‘You’re cooking up some fraggin’ insane plan, aren’t you?’
‘No. I do not yet know the best way to help in the coming crisis, but there will be a way to make a difference.’
‘And this is you asking me if I’ll come along?’ I take a breath, smiling at the shamelessness of the man. ‘First you want to kill me, now you want me back? I really think you need to decide what you want.’
‘Situations change. I was mistaken in thinking you were continuing the work of von Strab in the underhive.’
‘That’s why you came after me?’
‘I thought the Burned Man – you – was fostering a new rebel army. That is why I wanted to take you down.’ The Colonel looks at the others around us and then back at me. ‘Your experience, your instincts, make you a very capable member of the 13th Legion. You just have to straighten out your priorities.’
I look at him sharply. ‘What does that mean?’ I cut him off as I see him looking at our companions again. ‘Leave them behind?’
‘You will not be able to save them all, that is what I am telling you. You know this. You need to decide what the mission is, because it cannot be to protect everyone.’
‘You’re still a callous bastard,’ I snap, stepping away. People are looking at me, my raised voice catching their attention, but I don’t care. I thrust a finger at the underhivers spread along the column. ‘They are following me, not you! Is it too hard to believe that they find something in me that they don’t see in you? Humanity, maybe?’
With a growl, I plough through the ash back to the sled where Olesh is waiting for me.
‘The chosen of the Emperor must always overcome the doubts of others,’ he says, grabbing my hand in both of his. ‘Adversity is the true test of faith, Burned Man.’
Others hear him and gather closer, voicing their support, patting me on the back and shoulders. Some of them are from the team Schaeffer brought with him, converts to the cause. I nod my thanks and as I turn my head I see past the knot of grateful followers, the Colonel scowling at me from the torchlight. Eyes of ice, as cold as I’ve ever seen them, looking at me with the contempt I saw when he first came to get me for the 13th Legion. Those intervening years, the missions we’ve shared and the blood we’ve spilled and had spilled, all of it is like nothing to him.
In the past I always knew what the Colonel wanted. Kill the hive-queen. Blow up the city. Assassinate the target. Now I don’t know what it is. His excuse for coming after me is flimsier than a rookie’s backbone. He’s itching to give orders, but in the underhive and out here, nobody’s listening.
I don’t know why he’s here or what he’s prepared to do to get back in charge. That means I can’t trust him any more.
It’s past midnight when we come upon the ghost ruins, the dunes gradually mounting higher and higher, taking us clear of much of the surface smog so that fickle starlight through the upper layers lets us see two or three hundred metres at times. It’s impossible to miss the start of the old city – from the grey and brown expanse, dark skeletal beams and collapsed walls break up from the ash like the limbs of drowning people thrusting into the air. Every girder is pitted and withered with age, the walls between them little more than crumbling, wind-worn lumps left behind in the lee of the largest remains.
Orskya busies herself getting the column to form up two wide, bringing us all together while her scouts lash together poles into lengths of four and five metres. With these in hand they advance slowly ahead of the main body, prodding and prying at the shifting ash and grit, while a pair of wasters behind the group use broad paddles to cut a trail for everyone else to follow.
‘Who lived here?’ asks Olesh, gazing in awe at the jagged ruins that tower around us.
There are no doors that I see, the bases of the buildings that once stood swallowed by the rising wastes. Here and there a bend of metal looks like a remnant of bridge, the slopes of the dunes broken by angular roof edges or hollows that might have once been interior stairwells. The wind hisses around rusted metal, bringing to life small whirls of ash in the corners. I can see slides of darkness where ash has shifted recently, patches of slow movement that might be real or might be a product of the erratic firelight and swaying lanterns. That same illumination brings shadows to life, so it feels like something is hiding behind every bent beam and toppled rafter.
‘No idea,’ I say.
‘Was before humans, old story say,’ Tormas replies, stopping a little way ahead of us so that we catch up with him. ‘Not city of Emperor’s children.’
The trail we follow sometimes turns sharply, doubling back as the scouts encounter a drift or shallow they’re not willing to risk. A couple of times they stop for a few minutes, arguing with each other and pointing, before changing their minds altogether and leading us on a previously unexplored street.
They never cut through the spaces where the buildings once stood, as if the outlines of the ancient beams were force fields keeping us out.
It’s slow but steady progress, but I wonder if the warp-spawned horrors on our trail care anything for ash ghosts. Do they even travel as mortals, or can they simply extend their energy and appear at will before us?
I look up, the first time in many hours, and see the wound in the sky still looking down at us, glaring with both immortal desire and eternal hate. The very real obstacles in front of us suddenly pale in comparison to thoughts of the threat posed by the legions of warpborn that might come pouring through that tear – that might be here already, rampaging through the hives, overrunning all the Emperor’s forces and all the orks alike.
‘It’ll make the war seem like a skirmish,’ I mutter to myself.
‘What’s that?’ says Olesh. ‘What war?’
‘Nothing, just thinking aloud,’ I tell him. There’s no need to speculate on things that neither of us can really comprehend. ‘Let’s focus on getting to that battle abbey, eh?’
A few minutes later Denas starts crying. Olesh hurries over to quieten him but the piercing bawls shatter the stillness that pervades the city. Farann, the older boy, jumps down from the sled while Olesh clambers on board.
‘Needs food, must be starving, poor thing,’ he says, stroking his son’s head with one hand, rooting through the hastily bundled bags with the other.
I head over and walk beside the sled, trying my best to help by holding open sacks for Olesh. After a couple of minutes, he finds a small bag and pulls it out, some pieces of algae bread inside. He breaks a piece off and gives it to the child, who takes it in a tiny hand and starts mouthing at the soft edges with toothless bites.
‘Where’s Farann?’ Olesh says suddenly, sitting bolt upright.
My heart judders at the question and I turn, looking one way then the other, finding no sign of the boy.
‘Farann?’ I call out, stepping away from the drag-sled. I turn on the hivers following. ‘Have you seen the boy? Where’s Farann?’
Shrugs and shakes of the head answer my question. Everyone is wrapped up in their own heads, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
‘Farann!’ I shout, cupping my hands. ‘Where are you?’
A few others gather, offering to help look, when I think I hear a quiet call. I shush everyone and turn slowly, trying to get a bearing on the sound.
It’s definitely a child’s voice, not too far away, off to the left I think. I start towards it, calling out again.
‘Come look at this, Burned Man!’ Farann shouts to me, appearing from behind a leaning upright of dark metal and flaking rust. He must be seven or eight Terran years old, I reckon. Thin, like most underhivers, with long, dark hair that reaches almost to his waist, wrapped in oversized clothes given by the wasters. ‘Look at this!’
He takes a few more paces, pointing to something in the midst of the building.
‘Wait there, don’t move,’ I call back, hu
rrying towards him.
Reaching the boundary of the old tower I stop and see what he’s pointing at. Bones and skulls, a pile of them, nestled in a big heap half-hidden by grey dust. Ork skeletons. The shape of the jaws marks them out instantly.
‘Guess we’re not the only ones to have come this way,’ I say to myself. I raise my voice. ‘Farann, stay where you are. It’s not safe.’
A looming presence and fungal smell heralds the arrival of Nazrek. The ork stands beside me, leaning forward as it looks out into the night gloom.
‘Much green here.’
‘Here?’ I say, suddenly nervous. I dart a glance around our surroundings, hand moving to my pistol. ‘Orks are here? Now?’
‘Old green. Deep green.’
‘What does “deep green” mean?’ I ask, returning my gaze to Farann. I tell him not to move, again.
‘Whole world deep green. Oldest green.’
The more I look at the skeletons, the clearer it is that even in Armageddon’s harsh conditions they wouldn’t have been stripped and polished so much since this invasion began. Older than that. Maybe the orks came here during the previous war? That could be what Nazrek is talking about.
‘Why is all of Armageddon green?’ asks the Colonel, arriving on the other side of the ork.
Olesh steps up beside me, child cradled in his arms, concerned looks directed at his nephew.
‘Come back, Farann!’ he shouts. ‘Come back right now.’
‘I’m gonna get a bone, uncle,’ the boy calls back, taking a couple of steps towards the remains.
‘Oldest green,’ rumbles Nazrek. It’s speaking louder, agitated by whatever thoughts are passing through its brain. ‘Stronger. Green in stone. Green makes orks smarter. Green makes orks better.’
‘Stop right there!’ bellows Olesh.
I see darkness out of the corner of my eye, a spreading patch of shadow behind Farann, seeping closer. There’s too much going on – Nazrek’s grunting and grumbling, Olesh’s shouting, the higher-pitched calls of the boy telling us he’s fine.
‘Ash ghost!’ I manage to shout, thrusting a finger towards the spreading patch of moving grains. It looks like something alive, curving across the slope of the dust and grit, like something underneath is changing direction towards Farann.
‘Farann!’ Olesh shouts again and starts forward, quickly sinking to his knees as he forges through the drift.
‘Come back!’ the Colonel bellows.
The ash ghost widens, spreading between Farann and Olesh. As the man wades onwards he turns and I see that he’s still carrying Denas. I take two steps after him, shouting warnings as the ash ghost darkens, the trickle of grains quickening as though emptying into a hollow beneath them.
A hand clamps around my elbow.
‘It is too late,’ says the Colonel. ‘Go after them and you will die too.’
Olesh is about four metres from Farann, about ten metres from me. He’s up to his thighs now. The boy, lighter, is just ankle-deep and still trying to get to the bones, further away from us.
Denas starts to cry again and Olesh realises what he’s done, turning his head with an expression of pure horror on his face. He stops, caught between going after Farann and heading back with Denas.
‘Get back,’ I shout, tearing my arm from Schaeffer’s grip. ‘I’ll get Farann.’
‘Take this.’ I turn my head to find Orskya behind me, a coil of thin rope in hand. ‘We drag you out.’
I nod, grab the offered end and quickly tie it round my waist even as I push into the moving ash.
It really is like stepping into a river, except that it’s warm, not cold, the sensation of movement pressing at my calves and then my knees as I go deeper. Olesh has managed to turn around but in doing so is waist-deep, sliding sideways with the flow of the ghost. I use my arms to help pull myself forward, almost swimming through the drift, feeling it tugging me down, broad sweeps of arms and legs fighting against the gravity sucking me into its choking depths.
Farann is crying now, trying to come towards us. He loses his footing and falls sideways, one leg disappearing into the dry swell of ash, flailing with his arms. I see his face in a glimpse of starlight, eyes wide like a grox in a slaughter barn. All I can taste is ash, clogging up my nose and filling my throat. I push onward through it, wishing I’d brought my mask and goggles, eyes squinting through the dust cloud thrown up by the boy’s thrashing.
Stupid way to die. So stupid.
I lunge the last couple of metres, fingers closing around Farann’s wrist. Iron-tight grip, nothing’s going to prise my fingers apart while I haul him towards me.
‘Fraggin’ stupid fraggin’ little fraggin’ bastard,’ I snarl even as I drag him closer and wrap my arm under his, pulling his body clear of the sucking ash. ‘Come on.’
He’s a dead weight in my arm but that’s better than him struggling as I use my free hand to push myself around, the ash now up to my ribs, the hiss of its movement so loud in my ears I can barely hear anything else.
‘Pull!’ I shout, gripping the rope. ‘Pull us out.’
Wasters, and hivers, and Nazrek haul on the rope.
We accelerate quickly, cutting into the thickest, deepest part of the ash ghost. The drag worsens, trying to pull my legs even deeper, Farann’s weight like an anchor. I struggle to get out to my waist and look up at our rescuers.
I realise I can’t see Olesh and Denas. There’s a separate crowd of onlookers that has moved a few metres further along the edge of the building, staring at something downflow of where we are. Turning my head, I catch a glimpse of an upraised hand.
‘Shit.’ I spit ash and try not to see an image of the father and son disappearing into that grey grave, suffocating slowly, the boy never really understanding what is happening as he dies. Choking their last breaths, clinging together. What is Olesh saying? The boy doesn’t understand, but maybe his father tells him it’ll be okay.
I can’t do it. I can’t let it happen. Not this time.
I untangle my arm from Farann and my fingers work clumsily at the knot of the rope beneath us. I’m trying to work fast, tears streaming not just from the grit in my eyes but the thought of the tragedy unfolding just a few metres away.
It’s so fragging pointless.
I manage to slip off the rope and bind it around Farann’s chest.
‘Pull!’ I shout again. ‘Pull, you Emperor-forgotten bastards!’
As Farann starts to plough through the ash I turn, letting the slip of the ghost carry me with it. It’s so much easier than fighting the flow, just surrendering to its strength to pull me along.
I go under for a second, totally covered by ash and dust, and then push myself free, gasping for breath.
‘Where?’ I scream to the people at the side. ‘Where?’
They holler and point, somewhere just behind me.
I turn, long stokes and quick kicks propelling me across the ash ghost, once more fighting its inevitable pull. I can’t see anything.
‘Olesh!’ I’m hoarse from inhaled dust and shouting but call again. ‘Olesh, where the frag are you?’
The strength in my legs is fading. I stop, trying to catch my breath.
Can’t give up. Frag that.
I hear a babe’s wail, off to my left, and half-swim towards it. There in the gloom and grey I see a pale flash of skin. Denas, bobbing on the surface of the ghost.
I haul myself closer and see that there’s actually fingers around his neck. Olesh is holding him up from under the ash.
I reach out trembling fingers and pluck the child up, pulling him over my shoulder. Olesh’s hand disappears but I thrust my other hand into the whispering dust, plunging my fingers deep after him, almost to the shoulder. My fingertips touch cloth and I grab, arching my back as I pull with everything I have left.
Screeching for bre
ath, Olesh breaks the surface ahead of me, face caked in dirt, blinded.
‘Burned Man?’ he cries. ‘Where’s Denas?’
‘Safe,’ I tell him, turning my back. ‘I got him.’
The two of us latch together, forming a sort of human raft, kicking ourselves gently to the surface. I slowly turn my head back towards the others, wary that any more sudden motion might disturb the ghost and set us sinking again. We float for a few seconds, gasping and crying.
In the periphery of my vision I see Nazrek wading a little deeper into the ash. A lump of masonry comes flying through the starlight, a rope tied around it. It smacks into the ghost about three metres to my right.
‘Easy now,’ I say to Olesh, and together we carefully swim our way to the rope, taking three or four minutes to cover just a few metres. I set Denas onto the stone, legs either side of the rope, and embrace Olesh, keeping child and stone between us as we get dragged to safety.
When we finally reach firmer ground, wasters and hivers plunge in after us, pulling us free, laughing and crying.
I haul myself out of their hugs and congratulatory slaps, wiping grime from my face as I look for the Colonel. I stop right in front of him, using a fingertip to claw tear-soaked ashes out of my eyes. I flick the dirt away and stare him right in the eye.
But I say nothing.
I turn away, spitting dust.
I have nothing more to say to him. We’re finished.
Nine
HUNTED
With everything else that’s happened, I really shouldn’t be surprised when the still of the night is broken by a drawn-out howl.
‘Dunewolves,’ says Orskya, a word I’d never heard before and wish I hadn’t now.
‘Dangerous?’ I ask, another chorus of howls sounding from the smog-shrouded twilight, already knowing the answer.
‘Not if we stay close,’ she tells me.
That’s a problem. It’s been about an hour since we left the ghost ruins, covering maybe three kilometres in that time, at the most. There’s a reason nobody moves at night in the wastes, and even Orskya’s people are floundering at times. I haven’t done a headcount in a few minutes but there’s definitely less of the hivers than when we set out. Just lost, or in a crevasse, or falling behind… Occasionally a distant cry for help alerts us to their absence. Even more occasionally we find them, not too far from the group. We can’t spend too long looking for stragglers, those Neverborn are behind and still coming after us as sure as the God-Emperor sits down a lot.
Armageddon Saint - Gav Thorpe Page 12
