Deathwing (2 page)

The
fumes from
the
herbs
filled
his
lungs.
He
seemed
to
rise
above
his
body
and
look
down
upon
it.
The
other Terminators backed
away from the
spirit
circle.
A
chill
stole
over
him,
and
life
leeched
away
until
he
was
close
to
the edge
of death.
Great sobs
wracked his body.
but
he mastered
himself and continued
with the
ritual.

He stood
in a cold shadowy
place. He sensed
chill white
presences
at
the
edge
of
his
perception,
clammy
as
mist
and cold as
the
gravemound. Above
him he could
hear the
beating
of mighty pinions
from where Deathwing.
the
Emperor's steed
and
bearer of the souls
of the
slain, hovered.

The Shaman talked with the presences,
made pacts
that bound
them to his service
and
rewarded them with a portion
of his strength.
He sensed
the
hungry
spirits
surge
around
him.
ready
to
shield
him
from
sight,
to
cloud
the
eyes
of
any who might look upon
him, causing
them to see
only a friendly being.

He walked from the
circle, past
the
watching
Marines.
As
he crested
the
brow of
the
hill.
he
saw
the distant
city.
Even at night,
its fires burned,
lighting the
sky and
turning
the
metropolis into a giant
shadow
cast
upon
the
land.

Above
them. through
the
gloom. loomed the Mountains
of Storm. Cloud Runner wondered
how
Lame
Bear
was
taking it. The big man's face was a blank mask. He was not
allowing
himself
to
think about
what
might
have happened
to
his people.

The Hunting
Bear village was the
last they
had
visited: the
most
remote,
built
in caves beneath
Cloud-Girt
Peak.
Lame

Bear limped up the
narrow pathway
in the
cliff-face.

Cloud Runner tried not
to
think
of
the
other lodgetowns
they
had
seen.
They
had
found
nothing
but
desolation
and desecrated
graves.
No
living
soul
except
the
Marines
walked
among
the
fallen
totems.
They
had
buried
the
bodies they
had
found
and
offered prayers
to the
Emperor for the
safety
of their slain kin.

Cloud Runner could
see
Weasel-Fierce
pause.
The gaunt
man's
hand
played
with
the
feathered
hilt
of
his
ceremonial dagger.
He studied
the
ledges
above
the
paths
and
seemed to sniff the
air.

"No sentries."
he
said.
"As
a
buck.
I
raided these
mountains.
The
Hunting
Bear
always
had
the
keenest
watchers.
If anyone
was alive, we would have
been
challenged
by now."

"No!
"
Lame Bear shouted
and
ran across
the
lodgetown's threshold
and
into
the
caverns.
"Squad
Paulo.
overwatch!" Cloud Runner ordered.
Five Terminators froze in position.
guarding
the
entrance.

"The
rest
of
you,
follow
me.
Helmets
on.
Keep
your
eyes
peeled.
Weasel-Fierce,
establish
a
fix
on
Lame
Bear.
Don't lose
him."

Night-lights
cut
in
as
they
entered
the
cave
mouth.
Dozens
of tunnels
led
from
the
place.
Chittering things
flapped away from their lights.
For a moment, Cloud Runner allowed himself to
feel
hopeful.
If
they
were
to
find
any survivors of
the
Plains
People,
it
would
be
here.
In
this
huge
night-black
maze
Lame
Bear's
people
could
have
hidden
out
for years,
dodging
any
pursuit.

As
they
followed Lame Bear's locator signal through
the
warren
of
tunnels,
despair
filled
Cloud
Runner.
They
passed hallways
where
the
dead
lay.
Sometimes
the
bodies
were
marred
by
the
mark
of
spear
and
axe;
sometimes
they
were crushed
and
mangled by inhuman force. Some had
been
ripped asunder.
Cloud Runner had
seen
bodies butchered
like that
before but
told
himself
that
it
was
not
possible
here.
Such
a
thing
could
not happen
on
his
homeworld
-
in vast hulks that
lay cold in space,
perhaps,
but
not
here.

They
found
Lame Bear standing
in the
largest
cave
of all. Bones
littered the
floor.
Scuttlers
fled
from
their
lights.
Lame Bear sobbed
and
pointed
to the
walls. Paintings
dating
from the
earliest times covered
the
caveside,
but
it
was
the
last and
highest-situated representation
that
drew
Cloud
Runner's
attention.
There
was
no
mistaking
the
four-armed. malevolent form. Hatred and
fear chased
each
other through
his mind.

"Genestealers.
"
he
spat.
Behind
him.
Lame
Bear
moaned.
Weasel
Fierce
gave
his
short,
barking
laugh.
The
sound chilled Cloud Runner to the
bone.

Two Heads
Talking stalked past
the
city's
open
gates.
The stench
assailed
his nostrils.
His concentration
faltered,
and he could
feel the
spirits
struggling
to escape.
He exerted his iron will, and
the
spell of protection
fell into place.

Studying
his surroundings,
he realised that
he had
no need
to worry. There were no
guards,
only
a
toll-house
where
a pasty
faced clerk sat,
ticking off accounts.
In its own way
this
was
ominous:
the
city's
builders obviously
did
not
feel threatened enough
to post
sentries.

Two Heads
Talking studied
the
scribe. He sat
at a
little
window,
poring
over
a
ledger.
In
his
hand
was
a
quill
pen.
He was writing by the
light of a small lantern. Momentarily, he seemed to sense
the
Librarian's presence
and
looked up. He had
the
high cheek-bones
and
ruddy
skin of the
Plains People. but
there
the
resemblance
ended.

His limbs seemed
stunted
and
weak.
His
features
had
an unhealthy
pallor.
He
gave
a
hacking cough
and
returned
to his
work.
His
face
showed
no
sign
of
manhood
scars.
His
clothes
were
made
of
some
coarse-woven
cloth,
not
elk leather. No weapon
sat
near
at
hand,
and
he
showed
no
resentment
at
being cooped
up
in
the
tiny
office
rather
than being
under
the
open
sky.
Two
Heads
Talking
found
it
hard
to
believe
that
this
was
a
descendant
of
his
warrior culture.

He
pushed on
into
the
city,
picking
his
way
fastidiously through
the
narrow,
dirty
streets
that
ran
between
the enormous
buildings.
The place was laid out
with no rhyme or reason.
Vast squares
lay between
the
great
factories,
but there
was no apparent
pattern.
The city had
grown uncontrolled,
like a cancer.

There were no sewers,
and
the
roads
were full of filth. The smell of human waste
mingled with the
odour
of
frying
food and
the
sharp
tang
of cheap
alcohol. Low shadowy doors
of inns
and
food
booths
rimmed each
square.

Unwashed
children scuttled
everywhere.
Now
and
again,
huge, well-fed
men
in
long,
blue coats
pushed
their
way through
the
throng.
They
had
facial
scar-tattoos
and
they
walked
with
an
air
of
swaggering
pride.
If anyone
got
in their
way,
they
lashed
out
at
them
with
wooden batons.
To
Two
Heads
Talking's
surprise,
no-one hit
back.
They seemed
too
weak-spirited to fight.

As
he wandered,
the
Librarian noticed
something
even
more horrible. All the
members of the
crowd, except
the
urchins

and
the
bluecoats,
were
maimed.
Men
and
women
both
had
mangled
limbs
or scorched
faces.
Some
hobbled
on wooden
crutches,
swinging
the
stumps
of legs
before them. Others
were blind and
were led about
by children. A
dwarf with
no
legs
waddled
past,
using
his
arms
for
motion,
walking
on
the
palms
of
his hands.
They
all
seemed
to
be
the accidental
victims of some huge,
industrial process.

In the
darkness.
by the
light dancing
from the
hellish chimneys, they
moved like shadows,
scrabbling about
crying
for alms,
for
succour,
for
deliverance.
They
called
on
the
Heavenly
Father,
the
four-armed
Emperor,
to
save
than.
They cursed
and
raved
and
pleaded
under
a
polluted
sky.
Two
Heads
Talking
watched
the
poor
steal
from
the
poor
and wondered
how his people
had
come to be laid so
low.

He
remembered
the
tall, strong
warriors
who
had
dwelled
in
the lodgetowns
and
asked
nothing
of
any man.
What malign magic could
have
transformed
the
People of the
Plains into these
pathetic
creatures?

He felt e shock
as
a child tugged
at his arm. "Tokens,
Elder. Tokens
for food."

Two Heads
Talking sighed
with relief. His spell still held.
The
child
saw
only
a
safe. unobtrusive
figure.
He
could
feel the
strain
of binding
the
spirits
gnawing
away at him subconsciously,
but
they
had
not
yet
slipped
his grasp.

"I have
nothing
for you.
boy,"
he said. The urchin ran off mouthing obscenities.

Depressed
and
angry,
the
Marines
left
the
cave
village.
Cloud
Runner
noticed
that
Lame
Bear's
face
was
white. He gestured
for the
big man and
Weasel-Fierce to follow him. The two
squad
leaders
fell
in
beside
him.
They
marched
up to a great
spur
of rock and
looked down into a long valley.

"Stealers,
"
he said. 'We must inform the
Imperium."

Weasel-fierce spat
over the
edge
of the
cliff.

"'The
dark
city
is
theirs."
said
Lame
Bear.
There
was
a depth
of
hatred
in
his
quiet
voice
that
Cloud
Runner understood.
"They
must have conquered
the
People and
herded
than
within."

"Some
clans resisted."
Cloud
Runner
said.
He
was
proud
of
that.
The
fact
that
his
clan
had
chosen to
continue
a hopeless
struggle
rather than
surrender
gave
him some comfort.

"Our world is ended;
our time is done,"
said
Weasel-Fierce. His words
tolled like great, sad
bells within Cloud
Runner's skull. Weasel-Fierce was right. Their entire culture had
been
exterminated.

The only ones
who could
remember
the
world
of
the
Plains
People
were
the
Marines
of
the
Dark
Angels.
When
they died the
clans
would live only in the
Chapter Fleet's records.
Unless
the
Dark Angels
broke with tradition
and
recruited from other
worlds, the
Chapter would end
with the
death
of the present
generation
of Marines.

Cloud
Runner
felt
hollow.
He
had
returned
home
with such
high hopes.
He
was
going
to
walk
once
more
among
his people,
see
again his village before old age took him. Now he found
his world was dead,
had
been
for a long time.