Armageddon Saint - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer 40K

  I do, but it takes me a moment before I can say it.

  ‘The Neverborn. Abyssal voices of nightmare. Maybe they’re following us, or maybe it’s everywhere.’

  ‘Maybe making guesses not good for anyone,’ she snaps, clearly on edge from this discovery.

  A few minutes later we crest a dune and suddenly find ourselves on the edge of the wasters’ camp. Camouflaged sheeting and tents blend almost seamlessly with the ash and grit. Carefully positioned poles create curves that mask the lines of the tents against the bowl of the depression holding the encampment, while smaller bivouacs are half-dug into the ash itself, forming small caves and tunnels. Walk by just forty metres away and you’d see nothing.

  Whoever had the vox-set must have signalled ahead because there’s a welcome party waiting for us, weapons at the ready, while our escorts quietly move away, out of the firing line. I count twenty shrouded figures in the camp, all of them armed. The youngest must have been moved away for safety, infants with older children for minders, so there’s probably even more altogether. The tents I see don’t seem to have the capacity for everyone, so I figure that either they’ve dug down into the dunes beneath those canopies or there’s a second, maybe even third camp not far away.

  Orskya walks over to the closest group, none of them as tall as her, and has a brief conversation. One of those she meets raises a hand and then drops it, and the other wasters lower their weapons. About half of them turn away and set about other business, while a good number of those that found us drift off into the encampment.

  I spare a glance for Nazrek. The ork has been very quiet, bemused by everything that’s happening, I think. It stands there, arms by its sides, shoulders sagging, gaze cast to the ground. There’s none of the ork’s usual latent belligerence. While Orskya continues her small conference with what I guess must be the ranking elders, I wander over to the xenos warrior.

  ‘Good?’ I ask.

  ‘Not good,’ says Nazrek, rubbing a knuckle across its forehead. ‘No green. Feel bad.’

  ‘Right.’ I’m not sure what to do. I’ve never had to handle a listless ork before. ‘Keep out of trouble but be ready for it.’

  Nazrek gives a morose nod and sits down in a billow of ash.

  ‘Wait here,’ it says.

  I’m not sure if I prefer this or two hundred kilos of green-skinned meanness always looking for the next fight. I’m used to fist-happy knuckleheads, not so much the moping types. At least I’ll know where to find the ork.

  While some of the wasters start handing out scarves, hoods and masks – a charity I hadn’t asked for or expected – Orskya introduces me and the Colonel to Maksi, Elg and Tormas, the three senior members of the group. Harla, Karste and a few others tag along with us once they’ve received better protection against the harsh elements.

  I’m offered a jacket that must have been taken from the abandoned Imperial lines – thick camouflage material, reinforced at the elbows. A girl brings a couple of different helmets to try on. The first is a regulation Cadian-style, but it’s too big for me, even with the chinstrap cinched in as tight as possible. I eye the other offering with suspicion – a tall cere­monial helm covered with blue velvet, a pointed stud at the crest and a fur lining. Putting it on, it feels secure enough, but I feel like an idiot. I swap it for a cape and hood instead, sending a quick prayer to the Emperor that I don’t get hit in the head any time soon. I sling the proffered waster mask around my neck – no rebreather, just layers of filter material sandwiched between a rigid frame that looks a bit like a skull, enough to cover the mouth and ears, tinted goggles to shield the eyes.

  We gather under one of the ash shades and share sips of a lukewarm beverage that tastes faintly of sweat, but I don’t make any complaints. Tormas does most of the talking. A short but solidly built waster, his Low Gothic is clipped and hurried, but he confirms that they only have spare clothes because they’ve recently looted some of the abandoned Imperial positions. We’re to remember the tribe’s generosity, and I promise that I will. Schaeffer raises the subject of the vox-set again and Tormas nods and grins in reply.

  ‘Yes, chatterbox. This. Here.’ He leads us to the back of the tent, pulls back a rubberised sheet to reveal a tarnished, battered transmitter and receiver set. Given its lack of proper shell and size, I reckon it was taken from a vehicle, maybe a crashed aircraft.

  ‘Look bad. Work good,’ Tormas says, wrinkled face creasing more as he delivers a wink. He picks up the receiver handle and offers it to me.

  ‘We might need some time,’ says the Colonel, stepping between me and Tormas. ‘We have to check a lot of frequencies to see which ones are still operational.’

  ‘We could just use the emergency transmit,’ I say, jabbing a finger to the big red button set into the main panel.

  Schaeffer turns on me, eyes narrowing in annoyance.

  ‘I am sure our hosts have other tasks to attend to. We should not impose on their time.’

  It’s the politest I’ve ever known him to be and the look on his face is trying to convey something but I’m just not getting it. I’m about to speak again when he gently but pointedly closes his hand around mine on the pickup set, stopping me from activating the switch.

  ‘There are security protocols to observe. We must be sure we do not betray any confidences.’

  ‘Yeah, protocols,’ I say, finally getting his meaning. He doesn’t want the wasters listening in, and I can see the sense of it. ‘I remember the training drill. “Heretics listen to careless whispers” and all that.’

  The Colonel starts to fiddle with the broadcast dials, not doing anything in particular, while I turn back to our company.

  ‘This could take a long time. Orskya, I’m sure you need to make ready to move your camp. Those orks won’t be far from here by sunfall.’

  ‘It wise to move on, yes,’ she says. ‘I already tell others, but extra hands make quicker work.’

  ‘Harla, why don’t you make sure everyone is ready to leave when we’ve made contact.’

  The underhiver looks away for a second.

  Too late I realise that he’s actually catching the eye of the people behind him.

  Harla shoves Karste into Tormas and jumps forward, dragging a piece of broken bayonet from his pocket to hold against the old man’s throat. The others pull out pistols and take aim at us. Five of them, two from the Colonel’s team.

  ‘You’ve been busy, Harla,’ I say. ‘Spinning a little conspiracy, it seems.’

  ‘Norst, Guardandi, stand down!’ barks the Colonel.

  ‘Not taking orders, Colonel,’ says the one called Guardandi. She gestures for Schaeffer to move away from the vox. ‘Not now everything’s gone to shit and back.’

  ‘Can’t let you hand us over to the authorities, Colonel,’ says Harla. He takes a step back, pulling Tormas with him, turning so he can see Orskya and the other two elders. Behind him, one of the other conspirators pulls down the tent flap, hiding us from view. ‘One chance, Kage. I’d rather take my chances with the infernal servants and greenskins than the commissars. I reckon you feel the same.’

  ‘Not sure,’ I reply, rubbing my chin. ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘Saw a drag-sled out there. Gonna load it with supplies then head north. Take this one a kilometre or so with us, just to keep everyone honest.’

  ‘Schaeffer stays here,’ says Norst, darting a murderous glance at the Colonel. ‘Or we do him right now. Either way’s good.’

  ‘You are making a big mistake,’ says the Colonel, squaring up to the group, slowly folding his arms. ‘We need as many able-bodied fighters as we can get so I will ignore this transgression just once.’

  ‘You’re not in any position to offer anything, you crazy fragger,’ says Guardandi.

  ‘What are you heading back to?’ says Harla, directing the words to me, with the odd glance at Karste. She�
��s not part of the conspiracy, her look of horror fixed on her face even as he continues talking. ‘At best there’s nothing happening. Anarchy, panic, an army in full retreat. Worse, it’s a commissar’s kiss the moment they see us.’

  I laugh at his slang, referring to the summary execution dispatched by officers of the Imperial Commissariat.

  ‘At least the skullcaps will make it quick,’ I reply. I grimace and shrug. ‘Not sure the Neverborn won’t drag you back to their abyssal hell and play with you for a few lifetimes…’

  ‘Gotta catch us first, right?’ offers one of the other meatheads. ‘Keep moving, like these wasters. Not get stuck in some bunker or trench just waiting for it to happen.’

  ‘Kinda tired of running,’ I tell them, hands moving to my hips.

  ‘Hands up, Kage,’ barks Harla, pushing the tip of his shiv into Tormas, a drop of blood leaking from the puncture. ‘It’d be a shame to open up this old waster.’

  ‘What do you think, Orskya?’ I ask, lifting my hands away from my weapons.

  ‘I think anyone threaten my people, their corpse cold before sunfall.’

  ‘Get fragged,’ says Norst.

  ‘We don’t have to fight our way out, nobody has to get hurt,’ says Harla. ‘There’s a few others think the same way we do, in case you thought maybe of trying to get a message out or something.’

  ‘Karste,’ I say, turning my full attention to her. ‘What would you do for the Burned Man?’

  ‘Anything,’ she replies breathlessly. ‘You saved me.’

  ‘If I went, you’d follow?’

  ‘I… I would. If that’s what you wanted.’

  ‘Stop talking,’ says Harla. ‘Start listening.’

  ‘I don’t want to go with these people, Karste,’ I say.

  She takes my meaning immediately and launches herself at Harla. He pulls his hand away from the elder and swipes the shiv towards her. The others can’t help but react, their pistols moving towards the woman throwing herself forward.

  It’s quicker to pull my knife and charge forward than to draw my pistol and take aim. The point of the blade hits Norst under the ribs at the front, right beneath the breast bone and into his heart. Blood coats the inside of the tent and I go down on top of him.

  The noise of a waster pistol is deafeningly loud behind me and I see Harla stagger back, a hole in his right cheek. Another bang and a bullet rips through his eye to spread skull and brains over one of his conspirators. The zip of a laspistol – the Colonel’s I guess – sends a blue bolt of deadly energy into the chest of another, who falls back into her companion, just as he opens fire with his stubber. A bullet whines over my head as I rise, blade dripping blood.

  The bark of the waster pistol sounds again and the last mutineer goes down, chest bubbling with red froth.

  ‘What about the ones outside?’ I say, looking from Orskya to the Colonel. ‘We don’t know which ones know about this fraggin’ bad idea.’

  ‘You can find out,’ says Schaeffer, lowering his pistol. ‘Get out there quickly, pretend you joined with Harla.’

  I nod and duck through the tent flap, eyes scanning left and right to see who’s paying attention.

  I catch the gaze of Seras, one of the Colonel’s troopers, who is too nonchalant as he lounges close to the camp entrance. I hang back by the tent and motion him over.

  ‘I heard a shot. What happened?’ he whispers, starting to duck towards the tent flap. I grab his arm and stop him.

  ‘Schaeffer’s dead, and one of the elders.’ I push him away and see the drag-sled Harla mentioned. I point to it with my bloodied knife and then glance around, checking to see where the wasters are and the rest of my people. ‘Get the others, now, and guard that sled. We’re leaving in a hurry.’

  He swallows, nods and heads of into the swirl of ash and dust. As soon as his back is turned, I duck back into the elders’ tent. I see Orskya and Elg crouching over Karste, who’s lying next to Harla’s body. Maksi is dabbing at Tormas’ neck with a rag. The Colonel is glowering at the vox-set, from which a wisp of smoke rises lazily from a hole in the front.

  ‘Frag,’ I say, realising that sometime in the fight a bullet must have hit the set. ‘Is it working?’

  ‘No, but it might be fixed,’ growls Schaeffer.

  ‘Right, I’ll leave that to you…’ I round on Orskya. ‘Is there another way out of here?’

  ‘Yes,’ she tells me, gesturing to the back of the tent.

  ‘In the next couple of minutes there’s going to be a group of our people hanging around the sled about five metres left of the tent entrance. They’re all yours.’

  Orskya stands up and taps Maksi on the shoulder. The two of them disappear into the shadow behind the vox-set and I turn my attention to Karste.

  ‘How is she?’ I ask, kneeling beside Elg, who has a bloodied hand holding a wad of rags against the side of Karste’s chest. The uphiver is pale, eyes fluttering under the lids, breathing shallow and bubbling blood with each exhalation.

  ‘The stab, in lung.’

  I cast a look up at Tormas.

  ‘Can you help?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he says with a shrug. ‘I see some better. I see some dead.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ I growl.

  I stand up and pace over to the Colonel, where he has the back of the vox-set open, prodding suspiciously at the innards with the point of a combat knife. My next words are cut off by a sudden fusillade of gunfire outside, accompanied by shouts and screams cut short.

  A few moments later the tent flap lifts to reveal Orskya with a satisfied look in her eye.

  ‘Traitors dead.’ She looks at the Colonel. ‘You want parts from other vox?’

  ‘It may help,’ he says.

  I stop her as she moves to leave again.

  ‘We need a medicae facility,’ I say, nodding towards Karste. ‘Aid station, field hospital, anything like that. How far to the nearest Imperial forces?’

  ‘I tell you. All army go south. We look for medic supplies. Take some. You can have, maybe.’

  ‘It’s not the supplies, it’s the expertise,’ I tell her. ‘Any of your people know how to fix her up?’

  ‘No,’ she says with a sigh. ‘I take you to nearest defences. Two-hour travel. Take her on sled, she probably survive that long.’

  A squeal from the far end of the tent tears everyone’s attention away from Karste. Schaeffer steps back from the vox, glaring as sparks leap from the exposed workings. Against expectation the frequency dial glows into life and the speaker thrums with power, broken by intermittent crackles and squawks.

  The Colonel stoops to adjust the channel and a fresh flurry of sparks erupts from the whining machine, sending him retreating several paces.

  ‘Transmitter is broken, but the receiver seems to be working,’ he tells us, rubbing his chin.

  ‘So, no calling for a rescue,’ I say.

  ‘There should be muster beacons left after the retreat,’ he says, looking back at the vox. ‘In such a hasty withdrawal some units, patrols, air missions can get left behind. There would be broadcasts with coordinates of the muster points. If we can pick up one of those, we can find out where to go.’

  He crouches down and starts adjusting the set, brow knotted in concentration. A variety of mechanical warbles and moans emanate from the vox-set, interspersed with sequences of rapid clicking.

  ‘Have stuffed wound,’ Elg says, dragging my attention back to Karste. ‘Lot of blood. Bandage.’

  He and Maksi start to drag the bodies of the mutineers out of the tent. They’re joined by other wasters, voices raised in concerned inquiry.

  ‘If you find where to go,’ says Orskya, nodding towards the Colonel and the vox-set, ‘I take you there.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask quietly. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate it, but why have you helped us so much
?’

  ‘I not sure,’ she says with a conflicted expression, part confused and part amused. ‘It seem harder not to help.’

  Orskya flicks a hand towards Karste.

  ‘Maybe I help them, not you,’ she continues. ‘I see you not leave them, but I know you think about it, yes?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ I admit, looking away. ‘But they believe in me.’

  ‘She certainly believe you special. This one throw herself on knife for you!’

  ‘I know.’

  I look at Karste. She’s not the first casualty on my account, and I’ve even fragged the odd ally to stay alive, but this feels different. She knew what she was doing, taking on Harla, and what would happen. She did it not because I tricked her into it, or because it was just the violence of battle.

  Karste is dying because she was willing to give her life away for me. That’s a pretty heavy load to take on board.

  And I knew it would happen, that’s what fuels the guilt that’s nagging at me. Guilt, I might add, is not a common acquaintance of mine. I’ve always believed in taking your chances, and I’ve certainly put my neck on the line a few times, enough that I don’t feel I’ve shirked the risks others have taken. But when I spoke to her, all but told her to attack Harla, it was in the firm knowledge that she would probably get hurt, maybe even die.

  And I did it anyway.

  ‘It bad situation,’ says Tormas, perhaps guessing my thoughts as I stare silently at the dying woman. The old man pats me on the shoulder. ‘You do what needed.’

  A sudden burst of singing has us all jumping with shock. Angelic voices fill the tent, cut through with static but unmistakably a hymnal for the Emperor. I don’t recognise the song but just hearing the notes, the voices rising in praise, gives my spirit a boost.

  ‘What is that?’ asks Elg. ‘Is beautiful.’

  I shake my head while the Colonel makes some fine adjustments, cutting out some of the interference. He sits back on his heels, head cocked to one side as he listens.

  ‘The Alma Imperator Battalica,’ he says.