He smelled the cloying, sickly sweet incense of the tapers clustered beside the trophy racks, their smoke coiling languid and wispy in the dark air. He picked up the musk of old pelts and dry bones, the oily scents of his own power plate, and the underlying smells of the Pride of Chogoris – the chemical tang of the ship’s systems and drives, and the chlorine aftertaste of the recently deactivated Geller field.

  Most of them were alien smells to Qui’sin. Like all sons of the storm, he felt confined in the claustrophobic corridors, stairwells and chambers of void-faring vessels. It was difficult to imagine an existence further removed from the open plains of the Empty Quarter of Chogoris. Here the air was a stale, dead thing, the ­biting wind of the steppes reduced to a memory. The familiar smells of spilt gax blood and burning yat dung, freshly cured hides and wet horse pelt, all were absent. Qui’sin wondered how Tzu Shen had endured it for so long. To be a White Scar in the depths of the void was to be a stallion confined to a stable.

  Shen had told him his discomfort would pass, eventually. At least Darkand would offer some solace. When war against the heretical sect of the Bor-tri had brought the White Scars to Darkand two thousand years ago, they had immediately recognised the similarities between the planet’s steppe peoples and their own home world. After the heretics had been purged, the White Scars had taken the tribe’s supplication and moulded them after their own image, granting Darkand the title of honour world. Every century the blood oaths had been remade and the Chapter returned to the agri world, to ensure its safety and take a tithe of tribesfolk to supplement its fleet’s serf crews.

  This time there would be no tithing, Qui’sin reflected. Only blood and death. Only hunger. He fought back a shudder as his visions returned. It was drawing nearer with every breath he took. The quakes and storms besetting Darkand, all so-called natural disasters, already heralded it. He could see it now, at the back of his mind’s eye – the flesh-filled sky, the stalking, alien predator, prowling amidst the steppe grasses. They were coming, unnumbered killers consumed by a ravening hunger.

  Qui’sin unclamped one gauntlet and settled himself properly on the worn flax of the prayer rug. He’d woven it himself during his lessons in the high caverns of the Khum Karta, and had carried it with him ever since. It was second in importance only to his force staff, the shamanic totem that now lay on its purple velvet cushion before him. Both the mat and the cushion were surrounded by sigils, chalked into the decking plates in Khorchin, the native tongue of Chogoris. For a moment Qui’sin admired the way the light played across the worn yat skull that tipped his staff, the way it cast the scrimshawed bone into deeper shadows, and how it gleamed on the ulzi knotwork, the Endless Labyrinth, inscribed upon the horsehair-hung haft. He let out another slow breath and, carefully, reached out with his one bared hand.

  At first the change was almost imperceptible. The candles around him shuddered, as though tugged at by a ghostly wind. Qui’sin felt it too, teasing at his unclasped topknot. His senses filled with the scents of the steppes.

  Thunder crashed, violent and sudden. A gust moaned through the chamber, making the bone trophies clatter and snatching the light from the electro candles. Qui’sin needed them no longer. He was already elsewhere.

  A new chamber, dark and cold and filled with the fury of the mountains. Thunder crashed and shuddered like a dispute between gods, shaking the desolate space. The walls were of stone, carved with hundreds of niches that reached towards a domed vault. The tiered alcoves were filled with scrolls, tens of thousands, fashioned from ancient, cracked leather and bound with horsehair knots. Interspersed between the alcoves were vision slits, slender jags of open air fashioned like the symbols on each White Scar’s pauldron. Beyond them, the Mountains that Scrape the Stars loomed. It was dark, and snow swirled in great eddies, gusting occasionally in through the opening slits. The lightning that pounded and beat the night air lit up jagged, white-headed peaks, so high and so serrated they seemed cast adrift from the world below.

  Qui’sin was in the Ayanga, the Lightning Tower, tip of the world. Here, where past and future met on heaven’s doorstep, the ghosts of the present conferred.

  Five figures stood in the chamber, facing inwards to where Qui’sin still sat, cross-legged on his prayer rug. They were fellow Stormseers, clad in white plate and grasping bone-tipped staffs, but to Qui’sin’s gaze they were insubstantial, ethereal, their armour and tanned skin glowing with faint, other-worldly luminescence. The snow that reached in through the wall slits with chill, white fingers could not touch them.

  Qui’sin knew that, to the assembled psykers, he was the one that looked like a revenant.

  Thunder boomed once more beyond the Ayanga’s ancient stonework, each great blow echoing away down the mountainside and sending shivers through the high tower. Qui’sin took another cold breath and settled his mind, hand clutched tightly around the psy-reactive haft of his force staff. He took in the scrolls on the niches surrounding him, the countless thousands of documents that constituted the White Scars’ librarium. Many of them belonged to the Jazag, the laws of Chogoris, as laid down by the Khagan and primarch, Jaghatai, ten millennia earlier. ­Others belong to The Veiled History of the Talskars, the text written by the first Great Khan documenting the founding of the V Legion.

  Qui’sin had studied them for many years as a junior Lexicanium, learning to use his Lyman’s ear to shut out the eternal pounding of the thunder while he had absorbed his Chapter’s sacred doctrines and the history of his people. The Lightning Tower was the White Scars’ Librarius, the heart of the Chapter’s Librarium, seat of its culture and the headquarters of its Stormseers. Even among their brethren in the Quan Zhou – the fortress-monastery sprawling among the
lesser peaks below – the lead-tipped spire of the Ayanga was a place of myth and legend.

  The phantoms that regarded Qui’sin in silence were part of that ­legend. All were more venerable than he. All had guarded the Chapter’s legacy and taught its honoured history for many centuries. Not for the first time, the young Stormseer felt the weight of responsibility.

  He spoke.

  ‘Hail, brethren of the lightning. My thanks for this haven amidst the storm.’

  ‘Hail and welcome, brother,’ said one of the phantoms. His name was Dayir Jenkshin, and he was Master of the Arts of Heaven, one of the oldest and most scar-honoured of all the Zadyin Arga. He stood with a slight stoop, the tips of his long moustache trailing all the way down to his breastplate. The gold-plated gax skull that topped his force staff glowed with other-worldly power.

  ‘You have reached the Darkand System,’ Jenkshin said, more statement that question.

  ‘Yes, honoured brother,’ Qui’sin said. His words felt disconnected and distant, as though his mind floated in a dream. He knew that the reality of his situation was more terrifying. For the briefest moment, he thought he felt a presence behind his seated form – unholy, vile breath, and the questing slither of dark tentacles.

  ‘Focus,’ Jenkshin snapped, his words underlined by a vicious thunderclap. Qui’sin clutched his staff harder, the reactive bone throbbing in his bare palm.

  ‘The visions continue,’ he said. ‘As clear as ever. The Great Devourer comes, though the rest of the Imperium does not yet acknowledge it.’

  ‘And what of the Master of Blades?’ Jenkshin asked. ‘Does he still heed your guidance?’

  ‘Sometimes. His mind is shattered by a hundred considerations, and he fears returning to Darkand. He fears the memory of death and defeat that came so close to overtaking him last time he fought upon that world. He appears ever more harried.’

  ‘His own visions weigh heavily on his mind,’ Jenkshin said. ‘He has always been a warrior, not one born to ponder the ulzi of fate. The Endless Labyrinth will confound him if you do not focus his thoughts, Qui’sin.’

  ‘He is torn by his urge to honour our pledges to Darkand, a place he hates, and the visions calling upon him to seek out the Khagan.’

  ‘And the desire that pulls at his heart the strongest?’

  ‘Darkand is the immediate priority, for now. But if the spirits are willing, the two needs will not exclude one another. I understand the importance of the honour world in the Endless Labyrinth. If it was not vital, you would not have permitted the dispatch of the Tulwar Brotherhood there.’

  ‘You speak the truth,’ Jenkshin allowed. ‘But still, you must not let him die needlessly in the coming conflict. Even were it not for the needs of our great hunt, the realms of man face the darkest of days ahead. The Imperium has need of warriors like Joghaten more than ever before.’

  ‘I will curb his slaughter-lust as best I can,’ Qui’sin said. ‘I fear his late uncertainties will manifest in a great fury when battle is joined. Especially given that Darkand is to be the battlefield. Few places resonate as deeply with him.’

  ‘See that he does not act out the part of the young headstrong warrior. Old Qan’karro continues to agitate here on behalf of the Master of the Hunt. He would have us deploy our might to ancient Terra, rather than continue seeking the Khagan. I fear his influence with Jubal Khan will bend his mind soon enough, and see the Chapter focus itself on the Segmentum Solar rather than the completion of our long hunt.’

  ‘Has there been any new word from Baal?’ Qui’sin asked. ‘Any more certainty on the nature of the returned primarch?’

  ‘We are still unsure. The best of rumours combined with our scrying lead us to believe the master of the Thirteenth Legion may have awoken from his long-wounded slumber, but the entrails are rancid and ill-formed. We shall continue to seek answers, and you shall continue to preserve Joghaten and guide him down his fated path.’

  ‘I understand,’ Qui’sin said, inclining his head.

  ‘Go now, quickly,’ Jenkshin urged. ‘The Shadow is almost upon you.’

  ‘May the spirits of earth and water, wind and fire guide you, venerable brothers,’ Qui’sin intoned, as the apparitions before him started to fade.

  ‘May they be with you too,’ Jenkshin replied, his voice now distant. ‘We shall need them all before the end.’

  The vision dissolved and the Lightning Tower was gone. Qui’sin’s eyes started open, though he did not remember closing them. The scrying chamber on board the Pride of Chogoris remained undisturbed, though all but one of the electro candles had gone out. For a moment the paralysis that sometimes followed him from his visions gripped his transhuman body. Then it was gone and he was on his feet once more, force staff still in one hand.

  There was even less time than he had imagined.

  There was never a moment during transit when the sparring ger did not echo with the clash of blades. The domed space occupied the Pride of Chogoris’ upper aft deck level, clad like the insides of one of the Quan Zhou’s training arenas. The walls were hung with countless trophies – hunting pelts and scaled hides, the faded, ragged remains of a Cadian regimental standard, gifted to the brotherhood a millennium before, bestial skulls and even the broken, tarnished battleplate of a Traitor Space Marine. The floor space was divided by lengths of tasselled red cord, demarking the well-worn flaxen training mats that covered the decking plates.

  Although it was the night cycle and the lumens above were dim, most of the cordoned arenas were still full. Even by the standards of the Adeptus Astartes the White Scars were a warlike and restless brotherhood. Waiting left them fractious at the best of times. Since leaving Chogoris a month earlier half a dozen tulwar brothers had been censured for various misdemeanours, mostly inter-squad feuding. Joghaten had left the disciplining to the türüch, his sergeants and squad leaders, but the unrest lingered on.

  In order to fill the vacuum of void travel, the türüch drilled their squads. Most welcomed the distractions of the training decks, even if the routines of building clearance and target extraction, outpost infiltration and strongpoint defence had long grown stale. Most popular of all was the sparring ger, where tulwar brothers were free to test their mettle as they pleased. All brotherhoods of the White Scars emphasised skill with a blade, but in the Fourth it had been raised to an art form.

  Lau Feng, türüch and steedmaster of the Third Assault Bike Squad, stood on the wooden boards between the cordoned mats, watching. Before him two of his hunt-brothers, Oda and Jakar, duelled. Like the other Space Marines engaged across the room, they were stripped down to loose silk trouser fatigues, their upper bodies glistening with sweat that dripped around the neural ports studding their hard, scarred flesh. Both warriors wielded tulwars, the short, curving swords so favoured by the Fourth Brotherhood. The dim lumens made their vicious edges glitter as they inscribed deadly arcs around the two warriors.

  Feng had not crossed blades on one of the ger mats since the start of the voyage. He did not have the taste for it, not since word had first reached the Fourth Brotherhood of their new destination – the honour world of Darkand. The name alone was enough to make the White Scar clench his teeth, lest he snarl at the cruelty of fate. Darkand, a world bound to the Chapter by sacred rite and ritual. A planet moulded, in part, after the very culture of Chogoris. For two thousand years the White Scars had watched over it, protecting its nomad tribes from external threats whilst tithing its population for serf-hands to crew the Chapter fleet.

  Feng had been to Darkand once before, years previously. Xenos eldar had been using the planet as a staging post for piracy throughout the subsector – there had been traces of eldar activity on the world even before colonisation. Unable to ignore a plea from their protectorate, the White Scars had deployed in force. Fighting free of a xenos ambush around the rocks known as the Gates of Eternity and then carrying the battle to
their webway portal had cost the Fourth Brotherhood dear. Their khan-commander, Arro’shan, as well as all Feng’s tulwar brethren – Ajai, Tenjin, Oyuun and Tayang – had been slain.

  Feng kept his eyes on his other brothers, on Oda and Jakar as they circled one another, teeth bared and blades gleaming. In truth he did not see them. His thoughts strayed, as they had done for so long now, towards the pained memories of Darkand.

  It was not just restlessness that had filled the ger with sparring partners this night. The khan-commander himself was present. He stalked between the sparring mats, saying nothing, hawkish gaze stopping only briefly when it came to a pairing of clashing warriors, before wandering again. Occasionally the Master of Blades would pause, arms folded across his silk-clad breast, brow ­furrowed as he watched two of his White Scars trade blows. He said nothing. Nothing until he reached Feng’s side.

  ‘They are slow.’

  Feng started. He’d been so lost in memories of the honour world that he’d failed to notice the khan-commander’s presence. He re­focused once more on Oda and Jakar. Joghaten was correct. Oda, the big Lau tribesman from Choq-tan, was lagging, his strikes unfocused and predictable. The duel should have been over minutes earlier, but Jakar – the wiry former heir to the hetman of the Shorchji, was making little effort to take advantage of his partner’s flat-footedness. They knew each other too well, had fought this battle too many times. They were toying with each other, bored.

  ‘When did you last fight?’ Joghaten asked Feng.

  ‘My khan?’ Feng responded, trying to ignore the hideous, dripping visage of Ajai, standing just behind Joghaten.

  The khan-commander elaborated. ‘When did you last challenge your brethren on the sparring mats?’ His tone was accusatory.

  ‘I haven’t since leaving Chogoris, my khan.’

  ‘Step onto the mat.’

  Oda and Jakar had paused, panting as they looked at their türüch. Joghaten gestured for them to step aside. They offered one another a curt bow and sheathed their blades. Joghaten lifted the cord and ducked into the arena. He was wearing a silk shirt and trousers, his topknot let down over his shoulders. His tulwars were buckled around his waist. He drew each in turn, the monomolecular hypersteel blades letting out barely a whisper as they slipped from the oiled leather. He tossed the empty scabbards and belt aside, and turned to face Feng. His eyes, hooded by the dim lighting, had the cruel gleam of the berkut, the greater Chogorian hawk, about them.