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  He sensed the dreadnought gazing at him and looked up.

  'Yes, honoured ancestor?' he asked in the tongue of the plains people.

  'You could go back with us. You are worthy of becoming a living dreadnought,' it said.

  He wished he could return and spend his last years with his chapter, but he knew that he could not. His duty was to his people now. He must return them to the Emperor's way. He shook his head.

  'I thought not. You are a worthy chieftain of the people, Cloud Runner.'

  'Any sky warrior would be, ancestor. Few are given the chance. Before you depart, there is something I must know. When first we met, you told me I should not become a sky warrior if there was anyone I would regret leaving behind. Did you have any regrets about becoming a Marine?'

  The dreadnought regarded him. 'Sometimes I still do. It is a sad thing to leave people you care about behind, knowing they will be lost to you forever. Goodbye, Cloud Runner. We will not meet again.'

  The dreadnought turned and departed, leaving Cloud Runner enthroned among his people, his hands toying with a braid of ancient hair.

  «Deathwing»

  Edited by Marc Gascoigne & Andy Jones

  DEVILʹS MARAUDERS

  William King

  'THEY'RE COMING,' SAID Nipper, peering out into the jungle. Even with his nightsight goggles set to max he couldn't really see anything, but he could tell something was wrong. The jungle was too still, everything was too calm. He had a crawling feeling between his shoulder blades. That feeling had kept him alive for nearly six months in the steaming arboreal wastes of H'thra. He respected his intuition.

  'I can't see anything,' Borski said. Nipper turned to look at him. In the moonlight filtering down from topside the commissar looked even more skeletal than usual. Amazing how he manages to keep that uniform so clean, Nipper thought. Everyone else looks like they've been swimming in a pool of sweat, but not Borski.

  His trenchcoat was immaculate, his silver skull buttons gleamed. His youthful fanatic face gazed out from beneath his peaked cap through a transparent spore mask. 'If Nipper says there's something out there then I believe him, sir,' Sergeant Krask said, hesitantly. Borski glanced over at the sergeant as if he could measure Krask's devotion to the Emperor at a glance.

  'Very well, soldiers, lock and load. Ogryn - the Emperor wants you to ready the grenade launcher.'

  'Sure thing, sir,' Trak said worshipfully. 'Truk is ready to dine.'

  Nipper watched the huge ogryn raise the heavy weapon like a toy. Truk grinned at him. He looked as if he were enjoying himself.

  It was hard to believe he was the last survivor of the company's ogryn section. Nipper considered the comrades he had lost in the previous three nights' fighting, and was anything but cheerful.

  He turned his attention back to the jungle, trying to ignore the pain-filled moan of Lieutenant Mikals. A small suckerleech crawled across Nipper's combat jacket and he swatted it with one heavy gauntleted hand. He wiped his palm on his thigh before adjusting his spore mask left-handed.

  Need to change the filter as soon as possible, he thought. It was only a temporary distraction. What's wrong, he wondered? Why am I so uneasy?

  'No tree-swingers,' Sal said. Nipper looked at the little sanctioned psyker. She had crawled over to where he was and lay on her stomach beside him. He noted her lovely face on top of her thin twisted body. He saw eyes and teeth discoloured by the crimson stain of witch-spore addiction. She has a strange beauty, he thought.

  'Thank you,' Sal said. Nipper felt his face flush. Sal's talent was intermittent but her mind-reading ability was at peak tonight. She had been taking huge doses of witch-spore to enable her to track the rebels. It had amplified her powers greatly. Suddenly what she said sank in.

  'Hey, sergeant, no fuzzymonkeys,' He pointed upwards to topside, straining to make out movement through the clouds of spores that drifted in the moonlight.

  'That's it,' Borski said, drawing his pistol. 'Prepare to hold your positions, men. For the Emperor!'

  'Commissar, I can feel mindforms moving about half a click east. Human but strangely distorted. Feels like rebels.' Sal looked deeply disturbed. She said there was something about the minds of their foe that made her uneasy. Nipper thought he understood.

  Delving into the minds of heretics must be upsetting.

  The thirty or so survivors of A Company were taking up their prepared positions. Everyone was tired after three days of daytime sniping and night-time warfare. They had been ordered to hold this position for as long as possible before falling back. So far they had blocked the rebel offensive but tonight Nipper did not doubt that the heretics would break through.

  All around him he could see the green ready lights of weapons wink as their owners made final checks. The familiar litany of the Weaponers' chant filled his ears.

  'Emperor save us,' muttered Nipper worriedly, his nerves frayed by the three long days of combat. He was singled out for Borski's special attention.

  'The Emperor will aid you if, and only if, you fight bravely,' the commissar thundered. 'And the daemons of hell will take all cowards. I personally will see to that.'

  The religious intensity in Borski's voice made Nipper shiver. The commissar had risen in full view of his men, eschewing cover.

  Nipper had to admire his courage. If the Emperor protects the brave he will certainly watch over Borski, Nipper admitted.

  Some of the commissar's unshakeable certainty in his own righteousness transmitted itself to Nipper. He prayed silently to the Emperor. The rest of the company seemed similarly enthused. The whining and quiet chatter had stopped.

  'Our faith is our shield,' said Borski. ' We are weapons in the fist of the Emperor and we will be worthy. We will smite the unrighteous.'

  Nipper turned to see movement among the distant branches of the nation-trees.

  'Tea's out,' said Truk.

  All around him the jungle seemed to burn. From overhead came blinding laser flashes as rebel jetbikes swooped insanely under topside. Nipper raised his laser and snapped off a quick shot. He hit a bike-pilot in the face. The wounded man leaned forward on the controls. The bike nose-dived. Nipper could see his gunner trying to jump clear.

  Nipper tracked its fall, ready to shoot any survivors. The jet-cycle hit a weak patch in the carpet moss and vanished from view.

  Nipper heard a long scream followed by a splash. Involuntarily he shuddered. The things that lived below, in the eternal wet darkness beneath the nation-tree's roots, were things he had nightmares about.

  'Nipper, down!' he heard Borski shout.

  Without thinking he threw himself flat on the greenside floor. A stream of bolt pistol fire passed through where he had just been

  «Deathwing»

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  standing. Nipper looked at the point of impact and saw a tall, thin warrior in the camouflage uniform of the rebels fall. He turned to thank the commissar but he had already moved on, rushing towards the cover of a muck-fungus tree. Laser fire withered the carpet moss behind his feet.

  Nipper rolled over and searched for the firer. He saw a huge dark figure moving among the shadows of nearby tree boles. He brought his lasrifle up to the fire position and sent a full-intensity burst towards his target. Brilliant white fire played over it. Burn, heretic, thought Nipper.

  He felt a thrill of fear as the figure refused to fall. His finger slackened on the trigger. He could make out details as the rebel advanced towards him. His heart sank. It was a killer robot, obviously modified to find its way through the greenside. One hand was a chainsword, the other had a heavy bolter which it was laboriously bringing to bear on Nipper.

  He could hear the whine of servo-motors as the arm moved. The heavy plasteel of its carapace had melted and ran where Nipper's laser had struck. It was painted with several strange and disturbing runes. Nipper leapt back as it opened fire.

  Explosive bullets churned the carpet moss where he had been. He cast
a glance towards the nearest cover. Too far, he thought, I'll never make it. He grinned, as adrenaline raced through his body. His circle of awareness seemed to expand as he waited for bullets to rip through him. He turned and he could make out the tiny webwork of engraving on the robot's carapace, hear the crack of small arms fire and the screams of the dying. Everything seemed discrete and distinct. He could hear his breath ramble within his chest and feel the individual movement of every muscle. He stared down the barrel of that huge gun.

  Facing death, he felt totally alive.

  He rolled to one side and the robot's arm seemed to track as if in slow motion. He raised his own weapon and reached for the action of the grenade launcher. Only one chance, he thought. Better get it right.

  He came to rest and fired the grenade. It arced towards the robot's feet and detonated. Nipper felt the force of the explosion ripple the carpet moss.

  He looked back at the robot. It still stood. I'm dead, thought Nipper.

  Then the robot seemed to slowly disappear. It vanished from view and fell. As Nipper had intended, the grenade had weakened the moss beneath it. He let out a long breath. It felt good to be alive. He noticed more rebels advancing among the trees. Their full-face spore-masks and bulging goggles made them look like horrible insects. He saw that they too had strange runes on their chests where badges of battle honour should have been.

  'Fall back,' he heard Borski shout. There was a note of bitterness in the commissar's voice. He did not relish sounding the retreat.

  Nipper ran back towards his own lines. Each step took forever. He felt light, as if he were walking on the moon. Laser beams blurred past his head, almost blinding him. Miraculously none hit him. Under the shadow of swooping jet-bikes he reached the cover of a snapwort bush. A familiar figure huddled behind it, laspistol in hand.

  'LEAVE ME,' SAL said. 'Save yourself.'

  Her wounds looked worse than they were. The long sticky leaves of the vampire plant fondled them obscenely, looking for blood.

  Nipper looked out from cover.

  Flitting from bole to bole were hundreds of rebel troopers. From above, a dozen heavily modified jetbikes gave covering fire. The enemy had broken through.

  Nipper checked Sal's filter mask. It was still completely in place. Good. He undipped some med-plas from his belt and sprayed the wounded area.

  'That should kill any spores,' he muttered, watching the plasti-flesh congeal. He hoped the disinfectant and fungicide worked better than the last lot or Sal was in for a painful death.

  'I mean it, Nipper. Go! If you're still here when the rebels come, they'll—'

  'No can do, Sal,' he said. 'You know the code.'

  She looked up at him and smiled in spite of her pain. 'The Marauders look after their own. Nipper, we're not back on Thranx and this isn't a streetfight.'

  He shrugged. 'Hey… If we don't look after each other no one else will.'

  Suddenly Sal's face went slack. He knew she was in listening trance. A moment later intelligence flooded back into her face.

  'Borski and Krask have the rest of them about two hundred metres back. They're heading for the old comms hutch. Go the way I tell you. I think we'll have a clear path.'

  Nipper nodded. 'Can you run, Sal?'

  'I'll have to.'

  Just before they made the break she turned and looked back towards the oncoming enemy. An expression of fear passed across her face.

  'By the Emperor, they hate us so,' she said. She and Nipper ran. From behind came the sounds of sporadic firing as the rebels mopped up the last of the opposition.

  'WE'RE ON OUR own,' Borski said, with a certain grim satisfaction. He looked like a man who had just found a big enough challenge to measure his faith against. He cut the comm-link with HQ. Lieutenant Mikals cried out in agony.

  Wonderful, Nipper thought, looking around the old Harvesters' cabin that some dead tech-adept had converted into a

  communications nexus. It had a familiar homey look. He had grown up surrounded by machinery, not giant plants. For a moment he felt home-sick for a place far beyond his ability to measure distance.

  He slumped wearily down on the hard bench. He was tired, as much from the brief firefight as the night of marching that had followed.

  He didn't want to think about that nightmarish journey through the green. He had had to partially carry Sal while keeping alert for

  «Deathwing»

  Edited by Marc Gascoigne & Andy Jones

  any threats from the surrounding forest. Once he had almost been ensnared by a dreamspider's web. Several times he had nearly fallen through the carpet moss to swamp-side thirty metres below. Twice he had to hide, frozen with fear, while rebel scouts filtered by. It had taken them what felt like forever to reach the comms hutch.

  He looked around at the few survivors of A Company. He saw Borski, the sarge, Lieutenant Mikals, Truk. There were few familiar faces from the old days when the Devil's Marauders had been a streetgang in the worldcity of Thranx. That had been before the Raising when they had been fierce and desperate enough to be inducted into the Imperial Guard.

  By the Emperor, there had been nearly a hundred of them then. Now there was only himself and Sal, Hunt, Glyn, Мак and Colquan. His friends had changed. They still wore their gang colours but they had been incorporated into the uniform of the guard.

  The only real sign of their former allegiance was the huge devil head on the backs of their combat jackets. They still had the old face tattoos but the faces themselves were thinner, gaunt and haunted, patched with scars. Hunt had a bionic eye visible under his face mask. Мак had an arm of plasteel and servomotors.

  A palpable air of demoralization had fallen over the room. All the others are dead or in the hands of rebels, Nipper thought. He didn't know which was worse. Mikals whimpered in agony.

  'No chance of any support?' Krask asked. The sarge looked more tired than any man had a right to be and still be alive, Nipper thought. He had carried the terribly wounded Mikals all night on his own.

  'None,' Borski said sternly. 'The heretics have begun a massive offensive right across Blue Zone. Still, the righteous will prevail.

  Within one standard day Divine Retribution will cleanse this whole zone with an orbital bombardment. We have been ordered to fall back.'

  'What?' Krask was both frightened and bewildered. Nipper broke from his reverie. Anything that scared Krask terrified Nipper. He had never seen the sergeant display anything but laconic cool.

  'That's madness,' Krask muttered. 'The whole reason for sending us into the jungle in the first place was to drive Governor Damian's rebels out without damaging the witch-spore crop.'

  'That was before the full scale of the insurrection was realized,' Borski said, almost gently. 'We did not realize the cancer of heresy had spread so deep. We are not facing simply a rebel garrison but many of the native tribes of the interior. They're armed and they're allied with something dark and terrible. They bear its mark.'

  For the first time Nipper thought that he detected a trace of what might have been fear in the commissar's voice. He thought back to the strange runes he had seen on the robot. He had heard stories, muttered tales, of daemons who existed in the dark between worlds and sought to undermine the works of the righteous. He had always dismissed them as stories to frighten children.

  Beside him Sal muttered. 'It makes sense. Where better for them to strike than on the world where witch-spore comes from? Many latents would have their powers brought to the fore.'

  Nipper wondered what she was talking about. He knew that psykers were dangerous. The priests of the Imperial cult told everyone so. Only ones who had been bonded to the Emperor or who had undergone the terrible training to become sanctioned could be allowed to live. Could those who had not been bonded provide some sort of gateway for enemies of the Emperor?

  Nipper felt Sal nudge him in the ribs. She gave him a warning look. 'You are on dangerous ground,' she whispered. 'Best to not even think of such mysteries
.'

  Another more pressing problem struck Nipper. He addressed Borski. 'Sir, if they are going to cleanse this place in twenty-four hours what will happen to us?'

  'We are ordered to fall back to Zone Amber.'

  Mikals reached out imploringly, eyes filled with pain. 'Commissar, I am wounded. I will only slow you on the march. I have failed the Emperor. I seek atonement.'

  Borski looked down at him, cold eyes hooded. He nodded. 'Very well. Soldiers outside, prepare to depart.'

  The guards left the hut. From within came the sound of a single shot. Borski emerged alone. 'Now we must go,' he said.

  'Zone Amber is fifty kilometres away. We'll never get there before the bombardment starts,' Nipper said.

  Borski showed his chilling smile. 'Then we will die joyous in the knowledge that we have served our Emperor well,' he said.

  WEARILY THE SURVIVORS pushed on through the nation-forest. Dawn had come, bringing a wash of green light down through topside. Nipper watched the endless tide of airborne spores rise on convection currents. Dazzling dragon-moths, long as a man's arm, pursued shoals of glitterflies. Sometimes puff-balls would roll out onto the main branches they followed and Truk would kick them, laughing moronically as they exploded.

  Only Truk did not seem oppressed by their surroundings and the fact that they were twenty hours from being reduced to plasma by the orbital bombardment. Nipper wondered how he could ever have liked this place.

  It had all seemed so fresh and amazing to him six months ago: a riot of green life erupting across a continent. From the two hundred metre high banyan-like nation-trees to the triple-tiered ecology they supported, it had all been wonderful to a boy from the steel corridors of the hive-world of Thranx.

  He had marvelled at the differences between the layers. It had delighted him that topside, with its swinging monkeys and bright sunlight, was as different from greenside as that was from the devil-python-infested swamps below.