and dropped to the floor with a clatter.
‘All on board, Correlan. Give us a few moments to ensure that our fallen battle-brother is secure.’
‘Understood. Good to have you back, sergeant.’
Gileas removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. Already the words for his report to
Captain Meyoran were forming clearly in his mind. They had been sent down to this planet for one thing
and yet had found something entirely different and unexpected.
Bhehan remained standing at the edge of the landing ramp, staring down at the jungle. He reached
into his pouch to draw a random rune and instead pulled out the eldar stone. Considering it thoughtfully,
he indulged in a moment’s wild curiosity as to what sort of portent the Emperor was sending him.
As his hand closed around it, he became aware of a strong push against the wards he had set in
place, wards that had no doubt gone a long way towards allowing him to see through the kroot’s
duplicitous scheming. This mental touch was no wild and instinctual thing, though. This press against his
defences was nearly as disciplined and practiced as his own. A sudden flicker of movement caught his
eye.
At the jungle’s edge, barely visible in the dusk and what remained of the light cast by the
Thunderhawk, Bhehan saw it. A solitary figure. Tall, seemingly all whipcord muscle and sinew, the huge
kroot stood boldly in direct sight of the Thunderhawk. To all intents and purposes it was little different to
its kin, but it was not difficult to surmise that it was a more powerful or at least a more evolved strain of
these twisted xenos. A cloak of stitched animal hide was slung around its shoulders and in one hand it
held a crudely fashioned staff, from which hung feathers and trinkets of decoration. A number of stones
also dangled from the staff, stones that looked remarkably like the very one in the psyker’s hand.
He felt its vicious touch against his mind again and clamped the wards down tighter. The lesser kroot
had been disorganised and fierce. This though, was a calculated, scheming mind. This was a mind that
would gladly extract the very soul of you and leave you to crumble to dust in its wake. It was barbed and
brutal and uncannily self-aware.
The crystals on his psychic hood flickered, attracting the sergeant’s attention.
‘Brother-Prognosticator?’ He moved to stand beside the younger Astartes and his sharp eyes
quickly made out what the psyker had seen.
‘Throne of Terra!’ he exclaimed and drew his pistol, ready to fire it at the alien. But by the time the
weapon was out of its holster and in his hand, the kroot had gone, vanished into the jungle. Gileas
lowered his weapon, his disappointment obvious.
Bhehan turned to the sergeant. His young face showed nothing of the vile revulsion he had felt at the
kroot’s mental challenge.
He felt one last, sickening touch on his mind and then the alpha, if indeed that had been what it was,
let him go.
Page 73
‘This place needs to be purified,’ said the psyker, fervently. ‘To be cleansed of this filth.’
‘It will be, brother,’ acknowledged Gileas with absolute sincerity. As the gaping maw of the landing
ramp finally sealed off the last sight of the Anceriosan jungle, he turned to Bhehan.
‘It will be.’
(The End)
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