The Last Hunt

by Robbie MacNiven

  One of the other officials accompanying the governor seemed similarly disengaged from the moment – a gaunt-faced, pallid Ministorum cardinal, wearing the heavy ceremonial robes of Darkand’s esoteric version of the Imperial cult. Joghaten had identified him from the briefings as Septimus Traik, High Enunciator of the Emperor’s Voice.

  ‘Where is Chancellor Tugan?’ Joghaten asked as they entered a large grav-lift platform. Harren shook his head.

  ‘The chancellor is still missing,’ he said. ‘A section of the ­Pinnacle Guard’s security detail have been sent to search for him.’

  ‘We spoke less than five hours ago,’ Joghaten said. ‘This is irregular.’

  Harren shrugged. ‘We are doing all we can, given the current strain on our resources.’

  Joghaten shared a look with Qui’sin. The weathermaker’s expression remained inscrutable.

  The grav-lift chimed as it clattered to a stop, its mesh doors sliding open. The entourage stepped out into the heart of the Imperial government on Darkand. Harren had sent word ahead to have the centrum dominus cleared. It lay deserted as the White Scars entered, its cogitators still chiming and clattering as they turned over in standby mode. Its stone walls were reinforced with thick slabs of rockrete, while the structure itself was round and multi-tiered, clusters of vox-gantries surrounding a central floor filled with cogitator banks. At the top of the room, near the ceiling’s plasteel reinforcement beams, an observation platform looked out through an armourglass screen. Even from the lower deck level, Joghaten could see enough to realise that the platform provided incredible views of Darkand’s steppes, stretching out as far as the eye could see before the steep mountain slope into which Heavenfall had been carved.

  ‘Only the primary vox-hub sits at a greater altitude than this chamber,’ Harren said, following the White Scar’s gaze. ‘These are the highest permanently inhabited points on the planet.’

  Joghaten said nothing, and Harren descended a short set of spiral stairs into the heart of the room. At its centre lay a stone-finished hololithic chart. The device was already beaming a three-dimensional representation of Darkand into the air, throwing the depths of the centrum dominus into deep blue contrasts. It was clearly an older model than the chart on board the Pride of Chogoris, its display washed with heavy patches of static and prone to intermittent flickering. The White Scars and the three other officials followed Harren down to the railings lining the edge of the projection, where the governor was retrieving a sensor wand from its slot beneath the display.

  ‘Show me the current distribution of the steppe tribes,’ Joghaten said. The governor nodded. A twitch of the wand caused the display of Darkand to change, flickering into a flat representation of a continental shelf. The static-washed plains before Joghaten were dominated by a rugged spine, a mountainous range that reminded the khan-commander of the great Khum Karta. Another flick of Harren’s wand highlighted the tip of the range, jutting out into the surrounding steppes.

  ‘We are here,’ the governor said. ‘Heavenfall, planetary capital and seat of the Imperial government on Darkand.’

  ‘I know,’ Joghaten said, not attempting to hide his impatience. ‘Show me where the tribes are to be found during this seasonal cycle.’

  ‘These are their traditional migratory patterns,’ Harren said as the hololithic shifted with another wand flick. The steppes became segmented and their colours changed, each part now highlighted with tribal markers and projected trail routes. ‘But their current exact locations are unknown.’

  Joghaten spent a moment scanning the data before speaking.

  ‘These figures indicate far greater population masses than we were aware of. Our last data put tribal numbers around fifty thousand in this district and during this phase of the season.’

  Harren was silent for a moment before responding.

  ‘The numbers are far more substantial than that, lord. We estimate almost five hundred thousand tribespeople are currently travelling the steppe-paths. It has been a very successful season as far as the city bartering is concerned.’

  ‘Then how can you contact them all?’

  ‘We cannot, lord, except by sending outriders along the trails. It is rarely done. If they have issues they send representatives here, and their produce is brought to the capital for trade only during the Golden Season.’

  ‘We do not have time for this,’ Joghaten said, voice rising a fraction. ‘We require the tribes to be brought to Heavenfall immediately.’

  ‘Let the brotherhood find them,’ Qui’sin interjected. ‘Split and deploy the bike squads and the berkut along the trails. The tribes­people will obey them where they would ignore a representative from the slope-city. We can have the word spread to them within the next day, and start to bring them in towards the Founding Wall.’

  ‘Disperse across the steppes on the cusp of a full planetary invasion?’ Joghaten responded. ‘Your counsel is a strange one, weathermaker.’

  ‘We will be faster and surer than any local outriders dispatched from here,’ Qui’sin said. ‘And we all know the way of the nomad. How many of them do you think would obey a summons to Heavenfall? How many would abandon their migration to the colder regions now that the Furnace Season has begun? They would not do so for any government messenger, but they would for us. They all but worship us. We will have a better chance of convincing them than anyone else in this city.’

  Joghaten nodded. Qui’sin’s words rang true. Scattering the brotherhood to the four winds was not ideal, but there would be little point in anchoring a defence on Heavenfall if most of Darkand’s populace was still trapped out on the plains when the xenos made planetfall.

  ‘You will provide us with this location data?’ Joghaten asked, gesturing at the tribal markers on the hololith. Harren turned to an Adeptus Mechanicus magos overseeing the table, who bobbed his coiled mechadendrites in assent.

  ‘I will create a data burst package, lords,’ the machine-man said, his voice surprisingly human for one of his kind. ‘And upload it via the noosphere to your marker designates within the hour.’

  ‘Very well,’ Joghaten said, focusing back on Harren. ‘Now, what of logistics? What is the protocol for this city’s defence in the event of a full-scale xenos threat?’

  ‘The civilian population will be shifted into the catacombs,’ Harren said. ‘In that regard we are fortunate. The Furnace Season has already caused the process of relocation from the surface to the underground to begin.’

  ‘And in the event of a siege how long do you have before reserve supplies are fully depleted?’

  ‘With maximum rationing enforcement, the projected holdout time is just over one month, Terran standard.’

  Joghaten exchanged another look with Qui’sin. The Stormseer was doubtless thinking the same as him. A month was long enough – either the xenos threat would have expended itself, or they would all be dead and Darkand would be a lifeless rock, stripped of every scrap of biomass. The exodus of the tribes, however, could complicate things.

  ‘What of the steppe peoples?’ Joghaten said. ‘Will there be sufficient space in the catacombs to accommodate them along with the city’s inhabitants?’

  ‘The tribal community of Darkand is not factored into our defensive algorithms,’ Harren said in his blunt, dead voice.

  ‘You’re telling me your projected holdout time is only applic­able to the population of Heavenfall?’

  ‘Yes, lord. Protocol in the event of a maximum priority xenos threat is to seal the Founding Wall and hold out until relief arrives in-system.’

  ‘There will be no relief,’ Joghaten said. ‘Let me be clear, Commander Harren. The Imperium is beset. There are greater threats than this hive splinter, and more vital worlds than yours that require protection. We have come here because we are honour-

  bound to do so, because your world and mine share a pact two thousand years in the m
aking. Such things matter to us. They are woven into the fabric of our being. They are what gives our society purpose. In times of threat, when the night is at its darkest and things prowl beyond the edges of the camp-fire, we come with torch and with blade. We protect our kin. As I expected you to protect yours.’

  If Harren was moved by the White Scar’s words, his expression didn’t show it.

  ‘The logistical difficulties involved in bringing the tribes within the Founding Wall are almost insurmountable,’ the governor said. ‘There will be massed overcrowding, and that will lead to unrest, riots and possibly even xenos infiltration. If only half of the steppe population is brought to Heavenfall, vital supplies will not last long, even if maximum rationing protocols can be enforced. Maintaining order will also drain the resources of the Pinnacle Guard and distract them from combating the invaders.’

  ‘We came here to protect all of this world’s inhabitants, not just its Imperial government,’ Joghaten said. ‘If you do not comply with our demands I will have you removed from office. Things will likely run smoother at my directive until a new government is decided upon, after the threat has passed.’

  ‘That will not be necessary, sire.’

  It was the first time the Ecclesiarchy official, Traik, had spoken. Joghaten met his gaze. The priest held it, black eyes unflinching. He was as pale and gaunt as one of the revenants that legend said haunted the Plain Zhou during the Night of the Yaksha, when the moons were full and strange, formless things moved in the long grass. Joghaten disliked him instinctively.

  ‘My priesthood and I will not abandon our duties,’ the pallid man went on.

  ‘If resources are at a premium, I will not waste them on defending enrobed clergymen,’ Joghaten said. ‘Unless you know how to load and fire a lasrifle.’

  ‘This city is sacred to us,’ Traik said. ‘Sacred to the Emperor. The temple district is where mankind first settled, overlooking the high plains. If we are not here to tend to the Spur of Mankind Descended, we have lost the spiritual heart of this world.’

  ‘You say such things now, with no threat apparent. But when you see what is coming to this world I do not doubt you will sing a different song. It is easy to have faith in the quiet days of peace. When the Great Devourer arrives, we shall see how strong your faith really is.’

  ‘There will be riots if we are removed,’ Traik said.

  ‘Is that a threat, priest?’ Joghaten snarled. Qui’sin placed a hand on his pauldron. In the moment’s silence that followed, Chaplain Changadai spoke, his words scraping from the vox-grille of his skull helm.

  ‘We will not permit the shrines of this world to be desecrated, High Enunciator. If the threat makes it that far, I will fall in their defence. In the Emperor’s name.’

  ‘Regardless, the Priesthood of the Voice will stay,’ Traik said, apparently unplacated by the Chaplain’s assurances. ‘We did not overcome the heresies of the Bor-tri alongside your Chapter to simply abandon these venerated places of worship. Xenos monsters will not move us, Space Marine.’

  ‘So be it,’ Joghaten said. ‘But when the storm comes I will see you confined to your devotariums. Likewise with you and your government officials, Commander Harren. We do not have the time or resources to see to your personal safety and, as you say, it will be difficult enough maintaining order in the streets once the tribes are brought in. Stay away from the front lines, or I will have my brothers remove you.’

  Harren said nothing, and for a moment Joghaten caught the flash of an internal struggle behind the governor’s expression. Eventually he responded, his tone almost recalcitrant.

  ‘We understand.’

  ‘My brotherhood are assembling on the plain beyond the Founding Wall,’ Joghaten went on. ‘Once I have dispersed my bike squads and flyers to make contact with the tribes I will need to review your defence plans in detail. Where are the local military commanders?’

  ‘Overseeing preparations at the wall and throughout the city,’ Harren said. ‘I shall recall them immediately.’

  ‘And what of this system’s deep-space augur arrays? Have their probes detected anything?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, lord. I will see that you are notified the moment any contact is made.’

  ‘Make sure of it, commander,’ Joghaten said. ‘The earlier the warning, the better chance we all have of living to see out this season.’

  The steppes, Darkand

  Out on the plains, the sunset was glorious. The sky was a firmament of burning golds and reds, the clouds spread in splendour and cast against the inky backdrop of encroaching night. Beneath the blazing arch the plains were a tapestry of copper and bronze, stretching away all around, seemingly without end. Only the distant mountaintops pierced the dusky ocean, the edge of the range where Heavenfall sat. The day’s dying light still touched the slope-city’s peak, not yet dragged away by night-time’s embrace.

  Lau Feng dragged his gaze from the distant Pinnacle and focused on his tactical display. New orders. They winked across his visor as he placed a boot on Darkand soil for the first time in years, using it to balance his assault bike as it came to a growling halt.

  The steedmaster reviewed the new commands with genhanced efficiency, blink-clicking through each at a speed no human could match. The objectives had changed. The holding pattern around Heavenfall’s outer curtain wall was now of secondary importance. The fastest elements of the brotherhood – the assault bike squadrons, the Land Speeders and the Stormhawk and Stormtalon flyers – had been issued with a long string of coordinate feeds. According to the data burst that came with them, they were the traditional migration trails favoured by the disparate nomad tribes of Darkand’s steppes. The White Scars were to ride to each tribe in person and direct them to Heavenfall, before the xenos made planetfall. Speed was everything. That last directive made Feng smile coldly.

  It was a race then.

  ‘We are to separate, brothers,’ he said over the inter-squad vox-net. ‘You each have your own coordinates. See that the tribes are warned of what is coming, but note the time for your return. I will see you in forty-five Terran hours, in the shadow of the slope-city.’

  The visor display designates of his squad brethren – Oda and Jakar, Sauri and Eji – blinked green in acknowledgment. Feng ­settled himself on his mount, taking a moment to appreciate the potency of the beast of metal and promethium he rode. Feeling the thrill of the hunt finally building with him. Trying to ignore the revenants of his dead brothers, casting their long shadows across the steppe behind him.

  ‘We ride,’ he said, and gunned the engine.

  With a roar, each white-armoured warrior tore away through the tall grass, hunched low in the saddle, their topknots snapping. Each going their own way, out into the gathering night.

  It hungers! It hungers! It hungers! It hungers!

  – Final transcription of astropath primaris 715-Davin,

  Darkand System, prior to a type A critical meltdown

  Chapter Four

  THE SHADOW IN THE WARP

  TIME TO FURNACE SEASON PEAK [TERRAN STANDARD]: 89 HOURS.

  TIME TO PREDICTED PRIMARY XENOS PLANETFALL [TERRAN STANDARD]: 44 HOURS.

  The centrum dominus, Heavenfall

  Qui’sin knew of the enemy’s appearance before word came down from the main vox-hub. He could sense the anguish of Darkand’s twin astropaths emanating from the Pinnacle’s choristorum, the psy-sealed chamber buried deep in the bedrock of the mountainside below the government district. The Shadow in the Warp, the suffocating psychic void that accompanied the hive fleets wherever they went, had fallen across the system. From now on astro­communication – the one link to the rest of the Imperium – would be impossible. It was just as it had been when the Cicatrix Maledictorum had first blazed with all its hateful fury across the galaxy, stifling the guiding light of the Astronomican. They were alone.

  ‘The
y are upon us,’ Qui’sin said to Joghaten. ‘The star-speakers have turned deaf and dumb.’

  The two were standing on the viewing gallery of the centrum dominus’ uppermost tier. The vista beyond the window held no interest for the two Space Marines. Darkand’s steppes, and the view from Heavenfall, were nothing compared to the sight of the Plain Zhou, sweeping away from the Khum ­Karta’s jagged flanks in all of its primal, rugged glory. The White Scars had occupied the gallery simply so that they could converse privately.

  ‘There has been no word from Tzu Shen,’ Joghaten said. He turned his back on the view, looking down into the command pit below. The centrum dominus was filled with the clatter of cogitators and the crackle of vox-systems as the governor’s staff sought to facilitate the massed movement of Heavenfall’s citizens into the catacombs, while at the same time deploying the ­Pinnacle Guard to the Founding Wall. At the chamber’s heart, gathered around the main hololithic chart, Harren was briefing a gaggle of his robed cabinet ministers.

  ‘I do not trust the governor,’ Joghaten went on. ‘There is something… kachan about him.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Qui’sin.

  ‘You think him compromised? Could there be xenos infestation here already?’

  ‘I do not yet know. If there is, it masks its psychic presence well.’

  ‘You are wise as ever, weathermaker,’ Joghaten conceded. ‘It is unlikely the xenos have had this world seeded for long. Nevertheless, there is something odd about the man.’

  ‘There is something unusual about the entire situation,’ Qui’sin admitted. ‘But we need the recruits afforded by the tribes more than ever before. We have committed – we cannot now abandon Darkand to a weakened splinter like Hive Fleet Cicatrix.’