Tales of Heresy

by Nick Kyme

  Their latest encampment was a hundred kilometres south of Oneiros’s habitable zone, in the wreckage of a small city that still bore a high level of background radiation from the xenos holocaust of two centuries before. Over the last three months they had shifted position dozens of times, never staying in one place for more than a week and keeping to radioactive regions in the hope of confounding enemy hunter-killer patrols. It was only Bulveye’s long experience as a raider himself plus the mobility afforded by their Stormbird drop-ship that allowed the Wolves to continue their hit-and-run raids against the Harrowers and evade the furious pursuits that followed.

  They struck everywhere and anywhere, operating as three-man teams in nearly every one of the planet’s habitable zones. With hundreds of years of combat experience and a lifetime stalking through the woods of their native Fenris, the Astartes sprang lightning-quick ambushes against isolated xenos raiding parties, or used missile launchers to attack low-flying transports moving between the alien spires and the Antimonan cities. They would strike fast, inflict as many casualties as possible, then fade just as quickly into the countryside, avoiding detection until the opportunity arose to strike again. Bulveye meant to draw off as many of the Harrowers as he could and disrupt their raids against the Antimonans, and judging by the intensity of the xenos response, the strategy appeared to be succeeding. The aliens now kept constant patrols searching the wastelands, some venturing as far north and south as the planetary poles, and in the last few weeks had even resorted to unleashing random orbital bombardments against some of the larger ruins in the hope of flushing out their prey.

  The Astartes succeeded for no other reason than they were willing – and able – to suffer far more privation and hardship than their foes. The small store of emergency rations aboard the Stormbird had been exhausted within a month of careful rationing but the warriors’ enhanced metabolic functions allowed them to draw nutrients from plants, animals and even inorganic materials that would kill a normal human. They camped in wild, desolate places that left them at the mercy of the worst weather that the planet could produce, and exposed themselves to levels of background radiation that would have killed a normal human within hours. More than once, an enemy hunter-killer team had caught the Wolves’ trail, but were ultimately forced to abandon their pursuit when the land became too deadly for them to travel through.

  For all that, the Wolves paid a steep price for their success. The constant exposure to radiation had suppressed their natural healing abilities, and coupled with the aliens’ predilection to poison their weapons, it meant that many of the warriors were wounded to a greater or lesser degree. Of the twelve Astartes under the Wolf Lord’s command, three had succumbed to their wounds and lapsed into the Red Dream, a deep coma that freed the warrior’s body to try and cope with the gravest of injuries. Currently, Bulveye had two teams of three on extended deployments around the planet at all times, with a third team providing security for their fallen brothers while they regained their strength for another patrol.

  The going had been difficult, but there were encouraging signs that they were having an impact on the balance of power across Antimon. The Harrowers still attacked the local cities, sometimes with a savagery that bordered on the bestial, but the fierce, uncoordinated attacks rarely produced significant results. More importantly, there were signs that Bulveye’s message had somehow managed to circulate among the Antimonans across the entire world. The tribute fields had fallen into disuse after the events of that first, fateful night – or at least, they were no longer used for the purpose they’d been intended. Instead, the Wolves would sometimes pass near the pavilions and find offerings of food or medicines wrapped in parcels of waterproof cloth, or simply wreaths of local flowers or bottles of wine. Sometimes the parcels would contain notes written in the local dialect, and the warriors would puzzle for hours over the strange script, trying to divine their contents. To Bulveye, the message was clear enough: the people of the battered world knew what his warband was doing on their behalf, and they were grateful.

  The Wolf Lord caught sight of movement at the bottom of the low hill where he sat. Moments later, Halvdan emerged from the ruins of a small dwelling and began limping haltingly up the slope towards him. The burly warrior had been hit in the thigh by an envenomed dagger wielded by a white-haired xenos female, and the wound so far showed no signs of healing. How he continued to walk, let alone fight, in the face of such terrible pain was a wonder to Bulveye.

  ‘Stormbird’s on the way back,’ the lieutenant said hoarsely as he reached the top of the hill. Bulveye beckoned for the warrior to sit, and Halvdan sank to the ground with a grateful nod. The skin around his eyes was pale and lined with strain as he pulled a water flask from his belt and took a deep draught of the contents.

  Bulveye nodded. ‘Both teams recovered?’

  ‘Aye, thank the Allfather,’ Halvdan replied. ‘Jurgen said he had casualties, though.’ The bearded warrior looked off to the east, towards the distant brown smudge of the approaching storm. He took another swallow from the flask. ‘I’ve finished taking stock of our supplies, as you requested.’

  The Wolf Lord arched an eyebrow. ‘That was fast.’

  Halvdan let out a grunt. ‘There wasn’t much to count,’ he said. ‘We’re down to forty rounds of bolt-gun ammo per man, eight grenades, twelve melta charges and two krak missiles, plus whatever else the two patrols manage to bring back with them. We don’t have a single complete medicae kit left, and armour damage varies anywhere from ten per cent to eighteen per cent per warrior. In short, we’re close to the end of our rope. We can manage another set of patrols, or perhaps one major engagement, and that will be that.’ He sighed, fixing the Wolf Lord with his baleful red eye. ‘We’re four weeks overdue at Kernunnos at this point. They’re bound to send someone to look for us. A battle group could arrive at any time.’

  The Wolf Lord regarded his sword-brother. ‘What are you getting at?’ he said.

  Halvdan took another drink. From the smell, it was clearly filled with Antimonan wine. The warrior shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘I don’t like these damned aliens any more than you do, lord, but I think we’ve done all we can at this point. Leman himself couldn’t have asked our brothers to fight any harder. You know that. When the Stormbird gets back, why don’t we go to ground somewhere a little more liveable and lay low until relief arrives?’

  The suggestion took Bulveye aback. ‘We can’t stop now. Especially now. The tide is turning in our favour. If we don’t keep up the pressure we’ll be relinquishing the initiative to the enemy, and I guarantee they will do all they can to capitalise on it.’

  ‘Yes, but…’ Halvdan paused, searching for a tactful way to say what was on his mind. After a moment, he gave up and simply ploughed ahead. ‘My lord, we owe these people nothing. They rejected you out of hand. You know what that means.’

  The Wolf Lord’s eyes narrowed angrily. ‘I know full well,’ he growled. ‘And if it comes down to that, I’ll do my duty, like any other servant of the Allfather. You can’t look at the wreck I’ve made of this subsector and imagine otherwise.’

  Halvdan raised a placating hand. ‘Look, I’m not saying you’ve gone soft-hearted—’

  ‘I know exactly what you’re saying, brother,’ Bulveye said. ‘You wonder why I’m going to such effort to fight for people we will just have to turn around and conquer later.’

  The Wolf Lord rose to his feet. Dust spilled from the joints of his armour and billowed away in the rising breeze. ‘We are crusaders, Halvdan. The Allfather sent us forth to save the lost worlds of humanity and bring them back into the fold. If there is a chance, however slim, that we can convince these people of our intentions and avoid repeating what we did to Kernunnos, then I’ll do whatever I must. I’ll fight to my last breath if that is what it takes.’

  Halvdan stared up at Bulveye, his expression hard, but after a moment he simply shook his head and sighed. With an effort, he forced himself back onto his feet
and clapped his hand on the Wolf Lord’s shoulder.

  ‘The drop-ship should be back at any moment,’ he said. ‘We’d best go meet it and see if Jurgen’s brought us back any presents.’

  Together, the two Astartes made their way down the hill and out into the dusty plain west of the ruined town. No sooner had they arrived than a black shape appeared on the horizon, streaking in low to mask its flight path from orbital surveyors. At once, the two Wolves could see that the drop-ship was in trouble: smoke was streaming from one of its engines, and its flight path was erratic. It was clear that the pilot was struggling desperately to keep the Stormbird straight and level at such a dangerous altitude.

  Within minutes the assault craft was flaring its jets over the landing field and settling down hard on the dusty ground. Moments later the ramp opened and four Wolves – including the pilot – exited quickly with portable fire suppressors in their hands. They raced aft and doused the smoking engine. Jurgen, meanwhile, appeared at the top of the ramp and approached Bulveye and Halvdan, who were still standing a few yards distant.

  ‘You missed quite a trip,’ Jurgen said as he stepped up to his lord. ‘A brace of alien fighters picked us up as we were transiting the Oneiran habitable zone. They gave us quite a run before we managed to knock them down.’

  ‘How bad is it?’ Bulveye asked.

  Jurgen’s expression turned grim. ‘You’ll have to ask the pilot about the drop-ship. Two more of our brothers have gone into the Red Dream. One of them is likely going to lose both his legs, if he survives at all.’

  The Wolf Lord accepted the news with a curt nod. ‘Were the patrols successful?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jurgen said without hesitation. ‘Perhaps more so than we might have expected.’

  ‘Oh? How’s that?’

  The lieutenant folded his arms. ‘Well, as we were flying back, the pilot picked up a lot of aerial activity around Oneiros. It appeared that the Harrowers were conducting a major series of raids on the city, so I decided to try and get a closer look. We infiltrated the zone and set down near the tribute field. That’s where our patrol found something interesting.’

  Bulveye frowned at the news. ‘Another package?’

  ‘No,’ Jurgen said. ‘A message.’ He reached into a pouch at his belt and drew out a scrap of paper. ‘It was wrapped around the hilt of a dagger that was driven into a gap between the paving stones of the pavilion.’

  The Wolf Lord examined the paper. To his surprise, it was written in archaic Low Gothic – less like the local dialect and more like the parent tongue that nearly every human world understood. The note contained a vox frequency, a time and a name. Andras.

  Jurgen studied Bulveye’s reaction to the message. ‘What do you think it means?’ he asked.

  Bulveye queried his armour’s chrono. The time mentioned on the note was just a few hours away. ‘It means that the Antimonans are ready to take the next step.’

  THEY ARRIVED FOUR hours before the scheduled rendezvous time, after moving overland through the wastes and then slipping through the wooded hills until they were in position to observe the tribute field. Bulveye had no doubt that it was Andras whom he spoke to over the vox, but that didn’t mean an ambush was out of the question.

  Xenos aircraft flew overhead at constant intervals while the Wolves sat and waited: transports and fighters, most bound in the direction of Oneiros. As Jurgen had reported, it appeared that the Harrowers had committed a great deal of their local strength to pillaging the city, no matter the cost. Bulveye watched the flights pass overhead and added the data to his evolving plan.

  At precisely the appointed time, a trio of cloaked figures slipped from the woods bordering the road to the east of the pavilion and headed for the tribute site. The Wolves were impressed; no one had caught wind of the Antimonans until they’d broken cover. Bulveye watched them approach and crouch down at the rendezvous point, and made his decision.

  ‘I’m going down,’ he told his lieutenants. ‘Hold position here until I say otherwise.’ Then he rose from the shadows and made his way out onto the plain where they’d first ambushed the Harrowers some twelve weeks before.

  The Antimonans saw him coming from a long way off. They watched him intently from the depths of their hoods, but made no move until he was just a few yards away. One of the figures rose smoothly and moved to join Bulveye. He could tell from the way the man moved that it was Andras.

  ‘Well met,’ Bulveye said quietly, extending his hand. Andras took it, clasping the Wolf Lord’s wrist in a warrior’s grip.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for two weeks, hoping you’d find the message,’ the young nobleman replied. ‘We’re glad you came. How are you faring?’

  ‘Well enough,’ Bulveye said carefully. ‘We’re grateful for the gifts your people have left for us. Has the Senate had a change of heart?’

  ‘The Senate is no more,’ Andras replied. ‘The raiders killed them last month.’

  The news surprised Bulveye. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Our food stores are swiftly running out,’ Andras explained. ‘It’s the same all over Antimon. My father and the other senators decided to open negotiations with the leader of the Harrowers and try to organise some kind of settlement before our situation became untenable.’ The nobleman’s body stiffened. ‘The alien leader agreed on a meeting at the Senate building but he did not come to talk. Instead, he and his warriors seized the senators and spent an entire week torturing them to death. Since then, the raiders have gone wild in Oneiros, filling the streets and tearing into the hill shelters with every tool and weapon at their disposal.’

  ‘What became of the alien leader?’ Bulveye inquired.

  ‘He personally took part in torturing the senators, but returned to the spire afterwards.’

  The Wolf Lord nodded thoughtfully. ‘And what do you wish of us, Andras, son of Javren?’

  Andras reached up and drew back his hood. A fresh scar marked the left side of his face, and livid bruises coloured his brow. ‘We want to join you,’ he replied. ‘There were always those of us in the aristocracy who secretly kept the ways of the armigers alive. When you fought the raiders here on that first night, it inspired us to take action ourselves. Lately we’ve been making attacks against the raiders inside the city and enjoyed some success, but we would be a hundred times more effective if we could fight with you and your warriors beside us!’

  To Andras’s evident surprise, Bulveye shook his head. ‘Fighting aliens inside Oneiros will accomplish very little at this point.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Andras hissed. ‘How is that any different from what you have been doing these last three months?’

  ‘Because everything I’ve done so far has been with one objective in mind,’ Bulveye said. ‘And that is to divide the raiders and ultimately turn them against one another.’

  Andras scowled at the Wolf Lord and shook his head in frustration. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘That’s because you were never a raider yourself,’ Bulveye replied. ‘I was, a very long time ago, and everything I’ve seen about the Harrowers so far tells me they aren’t much different from the reavers I dealt with back on Fenris.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Andras replied.

  ‘It means that they’re a greedy lot, and greed makes a person treacherous,’ Bulveye explained. ‘A raiding band is only as strong as its leader, who holds the group together by dint of being harder, meaner and cleverer than the rest. He takes the best of the plunder for himself, but so long as everyone manages to get a cut, the gang stays more or less content. When the loot dries up, though, watch out. That’s when things get dangerous.’

  Andras thought about that for a moment. ‘And you’ve been making it hard for the Harrowers to take many slaves.’

  ‘And killing as many of them as I can in the bargain,’ Bulveye said. ‘Every time a raiding party is ambushed, or a transport is shot down, the Harrowers’ leader is made to appear weak. And I guarantee that so
me of his lieutenants are feeling tempted to try and take control of the band themselves.’

  ‘So if the current leader dies, the rest will turn on each other to see who gets to be next in charge.’ Andras said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Bulveye agreed. ‘And now, while the majority of the Harrowers are in Oneiros, we’ve got our best chance of killing him and setting the bloody contest in motion.’

  ‘How do you plan on doing that?’ the nobleman asked. ‘I told you, he’s back at the spire now.’

  ‘All I need is a Harrower transport,’ Bulveye said. ‘The aliens think they’re safe in their floating citadels. I’m going to show them otherwise.’

  Andras stared up at the Wolf Lord. ‘I can get you a transport,’ he told Bulveye. ‘But only if you let us help you attack the spire.’

  Bulveye held up a hand. ‘I appreciate your courage, but we don’t need the help.’

  ‘Really? Do you know how to fly one of those transports?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ the Wolf Lord replied. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not… at the moment,’ Andras grudgingly admitted, ‘but over the last couple of centuries my people have gleaned quite a bit about the aliens’ tongue.’ The young nobleman drew himself up to his full height, which still left him at roughly chest-height next to the huge Astartes. ‘We can deliver a transport into your hands and tell you how to read its controls. All we ask is that you allow us to accompany you when you attack the spire.’