Sleg grunted something, and two of his coil-kin slithered from the Venom and towards the body. Malys followed them down, frowning. Something about this seemed wrong. ‘Wait,’ she began.
Too late.
As one of the Sslyth rolled the body, there was a sharp, distinct ping, followed by an explosion. The Sslyth closest to the blast absorbed most of it, at the cost of their lives. Malys was thrown backwards, against the hull of the Venom. She sank down, her head spinning. Smoke billowed, mingling with the downpour and leaving greasy swathes in the air. Howls erupted from all around them, and grey shapes sprang out of the storm.
A Sslyth fell, its head tumbling soundlessly away from its collapsing body. Sleg began to fire wildly, trying to hit the fast-moving shapes. The Sslyth piloting the Venom snarled something as it tried to gain altitude. The attempt was cut short by the roar of a bolt pistol. The windscreen cracked, and the Sslyth jerked in its seat. The Venom dropped heavily to the ground, its undercarriage crunching against the rock.
Malys went to scramble up onto the firing platform. If she could get to the splinter cannon, she might be able to fend their attackers off long enough to call for aid. But the click of a weapon being readied stopped her. She turned and found herself staring down the smoking barrel of a bolt pistol.
She twitched aside at the last moment. The weapon roared, partially deafening her. She drew her blade and slashed wildly, driving her attacker back. He cursed and reached for his own blade as she darted forward, closing the distance. She had fought these brutes before. They were stronger, and more resilient than they had any right to be. And she was no wych, indulging in bloody combat for the joy of it.
Her attack startled him and he fell back, eliciting coarse laughter from unseen companions. More shapes stepped out of the swirling snow, quickly cutting off every potential escape route. She turned with her blade held out as her attacker got to his feet, and saw Sleg engaging a crimson-haired wolf. The wolf grinned at her as he shoved Sleg back. ‘Leave that one, pups,’ he called out. ‘I need her alive.’
The others, including the one she had knocked down, kept their distance from her. Their yellow gazes were flat and calculating, as if trying to decide which bit of her they wanted to eat first. She sniffed disdainfully and turned to watch the duel.
Sleg moved with desperate speed, almost faster than Malys could follow. Four blades crashed down, scraping against a hastily interposed wolf claw. Fat sparks danced in the air. The wolf clawed his plasma pistol from its holster. A barbed blade tore the weapon from his hand as he raised it, and a second chopped into the armour protecting his thigh. For a moment, Malys thought the Sslyth might prevail. But only for a moment.
Sleg’s coils looped about his opponent as the Sslyth redoubled its attacks. The wolf caught one of the ophidian’s wrists and dragged it off balance. Wedge-shaped jaws snapped at him, and he stomped on its tail, eliciting a shriek. He took the opening and slugged the ophidian. It lurched away, slapping him backwards with an undulation of its tail. The wolf staggered, turned, leapt for his pistol. The Sslyth plunged after him.
The wolf caught up the weapon and rolled to his feet, turning to face the onrushing Sslyth. He fired. The coruscating stream of plasma enveloped Sleg’s skull. The ophidian flopped to the ground, coils thrashing. The wolf spat on the twitching corpse as he stepped over it. ‘Tough, but stupid,’ he growled in the coarse tongue of the mon-keigh. He looked at Malys. ‘Can you understand me, witch?’ the red-haired brute asked in the gutter-dialect of Low Commorragh. ‘I hope so, or this is going to be a short conversation.’
‘I understand, though it offends my ears,’ Malys said. She cast a quick glance around. Through the falling snow and rain, she could see other great grey shapes, moving soundlessly despite their bulk. Fewer of them had been killed than she would have hoped, though she could smell the pungent aroma of their altered blood on the wind.
He laughed. ‘As it offends my mouth to speak it. Are you the one in charge?’
Malys hesitated. Pride warred with pragmatism – briefly. ‘No. I am but a guest to a party that is rapidly becoming intolerably dull.’ She kept her blade extended. The combat drugs that had been coursing through her system were fading, leaving behind the ache of sore muscles and a pounding in her temples.
The brute chuckled. She was at a disadvantage, and he knew it. She could smell the heat of him – a wash of animal and blood. A feral odour, as intriguing as it was distasteful. ‘Well, you could help me liven things up, if you like.’ His eyes flashed gold, and she froze. An atavistic thrill of fear shot through her. It had been so long since she had felt anything like it that she was momentarily overcome. She licked her lips.
‘And what do I get out of it?’
‘A quick death.’
She smiled. ‘What fun is that?’
He cocked his head, studying her. ‘Life, then. A head start.’
Malys’ smile widened. ‘Better. And what must I do to earn this mercy?’
He drew closer, despite her blade. He flashed a sharp grin as he brushed her sword aside and leaned close.
‘Take me to your host.’
Kjarl Grimblood stared into the flames, seeking any hint as to what was to come. As ever, there were more questions to be had than answers. The fire never lied, but neither did it tell the whole truth. At least, not in such a way that he could understand. It spoke in glimpses, just enough to set him on the proper trail. Or so he hoped. There was no way to tell until the deed was done.
He had been wrong more than once. It was rare, but it happened. The thought did not sit well with him. He had spent much time and effort honing his reputation for foresight, the way another warrior might hone a blade. A gift for prophecy was only as good as its interpretation. To fail too often was to see oneself slip from honoured seer to object of mockery. And Grimblood had never had a taste for the latter.
In the end, that was why the thought of being responsible for the Trickster agitated him so. Lukas, of all the Rout, seemed immune to fate. He defied portents and struck a crooked path that was impossible to predict. Grimblood had seen the Trickster’s death so often that he instinctively dismissed the possibility. Fate was a mocker when it came to the involvement of the Jackalwolf.
Around him, the Aett’s central strategium chamber echoed with activity. The bark of rivenmasters as they oversaw contingents of thralls, the clatter of equipment being readied. Through it all, Grimblood leaned forward on the bench, resolutely ignoring the slow drip of data that crawled along the tacticum feeds on the screens scattered all around the hall.
The strategium chamber was full of hundreds of kaerls and machine-
thralls, all of them bent diligently to their respective tasks. Some worked to coordinate the aerial search being conducted by those Stormfang pilots brave – or foolish – enough to volunteer to take their gunships out into the storm. Others added data to the growing battle-map, noting engagements, casualty figures and any other relevant tactical information.
It was all grist for the mill, as far as Grimblood was concerned. He hungered for information, the way a wolf hungered for meat. He needed to know, and knowing was a compulsion. But so far, little of it was satisfying.
He reached into the fire and stirred the embers. His ceramite gauntlet protected his flesh, and his battle-plate’s sensors barely registered a spike in temperature. He held his hand there for long moments, watching the paint as it began to bubble and peel. Then, with a grunt, he extracted his limb. He gestured loosely, sending spirals of smoke through the air.
‘And what does the fire tell you, Grimblood?’
‘The fire tells me nothing. It merely reveals things I knew but was not aware of.’ Grimblood turned as the Rune Priest, Galerunner, joined him before the hearth. ‘Cast that baleful gaze of yours elsewhere, brother. What do the spirits say?’
‘Lies and truth in equal measure.’
Grimblood snorted. ‘No more helpful than the fire, then.’
‘It is the season of confusion. The earth is cast into the sky, and the stars fall into the sea. Our foes could not have picked a better time. You have command?’
Grimblood nodded. ‘Redmaw argued, as ever. But he is more eager to go a-hunting. Command is a chain whose weight would chafe him, and he knows it. In any event, I have command of the Aett this season, and that means my word is as that of the Great Wolf himself.’ He frowned. ‘Much good as it does me.’
‘How goes the hunt?’
‘Badly.’ Grimblood heaved himself to his feet. He began to pace, his broad frame filled with restless energy. ‘Redmaw and the others have made some kills, but the storm isolates us still. They must fight alone, and it is all but impossible to unite our efforts to any meaningful degree. The reports I get are incomplete. Some of that is the storm, but…’
‘The rest is not.’ Galerunner sighed. ‘Can you determine a pattern?’
‘The only pattern is that there is no pattern. They attack where they will, with no overall coordination. I suspect that we are not facing an army, but several small raiding forces, each attacking according to their own whims. And that makes them impossible to target save in piecemeal fashion. Our warriors are chasing their tails, pursuing ghosts who strike and fade away before they arrive.’
Galerunner stared into the flames. ‘Survivors?’
‘A few. They are sloppy, these xenos. They snatch who they can, kill who they can’t, and flee before we arrive. As if they know when we are coming.’
‘Could they? Given the state of our communications, if they were intercepting our vox signals, we wouldn’t know.’
Grimblood growled, and several nearby kaerls cast wary glances his way before hurriedly turning back to their tasks. ‘I know,’ he said after a few moments. ‘That’s why I gave the order for full vox-silence. Even so, we are at a disadvantage.’ He clenched his hands uselessly. ‘This is our territory, and we are being made to look like fools.’
‘The Helwinter is passing. Soon we will be able to find them.’
‘And you think they won’t flee back to whatever hell spawned them as soon as they realise that? No. They timed this too well. There is a mind out there, coordinating all of this. It is not as random as it looks. Someone planned this, and if we could catch them, we could end it.’ Grimblood growled again and turned back to the fire. ‘But we have to find them first.’ He bared his teeth at his unseen enemy. ‘Just let me get the merest whiff of them, and I will strike them down.’ He slammed a fist into his palm. ‘Bones of Russ, just give me that.’
As if in answer to his plea, a squeal of feedback split the air of the chamber. Someone was trying to communicate with the Aett. Grimblood whirled, furious. Which of his fellow jarls could be so foolish?
A familiar voice cut through the static. Grimblood’s recriminations died on his lips as he listened to a series of coordinates. Slowly, he smiled. When the voice became submerged in interference once more, he turned to Galerunner. ‘Call the others back. Give them the coordinates. We have found our snake’s hole.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Galerunner asked.
Grimblood growled in satisfaction. ‘I am going to muster my packs. I have tarried here too long. This kill is mine.’
Chapter Twenty
SERPENT’S NEST
641.M41
Malys ground her teeth in frustration. This party wasn’t turning out at all as she had hoped. ‘Was this truly necessary?’ she asked. She shifted slightly in her seat. The explosive he had attached to a spot between her shoulder blades was a solid, threatening weight – some form of concussion grenade, tied to her armour with rawhide thongs. The Wolf hadn’t warned her against trying to remove it, which she took as a sign that he was likely hoping for her to do so. Despite his talk of mercy, she had the distinct impression that he didn’t care if she lived or died.
The Space Wolf lay across the back of the Venom, feigning unconsciousness. ‘Would you have trusted me, were the situation reversed?’ he growled, not looking up at her. He was very good at playing dead. Despite the smile. ‘Now be silent.’
‘No, I wouldn’t trust you. But rest assured, I shall not forget this insult.’
‘Good. What’s the point, if you forget?’
She laughed sourly. ‘That is a very Commorrite way of looking at things.’
Lukas snarled. ‘Quiet.’
Malys fell silent, but continued to smile. There was a twisted knot in the soul of this Wolf. Most of them were steel true and blade straight – little more than living weapons. This one displayed the sort of cunning that would have made him a favourite in the arenas.
The Venom swooped low over the forest’s frost-covered canopy and drifted down over the hunting camp. The storm was passing. The world’s orbit was stabilising once more, and the planet with it. Raiders were being prepared for departure through the webway portals, their holds heavy with slaves and plunder. Venoms and jetbikes shot past them, intending to draw off the Space Wolves before they could descend on the camp, as they inevitably would.
She urged the Venom towards the hall Sliscus had taken for his own. The corsairs and kabalite warriors on guard paid her little heed. Her warriors were near to hand, readying her own vessels for departure. Hopefully she would survive to join them.
As she drew even with the ground, a shape suddenly leapt up onto the wing of the Venom, making it shudder. Malys turned and saw Myrta grinning at her. ‘I see the stories are true, my Lady Malys. You have returned victorious.’
‘I have, Myrta,’ Malys said stiffly. ‘You seem in good humour.’
‘I am. We are finally leaving this depressing mud ball.’ Myrta glanced at Lukas, and Malys tensed. Did the courtesan suspect? ‘This one’s kin are mobilising, according to the signals we have intercepted. Sliscus believes they have somehow discovered our location.’
‘Impossible,’ Malys said, but without conviction. She resisted the urge to look at the Space Wolf. It seemed obvious that the mon-keigh had some way of tracking each other. Now his insistence on being brought into the camp made a crude sort of sense. Sliscus was right. This one was cunning, in a way.
Myrta frowned. ‘If you wish to stay and see for yourself, feel free. But it is time to go. And take our plunder with us.’ She looked at Malys. ‘You have failed. Sliscus won’t be helping you with whatever scheme you had in mind.’
‘And how do you know that?’
‘They say Vect threw you over for other pleasures,’ Myrta said. ‘And now Sliscus has as well. You said you would tame him. But he does not seem tamed to me.’ Malys glanced back at the seemingly unconscious Space Wolf. His lips quirked, and she knew he was listening to every word.
She sniffed, and said, ‘Regrettably, no. Traevelliath lacks any interest in helping me achieve my aims. As well you know.’
‘And is that why you are bringing him such a gift?’
Malys looked at the Lhamaean warily. How much did she suspect? Myrta’s hand rested on the hilt of her blade. ‘Watch your tone,’ she said.
Myrta’s smile was wide and without mirth. ‘You should watch yours. Where is all your talk of helping one another now, eh? We prodded him to action, and for what? So he could have this beast’s pelt for his bed?’
Lukas chuckled and looked up at her. ‘He’ll have a hard time getting it off me.’
Myrta cursed and went for her blade.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Lukas said, gesturing tersely. In his hand was the detonator to the device connected to Malys’ back. Malys caught Myrta’s hand and pinned it.
‘Think carefully, girl,’ she hissed. ‘If you strike, you will force me to dispatch you, to prevent my own death. That detonator he clutches is linked to an explosive attached to my armour.’
Myrta glared at her. ‘I thought it was strange that he managed t
o kill Sleg, but not you.’
Malys tightened her grip. ‘Think. Now is your chance, courtesan. Would you remain his slave forever?’
‘And what awaits me with his death?’
‘A more forgiving mistress,’ Malys said. ‘I have use for a maker of poisons.’
Lukas twisted his head slightly so he could see the xenos. ‘I would listen to her, witch,’ he said. ‘It seems to me, if I’m following your barbaric tongue properly, that we all want the same thing.’ He grinned at the eldar, ready for whatever happened next. He was fully prepared to push the activation rune on the detonator he held and blow the frag grenade hooked to the back of Malys’ armour. It would be inconvenient, but he would adapt. He always did.
The one called Myrta stared down at him, her alien features twisted into an expression of disgust. Lukas smiled up at her. There was nothing human in her face, none of the honest beauty of someone like Hetha. It was too cold, too perfect. Like a mask, hiding something ugly beneath. Lukas twitched his thumb, caressing the detonator. ‘Best decide quick, witch. My finger is itchy.’
She turned away. For a moment he thought she was going to drop off the Venom. Instead, she leaned back. ‘You should wipe that smirk from your face, mon-keigh. Corpses do not usually smile.’
Lukas chuckled and turned his attentions to his surroundings. The eldar camp had been well hidden. The steading was sprawled in the shadow of the mountains, protected from the worst of the weather. The palisades had been torn down, as had most of the buildings within, and repurposed into tall towers and crude gantries for the skiffs and jetbikes. The place now resembled an industrial site more than a tribal dwelling.
Great cages of barbed metal sat around a central firepit, each one full of huddled, shivering shapes, the survivors of whatever tribe had made their home here. What was left of their warriors had been hung from artificial trees of black iron, their flesh exposed to the elements and their captors’ blades. Lukas restrained a snarl of rage at the sight. Vengeance would come. But not yet.
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