“I still fear I may not see you in my Paradise, son of the Banna,” Nisri said, pulling Turk into his embrace. “I still will not shake my beliefs as a son of the Turenag, but I pray that the Aba Aba Mushira has a Paradise for soldiers, so that I might welcome you there as my brother.”
The men embraced for a moment longer and kissed one another twice on each cheek, as they might kiss old friends and beloved family. Then Turk turned around and walked away, leaving Nisri alone with his thoughts.
Nisri fell to his knees and offered his hands out in submission and prayer. “Forgive me, oh Emperor,” he whispered. “Forgive my hubris in believing I would be the one to find Paradise for my people. Forgive me for proving unworthy of Your gifts.” With that, Nisri pulled his laspistol from its holster.
Turk didn’t flinch at the discharge of the laspistol, even when everyone else jumped. “Stay where you are,” he ordered, stopping Ballasra from investigating. “Leave him his dignity.”
Ballasra hesitated, but said nothing. Like Turk, he understood the burden of leadership and the dangers of brandishing a keen edged faith. Sometimes it was a weapon to use against your enemies, and sometimes, it was the device of your downfall. No knife was ever crafted that could not defend you against all aggressors one moment, and then be held at your wrists the next. Turk did not blame Nisri for his actions; he wasn’t sure if he could have stared into the face of paradise and hope, for so long, and then given the order to raze it. He understood the colonel’s anguish, and he respected him for it.
Turk ensured everyone was ready for this last stand, and offered hushed words of encouragement, and words of thanks for their efforts. He even propped the two injured men up and armed them so that they could fight to the last. When he reached Ballasra, the two men merely clapped one another on the shoulder. They were soldiers, the oldest of the lot. Nothing needed to be said.
The tyranids were less than a minute away when Turk reached Kamala. They embraced and kissed more passionately than they had during their nights of furtive lovemaking. The ground shook beneath their feet.
“I can hear the ghosts again,” Kamala whispered, her forehead touching his. “I can finally understand their words.”
“What are they saying?” Turk asked, curious.
“I love you,” she said, and kissed lurk on the lips. He looked confused, but the time for questions was over. The tyranid wave was almost upon them. “Protect me to the last,” she said. “I finally understand what I need to do.”
6
The tyranids swarmed over the last survivors, ripping through them in a terrible collision. The Guardsmen fell, cut down one by one, by scythe, by claw or by bite. They died firing their pistols and swinging their blades, their last furious act to kill those that slaughtered them.
Ballasra and Turk protected Kamala as the energy crackled around her body, but she did not unleash it. It built up inside her, setting her nerves on fire and blistering her skin. Her nose and eyes bled, the blood cascading down past her psyker’s hood and soaking her chest. She paused for long enough to watch Ballasra fall, a pack of runners dragging him down into the sand and lacerating the flesh from his bones. She took strength from his death, and continued to bottle it up inside her.
Turk turned to save Ballasra, but a round of green bioplasm struck him in the back. She watched as he burned alive, the green fire devouring cloth, and burning away his hair. Their eyes locked, and she took strength from him, but there was no recognition left in his stare before the fire split them open. She shut her eyes. She’d seen this before without knowing it, had dreamt it without understanding it. The images rifled through her thoughts, threatening to overwhelm her and scatter her energies. The air was suffocated by the stench of ozone, cordite and discharged bowels, but she forced herself past the noise, past the smells.
Kamala saw the deathblow arrive before it landed, felt it coming with the certainty of providence. She sensed her end in the seconds before it struck. Her eyes flew open as a scythe struck her between the shoulder blades and sliced straight through her sternum. She stared at the blade for a moment, feeling no pain. It was exactly where it was supposed to be, exactly as the ghosts had shown her.
She focused on the tattered, blood-caked standard half buried in sand. The wind tore at its frayed edges, and the double-eagle emblem of the Imperium poked out from beneath the bodies of her friends. It was exactly as she’d seen it, overlaid each time a million times over with no discrepancy in how it unfolded. Every image she saw was the same, each one superimposed by repetition of this single event, over the last. All of them together burned into the fabric of her consciousness as the scene was somehow repeated again and again in history.
Nor history, she realised. It is history only once.
One point in time had become the fulcrum of her existence.
Bioelectricity surged out from every pore of her skin, electrocuting the tyranid beast that delivered the deathblow. It lit her body with a burning incandescence. Her thoughts flew towards the heavens, her fading consciousness propelled upward by her mortis-cry, a cry not even the tyranids could silence. She broke through the silence of the stars, shattering through the veil, and felt the noise flood back in. Kamala sent her thoughts home, back to where it all began. She knew this would work, because it had worked before. It was ordained.
As the light and suffering of the world closed, Kamala could see her thoughts twist and change as they flew through the distortions of Empyrean Space.
She did not fear where her cry would go, not when she already knew the “when” of it all.
This time, she prayed, let it turn out differently. Let me understand more quickly.
EPILOGUE
“How much does tonight resemble yesterday’s night.”
—The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault
1
There was, there was not.
2
The transmission fell like a carelessly discarded blade from the heavens, straight into his naked brain. The astropath’s muscles seized into hard cords. His teeth snapped down, cracking the enamel. His skeletal hands gripped the cradle’s iron grasp bars, cutting flesh with rust, and he bucked against the leather straps holding him fast. There wasn’t enough time to mouth a litany of protection or to will a psychic bulwark into place against the buckshot rain of thoughts. From the heavens, tonight, fell death, and visions of history undone and ghosts unmade.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
NEUTRALS
Commissar Torrent Rezail: Cadian native and commissar for the newly formed 892nd Tallarn Regiment.
Sergeant Tyrell Habaas: Hawadi tribesman and adjunct to Commissar Rezail.
TURENAG MEMBERS
Colonel Nisri Dakar: Regiment commander and leader of the Turenag contingent of the 892nd. Prince of the Turenag Tribal Alliance.
Major Ias’r Dashour: Commander of 1st Company.
Kamala Noore: The unit’s only sanctioned psyker and female.
Captain Qal Abantu: In charge of the regiment’s armored support and a D’Shouf tribesman, the largest tribe of the Turenag.
Captain Lakoom Nehari: F Platoon leader.
Sergeant Darik Ballasra: Squad sergeant and among the best trackers in the regiment. A member of the Ma’h’murra tribe within the Turenag Alliance.
Sergeant Abasra Doori: Chimera commander with armoured support.
Sergeant Saheen Raham: E Platoon’s leader and Tallarn soldier of Cadian heritage; Cadians settled on Tallarn following the Iron Legion’s attempts to invade the sulphur-laden world.
Duf adar Nab’l Sarish: Regiment pack master and a member of the Sen’tach tribe, who are known for their dromad riders.
Corporal Elaph Cartouk: Squadron leader for the Burning Falcons.
Corporal Magdi Demar: E Platoon leader.
Corporal Bathras Euphrates: Hellhound commander.
Corporal Kadi Y’dar: Sentinel squadron pilot.
Private Ignar Chalfous: Pathfinder in Sergeant Bal
lasra’s squad.
Private Dubar Iban Dubar: Sentinel pilot with the Burning Falcons.
Private Darha Lumak: Hellhound flame gunner. Private Trask
Abu Manar: Hellhound cogitator.
Private Shanleel Qubak: A Sentinel squadron pilot. Private
Ibod Sarrin: Hellhound driver.
Private Apaul Wariby: Chimera driver.
BANNA MEMBERS
Battalion Commander Lieutenant Colonel Turk Iban Salid: Second-in-Command of the 892nd, Prince of the Banna Tribal Alliance and leader of the regiment’s Banna contingent.
Major Wahid Anleel: Commander of 1st Company.
Major Alef Hussari: Hussari commands the 892nd’s Sentinel squadrons.
Captain Lornis Anuman: Commander of B Platoon.
Captain Ural Kortan: Quartermaster of the 892nd.
Captain Ber’nam Toria: Commander of C Platoon.
Master Gunner Tembo Nubis: Nubis leads A Platoon, which handles fire support, heavy weapons and demolitions. He belongs to the Nasandi Tribe.
Sergeant Umar Hadoori: Squadron leader of the Heretic Slayers.
Sergeant Cortikas Iath: Squadron leader for the War Chasers.
Sergeant H’lal Odassa: Squadron leader of the Dust Marauders.
Sergeant A’rtar Shamas: Squadron leader of the Orakle’s Apostles.
Corporal Tanis Maraibeh: Pilot in the Dust Runners.
Corporal Adwan Neshadi: Member of Nubis Platoon and demolitions expert.
Corporal Ziya Rawan: Squadron leader for the Holy Striders.
Private First Class Venakh Mousar: A scout serving under Captain Toria.
Private Amum Bak: A pilot in Major Hussari’s Dust Runners Sentinel squadron.
Private Harros Damask: A Sentinel squadron pilot.
Private Lebbos Lassa: Private serving in Captain Toria’s squad.
Private Deeter Mohar: Pilot in the War Chasers.
Private Damous Obasra: Pilot in the Holy Striders squadron.
Private Ahsra Sabaak: A soldier working for Quartermaster Kortan.
Private Elma Taris: Pilot in the Holy Striders squadron.
Scanning and basic
proofing by Red Dwarf,
formatting and additional
proofing by Undead.
[Imperial Guard 04] - Desert raiders Page 23
