by Andy Smillie
Pain dragged Manakel back to consciousness. It was an agony unlike any he had experienced before, as though his body had saved up every wound, every injury he’d ever sustained and revisited them upon him in that exact moment. Each breath brought with it more torment. He blinked hard, clearing his vision in an attempt to focus on the garble of tactical data and biometric readouts that shuddered across his retinal display. Frustrated, he tried to blink-click it away, but the nonsensical sigils remained. His helm’s cogitators were damaged. He activated his vox, wincing as wheezing static spat in his ear.
‘Useless machine junk,’ Manakel roared, spitting a raft of incoherent curses as he tore his helmet from its locking clasps and threw it away.
Growling, he pushed himself to his knees. Only then did he notice that Seraph’s chainsword was still clasped firmly in his right fist. He redoubled his grip on the weapon in an effort to crush the pain wracking his body. ‘It seems I’ll get to keep my oath, brother-sergeant.’ Manakel forced the words through a mouthful of saliva, a by-product of the pain suppressors, bio-nutrients and adrenaline his armour was pumping into his system. He spat bile-coloured phlegm from his mouth and loosened his grip on the sword as the cocktail of drugs began to ease his pain.
His other hand remained slack, his forearm broken at a sickening angle. Planting Seraph’s sword in the ground, he unfastened his vambrace and gauntlet, and took hold of his damaged arm. ‘The Blood grant me strength.’ Manakel’s face contorted in pain as he snapped the bones of his forearm back into alignment. The sudden sharpness of pain brought him a moment of relief from the rest of his injuries, which paled in comparison. Grimacing, he flexed his fingers. By the grace of Sanguinius the arm would heal before too long.
Grunting with effort, Manakel got to his feet. The servos in his armour echoed his struggle, whining as he rose. Without his helmet display he had no way of knowing how badly damaged his armour was. Not that it mattered, he would make do. Pressing the release catch, he let what was left of his jump pack drop to the ground. Its twin cylindrical boosters had been shattered by his fall, and he doubted even the Chapter’s master artificers could repair it now. Removing a pack of ceramite paste from a compartment in his thigh, Manakel squeezed the viscous liquid over a crack in the side of his abdominal plating. The air-drying compound would maintain his armour’s integrity until a more permanent repair could be made.
Satisfied that his armour was as secure as he could make it, Manakel turned his thoughts inwards, focusing on the multitude of sensations vying for attention within his body. He sifted through them, tensing muscles, lingering where something felt off kilter, and assessing it against the combat casualty training stored in his memory. Level three polytrauma, several sources of distress and multiple injuries... But his limbs were intact and functioning within combat efficiency; he had no need of an Apothecary.
Manakel let out a long sigh of relief, and gazed up at the strand of light stabbing down through the gaps in the canopy of branches that had broken his fall. If he had survived, then perhaps his squad had as well.
Pulling Seraph’s chainsword from the ground, Manakel clasped it in a two-handed grip and held the weapon out in front of his chest. He had been raised on Arakell, a world of warrior tribes. His people had a saying: ‘As man finds his way to woman, a weapon finds its way to war’. It was an archaic sentiment. Using a blade like a divining rod was tantamount to madness, but he had nothing else to go on.
‘Direct my wrath...’ Manakel stared at the weapon, panning it across the treeline. He bit down on his lip, and spat a measure of his blood onto the blade. ‘Guide me to my vengeance.’
Tamir watched the crimson giant from the lee of an ytamop tree, letting its thick skin of dagger-like leaves conceal him. It was the seventh such beast he’d come across in as many hours. Unlike the others, this one was still alive.
He had watched them plummet from the sky, a shoal of blood drops that spat fire in defiance of the winds. But the beasts had quickly been taught the error of their ways. Angered, the winds had tossed them to the earth, discarding them like the degenerate children of his tribe whom the elders threw from the cliffs of Ilse. Though it had not been the wind that had killed the others, at least not all of them. Tamir had found several of them torn apart, their entrails smeared across the earth and their limbs reduced to fleshy stumps. A kaxarous had set upon them. Fragments of their crimson hides still bore its mark. The predator’s incisors were unmistakable.
The crimson giants were different, though no less imposing, than the green-skinned beast he had killed at his village. Tamir watched, awestruck, as the one in front of him tugged at its red hide, pulling off its face and tossing it away. He inched closer, flinching as the giant sat up. Annoyed at his own lack of understanding, Tamir stifled a grunt and touched the geryoch skull covering his head. The giant had been wearing a war-helm. He made to take a step forwards, but shock fixed him in place. Though the giant’s forehead was broader and its skin paler, underneath its helm it was a man, like him.
Tamir felt, more than heard, the anxious murmur that rippled through the hundred warriors arrayed beside him in the brush as his kin struggled to comprehend what their eyes were telling them. Tamir patted his hand to the ground, ordering his warriors to be silent, to be still. He had gathered many tribes to his banner after the destruction of his village and many more since the crimson giants had fallen from the sky. Rumours about the origins of the giants ran like rainwater from the mouths of all who could speak, threatening to drown the tribes in fear. Chief Sabir told of air spirits formed from the blood of the dead who had returned to claim the living. Chief Ra’d believed the giants to have been birthed by the mountains. He had said that they were beings of fire and ash, sent to test their bravery. Both he and Sabir stood on the opposite side of the thicket from Tamir, watching the giant with their own war parties. Venerable Chief Abbas claimed that his grandfather had seen the giants before, that they were a tribe of great monsters who lived high above the clouds beyond even the reach of the ranodon. Abbas and his hundred warriors were encamped only a few moments’ sprint away, ready to lend their spears should they be needed.
Tamir clicked his tongue in frustration. He had no idea who or what these giants were, but he was certain that both Sabir and Ra’d were mistaken. Air spirits did not bleed, and any child of the mountains would have had no quarrel with the mighty kaxarous who slumbered within their slopes. Perhaps Abbas was right, perhaps the giants were simply monsters he had yet to slay. Tamir edged forward, keen to see what the giant did next.
He stopped, reaching for his blade as the giant let out a roar. Catching a glimpse of its broken arm, Tamir settled himself. It was in pain. He crept closer, watching intently as it grabbed hold of its wounded limb and snapped it into place. The giant was still for a moment as though lost in a trance. Tamir turned his attention to the massive blade embedded in the ground. The long, vicious weapon was both broader and taller than he. It reminded him of the God Blade that hung in the cave of ancestry. Hewn from a single kergasaur tooth, it was said to have been forged by the creators themselves. No warrior had ever been able to wield it.
Tamir’s eyes widened as he watched the giant pluck the blade from the earth without effort. He grinned. Unlike the greenskin, this beast would be a worthy foe.
Amit stood on the roof of the Vengeance and surveyed the darkness. Inside the gunship’s hull, the rest of his command squad was huddled around a data console, examining a tactical hololith. But he wanted to check on the company’s progress first hand. Carefully arranged blades of light and spacial approximations would never give a true picture of a world. No amount of cogitators could be used to discern the measure of a place. Amit reached up and removed his helm. His own eyes were the only filter he truly trusted.
It was still death-dark, the nights on the planet seemingly unending, and it took a moment for him to adjust to the gloom. The earlier downpour had subsided t
o a wet mist that fogged the air. He could feel moisture settle on the lids of his eyes and gather along the age lines that scored his brow. The air was thick with the acrid tang of promethium and recently detonated melta-charges.
He surveyed the makeshift camp. The company had worked ceaselessly to secure the landing zone. The Thunderhawks and Storm Eagles had been arranged like the spokes of a giant wheel, their prows aimed out towards the forests, enabling them to lend their weapons to the defence. The gunships were framed by a trench line that extended fifty paces in front of them. At the corners of the trench, heavy bolters stripped from the Storm Eagles were being modified for use as weapon turrets. Further out, harsh flashes told of the firing pits being blasted out of the earth with shaped melta-charges. Beyond them, a pall of smoke drifted from the ground where Sergeant Agadon and his men had burned back the trees to create a wide kill-zone.
Deep pits, lined with warriors supported by heavier weaponry, formed the backbone of the encampment. By the standards of many, the defences would have seemed crude and overly simplistic. Amit knew it to be true, that his warriors were not siege masters like the sons of Dorn, and their hurried fortifications were a far cry from the intricate earthworks that the Imperial Fists used to confuse attackers and funnel them into lethal choke points. Amit grinned as he thought of the Fists hidden behind their barriers. It was no coincidence that they wore the colour of cowardice, while his Flesh Tearers clad themselves in the colour of spilt blood.
Amit watched his warriors work with pride. The sons of Sanguinius were killers, not wardens. They would meet force with greater force, and the enemy’s ire with fury. The defensive line was little more than a place to start the attack from.
‘Lord,’ Grigori’s metallic voice rasped through the vox-bead in Amit’s ear. ‘May we speak?’
Grigori had battled beside Amit for decades, since the days of the old Legion; they were friends. The formal nature of his request spoke volumes. Amit sighed, steeling himself for what was to come. He turned around, seeing the Dreadnought lifting a generator into place at the south-west emplacement. ‘Speak your mind.’
‘Why are we building defences?’ In his first life, Grigori’s voice had been almost melodic. Litanies of battle had rolled from his tongue like the ballads of ancient Terra. Now, it was more akin to the grinding of rusted cogs, a dull machine noise filtered through a harsh amplifier to create a synthetic approximation of speech. ‘The orks are defeated. They are not looking for us. We must hunt them and kill them.’
‘What would you have us do? March into the forest until we happen across the greenskins?’
‘We waste time here.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. But we do not know what else this world holds, and I will not be taken by surprise again.’ Amit was silent a moment. ‘There is something about this place, Grigori. It is the same as a hundred worlds whose earth we have trodden. Yet it is not. It is as different from them as we are from those winged beasts that attacked us. I would stay until I know why.’
‘As you say. Has there been any word from the Scouts?’
‘Sergeants Angelo and Raphael report negative contacts.’
‘What of Asmodel?’
‘His squad pushed beyond vox range a little over two hours ago.’
‘Age, it seems, catches up with even the fastest among us. He’s getting slow.’
Amit grinned, though the meaning behind his friend’s joke was not lost to him. ‘Asmodel’s rotation is due to bring him back within comms range in eight hours. Concentrate on finishing the defences before then.’
‘As the Blood wills it.’
Amit echoed Grigori’s words and turned his attention out towards the forest. Row upon row of towering trees stared back at him in challenge. Their silhouettes were like toothed blades cut from the night and planted in the earth as a warning. He felt his pulse quicken, his heart sending a tremor through his muscles, and just for a moment Amit thought he heard something growl.
Cassiel followed in Asmodel’s wake as they marched on, sweeping through the forest as fast as reasonable caution would allow. The steppe had given way to an undulating series of gorges and ravines. From what little chatter passed between the squad, Cassiel gathered that the world was as unforgiving as any of hundreds Asmodel had set foot upon. The rain continued to fall in relentless sheets, turning the ground into a soup of mud and flattened grass. Yet the burning ache in his thighs and leg muscles was easier to ignore than the growing sense of frustration rising in his gut. He was tired of the hunt. He wanted to fight, to kill. He could feel his blood rumbling in his veins, growling like the thunder that kept them company from overhead.
Cassiel opened a secure comms channel to Melechk. ‘We could wander this Emperor-forsaken earth forever and never find the slightest trace of an ork.’
‘Don’t worry. If that’s the case, Asmodel will find us something else to kill. He usually does.’
Cassiel caught a glimpse of the other Scout’s crag-like shoulders as he moved past him on the left. Even carrying his heavy weapon and with Izail’s corpse slumped over his shoulder, Melechk had kept pace with the rest of the squad. If the additional burden caused him any discomfort, it didn’t show. Cassiel grinned, remembering the many beatings Melechk had given him in the training cages, and was glad it was only orks he faced.
‘I think–’
‘Clearing ahead. Seven metres,’ Hamied whispered over the comm, interrupting Cassiel’s reply.
‘Cassiel.’ Asmodel ordered the Scout to take point.
Subvocalising an acknowledgment, Cassiel edged forward. He hunched low, snaking across the last metre of ground on his belly. Working his way up a rocky incline, Cassiel teased aside a clump of ferns and peered into a clearing.
Dead orks lay everywhere. Piles of them, gutted like herd cattle, their entrails dragged from their chests, were strewn across snapped tree trunks and loose mounds of churned earth. Blood spatter and ropes of viscera hung on long weeds and the lower portions of the surrounding trees like morbid dew.
‘Report.’ Asmodel’s voice crackled over the vox-bead in Cassiel’s ear.
‘Orks, brother-sergeant. Dozens of them,’ Cassiel whispered, trusting his throat mic pick up the subtle vibrations in his vocal cords. ‘They’ve had their innards ripped out. No sign of survivors.’
‘A trap?’ The coldness in Hamied’s voice sounded even more dispassionate over the comm feed.
‘Perhaps. It’s not unheard of for isolated ork units to devolve into infighting. They could be waiting for us to investigate the bodies,’ suggested Melechk.
‘I hadn’t thought orks subtle enough for subterfuge.’
Hamied snarled in amusement at Cassiel’s remark. ‘Assume your prey to be smarter than you. You’ll live longer.’
‘Enough.’ The irritation in Asmodel’s voice was plain. ‘Cassiel, take a closer look.’
Cassiel moved forward a few metres, sifting through the barbed bush of the undergrowth and looking from tree to tree. Fist-sized lizards scuttled over the ork corpses, pulling off morsels of meat with tearing bites. Shimmering birds sat perched just above head-height, secure in the relative anonymity afforded them by their natural camouflage. If the orks were waiting for them, they were showing uncharacteristic patience. ‘No visible threats.’
‘Melechk, keep us covered from the treeline. Hamied, circle around from the north-east. Cassiel, with me.’
A series of affirmations chirped over the comms in response to Asmodel’s orders.
Cassiel slithered down the incline into the clearing and came up into a crouch, letting his bolt pistol lead his eyes around the devastation.
To his right, Asmodel paced into the open, his own weapon still holstered. ‘It’s clear. Fall in.’
At Asmodel’s order Hamied and Melechk appeared in the clearing, the latter still carrying Izail’s body.
‘N
o sign of plasma burns or fragmentation damage.’ Hamied prodded an ork corpse with his boot, disturbing a swarm of flies.
Cassiel stooped to pick up a handful of crude shell casings. ‘Trace heat. These were fired within the last hour.’
‘Defensive fire. Whatever killed these orks wasn’t using a gun,’ Melechk said grimly.
‘Melechk, I want a body count,’ Asmodel snapped, and stooped to examine a set of deep tracks. ‘Hamied, what do you make of these?’
‘Looks like some sort of beast. But not an ork, they’re too deep.’ Hamied pressed his hand into the impression. ‘And they’re too small to have been made by one of their war-beasts.’
‘Here.’ Cassiel knelt at the opposite side of the clearing.
‘What is it?’ asked Asmodel.
‘Ork spoor.’
‘Are you sure?’ Asmodel sprang to his feet, his voice eager.
‘Yes, but not many. Half a dozen at most.’
‘Tracks go this way.’ Hamied pushed past Cassiel to take a closer look. ‘Looks like they broke off from whatever was attacking them.’
‘Tag this location, we’ll pick up the trail of whatever else was here later.’ Asmodel’s lips twisted into a feral smile. ‘It’s past time our blades tasted ork.’
Manakel turned the pauldron over in his hands. Deep scars ran the length of the ceramite plating and a ragged puncture wound shone raw where something had pierced the armour all the way through. Whatever had killed Lahhel had been formidable.
‘Rest by His side, brother.’ Manakel knelt, placing the pauldron next to the rest of Lahhel’s remains. A severed head and a hand still clutching a bolt pistol were all that was left of the Assault Marine. ‘By the Blood, I will avenge you.’ Even as the words left Manakel’s lips he doubted them. He had uttered the same sentiment twice before in the last handful of hours. Once to honour Lucifus, whose headless corpse he’d found slumped over a fallen branch, his breastplate peeled open and his innards eaten away. The second time had been after he’d found scattered armour fragments and gobbets of flesh. Only by ingesting small samples of tissue and allowing his preomnor gland to analyse their biochemical structure had he identified the body as that of Oradiel.
