He wasn’t done, though, not by a long shot. There was a flurry of blows, a scuffling grapple as each fighter tried and failed to get a dominant grip. They separated, and as they did, Skoral’s opponent landed a meaty fist square in the side of her head.
Maven winced and the crowd roared with renewed intensity. Skoral staggered, lurching drunkenly, and the big loader went after her. It wouldn’t be long now. He’d seen this routine before.
The massive loader cannoned a blow at Skoral’s face, putting all his strength and weight behind it, looking to end the fight in one blow. Too late he realised he’d been suckered.
Stepping outside the big fighter’s swinging arm, she grabbed him by the wrist, twisting it painfully, and pulled him forward, simultaneously slamming her open hand into his shoulder. The joint popped, dislocating. She drove him down, continuing to use his own momentum against him, and slammed him face-first into the sheet metal pit wall behind her.
There was a collective intake of breath at the force of the impact, which tore the sheet panel loose, wrenching it violently out of shape. The big fighter was on his knees, supporting himself with his good arm. The other hung limp at his side.
Skoral stepped back away from him, her chest rising and falling heavily. Sweat and splatters of blood marred her grey singlet top.
To the loader’s credit, he managed to push himself to his feet, turning unsteadily towards Skoral once more. He was tough, Maven had to give him that. His face was a mess of blood and snot. His nose, already broken from an earlier strike, was now smeared across his face. He spat out a handful of teeth. Skoral shook her head.
‘Should’ve stayed down,’ Maven heard her grunt, still grinning.
‘M’not gettin’ shamed by some medicae whore,’ spat the big man. Skoral’s smile disappeared and Maven shuddered. That was not clever.
The big man went for her then, swinging wildly, but the end was a foregone conclusion. By the time Skoral stepped away from him her knuckles were dripping and the hulking loader was unconscious, lying in a pool of his own blood.
Finished, her demolition of her opponent complete, Skoral walked from the pit.
New combatants were entering even as the still-unconscious fighter was being dragged away. Maven pushed his way through the press of bodies.
He found her in a side-chamber. The burly loader was conscious now, though the blood on the ground showed where he’d been roughly dragged from the pit and unceremoniously dumped on the floor. Skoral had set his dislocated shoulder – which must have been agonising – and was stitching up the cut to his head. She wasn’t being overly gentle either, stabbing in with the hooked needle and yanking the thick thread through.
Her skin was liberally covered in angular, totemic tattoos. Maven’s gaze lingered for a moment on the Gothic numerals inked on the meat of Skoral’s shoulder, in the midst of those tribalistic markings. Ninth Company. He bore a similar brand upon his left pectoral, though his declared him as bonded to the 17th – his master Argus Brond’s company.
Glancing up at him, Skoral inclined her head in greeting before turning back to her work.
‘You hit hard, woman,’ said the loader, grimacing as Skoral drew the thread through his skin. ‘You’d be a good breeder.’
Skoral snorted, and glanced up at Maven, who was leaning back against the wall, a wry smile on his face. She winked at him.
‘Is that a proposition?’ she grunted.
‘Might be,’ said the man. ‘You’re ugly as sin itself but you’re strong. I could do worse.’
‘You really know how to make a woman feel special,’ said Skoral. She yanked hard on the thread, making the man flinch. ‘And while the notion of pumping out your idiot spawn is oh-so-appealing, I’ll have to decline your proposal. But good luck to you. I’m sure you’ll make some sump-swine a fine husband.’
‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ said the thickset loader.
‘Not if you were the last seed-bearing specimen of manhood in the void,’ said Skoral, with a grin.
Her former adversary grunted and shrugged.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. He saw Maven standing in the doorway and nodded his thick jaw in his direction. ‘You lie with that? Is that it? I could break him over my knee.’
Maven grinned, folding his arms across his chest.
‘Pfff,’ scoffed Skoral. She bit the thread, cutting it, and tied it off. ‘Him? He’s nothing but skin and bone. I can’t see him satisfying me.’
‘With the creds I won on your fight tonight, I might just marry her, though,’ Maven said to the man.
‘You bet on her against me?’ said the loader, sounding a little hurt.
‘You would’ve done so yourself if you had any sense,’ said Maven. ‘You’ll know for next time.’
Skoral punched the loader in his bad shoulder, making him grimace. ‘Go. Get out of here before I beat you senseless for the second time today.’
‘Well, if you change your mind…’ he said as he rose.
‘Go,’ said Skoral, pointing the way out, a hint of a smile on her lips.
The big man rose and shuffled from the room, looking sheepish.
‘A charming individual,’ said Maven.
Skoral winced as she sank onto a bench, nursing her bruised and bloodied hands in a chilled gel-pack.
‘He’s harmless,’ she said. ‘He’s honest at least. There’re worse men on this ship.’
‘That there are,’ said Maven, taking a seat opposite her.
While she was a big woman – easily a head taller than most unaugmented men – she was effortlessly comfortable in her own skin, and had a constant string of admirers. She would never be described as a beauty, not by any means, but there was an earthy appeal about her, a proud vitality that was certainly attractive. She was no demure high-born lady – she was crude, rough and could out-drink any man – but in the hard, short and brutal lives of those on the ship, her manner was deeply life-affirming.
‘Why do I feel you’re here to lecture me?’ said Skoral, giving him a glare.
‘You know what I’m going to say?’
‘You could just congratulate me on the win,’ she said. ‘You could thank me for earning you a fat wad of credits.’
‘Yes, you won,’ said Maven. ‘But you could have done so without letting him hit you like that. You’re better than that.’
‘You can talk,’ said Skoral. ‘What the hell happened to you out there tonight? You bet against yourself, didn’t you?’
Maven’s handsome features split in a crooked grin, though he instantly regretted it, groaning slightly. He was going to have some serious bruises come the morning.
‘You could get yourself killed doing that,’ said Skoral. ‘If anyone found out you bet against yourself and took a dive…’
‘No one will find out,’ said Maven. ‘I had intermediaries place the bets.’
‘How much did you win?’
‘A lot,’ said Maven. ‘There’s a game tonight. Knights and Knaves. I play it right, I could make the same again tenfold.’
‘Or you could be found hanging from a sub-deck rafter, your face purple and your britches filled.’
‘Only if I’m stupid,’ said Maven. ‘And I’m not.’
Skoral grunted in frustration. ‘What is it that you want, nursemaid? You came here for something. Spit it out.’
Maven’s face darkened. ‘We need to talk,’ he said, lowering his voice.
‘We’re not talking now?’
‘We need to talk somewhere quiet. Somewhere… not here.’
Skoral looked at him frankly, trying to read him. It never worked.
‘Don’t tell me you are going to proposition me as well?’ she said, giving him a salacious wink.
Maven looked irritated.
‘No,’ he said, unamused.
‘What
is it? Tell me.’
‘Not here. Not now,’ he hissed.
A shape appeared in the doorway, blotting out the light. Maven rose hastily to his feet, stepping back and lowering his head in deference. Skoral turned.
One of the Legion stood there, silhouetted against the light behind him. He was truly massive – even the hulking munitions loader would have looked like a child beside him.
The warrior was forced to turn sideways and duck his head to fit through the door frame as he entered the room. He was built to a different scale from the denizens of the ship’s sub-levels – they were made for menials and servants, not legionaries. His armour’s servos whined with each movement. Each step he took made the floor plates shudder.
His shaved scalp was heavily scarred, and cables and plugs jutted from the back of his head. A thick, dark beard covered his huge, square jaw. His skin was the colour of deep mahogany, and by human standards his features were too broad, too thick, and too heavy, as if affected by a form of gigantism. Nevertheless, his head looked perhaps too small for his oversized body.
It was counterintuitive, but Maven always felt the legionaries seemed even less human when they were not wearing their helmets. At least with their helmets on you could imagine something human within.
The World Eater’s armour was a bastard hybrid of different marks, though he clearly favoured the earlier, heavier designs. His armour plates were a mix of the alabaster white and cerulean blue of the old Legion. Those colours were becoming ever more of a rarity.
His heavy armour was in good order, but showed signs of extensive repair. It was austere; the XII Legion was not known for its flamboyance, though various plates – poleyns, pauldrons, greaves – were emblazoned with kill-markings and campaign honours. The Legion’s heraldry – a stylised gaping red maw engulfing a planet – was emblazoned upon his left shoulder plate. On his right: echelon and rank markings.
If Maven hadn’t recognised him by face, those markings would have made the centurion’s identity plain: Dreagher, captain of the Ninth. Or at least what was left of it after Terra.
He glanced down at Maven. His eyes were like the clouded grey moons of Bodt set against the darkness of the void. Madness and unpredictability lurked there.
‘Go away,’ he said, his voice a deep subdural bass rumble.
Maven needed no encouragement.
‘My lord,’ said Skoral, dropping painfully to one knee and lowering her head once Maven had gone.
‘I saw you fight,’ said Dreagher.
Skoral rose to her feet, suppressing a wince. She glanced up at the huge World Eaters captain, attempting to read his demeanour, before looking aside. It was never wise to let your gaze linger for long on one of the Legion. It tended to make them agitated. Things usually died when a World Eater became agitated.
‘You saw?’ she said. The presence of one of the Legion was unusual at the fights, though not unheard of.
‘You fought well.’
Skoral glanced up at him. He wasn’t looking at her. He was scanning the room, his brow creased, taking in its details, or perhaps seeking any potential threat.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Skoral said, unsure quite how to respond to the uncharacteristic praise.
‘It is a shame you were born female,’ added Dreagher. ‘You would have made a fine legionary.’
That could have been taken a number of ways. Skoral decided to take it as a compliment.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said.
Dreagher began pacing. He was uncomfortable here, Skoral realised. The chamber was too close. Too stifling. Normally when she spoke with him it was in his arming chamber, where he seemed more at ease. She saw the World Eater’s breath hasten – a clear danger sign.
Unwilling to risk inciting Dreagher’s anger by speaking, she stood stock-still, waiting for the captain of the Ninth to make his intention known. Why had he come here?
He stopped directly in front of her. Her head was on a level with the middle of his chest. Up close she could see all the repaired scrapes, cuts and nicks in the armour, like battle scars. The throaty purr of his armour made her skin tingle.
Standing close to one of the Legion was to stand in the shadow of death. Her life was a slender thread that he could cut at a whim. There would be no questions. There would be no inquiry. No one would mourn her, except perhaps–
‘That was Brond’s man,’ Dreagher said. This close, the deep bass of his voice seemed to pass through her, making her bones shudder.
‘Yes, lord,’ she said.
‘Do not get sentimentally attached,’ Dreagher said. ‘The 17th are only stationed aboard the Defiant temporarily.’
‘I understand, lord,’ said Skoral.
‘Good,’ he said.
He stood there unmoving. The silence became uncomfortable. Slowly, biting her lip, Skoral lifted her gaze, looking up at the captain of the Ninth.
He appeared lost in thought, looking off into the mid-distance.
‘My lord?’ she ventured, finally.
His gaze settled on her and his brow furrowed.
‘Tend to your wounds. Meet me in my arming chamber once you have done so. I want a condition report on our patient,’ he said.
‘My lord? Has his condition changed since this morning?’
Dreagher looked at her, his expression inscrutable.
‘Why?’ he said.
‘I have already given you today’s condition report, my lord.’
‘I see,’ said Dreagher. ‘Of course.’
Skoral tongued the new gap in her teeth, troubled.
There was no denying it. He was getting worse.
‘I can recheck the patient to see if his condition has changed?’ she said.
Dreagher did not answer. Skoral heard the distinctive click of vox-comm traffic. The World Eater turned away, speaking in a low voice.
She stood and opened the locker where she’d stashed her belongings before her fight. She retrieved her heavy combat jacket, and pulled it on over her sweat and bloodstained singlet. There was a red handprint on the front of the jacket, over her heart – a mark of considerable honour among the Legion’s servants, one that Dreagher himself had allowed her to wear. It had been her proudest moment.
She slipped a heavy bracelet onto her wrist. One of its links pulsed with pale light almost immediately, lighting up from within. She clicked it off, and looked up at Dreagher, her brow furrowed.
‘My lord?’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘Blood,’ he said.
Chapter 2
Skoral could feel her master’s anger; it radiated from him like heat from simmering embers. It wouldn’t take much provocation for those embers to roar into flame. She’d seen his violent rages before.
He was far from the worst of them in the Legion – but even so she had served him long enough to know when to tread warily.
She stood at his side, dwarfed by his massive, war-plate encased frame. Her every instinct right now screamed to back away, to put distance between herself and her unpredictable master, but that was not possible within the tight confines of the service lift.
Dreagher was far more controlled than many within the XII, but all it needed would be one stab of the Nails and she would be dead. She knew that he valued her service highly – a fact she bore with much pride – but he was as much a slave to those hateful, buzzing implants as any of them.
She watched the buttons of the lift light up in turn as they ascended through the core of the battleship, willing them to go faster. She tried not to notice Dreagher’s hands clenching and unclenching, servos whining. She kept her gaze fixed ahead of her, and shifted the weight of the heavy narthecium cradled in her arms.
A sophisticated medicae tool, it resembled something from a sadist’s cruel imaginings, tipped with diamantine drills, retracted needle-points, monom
olecular bone-saws and laser scalpels. Despite its grisly appearance, it served multiple life-giving functions, from patient diagnosis and contagion detection, to administering pain-suppressants, conducting vitae transfusions and undertaking field amputations. Concealed in its protective ceramite casing was a wide range of antitoxins, serums and liniments.
A Legion Apothecary would wear the specialist tools on one arm, as a gauntlet, his servo-assisted strength hefting it with little effort. For Skoral, it was an unwieldy, heavy piece of hardware that required two hands and all of her not-inconsiderable strength to manage.
Skoral was highly aware that she understood only a fraction of the narthecium’s potential. She’d received only cursory training in its use. The rest she’d had to figure out on her own.
Still, she was practised in one of its primary functions. Too practised.
Gears ground as the lift slowed and came to a clunking halt.
‘Sub-deck delta-five,’ croaked the emaciated, limbless servitor hard-wired into the control panel, and the doors slid open amid a burst of steam. Skoral let out a breath that she didn’t realise she’d been holding as Dreagher stepped from the lift. Glad to be out of its confines, she followed in his wake.
Argus Brond, captain of the 17th was waiting for them. He wore a battle-scarred Crusader-era helm, painted blood red, its aspect belligerent and brutal. From the darkness of the helm’s deep visor slits, his lenses gleamed.
The slender figure of Maven stood in the captain’s shadow. Skoral caught the seneschal’s gaze and arched one of her eyebrows, questioningly. Maven, almost imperceptibly, shook his head in response.
Brond removed his helm with a hiss of equalising pressure, revealing his brutish, ugly brick of a head. His face was war-flattened and heavy scars carved jagged arcs across his cheeks, lips, brow and scalp, contorting his features. The cables of his neural aggression implants jutted from his short-shaved scalp.
Maven stepped forward and took his captain’s helm. It looked almost comically over-large in his arms.
‘Brond,’ growled Skoral’s master, inclining his chin in greeting.
‘Dreagher.’
Khârn: Eater of Worlds Page 2
