Fire Caste Read online

  After that they drank their laced recaff in awkward silence. Templeton found the brew unpalatably bitter, but he finished it gamely, thinking it was the right thing to do. He had no idea what else to say so he just handed back the mug and moved on with his inspection.

  The greybacks were crouched below the rim of the caldera, manning the improvised battlements against the jungle. There were almost two hundred men in the crater, including nine armoured Zouaves. Templeton hoped there were more survivors out there, but these were all his search had turned up.

  After the vespid stingwings had retreated he had set about consolidating the scattered greybacks, methodically tracking down the other platoons. It had been a desperate, embattled search, but his force had grown steadily. Despite the savagery of the ambush the Confederates had given a decent account of themselves and weathered the storm. The Saathlaa guerrillas were numerous and slippery, but they were a poorly armed rabble, prone to panicked routs and suicidal charges. Templeton suspected they were afflicted by a racial insanity that made them unstable in the heat of battle. Doubtless it was a consequence of their degeneracy.

  Unfortunately there were other, more dangerous foes in the jungle. The vespid stingwings had continued to harass his forces, but they had become cautious, keeping to the treetops and picking off stragglers with sneaky hit-and-run attacks. Reading aloud from his Tactica manual, the late Commissar Cadet Rudyk had explained that the stingwings were considered elite shock troops, prized by the tau for their mobility and speed. Thankfully there hadn’t been very many of them in this benighted region.

  The squadrons of flying discs – gun drones, Rudyk had called them – were much more numerous. Worryingly, the Tactica manual implied that the drones were just the tip of the tau war machine. The young morale officer had shown Templeton sketches of outlandish battlesuits and hover tanks, chattering on about ‘Crisis Suits’ and ‘Broadsides’ and ‘Hammerheads’ with a morbid enthusiasm that had done very little for the captain’s morale. He prayed that his men wouldn’t encounter anything like that after he was gone.

  The fever was resurfacing with renewed vigour now, threatening a skull-bursting eruption and Templeton pushed on before it was too late. He was exhausted by the time he reached Machen’s position. The Zouave captain stood watch like a crude iron statue, unable to crouch down in his massive carapace. His head and shoulders were out in the open, making him an easy target for one of the lethal guerrilla snipers, but he’d refused to remove his armour.

  The man is stubborn to his miserable core, Templeton thought. He hasn’t even bothered to clean the blood off his gauntlet. Commissar Cadet Rudyk’s blood...

  ‘Captain Machen,’ he began uncertainly.

  ‘It had to be done,’ Machen snapped. ‘The murderous runt was going to kill you. And after you, how many more until he got his way?’

  Templeton knew he was right. There had been no alternative. Once the Arkan had regrouped in the caldera, Rudyk had railed at them to push on with the attack, growing furious when Templeton had tried to argue. Finally the cadet had drawn his gun. The captain had hoped it wouldn’t come to that, all the time knowing it would. Even so, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for the boy. Despite his black storm coat, Rudyk was just a brutalised youth with too much responsibility and too little sense. Templeton had wanted to try reasoning with him again, but Machen had simply stomped in, bearing down on the cadet like a tank on legs. The boy had opened fire instantly, backing away with wide eyes as the auto rounds ricocheted off the heavy carapace. He’d tried for Machen’s visor, but couldn’t crack the reinforced glass. Then he’d tripped. Scrabbling backwards he’d yelled for assistance, but the greybacks had stood by with stony faces, remembering what Rudyk’s comrades had done to Major Waite. Then Machen had reached down and grasped the cadet’s head in a massive gauntlet.

  ‘The Emperor con–’ Rudyk had begun as Machen squeezed.

  Templeton didn’t want to remember the sound Rudyk’s head had made. Instead he addressed the sombre giant: ‘I wanted to thank you, Machen. For saving my life.’ Even if you’ve only delayed matters…

  ‘Enough Arkan blood has been spilled today.’ Machen’s voice sounded hollow inside the cavern of his helmet. Templeton realised his faceplate was open. Did the man have a death wish? Well, perhaps he did… He recalled that Machen’s platoon had been hit hard in the ambush. A man like Machen would take that personally.

  ‘I really must speak with you, Machen.’

  ‘Later. I am standing vigil for my men.’

  ‘It’s my arm you see…’

  ‘Go away, Templeton.’

  Well, I believe I shall. And I’ll probably be gone for quite some time.

  Templeton hesitated a moment longer, but suddenly getting through to Machen didn’t seem so important anymore. Gingerly he rubbed at his wounded arm and felt something slithering wetly under the bandages. It took him a moment to realise the movement was actually under his skin. He sighed, too tired for disgust and too wise to the inevitable to care any longer. He had done his duty by his men as best he could. Machen would have to take up the mantle now. His only regret was that he’d never complete his beloved ‘Canticle of Crows’. Through the rising fever he could hear the spectral ruin calling to him again, whispering of veiled paths between the stars…

  …winding like glistening ribbons of misbegotten hope through the hearts and minds of dead dreamers, hastening their flight as they sleep down the slope of nightmare…

  Tentatively at first, then with growing conviction, Templeton crept towards the waiting ruin.

  Much later, Machen saw the tip of a fungal tower topple as something tore a path through the jungle beyond the caldera.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ the greyback beside him whispered nervously.

  Machen ignored him, intent on the unseen metal beast trampling through the jungle. There was something familiar about that grinding, clanking rhythm. On an impulse he flicked his shoulder speakers into life, flooding the night with the bombast of Providence. The man beside him almost jumped out of his skin. Moments later everyone in the caldera was dashing about frantically. Someone hammered on his armour, pleading with him to shut the noise down, but he paid no heed.

  It didn’t take long for the machine to find them. Machen allowed himself a cheerless smile as the Arkan Sentinel burst through the trees. It prowled restlessly around the caldera, dazzling the men with a questing searchlight, then skittered back to face the Zouave captain. There was a hiss of pneumatic pistons as the walker powered down and sank back onto its haunches. A moment later the cockpit swung open and the pilot leaned out.

  ‘Well met, Captain Machen!’ Lieutenant Quint hollered, his fat face beaming with delight at his discovery. ‘Would you and your men care to join us for a spot of dinner at the Shell?’

  It was only when they abandoned the caldera that Machen realised Templeton was missing. A hurried search uncovered the man’s prized notebook by the entrance of the ruined temple. The dusty steps of the portico were scuffed with footprints, but the trail petered out just beyond the inner threshold. They called for him, but there was no answer from the dark chamber. It was almost as if Captain Ambrose Phillips Templeton had walked right out of the world.

  Skjoldis saw her weraldur drop into a rigid fighting stance. She froze, watching his silhouette through the canvas of the tent, but a moment later he relaxed and resumed his vigil outside her quarters. She knew he was nervous in this tainted place. Her guardian didn’t possess the wyrd, but any Norlander could sense the wrongness of the ancient city slumbering around them. She had warned the Whitecrow against camping within its precincts, but he had been stubborn. His men had bled hard to capture the city and he wouldn’t abandon it so quickly.

  With a sigh Skjoldis returned to her divination. Kneeling on the raw coral she muttered the Emperor’s name and cast the sacred whisperbones, watching as they scattered in the
thrall of gravity, then leapt up and danced in the name of something even older. Her eyes narrowed as the carved fragments flipped and spun about, clacking restlessly like dead men’s teeth in a hollow skull, unable to find peace.

  ‘So what do your trinkets have to say, Raven?’ Cutler sneered from the recesses of the habtent.

  Intent on her reading, Skjoldis ignored the insult. The Whitecrow always used her mock-name when she cast the whisperbones – the Emperor’s Bones they were called these days. It was his way of dealing with the elder traditions of her wyrd. Besides, he’d been drinking, swigging down his precious firewater like their supply was endless.

  ‘Raven, I asked you…’

  ‘The whisperbones say everything and so they tell me nothing,’ she snapped, troubled by the fretful runes.

  ‘Are you finally admitting you’re a charlatan, woman?’ Cutler chuckled.

  She scooped up the bones and looked at him with distaste. He was slumped on a trestle bed, staring up into the darkness with his arms crossed behind his head. His jacket lay crumpled on the ground, alongside several empty bottles. When he was like this, drunk on firewater and self-pity, she almost despised him.

  But he has just lost his closest friend, she chided herself. Although Elias Waite had always distrusted her, the old man had been like a brother to the Whitecrow. Ashamed of her impatience she tried to explain.

  ‘The bones sail the whispertides of a world, but where there are no words, they can find no harbour.’

  ‘Or maybe this world’s just talking crap!’

  ‘Yes, that is also a possibility.’

  ‘Or just talking too fast for your old bones to keep up.’

  ‘I am serious Whitecrow. There is something very wrong here.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me this is a bad place, Raven?’ Suddenly the drunken slur was gone and he was razor sharp with sarcasm. ‘Because I already figured that out for myself.’

  ‘I am telling you that this world is poisonous.’

  He laughed bitterly in the darkness. ‘Every world is poisonous, woman. You just have to peel back the skin and you’ll find the teeth waiting for you.’

  She knew he was thinking of Trinity again, the backwater hovel that had gone to the Hells while nobody was watching. It had made him hers, but only because it had broken something in his soul.

  ‘On some worlds the poison can be rooted out and bled dry,’ she said. ‘On others it has run too deep and spread too far. Here it has become one with the weave and weft of the world.’

  ‘High Command says there’s no taint here.’

  ‘They say whatever suits their purpose.’

  ‘And what do you think that is?’ He turned towards her, his eyes gleaming yellow in the shadows. ‘Because I sure don’t see it. All I see is waste and plain murder. You know, I think those bastards wanted to throw my men away today.’

  She understood his anger, but she had no answers for him.

  ‘Your plan worked,’ she said instead.

  It was true. His bold assault on the rebel base had been a magnificent success. Once the battle in the plaza was won the enemy resistance had crumbled rapidly. The Whitecrow himself had cornered the rebel commander on the steps of a towering ziggurat. It had been an unsettling encounter. Countless years in the waterlogged jungle had shrivelled the rebel officer, making him look ancient inside his glossy xenos-forged armour. His head had protruded from the plastek gorget like a shrunken prune, yet his eyes had been clear and strangely placid as the Arkan surrounded him. When the Whitecrow had demanded his surrender he had simply smiled and tapped the snowflake tattoo on his forehead. Then he’d raised his rifle and died, falling to a hail of Arkan fire that never touched his smile. The serenity on his dead face still intrigued Skjoldis. What truth had carried him so far beyond fear?

  ‘My plan worked because they didn’t expect any trouble from above,’ Cutler said, breaking her train of thought. ‘I knew it in my gut, but why in the Hells would the tau be so sure of it?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  He stared at her as if she were a fool. Before she could say anything more he leapt to his feet and began to pace, running his hands through his unruly white mane.

  ‘They mothballed us you know,’ he growled, ‘those armchair generals back home. All that fine talk of sending us to the stars to win glory for Providence – that was all poison honey. They just wanted us gone!’ He paused, thinking it through. ‘They wanted me gone. It was never about the 19th. It was always about me.’

  ‘Whitecrow, this is empty talk…’

  ‘They sent my men to the Hells for my sins. Because of that damned town.’

  Skjoldis wondered how much longer she could hold the fractures inside him together. Would this world finish what Trinity had begun?

  ‘Back in space,’ Cutler murmured, ‘that thing from the warp that took Norliss in Dorm 31… How did it know me?’

  Skjoldis sighed, knowing this conversation had been inevitable. ‘The Whispersea, which you call the warp, flows through all things, Whitecrow. It reflects time and space in an infinity of shadow consequences and dim possibilities. Most of them are too tenuous and misshapen to prosper, but no whisper is ever lost and sometimes a predator will listen. The serpents – the daemons – thrive on our doubts and desires. It is their way into our world.’

  She saw him struggling to understand, a plain-speaking man whose world of absolutes had been swept away by something impossible yet undeniable. He was too stubborn to accept the truth, but too honest to deny it. Such men often drowned in the Whispersea. It was why he needed her.

  ‘That doesn’t explain it,’ he insisted. ‘That thing in Dorm 31 looked right at me and laughed! It recognised me.’

  ‘And then we killed it. That is our purpose.’

  ‘I can feel it watching me all the time, you know. Like it’s looking for a way inside. Just like it got into Norliss and all those poor damned fools at Trinity.’ He sounded brittle now. ‘Am I cursed, Skjoldis?’

  She laughed. It was a hoarse, broken cackle that set her own teeth on edge.

  ‘Of course you are cursed, Whitecrow!’ Seeing his bleak expression she stifled the laugh. ‘You are cursed and that is why you must not fail in your duty.’

  ‘And what exactly is my duty on this sewer world?’

  She regarded him thoughtfully, weighing up his mood.

  ‘What is it, woman?’ he pressed.

  ‘Do you recall my… trance… in the chamber of stars?’

  ‘Too damn right I recall it.’ His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  ‘Then perhaps it is time that I told you of Abel.’

  Captain Hardin Vendrake was bone weary, but sleep wouldn’t come so he just kept on riding, haunting the coral avenues of the necropolis like a lost soul. At each junction he would pivot his Sentinel at the waist and pierce the gloomy side streets with his searchlight, weighing up its prospects on a whim. Sometimes he would whip past and sometimes he would take the new branch, navigating the maze as the mood took him. He’d told his men he was going out on patrol, but they’d all known it was a lie. He was riding to stay ahead of the guilt.

  Leonora was dead. The leap from the drop-ship had proven beyond her limited abilities and she’d snapped her Sentinel’s leg clean off. He hadn’t seen her fall, but he’d heard her terrified cries over the vox as she fought for balance. She’d been calling for him, but he’d been too busy chasing a tau skimmer to pay any attention.

  Too angry with her for screwing up again...

  He’d found her in the mangled cockpit of her walker. Under those long blonde tresses her head had been twisted right round, dangling from a neck turned to jelly. There were two men dead under her machine, crushed and broken by her fall. Pericles Quint had played the bleeding heart card, sucking up to him as always, but the rest of Silverstorm had kept quiet and avoided his e
yes. They all knew it was his fault. Leonora had never been cavalry material, but he’d kept her on anyway. She’d been terrified of the jump, but too proud to back out. And he’d let her go ahead and try.

  Knowing all along she wouldn’t make it…

  Havardy was dead too, his steed blasted right out of the drop-ship by the tau battlesuit. His blood wasn’t on Vendrake’s hands, but he’d been a talented rider and his loss weakened Silverstorm. There were only ten of them left now. But despite the lost Sentinels, Vendrake had to admit that Cutler’s gamble had paid off. The drop-ship had taken a beating, but the pilot had made a remarkable crash landing, saving all hands on board. Afterwards the 1st Company had taken the city with surprisingly few casualties. Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said for the rest of the regiment.

  With the city secured, Cutler had tasked Silverstorm with tracking down their missing comrades. Determined to cover as much ground as possible before nightfall, Vendrake had scattered his Sentinels through the jungle. At first they’d only found stragglers – men so exhausted they could barely walk. The survivors told of ambushes and xenos abominations. One battered Zouave knight, almost delirious with terror, raved about a swarm of avian monsters that had hounded his platoon from the trees, pouncing on men and tearing them to shreds. He swore the beasts had devoured the flesh of the slain. But despite the grim evidence of slaughter, Silverstorm had met no opposition. It was as if the enemy had melted away when their city fell.

  The Sentinels had drifted back to the city one by one, bearing too many horror stories and too few survivors. To Vendrake’s surprise, Pericles Quint had been the last to return, sauntering back to camp in his gaudily decorated machine long after nightfall. Behind him was a train of weary survivors, including an unusually subdued Captain Machen. By the sorry standards of the day it was a triumph and Quint had preened in the glow of Cutler’s praise. The look on his fat face had–

  Vendrake jumped as something clanged against the canopy of his Sentinel. Uneasily he swung about and angled backwards, raking the rooftops with his searchlight. Fat drops of water swarmed down the bright beam, clattering angrily against his windshield. Just moments ago he’d have sworn the rain was little more than a faint drizzle. Cursing, he flicked on his wipers and leaned forward, trying to pierce the murk. The rain-blurred buildings seemed to shrink back from his beam, recoiling from the light like startled creatures of the deep sea. Of course it was only a trick of light and shadow.