Deathwing (3 page)

"And
we never
knew," he
said
softly.
"Our
clans
have
been
dead
for
years,
and
we
never
knew.
It
was
a
cursed
day when we rode the
Deathwing back to our homeworld."

The
squad
leaders
stood
silent.
The
moon
broke through
the
clouds.
Below
them.
in
the
valley.
they
saw
the
faded outline
of a giant
winged skull cut
into the
earth.

"What
is that?"
asked
Weasel-Fierce. "It was not
here when last I stalked
in the
valley."

Lame Bear gave
him an odd
look. Cloud Runner knew that
his old friend had
never
pictured
the
brave
of an
enemy
clan walking in his people's
sacred
valley. Even after a century,
the
taciturn,
skeletal man could
still surprise
them.

"It was where our spirit talkers made magic." answered
Lame Bear.

"They
must have
tried to summon Deathwing, the
bearer of the
Warriors from the
Sky. They
must have
been desperate to attempt such a summons. 'They trusted
us
to protect
them. We never
came."

Cloud Runner heard
Weasel-Fierce growl. "We
will avenge
them." he said.

Lame Bear nodded
agreement. "We
will go in and
scour
the
city."

"We
number only thirty, against possibly
an entire city of Stealers. The Codex is quite
clear on situations
like
this.
We should
virus
bomb
the
planet
from
orbit."
Cloud
Runner
said,
listening
to
the
silence
settle.
Lame
Bear
and Weasel-Fierce
looked at him, appalled.

"But what of
our
people?
They
may
still
survive,"
Lame
Bear
said,
like
a
man
without
much
hope.
"We
must
at
least consider
that
possibility
before we cleanse
our homeworld of life."

Weasel-Fierce
had
gone
pale. Cloud Runner had
never
seen
him look so
dismayed.

"I cannot
do it."
he
said
softly.
"Can
you.
Brother
Captain?
Can
you
give
the
order
that
will destroy
our
world
-
and our people
- forever?"

Cloud Runner felt the
weight of terrible responsibility
settle
on him. His duty
was clear. Here
on
this
world
was
s
great threat
to the
Imperium. His word would condemn
his entire people
to oblivion. He tried
not
to
consider
that
Lame
Bear might be right, that
the
People
might
not
yet
be
totally enslaved
by
the
Genestealers.
But
the
thought nagged
at
him most of all because
he hoped
it was true. He stood
frozen for a moment, paralysed
by the
enormity of the
decision.

"The
choice
is not yours
alone. Cloud Runner."
said
Weasel-Fierce. "It is a matter for all the
warriors of the
People." Cloud
Runner
looked
into
his
burning
eyes.
Weasel-Fierce
had
invoked
the
ancient
ritual;
by
rights,
it should
be answered.
The Terminator Captain looked at Lame Bear. The giant's
face was grim.

Cloud Runner nodded.
"There
must be a Gathering." he said.

Two Heads
Talking saw a commotion break out across
the
square.
A squad
of bluecoats
forced the
maimed beggars
to one
side. People were crushed
underfoot
as
they
pushed through
the
throng
like a blade through
flesh.

The Librarian dropped
back toward the
entrance
of
a
tavern.
A
surly
bravo
with
fresh-scarred
cheeks
came
too
close. He raised his truncheon
to
strike
Two
Heads
Talking, obviously
perceiving
him
as
one
of
the
throng.
It bounced
off the
carapace
of his Terminator armour. The bluecoat squinted
in astonishment
at him, and
then
backed
away.

A
palanquin
borne
by
two squat,
shaven-headed
men
in
brown
uniforms
moved through
the
path
cleared
by
the bully-boys.
Two Heads
Talking looked at the
sign
of a
four-armed
man
on
its
side
and
a
thrill
of
fear
passed through him. His worst
suspicions
were justified.

"Alms
;
Elder,
give
us
alms."
the
crowd
pleaded,
voices
merging
into
one
mighty
roar.
Many
had abased
themselves and
kneeled, stumps
and
grasping
hands
outstretched
in supplication
towards
the
palanquin.

A
curtain
in
its
side
was
pulled
back,
and a
short,
fat
man
stepped
out.
His
pale
skin
had
a
bluish
tint,
and
he
was wearing a rich suit
of black cloth, a white waistcoat
and
high, black
leather boots.
A
four-armed pendant
dangled
from a
chain
hanging
around
his
neck.
His
head
was
totally
hairless,
and
he
had
piercing
black
eyes.
He
gazed
out
at
the crowd and
smiled gloatingly,
great
jowls rippling backward to give him a dozen small chins.

He
reached
down
and
found
a
purse.
The
crowd
held
its
breath
expectantly.
For
a second,
his
gaze
fell on
the Librarian,
and
he
looked
puzzled.
A
frown
crossed
his
face.
Two
Heads
Talking
felt
a
tug
on
his
leg
and
fell
to
one knee,
although
it
went
against
the
grain
to
kneel
to
anything except
the image
of
the Emperor.
He
felt
that
malign glance
linger upon
him and
wondered
whether
the
fat man had
somehow penetrated
his bound
spirits'
disguise

All the
squads
gathered
around
the
fire. The great
logs
smouldered
in the
dark, underlighting
the
faces
of
the
Marines, making
them
look
daemonic.
Behind
them.
Deathwing
sat
on
its
landing
claws, a
bulwark
against
the
darkness.
He knew that beyond
it lay the
city of their enemy, where dwelled abomination.

Nearest
the
fires squatted
the
squad
leaders,
faces
impassive.
Behind
them
were
their
men.
in
full
battle
regalia,
storm bolters
and
flamers near at hand.
Firelight glittered on the
winged swords
painted
on
their
shoulder
pieces.
'Their
garb was Imperial. but
the
scarred
faces
that
showed
in the
firelight belonged
to the
Plains People.

He had
known these
men for so
long
that
not
even
Two
Heads
Talking
could
have
done
a
better
job
of
reading
their mood.
In
each
stem
visage,
he
saw
a
thirst
for vengeance
and
a
desire for
death.
The
warriors
wished
to
join
their clansmen
in
the
spirit
realm.
Cloud
Runner.
too,
felt
the
tug
of
his
ancestral
spirits,
their
clamour
to
be
avenged.
He tried to ignore their voices.
He was a soldier of the
Emperor. He had
other
duties
than
to his people.

"We
must
fight."
said
Weasel-Fierce.
"The
dead
demand
it.
Our
clans
need
to
be
avenged.
If
any
of
our
people survive,
they
must be liberated. Our honour
must be reclaimed."

"There
are
many
kinds
of honour."
responded
Bloody
Moon.
'We
honour
the
Emperor.
Our
Terminator suits
are
the

badge
of that
honour.
They
are signs
of the
honour
our Chapter does
us.
Can we risk losing
all
traces
of
our
Chapter's ancient
heritage
to the
Stealers?"

"For a hundred
centuries.
the
armour we wear has
borne
Marines
safely through
battle.
The suits
will
not
fail
us
now."

replied Weasel-Fierce hotly.
"We
can only add
to their honour
by slaughtering
our foe."

"Brother
Marius. Brother Paulo, pray, silence."
Cloud Runner said, invoking formality
by
the
use
of
Chapter
ritual
and calling
Weasel-Fierce
and
Bloody
Moon
by
the
names
they
had
taken
on
when
they
had
become
Marines.
The
two Terminators bowed
their heads,
acknowledging
the
gravity
of the
moment.

"Forgive
us.
Brother Captain, and
name penance.
We are at your
service.
Semper fideles."
they
replied.

"No
penance
is
necessary."
Cloud
Runner
looked
around
the fire.
All
eyes
were
upon
him.
He
weighed
his
words carefully before he spoke
again.

"We
are gathered
tonight,
not
as
soldiers
of
the
Emperor,
but
by
ancient
custom,
as
warriors
of
the
People.
To
this, I give my blessing
as
Captain
and
War
chief.
We
are
here
as
speakers
for
our
clans,
joined
in brotherhood
so
that
we might speak
with one
voice, think as
one
mind and
discern
the
correct path
for all our peoples."

Cloud Runner knew his words
rang
false. Those present
were
not
speakers
for
their
clans.
They
were
their
clans
-
all that
was left. Still, the
ritual had
been
invoked
and
must be kept to.

"Within
this
circle there
will be no violence. Till the
ending
of this
gathering,
we will be as
one
clan."

It was strange
to speak
those
words
to warriors who had
fought
together
in a thousand
battles
under
a
hundred
suns. Yet
it
was
the
ancient
rite
of
meeting,
meant
to
ensure
peaceful discourse
among
the
warriors
of
rival
tribes.
He
saw some Marines
nod.

Suddenly
.
it
felt
right.
The
ways
of
their
people
had
been
born
on
this
world,
and
while
they
were
here,
they
would keep
to
them.
In
this
time and
space,
they
were bound
by
the
ties
of
their
common
heritage.
Each
needed
the reassurance
after the
trials of the
day.

'We must speak
concerning
the
fate of our world and
our honour
as
warriors.
This
is
a
matter
of
life
and
death.
Let
us speak honestly,
according
to the
manner of our people."

The Elder fondled
his chain of office and continued
to stare
at Two Heads
Talking. A
frown
creased
his
high, bulbous

forehead
.
Abruptly,
he looked away and
fumbled in his purse.

A ragged
cheer went up from the
crowd as
he threw handfuls
of gleaming
iron
tokens
out
to
them,
then
withdrew
into his palanquin
to witness
the
scramble. The Marine watched
people
grovel
in
the dust,
scrambling
for
coins.
He
shook his
head
in
disgust
as
he
entered
the
tavern.
Even
the
most
debased hive
world
dweller
would
have
shown
more dignity
than
the
rabble outside.