Deathwing (8 page)

Emperor for centuries,
their lifespans
increased
by the
process
that
turned
them into Marines.

"If I had
remained among the
people,"
Weasel-Fierce said. "I would be
dead
by
now.
I chose
another
path
and
I
have lived long – longer perhaps
than
any
mortal should.

"It is time for an ending.
Where
better
than
here, on our homeworld, among the
bones
of our kin? The day
of the
Plains People is done.
We can avenge
them, and
we can join
them.
If
we
fall
in
combat,
we
shall
have
had
warriors' deaths.
I wish to die as
I have
lived: weapons
in hand,
foes
before me.

"I believe that
this
is what we all want. Let us
do it."

All was quiet
except the
crackling of the
fire. Cloud Runner looked from face to face and
saw death
was
written
in
each of
them.
Weasel
Fierce
had
voiced
what
they
had
all
felt
since
first
seeing
the shattered
lodges.
They
had
become wraiths, walking in the
ruins
of elder days.

There was nothing
left here for them, except memories.
If
they
departed
now,
all
that
loomed
before
them
was
old
age and
inevitable death.
This way, at least,
their ending
would have
a meaning.

"I say
we go in. If the
contamination
has
not
spread
too
far, we can free any survivors,"
said
Lame
Bear.
Cloud
Runner looked at Bloody Moon.

"Providing
we command Deathwing to virus-bomb
the
planet
if we fail," he said. The rest
of the
warriors
put
their
right fists
forward,
signifying
assent.
They
all
looked
at
him,
waiting
to
see
what
he
had
to
say.
He
felt
once
more
the pressure
of command fall on him. He considered
the
destroyed
lodges
and
his own
loss
and
weighed
them
against
his Imperial duty.
Nothing
could
bring back the
Plains People, but perhaps
he could
save
their descendants.

But
that
was
not
all
there
was
to
it,
he
realised.
He
wanted
the
satisfaction
of
meeting
his
foes,
face
to
face.
He
was angry.
He
wanted
to
make
the
Stealers
suffer
for
what
they
had
done,
and
he
wanted
to
be
there
when
they
did.
He wanted vengeance
for himself and
for his people.
It was as
simple as
that.
Such
a
decision
was
not
the
correct
one
for an Imperial officer, but
it was the
way of his clan. In the
end, to his surprise,
he found
out
where his true loyalty lay.

"I say
we fight,"
he said
at last. "But we fight as
Warriors of the
People. This battle
is not
for
the
Emperor.
It
is
for
our murdered
clans. Our
last
battle
shall
be
fought
in
accordance
with
our
ancient
ways.
Let
us
perform
the
rite
of

Deathwing."

Two
Heads
Talking
ran
for
his life.
Through
the
darkened streets,
Genestealers pursued,
loping
along,
swift
and deadly.
He sensed
their presence
all around.

He leapt over a
pile
of
rubbish
which
lay
in
his
path
and
swept
round
a
corner
into
a
main
road.
Two
workers
poked their heads through
a doorway
to see
what was going
on. They
swiftly withdrew.

Two Heads
Talking ran wearily. His heart
was
pounding,
and
his
breathing
was
ragged.
The
strain
of
maintaining
the spell of concealment
for so
long had
sapped
his strength.
He wondered
how long he could
keep up this
pace.

He risked a
swift
glance
over
his
shoulder.
A
Genestealer
had
just
rounded
the
comer.
He
fired
his
storm
bolter
at
it, but
his shot
was inaccurate,
and
the
Stealer lurched
back into cover.

Sensing
danger
in
front
of
him,
he
turned.
From
out
of
a shadowy
doorway,
a
Stealer
uncoiled.
He
had
just enough time to raise his force axe before it sprang.
He thrust
the
blade
out
before
him, chopping
into
the
monster's
chest.
The momentum
of
the
thing's
charge
knocked
him
over.
A
claw
cut
into
his
arm,
searing
it
with
pain.
If
his
blow
had
not landed
cleanly, he realised, he would have
been
dead.

Ignoring
the
pain, he rolled onto
his belly,
catching
a
clear
glimpse
of
his pursuers
as
they
charged.
He
squeezed
the trigger of his bolter and stitched
a line of fire across
their chests.
The strength
of the
armour allowed him to hurl off
the ambusher's carcass
with ease.
He continued
on his way.

Not
much
further,
he thought,
forcing
himself
to
reel
onward.
He
could
see
the
huge
walls
jutting
upward
above nearby
buildings.
He recited a spell to free his mind of pain and
made for the
gates.

His heart
sank
when he saw what awaited him - a mass of hunched,
evil-faced men with
dark,
piercing
eyes.
Some
held ancient-looking
energy
weapons.
Some
gripped
blades
in
their
three hands.
Towering
over
them
were
purestrain Genestealers,
flexing their claws menacingly. Two Heads
Talking came to a halt. facing his foes.

For
a
moment.
they
eyed
each
other
in
respectful
silence.
The
Librarian
commended
his
spirit
to
the Emperor.
Soon Deathwing
would
be
carrying
him
off.
His
bolter
was
almost
empty.
With
only
his
force axe,
he
knew
he
could
not withstand
so many.
As
if
at
an unspoken
signal,
the
Genestealer
and
their
brood surged forward.
A
bolt
from
an energy
weapon
burned
into his armour, melting one
of
the
skulls
on
his chest
plate.
He
gritted
his
teeth
and
returned fire, cutting
a great
swathe
of death.
There was a loud click as
his bolter jammed. He did not
have
the
time to clear it,
so he charged
to meet his foes,
chanting
his death-chant.

He rushed
into a sea
of bodies
that
pressed
against
him, hitting
him with
blades
and
rending
claws.
He
summoned
the last
dregs
of his strength
to power his force axe and
swung
it in a great
double
arc. He lopped
off heads
and
limbs
with a
will,
but
for
every
foe
who
fell,
another
stepped
into
place.
He
could
not
guard
himself
against
all
their
blows,
and soon
he bled from scores
of great
wounds.

Life fled from him, and
overhead
he thought
he heard
the
beating
of mighty pinions.
Deathwing
has
come,
he thought, just
before a blow smashed
into his head
and
all consciousness
fled.

Cloud Runner paused
briefly
before
he
painted
out
his
personal cloud-and-thunderbolt
insignia
on
his
armour's
right shoulder;
He
felt
changed.
By
blanking
out
his
Imperial
insignia,
he
had
blanked
out
part
of
himself,
cut
himself
off from part of his history.
Slowly he began
to etch
in new totem signs
on the
armour, the
marks
of vengeance
and
death. As
he did so,
he felt the
powers
of the
totem spirits
begin
to enter
him.

He looked at Weasel-Fierce. The gaunt
man had
finished
painting
out
all the
icons
on his armour. It was now white, the colour of death,
except on its left shoulder,
where the
skull had
been
left unchanged.
It seemed somehow appropriate.

They
performed
a
rite
that
dated
back
to
ancient
times,
before
the
Emperor
had
come
to
tame
the
thunderbirds.
Only once
before
had
Cloud
Runner
seen
it
performed.
As
a boy,
he
had
watched
a party
of
old
warriors,
sworn
to vengeance,
paint
their
bodies
white
and
go
after
a
horde
of
Hill
Clan
raiders
that
had killed
a
small
child.
They
had painted
their bodies
the
funeral colour because
they
did not
expect to return from facing so
overwhelming a foe.

Bloody Moon
looked over from beside
the
fire and
gave
him a weak grin. Cloud Runner walked over to him.

"Ready
.
old friend?" he asked.
Bloody Moon nodded.
Cloud Runner bent
over the
fire and
put
his
hands
into
the
ash. He pressed
his palms, fingers together,
flat against
his face, making the
sign
of Deathwing on each
cheek.

"I wish Two Heads
Talking would return."
said
Bloody Moon,
repeating
Cloud Runner's
gesture.

"He may yet
surprise
you."

Bloody Moon
looked doubtful.
Cloud Runner gestured
for the
warriors
to
assemble.
They
formed
into
a
circle
around the
dead
fire. One by one, they
began
to chant
their death-songs.

Even as
they
carried him through
the
long steel
corridors,
Two Heads
Talking knew he was
dying.
Life
leaked
from
his wounds.
With every
drop
of blood
that
dribbled over his bearers,
he became weaker.

It
felt
like
some
evil
dream,
being
borne
down
dimly
lit tunnels
by
the hunched,
daemonic
figures
of
the
Genestealer brood.
The
Librarian
watched these
events through
a
fog
of
pain,
wondering
why
he
was
still
alive.
Part
of
his
mind realised that
he was within whatever vessel
had
carried the
brood
to his homeworld.

Agony
lanced through
him
as
one
of
his
bearers
jolted
him
slightly. It
took
all
his
will
power
not
to
scream.
They

entered
a long hall in
which
a hunched,
dreadful
figure
waited.
He
was
placed
on
the
floor
in
front
of
it.
It
cocked
its head
to one
side, studying
him.

Tears
ran
down
the
Librarian's
face
from
the
pain
as
he
forced
himself
to
his
feet.
Genestealer guards
raced
towards him, but
the
huge
creature
glanced
at them, and
they
froze in position.

Two
Heads
Talking
stood
unsteadily,
knowing
he
faced
a
Genestealer
Patriarch.
He
had
heard
dim
legends
of such things,
the
progenitors
of entire broods,
the
most ancient
of their lines.