The Last Hunt

by Robbie MacNiven

  They had dragged the hive fleet’s drones away from orbit. The largest xenos ships were still above Darkand, but the screen protecting their immediate vicinity was much lighter. The time had come.

  ‘Helmsman, priority order, effective immediate. Break.’

  Near the Founding Wall, Heavenfall

  The Fourth Brotherhood’s biker squadrons had been travelling north at a steady pace, still outside the Founding Wall. The hive mind was aware of them, and aware of the threat they posed. The destruction of the initial swarms and many of the vanguard organisms had not been in vain – the tyranids knew the bikes were fast, deadly, and created a very different problem to the common difficulties of an entrenched opposition. A large section of the swarm had detached to shadow the column of bikers, following them north without engaging. As long as they were kept isolated, the prey upon the hill would soon be swallowed whole, and the city would follow soon after.

  Joghaten had been judging speed and distance with a hunter’s eye ever since the column had set out. The khan alakh was not an easy tactic to master. On Chogoris it had become well known and, consequently, all the more difficult to use effectively. Joghaten, however, had enjoyed the better part of two centuries to perfect it, on a thousand battlefields across a hundred systems.

  He knew just when to begin.

  At his curt order, the whole column suddenly changed direction. The bikes slewed south-west, turning immediately and in perfect unison across the crushed grass of the plain. The stalks were brittle in the heat approaching the Furnace Season’s peak, and filled the air with dust and chaff as the bikes rode over them. Now, suddenly, the White Scars were no longer a column but a line, moving in echelon almost back the way they had come. And moving fast.

  Without needing to be told, the White Scars turned throttles and gunned engines, releasing their steeds to their full potential. The bikes shot forward, each a bolt of white lightning, darting and leaping across the grassland. The riders, silent until now, loosed battle cries, oaths and yells of exhilaration that carried over the vox to their brothers on the besieged hilltop. The hunt had begun in earnest. Joghaten held his arm up, palm outstretched and fingers splayed.

  Ride.

  The Master of Blades rode at the fore, leaning low in the saddle, leading now through skill rather than by dint of rank. The wind whipped at his helm’s topknot and at his furs, and he loosed a shout of his own as he slid one tulwar from its sheath. His blood sang with the glory of the hunt, screaming like the wind slashing by. In that moment nothing, not the burden of command, nor the sting of loss, nor the fear of a faceless future, mattered. His existence was reduced to perfection, to the flat, hot, open expanse beneath and to the foe before him. The prey. The main swarm and the king tyrant, left exposed now that the White Scars bikers had doubled back on themselves and left the broods detached to shadow them stranded and impotent, far from the fight.

  The swarm had committed an error, and now the speed of the White Scars was about to make that error fatal.

  To some, the khan alakh is a final resort, an act of desperation that seeks to turn the tide. To the boldest, however, it is always the preferred choice. To personally seek out the master of your enemies, to humble him in combat before his best warriors and take his head for the White Road – what strategy could better represent the spirit of great Chogoris?

  – Jurga, Master of the War Council,

  Khan of the Spearpoint Brotherhood

  Chapter Eleven

  KING KILLER

  TIME TO FURNACE SEASON PEAK

  [TERRAN STANDARD]: 14 HOURS.

  TIME TO PREDICTED PRIMARY XENOS PLANETFALL [TERRAN STANDARD]: 0 HOURS.

  As the brotherhood’s fleet yielded Darkand’s orbit to the tyranids, Shen was careful to withdraw with as unhurried a pace as possible, cutting back on the Pride’s enginarium and clustering the five escorts close to her flanks. The tyranids learned. More so than any other race in the galaxy, they changed and adapted to overcome every threat and setback. The genetic material digested by the hive fleets resulted in hyper-evolution, the continual development of the ultimate predatory organism. The voyagemaster understood that adaptability was easily their greatest strength.

  Nothing, however, could adapt as fast as the White Scars could ride, be it on the steppes or in the void. Every vehicle and engine possessed by the White Scars was built to maximise speed, from the extended plasma drives and warp couplings of the Pride to the quad MKII adaptable thermic combustor reactors that powered the Fourth Brotherhood’s Rhinos. Armour was often compromised – almost every vehicle and ship possessed by the Chapter was less well protected than the equivalents used by more standard Chapters – but the exchange was more than worth it. No other fighting force in the entirety of the Imperium of Man venerated speed more highly than the White Scars, nor put it to deadlier effect.

  Cicatrix discovered that in the void above Darkand just as it did on the surface below. At Shen’s simple command the fleet broke, turning with a pace and precision that would have left the captains of the most tightly drilled Imperial Navy interceptor squadron shamefaced. In only a handful of minutes the Pride of Chogoris was leading the fleet back to Darkand, engines blazing with the white-blue heat of plasma drives being pushed to their extreme limit. The six vessels swung out and around the great section of the hive fleet that had broken from orbit to catch them, sliding past the lumpen, floundering bio-ships with mocking ease and grace.

  Too late, Cicatrix understood that it had been tricked. Too late, the hive ships began to drag themselves up towards high orbit, their great bodies shuddering and rippling with peristaltic motion as they prepared spore mines and boarding seeds. It would do them no good. Shen’s blind smile had become a broad grin, for he knew he had made the hunter into the hunted.

  While below, the tide turned against the White Scars.

  Outside the Mountain Gate, Heavenfall

  Subodak watched as Red Berkut fell. The strike wing attacking the tyranids driving towards the White Scars’ hilltop defences had already split apart, spreading out as the individual aircraft sought to keep the airspace above the hill clear. Red Berkut was clipped by the psychic discharge of a bloated zoanthrope, lashed by the bolt of lightning that burst from the floating alien’s distended brain sac. Flames burst from an engine, and the Stormtalon rocked dangerously. As Dren-cho fought to regain control the shrikes seized their chance. The winged tyranid warriors had been using their gargoyle flocks as cover, and now they fell upon the stricken Stormtalon as it veered back towards the Founding Wall. Great talons raked and sawed through ceramite and plasteel as the beasts sought purchase on the flyer’s hull, beating their leathery wings and shrieking triumphantly as they dragged the Stormtalon down. One creature attached itself to Dren-cho’s cockpit and attempted to hack its way through. After a series of blows failed to do more than crack the protective armourglass, the screeching alien fired its limb-fused bio-weapon point-blank. A wad of steaming purple acid smacked into the screen, obscuring Dren-cho’s vision as he wrenched at the controls. After a few moments the shrike broke through the weakened armourglass, ripping into Dren-cho’s harness.

  Then Lightning Death struck. The Stormhawk came in low and hard from the south, both assault cannons spinning. Two shrikes simply came apart, pulverised against Red Berkut’s hull before being scraped away by the wind. The third tyranid, however, would not be dislodged. As Lightning Death ripped past with engines screaming, it finally dragged a struggling Dren-cho from his flyer and hauled him aloft, screeching triumphantly.

  Red Berkut hit the ground, ploughing into the swarm a hundred yards south of the White Scars positions, and was lost in a roiling ball of flame.

  The situation on the hill was not much removed from Red ­Berkut’s fate. On the edge of the slope, Subodak cursed as he reloaded. The king tyrant had gone to ground in a small, shallow ravine three hundred yards out from the lead tactical squ
ads, and short of going on the offensive there was no way for his Devastator squad to hurt it now. Not all the fire was outgoing either – the xenos had brought up biological artillery, biovores and bigger exocrines that were launching spore pods and bio-plasma from their suppurating orifice-cannons. Brothers Kell and Tuchog had been reduced to organic slurry by a direct bio-plasma strike, and Brother Xanti had been riddled with the poisonous spines of a slowly drifting spore mine. The hilltop was being lacerated with biological alien weaponry, and even with the supporting fire coming from the wall behind them Subodak had been forced to redesignate fire protocols – the xenos were about to break through.

  The tactical squads holding the base of the hill had engaged in hand-to-hand combat, bolters discarded in favour of kindjals and curved chainswords. Thus far the fire from the squads on the crest of the slope was keeping the larger beasts at bay, but even as Subodak chambered a new round he saw a carnifex slam through Fifth Squad’s cordon, crushing Brother Ong-li as it went. The hulking ram-beast was aflame from head to hoof, lit by the blazing promethium of Brother Yori’s flamer, but still it came, bellowing even as its chitin blackened and split, and its flesh melted from its bones. It hit the Predator Horselord head-down as the main battle tank attempted to reverse higher up the slope. The hideous crunch of the monster’s plated skull against the tank’s plasteel glacis shuddered out across the hill, followed by a teeth-jarring clang as the forty-tonne vehicle was flipped right over. The carnifex carried on, gorging and grinding the tank’s underbelly with crab-like claws as it tried to get at the crew within.

  ‘Suhtar, bring it down!’ Subodak bellowed at the White Scar twenty paces to his right, painting the roaring carnifex as an immediate priority target on his Devastator squad’s auto-sense targeters. Suhtar didn’t even acknowledge. He just fired.

  The lascannon beam lanced lengthways across the hill to strike the carnifex where its right shoulder plates met its neck. The brilliant beam of red energy punched deep into its torso, liquefying thundering alien organs and splattering Horselord’s twisted wreck with a fountain of ichor.

  The tyranid shook and, for a moment, it looked as though it would collapse. Instead, it planted one hoof directly on top of Horselord and raised its chitin-plated head defiantly.

  ‘Hit it again,’ Subodak snapped as the whine of Suhtar’s recharging lascore filled the air. The carnifex, still on fire, was just about to slam both upper claws into Horselord’s twisted chassis when a streaking krak rocket struck it squarely in the centre of its skull. Its head atomised, sending thick shards of bone scything across the hilltop. Incredibly, the beast managed to stay upright for a few moments more before toppling ponderously back, its impact shaking the earth underfoot.

  ‘That’s one each, Suhtar,’ Bechin’s voice crackled over the vox.

  There was no time to reply. A brood of termagants were seething up through the hole battered by the carnifex, snapping and yowling, wickedly sharp spines from their biomorph weapons spraying ahead of them. The poisoned barbs whickered past Subodak and clattered from his white battleplate as he brought his bolter to bear, roaring his primarch’s name. Those among his squad not bearing heavy weapons and still able to fight added their firepower to that of their türüch, cutting down the lead termagants and giving the bloodied remains of Fifth Squad enough time to seal the breach with a flurry of frag grenades.

  The crumping detonations were lost amidst the crash of shifting earth as the very hill beneath Subodak’s feet moved. His auto-stabilisers triggered as he half turned, the earth around him erupting. A terrible, keening wail filled the air, and the türüch knew that their resistance was at an end.

  For Hagai, Timchet and their Land Speeder, the end came moments after Joghaten’s riders turned back on themselves towards the main swarm. Wind Tamer turned with them, even as Timchet’s warning rang out over the vox. The auto-loader, after so much loyal service, had jammed.

  It took Timchet perhaps ten seconds to free the belt and chamber fresh rounds, but on the eleventh a huge barbed shadow, borne on leathery wings dozens of feet across, materialised ahead. As big as the harpy that had almost caught them earlier, it burst from the flock of gargoyles swirling nearby, clouds of tainted spore gas wreathing it, its winged shadow falling across Wind Tamer as it effortlessly rose above the jinking Land Speeder.

  This time Timchet’s warning really was too late. Trailing writhing tendrils, the tentacled parasites nestled beneath the crone’s wings fell and burst around them. Wind Tamer’s dashboard and viewscreens went blank, shorted by the bio-electrical pulse blasts of the living alien weapons. Hagai’s curse was lost amidst the shriek of the engines as the skimmer went down.

  The impact jarred Timchet against the restraint harness and showered him with a wall of dirt. He shook his head, even his enhanced body taking a second to recover from the crash landing. Wind Tamer had ploughed into the grassland, its nose crumpled and half-buried, its already-damaged right turbofan blown out and smouldering.

  Before either pilot could speak the crone’s shadow fell upon them once again. Timchet tried to reach for his heavy bolter’s grip. The alien’s shriek filled the air around them. It came in low and wickedly fast, the trio of chitin blade-spurs extending from its underbelly carving the air towards the downed skimmer. The broken vehicle rocked with its passage, slamming Timchet forward once more, the sound of shearing metal assaulting his auto-senses. Then it was gone, back up into the heavens, the spore cloud it churned from its dorsal chimneys wreathing Wind ­Tamer’s remains.

  ‘Brother,’ Timchet grunted as he released his restraint harness, finally snatching hold of the heavy bolter. ‘Brother, we…’ He trailed off and looked around.

  Hagai was dead. The crone’s low passage had scythed him open, splitting both the pilot and the Land Speeder almost in half. His blood had painted the white cockpit a slowly dripping red. Timchet stared for what felt like a long time.

  It was the shaking of the earth, rattling up into the broken plasteel frame around him, that finally snapped him back. The spore smog from the crone was clearing, revealing Joghaten’s bikers racing towards the main swarm. The Land Speeders had succeeded in protecting them from the air long enough for the khan to strike. But now the secondary swarm that had been left stranded while trying to shadow them was racing back to catch the bikes.

  And Wind Tamer had come down directly in the path of their stampede.

  ‘Stay, brother,’ Timchet said softly, rising in the cockpit and bringing the heavy bolter around. ‘I shall be with you again soon.’

  They struck as hard and true as an arrow shot from the Khagan’s bow, right into the heart of the beast.

  Joghaten roared with fury as Whitemane crashed into the first termagants, the strains of the previous month evaporating in a welter of broken alien bodies. The broods surrounding the king tyrant were thinner now, drained by the swarm sent to shadow them and the assault on the hilltop. Joghaten’s ploy had opened the enemy’s guard, and now the dao would slide home.

  The king tyrant had gone to ground, sheltering from the heavy weapons on the hilltop in a shallow crevasse. Many of its synapse beasts were already dead, picked off from the hilltop by the firepower of the White Scars Devastators and armour. Its ability to control its swarm had become tenuous, and its defences had been thinned. Its end was at hand.

  Joghaten’s tulwar blazed, an arc of lightning that left bisected, steaming alien bodies in its wake. The khan’s focus was wholly on his prey now, his every transhuman sense bent towards the kill. He would not be denied.

  Because of that, by the time he noticed the heavy-set tyrant guard as it lunged out of the swarm, it was too late.

  Eji, Feng’s hunt-brother, had fallen as the squad charged the swarm alongside Joghaten and his bondsmen. Feng hadn’t seen it, though the blinking red rune in his visor display made him aware of the fact. At some point moments after the bikes of the Fourth Brotherhood had
impacted with the swarm, Eji had been hit. Feng suspected it was during the hail of organic firepower that had struck them over the last dozen yards, spat from the weapon-orifices of the termagants they now slaughtered. Bio-plasma, venom spines and borer beetles had battered at the charging White Scars like a hideous, destructive rain. Feng’s own armour was reading structural damage from a thick wad of burning venom that had splattered his bike shield and left pauldron.

  But there was no time to turn back, no time to mourn. In truth, Feng barely even felt his brother’s death. He would see him again, he knew. Death was all around them now, and a part of the steedmaster revelled in it. He bellowed an incoherent oath and he speared a leaping hormagaunt on his guan dao, swinging the scrabbling, shrieking alien down into the next one coming at him. Backjointed limbs snapped and crunched beneath his spinning front tyre tread, the auto-stabilisers struggling as the bike jarred over a carpet of bodies. It was carnage, the air alive with the howling of thousands of alien throats, Feng’s dao lancing through one body after another, scything talons and bio-plasma raining down on him from all sides.

  He would see his brothers again soon, he was sure of it.

  Joghaten had punched through ahead of all of them, leaving even his honour guard behind. He was hacking a path towards the master of the swarm, the great beast sheltering from the fury of the Khagan’s sons in a shallow gully ahead. Only Feng had made it as far as the Master of Blades, carried by the sudden, urgent fury that fired his blood. He saw the tyrant guard before Joghaten did.

  He accelerated, the swarm around him a blur, punctuated by thudding impacts. The tyrant guard was a big, heavy-set beast, lumbering forward on its trunk-like forearms like some sort of simian. In the heartbeat before he struck, Feng swore vengeance for every battle-brother that had died fighting a monstrosity such as this.