[Imperial Guard 04] - Desert raiders Read online

  Rezail remained quiet for a moment, waiting to see if they still had any defiance left in them. They didn’t appear to, however, their tempers cooled for the moment, and their duties as soldiers remembered.

  “I want you to speak to your men,” Rezail said calmly. “Remind them of their duty to the Emperor. When the supply ship comes, and it will come, I want the fleet to find a proper, by-the-book operation. They will not find a rabble of men ready to kill each other. They will not find our faith in the Imperial Fleet, or the Emperor, lacking, is that understood?”

  Nisri straightened and brushed the creases from his tan uniform. “Perfectly, commissar.”

  “Yes, commissar,” Turk said, regaining his composure. He still looked haggard, his thick frame winnowed by the rations, but his eyes were clear. “Do you also wish to speak to the men?”

  Rezail tapped the laspistol against his thigh. “No,” he said, finally, “I leave that to you.”

  3

  The winds pushed at the sand, sending small ribbons across the compound. The camp appeared deserted; the Guardsmen stayed out of the heat or, if on sentry duty, sat in the shade of the covered watchtowers along the walls. Kortan could see the broken, distant gaze in the eyes of the Guardsmen. They were going through the motions, their actions mechanical. They’d grown anaesthetised. There was little to draw them away from the hunger lingering in the pits of their souls.

  So much for the grand mission to investigate the mortis-cry, Kortan thought. For a month, the camp had been paralysed under the heat and restrictive rations. The med-hall was already filled with soldiers suffering from chest colds, fevers and even pneumonia, in one case. The rigours of rationing had weakened men to the point where ordinary ailments became extraordinary problems. The medicae were coping, but barely. Medical supplies had run out, and without water to help clean and sterilise the med-hall, the number of infections soared.

  Kortan walked past the med-hall, into the assembly ground where rested the self-propelled Basilisk artillery piece, a massive gun fitted to the frame of a Chimera. Four recoil braces extended from the coiners of the Basilisk, each anchored to the plateau rock with heavy pins. Kortan glanced into the vehicle stables on his way past; the giant sliding hangar doors were open and the vehicles inside covered by tarps. They’d been sitting quietly for weeks now, to conserve fuel. That didn’t stop Captain Abantu from keeping his men busy with regular vehicle maintenance.

  Kortan continued for the orange door of the supply shed. The shed was made of plascrete and provided some cool relief from the sunlight. He walked through the door, anticipating the flush of cool air of the storage facility, but instead came face to face with Captain Anuman and two startled Guardsmen. They stood near one of the stacked crates, its lid torn open, stuffing rations into a rucksack. Sabaak was on the duckboard floor between two metal shelving units, lying face down, and bleeding from the head.

  Anuman was the first to react, and drew his laspistol. Kortan barely had time to duck behind a metal container before the las-shots peppered his location.

  4

  “Where are they?” Chalfous asked. The dunes had subsided into a ribbed plain of sandy-grey loam, broken by mounds of weather smoothed white limestone. “I’m starving. I could do with a bit of rat.”

  “Here,” Ballasra said, holding out his hand. A thumb-sized insect with a black and red carapace struggled between his fingertips, its legs high in the air.

  Chalfous made a face and waved off Ballasra. “Too bitter,” he said. “They make me thirsty.”

  Ballasra shrugged and peeled off the insect’s carapace before sucking out the meat and entrails. They continued moving between the limestone mounds, Chalfous pulling at the dromads, and Ballasra searching the ground for tracks. He motioned to a large formation of limestone, a series of soft-faced pillars measuring at least ten storeys high.

  “Was this ocean once?” Chalfous asked, staring at the limestone around them.

  “No, perhaps a sea or a mighty river near the ocean. But, there was life here once. She must have been a beautiful world, rich and green, like Tallarn of old.”

  Chalfous nodded, half interested in Ballasra’s meanderings, if the fatigued expression on his face and stifled yawn spoke of anything else. Ballasra shook his head. He hated the “domesticated” Tallarn, those who’d eschewed their tribal ways to live in the hives. They’d grown soft and easily distracted.

  Without another word, Ballasra continued forward, towards the formations. The sign of limestone was good, as were the multiple tracks in the sandy loam, far more tracks than the family of rats they followed. There was life here, more life than they’d seen on Khadar before, probably tucked into the niches of the shady outcrop-pings. While the others searched the small cluster of shrubs for signs of water, Ballasra preferred to listen to the rocks. The loam seemed fat with moisture. If nothing else, solar stills built here might pull more water from the ground. It was a pity they were so far from camp. It would take them half a day to return, weather permitting.

  “What’s that?” Chalfous asked, staring at the formation. He was standing to Ballasra’s far left, which gave him a better vantage of the limestone clusters.

  Ballasra sighed and wished the boy would keep his mouth shut. He joined Chalfous, just to see what had his subordinate gawking. He stopped short of chastising Chalfous, however, when he found himself staring at something completely unexpected.

  “Well, well,” Ballasra said with a smile. “This planet is far more interesting than we anticipated.”

  “We should go back and report it?”

  “Report what, boy?” Ballasra asked. “No, we find out what ‘it’ is first. Then we go back.”

  Chalfous didn’t seem eager, but Ballasra was already moving forward, a grin on his weathered face.

  5

  Sergeant Raham was running for the supply shed and the sounds of fighting when the orange door burst open. A Banna Guardsman stumbled outside, firing his laspistol back inside at someone. He dragged a heavy rucksack along the ground, and turned to flee. He spotted Raham and fired wide in panic.

  Raham dived for the ground, laspistol in hand, and fired back. The Guardsman took the blow to the upper chest, and fell silently to the ground.

  Everything seemed to go quiet at that moment. Raham barely had time to pick himself off the ground when he heard the shouts.

  “He killed Barakos! The Turenags killed Barakos.”

  The fury of two months found its crack in the disciplined but flagging wall of soldiers, and the crack spread like a lightning bolt. A handful of men quickly surrounded Raham, all of them Turenag to the sergeant’s relief, all of them trying to protect him, regardless of the reason. Before Raham could order anyone to stand down, several Banna tribesmen rushed Raham and his defenders.

  It only took Raham a second to realise that he was in a brawl. All the ugly, tribal, sectarian violence spilled out in shouts of anger and clenched fists. This wasn’t the kind of fight where punches were thrown, it was the kind of violence where centuries of hatred found howling release. Men strangled each other, driving their thumbs into eye sockets, biting, smashing heads into the rocky ground.

  Nubis was leaving the vehicle stables and trying to reach the commotion at the supply shed when someone leapt on him. Nubis reacted, throwing the Turenag off his back. As quick as a flood, the fight had overtaken him. He backed away, trying to put some distance between him and the mob of grabbing hands. Somewhere, he heard the whine hiss of laspistol fire followed by bolter fire. Daggers and sabres flashed in the light, and Nubis saw Turenag and Banna fighting. Men screamed and fell to the ground, where boots silenced their cries.

  Nubis hissed a curse. A Turenag brandishing a curved dagger lunged at him. Nubis grabbed his wrist and moved to the side, exposing the man’s elbow long enough for the master gunner to break it.

  The next two adversaries didn’t have the opportunity to attack. Nubis darted forward, driving a fist into one man’s nose and breaking it
flat. The second man earned one boot to the gut, and a second to the jaw.

  More Turenag tribesmen advanced on Nubis, all intent on satisfying old debts.

  Rezail, Nisri and Turk all emerged from the command bunker, into the full onslaught of chaos unfolding in the centre of camp. It was all a blur, a horrific vista of tribal violence and anger. At this moment in time, it did not matter who had started the fight or the rightness of it. A dozen men already lay on the ground, and Guardsmen, both Banna and Turenag struggled in each other’s grips. More men were trying to rush in to help their compatriots, the reason for the skirmish unimportant. Turk and Nisri immediately began pulling men back or off each other, but only Rezail knew a heavy price was demanded of the moment.

  “Protect my back,” Rezail said calmly.

  Turk and Nisri both nodded, their faces pale. They both knew what came next, but neither could do anything against its inevitability.

  Rezail drew his chainsword, and revved the spinning links into a roar. Those who heard and stopped, scurried away at the sight of a commissar hell-bent on enforcing the law. Those who didn’t were locked in deadly combat. Rezail moved past them, decapitating the arms of those wielding weapons, or firing a las-bolt in the heads of those standing over dead bodies.

  “I am the Emperor’s dark angel!” Rezail shouted, his voice carrying above the noise, as he executed one soldier after the other. Those Guardsman who heard and stopped were spared. All those who watched were stunned into silence, their mouths open.

  “I dispense the will of the High Lords of Terra. I am the keeper of the regiment’s fire, and I alone can spill the regiment’s blood. Those of you who murder your fellow soldiers are no better than dogs! And I excel at executing dogs.”

  “Stop fighting!” Turk roared, winging a couple of his own men for emphasis.

  Silently, Nisri did the same, with gritted teeth.

  The fight was quickly breaking up, but there was a cluster of men still brawling near the supply shed. Rezail knew that bloodlust had overtaken reason. There was only killing to be had.

  Nubis heard the commissar and Turk shouting, but he could not disentangle himself from the fight. He seemed surrounded by

  Turenag. One bearded man charged, but Nubis sidestepped him and sent him headfirst into the ground. Three more converged on him, two with knives, and one with a laspistol. Nubis tried to mutter a prayer, but the pistol came up too quickly.

  Suddenly, the hissing whine of a las-bolt rang out. The tribesman with the laspistol fell to the floor, his face blackened. The remaining men turned to run. Another shot caught one in the back of his head, cratering the skull and punching through the other side. The acrid scent of burnt hair and meat filled the air. Nubis turned to find a wild-eyed and bleeding Captain Anuman pointing a laspistol at the fleeing men. Before the master gunner could stop him, Anuman fired wildly into the crowd, killing kinsmen and allies alike in battle lust. More men fell. Some tried to fire back, but Anuman seemed possessed and felled opponents one after the other. Others scrambled for the door or dived out of windows.

  Nubis grabbed him by the wrist, pushing his arm up.

  “Stop!” Nubis snarled. “Stop!”

  Anuman struggled with him, his face contorted in a pitch of rage. “Let me kill them! They’re dogs! They’re dogs!”

  Half of Anuman’s face vanished under the flash of a las-bolt, and Nubis stumbled back, his front painted in blood and viscera. He turned, expecting the next shot to end him, but Commissar Rezail was staring down. Nubis followed the commissar’s gaze, until it came to rest on Sergeant Raham’s body at his very feet. His blond hair was matted with blood and a knife was lodged in his chest.

  Anuman’s rampage and death undid the knot of fighting, but Nisri seemed intent on revenge. He strode forward, his pistol pointed at Nubis.

  “You killed Sergeant Raham,” Nisri said, his voice shaking.

  “I did no such thing,” Nubis said, staring with fierce defiance. “I tried to stop the fighting, and my knife is still sheathed.”

  “You lie,” Nisri said.

  “Colonel,” Rezail shouted, “stand down.”

  “I want satisfaction for Raham’s murder.”

  “Over my dead body,” Turk snapped back. “Nubis had no—”

  “That can be arranged!” Nisri shouted.

  A bursting roar came from the commissar’s chainsword, and links sparked and skipped over the rocky ground.

  “Battalion Commander Iban Salid!” the commissar said. “You will take First Company and retire to your barracks. I want details on what happened. Tyrell, escort Second Company to their barracks and get their side of it. Colonel Dakar, with me.”

  The command bunker was emptied, left to Rezail and Nisri as they shouted. The only people left outside were the medicae, who were tending to the wounded.

  “Colonel Dakar,” Rezail shouted, “I shouldn’t be the one reminding you about your duties! The mere fact that you’d have me shoot Nubis, who clearly had nothing to do with Raham’s death, proves to me that you’ve forgotten your duties to the Emperor.”

  Nisri’s face contorted into a hateful scowl. “I know my duties as a soldier better than you, political officer. Sergeant Raham’s record as an NCO was peerless. Sergeant Nubis’ record, if you’d taken the time to examine it, is earmarked with disciplinary actions. He could have been a lieutenant or a major by now, but he always finds trouble.”

  “And yet,” Rezail said, “Sergeant Nubis was stopping his own man from shooting your tribesmen in the back. And how do you repay him for saving the lives of your men? By demanding his execution! Your judgement is impaired. Battalion Commander Iban Salid’s judgement is impaired. Frankly, I would execute the whole lot of you for putting your petty, vindictive feud ahead of your duties to the Emperor. Since we’ve been stranded here, we’ve already lost three qualified officers and at least a dozen men… and none to the enemy! We’ve fought nobody except one another! One another, damn it!”

  The anger left Nisri’s body. He seemed to deflate, the life vacating him in a rush. He steadied himself against the desk. Rezail had to stop as well, his head swimming from dehydration, from hunger and from the fatigue Neither of them said anything. There was nothing left to say; the situation seemed hopeless. They were trapped on a desert world with no apparent hope of rescue. For the moment, it felt like they’d come here to die.

  6

  The compound seemed deserted. There was no unauthorised movement, and all off-duty personnel were confined to their barracks while Commissar Rezail spoke to each platoon in turn. A Guardsman sang a prayer hymn to the love and devotion of the Emperor, over the loudspeakers mounted on the building. His throaty voice echoed in the lonely desert, and his words melted into one another to form the river of a melody that washed the ears and soothed the jagged heart.

  Turk did one last sweep of the two barracks belonging to the Banna, before heading to the lone tent tucked at the foot of the wall. After a quick glance around, he ducked inside and immediately fell into the arms of Kamala Noore. There was nothing to say at the moment. They fell into the each other’s embrace.

  Nisri sat in the darkness of the command bunker. The solitary lights of the only two remaining active control slates bathed him in their blinking wash.

  “You’re overdue by several hours,” Nisri said, not bothering to look up. “I can’t afford to send out search parties.”

  “The desert provides me with all I need,” Sergeant Ballasra said, coming down the three stone steps. “I heard what happened. Raham dead?”

  “Saving the quartermaster’s life. I wish to be left alone.”

  “I know, but this is not the time for such privileges, not when your tribe needs you.”

  Nisri shook his head. “My tribe… I’m in danger of losing my command. Commissar Rezail would be within his rights to assume command. Do not speak of such things, not now, not after what’s happened.”

  “Was it not said,” Ballasra said, “that we would
find a new world… a paradise free of the heretic Orakles and iconoclasts? Here,” Ballasra said, handing Nisri his canteen, “taste the waters of paradise.”

  Nisri stared into Ballasra’s eyes and saw, for the first time in ages, the spark of joy. Something had enraptured Ballasra, and it sang to Nisri as well. He took the canteen and was surprised at its weight. He hadn’t felt a full canteen in months. He smelled the clean water and drank its cool freshness. This was not distilled water; this was not stale drink. He could taste the rock over which it had flowed in the heavy minerals that clung to his tongue. Ballasra smiled at Nisri’s mystified expression, and produced a curved red knobbly fruit. Ballasra sliced off a piece with his knife and offered it to Nisri.

  “Here, eat from the gardens of paradise.”

  The fruit was meaty and succulent, and thick with red juice that dribbled down Nisri’s chin. He laughed, a quick bark that echoed off the walls, and devoured the fruit down to the rind.

  “I have found us our world,” Ballasra said. “All that remains is for you to lead your tribe there.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Thank the Emperor for His blessings,

  And surely you must thank him for your misfortunes.”

  —The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault

  1

  Day Eighty.

  The limestone rock formations seemed incongruous in the surrounding desert. They simply appeared, as though alien, displaced. They were massive, ten storeys tall and thick in girth. Red, green and orange shrubs grew around their base, in thick clusters, and the air carried an earthy musk. It was the smell of moisture.