03 - Hunt for Voldorius

by Andy Hoare - (ebook by Undead)

  “That I can only guess at, huntsman. The vile one is gifted of great power, of that we can be sure.”

  “And this… atrocity… fuels that power still further?

  “Aye. It lends him strength, and gains him favour. Dwell no more upon it, Kor’sarro. Leave such things to the Storm Seers.”

  Kor’sarro looked into the eyes of the man who was his old friend and his most valued counsellor, and nodded his understanding. “The wise man knows the limits of his knowledge.”

  Qan’karro’s leathery features were split by a rare smile at Kor’sarro’s recounting of ancient Chogoran wisdom. “Indeed he does,” replied the Storm Seer. “And you will know,” he continued, “when the time comes.”

  “Then let that time be soon,” said Kor’sarro, gunning Moondrakkan’s engines. “Let us hasten to end this.”

  At Kor’sarro’s signal, the brotherhood pressed outwards into the grand square. The corpses were not so densely packed as the slaughtered militia had been in the street leading to the grand square, so he was not forced to ride over their pulped remains. The stink of decay, however, was all but overpowering, even for a veteran of a thousand battlefields and sieges.

  Gaining speed, Kor’sarro led his bike squads out towards the centre of the grand square, leaving the Predators and other armoured vehicles to carry on behind. As he passed by clusters of bodies, he judged that the slaughter had taken place several weeks before, and turned his gaze away in revulsion.

  Then, he looked back to one particular pile of corpses, having thought he had noticed movement there. He sneered as he imagined the local scavengers crawling over the bodies, and cursed Voldorius all the more for bringing such a thing about.

  As the bikers roared onwards towards the far side of the square and the road that would lead them towards their objective, more furtive movement stirred amongst the piles of corpses. Kor’sarro knew they must be crawling with vermin, but he was reminded of an especially morbid Chogoran legend that warned that improperly buried corpses might somehow rise again to slay the living. He cast the notion from his mind—he had witnessed many vile blasphemies in his time, but surely such a thing was beyond even the power of Chaos?

  The White Scars were three quarters of the way across the grand square, weaving around pile after pile of decaying corpses, when a figure rose up before him.

  Kor’sarro had no time to manoeuvre around whoever, or whatever, it was that blocked his path.

  Instead, he gritted his teeth and ploughed on, crushing the figure beneath Moondrakkan’s wheels with a sickening crunch.

  In the instant before the impact, Kor’sarro had briefly seen a twisted face set into a hateful, gargoylelike leer. The legends of Chogoris came fully to mind, and then as one, a hundred other figures arose from the piles of corpses all about.

  Kor’sarro slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt. A moment later, his bike squads had done likewise. Sixty Space Marine riders formed up into a laager, Kor’sarro and his Command squad in the centre.

  A circle of ragged figures stood amongst the corpses. Each was impossibly emaciated and clad in filth-encrusted rags. The eyes were expressionless pits and their mouths dripped gore, which streamed down their fronts. The bodies of many were twisted and contorted, while others had overlong arms that ended in serrated claws encrusted with long-dried blood.

  “Carrion-eaters,” spat Brother Kergis.

  “Mutant filth,” said Kor’sarro.

  “I thought for a moment they were—” continued Kergis.

  “Aye,” interjected Kor’sarro. “I too. But they are living, and so can be killed.”

  “Brothers!” Kor’sarro called out to his assembled warriors, checking the ammunition levels of the twin bolters mounted in Moondrakkan’s fairing. “We have no time to waste here!”

  As one, every engine in the company roared to full power and the White Scars brought their bikes around to align themselves with Kor’sarro and the banner of the 3rd that waved beside him. Even as the bikes roared, still more of the mutant cannibals arose from their vile lairs amidst the rotting bodies, until they pressed in from every quarter.

  The mutants were unarmed, but would clearly present a threat, for many sported wickedly sharp talons that could only be the work of some vile biomancer. The bodies of others were covered in distended spines and barbs. While Kor’sarro had initially taken their bodies for malnourished and emaciated, on closer inspection each mutant was possessed of a wiry frame, with whipcord muscles that would grant them blinding speed in battle.

  Moondrakkan leapt forwards and Kor’sarro thundered down on the mutant horde, his warriors close behind. As the range closed a Thunderhawk gunship swooped low overhead and opened fire on the outer edges of the horde. He sent up a silent word of thanks for the timely fire support, and knew too that the Predators the bikers had left at the edge of the grand square would not be far behind.

  Every twin bolter in the force opened fire as the charge closed. Dozens of the mutants were struck down, but Kor’sarro noted that many more were somehow able to weather the storm of mass-reactive death. He had no time to wonder what sorcery had made their skins as hard as iron.

  Kor’sarro found himself surrounded by the vile mutants. Though the face of each was slack and vacant, their bodies moved with lightning speed.

  Even as the Master of the Hunt raised Moonfang high, a barbed talon swept towards his face before he had even seen it coming. Kor’sarro only barely managed to duck in time, yet still the talon scored a deep cut along his shoulder plate. In that brief moment, he knew that the power of the warp animated these hideous walking blasphemies.

  Kor’sarro brought Moonfang down to take the head of the mutant that had struck him, but somehow the vile creature leapt backwards beyond his attack, and then darted inside his reach. The mutant’s next attack would be aimed at his exposed torso, and Kor’sarro reacted by instinct, twisting his body around so that the impossibly sharp talon struck only a glancing blow.

  He had avoided the full force of the mutant’s strike, but Kor’sarro immediately bit back a curse as he felt the claw penetrate his armour and gouge a raking wound across his chest. Had he not twisted his body at the last possible moment, the talons would have punched directly through his chest armour and, in all probability, through the other side.

  The mutant was fast and strong, but it was not nearly as skilled a combatant as the Master of the Hunt. His enemy had overstretched itself, allowing Kor’sarro to bring Moonfang down in a great sweep that severed the mutant’s head in an explosive shower of black blood.

  Even as the mutant’s body collapsed to the ground, more pressed in from all sides. Kor’sarro knew that to become bogged down amongst them would be to invite a meaningless death, for he had a far greater mission to perform than to slay these fell deviants.

  “Ride through!” Kor’sarro bellowed, opening Moondrakkan’s throttle and powering forwards. A dozen mutants were crushed beneath his mount’s wheels, and more died as Moonfang slashed and cleaved in every direction. It was crude, bloody work, and Kor’sarro’s armour was cut in a dozen places and his cloak torn almost to shreds by the time he had broken through the mutant’s ragged line.

  Kor’sarro’s warriors followed his example, powering their way through the press of mutants until the last of the White Scars bikers burst forth from the swirling melee.

  At least three of Kor’sarro’s warriors had fallen to the mutants. He bellowed in rage as the vile creatures descended upon the white-armoured bodies, ripping the noble sons of Chogoris asunder and biting deep into their flesh. It appeared in that instant that the mutants were so absorbed in their feeding frenzy that they had forgotten about the rest of the White Scars.

  Kor’sarro checked the ammunition levels of his bike-mounted boltguns. They were dangerously low. He longed to pump every last round into the mutants, but he could spare neither the ammunition nor the time were he to face his ultimate foe, Voldorius.

  The air was split by a sonic
boom and a Raven Guard Thunderhawk swooped in low.

  “Give our brothers space!” Kor’sarro bellowed, and the White Scars roared forwards and within thirty seconds were closing on the far side of the grand square.

  The gunship unleashed a salvo of missiles directly into the mass of mutant cannibals. Kor’sarro said a silent prayer for his fallen brethren, hoping they would be consoled by the fact that their bodies and wargear would be reduced to ashes and defiled no more.

  Then the missiles struck, great explosions erupting across the centre of the grand square. Mutant body parts were thrown high into the air, their broken corpses mingling with those they had preyed upon. The gunship streaked onwards towards Kor’sarro’s position, and as it passed directly overhead, a number of black-armoured forms leapt from an open hatch and descended upon screaming jets to land on the ground near the Master of the Hunt.

  It was Captain Shrike and his Command squad. Before the squad had entirely touched down, Shrike was ordering the gunship to return for a second pass, to ensure that not a single one of the horrific creatures could possibly have survived.

  “Brother-Captain Kayvaan Shrike,” Kor’sarro addressed his compatriot. “Much has been settled this day already,” he continued, referring to the many frictions that existed between the two Chapters. “Yet as far as my rank allows, I cast all debts aside.”

  Shrike reached up and removed his helmet. “Never mind that, brother-captain.”

  Kor’sarro regretted his words the moment Shrike gave his reply, and was on the verge of unleashing a torrent of invective when Shrike pressed on. “My forces have located the prisoner the contact mentioned. I am assembling a detachment to kill that prisoner.”

  Kor’sarro’s wrath was forgotten as soon as it had appeared, as is the way of all Chogorans. “Where?”

  Shrike paused as the Shockwave of his gunship’s second attack run struck the Space Marines, causing his long black hair to whip across his pale face. Then he continued. “A detention cell, adjacent to the subterranean cathedral.”

  Kor’sarro’s mind raced. He had no idea who this prisoner was, but if they were as valuable to Voldorius as Shrike’s contact insisted, then the matter should be investigated. And besides, Shrike appeared as keen to eliminate the prisoner as Kor’sarro was to slay the daemon prince. His gaze fell across the square, where he saw that the 3rd Company’s armoured column approaching. His eyes alighted upon one of the Rhino transports.

  “Kholka,” he muttered.

  “Brother-captain?” Shrike replied.

  “Scout-Sergeant Ultas Kholka, Raven Guard,” Kor’sarro grinned slyly as he replied. “The man who detected your presence at the landing site.”

  “Only barely…” Shrike replied. “But I’m sending my own men in. We don’t need help.”

  Kor’sarro pressed on. “Kholka could penetrate the detention cells,” he continued. “And free or slay the prisoner, according to his judgement.”

  “I am sending my own men in,” Shrike repeated.

  “You said yourself, brother-captain. Kholka is good.”

  Kor’sarro felt the eyes of another upon him and saw that the Storm Seer Qan’karro was approaching, the Chaplain Xia’ghan at his side. The two had just dismounted from their Rhino transport, and behind them Scout-Sergeant Kholka was doing likewise. Though the Storm Seer could not possibly have overheard the exchange between the two company captains, both saw the message in his eyes. It was unmistakable.

  “Your Scouts go in,” Shrike said darkly. “But my man goes too.”

  “Agreed, brother-captain,” Kor’sarro replied.

  “Brother Meleriex and two others shall accompany your Scouts,” said Shrike, turning to one of the members of his Command squad and nodding. “Meleriex is my nominated second, and he speaks with my voice. He knows what to do.”

  “Then let it be so,” Kor’sarro replied, holding out his hand towards the Raven Guard captain. The two grasped forearms in the manner of the warrior common amongst such men the length and breadth of the galaxy. “Let it be so,” Shrike repeated, both men turning as Sergeant Kholka and his Scouts approached.

  “It will submit to the process,” the red-hooded, renegade tech-priest hissed, his voice dry and coldly mechanical. “Or it shall undergo the nerve-shrive. Again.”

  Malya kicked hard as one of the servitors attempted to clamp a steel surgical restraint around her right ankle. The kick struck the mind-scrubbed mono-task square in the forehead, but it barely registered the impact at all, merely grasping for her leg in an attempt to keep her still.

  “Then it shall undergo the tenth degree,” the tech-priest rasped.

  “No!” Malya screamed, not in an effort to beg the tech-priest not to inflict any more pain upon her body, but to steel herself against the inevitable. The tech-priest was working the dials and levers of a tall bank of humming machinery. His fingers were twice as long as they should have been and had twice the normal number of joints. He worked a large dial, turning it up to the penultimate setting.

  “Yes…” said the tech-priest, and pulled down hard on a long, brass switch.

  Malya’s body arched upwards from the steel table she was clamped to by all but her right ankle. Every nerve in her body fired as one, stimulated by the dozens of probes and lines which the vile traitor had inserted under her skin. For an instant, she knew such all-consuming pain that she felt her very soul part with her body. She was not there. She was somewhere else. Somewhere near the Emperor.

  “Perhaps it should undergo the eleventh degree…” the renegade muttered to himself as he worked more dials and levers.

  Malya lay panting, her body slick with sweat. Before she could recover her senses the servitor had taken hold of her ankle and clamped the steel restraint around it. She did not care. She had glimpsed something, known something pure. The pain had cleansed her, brought her closer to the God-Emperor, and nothing that Voldorius’ biomancer could do could take that away from her.

  “Damage her,” a deep voice growled out of the darkness of the chamber, “and it shall be you who undergoes the eleventh degree.” The voice was that of Lord Voldorius, and it tore Malya from the state of purity she had entered, reminding her of the daemon prince’s vile intentions.

  “The nerve-shrive is incapable of inflicting tissue damage, my lord.” The tech-priest bowed as he spoke. “The effect is entirely neurological.”

  “Speak no more.” Voldorius growled as he loomed out of the darkness. The rogue tech-priest fell silent.

  “Malya L’nor,” said Voldorius as his bestial face appeared above her. “You are about to receive a rare honour indeed.”

  “Keep it,” Malya spat. All fear was gone from her now, replaced by a state of grace. The Emperor would protect her soul, even should she die at the hands of this vile servant of the Great Enemy.

  The daemon prince studied Malya for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if he sought to peer deep into her very soul. His breath huffed across her face, the taint of brimstone threatening to choke her. Then he stepped back, and growled an order.

  A group of robed servants entered the chamber and took position in the shadows behind Voldorius. She knew from her previous duties as his equerry that they were his acolytes. Their role was to invoke the vile powers which gave Voldorius his potency, by twisted worship, incantations and blasphemies.

  As the bowing acolytes gathered behind their master, a sonorous, atonal chanting started up. Though Malya could not understand the words, she knew beyond doubt that they invoked dark names that should never be spoken. Dread welled up inside her, but she clung on to her faith, drawing upon the grace she knew resided deep inside.

  Voldorius chuckled. “Even now, you resist me,” he said. “And it is that strength that shall allow you to withstand the gift you are soon to receive. I knew from the moment you entered the grand square that you alone of the ten thousand gathered there had the strength to resist being consumed by the Bloodtide.”

  “I shall not serve you,” M
alya insisted, feeling the grace she had felt earlier returning. Her voice became gentle as she went on. “Nothing you can do to me shall make me acquiesce.”

  “I do not require your subservience, Malya L’nor,” replied Voldorius, “for I have the power to control you utterly. I require only your survival, that your soul is not consumed by the awakened will of the Bloodtide.”

  Malya’s head sank to the steel surface and she closed her eyes. Was this how it felt to the Emperor’s martyrs, she wondered, as they gave themselves up to death in His name? Drawing her shield of grace around her, Malya forced her breathing to slow, to find that place of purity once more.

  Then a deep rumble passed through the chamber and Malya felt dust fall down from the ceiling. She kept her eyes closed, extending her senses outwards. The chanting of Voldorius’ acolytes faltered a moment, and then continued as before.

  “Is she ready to be moved?” Malya heard Voldorius ask. “Speak!”

  “It is ready, my lord,” the renegade tech-priest replied from somewhere behind Malya. “Do you have the… the vial?” Malya sensed something akin to awe in the voice of the rogue adept, and she slowly opened her eyes to see what he referred to.

  Voldorius had one gnarled claw held in front of him, and in it was a clear, glass vial. A silvery light was emanating from the small container. Malya had seen that light before, what seemed like weeks ago. She had seen it in the cell of the prisoner, radiating from its shifting body. And here was that same radiance, somehow contained within the small clear container held between the talons of a daemon.

  “This is sufficient quantity?” asked Voldorius.

  The tech-priest bowed deep, but mechanical eyes squinted upwards from the depths of his hood as he gazed covetously at the vial. “Oh yes, my lord,” said the renegade. “That vial contains… one hundred and twenty-seven million… three hundred and thirty-three thousand… and… two viable nanytes. Such a sample could infect billions of hosts if efficiently distributed, my lord.”

  “If they can penetrate power armour,” Voldorius growled absently.