The Last Hunt

by Robbie MacNiven

  For the moment, however, the dead tribesfolk were not Qui’sin’s concern. There was something far more troubling at hand, something that only became truly apparent as he put a bolt pistol round through the skull of the last hormagaunt, while its talons scraped and scarred his battleplate. The brood they had just slaughtered had attacked with single-minded determination and relentlessness. Likewise, the termagants further back down the slope in Old Town had rallied almost as soon as Qui’sin had destroyed the zoanthrope that had been coordinating them. Yet there didn’t appear to be a leader-beast anywhere nearby. Neither the auspex nor the Stormseer’s psychic intuition – what remained beyond the incessant scraping of the Shadow in the Warp – had detected anything. And yet the aliens’ drive and coordination had remained total.

  Qui’sin kicked the remains of the twitching hormagaunt away and signalled to Jeddah.

  ‘Press on to the rally point. I am going to join the khan. I must speak with him in person.’

  The Government District, Heavenfall

  Genestealers. They’d known they were here, but now that confirmation was finally coming in over the vox the reality of the situation hit home. The Fourth Brotherhood were pinned between defending the wall and clearing the catacombs. Worse, they weren’t numerous enough to provide protection to either the nomad tribes or Heavenfall’s citizens. The first report, from a combat team led by Uygai, had spoken of a massacre in one of the subterranean Furnace Season shelters. Others were confirming similar events – the xenos had already slaughtered hundreds, probably thousands beneath Heavenfall’s streets, and the White Scars hadn’t even been aware of it.

  ‘We need to create a cordon,’ Joghaten said. Qui’sin stood before him. The khan had set up his new makeshift command centre in the Canton Five Legislative office, a functional Administratum building close to the Pinnacle. The building, far up the slope, had not yet come under attack, but the auspex had picked up hostile contacts moving in the surrounding streets. Joghaten and Qui’sin stood in the remains of a scriptorum office, its lecterns overturned and papers and data-slates scattered across the floor, while the khan’s bondsmen guarded the doors.

  ‘Safe zones are impossible while the xenos retain control of the sewers and subterranean passages,’ Qui’sin said. ‘And, given the extent of the infestation, by the time we establish any, ninety per cent of Heavenfall’s population will be dead anyway. After that it’s merely a question of how long until we’re overrun.’

  Qui’sin knew that Joghaten already understood the situation. It did not take over a century of combat experience to know that the defence of Heavenfall had failed, even if the khan-commander’s pride stopped him from admitting it. There were only two choices remaining – annihilation or retreat. Word from Tzu Shen put him an hour out from high orbit, returning to the planet with all haste. He had believed he was coming back to a triumphant brotherhood, only to discover that, somehow, the xenos had outwitted them. Even with the dire nature of his visions and the eerie psychic presence he had sensed in the city, Qui’sin had not predicted the scale of the alien infiltration. They would be lucky to hold on until Shen even reached orbit.

  ‘The Furnace Season will weaken them,’ Joghaten said. ‘Temperatures out there are almost beyond human ability to withstand. It must have some effect on the xenos.’

  ‘Their kind have seeded more hostile worlds than this,’ Qui’sin pointed out. ‘Ice wastes to desert tundra, they transform it all. The spores choking the atmosphere have stopped the Furnace Season from reaching peak temperatures, and the climate will only deteriorate further unless they are exterminated from the planet’s surface.’

  A sigil lit up Joghaten’s visor. He accepted the transmission in time to catch a jarring blast of static, followed by the familiar thunder of bolters.

  ‘The xenos have broken through along the upper slope, sector three,’ crackled the voice of Delbeg, commander of the brotherhood’s First Tactical Squad. ‘It looks as though they’re trying to pincer the government district.’

  ‘Standby,’ Joghaten instructed, turning back to Qui’sin as the Stormseer spoke again.

  ‘We’re still unable to make any contact with Pinnacle Guard units or the centrum dominus. Harren has either been compromised, or is already dead. Many of the tribes have been cut off along the lower slopes as well. We do not have the time or sufficient numbers to counter-attack.’

  Joghaten knew the Stormseer was right, but the truth made him snarl with frustration. They were failing. Death, dishonour, total annihilation at the hands of these vile creatures – it was a fate the Master of Blades railed against.

  Before the khan could speak a terrific blast tore through the scriptorium, a stand of data files near to Joghaten disintegrating in a wall of white light. His arms went up and his armour locked, but there was no blast wave or wall of debris. Only a rush of wind-flung files and slates from the shelves and whipped-up scrolls and loose pages around them.

  The light remained, a corona of white brilliance that even the Space Marine’s auto-senses could not dull. Joghaten’s hands closed on the hilts of his tulwars as a shape materialised from the blazing halo.

  Those will not serve you this time, mon-keigh.+

  The words leapt into the khan’s mind, sharp and cold. He felt his hands freeze.

  ‘Witch,’ he spat, turning to Qui’sin. The Stormseer had gone rigid, both hands clutching his force staff, its skull top wreathed with warpfire. Kemich had taken off and was circling the scriptorium’s wind-whipped vault, shrieking.

  ‘I cannot resist her,’ the Stormseer managed through clenched teeth.

  Nor do you have reason to,+ the figure added. It was clad in a tall helm and robes, but remained a black shade silhouetted by the light at its back. Regardless, Joghaten recognised the creature’s unnaturally tall, slender form. It filled him with skin-crawling, gut-twisting revulsion.

  ‘Out of my head, eldar,’ the khan snarled, taking a pace forward.

  The silhouette stood its ground, robes whipping in the wind that scythed through from the ether behind it.

  ‘I have come to treat with you, Joghaten Khan of the White Scars,’ the figure said, this time speaking openly. ‘You face annihilation, you and all your brothers. Only I can turn the tide of these events.’

  ‘You have picked an ill time to show yourself, skulking witch,’ Joghaten said. ‘My heart cries out for your head.’

  ‘Then try listening to your own head for once,’ the figure said. ‘I am Yenneth, farseer of the craftworld of Iyanden, and the offer I make you now is one I have already brought before your seer.’

  Joghaten turned to look at Qui’sin. The Stormseer was obviously suffering more than the khan, his more highly attuned psychic senses unable to bear the presence of the powerful xenos witch.

  ‘Ever sowing discord,’ the Stormseer grunted, finding the strength to shake his head.

  ‘Yet never without purpose,’ the figure that had called itself Yenneth said. ‘Your seer will not tell you, Joghaten Khan, so I must. The vanquisher of your old master is near at hand.’

  ‘Your kind have plagued this world for millennia,’ Joghaten said. ‘Why should I believe anything you say?’

  ‘Because I have the power to turn your fates on their heads. The choice between annihilation and flight is a false one. Strike a blow against the ones who slew your brothers, and I can save both you and this world.’

  ‘How is that possible?’ Joghaten demanded. ‘How can you unmake what has already taken place?’

  ‘Your seer knows such things are not beyond the realm of possibility.’

  ‘Is what she says true?’ Joghaten said, rounding on Qui’sin.

  The Stormseer nodded.

  ‘Or it could be a trap.’

  ‘Trap or not, it is your last hope for saving this city and the people you have led to it,’ the eldar said. ‘Our dark kin prevent me from
coming to your aid, but if you join us against them they can be overcome. The blood of your former lord is still wet on their blades.’

  The silhouetted figure raised one hand, and the portal behind her flickered. Images pierced the brilliance, shapes that resolved into wicked, barbed forms. Joghaten recognised the porcelain-white flesh and bladed spine-plates of the eldar’s dark slaver cousins. Worse, he knew one in particular. Memories of the brotherhood’s last hunt on Darkand flashed back. The rush of the wind, the whickering of splinter barbs, the ululating shriek of xenos skimmers, the roar of bike engines and the bark of bolters. He remembered too the face he now saw in the farseer’s portal. It was female, sharp and vicious, with a sickeningly cruel grin.

  ‘You know her,’ the farseer said. ‘She slew the master of your brotherhood, the one you called Arro’shan.’

  The vision swam and refocused. Joghaten saw a White Scars helmet fixed to the xenos creature’s belt. Though cracked and defiled by wicked eldar runes, it was one he would have recognised anywhere – its twin, marked with a red lightning bolt, was mag-locked to his own belt. It had belonged to Arro’shan before he had fallen, fighting the xenos scourge. Joghaten felt his secondary heart kick in with a thud of adrenaline. He snarled.

  ‘She is near,’ the farseer said, reading the Space Marine’s raw aggression. ‘On the other side of the webway, blocking my access through it. I will guide you there and in exchange I will give you the power to end the threat of the Devourer here.’

  ‘False promises,’ Joghaten snapped. ‘Stop speaking in riddles and explain, or I will cut you down where you stand and take your skull for the White Road.’

  ‘You could not, even if you tried,’ the farseer responded. ‘The paths I will tread for you are beyond your comprehension, but this much is not – we have nothing to gain by betraying you today, and everything to lose. Our enemies are mutual, and your destruction is guaranteed without my intervention. Whether or not you deny such truths to me right now, I can see that in your heart you understand them.’

  ‘We are not some xenos’ puppets.’

  ‘Nor am I asking for you to be. Take vengeance for your slain brother, Joghaten Khan, and save those who look to you for leadership. If you travel west, onto the plains, and reach the rocks you call the Gates of Eternity, I will guide you from there. You must go now, though. We are already out of time.’

  Joghaten started to respond, but the vision was already beginning to fade. The silhouette was swallowed up by the portal’s brilliance, becoming rapidly more slender, until it was lost completely in the light. The ethereal wind that had been whipping around the room was suddenly gone. There was a crack of displaced air, and then the portal itself disappeared. Sudden silence gripped the scriptorium, broken only by the rustle of loose papers drifting to the floor.

  Joghaten spoke first.

  ‘This witch has already visited you?’ he asked Qui’sin, turning towards the Stormseer. The weathermaker stood before Joghaten, unflinching, and there was a scrape as Kemich alighted on his pauldron, feathers ruffled.

  ‘She has, brother. She came to me speaking the same lies she told you. I am only sorry I could not keep her presence at bay.’

  ‘Perhaps it is well you did not,’ Joghaten said tersely. ‘Her intervention changes things.’

  ‘For the worse,’ Qui’sin went on. ‘When have the eldar ever offered honest aid? She is seeking to manipulate us for some dark purpose.’

  ‘Darker than the one that has already befallen us?’ Joghaten exclaimed. ‘The last of the people we came here to protect are being slaughtered even as we waste time with words, and we are not numerous enough to save even a fraction of them!’

  ‘I rail against what is happening as much as you, Master of Blades, but the witchcraft the xenos proposes is beyond dangerous. She will seek to manipulate reality itself to suit her own agenda.’

  ‘You know all this?’ Joghaten snapped. ‘What other counsel have you withheld from me, weathermaker? What have your true masters in the Ayanga told you?’

  ‘Nothing, but there is a presence newly arrived in this city, khan-commander, a psychic one. It is familiar, and yet I do not know it.’

  ‘The witch?’

  ‘No, it is not alien. I do not know how it has come to be here, or why.’

  ‘Your riddles are worse than the xenos,’ Joghaten said. ‘And I have had enough of both. A decision must be reached.’

  ‘My visions have failed the brotherhood thus far,’ Qui’sin said eventually. ‘You yourself see the options before us, my khan. I will not presume to offer counsel any longer.’

  ‘You are wise for your years, Qui’sin,’ Joghaten responded. ‘But those years are still few. There are no easy answers to the troubles of command.’ There was silence before Joghaten spoke again.

  ‘My heart yearns to die here, brother,’ he said eventually, his hawkish, warlike expression grown dull and distant. ‘To flee now, to abandon the honour world… it is unthinkable.’

  ‘To a hunt-brother rising through the ordu, perhaps,’ Qui’sin said. ‘But it should not be unthinkable to one of your rank, khan-commander. With all respect, you can no longer act like one of Arro’shan’s bondsmen, bound to honour and personal glory. The lives of the entire brotherhood are in your hands, not just your own. If we stay and die here, needlessly, the Chapter will suffer. Even in the best of times, Chogoris can ill afford the loss of an entire ordu. And these are very far from the best of times. All of us yearn to meet an honoured death, rather than abandon whatever remains of these peoples. But honour and duty are not one and the same, and we have a duty beyond Darkand. A duty to the Khagan.’

  ‘The Khagan,’ Joghaten echoed. ‘What would he think of us now, weathermaker? The Imperium stood upon a precipice, yet he carried the Great Hunt on into the unknown of the webway, seeking glory and vengeance. If such an act befitted our ­primarch, would it not also befit us?’

  ‘Vengeance,’ Qui’sin said, slowly and firmly. ‘Arro’shan’s spirit still wanders, lost while his killers remain unrepentant. To abandon this place to its fate risks dishonour, yes, but there is no dishonour in skinning the xenos scum who took him. If we are doomed regardless, I can think of no better end for the Brotherhood of Blades. I am sure my hunt-brothers would concur.’

  ‘I will hesitate no more,’ Joghaten said, one fist clenched to a tulwar’s hilt while he activated the brotherhood-wide vox frequency. ‘All hunt-brothers, standby for priority transmission.’

  Remember young ones, your truest and most constant companion is your own shadow.

  – Jodagha, Master of Braves,

  Khan of the Windspeaker Brotherhood

  Chapter Sixteen

  ETERNITY’S THRESHOLD

  TIME TO FURNACE SEASON PEAK

  [TERRAN STANDARD]: 0 HOURS.

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

  The Slope Road,

  Heavenfall

  The brotherhood rode. Joghaten rallied the hunt on the Slope Road running between the temple and the government districts. The brotherhood’s air cover closed in above, lacerating the surrounding streets with heavy bolter rounds, assault cannon bursts and frag rockets. Aerial spotting and auspex readouts showed a swelling mass of hostile contacts – a vile morass of hybrids and their genestealer masters – flooding Heavenfall’s slopes. They burst from hab basements and sewer chutes, warehouse blocks and storage depots. The nearest were flocking towards the assembling brotherhood from all sides, driven on by whatever alien will directed them from Heavenfall’s depths.

  ‘Lance, take us forward,’ Joghaten commanded over the vox. The booming discharge of a battle cannon, echoing like a thunderclap up the long, steep road, came back as an answer.

  The brotherhood’s armour was to spearhead the breakout. The Vindicator, Khan’s Lance, took the lead, its heavy dozer shield starting to grind xeno
forms mercilessly as it lurched forward. Its battle cannon hammered out another shell, obliterating a clutch of onrushing gaunts in a hail of fire and shattered masonry. The air filled with dust and exhaust smoke as the Rhinos followed, flanked along the wide thoroughfare by the remnants of the bike squadrons. Joghaten kicked Whitemane forward down the column’s right side, horsehair plumes snapping overhead.

  Around them there was nothing but xenos infestation. Aliens and deformed hybrid monstrosities swarmed from alleys and side streets towards the Slope Road, the unbearably hot air thick and heavy with the scraping of their claws and carapaces, and the hissing of their reptile-like communications. Joghaten and his bondsmen helped keep the flank of the column clear, the khan slamming Whitemane into one alien swarm-beast after another, the tyres running with ichor, one tulwar snapping out at anything that came too close. Qui’sin led the other flank, force staff crackling with the energies of the storm. Organic bio-weaponry rained down on the White Scars, their proud armour long reduced to scarred silver or splattered viscera. The column’s firepower, however, stopped the xenos from massing an effective amount of force at any single point along the route of their advance. Joghaten and the other bikers would snap a warning when a particularly dense knot of aliens burst from the adjoining streets, and bolters and heavy weapons from the squads firing from the Rhino’s opened tops would disperse the swarm.

  The brotherhood’s Predators brought up the rear, turrets rotated back, savaging any pursuing broods that drew too close. From the rooftops either side Joghaten tracked the twin assault squads keeping pace. On three occasions they caught packs of hybrids armed with grenade launchers and tube charges preparing ambushes from the roofs of hab blocks, ripping them apart with chainswords and bolt pistols before they could decimate the armour below.

  They failed to catch the fourth attempted ambush. Two xenos-twisted humans had secreted themselves in the upper storey of a yat wool loom mill. They waited until most of the column had passed before revealing themselves. A krak rocket corkscrewed from their vantage point, twisting wildly off course before darting back down onto its intended target – the rearmost Predator, Hetman’s Pride. It struck the weaker top armour just behind the turret, penetrating before detonating. The tank’s thermic combustor reactor ignited, a mushrooming fireball killing the crew instantly and shrouding the end of the street in flames and smoke. The Predator’s killers didn’t have time to reload before a vengeful salvo from White Road’s autocannon riddled the upper floor of the mill and shredded them both.