by Nick Kyme
‘That’s fair,’ Sicarius conceded.
She scowled at Daceus. ‘I don’t need you to carry me, Retius.’
‘Very much alive,’ Daceus replied ruefully.
‘What of Arna and Vanko? Are they–’
‘Alive, like you, Vedaeh,’ said Sicarius and gestured to where the other two mortals, wrapped in cloaks, huddled in the lee of a large rock.
As Vedaeh’s senses and her strength began to return, she cast about to get the lie of the land. A marching party had begun to form. Vandius and Fennion had got Pillium back to his feet; he looked almost capable of walking, and Vedaeh was once more reminded of the incredible resilience of the Primaris Marines. Of Vorolanus, there was no sign and she assumed he had gone to scout ahead. To scout for what exactly, she did not know.
The ground was cold and sparse, like a patch of iron beaten into a landscape. It even felt hard, too hard for earth – but then she assumed it was partly frozen. Fog lay in thick carpets, drenching everything sepulchral white. But there was a narrow spire in the fog, many, many miles distant but looming like a colossus and beyond the ability of medieval man to craft. Vedaeh felt a strangeness to it, eerily familiar and yet with a deepening sense of incongruity. Above, darkening clouds had begun to gather, streaked with fine threads of lightning. It reminded her of veins, coursing electrical veins. They flashed, once, twice.
‘What is this place?’ she asked.
IN THE WILD LANDS
The rain slashed down in sheets, drenching their skin, hair and armour. It turned the ground into a bog underfoot and Daceus cursed loudly as the sodden earth clamped around his boot, holding him fast. Fennion went to his aid, hooking his arm under the veteran’s leg and pulling hard. His foot came free with a slurp of wet earth, tendrils of the loamy matter clinging on like threads of spittle. Daceus gave a curt nod of gratitude, pulled his weathered cloak around his body and looked to the hills ahead.
The land here was as bleak as the ever-worsening weather, large patches of wild gorse separated by tranches of rocky escarpment and hard scrub. It looked rapidly grown; too wild and too thick. Sicarius stood alone on the summit of a stony promontory, looking out onto a sea of endless fog. Frail wintery light painted the sky an insipid yellow and did nothing to leaven the grey.
‘We must find shelter,’ Daceus called, his voice flat and almost smothered by a biting wind. Ice slivers abraded his skin but failed to cut.
Sicarius stared a moment longer, as if seeing something in all of that gloom, or looking for and not finding it, before he turned and nodded to Daceus.
The mortals were suffering. The three of them stood shivering in their clothes and sodden cloaks, hoods held tight against the wind, their faces raw and bleeding. It had been a hard trek from the downed gunship.
‘No,’ shouted Vedaeh, several paces behind the veteran Ultramarine, ‘we must carry on.’ She leaned heavily on her cane and Reda’s shoulder. She and the other armsman, Gerrant, did not look as determined to trudge through the wilds as the chronicler did. ‘Besides,’ Vedaeh added, shuffling up to Daceus’ side, ‘we are too far from the crash site to go back. I doubt I would make it.’
‘And what makes you think our luck will improve if we press on?’ asked Daceus, betraying a hint of irritation. He knew Sicarius placed stock in her presence and her judgement, but he found her an unnecessary burden and a distraction. She was also overfamiliar, especially for a mortal.
‘It is the difference between certainty of expiration and the hope of salvation, Retius.’
Daceus gave her a sour look.
‘The fog has closed in behind us,’ offered Vandius, having taken the rearguard with Pillium, who limped badly, ‘and without auspex or auto-senses,’ he paused to look up into the sky, ‘and no sun to speak of, I cannot guarantee we would even find the gunship again.’
‘Well, we had best hope we do,’ answered Sicarius, returning from the vantage point. ‘I doubt Haephestus will thank us for leaving him behind in this bleak place.’
That the ship had crashed so suddenly and inexplicably bothered Daceus. He remembered the abrupt loss of power, as if they had passed through some unseen barrier that had knocked out their vox and engine. It reminded him of the warp siphon that had drained the Emperor’s Will, but that could not have followed them here. Pillium had not been far away from the crash site, but was badly injured, his old wounds suffered at the hands of the beast reopening and redoubling his pain.
Daceus thought it miraculous he had lived, let alone that he could walk. After a fashion. His eye lingered on Pillium, ashen-faced, his sodden cloak held tight around his massive frame. He had never looked so weak, leaning like an old man upon the shaft of his spear.
Daceus drew in close to Sicarius, keeping his voice low so that only the Suzerain would hear.
‘Cato, the mortals will perish if there is much more of this. And maybe Pillium too. Our Primaris brothers are not inviolable, despite their many gifts.’ He gestured to the fog. ‘How can we even find the power signature Haephestus spoke of in all this? We have no means of locating it.’
As well as nullifying the gunship, whatever barrier they had passed through had left their armour inert too. Each Ultramarine felt it like a heavy anchor upon their backs, the protection but also the mass of layered ceramite and adamantium. No power also meant no auspex.
‘Then our eyes shall have to be enough,’ said Sicarius, though he regarded Vedaeh and her two charges with concern, and looked as if he were about to say more when a cry from deep inside the fog arrested everyone’s attention.
‘That’s Scipio,’ uttered Fennion, running up the escarpment to the promontory.
Daceus drew his sword.
‘He’s shouting a warning,’ said Sicarius, and everyone except the three mortals and the half-conscious Pillium drew swords.
‘Vandius…’ Sicarius began.
The warrior nodded, and went to usher Vedaeh and her companions away.
‘We can fight,’ said Reda, teeth chattering as she brandished her maul.
‘I have no doubt,’ said Sicarius. ‘Nonetheless…’
Vandius urged them away and this time Reda relented, Vedaeh’s gentle hand on her arm as they sought cover behind a heaped rockfall.
Belatedly, Pillium drew his gladius. ‘Let them come, whoever they are…’ His words were slurred, as though heavy with drink.
Vorolanus appeared through the fog a moment later, running hard in his heavy war-plate. He met Fennion on the steep rise and the two briefly clasped forearms.
‘I have found the natives,’ he said to Sicarius and the others. He then also drew his sword. ‘And they are coming this way.’
‘To the Suzerain’s side,’ shouted Daceus. ‘Here, brothers. With me!’
They formed up, a strong wedge of blue war-plate, ragged cloaks snapping in the wind as the ice shards scythed down. All except for Pillium, who acted as if he hadn’t heard the order or understood the tactics and stood alone. All eyes looked to the hills.
With a whicker, a heavily muscled destrier nosed its way through the fog, eyes shrouded by oval plates of thick armour, iron-shod hooves tearing at the earth. It was a beast, at least a hand taller than Daceus, and clad in a lamellar barding that was streaked charcoal and grey by the rain. Hot breath plumed spectrally from its flaring snout, and the warrior upon its back levelled a wickedly barbed spear at the Ultramarines.
‘You fled from this warrior, Vorolanus?’ asked Daceus, eyeing up the black armour plate, chain mesh and enclosed helm – fashioned into the likeness of a bird of prey – with some disdain. He also noted the broadsword sheathed at the warrior’s belt, and the large kite shield currently strapped to his saddle. It looked well worn.
He stepped forwards, about to challenge the warrior when nine more, also riding destriers, came out of the fog. A small cohort of footmen in padded jerkins and round, cheek-plated helms joined them, the blades of their halberds angled aggressively at the strangers to their lands. Several al
so carried archaic-looking crossbows, quarrels primed to loose.
‘I brought word of a hunting party,’ Vorolanus countered.
Daceus had no doubt that if they wished he and his brothers could easily defeat these men. But something held him back.
‘Who are you?’ the lead horse-riding warrior asked, not lowering his spear. The beast shifted as he spoke, hooves grinding the rough lowlands, reflecting its master’s obvious impatience and irritation.
Daceus hissed between his teeth, ‘The battle would be a short one, captain.’ When he felt Sicarius’ hand upon his shoulder, he backed down.
‘I am Sicarius.’ He stepped forwards, lowering but not sheathing his sword.
‘And who are you to come armed into the wild lands? This is Lord Athelnar’s domain.’
‘You are charged with watching his borders?’ Sicarius asked.
‘I am,’ said the warrior, and trotted his beast forwards until the tip of his spear brushed the edge of Sicarius’ armour. The Suzerain did not move or turn his gaze from the horseman. ‘But you’ve yet to answer my question. What are you doing here? Who is your lord?’
Now up-close, the warrior on horseback eyed Sicarius carefully, almost seeming to baulk at the Ultramarine’s size and stature. As if a lantern had been lit, he suddenly realised the sheer size of all of these strange warriors, and felt the threat they radiated.
‘Threatening us would be unwise…’
‘That is to say,’ a voice interrupted, Vedaeh’s sudden appearance prompting a flurry of urgent and belligerent activity from the natives, ‘we are strangers in these lands and are sorry for any unmeant offence or concern we may have caused.’ She bowed, deeply, having to pull on her cane to right herself again.
‘We cannot just kill them…’ she whispered harshly to Daceus as she passed.
The warrior eyed the group carefully, as if deciding who the odds would actually favour if it led to a fight between them and his men.
‘Please,’ Vedaeh went on, ‘we are allies.’
The warrior appeared to tilt his head. ‘You met one of our messengers?’
Vedaeh gave a slow nod.
‘I thought they had all perished.’
‘He did not last long,’ Vedaeh lied, trying to get a feel for what the warrior was asking.
One of the other horsemen leaned over to speak in the leader’s ear. ‘They must be from the south, like the vizier.’
‘From the south, yes,’ said Vedaeh quickly. ‘We’ve travelled far and have lost many on the way.’
‘And you answer our pleas for help,’ said the warrior, ‘to fight for our cause.’ The hope in his voice betrayed his desperation too.
Vedaeh gave Sicarius a furtive look, and he nodded in reply.
‘Yes. To fight. But we need shelter.’ She gestured to Pillium, who looked on the verge of collapse. ‘And we have injured men. Do you have a healer?’
‘Not with us, but at Farrodum, yes. A medicus.’
‘Farrodum?’ asked Daceus.
‘Our city. We thought we were alone, but now you are here…’
The warrior on horseback visibly relaxed and now Daceus saw it. He saw it in the warrior’s posture and that of his fellow riders, and in the shadowed faces of the footmen partly hidden by the rims of their helms.
They are a troop of old men and boys. He saw the same incredulous revelation reflected in Sicarius’ face.
‘We are knights,’ said Sicarius, addressing the warrior on horseback, ‘of a southern land called Macragge.’
The warrior stowed his spear in a loop attached to his steed’s saddle and removed his helm, revealing the grizzled face of an old campaigner, his dark hair and beard riddled with more iron than coal. He had also lost part of an ear, the wound stitched and relatively recent. But his eyes shone with a keen awareness, the suggestion of old instincts still at their best even if his body was not.
‘I am Scarfel, Castellan of Farrodum and retainer of my liege lord, Athelnar,’ he said, tugging loose a heavy leather gauntlet and extending out a hand.
Sicarius took off his own gauntlet and the two men clasped forearms, though Scarfel could scarcely grip the Suzerain’s and found his own arm practically engulfed by a large hand.
‘You are welcome here in these lands, Sicarius of Macragge,’ said Scarfel, seemingly relieved that his arm was still attached as they broke off. He looked to all of the Ultramarines and Vedaeh. ‘As are you all.’
The tension eased considerably and the horsemen began to part, as did the surrounding footmen, all of whom lowered their halberds and crossbows.
‘Please,’ said Scarfel, ‘Farrodum is close by. Allow me to escort you. The baron will be pleased you have come.’
Sicarius turned to Vedaeh, a savage glint in his eye that could have been amusement or annoyance.
‘Milady?’ he asked.
Daceus watched with some unworthy satisfaction as Vedaeh paled slightly.
‘As you wish it, Captain Sicarius.’
He nodded and gave her the most surreptitious of winks, though Daceus saw it.
‘Lead on, Scarfel,’ said Sicarius.
RED EARTH
The ‘knights of Macragge’ marched in pairs, with Vandius at the rear making sure Pillium remained upright. He looked ashen, biting back a pain he strove to keep hidden from the others, but Sicarius saw it.
Of the natives, the footmen trudged wearily behind while Scarfel rode alongside his newfound allies, the other horsemen sent on ahead.
‘It’s not so far,’ he offered, trotting his horse languidly through the mud. He looked well-practised in the saddle, his hand at ease on the pommel of his sword, his spear swaying gently with the steed’s movements.
‘What do you call this place, Scarfel?’ asked Sicarius, gesturing to the lands around them.
‘Agun.’
‘A-gun,’ Sicarius repeated, compartmentalising the pronunciation.
‘Farrodum is its last known city.’
The region’s or the world’s? Sicarius wondered, but did not voice it.
Scarfel looked across at Sicarius, who stood almost to the man’s eyeline despite the fact he was mounted. ‘What is the name of your city, Sicarius? Do you hail from a city?’
‘Civitas,’ he said, without pause.
‘I have never heard of this land, of Macragge.’ Scarfel leaned over in the saddle, his a conspiratorial whisper behind his hand, ‘and if you don’t mind me saying, it breeds giants, not men.’
Sicarius laughed. He liked this man, simple though he was. ‘We are men, Scarfel.’ He looked over his shoulder at the young faces of the footmen, pale in the murky fog. A few took furtive glances out into the wild. More than once, armoured buckles and straps clacked noisily as a crossbow or pike was hurriedly brought to bear, but to no other end than causing momentary commotion. ‘What happened to your army?’
Scarfel frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Young, old,’ said Sicarius, gesturing to the footmen. ‘They are not typical soldiers.’
Now, the old campaigner’s face darkened, and he looked out painfully into the fog. ‘You’re observant.’
‘I lead warriors, I have to be. Your men are afraid. I can see that too. What is it out here that has them so afraid?’
‘The bone-swine.’
Sicarius exchanged a quick glance with Daceus, who was listening to every word. The old veteran shrugged.
‘Did they kill your men?’
Scarfel nodded sombrely. ‘The ravagers came,’ he said, face falling as he drifted back to a place of dark memories. ‘At first, they raided our farms, isolated outposts and watchtowers. There was nothing the bone-swine would not eat, fight or burn. Nothing, no amount of violence could sate them. As the outer places fell, the people living there sought refuge in the city. And so the bone-swine became bolder. Our warriors clashed with them. Parties of hunters went out to cull them but met with less and less success each time they returned, until they did not come back at all. The bo
ne-swine horde grew as our numbers diminished. Something had to be done. An army was raised, led by our general, Siegfried. I was his equerry and part of the muster. We set out on horse, six hundred cavalry men and twice that on foot.
‘We knew the bone-swine laired in a wide gorge north of the city. The army rode with fury, killing every foul creature we met on the way, but these were stragglers and filled us with ill-earned confidence. A quarter of a mile from the entrance to the gorge, Siegfried gave the signal to charge. We began to move, certain of victory and eager for the fight. Almost at the entrance, my horse threw a shoe, and tossed me out of the saddle. I was left behind, slumped insensible in the dirt. By the time I came around, the rest of the army had gone. Almost six hundred horses went into the gorge.’ He paused, wiping a glove across his nose and eyes. ‘Less than twenty returned. I mounted a stray, bereft without its rider, and as the others fled for Farrodum I rode into the gorge. I mounted the high slopes, where the rocks would shield me from the bone-swine. I had to see it, do you understand?’ said Scarfel, looking back at Sicarius, who held his gaze. ‘I had to know what had befallen Siegfried and the army. I found red earth. It churned under my horse’s hooves, damp and yielding. They were… eating them. I heard screams in the deep parts of the gorge. To my shame I did not venture further, but knew that some of the army must have been alive as they were devoured.
‘Whether it was the scent of blood, or the presence of the bone-swine, or even my own fear… my horse kicked and panicked. I brought it to rein – had I not, I don’t think I would be alive to tell this story – but one of the bone-swine turned, having noticed the scattered scree I had unwittingly disturbed. Looking into that gore-smeared face as it picked shreds of meat that had once been my comrades from its teeth, I became petrified. Something flashed out of the shadows at me and fire seared my face. I saw a stone spear lying on the ground, my blood on the sharpened flint tip.’ He reached up to touch his mangled ear, fingers questing for the missing piece but finding it absent. ‘I thought I would be chased down and overrun. Instead, it laughed. And I have never heard a more harrowing thing, like stone grinding, only deep and guttural. Then another turned and it laughed too, then another and another, until the horde raised up such a cacophony that I fled, their mockery chasing me into the night.’
