TWENTY-FIVE

A shot whined over Hauptmann’s shoulder as he plunged through the darkness. It struck someone behind him, a low grunt presaging the thud of a body hitting the ground. He gave a silent prayer of thanks to Lennox, the sniper’s night-sight watching them from somewhere ahead.

He had little sense of direction, this place smothered it, but he ran anyway, the stablight on his weapon jerking spasmodically.

One of the Slokans had died first. After that voice, the man had turned, heavy autogun raised and about to strafe… His head disappeared. It simply broke apart, like a grenade had detonated inside his skull. Hauptmann still felt the flecks of matter and bone chips clinging to his uniform where they had stuck to him.

Venetor let off a burst, hot las streaking the darkness. He hit nothing, his beams raking metal and stone. More scorch marks to add to the rest. An impact to his chest spun him. He made an ungainly half pirouette before Hauptmann saw the charred remains of his torso, like something had taken a bite out of him. As he collapsed, Hauptmann sounded the retreat.

Pukk needed little convincing, cracking off shots in indiscriminate panic with his shitty lascarbine. The other Slokan tried to stand his ground, pride and a burning need for revenge fixing his feet. He got off two shots before the flames took him and then he was just burning meat.

Hauptmann caught a glimpse of them then, as the fire flared and faded. Definitely Pact, but of a different caste to the others. Good ­armour, better weapons. And something else, long-limbed and hunched, lurking behind the warriors.

They ran, because what else could they do?

Another shot clipped the metal deck plate clanging madly with his frantic footfalls, and Hauptmann changed direction. Pukk went with him. Zarek was gone; dead or alive, he didn’t know.

Then he saw the glint of a sniper sight like a lighthouse beacon and made for it. A slew of hard rounds pranged in front of him, forcing Hauptmann to turn again, but he had found his north star now and rallied to it. They are trying to herd us, he realised belatedly as Pukk got siphoned off in a different direction. Hauptmann called out to him but got no reply. He was on his own. Him and Lennox, cavaliers to the end, retreating to fight another day. Hauptmann was a pragmatist above all else; he’d take discretion over valour any saint’s day.

That glint again, and another sniper’s bullet whipping fast and near. It put down another pursuer, the figure crumpling noisily to the deck. The ladder loomed ahead; Hauptmann could just see its edges and the narrow halo from the shaft. He ran harder, though every breath burned like a hot razor. Throne, it felt like miles rather than yards.

Another round coughed from Lennox’s rifle. Another kill. The lad had a knack and an iron nerve Hauptmann knew he personally lacked. Some men are made for killing, they’re just naturally disposed to it. Others have it thrust upon them, the need to survive forging something callous in them that enables the taking of another life. Hauptmann was the latter but Lennox had a rare thing. A soldier’s cold instinct without loss of humanity. He fought for his Emperor, as all good soldiers of the Imperium do, but he also fought for his wife back on Pardua, for the sons and daughters he wanted to have, for hope and an end to war. Lennox was the kind of man who would put away his rifle when the fight was done, and take up tools instead, create and not destroy. So young, so gifted.

Let him have peace, thought Hauptmann. God-Emperor, let us escape this hole and let him have peace.

So close. The ladder resolved fully as if proximity to it, to what he knew was real and true, bled away the unnatural darkness. He didn’t see Lennox, and assumed the lad had mounted the ladder and was on his way. Hauptmann made for the halo beneath it. Another few steps and he’d be there.

A light flared, so sudden and bright he staggered.

The ladder disappeared for a few seconds behind magnesium brightness. When he had recovered, Hauptmann slowed and stopped running.

They had Zarek. He was on his knees, hands bound behind his back, gagged. Pukk knelt beside him, afraid, frantic. Then Lennox. His eyes held an apology, but Hauptmann gave the slightest shake of his head. The lad had nothing to be sorry for.

A Pact warrior was tying his hands, as another appraised his rifle, weighing up the spoils. Three more stood behind them, one for each man. They wore heavy armour, bloodstained and daubed in sigils that hurt to look at for too long, like the rest of the Pacted, but better made. An officer stood apart from the others, his scarred hand on the pommel of his sword. A row of spikes crested his helm and his grotesk gleamed like polished silver. He rasped an order.

Hauptmann didn’t understand the guttural dialects of the Sanguinary tribes but he knew an ultimatum when he heard one. Surrendering to the Pact was ill-advised. He had heard stories, seen the cruciform bodies lashed to iron octeds. They hadn’t killed them yet, which meant they needed them for something. Hauptmann took no comfort from that, but alive at least they could still fight.

‘It’s not your fault, lad,’ he said to Lennox as he lowered his weapon.

A rifle stock to the back of the knees put him down like all the rest. Rough hands yanked his arms back. Wire bit into his wrists as his bonds were tied.

He wished Lennox had never come to this war, that he’d never left his young wife.

‘Never the last ride,’ he said, just as his captor applied the gag.

Lennox smiled that easy smile of his, like warm sun on a cold day.

One of the Pacted asked a question, the words a collision of hard consonants and cut vowels. The officer answered in Low Gothic so Hauptmann and the others could understand.

‘We only need three,’ he said, and shot Lennox in the head.