‘Down, down, down!’ Chao yelled, drawing the pair of bolt pistols holstered at his hips. Dinalt and Brandd dropped to one knee, reaching for their own weapons while K’Cee bounded over on all fours to take up a position behind them. Liall simply threw himself forwards into the snow, burying himself into the wet powder and covering his head with both arms.
The first of the lumbering gun servitors reacted too slowly and the spear took it square in the forehead, sliding through its lobotomised brain before emerging through the back of its skull. For a few confused seconds it turned this way and that, synaptic signals failing to reach its twin heavy bolters, before crashing lifelessly to the ground. The other servitor manipulated the weapons slung at its side in place of arms, attempting to find a targeting solution through the white static but, just as it had succeeded in filtering out friendly forces from hostiles, another spear flashed through the air and struck it in the back of the head. It fell to its knees, confused at its plight before a third spear flew out of the blizzard and struck the servitor in the chest, killing it instantly.
‘They’ve got us surrounded,’ Dinalt said, pointing his plasma pistol at the vague outlines resolving through the falling snow. As if to acknowledge him, a dozen spear-carrying figures stepped forward, weapons pointed at the throats of the inquisitor and his companions.
‘Want me to take them down, chief? We’ll probably lose Liall and the monkey, but I’m pretty sure I can kill them all before they get you, me and blondie?’
The jokaero shot Chao a glance and narrowed his eyes. ‘Nothing personal, little man,’ he added.
The jokaero exhaled a sharp breath, flapping his ample lips.
‘Stay your hand, Chao. If they’d wanted to kill us they would have done so by now,’ the inquisitor ordered. ‘Everybody put your weapons on the ground.’ Dinalt allowed his plasma pistol to drop, its weight causing it to sink below the surface of the snow. Brandd and Chao did likewise. Liall lay there continuing to mutter to himself.
Their assailants, both men and women, were clad in thick, dirty furs. Long, unkempt hair stuck to their faces, wet from the blizzard. Totemic skulls of small animals hung from leather cords around the necks of some, while others wore larger skulls like shoulder pads adorning the animal hides. One particularly brutal looking savage, a mass of tight, corded muscle and matted black body hair, had what looked suspiciously like human skulls in place of where his kinsmen had animal remains.
It was this one who spoke, his deep guttural drawl sounding not dissimilar to the dark tongue of some cults Dinalt had previously encountered.
‘Can you understand him, Brandd?’
‘A little. All primitive human dialects seem to evolve along similar lines, at least during the formative stages. He asked us if we came from the sky.’
It had been little more than a year since Tryphena Brandd had become part of Dinalt’s retinue, her former master having died in his attempt to wipe out an ancient Chaos cult, but in that time not only had her combat and investigative skills proved useful, but also her background in linguistics. A military orphan, Brandd had been placed in the care of the Schola Progenium while still an infant before finding herself inducted into the Order of the Fractured Cypher, a Dialogous branch of the Adepta Sororitas. Almost as soon as she had taken her final vows, she found herself part of an inquisitor’s retinue, distinguishing herself to such a degree that even before she was out of her teens, her former master had taken her under his wing as an Inquisitorial apprentice. But her former master was dead, as would she be if she couldn’t talk herself out of this situation.
Dropping her weapon, she slowly rose to her feet, the tips of half a dozen spears pointed at her throat as she did so. She cleared her throat and emitted a string of harsh, phlegmy syllables.
The dark-haired tribesman’s eyes went wide as soon as she had finished speaking and he issued several angry grunts, echoed by the others of his tribe. Spears jabbed forward threateningly, forcing Brandd to her knees again.
‘What on Terra did you say to them to get them so enraged?’ Dinalt asked, his piercing gaze locking with that of his junior interrogator.
‘I told them to put down their weapons and surrender,’ she said. ‘We are agents of the Most Holy Ordos and our authority here is sacrosanct.’
Dinalt looked ready to castigate Brandd when Chao said, ‘If you’ll allow me.’ He slowly got to his feet and raised both hands, palms out in supplication. ‘What I think the lady was trying to say is, can you take us to whoever’s running things around here?’
Brandd’s assertion that they were close to the primary settlement proved to be accurate and they were soon led through a massive stone archway that opened out into a snow-covered square, surrounded on all sides by buildings made from the same material as the gate. Braziers burned outside many of the structures and the smell of roasting meat and human waste hung on the thin, cold air. Their captors had treated the inquisitor and his cohort well, going so far as supplying the obviously ailing Liall with extra furs, but the spears remained constantly aimed at their hearts and throats.
They passed through the square towards a dominating structure at the far end, the town’s inhabitants spilling from doorways to stare in awe at the captives. Most stood a respectful distance back, simply content to witness the coming of the strangers, but others prostrated themselves before them. One woman went so far as to run out into the street and try to place a necklace of rat skulls around Liall’s neck, which led to a nervy few minutes of the youth shouting at the top of his lungs while Chao and Brandd attempted to calm him down.
As they got closer to the large building and visibility improved, Dinalt saw that it was far more ostentatious than he had first realised. The stone of its walls was smoother and of a better quality than the other dwellings, and crude statues of warriors lined the wide steps that led up to a set of well-crafted wood and steel doors. As they reached the foot of the steps, the high doors swung inwards and the tribesmen who had been keeping them prisoner gestured with their spears for them to ascend. All five of them did so, as did the dark-haired warrior who they assumed to be the leader, spear in one hand, an animal hide sack holding the prisoners’ weapons in the other. A tribeswoman greeted them at the top and after a brief conversation with the armed warrior, he handed over the sack of weapons and received a jangling leather pouch in exchange. Without giving any of his former captives a second glance, he went back down the steps two at a time counting out his payment.
‘Come. With me,’ the woman said with an effort, as if her vocal cords were not used to making those sounds. Her furs were cut and arranged as if to form a dress and jewellery hung at her neck and earlobes.
‘You speak Low Gothic?’ Brandd ventured but all she got in response was a blank look followed by a sweep of the woman’s arm urging them to move on.
Another set of doors opened at their approach to reveal a high-ceilinged throne room, the air greasy with the smoke from tallow candles set into recesses in the walls and a vast wooden chandelier overhead. The flickering light caught upon jewel-encrusted vases and goblets sat atop smoothly polished tables, and finely embroidered tapestries that covered immense sections of the wall. The other décor paled into insignificance when the five of them caught sight of the elaborate throne upon a raised marble dais upon which sat Tzula Digriiz, the near ebony of her skin in stark contrast to the alabaster flesh of the two handmaidens who attended her.
‘I have to admit, Master Dinalt,’ Tzula said, a playful smile forming on her lips, ‘I was expecting you a little sooner.’
‘Do you have the knife?’ he responded, ignoring her quip.
‘Two years I’ve been stuck here and all you–’
‘Do you still have the knife?’ he asked again, threat evident in his tone of voice.
Tzula sighed and parted the furs covering her midriff to reveal a crude wooden hilt. ‘It hasn’t left my side the entire time I’ve been here.’
‘We have the knife, master. Now we s
hould execute her for heresy and continue with our mission,’ said Brandd, her face expressionless.
‘We haven’t even been introduced and already you’re threatening to kill me. I can see we’re going to be the best of friends.’ The playful grin disappeared from Tzula’s lips. ‘She’s wearing the symbols of the Ordo, does that mean you’ve already replaced me, master?’
‘Junior Interrogator Brandd was formerly under the tutelage of Inquisitor Morven until he died in the service of the Ordo. I had oathed to him to take Brandd as my charge and complete her training should anything happen to him, and he oathed likewise to watch over you should I fall in service to the God-Emperor.’ Dinalt turned to give Brandd an admonishing look. ‘And she won’t be executing anybody for heresy. Not today at least.’
‘But, master, she rules over these people like an empress. Even the throne she sits upon is golden. This sedition cannot go unpunished.’ Brandd’s cheeks started to flush with anger.
‘I rule over these people because it was the best way to ensure the safety of the knife. When I fell from the sky – and believe me, this thing isn’t accurate and I did, literally, fall from the sky – I could have tried to take on an entire world of spear-wielding savages or I could have taken the route of winning hearts and minds and make the aggressors my guardians and by default, guardians of the knife.’ Tzula’s smile returned. ‘Seems the latter worked out pretty well not just for me but for you too. If I hadn’t offered a vast reward for the safe capture of any other visitors from the sky then it would have been your corpses that Urk brought before me. Remember that, Brandd. You already owe me your life.’
The junior interrogator bristled and Tzula’s smile broke into a grin.
‘Chao, Liall, K’Cee. I didn’t expect to see any of you again.’
K’Cee’s lips pulled back and he gave a toothy grin that mirrored Tzula’s. Liall stopped muttering under his breath at the mention of his name and gave Tzula a puzzled look with his dead eyes, as if he was trying to remember who the owner of the voice was.
Chao let out a booming laugh. ‘Tzula Digriiz. You always did land on your feet.’
‘Some of your luck must have rubbed off on me. How long have you been in the master’s service now. Five? Six years?’
‘Seven years and counting.’
‘I,’ she paused, weighing up the choice of her next words, ‘I take it that the others are all dead?’
Chao nodded solemnly.
‘Minerva?’
‘She didn’t make it off Fal’shia. Fire warrior took her head off with a pulse rifle from a hundred metres away,’ Chao said.
‘Berrick?’
‘Taken down by the same cult that did for Inquisitor Morven. It happened during the operation to rescue the junior interrogator here.’
Tzula cast Brandd a dark look, adding another mark to her mental tally.
‘Sivensen?’
‘Went down fighting, but you wouldn’t have expected anything less from him. Held off a pack of warp beasts while we made off with that damned book.’
‘Book? What book?’ Tzula said.
‘There will be time to discuss all that later just as there will be time to honour those who laid down their lives in service to the blessed Ordo and the Golden Throne,’ the inquisitor said. ‘We have already tarried too long in our search for you, Tzula, and we must make with all haste for Pythos and pray that we are not too late.’
‘Pythos? You’ve discovered its location?’
‘The book has already given up many secrets and should give up many more on our journey. Now gather anything you need and be ready to head out for the shuttle as soon as day breaks.’
Tzula slid down from the throne and gracefully traversed the smooth stone floor to the door of her quarters. Opening it, she lingered on the threshold. ‘Brandd?’ she said.
The junior interrogator turned to face Tzula. Through the half-open door he could see an enormous bed covered in furs, fine jewellery suspended from ornately crafted wooden stands and other trappings of frippery.
‘Yes,’ Brandd replied.
‘You were wrong about me.’
‘Oh,’ Brandd said, surprised. ‘How was I wrong?’
‘I’m not their empress.’ Tzula’s grin returned. ‘I’m their goddess,’ she added before entering her quarters and shutting the door behind her.
Brandd turned to Dinalt, her cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of crimson. Before she could speak, Dinalt opened a channel on the vox-link on the forearm of his sleeve.
‘Dinalt to Terran Fury. Are you receiving me, over?’
‘Loud and clear, my lord,’ replied a male voice.
‘We have recovered our cargo and will be returning aboard imminently.’
‘Very good, my lord. We shall prepare the landing bay.’
‘And, captain?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘As soon as the shuttle is clear of the planet’s atmosphere, shower the surface with virus bombs.’
Part One
Chapter One
823959.M41 / The Deathglades. Twenty kilometres west of Atika, Pythos
The beast opened its vast jaws, foul breath ripe with decay hitting the Catachan standing before it. Thick ropes of saliva descended from its top to bottom lip and the remnants of a previous meal nestled between teeth the size of a man’s fist. The scaled saurian eyed the thick-set soldier before thrusting forward open-mouthed to feed. Its jaws clamped down on the proffered leaves and with a contented snort, the herbivore consumed its meal. The Catachan patted his mount on the head but before he could feed the other five arbosaurs that served as his squad’s method of transport, the commander’s voice diverted his attention.
‘Leave them alone, Mack. If you feed them now they’ll be sluggish for hours and I’d like to make it back to base before nightfall.’ There was no malice in Piet Brigstone’s voice, only the naked authority of a man used to commanding and being obeyed. ‘And get over here. I want you to take a look at this.’ Mack, discarding the armful of foliage he had collected, did as he was asked without question. The commander was knelt down examining a deep mark in the mud of the jungle floor while four slab-muscled figures in red bandanas looked on.
‘What is it, chief?’ Mack said coming over to join them. Though each man in the squad understood him perfectly, his syllables were clipped, making it sound as if he was speaking with his mouth covered.
‘It’s a track. First clear one we’ve been able to make out. Can you identify it?’ The commander motioned with a finger, drawing along the entire half-metre length of the deep footprint. Mack scrunched his flattened features and scrutinised it intently. Few Catachans could claim intellect high enough to qualify them for a position within the Administratum or Departmento Munitorum, but Mack’s development was notably arrested. Not that it mattered to Brigstone or the rest of the squad: what he lacked in one area he more than made up for in others. Not only was Mack a one-man heavy bolter team, but in the three years since they’d been stuck on Pythos he’d taught himself to identify the native fauna from just their spoor, droppings or bite pattern.
‘Looks like a carovis, chief. Big one too,’ Mack said after some deliberation.
‘You sure?’ Brigstone asked. Carovis were far from the biggest predators to roam Pythos but they usually stuck to the abundant hunting grounds deep into the Deathglades or out on the open plains of the Scorched Savannah. For one to come this close to a populated area was rare but if Mack was correct, this would be the third one in a week to get within twenty kilometres of Atika.
‘Sure.’
Brigstone took him at his word. When the Catachan 183rd had found themselves stranded on Pythos en route to the Maelstrom, many had scoffed at Tank Commander Piet Brigstone’s idea to retrain some of the men as beast riders. It didn’t take long for them to come around to his way of thinking – almost thirty Chimeras and Sentinels lost beneath the swamps and rampaging carnivores accounting for several hundred souls will focus the mind lik
e that – and it was at times like this that the patrols, or rather the native wildlife, were worth their weight in ration packs. Even if they didn’t pacify the creature on their way back to Atika base, the perimeter guard could be doubled overnight and heavy weapons mounted in the sentry towers. The carovis wouldn’t make it within two hundred metres of the city.
‘C’mon. Let’s get hunting!’ said Kotcheff, one of the previously silent Catachans, enthusiastically. His sweat-soaked bandana was tied around his forehead and his moist, close-cropped scalp glistened in the late evening light. He was daubed from head to toe in mud, mirroring his fellow troopers, and his lasrifle hung at his side. Also mirroring the other squad members, one hand rested on the weapon’s butt ready to swing it into action at the first sign of trouble.
‘Alright, but let’s not take any stupid risks. If it’s steak for breakfast then let’s all be around to enjoy it,’ said Brigstone. Though the 183rd had enough rations and equipment to last for months and bulk freighters brought in fresh supplies every few weeks from nearby agri-worlds, unsurprisingly most of the Catachans preferred the taste of real meat. With no livestock able to survive on Pythos thanks to the predations of the numerous feral beasts that shared it with the ruby crystal miners and Imperium soldiery, the only time fresh meat was ever on the menu was when patrol bagged one of the creatures. If Brigstone and his men could make it back with a few slabs of carovis, none of them would have to pay for drinks for the next month.
Mounting up, the six Catachans headed back towards the planetary capital, the sun slowly sinking behind them.
Like most of the surface of Pythos, the landward side of Atika was made up of swamps and marshes from which sprang vast thick-trunked trees, the canopies of which sat hundreds of metres above ground level, obscuring most of the planet’s harsh sunlight. Despite the blessed respite from the biting heat, temperatures below the cloud cover could still reach the limits of human tolerance, and a blanket of warm steam hung ominously above the stinking black water.
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 310