surprised when Tyrell walked past him and whispered, “We must speak. Meet me behind the vehicle
stable.”
Turk continued stretching, pretending he’d heard nothing. Tyrell vanished behind the vehicle
stable building, and Turk followed.
13
The remaining squadrons approached the tail of the tyranid horde, ten Sentinels against thousands
that seemed hell-bent on ignoring them. Major Hussari’s small task force was a couple of kilometres
behind the swarm and blinded by their dust wake. The Guardsmen spread their formation out and
steered by auspex alone, navigating the flat desert plains with cautious ease.
Another kilometre and the Sentinels were closing the gap fast; they would be in firing range
within a few minutes. The rumble of the tyranid stampede shook through the soles of Hussari’s
boots, and he took deep breaths in anticipation of another long chase. He even wondered if their
adversaries knew they were shortening the gap behind them, but the auspex returned one solid mass
of enemy moving away from them.
65
They were less than a kilometre behind when Hussari gave orders over the micro-bead to go
weapons hot. The guns swivelled in their mounts, the pilots blindly tracking the largest clusters of
enemies, their fingers eager on the triggers. In a matter of moments, the autocannons of the Cadianpattern
birds and the lascannons of the Armageddon-pattern vehicles would be in range. Catachanand
Mars-pattern Sentinels with heavy flamers or multi-laser weapons were paired with the longrange
birds to handle any tyranids that approached too closely.
Half a kilometre away, and the dust storm was blinding.
Suddenly, screams and curses filled the micro-bead. New runes identifying enemy positions by
the hundreds appeared among the Sentinel formations.
“Evasion, evasion!” Hussari cried, but it was too late Tyranids burst from the ground with
lightning fast speed. All that Hussari could see were multiple pairs of scythe arms and a snake-like
lower body ending in, I mandible stinger, all protected by carapace plating. It haemorrhaged a flood
of smaller bugs, behind, electricity dancing between their mandibles.
“It’s a trap,” someone screamed.
Hussari barely avoided the one that broke free of the ruptured earth ahead of him, its scythe arms
slicing too close for comfort. A nearby Sentinel was not so lucky Two snake-like tyranids sank their
scythes into the bird’s legs and brought it down. Hussari ran past it as the tyranids skewered and
pulled the pilot out of the burst cockpit frame, snapping bone and rending flesh. The smaller bugs
swarmed over the screaming pilot, burying him and his cries.
Auspex was a mess, the solid mass of tyranids ahead disintegrating into smaller clusters of
skirmish groups that were doubling back to attack the Sentinels. Hussari cursed and hit the channel
purge on his micro-bead, silencing all screams and cries for help for long enough to issue a single
order.
“Retreat! Full retreat!”
The screams flooded back in, and Hussari cursed the cunning of their adversaries. He continued
running through the dust wake, trying to find other Sentinels to help. He may have issued the retreat
orders, but he was damned if he was going to leave his men stranded.
Hussari came upon Sergeant Hadoori’s Sentinel, which was still standing, but running in a wide
circle. Smaller tyranids were crawling up its frame, a bleeding Hadoori steering with one arm and
screaming as he fired round after round from his laspistol at the creatures swarming his cockpit. One
dropped inside and turned into a frenzy of whipping claws. Hadoori was done for. Hussari angled
his bird straight at the other Sentinel and opened fire with his autocannon. The whine of the spinning
barrels was followed by a steady volley of shots that ripped through tyranid, Sentinel and pilot alike.
It exploded a moment later, the flying shrapnel lacerating the surrounding sand and anything
unfortunate enough to be in the way.
Major Hussari never slowed. He continued running, raking the ground ahead of him with a burst
of autocannon fire, when auspex revealed a ghost of a return, another snake-like tyranid hidden
underground.
Sergeant Iath was losing Mohar’s rune among the throng of tyranid returns on the auspex. It was
growing increasingly difficult to read the battlefield signals; the fight was one large, frantic skirmish
in the thickening dust storm. Particles of energised sand were generating a static charge large
enough to disrupt auspex and vox with ghost images and noise bursts. Screeches, howls and the
thunder of autocannon fire or the crackling whip of las-fire saturated the air, as did the muted hiss of
tyranid bio-weapons.
Mohar screamed over the micro-bead before his transmission cut. A moment later, the dust
storm lit up with a long gout of fire from a heavy promethium flamer. Iath headed in that direction,
firing a fusillade of shots from the rotating barrel of his multi-laser into the tyranids that crossed his
path. The razor beams of light shredded and cauterised any beast they caught, leaving behind
smouldering, dismembered husks. Mohar’s flaming Sentinel abruptly ran into view, the charred
66
remains of Mohar slumped forward on the steering leavers, carbon-cooked tyranids fused against the
hull like a thick coat.
Iath watched the burning Sentinel vanish into the storm, and headed deeper into the fray, trying
to locate others. He arrived in time to see an energised plasma shot splatter against another Sentinel.
The plasma salted the pilot and bored holes into his chest, before the superheated material ate
through the promethium tanks. The fiery explosion devoured Sentinel and tyranid alike, while the
concussion wave toppled Iath’s Sentinel. Iath screamed, the blistering heat and flame of the
explosion flash-searing his exposed flesh and melting cloth to skin. It instantly fused his rubberrimmed
occulars to his face.
The agony overrode reason, and Iath fumbled for the cockpit’s med-kit. It didn’t matter that he
was surrounded by tyranids; it only mattered that he reach the pain killers, that he numb the
excruciating agony that lanced him. His nerves felt devoured by flame and his skin screamed its
anguish into his brain. It killed him to move, his clothing melted into his flesh; every little
movement pulled at the doth, tore open a fresh wound and exposed him to some new profound
torture.
Iath couldn’t grab the med-kit, his gnarled hands burned into fleshy knots. He cried in agony,
until he saw centipede tyranids snaking towards him, their thorny feelers twitching in anticipation,
their hundred legs moving like waves underneath their bodies, their mandibles clacking. Iath
watched them approach and screamed at them to kill him.
He never thought the tyranids would be his measure of mercy.
Auspex didn’t lie, and it was telling him he was surrounded. “Mad” Maraibeh could see the pockets
of tyranids moving through the dust storm, some towards him and others in different directions.
They were organised, each one to its purpose, and none deviated from its course. The Sentinels he
could see on scope had either stopped moving or vanished from the plate altogether. Only one
Sentinel appeared to have escaped the massacre, but it was a wounded bird and limped along at halfspeed.
He was alone in the fight, but the thought did not bother him. He would die serving the Emperor,
and the notion of that glory emboldened him further. Maraibeh opened the micro-bead channel with
its dying voices and began to sing, not of the Emperor and not of his own children, but a popular
melody back home. It was a song sung at the campfires, of men and the pretty women they loved.
Maraibeh smiled at the memory of his wife, feeling her jab him in the ribs, indignant. And, for that,
he loved her all the more.
A superior, Sergeant Hadoori perhaps, yelled at him to clear the micro-bead, but Maraibeh was
too jubilant to comply. There was nothing interesting to hear on the channels… only cries of help
and orders to retreat. So he sang, and opened the nozzles on his flamer to full. He headed to the
largest mob, clearing a path before him by washing the desert with bright promethium flame. A
series of handwritten runes on his auspex marked the different distances and the times to reach
them.
Maraibeh pulled out one of his pipe bombs. When a large tyranid mob on auspex reached the
sixty second mark written on his display plate, Maraibeh cranked his tube charge to seventy
seconds. He dropped the explosive into the satchel resting in the cockpit’s foot well and jammed his
lit cigar into his mouth.
A minute later, he ploughed straight through the mob of tyranids, dancing his Sentinel in a circle
and washing everything he could see in flame. The tyranids were a sea of screeching beasts that
surrounded his bird for as far as he could see, and auspex said they stretched out further than that.
They jumped up on the frame of his exposed cockpit, but he managed to fling them off with crazy
spins that would have thrown most Sentinels on their sides. Shots whizzed by him, but they struck
either air or thick metal. Finally, one of the creatures with scythe arms and clawing arms managed to
67
latch on to the Sentinel and pull its head up to the cockpit. Maraibeh laughed and jammed his lit
cigar into its eye.
The creature screeched and raised its cutting arms to kill Maraibeh.
“Too late,” the madman said.
The pipe bomb exploded and detonated the remaining charges in the satchel. The explosion
engulfed the promethium in the tanks and turned the Sentinel into a massive fireball of sticky flame
and shrapnel. Dozens of screaming tyranids were caught in the deadly blossom, and dozens more
severely wounded.
Hussari’s Sentinel was badly damaged and limping The lights on his control panel fluttered, while
alarms warned him of catastrophic failures and of the fuel leaks that had all but crippled his bird. He
was also bleeding from a forehead gash, opened up by a creature that had got far too close to him
before he shot it off. Still, he wasn’t out of the danger yet. He’d managed to escape the battlefield
through the confusion, the dust storm and the massive explosion that rattled the desert, but not
without picking up a tail or two. Three runners, skipping across the sand with their six legs each,
were overtaking his bird quickly. Hussari, however, wasn’t toothless yet. He pivoted towards them
and fired his autocannon, raking the sand. The hound-like runners were quick, dodging as best they
could, but the major was faster on the trigger. He caught each one in a hailstorm of steel-jacketed
rounds, and cut them down well short of his bird.
On the last shot, his cannon clicked and whined as the empty barrels spun. He had expended the
last of his ammunition.
Hussari continued on his path. From auspex, he was glad to see the distance between his bird
and the tyranids grow wider. He’d escaped for the moment, but there were a couple of things still
left to do. Hussari flipped through the comm-channels, trying to raise his squadrons. No answers. He
was the only one left.
“Home base, this is Runner One, respond.”
There was a pause, followed by Nisri’s voice. “This is home base. Report.”
“My men are all dead. We did all we could.”
“Confirm that,” followed by another pause. “Did you manage to thin their numbers?”
“We pinched them,” Hussari answered. “That’s about it. I hope we bought you the time you
needed, because auspex says they’re heading your way.”
“Roger that,” Nisri responded, his voice strangely vacant. “Can you make it back?”
“Not with this bird, sir. She’s badly hurt. But we hid Private Damask’s Sentinel after he died. I
can reach it.”
“Get back with all due haste, major. We’ll need you here. Colonel Nisri out.”
Hussari clicked the handset back into the locking cradle and swore under his breath. He pushed
his Sentinel as fast as she would go and headed for Damask’s bird. No tyranids followed him.
68
CHAPTER EIGHT
“The mind is for seeing, but it is the heart that listens.”
—The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault
1
Turk listened as Hussari gave his report and signed off. The command bunker returned to its tomblike
quiet. After a moment, Nisri studied the tactical plate and issued terse orders to the operators,
Major Dashour and himself. Commissar Rezail and his adjutant finally left the room to examine the
abatis spear trench laid at the foot of the outside wall using strips of metal from the drop containers.
When Dashour left, Turk walked up to Nisri and made sure to remain absolutely calm
throughout whatever would happen next. He couldn’t get angry. All their lives pivoted on his ability
to remain calm. Tyrell’s advice was still fresh in his mind and he knew that this was the right course
for both men, despite what it meant to their egos.
“I would speak with you as an equal, one prince to another… alone,” Turk said quietly enough
for his words to pass only between him and Nisri, “but I will obey your decision as one soldier to his
superior officer.”
Nisri looked up, a flash of annoyance burning on his face, but Turk would not back down. This
was a matter between two princes and the tribes they commanded.
“Now’s not the time, lieutenant-colonel.”
Turk sat down in front of Nisri and continued whispering, low enough not to draw the attention
of the operators. “I believe it is. You can court-martial me, and you can execute me, but Commissar
Rezail is not here. This is a matter between two tribesmen and not soldiers. Give me a minute. After
that, I will follow your direction as your subordinate, praise the Emperor in all things.”
Nisri sighed and finally stared Turk straight in the eyes. The colonel looked fatigued, the weight
of his decisions and the inevitability of their fate a sure toll on his spirit. “Fine… as one prince to
another, what is it?”
“The caves,” Turk whispered, “you wish them to be a gift to your tribe, correct?”
“Not according to your views,” Nisri responded.
“What I think of the caves is not in question, is it, Prince Dakar? What matters is what the caves
mean to you.”
Nisri thought about it for a moment. “Yes,” he said, finally, “very well. The caves are for my
tribe… for staying true to our faith,” he added as a small jab.
Turk bit down on his words and allowed Nisri his petty moment. “What, then, if you’re being
