[Imperial Guard 04] - Desert raiders Read online

  They clambered up the partially melted dune, its shallow side apparently free of molten glass. The heat pummelled them and rose with each increment that they scaled the slope. Suddenly, a section of sand slipped away under Damask’s feet and he fell forward to steady himself. Hussari realised their folly in one sickening moment. The glass hadn’t slipped down the opposite slope… it had collected into a small caldera atop the collapsed dune.

  The shifting sand broke the lip of the crater and a deluge of melted glass broke free. Hussari and Qubak barely leapt out of the way, but the avalanche swept across Damask, who was caught off guard and off balance. His howling scream was lost against the dunes as the molten river covered his arms and legs. His clothing combusted into flame, and in pulling his hands out of the glass, he sloughed the flesh off his own muscles.

  Hussari and Qubak could only stare horrified as Damask fell backwards into the glass and was carried to the bottom screaming. He stopped crying when the glass poured over him at the bottom and burned off his face and throat. He stopped jerking a moment later.

  The two Guardsmen remained sitting where they had landed, lost to the shock of their friend’s brutal death. Finally, Hussari pulled the vox from Qubak’s set and reported the tragedy, and their findings. Nisri encouraged them to investigate further.

  Hussari scaled the dune from another spot, alone this time, and tentative in his steps. When he reached the top, he motioned Qubak to join him.

  They could see more clearly now. The dust storm was thinner, the air melting the sand in flight into a steady rain of glass. Ghost flickers of lightning sparked and snapped, but it was diminished. The landscape around the ship had been flattened for a kilometre. Through the haze, it looked like a giant snail shell, organic and glossy, sitting in a huge crater lake of obsidian glass. Tiny dune islands slowly melted into the crater’s great cooking pot, while vent spumes along the ship’s spiral spine jettisoned streams of fetid-smelling gas, cooling and hardening the lake. Giant steam columns rose into the air, and the sound of cracking glass peeled like thunder off the crater’s walls.

  Hussari and Qubak stared at the sight dumbfounded. Well before tube-like orifices opened along the shell’s bottom and disgorged their cargo; long before the chittering, snapping mass of beasts collected at the glassy base of their ship; long before the assembled host of thousands roared and waved their scythe-like appendages at the desert sky, Hussari was already on the vox, his voice strangled.

  “Tyranids,” he whispered back to the outpost. “It’s the accursed tyranids.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “As the dromad falls to its knees, more knives are pulled from their sheaths.”

  —The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault

  1

  “Close those doors!” Nisri snapped. “Nobody leaves.” Tyrell and Turk quickly sealed the command bunker doors. Nisri was quiet for a moment, waiting for the men to calm down, waiting for the fervour to die.

  Tyranids, Nisri thought, his mind numb with mortified reflection. Of all the races to strike the heart dead with fear, the tyranids were the most frightening.

  “Not a word of this to the men, not yet at least,” Nisri said, and for once Turk nodded his quiet assent. Idle speculation would only fuel the panic, and they didn’t want to reveal anything until it was confirmed.

  Commissar Rezail paced a small corner of the sand strewn, rockcrete floor, while auspex and vox compiled crucial data. Nisri and Turk, two veterans of the intolerable waiting that afflicted all military operations, stood by the vox operator and received reports as they came in.

  “You’re sure about the numbers?” Nisri asked.

  “Certain,” Hussari’s voice crackled back. “We’re looking at several thousand tyranids. They’re milling about, waiting for the lake of glass to cool.”

  “So they’re trapped?” Nisri asked.

  “Relatively. Some are capable of flight, but none have ventured far from the ship.”

  “They’re preparing,” Nisri said. “The tyranids always act as a consolidated force. Any sign of other ships?”

  “Negative, sir. But, if this is part of a splinter fleet, it could explain why we haven’t seen any supply ships.”

  “A good assumption,” Nisri said. “Keep a watch on them. Let me know if they start to move.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  Nisri shook his head and sat down at the planning table. Topographical etchings covered the table’s clear surface, along with a designation rune for the tyranids’ landing zone. The outpost appeared too small and too close to the swarm. Nisri tapped the glass.

  “I wish it was orks,” Turk said. “I could tell you what to do.”

  Nisri looked up at his subordinate and nodded. “I wish it were orks as well. They’d be easier to fight.” He noticed Turk raising an eyebrow. “No offence meant, but orks are predictable.”

  “Tyranids aren’t?” Turk asked, sitting in a chair across from him.

  “Not in any way that can help us,” Nisri responded with a sigh. “They don’t respond to our tactics. Worse, they learn from them. We can trap them in a pincer manoeuvre, and still they’d break through. We can box them in a canyon, and they’d scale their own dead to reach us.”

  “Actually, the tyranids are like orks in some ways.” The two men turned to find Major Dashour standing there.

  “Forgive me,” Dashour added.

  “No, speak,” Turk offered. “I’ve never fought the tyranids before. I’ve fought orks and the dark eldar but not tyranids.”

  “Sit,” Nisri said, offering Dashour a seat. “Dark eldar?” Dashour said quietly. “I’ve never faced them.”

  “They are graceful,” Turk said. “So graceful and so terrible it almost hurt to look at them. I’ve never seen such agonising death at the hands of such elegant looking weapons. What were you saying about the tyranids?”

  Dashour nodded. “They are like orks in that they’re scavengers. Nothing is wasted on the battlefield, and blood only fuels their thirst. Orks may strip and rebuild equipment, but the tyranids let nothing organic go to waste. Smaller creatures wait behind the front line and digest the dead, theirs and ours. They return to their flesh factorums and rebuild their forces anew from the raw materials.”

  The entire room had gone quiet, Nisri’s men heavy with the memories of their last exchange, Turk’s in frightened rapture of an enemy no Guardsman ever hoped to confront.

  “We faced a splinter fleet at Absolomay Crush,” Nisri said. “The battle was fought and won by the noble Adeptus Astartes, the Blood Ravens. We were sent to clean up the remainder; not a difficult task, supposedly.”

  “But,” Dashour continued, “the planetary governor forgot to mention the secret underground factorums he’d kept hidden from the Imperium, factorums to build and equip a heretic army.”

  “The tyranids were hiding in the factorums,” Nisri said, “feasting on the private army and factorum slaves, rebuilding their strength until they came flooding out of the very soil itself.”

  Nisri and the others remained quiet, the screams of allies still fresh in their thoughts.

  “What happened?” Turk asked gently.

  “The fleet admiral thought our position was lost. So, they scoured the surface from space, and when they finally ran out of munitions to throw at us, they used the fleet’s hooked chains, the ones they use to disembowel ships, to drop orbital debris on us.”

  “I’m sure the fleet admiral did what he thought was best,” Rezail said.

  “Perhaps,” Nirsi sighed. “All I know is that the rain of fire and molten steel did little to stop the tyranids. They went underground, and we held our position for weeks against attack. Absolomay Crush earned its name on the day of our rescue, the entire world of Absolomay crushed and lost to us forever.”

  After a moment, Dashour interrupted the heavy silence, trying to shift its direction, for which Nisri was grateful. Absolomay Crush had ripped out his regiment’s heart, and it was a wo
und that would follow them to the grave.

  “The tyranids are singular in purpose,” Dashour said. “We are born to serve the Aba Aba Mushira, but our lives are one of distraction. Not them, they are bred with one aspiration, and it is an aspiration without diversion, without division. They are remorseless, they are driven and they fear nothing. Why would they? They are reborn again and again, ready to fight and die, and to continue on.”

  “You admire them?” Commissar Rezail asked, his voice questioning, but with an element of an accusation lingering.

  “I admire their capacity to die,” Dashour said. “Any man can oath-swear his fealty to the Emperor, but whether he lives or dies by that oath is what makes him true. I have faced down death before and never once hesitated in my allegiance to the Golden Throne and the High Lords of Terra. I see the same in the tyranids, as perverted as their cause may be. I cannot help but admire them, for if I can weather my faith against theirs and stand unbowed, then I have proven my loyalty to the Emperor. I ask that I die strong.”

  Nisri and the other Turenag nodded.

  “What can we expect from the tyranids, colonel?” Rezail asked, joining them.

  “What can you expect of any storm? You can expect a portion of it to sweep over you while the remainder continues on its path, somehow undiminished. You cannot run and engage them in moving battles, you will only die tired. They are relentless.”

  “There goes our advantage,” Turk said.

  “Unfortunately. The best we can hope for is to bunker down and weather their onslaught.”

  “We need more time to prepare,” Dashour said. “Once the tyranids start moving, they will not stop. They’ll be on top of us within hours.”

  “Agreed,” Nisri replied. “We must fortify this position. Meanwhile, I will buy us the time we need.”

  Nisri stood and went to the vox operator. He took the handset. “Major Hussari, this is base camp.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hussari’s voice crackled back.

  “How close are the tyranids to moving, in your estimation.”

  “I wish I could say, sir… a few more hours.”

  “Then I have a great task to ask of you; I need your squadrons to engage the tyranid host before they move, and draw them in the opposite direction.”

  The line went dead for a moment, the weight of the request heavy in the air. Finally, the line crackled. “That’s eighteen birds against legions of enemies, sir.”

  “I am aware of that,” Nisri said. “The camp needs more time to prepare. We need you to bait the enemy away from here. Do so and you will be saving the lives of hundreds of men.”

  Another pause. “Understood, sir. We’ll engage the enemy the moment they appear ready to move.”

  “Acknowledged, Major Hussari. Fight with the Emperor’s grace.”

  Nisri put down the handset, half-expecting an argument from Turk, but Turk simply nodded. He understood the necessity of the feint and the sacrifice.

  “Tell the men what’s happening,” Nisri said. “Tell them to prepare for a large-scale assault. We need to fortify our positions.”

  Officers hurried out of the command bunker to relay the orders. Turk, however, hesitated before leaving. He drew in close to Nisri.

  “We’re exposed out here, sir,” Turk said. “Surely you can see that. The caves—”

  “The caves are off-limits,” Nisri said, quietly. “Have Captain Toria and Sergeant Ballasra returned yet?”

  “They’re due to arrive shortly,” Turk said.

  “Good. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

  “Yes, sir,” Turk said, snapping to a salute before leaving.

  2

  The tyranid horde milling about at the edges of the snail ship seemed to grow larger by the moment. The more Major Hussari watched them through his pair of magnoculars, the more certain he was of his impending death.

  The tyranids seemed diverse and uniform at the same time. He could identify various species, but the strata seemed many, far too many for his eyes to identify. They moved in and around one another, like currents in the ocean, never colliding or trampling one another underfoot; a great choreography of organisms with one shared thought. The smaller swarms knew when to shift and move around the larger, tank-like creatures. There was no hesitation in their steps. They scuttled around impatiently on clawed feet, pereopods bristling with thorns or on their bellies. None slept. None waited. They were eager to be unleashed, and the din they made grew steadily.

  A glossy carapace covered their bodies, their heads and ribcages plated with thorny bone shields. Barbed tongues darted from between rows of spiked, needle-like teeth mounted in powerful jaws. Some slavered, their spittle scorching the glass lake upon which they waited. And still, Hussari could not help but stare at their limbs, multiple arms that flowed into wicked-looking scythes, curved talons for hands, chest tentacles with hooked suckers, and tails that ended in stabbing lances or elongated stingers. They offered so many horrible ways to die, and all while staring into their black, impassive, abysslike eyes.

  Hussari also noticed that some of them carried organic-looking cannons, powered by pulsing veins and piston-like muscles. The cannons melted into their arms and backs. That alone frightened Hussari beyond reason. Better to think of them as animals, with no thought beyond the basest instincts. The weapons implied cold calculating intelligence. The weapons implied tactics and planning, and an agenda.

  Hussari privately cursed the magnification strength of his magnoculars, which showed him far too much detail. He grabbed the vox that Qubak held for him and deliberately sighed before speaking.

  “So what am I looking at?” Hussari asked.

  “You see the weapons?” Dashour asked, his voice crackling over the line.

  “Some sort of organic gun with cable feeds tied back into their bodies?” Hussari said. “What do the guns fire?”

  “Horror,” Dashour replied. “If you’re lucky, they’ll fire spines with deadly poisons that cripple and kill.”

  “And if I’m unlucky?” Hussari asked. He looked at Qubak and shook his head. Qubak mirrored the sentiment.

  “They’ll fire a wad of worms that will bore into your body and eat your nerves until you die screaming, or a cluster of beetles that will devour clothing, armour, flesh and bone.”

  “Wonderful,” Hussari muttered.

  “Don’t underestimate the small ones. They are the fastest on the battlefield. They will try to overtake you and swarm you. They’ll drag you down. If they cannot kill you off, they’ll slow you down long enough for their allies to finish the job. The larger ones kill and sow terror by wading into the ranks of enemies. The largest are there to break through defences.”

  “Understood, major,” Hussari said, trying to push the fear from his thoughts, trying to find something to inspire him and his pilots. “Do we have any advantages over them?”

  “Range,” Dashour replied after a moment’s consideration. “They have some weapons that can match ours, but not the fast ones, not from what I remember. The small ones are deadly within close range, mostly.”

  “Are there any… commanding officers in their ranks? Something we can kill to sow confusion?”

  “Nothing you can easily identify. Already, by your descriptions, these tyranids seem different from the ones we faced, but that’s to be expected.”

  “Different?”

  The line crackled. “The ones we faced,” Dashour said, “were mostly subterranean dwellers, diggers. They used boring horns, dirt eaters and acid to burrow through the earth. I suspect the ones you described are better adapted to the desert. Their colouring matches the sand, yes?”

  Hussari stared through the magnoculars at the tyranids’ pigments, the orange and tan mottling. It was a perfect mirror to the surrounding sands. “They do.”

  “I’ve heard of splinter fleets quietly orbiting planets for weeks, reabsorbing their own biomass to create new warriors suited to the planet below.”

  “Understood,”
Hussari said. “The news was growing grimmer by the moment. Not only were they smart, but they had also adapted to Khadar already. How long had they been up there? It didn’t matter, Hussari realised. The advantage was theirs in every way.

  “Major, listen,” Dashour said, a little more quietly. “The tyranids possess shared thoughts, but from what I’ve heard about them, they have masters… a link through which their thoughts flow.”

  “Would it be on that snail ship of theirs?”

  “Perhaps. I can’t say with any certainty, but yes, I believe a master tyranid would remain on-board ship for safety. If it dies, the tyranid link is shattered.”

  “Thank you, major,” Hussari said. “I have an idea, but I’ll need to speak to Colonel Dakar first.”

  “Certainly, but one more thing: I suggest you withdraw back to the Sentinels. Some tyranids are capable of flight, but others… they’re chameleons.”

  3

  “I won’t lie to you,” Hussari said, “we face a grim task.”

  Sixteen men stood in a semi-circle around Major Hussari. Their Sentinels waited behind them, close to the ground and idling, ready for action at a moment’s notice.

  “The outpost needs more time to shore up its defences, and they need us to buy them that time,” Hussari said.

  “My father would disown me if he knew I was saving a bunch of Turenag,” Corporal Ziya Rawan, one the men, quipped. The others laughed.

  “My mother would shoot me for helping you Banna,” Qubak said, taking the joke in his stride. “She’s done it before.”

  More laughter followed, and Hussari allowed the men their moment. He was asking much of them, and a little levity was the least he could do to repay their sacrifice.