Lukas the Trickster

by Josh Reynolds

‘Don’t. It’s fine.’

  The servitors stared at the two Blood Claws with blank looks devoid of interest or intent. Their flesh was dry and papery, stretched over cabled artificial muscle. Each bore a pair of assault cannons hardwired into their enhanced frames. Ammunition feeds dangled like purity scrolls, clacking softly as the servitors approached. Laser sights flickered from the targeting arrays that clung like barnacles to their heads. The red beams traced erratic patterns across the flat panes of Halvar’s armour.

  ‘Ho, Thymr, we come in need of good steel,’ Lukas called out. ‘Call off your guardians, Iron Priest, or I’ll do something destructive.’ He flexed his claw meaningfully.

  A sharp whistle echoed through the armoury. The gun-servitors halted and sank to their haunches in a chorus of whining servos. The barrels of their assault cannons swung upwards and their targeting arrays went dark. Lukas glanced at Halvar. ‘See? It’s fine.’

  Halvar didn’t take his hand off the hilt of his blade. ‘I don’t like the way they are looking at us,’ he said.

  ‘They’re not looking at you, pup. I am.’ Thymr had a voice like stones falling into a well. There was a faint mechanical burr to his words, the result of an augmetic larynx. He stalked into view from behind his servitors, tugging idly on his black beard. He wore heavily modified battle-plate, and the thick cog-wheel limbs of a servo-harness flexed and turned over his shoulders.

  The Iron Priest was young, as the Vlka Fenryka judged such things, and part of his skull gleamed chrome. A cybernetic eye whirred and clicked, scanning Lukas and Halvar. He tapped the metal part of his skull. ‘Slaved sensor feed. I see what they see. They shoot what I tell them to shoot.’ He paused. ‘For the moment, that’s not you. What do you want?’

  ‘Weapons.’

  ‘You have them, unless I’m going blind.’

  ‘More weapons,’ Lukas clarified. ‘Grenades, ammunition, spare blades, energy packs… that sort of thing.’

  Thymr’s organic eye narrowed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I know you’re patched into the Aett’s vox-array. You must have heard – we have visitors. I would throw them a feast of welcome, with all the finest fruits of your forges.’ Lukas grinned widely and bent to examine one of the racks of weapons. He hefted a boltgun and peered down the length of the barrel. ‘A few of these as well, maybe. Do you still have those noise suppressors you were toying with?’

  Thymr frowned. ‘You sound as if this celebration is to be a private one.’

  ‘So my jarl has commanded, and so I will obey.’

  Thymr guffawed. ‘Those are words I never thought to hear from your lips.’

  Lukas set the bolter back on the rack. ‘And yet they have been said. I go to war. I need steel. I would prefer yours, for it has never failed me.’

  ‘And why should I give you anything, Trickster?’

  ‘You owe me, brother.’ Lukas paused. ‘For Fenksworld, remember? When I pulled you out from under the claws of the genestealers?’

  Thymr touched his throat, frowning. ‘Fine. But we’re even.’

  Lukas laughed. ‘I saved you from more than one xenos, Thymr. There were at least four of them.’ He held up three fingers. ‘That will be three more favours owed, by my count. And I–oh, that looks interesting.’ He turned towards a suspensor plinth, where an object floated in a state of partial disassembly. ‘What is this beauty, Thymr? Is it something to make a loud noise with?’

  Lukas leaned forward. The object was roughly the size of an Adeptus Astartes’ heart and the shape of an egg. Multiple plates of thin metal floated about a core detonator and several mechanisms he didn’t recognise.

  Thymr growled in warning. ‘Don’t touch it. It’s a stasis bomb. Or it will be, once I have finished reassembling it.’

  Lukas blinked in surprise.

  ‘What’s a stasis bomb?’ Halvar asked, staring at it wonderingly.

  ‘What do you think, pup?’ Thymr growled. ‘An explosive. But of a type not mass-produced since the Dark Age of Technology.’ Thymr smiled grimly. ‘When it explodes, it emits a disruptive field of unquantifiable energy, halting the flow of time for everything within the blast radius. The effects last anywhere from a few moments to forever.’

  ‘And where did you get one?’ Lukas asked. ‘The last I heard, the Lion’s sons were the only ones who knew how to build these things. And the Dark Angels are not the sort to share their secrets, especially with us.’ Lukas traced a claw-tip across the suspensor field, eliciting a snarl from Thymr.

  ‘As if I’d ask one of those arrogant, pox-ridden eunuchs. No, my servitors scraped it up off some thrice-damned battlefield we shared with those green-armoured whoresons. The detonator failed – the device never activated. They must have left it.’ Thymr sniffed. ‘Their loss is our gain.’

  ‘If you can ever get it to work,’ Lukas said, glancing at him. ‘Which you haven’t yet, have you?’

  Thymr glared at him. ‘What of it?’

  Lukas laughed. ‘Merely making conversation, brother.’ He turned away from the stasis bomb with a final tap to the suspensor field.

  ‘Now, how about those weapons?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  STAMPEDE

  641.M41

  Archon Kas’queil grinned toothily as he strode across the ice. He followed the river’s frozen undulation, his fur cloak flaring in his wake. The wind pulled at him, but he ignored it. He had faced stronger winds and endured colder temperatures than this planet boasted. As master of the Red Seed Kabal, he had sown terror across a thousand worlds and harvested the fruits of that labour accordingly.

  He had walked the thyllian ai-kelethril – the path of shards – with undisputed grace for centuries without number. His skills were indisputable. The facets of his armour were black with the inscribed names of those who had fallen to his blade in honour-duels and assassinations. The weapons he carried had been torn from the grasp of his predecessor, as was tradition, and refitted to suit his needs.

  Around him, his warriors moved with lethal grace, laughing and making light of their prey. Crooked, scaly hunting beasts – the best money could buy – loped ahead of them, their fang-studded jaws wide with hunger. The mon-keigh were fleeing across the ice, racing for some perceived safety further downriver. Their path was littered with the dead. He had given the order to wound rather than kill, and had enjoyed the tantalising spoor of their crude agonies.

  There were settlements beyond the river, Kas’queil knew. Not many. The humans lived in isolation, scattered about the heaving flanks of this world of leaden skies and tearing wind. Most seemed to be in a constant state of war, due to lack of resources. Possibly made worse by the unpredictability of the season.

  They were ideal prey, in that regard. Too primitive to be of any threat, and too vicious to flee when they caught wind of what lurked in the dark. Instead, they fought. And were duly broken. Kas’queil took joy in that labour. He regarded it as something of a duty – who better than a trueborn son of the Eternal City to teach the chattel their place?

  He had burned two settlements so far, driving the survivors on ahead of him. Inevitably they would lead him to a third lair, where he would repeat the entertaining process. He intended to do so until tedium replaced titillation.

  Thus the humans fled and the dark eldar followed. Always at a distance, but ever in sight of the mon-keigh stragglers. Kas’queil wanted them to be seen. Needed it. The fear was intoxicating, the growing despair and the muted resignation… exquisite.

  Seeing little danger from such brute prey, Kas’queil had decided to disembark from his personal Raider with his warriors and their hunting beasts. All the better to enjoy their prey’s desperation as it fled. The skiff floated in the wake of his forces. ‘Such tenacity is almost impressive, is it not, Th’tysh?’ he said, glancing at his subordinate.

  The dracon, clad in armour reminiscent of his master’s
, nodded eagerly. Th’tysh wore the bloody furs of several wolves, hacked less than skilfully from the beasts’ bodies. The trophies stank, but the cold moderated the smell somewhat. ‘It is as if they cannot conceive of their own doom, my lord,’ Th’tysh said cheerfully.

  ‘What can you expect of such primitives?’ Kas’queil scoffed. ‘Their lives are but the tiniest embers compared to our own roaring flame. It is only right that we consume them and add their miniscule heat to our own.’ He spread his arms, laughing. As if in answer to his jocularity, something out in the storm howled. He paid it no mind. Something was always howling on this world. ‘I’m glad I decided to accept the Duke’s invitation.’

  It had come as something of a surprise. He had only met Sliscus once, on some raid or other. He had been impressed, even then, by the Serpent’s noble rapacity. It had been a sad day when such a creature had chosen exile. But also fortunate, in many ways. Sliscus’ departure had left a sizeable gap in Commorragh’s web of influence. A gap many archons, not just Kas’queil, had attempted to fill.

  There was a rumour going around the campfires that this hunt was a way for Sliscus to test the waters for a grand return. Why else would the Lady of the Poisoned Tongue have deigned to attend? Why else would the Harlequins have shown themselves?

  But such tales were whispered every few centuries since the Duke had departed Commorragh, leaving Port Carmine in flames. Kas’queil didn’t waste his time worrying about such things. Let others weave plans that might never see fruition. He would act as his impulses dictated. He might bend knee to the Duke and swear his sword to the Sky Serpent banner. Or he might seek to take Sliscus’ head and deposit it at Vect’s feet as a token of his fealty.

  This reverie was broken by the sudden, dolorous howl of the hunting beasts. The ice shifted beneath him, and several of the creatures lost their balance. Their cries were echoed by deeper, more resonant ones, somewhere on the far shore. He tensed. Sliscus had warned them about the animals here – vicious beasts, whether they ate flesh or not. Kas’queil had paid the warning little mind. He had not come to hunt beasts, after all.

  He looked down. The frozen surface of the river was trembling underfoot. ‘Why is the ice shaking? Tectonic pressures?’ He turned, wondering if he should seek the safety of his Raider. The planet was an unstable backwater. Part of him feared that it might fly apart at any moment.

  Th’tysh shook his head. ‘We scanned the area. It should be relatively… stable…’ He trailed off, and Kas’queil realised that he was staring across the ice, towards the far shore of the frozen river. Other warriors were too, and a murmur ran through their ranks. Something was coming, racing through the snow and mist. The thunder of its approach reverberated up through the soles of his feet and into his chest.

  ‘What… is that?’ Kas’queil murmured, reaching for his blast-pistol.

  A moment later, the first elk burst into sight and onto the ice. The animal was massive. A spread of antlers more impressive than any worn by an archon stretched to either side of its wide skull. The brute outweighed any three kabalite warriors, at least. Kas’queil cursed and drew his weapon, taking aim.

  The first elk was joined by a second. Then a third. A fourth and a fifth followed in quick succession. Then more, a whole herd – dozens of the beasts. The air was riven by bugling cries, and hairline cracks ran along the ice ahead of the racing herd as they leapt from the shore and onto the surface of the frozen river. A line of stampeding elk, as far as the eye could see. Or so it seemed from where Kas’queil stood.

  ‘Kill them,’ he snarled. The blast-pistol bucked in his grip, and an elk toppled, its heavy body crashing through the ice. Th’tysh and the others turned their weapons on the beasts, firing with smooth precision. Some animals fell. The ice cracked and cold water sprayed upwards, dampening Kas’queil’s good mood.

  Their fusillade, while deadly accurate, wasn’t doing enough. The beasts were too tough, and the splinter fire wasn’t proving instantly fatal. That wasn’t what it was for, after all. He turned, seeking the sleek shape of the Raider. The anti-gravity skiff had weapons enough to break up the herd.

  But the Raider wasn’t there. ‘The Raider – where is it?’ he asked, grabbing Th’tysh by his furs.

  ‘I–’ the dracon began, then there was a crack of thunder and he pitched backwards. Kas’queil looked at the scrap of fur he held, and then at the body on the ground.

  ‘What?’

  More thunder. Flashes from within the herd as it charged ever closer. Warriors slumped, or were sent sprawling, bloody craters decorating their armour. The herd was thinning. Something was running with them. He turned to shout a warning, but it was drowned out in the boom of mon-keigh guns.

  Kas’queil heard a growl from close by, and sought its source. He squinted, trying to make it out, but he couldn’t see more than a vague shape. Its form blurred and wavered like a mirage, there one moment and gone the next. He bit back a curse and fired again, this time at one of his own warriors, who had begun to edge away from the onrushing herd. ‘Hold your positions. Are you slaves, to run from mere beasts?’

  A moment later, the elk were charging past. The ice bucked and twisted beneath him as the great beasts surged around him. He lost sight of his warriors as well as the fleeing mon-keigh. The world condensed to heaving russet walls and bugling cries. He twitched aside to avoid being buffeted by the creatures.

  He caught sight of one of his warriors through the wall of charging beasts. The warrior raised a splinter pistol as if to shoot something, but a moment later, he was gone. Vanished. Kas’queil blinked. Through the omnipresent rumble of the stampede, he heard the crackle of splinter fire and screams. He felt a chill as he realised that the screams were not those of elk, or even mon-keigh.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of slate grey. He turned, and was nearly knocked from his feet by an elk. Snarling in frustration, he fired, knocking the beast prone. As it kicked out the last dregs of life, the rest of the herd gave it and him a wide berth. Momentarily free of the press, he searched the ice for any sign of what had started the stampede. A clammy mist rose from the crushed surface, obscuring almost everything. Then there was a crunch.

  He whirled, blast-pistol raised. The air twisted. Something was there, but he couldn’t see it clearly. It gave a snarling laugh. He fired, again and again, desperate to hit it, whatever it was. It sped towards him, only revealing itself at the last moment. A grinning, weather-beaten face, a mane the colour of blood and eyes a gleaming yellow.

  Startled as he was, Kas’queil had not reached the heights of his infamy by being slow on the draw. He fired again, knowing his opponent would dart aside. He reached for the hilt of his blade, ready to bury it in his attacker’s heart when he drew close. Instead, the hulking brute vanished into the herd of elk. A wave of fury washed over him, and he began to fire in a frenzy. Elk died, but their piteous cries only stoked his rage. ‘Where are you? Come out and die with some courage!’

  ‘If you insist.’

  The words were spoken in the Commorrite tongue. Coarsely, to be sure, but clear enough to understand. That only made it more of an insult.

  Insult turned to injury an instant later, cold and sharp at the same time. Kas’queil tried to scream, but only a burst of frigid air emerged from his lungs. He looked down and saw four talon-tips wreathed in cold light jutting from his chest. He lurched forward, tearing himself loose. He sank to his knees, trying to lift his blast-pistol. The claw that had crunched through his chest fastened on the weapon with gentle strength.

  ‘You did insist,’ his killer murmured as he twisted the weapon out of Kas’queil’s slack grip.

  Kas’queil heard his next words as if from a vast distance.

  ‘You have only yourself to blame, if it didn’t turn out how you expected.’

  Lukas glanced down at the body of the xenos, then examined the pistol he had taken from it, co
nsidering. With a snort, he crushed the weapon in his claw and scattered the pieces.

  ‘For a moment I thought you were going to keep it,’ Kadir said as he approached.

  Lukas patted his plasma pistol in its tooled leather holster. ‘I prefer this one.’ Besides the pistol, his battle-plate was festooned with grenades and blades.

  Kadir was similarly armed. Thymr had been generous, and the Blood Claws were carrying enough weapons and ammunition for twice their number. Kadir smiled and checked the ammunition drum of his bolter. The weapon had a noise suppressor mounted on its barrel, and had been blackened to dull any glint of metal. ‘A good jape, stampeding those elk the way you did. Better than an armoured spearhead, those brutes.’ He looked down at a dead elk, and his smile faded. ‘Not as durable, though.’

  ‘No, but they’ll feed the stragglers for days.’ Lukas turned. ‘You heard me,’ he bellowed. ‘Come and get it, you lack-wits. I bring you a bounty, and you huddle on the ice. Maybe I should have let the night-devils take you, eh?’ His voice carried easily despite the muffling effect of the snow.

  Slowly, in ones and twos, the tribesfolk straggled towards the bounty. It was more meat than many would have seen in a month. They fell to gutting and readying the carcasses for travel with grim efficiency. Their faces were pinched with hunger and fear. They barely glanced at their protectors – awe had its place, but meat was meat.

  He recognised the markings of at least three different tribes, all but hidden beneath thick furs and scale-cloaks. More women than men, more children and greybeards than adults of fighting age. He caught sight of a familiar face among them, moving from group to group. Hetha, clad in bronze armour and furs, her cheeks burned red by the cold, was barking orders to several other Jahtvian warriors.

  Lukas watched the red-headed woman at her task, and felt Kadir observing him as he did so. He grunted. ‘The Raider?’ he asked.

  ‘Dag and Halvar brought it down. It’s already under the ice, and its crew feeding the river’s denizens.’ Kadir smiled slightly. Lukas could imagine what he was thinking. The Trickster had his reputation for good reason.