Lords of blood, p.104
Lords of Blood, page 104
The youth was like most bullies, supported by two smirking accomplices who were too cowardly and weak to survive on their own, but dangerous under the direction of their ringleader. One was fat and strong, the other small and wiry with a vicious face. He smelled bad, and had dead eyes. Esmera had seen this configuration before.
‘Come in from the villages, have you, swampies?’
‘How can you tell?’ said the fat one.
‘Because I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never seen you before. You’d be hard to miss, you’re so fat.’
‘I’m going to take time cutting you,’ said the fat boy. He moved forward. The leader shot out his arm and caught him hard in the stomach.
‘You don’t get to say what’s what. I do.’
‘Right, yeah, sorry, Cen,’ said the fat boy. Boy was about right. He was younger than the others. His face flushed and he looked like he was going to cry.
The skinny one scowled. ‘Tougher than you for it.’
‘Now you’re catching on.’ Esmera smiled. ‘You don’t know me. How can you say that? I might be the most dangerous girl in this town.’ She used ‘girl’. It was lesser than woman, less threatening. She was a woman though, older than they, and better than they were in other ways too.
The fat boy and Cen laughed. The skinny one licked his lips. He had a fluffy moustache coming in. So young yet already a killer. The others were engaged in the malicious play of thugs that may or may not end in violence. The skinny one just wanted to hurt her. He had a knife. She could feel his need to use it, real as his bad breath in her face.
‘How old are you?’ said Cen.
‘Older than you.’
‘Then wise enough to know if you give me that bread you might walk away from this.’
‘No,’ she said. Giving no warning, she turned on her heels and fled, pushing her underfed body between two townspeople gawping up at the sky. There was a roaring coming from up there. Atmospheric engines. A ship was approaching from the void. That was remarkable, but she didn’t have time to look.
The youths were after her a fraction of a second later. She’d wrong-footed them, as she knew she would. She knew town; they didn’t.
She sprinted through the crowded main square of the upper fort, dodging past market-day stalls and piles of cages holding waterfowl from the marsh. Fat Boy blundered into them, breaking the wicker and bringing a retributory cudgel swinging at his arm. Esmera glanced over her shoulder to see him beaten while aviforms scattered and his friends tore past. Cen was angry. Skinny Boy looked ready to kill.
She flew down the main ramp, past the rusted teeth of the top gatehouse and the grim metal skulls housing the spirits that commanded the gates. The road was caked in dung and rushes, a good surface to run on. The ramp switched back on itself, but she knew the short cuts. She jumped, landing on the roof of the mechman’s tech shack. He only yelled at her. He knew her. He didn’t know the youths that tumbled after. She got shouts; they got shot at.
She led them into the Warren, the part of town where hundreds of small shops and businesses crammed the old roads and throttled alleys. It stank of breweries, chemicals, dyes, and worst of all, the eye-watering reek of the tannery district and the open-gut stench of the abattoirs. All of it was in there. It was no place to live, but this was her territory. She grinned as she panted. She’d lose them in the Warren, no problem.
She skidded sharply round a corner, wrong-footing them again, hurtled down an alleyway no wider than her outstretched arms, and dived under a curtain that divided the alley from a stall on the other side.
‘Esmera! Watch it!’ shouted the stallholder after her. They all knew her in the Warren. She was tolerated there – she’d made sure of that. She was useful to them, occasionally.
She slowed to a jog. There was no sign of pursuit. Low buildings of hardened mud hemmed her in, all squat, no more than three storeys tall. She was moving away to the edge of the Warren, nearer to the Clara Flumine river and the high towers of the Administratum district on the far side.
She’d barely broken a sweat. She was used to running away.
The smell of the river came up the alley. Most of the setts on that street had been prised up by the city folk to build their homes, and the road surface was little better than mud and rubbish compacted over the bedrock. The alley joined a lane. An open sewer ran down the middle, pouring chemical-tainted filth into the river. She could see the river now. The wide, muddy waters swallowed the sewer discharge, diluting it to nothing, but in the city the shit stink was heavy on her throat. Huts made of sodden fibreboard and cast-off metal scraps slumped together, drowning in the mud. On the far side of the water were cliffs of stonework, topped by crenellated walls, and behind those the grand buildings of the Imperial government. The district was a tiny part of sprawling Tywell City, but its offices and cathedrum lorded over all parts of the settlement save the citadel itself.
She was walking now. She crammed the bread into her mouth, eating it quickly before someone else tried to take it off her.
Meat-barge horns wailed from the docks further downstream. The ripe odour of marsh eel wafted over on the breeze. A baby cried in a hovel nearby. A stray canid nosed at a pile of rags and pulled out the scaled corpse of a dead marsh lizard. No one was about.
The sounds of the crowds carried over the Warren down to the river district. There was a boom in the air, and she turned to look back to where it had come from, up at the citadel, dry on its hill.
A small red-and-white ship was landing. The citadel was a stacked cake of fortifications, four rings of walls atop each other, and the ship came down towards the highest landing pad. The sound of the crowd’s excitement grew louder as it approached, only drowned out by the last, thundering roar of braking jets as it put down upon the pad. A wash of grey smoke bled off into Dulcis’ clouds.
She resented the boys for chasing her down here. She’d wanted to see the off-worlders land. Some fool had said they were the Emperor’s men, the Angels of Death, but she hadn’t believed that. But now, as she watched the ramp at the front of the ship open, she wasn’t so sure. The ship was a compact thing, covered in guns. She’d never seen the like before.
Tiny figures came out of the citadel and waited. Larger figures emerged from the ship. Her mouth hung open, the bread forgotten on her tongue. The Angels of Death had come! They were giants, towering over the welcoming party, clad in shining armour that winked in the weak sun. She took a few involuntary steps forward, their presence drawing her in.
She heard a noise behind her, and turned in time to see Skinny Boy launch himself off the top of a shack, so full of the need to hurt her he leapt with little consideration for his own safety. His chin connected with her head, his elbow drove the air from her lungs, and together they went down into the stinking mud. The remains of the bread bounced off and rolled to a halt at the edge of the sewer.
‘Got you,’ he breathed into her ear. His ripe breath choked her. She tried to escape, but he wrestled her to a halt, his thin fingers gripping her wrists painfully.
Cen and Fat Boy came out of a side alley.
‘Got her!’ Skinny called triumphantly.
Mud soaked through the back of Esmera’s smock and trousers. She bucked under him, but he wouldn’t budge.
‘Get off me!’ she said.
‘Shhhh,’ said Skinny Boy. He forced her wrists together so he could hold them in one hand, and pressed a filthy finger to her lips.
Cen came towards them. Beside him, Fat Boy was limping. He had a black eye, and he clutched his right arm with his left.
‘Get her up,’ said Cen.
‘Let’s make her pay,’ said Skinny Boy. ‘Let’s hurt her. Let’s make her sorry.’
‘Should have given us bread. Shouldn’t have run!’ Fat Boy shouted. ‘We’re going to gut you and chuck you in the river.’
‘Not for a little while,’ leered Skinny Boy. ‘We’ll bleed you first.’
‘Let me go,’ Esmera said. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
They all laughed at that.
‘Get her up!’ shouted Cen.
Skinny Boy dragged her to her feet.
‘Get her down there, by the river,’ Cen said. ‘Where no one can see.’
Esmera looked where he pointed; he meant an alley leading to the muddy riverside. If she went down there she’d never come out again.
‘Me first,’ said Fat Boy. ‘Pay her back for this!’ He pointed angrily at his face.
She closed her eyes. All it would take would be a little push. Skinny Boy was thirsty for blood. Fat Boy was angry.
Touching Skinny Boy’s mind made her sick. It was an oozing place full of hurt, a jagged landscape of abuse and pain he wanted to turn outwards against the world.
‘Who said you should cut her first?’ snarled Skinny Boy.
‘What?’ said Cen. ‘I get to decide. Get into the alley, before we’re seen!’
‘No,’ said Skinny Boy. ‘I want a word with fatty here about his manners.’
He shoved Esmera at Cen. She made no move to fight, playing the role of the pliant victim. She’d seen so many people freeze in times like this. Everyone thought they’d fight. So few did.
Cen grabbed her round the throat.
She pushed a little harder at Skinny Boy, stoking his anger and his lust to kill.
‘I’m sick of your whining, you pig-faced sack of crap,’ Skinny Boy said, getting right up into Fat Boy’s face. ‘I should gut you instead of her.’
Fat Boy’s mouth hung open. ‘I didn’t mean nothing. You cut her. I don’t mind.’
‘How about I cut you?’ said Skinny Boy. He slashed across Fat Boy’s stomach with a knife Esmera drew for him.
Fat Boy made a tiny choking click in his throat. Both he and Skinny Boy looked down at his gut. Blood spread out across his clothes.
‘You’ve killed me, Gris,’ said Fat Boy. ‘You’ve killed me.’
So Skinny had a name. That made it easier.
Esmera pushed harder at Gris. He was resisting unconsciously, but she had him, because he was a violent piece of work, and it didn’t take much to wipe the surprise off his face and make him see what a brilliant idea it would be to ram his knife into Fat Boy’s neck.
‘Gris!’ shouted Cen. Out-of-towners saw a lot of awful things in the marshes, but he looked genuinely appalled. ‘What are you doing?’
Esmera pushed again.
‘I’ve had it with you too,’ Gris snapped.
‘Wait!’
Cen pushed Esmera at Gris, but he shoved her down. Her head banged on the ground, making it ring. Gris might be scraps of flesh on bone, but he was full of rage at life and that made him strong. Cen got in a couple of blows but didn’t even get to draw his knife. Esmera’s mental influence dissolved what few inhibitions Gris had. They were mostly made of fossilised fears, and were easy to overcome.
Gris stabbed and stabbed at Cen, until his front was a mess of slits and blood. He went down into the filth, and Gris kept on stabbing. Cen had stopped fighting and lay there already dead, blood trickling from his mouth, his eyes wide.
Esmera got up onto her knees. She didn’t have much strength left to finish this, so she had to end it soon. Her hand closed on a rock. She always made sure to throw a stone when she pushed someone hard enough to kill them outright. She had to leave a physical mark, one that looked bad enough to kill. If he went down untouched on the outside, someone would notice, and she’d no desire to be burned as a witch.
Gris was slowing, tired by his frenzy, his knife skidding off Cen’s ruined chest rather than penetrating. The point made a sound like a shovel biting wet earth.
‘Hey,’ she said.
Gris looked up at her. He was dazed, but that’d wear off in a moment, and that was another reason to be quick. She threw hard. The rock hit his forehead with a thud – nowhere near hard enough to cause him to collapse, but hard enough to cover her tracks. Blood welled from the wound. He rocked with the impact, then blinked in confusion, a sleepwalker’s look she knew very well. His eyes cleared and he looked at his hands and the knife. So much blood covered both they were the same colour, indivisible, like the blade was a part of his body. He looked at the bodies of his friends, then at her. Now he knew what she’d done.
One last push, that’s what he needed. Nothing too much. Make it look like the rock did it. Blood ran from the wound on his head.
‘I’m going to make you pay for that, witch,’ he snarled.
‘No, you’re not,’ she said.
She pushed hard. Thoughts were easy, bodies trickier, but she could do it, and she did, imagining a pulsing bit of his brain pulsing a little too hard, and bursting.
Gris got to his feet. The blood of his friends dripped from his knife.
‘This–’ he began. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell limp as a wet rag into the muck.
Esmera stood. She was close to collapse herself. Blood leaked from her nose. That many pushes in one day was a lot. Too many. She needed to retreat and recover.
First, she looted their bodies, then she retrieved her bread from the dirt.
Her head spinning, the bread clutched tightly to her chest, she staggered back to her den.
CHAPTER TWO
ANGELS OF DEATH
Sergeant Bedevoir looked out from the balcony over the city of Tywell to where the slums crowded the walls of the citadel, so densely packed they completely obscured the layout of the older, more orderly settlement hiding beneath. A fat, sluggish river cut the place in two, its banks crumbling mud save where flood walls protected the Administratum district and the rockcrete wharfs of the docks neatened its edges. The far side of the river was neater, but not by much. The smell coming off the city was overpowering. Bells rang from every rickety tower. Crowds looked up at the citadel from full streets, waving red ribbons and banners bearing poor reproductions of the Chapter badge. Outside the walls, on the half-submerged landing fields of the planet’s only space port, marching bands played around squares of soldiers who performed parade drills for nobody’s benefit but their own.
Bedevoir looked down on their welcome and wrinkled his nose. ‘This place is a hole,’ he said.
Lieutenant Jadriel’s stony face flashed a brief frown. ‘Don’t let Captain Ares hear you say that – we’re here to protect these people.’
‘From themselves,’ said Bedevoir.
‘An angel’s first duty, brother, is to protect people from themselves.’ Jadriel put his hand on Bedevoir’s shoulder.
‘I’d prefer a proper enemy,’ said Bedevoir. ‘And I’d prefer to put my helmet back on. This place reeks of shit and despair.’
Jadriel went into the hall. Bedevoir tarried, now taking in the city walls and the endless wetlands beyond, his features openly displaying contempt.
‘Brother,’ said Jadriel softly.
‘Yes, yes, I am coming,’ said Bedevoir. ‘I have seen enough anyway.’
He followed Jadriel into the hall where the rest of their party were in quiet consultation. Captain Ares, Sanguinary Priest Lamorak, Lieutenant Jadriel and Sergeant Bedevoir were the most senior officers in the tiny detachment sent to Dulcis. There were so few of the Red Wings, they occupied the void-castle like rodents hiding in walls.
Ares shot Jadriel a questioning look. Bedevoir answered for the lieutenant.
‘It’s as bad as it looks from orbit. The defences are old, and they’ve not been properly maintained for generations. The wall’s got three major breaches in it. These have been closed up by timber. The charge nets across the river are working, so the local wildlife won’t give us a problem here. On the benefits side of the balance sheet, this citadel is strong, but it’s not a place I would want to defend against a proper enemy. We would be better going into the swamp and waging guerrilla war.’
‘We are not here to defend against attack,’ said Lamorak. ‘Only to scout, survey and report.’
‘We may have to fight,’ said Ares. ‘With the rift being this close, it’s only a matter of time before Dulcis comes under attack.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ said Bedevoir. ‘Because if we were going to fight, I’d say abandon Tywell. I’m going to say abandon it now.’
‘There is nowhere else to go, brother,’ said Ares. ‘Most of this part of the planet is marsh and swamp. Solid ground like this is rare.’
‘It’s barely solid,’ said Bedevoir. ‘I’ve been to places like this before. I’d say the people are as trustworthy as the ground. Where are our hosts?’
‘They’ll be watching us,’ said Jadriel, ‘to see how we behave when they are absent. They’ll have heard everything you said, sergeant.’
‘Good. I hate hiding behind smiles.’
‘There’s no danger of you hiding behind any kind of smile,’ said Lamorak.
Bedevoir curled his lip at him. ‘This whole mission is a waste of time. This planet is a ball of mud. Forty million people, is that it? What is Dante thinking? Why are we listening to him? There are a thousand systems more important than this within range of the Garde’s engines.’
‘That’s enough, Bedevoir,’ said Ares. ‘Dante is the Regent of Imperium Nihilus, the master of the Blood Angels and our lord.’
‘That’s interesting. I thought the Chapters were supposed to be independent. That’s what they told me in the Unnumbered Sons. Were they wrong?’
‘Peace, brother,’ said Ares. ‘Our new Chapter Master is a Primaris, like you. He agreed to Dante’s plan.’
‘That’s just fine then. I didn’t know Lord Guilliman gave us to you so we could be frittered away on pointless exercises like this. I’m glad that has been cleared up.’ Bedevoir’s resentment at the mission was clear. Jadriel shook his head warningly at him.
‘Communications have been nearly impossible since the rift,’ said Ares. ‘We are to scout every world on the Adeptus Astra maps and every other one that might bear a human presence and report back to Baal. How can we defend Imperium Nihilus if we do not know what we are defending?’
