[Warhammer 40K] - Sons of Dorn

by Chris Roberson - (ebook by Undead)

  The newcomers were a barbaric rabble, some of them dressed in little more than loincloths and breeches, nearly all of them naked from the waist but for the crudely wrought metal jewellery that adorned virtually every neck and wrist among them. Their hair was long and lank, tied back in plaits, and their chins were plucked hairless and smooth. Pale blue eyes against skin the colour of purest porcelain, except where it was discoloured by garish tattoos, and each of them wielding a long, simply forged sword of bare iron.

  “Islanders!” one of the Caritaigne officers yelled, raising his own blade, but a moment too late. One of the barbaric tribesmen tackled the officer to the ground, like a lion bringing down its prey, and then battered the side of the officer’s head with the pommel of his crude iron sword.

  Jean-Robur glanced back in the direction from which the enraged Sipangish had been approaching, but all sight of the Sipangish youth had been lost by the sudden appearance of the barbarous islanders. Jean-Robur had little time to wonder what had become of him, though, as he was quickly forced to fend off the attack of yet another of the islanders, only barely managing to avoid being dragged down by a lion’s-leap attack like his fellow Caritaigne.

  Dancing out of the barbarian’s path, acting only on instinct now, Jean-Robur swung his falchion and pressed the attack.

  Taloc s’Tonan and his brothers fought their way through the mass of combatants, howling war cries all the while. More than a few of his brothers had fallen to the blades and firearms of the Sipangish and Caritaigne forces, but Taloc was filled with the holy fire of righteousness, and fought on, undaunted. The men of their clan had been joined by the scattered remains of several other warrior-clans, and they now fought together as one. Young men who in other years might have faced each other in the contests of the tourney, fighting for the glory of their respective clans and to win names for their ironbrands, now battled side-by-side against the invaders, all distinction of family and clan forgotten. They were all merely Eokaroeans now, facing a common foe, and would remain so until the last of the interlopers had been pushed back into the sea.

  A screaming came from overhead, and for an instant Taloc thought that one of the larger cannons had been discharged in their direction, sending a huge chunk of metal doom flying through the air towards them. He glanced up, and saw that something was indeed flying towards them through the air. But it was nothing that had ever been fired from any Triandrian cannon.

  Jean-Robur looked up as the screaming grew ever louder and higher in pitch. Descending from a cloudless sky were a number of strange objects—three, four, perhaps more, and each of them easily as large as the caravel that had brought Jean-Robur from Caritaigne. They were like stylised birds, perhaps, or the streamlined sculptures sometimes employed as ships’ figureheads.

  Mouth hanging open in bewildered amazement, Jean-Robur followed the objects with his gaze. As they lowered gracefully down to earth, the combatants on the ground below were sent scrambling to get out of the way, and to avoid being crushed beneath.

  From his scarcely remembered instruction, Jean-Robur could dimly recall ancient stories of messengers from god riding such vessels down from the heavens. But such things didn’t really exist, did they?

  When the first of the craft opened, Zatori Zan fought the urge to kneel in devotion. Surely these could be nothing but the divine chariots referenced in the ancient legends of Sipang, which carried holy warriors between the stars.

  Then a giant figure emerged into the light, its face and form completely hidden within an enormous suit of armour, golden yellow and trimmed with jet-black. Behind it followed another, then another, and then another. More and more of the giants in armour descended from the open hatches onto the field, dwarfing even the tallest of the combatants.

  Zatori was brought up short, mouth gaping and eyes widening with wonder.

  So the ancient legends were true! And these giants in gold must be those same holy warriors, from beyond the stars.

  Zatori felt his mind reeling with the revelation, but as he looked from one golden giant to another, his eyes tracked across the field, and he saw what effect the descent of the divine chariots was having.

  As tumultuous as the battlefield had been, the arrival of the giant warriors in gold threw everything into confusion. Some of the combatants threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees, praying for deliverance. Others turned and fled, shrieking like children frightened by a ghost story.

  Other combatants, though, saw the chance to use the confusion to their advantage, turning their blades against enemies overwhelmed by the arrival of the divine chariots. He saw Caritaigne slashing at Sipangish who knelt to pray, and Sipangish clubbing down Caritaigne who fled in terror.

  The ancient legends might be true, and demigods might now be walking the earth, Zatori realised, but he still burned with the righteous fires of vengeance. Whatever else happened, he would avenge Father Nei.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Zatori Zan knew that if he wanted to avenge the shameful murder of his master he could not hesitate an instant. The question as to whether these were the holy warriors of legend, and if so whether the legends might not have presented the full story of their nature, would have to wait for another time… if there was to be any other time.

  He’d already lost sight of the young Caritaigne who had murdered Father Nei even before the arrival of the armoured giants, when the horde of barbaric islanders had rushed onto the scene. Now one of the older islanders, face and arms shadowed by the ink of ancient tattoos, stood before Zatori with a simply forged iron sword in hand, teeth bared and fearsome. Zatori raised his tachina in a defensive posture, taking calming breaths in through his nostrils and out through his teeth, finding his still centre and waiting for the proper time for action.

  The older islander, who from the relative finery of the ornaments at his neck and wrists was a figure of some stature in island society, did not utter a word. He seemed hardly to notice the golden giants who were striding towards the centre of the battlefield. Instead, the islander rushed forwards with his iron sword swinging in a deadly arc at Zatori’s bare head.

  Zatori shifted his weight to one foot, raising his tachina with the blade parallel to the horizon in a blocking motion. The islander’s iron sword slid with a shower of sparks off the tip of the tachina. As Zatori repositioned, swinging his sword’s blade in an overhand arc aimed at the islander’s right shoulder, the islander danced back a few paces, out of range of the tachina’s point. Then, lightning-fast, the islander lunged forwards, driving the point of his iron blade directly at Zatori’s midsection, and only by leaning to one side like a tree in a high wind and whipping his tachina around in a blocking manoeuvre was he able to avoid being skewered on the end of the islander’s sword. As it was, the shock of the impact of the tachina against the iron sword was so strong that it reverberated up Zatori’s arms, buzzing his teeth in his skull.

  Though the islander was easily three times as old as Zatori, he had the strength and speed of a much younger man. It would be no easy thing for Zatori to defeat him, and each moment that passed only increased the possibility that the young Caritaigne would move too far away too quick for Zatori ever to locate him again. Even assuming that Zatori’s skill with the blade was equal to the task of overcoming the islander—which at this point was far from a certainty—the delay could mean that Father Nei would be left unavenged.

  Zatori was already forming a silent prayer to the Sacred Duality in his thoughts when the solution to his problem presented itself, in the form of assistance from an unexpected quarter. Before the islander was able to renew his attack, there came from a short distance off to Zatori’s right a sound like distant thunder or the crump of a mortar round, then another, then another.

  Chancing a quick glance to his right, Zatori saw that one of the armoured giants was walking past, the sounds he had heard the thunderous impact of each mighty footfall. The armoured giant seemed to have taken no notice of Zatori and his islander opp
onent, his attention on another corner of the melee, but his path was carrying him near enough to where the two combatants stood that they could see the full glory of the giant’s size. Towering over all of the other combatants, in gleaming yellow-gold and jet-black, the strange figure was like a living engine of war, face completely hidden behind an inexpressive helmet.

  Zatori immediately pulled his gaze back from the giant to the older islander before him, resolving to find time to dwell on the strangeness of the armoured giants only after his fire for vengeance had been quenched. But as he turned his attention back to the islander, Zatori saw that his opponent was not so quick to look away from the giant. For just that brief instant, the islander seemed finally to take notice of the golden giants, and stood transfixed by the sight of the huge armoured figure stomping by, eyes wide in bewilderment or disbelief or simple shock. In another instant, Zatori knew, the islander might well recover himself and renew the attack, so if Zatori was to use the momentary distraction to his advantage he would have to act now.

  Without pausing an instant to reflect, Zatori speared the blade of his tachina forwards into the islander’s chest, the razor-sharp point sliding between ribs as easily as an oar through water. Zatori did not stop until the tip of the tachina extended a full handspan out the islander’s back.

  As Zatori drew out the blade, the islander looked at the blood freely flowing from the cut in his chest with a slightly puzzled expression on his face. Then he lifted his head and looked Zatori in the eye.

  Zatori’s face was as inexpressive and unreadable as the armoured giants’ helmets when he met the islander’s shocked gaze. There was nothing of pride or glory in this act for the young Sipangish squire, only duty and obligation. He did not exult in the islander’s death and defeat, and why would he? The islander was an obstacle on Zatori’s path, one to be swept away in the observance of responsibility. Zatori did not hate his opponent, but was cool, methodical and calculating, just as his master had taught him to be. Detachment and duty, the two pillars of the Sipangish warrior-elite.

  But when he finally faced the young Caritaigne who had murdered Father Nei? Then, perhaps, Zatori might not remain so impassive and detached…

  Taloc s’Tonan stood rooted to the spot, watching the metal giants make their way through the confusion.

  He could not help but remember the story of the two great warriors who had led the People to this world from the stars, loyal servants of the Great Father in the Sky who ruled over all. In the stories, one of the two great warriors had turned against his brother, and his betrayal had brought evil into the world. Were the Eokaroean legends true, and did such great warriors still sail between the stars? Had the successors of those two great brothers finally come to this world to finish the work begun in time out of memory? Would the faithless be brushed aside, and the Eokaroeans who had retained the true faith of the Great Father in the Sky finally be restored to their proper place of glory?

  Taloc still puzzled over the nature of the giant invaders as he turned to look behind him, just in time to see his father Tonan in close combat with a young warrior who Taloc took to be Sipangish. Tonan appeared ready to spit the young Sipangish on the tip of the ironbrand Lightning when one of the armoured giants passed less than a half-dozen paces away. Taloc watched as his father and the Sipangish followed the giant’s movements with their eyes, but while Tonan was still distracted by the giant glittering figure, the Sipangish suddenly and without warning drove his long curved blade into Tonan’s chest halfway to the hilt.

  “Father!” Taloc screamed, knowing that even if his father could hear him, no shout of warning or support would do any good.

  Taloc raised his nameless ironbrand high overhead, and cried vengeance on the Sipangish faithless. The Sipangish didn’t look in Taloc’s direction, but suddenly looked with eyes narrowed in a steely gaze at something out of Taloc’s line of sight and then took off running in pursuit.

  As for the armoured giants, they continued on through the crowd, seeming to take no notice.

  Jean-Robur du Queste suddenly wanted to be anywhere but on this blasted island, and his chances of winning his spurs be damned. What did it matter if he never earned the privileges of a fully blooded son of Caritaigne if in earning those privileges he died here on this godforsaken island? And as overwhelmed as he’d been by the tumult and confusion of the melee only a short while before, the arrival of the strange armoured figures in their flying craft had pushed him into whole new realms of disorientation and disbelief.

  To Jean-Robur’s surprise, though, he found that the mysterious giants did not particularly frighten him. The other combatants—Caritaigne, Sipangish and islanders alike—were mostly running in confusion from the giants, or else frozen to the spot and watching their thunderous advance across the field like terrified rabbits making like statues in the underbrush in the hope that a passing wolf will not notice them. Jean-Robur was somewhat bewildered by the new arrivals, to be sure—his conception of the world was simply not big enough to allow for the existence of such beings, and their appearance was forcing him to reconsider what he believed to be possible—but there was nothing of fear in his reactions. Rather, he was annoyed, since the armoured giants had made a royal mess of the battle, and the chances of a Caritaigne victory seemed suddenly more remote than ever.

  At this point, it seemed like the whole trip was hardly worth the effort, and he’d have been better off staying home in the first place. At least then he’d have been able to sleep in his own bed by night, and would have his choice of the finest vintages to drink by day.

  The armoured giants moved through the melee as though they were searching for something, but just what it was Jean-Robur wasn’t sure. He’d caught sight of one of the giants some distance off stopping in front of a young Caritaigne infantryman, pointing some sort of small object—or device?—at the soldier. The infantryman, with more courage than sense, raised his musket and aimed its barrel at the giant’s head, defiantly. The giant did not lash out, but bent and regarded the infantryman. With the distance that separated him from the scene, Jean-Robur could not make out what the armoured giant said as it addressed the infantryman, but he could feel the reverberations of the giant’s voice in the bones of his chest.

  The infantryman seemed to consider something for a moment, and then bowed his head and threw down his musket.

  Amazingly, the armoured giant turned and stalked away, with the infantryman following close behind!

  Had the soldier been bewitched? What had the giant said that caused the infantryman to throw down his weapon and follow him?

  From behind him, Jean-Robur could hear an angry voice shouting, and glanced over his shoulder to see a young Sipangish warrior rushing towards him and waving a long curved sword in the air. For the briefest moment, Jean-Robur thought that his question about the armoured giant’s intentions would remain unanswered, and then he turned back to see that an answer might be at hand, and much sooner than he would like.

  One of the armoured giants was walking directly towards Jean-Robur.

  * * *

  Zatori raced towards the place where the young Caritaigne who had murdered Father Nei stood. His throat was raw from shouting out his cries for vengeance, but Zatori didn’t let that silence him. He continued on, jinking left and right as other combatants blundered into his path in their frenzied attempt to escape the giant warriors, or to fell at least one more enemy before the strange visitors from the sky seized them.

  More than a few were clearly not above using the distortion of the giant warriors to their own advantage, just as Zatori had done. Still, he was secure in the knowledge that at least he had stabbed the barbaric islander while standing face-to-face, and not struck like a coward from behind. There was no shame in taking advantage if an opponent glanced away in the middle of a contest. At least, that was what Zatori kept telling himself, though a small voice he tried to ignore kept whispering in the back of his thoughts that perhaps he was not so different f
rom the Caritaigne murderer, after all.

  The Caritaigne had turned at the sound of Zatori’s cry of vengeance, but was now turning back towards the armoured giant making right for him. Zatori poured on speed, not wanting to arrive too late to kill the Caritaigne himself. What if the armoured giant were to strike the murderer down himself? Then Father Nei’s death would not be properly avenged, the sullied honour of Zatori’s master not properly restored. And that Zatori would not allow.

  * * *

  Taloc coursed after the Sipangish faithless who had killed his father, as if he was pursuing a boar through the island’s forests with blade in hand. As they had on countless hunts before, his senses had narrowed to a tunnel centred on his prey, his attentions completely focused on the task at hand, everything else not only ignored but for the moment all but nonexistent.

  But this was no ordinary hunt, and this was no boar that Taloc pursued. The quarry that now raced ahead of him, seeming not even to notice Taloc’s pursuit, had the blood of Tonan on his hands. And while the Eokaroeans did not fight for privilege like the Caritaigne, or fight for honour like the Sipangish, they understood too well the concept of blood-debt, and the value of a life for a life.

  The life of Taloc’s father had been ended by this Sipangish faithless, and so the task of ending the killer’s life fell to Taloc. It was no different than the burden that would be Taloc’s had it been an errant boar who had felled Tonan in the hunt. It was a debt of blood, plain and simple. Eokaroeans measured the glory of a clan by the deeds of its warriors, and were a blood-debt to go unanswered it would besmirch the clan’s reputation.

  Taloc’s attentions were not so focused, though, that he was able completely to disregard the giant devils that had fallen from the sky. But what did it matter why the devils had come to the island, whether to bless them all or to kill them? Taloc would die easily, and with a clear conscience, if he first repaid his father’s blood-debt by killing the Sipangish faithless. And then, even if no one living ever knew it, Taloc’s unnamed ironbrand would have earned a name for itself, and he would die with the newly christened Thunderbolt in his hands.