Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  Still new. Still fresh.

  Charandis is scant hours ahead of me. I can waste no time.

  A burial for the dead is not even an option. I will not touch what this tainted beast has defiled. I will not be surrounded by those fat-bellied flies. I will not draw another breath of this sickly air, blighting my lungs in the name of ceremony.

  No, mother and child can lie here, in the first minutes of dawn‘s pale light. My quarry is too near. My glory is too close.

  I break into a run, leaving the mounting drone of feasting flies behind me.

  IV

  The lion was afraid.

  He paced in wide circles, his fear manifesting in strangled whines coughed up from the back of his throat. The Wind was back – the Wind that had brought this sickness to him, blown down from the ephemeral peaks – but this time it was… everywhere.

  Literally, everywhere.

  On every moon-drenched leaf, on every fallen branch, even on the ground he walked upon, the Wind had settled. It was a filmy substance, sticking to his claws; a slime that squelched between his toes and burned his skin like acid.

  He could feel himself becoming sicker by the minute. His consciousness waxed and waned, coming and going like a red tide. He couldn’t focus. The buzz of flies had become all-consuming.

  He made a sound, something between a yelp and a roar.

  He saw creatures watching him. Their eyes were the pale yellow of dying suns, leering from every shadow, bright with the promise of yet more pain, yet more agony… The predators from his dreams. They had come with hunt-kill on their minds.

  His own eyes felt like they were aflame. They burned in their sockets, making the predators little more than phantoms, escaping his vision.

  But he knew they were there. And he wouldn’t let them drag him into prey-sleep. Ever.

  Tonight is a night of ill omens.

  I have tracked him for a day. I have followed his trail without rest, tailing him deeper and deeper into the forest. My cloak is unrecognisable under the inch-thick layer of grime, earned from the tireless chase through mile after mile of endless nothing.

  My braided hair falls about my face in dirty ribbons, sticking to my sweat-slick skin. My heels burn with hot blisters, and I bleed from a dozen minor cuts and scrapes on my cheeks and forearms.

  That is not why my confidence has fled me. That is not why I am certain I am going to die tonight.

  It shows through a crack in the clouds, staring blearily down at the world below. It colours everything in its own sickly shade of venom-green, staining the skies noxious.

  Tonight, as I set my gaze upon the tainted lion I must kill, the Dread Moon waxes.

  Fear is my guts turning to ice, and my skin crawling with each moment I linger out here, in the open. I should be indoors, hidden from the Dread Moon’s baleful gaze. Not risking my life for a glory that could see me dead.

  Charandis howls again, and I rise to my feet. I am being ridiculous. I have come this far. At this point, I would rather die than turn back.

  My axe leaves its sling in a whisper of motion, its weight a balm to my sudden doubts. The subtle enchantments laced within the age-old steel shines bright in the insidious glow of the watchful eye above me.

  I step from my hiding place, emerging from a thorny bush.

  I am ready. Charandis must die.

  As it moved from the shadows, the lion flinched.

  He knew what it was. Pale-skinned and baleful-eyed, it stalked forward with something lethal clutched in its hands, hunched and feral. It flashed its leonine fangs in angry challenge, a territorial roar hammering from its throat.

  Maybe it walked upright like an elf-creature. Maybe it clothed itself like an elf-creature.

  But he knew that the pride leader of the dream-predators was coming for him.

  The lion’s reply was thunder of his own, a hoarse bellow torn from ravaged lungs. They stood at opposite ends of the clearing – aggressor and defender, challenger and challenged.

  The lion wasted no time.

  He charged.

  My eyes widen as this… thing… comes for me.

  I do not even recognise the beast as a lion. Haggard and sunken-eyed, it is wreathed in flies. Patches the colour of sour milk show through what little isn’t a chittering, buzzing carpet.

  Its mane hangs loose on its ravaged frame, sagging with each leaping bound. As it tries to barrel me to the ground, I leap sideways, moving fluidly into a painful roll over jutting stones.

  Charandis moves fast. He is nearly on me by the time I have regained my footing, his stinking, fetid breath a hot blast in my face. My axe howls in a blistering arc, thumping into the lion’s side.

  I wait for the scream of anguish. I wait for him to back away from me, bleeding from his crushed ribcage, mewling in his last moments of defeat.

  But none of these things happen.

  My axe bounces from Charandis’s hide as if it were made of rubber. This is unthinkable. I have felled trees with a single swipe of this weapon. That is their purpose. That is what they were made to do.

  He does not bleed, nor does he back away.

  Instead, he nearly kills me.

  The lion’s claws tasted the flesh of his tormentor in a flash of venomous fury.

  Blood, salty and stinging, flecked the lion’s face in spattering droplets. The dream-predator staggered backwards, clutching his ruined visage.

  Three bloodied canyons ran from cheek to brow, raining waterfalls of crimson down the aggressor’s front. The predator roared in anger, futilely lashing out again with the gleaming blade it held in its clawed hands. It was useless.

  The lion was the dominant one here.

  He went for the throat, even as it screamed a meaningless screed of guttural sounds.

  Even as I circle around Charandis’s lethal bulk, I roar in pain. My vision is painted arterial red, my face a bleeding mess snagged by filthy talons. I will have these scars for the rest of my life, even if that life is measured in minutes or years. But at least he didn’t take my eyes. At least I can still see.

  We pace around each other like dominant males sizing each other up, gazes locked and teeth bared. My axe is useless, here. The taint must allow him to endure the blessings wrought into the steel of my blade.

  He comes at me for a third time, his matted fur flashing acid-green under the fell light of the moon as he thumped forward. My life is saved by throwing up my hands, letting his claws scrawl against my axe’s haft. Countless names of my bloodline vanish under his talons, buckling my knees with the force of impact.

  As his sword-like talons lock with my weapon, he begins to push down.

  I do not know how I manage to even begin resisting. Ropes of drool hang down in foul-smelling strands as I push back against the lion’s strength, the muscles of my arms and legs burning with slowly faltering effort. He is slowly forcing me to the ground.

  What I do next is out of desperation. I do not know what I am trying to achieve, but my life at this point can be measured in painful seconds.

  I drop to my back.

  My hands fasten around the small stone as if it were as precious as the Phoenix Crown itself. It leaves my fingers in a blur of motion, just as the lion sweeps down.

  I hear the thok of impact, and close my eyes.

  Death does not come.

  The lion could not breathe.

  Something cold and hard lodged deep in his throat, filling his windpipe with a painful lump. It was as if a band of iron had been placed over his chest. His lungs could not move.

  He could not even roar in pain.

  His heart – wet and thumping – began to beat faster, soaking his blood in adrenaline. The fight was bleeding from him rapidly. He leapt away from the predator under his claws, trying to choke and gasp.

  Soon he was writhing on the ground. His lungs were burning. The desperation to draw breath was a need that sang in his blood. He rolled over onto his back, writhing in fear.

  He was not aware
that the predator had gotten to its feet.

  I toss my axe aside. It has failed me here. My walk is a purposeful stride, my features bloodied and ruined. Charandis is on his back, like a dog rolling in mud, swiping gamely at imagined assailants. He makes no sound. He can’t even choke. I bare teeth, wet with my own blood, in a triumphant smile.

  But I am not finished yet.

  My fingers are not slender, delicate things. When they wrap around Charandis’s throat, they squeeze with vice-like strength. I climb atop this Chaos-maddened lion – thrashing and biting – and I throttle him in the light of the Dread Moon.

  I know he would die if I just left him. He would choke to death on the stone I picked up in desperation, but that is not enough. That is not how I want this to end. A legend dies under my hands, caked in the filth of his own corruption. I will throttle the last vestiges of life from his ravaged body.

  And I do.

  The lion was dying.

  He did not feel sick. Not any more. There was still pain, settling on every bone, biting into every muscle, but this ache was an absence of affliction. It was… gone. Just like that. It vanished, as if it had sensed he would soon be gone, fleeing his body.

  He was still going to die. He had stopped fighting his impending demise – that was pointless. He had been sick for too long to even think of surviving beyond these next minutes.

  The predator was on him, and with the sudden passing of the sickness, he saw what was truly there. No fangs. No hunched shoulders, overgrown with a mane that had no place there. No claws. No bleak yellow eyes.

  It was just an elf. Blunt, rugged features; maybe brawnier than most elf-creatures, but one of them all the same.

  As prey-sleep took him, he still looked upon a predator.

  V

  Valeth spat the pulpy remains of a bitter herb onto the fire.

  Two days, he had said. Two days, and the White Lions would hunt the beast themselves. That was his promise to Korhil. That was the terms upon which he allowed the woodsman the honour of this hunt.

  The Khaos Moon had set over the distant Annulli Mountains, the jutting peaks that knifed up from the faraway horizon. The sun took its place in a rising curtain of ruby fire, bathing the trees in warmth, banishing the moon‘s corrupting influence.

  The woodsman had not returned, and that meant he was probably dead. Who knew what last night could have done to creature like Charandis?

  No, he had said a prayer for him this morning. That would have to do.

  Alvantir was twitchy, and had been this whole time. He kept on mentioning how he should get home to his wife, but Valeth bade him stay. The tracker was phenomenal, he had a nose like a wolf’s, and eyes like a hawk’s. He would be useful when it came to finding the beast.

  Valeth rose to his feet, his shoulders unburdened by the weight of his trophy and armour. ‘Get kitted up.’ His voice was clipped and tightened by discipline. ‘We move after we eat.’

  His two companions murmured their assent, and went about their tasks silently. Only Alvantir didn’t move.

  ‘He might still come back,’ he said, chewing at his fingernails. ‘There is still a chance.’

  Valeth hadn’t the heart to tell him that his closest friend was probably lying in pieces. ‘Maybe,’ came his doubtful answer. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Such little faith, kinsman.’

  The voice was hoarse, gravelly and raw from a night without rest. It rumbled over the clearing, reaching their fire in a hoarse whisper. Four pairs of eyes widened in surprise.

  The speaker looked as if he were dead. The bags under his eyes spoke of exhaustion and fatigue, and the clumsy stitching across his face did little to halt the blood that oozed from his ugly wounds. His teeth were a slash of white in a sea of grime; a smile that seemed out of place considering what the man had on his broad shoulders.

  The head was… huge. Bigger than the rest of its kind, by far. Blood-caked dirty white fur in inch-thick blotches, most of it the lion’s own; some of it the blood of its old victims. The mouth was still open, still roaring soundlessly. Its empty sockets glared with the anger that had sealed its demise, biting through the air with hot intensity.

  ‘You…’ Valeth began, uncomprehending.

  ‘Yes,’ Korhil replied. ‘I did it.’

  I became used to the smell on the journey. My nose is numb to the stench, now. It does not affect me.

  I watch as it hits them, one by one, and my smile widens. I know I have stunned them. They look at me, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

  I do not blame them. They have just witnessed the birth of a legend.

  ‘I did it,’ I say again, savouring the way the words sound. ‘I have passed the rite. I am a White Lion.’

  Silence, again. As I walk forward, dry blood falls from my skin in crimson snowflakes.

  ‘That is Charandis?’ Alvantir asks, choking on his own words. This is the first time he has seen the beast.

  I shrug my shoulders, feeling the heavy weight of my burden. The skull alone weighs as much as a child. ‘Yes, my friend. This is Charandis.’

  He laughs, cutting through his shock with surprised amusement. As he does so, he runs his fingers through his hair. The gleam of the ring adorning his hand catches the firelight. I begin to laugh, too, and–

  The ring.

  ‘Alvantir,’ I say, my heart thumping. ‘Let me see your hand.’

  He obeys, still laughing, still hardly believing what I have achieved.

  The ring is a band of plain gold, its plainness its true uniqueness. It is tradition for rings of betrothal to be gaudy and bejewelled. This is something Alvantir has never cared for.

  Neither does his wife.

  I step forward and snatch at the wooden disc he has hung around his neck. It, too, is simple – carved into a rough circle, engraved with the Asuuri rune for courage.

  His boy has such a pendant, too.

  ‘No…’

  ‘Korhil? What?’ He sees my fear. He sees the recognition in my eyes as I look at these very personal trinkets.

  ‘Alvantir, I…’ I cannot say it. I cannot say I am wearing the carcass of the beast that has killed my closest friend’s only family.

  But he is a smart man. He knows.

  ‘No!’ He shouts at first, railing at me. ‘That is not true!’

  ‘My friend, I am so sorry…’

  But he is gone. He sprints into the woods, choking on his grief, following the trail I have left behind me.

  The weight on my shoulders doubles.

  My elation vanishes.

  ‘Come, Korhil,’ Valeth says, clueless as to what has just transpired, here. ‘It is time for you to come with us.’

  Waiting Death

  Steve Lyons

  Borealis Four.

  Can’t say it was the most distinguished campaign of my career. A jungle planet orbiting a red giant on the inner rim of the Segmentum Tempestus. A hundred and ten degrees in the shade. Serpents lurking under every leaf, stinging insects as big as a man’s fist. Even the flowers coughed out a nasty muscle-wasting virus. It was a damned disappointment, I can tell you. I had hoped for a challenge.

  Never did find out if Borealis Four was worth saving. Could be that its crust was packed full of minerals and precious stones. Could be it was as dry as a corpse’s throat. All that mattered back then was that, when the explorators set foot on this green new world, they had found a surprise waiting for them: a Chaos-worshipping cult, proud of the fact that the Dark Gods had begun to pervert their flesh and deform their bones.

  And that’s where I came in: Colonel ‘Iron Hand’ Straken – along with three regiments of the finest damned soldiers in the whole of the Imperium.

  Catachan Jungle Fighters.

  The cultists on Borealis Four were one of the worst rabbles I had ever seen. Yet again they came bursting from the trees, howling at the top of their voices, throwing themselves at us with no care for their own lives. That was fine by me – we didn’t care about their lives either. />
  ‘Well, don’t just dance with those damned sissies, Graves – use your knife, man,’ I shouted. ‘And Barruga, you’re as slow as a brainleaf plant. You idle slugs, you gonna let this filth spew on the good name of the Catachan Second? I could whip this bunch with my one good arm if you sons-of-groxes weren’t in my way. Thorn, stop flapping about like a damned newborn – you still got one damned hand, so pick up that lasgun! Kopachek, you got a clear shot with that flamer, what the hell are you waiting for? Emperor’s teeth, do I have to do everything myself?’

  We tore through that scum like blades through a reed bed. They were ill-disciplined, ill-equipped, didn’t know what had hit them. They’d wasted their damned lives dancing around altars in dresses, waving stinking candles. Should have spent a few days on my world; they’d have learned how to fight like men.

  I’d made a bet with my opposite number, Carraway of the 14th, that we’d be done here in four months, tops. Two months in, it looked like I was going to collect on that bet. Until that one night.

  That one night, when my platoon of some thirty hardened veterans – along with a certain General Farris – was cut off from our comrades, stranded in the darkest depths of the Borealis jungle. That night, when I faced one of the toughest, most desperate challenges of my life.

  That night, when I had to fight my own damned men.

  The jungle on Borealis Four was nothing compared to Catachan, but the march was taking too damn long. Cutting a way through the high vegetation was slowing us up, and the men were tired. But sunset was coming soon, and things out here tended to get a whole lot worse after dark, so I decided to offer a few words of encouragement.

  ‘Pick up the pace back there! What do you think this is, a newborn’s trip to the mango swamps? Myers, put some muscle into those knife strokes. Levitski, Barruga, keep trying to kick some life into that damned vox-caster.’

  Still the machine offered nothing but a metallic thunk and yet another blast of static.