[Imperial Guard 04] - Desert raiders Read online

  “Yes,” Turk said, “but that’s not the point. The 82nd’s record is not in question. Our feud with the Turenag is.”

  “We have a right to demand blood,” Nubis said, “and having that Turenag dog as your superior is too much to bear!”

  Turk sighed, but slowed down. He motioned for other officers to join him.

  “I haven’t forgotten the blood feud,” Turk whispered, his voice soft against the walls, “but I will not disgrace us as a regiment. We serve the Emperor first. Nisri and his men are insignificant in the face of that duty. But keep a vigilant eye, and protect yourselves. If you suspect anything, see me first. Spill no blood.”

  Nubis smiled, but Turk fixed him with a scowl. “Swear it, Nubis.”

  “What?” Nubis replied. “You do not trust me?”

  “You are a stubborn goat—” Turk said.

  “And about as ugly,” one of the officers interjected. The others laughed.

  “I trust your word when you give it and I’ve seen you endure the lash to keep it,” Turk said. “Give me your word.”

  Nubis shook his head. “Fine, I will not spill a drop of their watery blood unless you ask it.”

  Turk nodded. “Good. You’d better not, because if it comes to that, Nisri belongs to me.”

  The men laughed and patted Turk on the back.

  5

  Nisri walked into the sacrarius chamber and tucked the end of the seamless white cloth into his braided waistband. The cotton cloth measured roughly four metres long and was wrapped around his body and over his shoulders in the traditional manner of the humble supplicant. Nisri’s bare feet ached at the touch of the cold metal floor, but once inside the sacrarius chamber with its wood-panelled floors, his toes unclenched.

  He greeted the handful of surviving officers of his 351st Derv’sh Blades with a nod and a smile. Then, he knelt at the edge of the washing pool with its white cerite tiles and the iron lock-box in the corner. The Trumpet of the Golden Throne was a Sword-class frigate and one of the few ships in the fleet with a Tallarn captain. As such, the good Captain Abrahim had converted part of the ship’s cathedrum into a sacrarius where the Tallarn could observe worship of the Emperor in their own fashion.

  The officers washed their pattern-scarred arms and faces at the edge of the pool, while the hum of regurgers filtered and recycled the water; the erratic gasps of the ship’s engines sent ripples across its surface.

  After several minutes of prayers for absolution, strength and victory, Nisri straightened and looked to each officer.

  “This is the last time we battle together as a regiment,” Sergeant Saheen Raham said. He was deeply tanned, but his blond hair and purple eyes betrayed his Cadian heritage, a rare gene-stock on Tallarn.

  “I know,” Nisri said, simply. “After this moment the 351st exists only in Imperial records. We are the 892nd now.”

  The officers exchanged glances. Nisri knew what they were thinking, but he chose to let them voice their concerns.

  Sergeant Darik Ballasra cleared his throat and waited. He was the old man of the unit and a true tribesmen with his leathery, brown skin. His hair and beard were white and thin, and his body lean with age but alive with strength. A delta of wrinkles splashed out from the corners of his dark eyes. Once everyone turned to face him, he spoke, his voice soft and silken. “The 892nd cannot be a regiment. Its left and right hands are at war. Peace will only come when one hand severs the other.”

  “Turk won’t hesitate to kill you,” Raham said.

  “You should not have put him at your back,” Ballasra concluded.

  Nisri nodded and calmly dried his hands on the skirt of his own cloth. “Prince Iban Salid is at my back because I know you are at his.”

  “We will protect you,” Raham said, “but—”

  “But,” Nisri said, interrupting, “Prince Iban Salid is also a cunning man, give him that due. He will not easily betray his oath to the Imperium, and he won’t allow his men to do so either. He would shame his tribe after that oath he gave.”

  Raham shook his head, but it was Ballasra who spoke. “The feud continues because of the Banna Alliance. The Commissariat said our actions were righteous.”

  “It is the Banna who ignore the Writ Nonculpis. They are the traitors. They deserve to be struck down!” Raham said.

  “And in doing so,” Nisri replied with a languid smile, “you ignore the same edict that proclaimed the Banna Nonculpis. It is a stalemate. The Commissariat left it for us to finish.”

  “Then let us finish it,” Raham said.

  “No,” Nisri replied. “I will not allow my first command to fall under disgrace. We serve the Emperor; Commissar Rezail was right to remind us of that. Prince Iban Salid also serves the Emperor, in his limited fashion.”

  “And if Turk moves against you?”

  “Then I expect you to act accordingly or to let me die a martyr’s death.”

  “What would that serve?” Raham said, a bitter edge to his voice.

  “If I die a martyr,” Nisri said, “then Turk and his men have done nothing but impale themselves on their own blades: the commissar will put them to the slaughter. Let them be the fools, the disloyal ones. But, if you see the blade poised at my back… well, don’t let it come to that, eh? I have a few more prayers left in me.”

  A few smiled, but it was a hard edict for them to follow. The voice of their kinsmen was strong, and the cry for satisfaction a steady thunder overhead.

  “The Emperor will reward us for our loyalty,” Nisri said. “Our actions have remained righteous. It is the other tribes that have faltered. It is they who will fail. Nisri nodded to the iron lock-box and waited as Ballasra opened it and removed the rosewood case.

  The men nodded and knelt before the sacrarius pool. Nisri entered the waters and waited with his back turned while Ballasra removed the hooked suturing needles and threads soaked in charcoal dye from the rosewood box. Ballasra gently pinched a measure of flesh along Nisri’s back and pierced the skin with the needle.

  Nisri inhaled softly, but refused to gasp. He would not shame himself in the eyes of his men or the Emperor. Ballasra threaded the charcoal string through Nisri’s flesh, tattooing more intricate and florid patterns along his already scarred back. Occasionally, he splashed cooling water to wash away the blood, while the officers uttered the melodic cantos of submission to the God-Emperor and waited for their turn.

  6

  “Will that be enough?” Commissar Rezail asked as Tyrell helped him remove his jacket. “How strongly will the promise of salt bind them to their word?”

  Tyrell sighed as he thought of the answer. He strung the jacket on a wire frame and turned to face the commissar, his expression apologetic. “The promise of salt does not make honest men of the liars. It makes honest men honour their word, and it makes dishonest men more careful.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Constant sunshine a desert makes.”

  —The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault

  1

  Day One.

  The heavy whine of atmosphere brakes pierced the dust choked air. The artificial sandstorm was a fiery orange churned by the waves of landing crafts that roared to the surface with supplies and soldiers. The storm was spread across kilometres, a mix of displaced dust and the exhaust smoke of the transports that left fat skid marks in their climb back up.

  Private Ahsra Sabaak fired a flare skyward. Vox-chatter on his headset marked another flight inbound to his location and he needed to show them where to land. “Acknowledged,” he cried over the roar of a nearby ship. He pulled his kafiya tighter over his youthful face and adjusted the oculars protecting his eyes before fighting his way through the howling winds. He stabbed more phosphor-lume torches into the sand to mark the corners of his grid.

  A moment later, the screaming whine of the protesting transport threatened to rattle his teeth loose. He barely avoided the blast of the ship’s backwash, as its thrusters fought to control its descent. Sab
aak was sure his uniform was singed, and muttered a curse against the pilot’s mother.

  The sand melted under the inferno thrust exhaust and would later re-materialise as rippled and blackened obsidian. Sabaak steered clear of the vessel’s melted footprint and waited for the vice clamps to disengage with loud metal pangs. Rectangular bolted containers lining the ship’s underbelly suddenly dropped, shaking the earth. The landing craft tore off into the dusky sky again.

  Sabaak ignored the lingering heat and examined the cargo containers. He squinted at rune markings in confusion, and groaned. He pulled the vox from his belt and fumbled for the switch through his heavy gloves.

  “This is grid 12-23,” he yelled into the vox. “Tell those old whores aboard the Trumpet that they’re sending the wrong supplies!”

  Sabaak listened to the angry chatter for a moment before yelling back. “Fine! If you can find me a river on this world, then I’ll apologise. Until then, you tell me why we need two hundred rafts on a desert planet!”

  2

  The searing winds rattled bones, while black-hulled troop carriers disgorged Guardsmen. The soldiers wore calf-length puttees, webbing with canteens, battle-pack bags and shelter quarter rolls. They wrapped their weapons in swaddling cloth and protected their faces in kafiyas and blast-oculars. Many soldiers scooped up a handful of sand or knelt down to kiss the earth before scrambling back into formation.

  Turk watched the Guardsmen, like ghosts in the storm, file past the Chimera’s armoured visors before directing his attention back to the others. The chatter inside the command Chimera was loud, partly to be heard over the thunderous din, but mostly, just to be heard. The Chimera was cramped compared to the more open HQ Salamanders, used for this exact purpose, and it was a speck’s shadow in relation to the mammoth command Leviathans used during major offensives. For the Tallarn regiment, it was the best they could muster, especially since the open-topped Salamanders proved less than useful in desert campaigns.

  Along the Chimera’s back wall sat a bank of auspex devices, rune-plates, a vox-transmitter, a small holocaster, and two operators. Nisri and Turk stood hunched over behind the operators, each accompanied by their respective and immediate subordinates. They motioned to an iron-framed brass plate mounted on the wall. The brass plate was acid-etched with the soft contours of local cartography. The subordinates spoke, while Nisri and Turk remained silent, and studied one another in quick glances.

  “We should pitch camp here,” Major Alef Hussari said, indicating an area of rippled lines. Alef appeared as weathered as the map, his wrinkles carved into his dark brown skin. His bushy goatee hid his mouth and seemed to dance, almost comically to his words. “The dunes will shelter our tents.”

  “The dunes migrate,” Sergeant Ballasra said.

  “It’s sand, not water,” Hussari countered. “The dunes won’t drown us.”

  “They may,” Ballasra said. “Many dunes are even on both sides. Their faces might collapse.”

  “Possibly,” Nisri said, stroking his chin, “but that’s not what concerns me. We’ll pitch here,” he said indicating a small plateau. “This will protect us from this sea of sand, and that dune pressed against it will be our ramp.” He pointed to the snaking contour of an ancient riverbed at the base of the plateau. “With the riverbed protecting our backs, we can see for kilometres in all directions.”

  “On the plateau?” Turk asked, impatience skirting the edges of his temper.

  “We’re exposed. The tents—” Hussari began.

  “We will not stay in tents,” Nisri responded. “We will build an outpost with defensible walls and turrets.”

  Hussari raised an eyebrow, but swallowed his words. By Turk’s reaction, he shared Hussari’s disbelief.

  “An outpost?” Turk asked. “Our strength lies in our mobility. You’re talking about penning us in a cage.”

  “I’m talking about protecting us,” Nisri said. “Some enemies you cannot outrun. They are a flood that will overtake you. Your best hope is to let their tide break around the rocks of your shores.”

  “Tyranids,” Turk said. “You’re talking about your fight at the Absolomay Crush.”

  Nisri said nothing, but Ballasra nodded.

  “With respect,” Turk said, “by placing us on a landmark, you make it easier for rangefinders to target us with artillery.”

  “What artillery?” Nisri said, shaking his head. He tapped one of the auspex operators on the shoulder. “Have the fleet’s cogitators found any sign of life yet? An army? Machines? Anything?”

  The operator shook his head. “Auspex are clean so far.”

  “There you have it,” Nisri said.

  “And the transmission?” Turk asked. “Someone sent the mortis-cry. Someone died here.”

  “The word of the mind witches,” Nisri said. A look of displeasure eclipsed his features. “Who knows what they saw, or why they claim to have seen in. There’s no sign of life here and the dunes stretch to the horizons. Even if an army hides here, no artillery can navigate the dunes easily. We make our base on the plateau. That is my order.”

  Turk bit his tongue, but it was difficult to keep it coiled in his mouth. He felt foolish; he knew the artillery argument was weak the moment he raised it, but he was eager to dissuade Nisri from his decision. An uncomfortable moment passed, long enough for everyone to exchange wary glances. “As you wish,” Turk said finally, biting down on his words.

  “Now,” Nisri said, barely acknowledging Turk’s bitter acquiescence, “on to the matter of the patrols.”

  3

  Commissar Rezail navigated past the crates and boxes, the soldiers, and the packs of baying dromads and muukali. Chaos had overtaken the plateau, but at least Rezail’s tinted oculars and rebreather mask protected him against the dusty winds. Several kilometres away, transports and troop carriers continued to labour skyward, further agitating the storm.

  Tyrell, meanwhile, pointed out the various members of the expedition. The first man to earn description was Duf adar Nab’l Sarish, a lanky man with ropes for muscles, dark brown leather for skin, and an untamed beard and moustache. He wore a bandolier across his chest and two laspistols at his belt. Sarish pulled at the reins of a mottled dromad that complained and snapped. With its long neck and skinny legs, thick bristles of hair, humps and hooked snout, it was a creature alien to Rezail’s experiences. Sarish gripped its reins tight and yanked the beast along.

  “Duf adar?” Rezail asked. “That means sergeant, correct?”

  “In a manner, but do not tell him that,” Tyrell responded. “Duf adar Sarish is a Sen’tach rider. They are a very proud people, very stubborn. Sergeant means servant, yes? And they are no man’s servant.”

  “We are all servants of the Emperor,” Rezail said. “So the rank of Duf adar is equal to sergeant, but nobody calls them that, correct?”

  “Yes, commissar. Duf adar Sarish tends to our riding animals and teaches us how to shoot at full gallop. He is an accomplished marksman.”

  Rezail nodded. “Excellent, but there is one thing I find confusing. Tallarn was viral bombed, yes? Sulphuric and rust deserts from the decomposing corpses of a million tanks.”

  “Yes, commissar,” Tyrell responded, a faint smile on his lips. “You are wondering why our people need pack animals? Tallarn is a wasteland, but our sheltered undergrounds are a vast network of tunnels as great as any hive-world. We also have a sister planet, two systems away, Ibanna Tallarn. The princes of the various tribes grow and train their herds there.”

  “Why?”

  “Livestock is the privilege of the truly wealthy, commissar. The princes have great estates on Ibanna Tallarn, and they train their riders there.”

  “Is this sister world of yours free of tribal friction?”

  “No, commissar,” Tyrell said as he shook his head. “No place is free of it.”

  4

  Turk nodded to the commissar as Tyrell gave him the tour of the camp. The battalion commander arrived at a small t
ent and entered without knocking. The stench of fuel and pack animals seemed instantly forgotten, overtaken by the scent of oil and freshly crushed jasmine. The censers added a pleasant haze, but the cot and regulation gear were otherwise standard issue.

  “This is opulent,” Turk said, half-entering, making sure the tent flap remained open, to avoid any suggestion of impropriety. He locked eyes with the woman who sat on the cot. She stood slowly, uncertain and nodded. Her black hair curled at her shoulders and her thick, black lashes swept him into her almond-shaped, black eyes. Red henna tattoos with florid curls covered the backs of her hands and the lower half of her face. She wore loose robes, and a psychic hood made from bulwark plates, haemorrhage valves, a focusing visor and sheathed cable bundles rested next to her, to help focus her powers as the unit’s sanctioned mind witch.

  “Colonel Nisri Dakar is a conservative man. It’s best I not be around the men, battalion commander,” the woman said. “It wouldn’t be good for their morale.”

  “Battalion Commander Turk Iban Salid. It is only fair you should know my name, Kamala Noore.”

  She nodded. “Of course. How may I serve a prince of the Banna?”

  “Have you… sensed anything yet?”

  “If a psyker died on this world, then the winds swept his cries away. I sense nothing. It’s as if we’re alone in the most terrible way possible.”

  “I’ll expect a full report later,” Turk said. He paused, saying nothing, but remaining at the door.

  “Yes, battalion commander?” Kamala said, apparently uncertain how to act around Turk.

  “If you were Banna, you would receive better treatment than this,” Turk said. “You are blessed, an instrument of the Emperor.”

  “And you are idol-worshippers according to the Turenag,” she whispered.

  “The Orakle is the Emperor’s voice. We do not worship him. He is an astropath and he guides us: a saint keeping us on the Emperor’s road.”