shucking noise. Something was stabbing his legs with millions of needles, each one tipped white
hot. His mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out. He squeezed his fingers, desperately trying
to flick the detonator switch, but his hand was empty. The sickening realisation hit him, and the pain
at his feet turned into searing agony. He looked, and through the wash of tears, realised that a giant
slug-like creature with plated armour had devoured his legs up to his knees. Articulated lobster arms
ringed the creature’s head and slowly fed Kortan’s body into its maw, piercing and pulling, piercing
and pulling.
Through the haze of pain, Kortan could see large leathery pouches lining the creature’s flanks.
The pouches undulated and writhed, and Kortan saw the acid-eaten hands and faces of his fellow
soldiers pressed against the skin. They were being devoured slowly while the other tyranids
watched.
Kortan screamed and fought the blackness that tried to claim his senses. Something caught his
eye, something familiar, in the rubble next to him. He grabbed for it, unable to remember through
the pain what it did. A switch gleamed on the box. There was a loud rumble outside, the foot
tremors of something huge.
Kortan remembered and forgot, and then remembered again through the fire that ate at his every
nerve.
He flipped the switch, and saw the first explosion blossom. It seemed to erupt in silence, the
light and heat driven through him, pushing away all sound. The bow-wave of air broke him; the fire
consumed him; everything went black and mercifully cool.
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CHAPTER NINE
“Write your misery in sand, but carve your blessings in marble.”
—The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault
1
Turk and Nisri waited in the command Chimera, which sat inside the mouth of Cavern Apostle,
alongside a handful of other vehicles. Two Sentinels stood guard over them, ready to provide heavy
fire support when the time came. Drums of fuel stood nearby, alongside ammo crates, explosives
and any other supplies deemed necessary to the defence of the caverns.
The two men listened to the vox-chatter coming from the Sentinel pilots still outside the caves.
The explosion that engulfed the compound was massive, the stock of artillery shells enough to prove
devastating. The top of the plateau looked like a burnt cigar, ash, smoke and all.
“What of the tyranids?” Nisri asked.
“They were dealt a heavy blow,” the pilot reported. “Major Hussari and the others managed to
anger a second group heading your way. The explosion destroyed over a quarter of their forces
along with a giant beast that measured the plateau’s height.”
Nisri and Turk exchanged glances, but Nisri nodded. Yes, he had heard of tyranids growing to
such proportions.
“They’re more siege engine than beast. It’s good the creature was never allowed to reach us, or
it would have peeled open this mountain.”
Turk nodded. “What are the tyranids doing now?” Turk asked, speaking into the vox.
“Regrouping, by the looks of it, but it’s slow going. They seem… sluggish.”
Nisri cupped the mouthpiece of the vox-caster. A smile crept across his face, some of the tension
evaporating. This was a reprieve, a small one at best, but a reprieve nonetheless. “The major must
have dealt a blow to the tyranids’ hive-mind by killing some of the lynchpins,” he told Turk. “They
are trying to reorganise, but it’s bought us the time we need.”
Turk understood. “I’ll tell the men that the sacrifice was not in vain.” With that, he headed out of
the Chimera and raced off to pass the word around.
“Let me know the minute they begin moving. Are you or your men in any danger?”
“Negative, sir. We’re far enough away so that, even if they give chase, we’ll reach the caves
before they do.”
“Even from the flyers?” Nisri asked. He remembered the gargoyle-like tyranids, their quick
strikes lightning fast and more than enough to scatter a properly mounted defence.
“Most of the flyers died in the explosion. We’re more than a match for the handful we can see.”
“Very well. Keep your eyes and vox-channel open. Nisri out.”
He patted the vox-operator on the shoulder and instructed him to report every bit of data that
came over the line. Nisri then left the Chimera to oversee the cave’s defences. At the very least, a
glimmer of hope was peaking through the storm of recent events. The base camp had given them
breathing space to prepare, and they proved that the tyranids were not limitless. The regiment was
fortunate that only one ship landed, and Nisri hoped that whatever battle had forced them to make
planetfall alone, would also be the source of their rescue.
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2
Turk moved past the men laying down another bundle of explosives, through to the tunnel where
Nubis was briefing the squad leaders on the planned defences for the cave, while sixteen Guardsmen
milled about. Nearby, a group of men was sandbagging a gunnery nest pointing down the throat of a
chokepoint. The new quartermaster, Sabaak, was moving past them when he spotted Turk.
“Sir,” Sabaak said, tapping the rolled up cloth tied to his back on Y-ring straps. “I was given the
892nd’s banner. Should I hang it in the cavern? You know, to inspire the men?”
“Killing your share of tyranids will inspire the men. We’ll fly the banner when the time comes.”
With that, he moved further down the corridor.
The tunnel was wide enough to fit a Chimera through, though the twists and turns, rise and fall
of the passage would have prevented most vehicles from successfully navigating it. The chokepoint
was a straight way that ended at an intersection. Turk knew, from the initial briefing, that this
corridor and the one to the left of them branched away from the main passage. It was a “Y”
intersection with each side tunnel sandbagged, mined and protected by two tripod-mounted stub
cannons. Any creature entering the junction would be caught in a lethal crossfire with no cover.
Nubis paused, but Turk nodded for him to continue his briefing. He was quite curious as to the
defences Nubis’ men emplaced. Nubis returned to the wall, where he’d painted a crude schematic to
the tunnels in lume-paint.
“We know the tyranids have a sharp sense of smell, so we’ve slaughtered some of the dromad
and muukali and left them in the dead-ends,” he said, pointing to several tunnels that simply
stopped. “Anything that goes after the carcasses will trip the explosives and collapse the caves on
top of them.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to simply collapse all the tunnels before they get here and wait for
rescue?” Captain Lakoom Nehari asked. He was a slight man with ebony-skin, his frame more
suited to keeping ledgers than fighting wars.
“Strange question coming from a Turenag officer,” Nubis said. “I’m being practical.”
Nubis sighed. The tyranids have diggers? Collapse the tunnels and they’ll dig us out. Only… we
won’t know where they’ll be coming from. Which tunnel? Above us from the roof? Below us from
the ground? This way, we control the fight for as long as possible, kill as many as we can in the
collapse, and hope it’s enough to frighten them off.
“Now, speaking of explosives,” Nubis continued, “each of the four skirmish tunnels are marked
at intervals. Look,” he said, shutting off the light perched on the sandbags next to him. Darkness fell
across the corridor, the walls illuminated by green patches of lume-paint. Further down the tunnel,
however, at intervals of ten metres or so, were painted rings. “We’ve placed explosive charges at
each interval. Two of my men will be with each platoon, to trigger the explosives if… when the
tyranids advance that far.”
“Won’t the tunnels collapse?” Captain Toria asked.
“Only if I want them to,” Nubis snapped. “The charges are shaped fragmentation charges,
designed to kill anything in their path. They have nothing to do with the charges that we drilled into
the walls.”
“And the last circle?” Toria asked, undeterred and pointing to the ring a few metres from them.
“That’s your signal to make your peace with the Emperor.”
Nubis dismissed the other officers with a nod, but held back the group of sixteen soldiers. Turk
did not know them by name, but he knew them to be Nubis’ anti-armour and mortar support squads,
men whose expertise in the caves was practically useless.
“You know what is expected of you?” Nubis asked.
The men nodded.
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“I want you to operate in crews of two. Once the explosives detonate, you’ll be trapped outside
with them… or worse.”
“We war for the Emperor,” one said. “We understand.”
“Aya,” the others said quietly, almost as if they were sharing a joke.
“Good. Grab your gear and find somewhere to hide.”
Nubis dismissed the men and caught Turk’s eye. He glanced away, his eyes barely hiding the
storm of his thoughts. He removed his shirt and went to help the Guardsmen add more sandbags to
the heavy stubber nest.
“I heard,” Nubis said, adding a sandbag to the wall. Shirtless, his ebony black skin glistened, and
the old lash scars on his back stood out like rough ropes. “The camp bought us more time. Hussari
and the others are heroes to the Emperor.”
“Yes,” Turk said. “Stop a moment. Let me see your eyes when you speak.”
Nubis sat against the sandbags, his fierce black eyes glittering. Turk knew that there was no
animosity in them, at least none towards him, but he knew when the Master Gunnery Sergeant was
angry or on the warpath His eyes shone with a fierce determination to get the job done right, and to
inflict as much pain as possible while doing it.
“What passed between Kortan and you?” Turk asked. “Did it have anything to do with that
night? When Anuman and the others died?”
“Sir,” Nubis replied, “the quartermaster died a hero to the regiment, and I am the last one who
speaks ill of the dead. It invites bad luck.”
Turk nodded. “I understand, my friend.” He sat down beside Nubis and dismissed the other
Guardsmen with a nod. After they’d left, he fished a worn metal container out of a pouch on his belt
rigging and flipped it open Three hand-rolled, brown ash sticks were tucked under an elastic band.
Nubis smiled. “You’ve been holding out on me, Iban Salid,” he said, slipping out one of the
offered sticks. “Thank you. From that old man in the Kufai bazaar?”
“He hand-rolled them just for me,” Turk said. He pulled out a small box of matchsticks.
“Ah,” Nubis said with an appreciative smile.
“The old man was specific,” Turk said, striking a long match, and letting it burn a moment. He
cupped it and offered it to Nubis, who dipped his stick in the flame. “Let the cedar-rose match burn
for two seconds to draw out the flavour,” he said before bringing the match to his own stick.
“Mmm,” Nubis replied, drawing in a long drag of the rich flavour, and letting the smoke curl
away. “This is good. It tastes like—”
“Home,” Turk replied. “I know… I miss it too.”
They smoked for a while, each man lost to his private thoughts, the smoky haze a pleasant
diversion, and an even more pleasant reminder of better days. Finally, as their sticks approached that
last pinch of breath, Turk said, “I wanted to thank you, my friend.”
“For what?”
“For keeping your word, for stopping Anuman from shooting more of Nisri’s men, for being a
soldier I could rely upon and a man whose word I could trust.”
Nubis nodded and then slipped his hand over Turk’s. “You’re welcome, but I could never marry
you. You’re just… too ugly for my tastes.”
Turk pulled his hand away. “Bastard,” he said, laughing.
3
Commissar Rezail took a deep breath of the limestone and jungle flavoured air, hoping to remember
it forever before the smell of blood and cordite painted its stench over everything. Apostle was busy
with the rumble of idling engines and men shouting orders to one another, but a few steps into the
84
jungle, and all the noise seemed to evaporate. For a moment, just one tranquil moment, Rezail could
imagine he was, in fact, enjoying paradise.
“Let me ask you something,” Rezail said, hating to break the silence. He faced his adjutant, a
look of utmost gravity in his expression. “Did you offer Lieutenant Colonel Iban Salid advice on
how to address and approach Colonel Dakar. Their… understanding was too sudden given their
history.”
Tyrell hesitated for a moment before looking down at his feet. He nodded. “I am sorry,
commissar, but I saw a way out of the predicament.”
“And you didn’t trust me enough to speak with me first?”
“No no, commissar,” Tyrell responded, immediately panicked. “It is only that… the advice I
offered is from one tribesmen to another. I would never go behind your back… I swear.”
Rezail shook his head. “Never again, understood? If I was a lesser commissar, I would have shot
you on the spot for toying with my trust.”
“No, commissar, thank you. I never intended to be disloyal.”
“Very well,” Rezail said. “Apology accepted, on condition that this is the last time.”
“Yes, commissar.”
They walked further into the jungle, brushing aside the growth.
“But I am curious… what is it you told the lieutenant-colonel that you didn’t think you could
trust me with?”
“It is not that I didn’t trust you, commissar,” Tyrell explained. “It’s just hard to explain.”
“Try,” Rezail said, stopping to face Tyrell. “Take your time.”
Tyrell thought it through for a moment, trying to plot out the best way to address the matter.
Finally, he took a deep breath and allowed the explanation to flow of its own accord.
“Understand, commissar, that for Tallarn tribesmen, whatever is learnt in the cradle is carried
with them to the grave.”
“Go on.”
“The first lesson learnt by someone like Iban Salid, a Banna, is that the Aba Aba Mushira is the
supreme ruler of all. Service to him is absolute. The second thing he learns is that the word of the
Orakle is absolute, for he carries the word of the Emperor. The third thing he learns is that he must
avenge any wrongs against his tribe.”
“That has been this regiment’s problem from the beginning,” Rezail said with a sigh. “They
should remember their duty to the Emperor first and foremost.” The entire matter bothered him, and
he felt like he was presiding over a family squabble rather than a regiment.
“Yes, commissar, but if I may speak frankly?”
“Go on.”
“Please don’t shoot me.”
“Go on!”
“Yes, commissar,” Tyrell said, clearly nervous. “You do not… appreciate the problem. You
