03 - Savage Scars (23 page)

A piercing shriek filled the air, sounding to Sarik like some wailing banshee
from nomad myth. Shadowy figures dropped from the trees all around, landing
silently and bounding forwards on whiplash-muscled legs.

And then the Space Marines and the aliens were upon one another. Curses and
oaths clashed with screeches and hisses, and both groups loosed a final volley
of fire before clashing in the brutal mass of hand-to-hand combat. The aliens
fired their musket-like rifles from the hip as they closed, livid bolts of blue
energy slamming into white power armour. A battle-brother of Sarik’s squad was
struck square in the chest, a chunk of his chest armour torn away to reveal the
flesh beneath. Another was struck a glancing blow to the helmet, the entire left
side of his faceplate shorn away.

But the Space Marines’ weapons were far more deadly, for the aliens wore no
more armour than the occasional shoulder pad. Sarik fired his bolt pistol at the
closest alien as it screamed in towards him. The bolt buried itself in the
rope-like tendons of the creature’s hip, lodging in amongst the flexing
musculature. Then the mass-reactive round detonated, and the savage’s entire leg
was shorn off to cartwheel through the air trailing a comet-like plume of blood.
The alien crashed to the ground at Sarik’s feet, but still it came on,
screeching hatefully as it used its barbed rifle to pull itself upwards.

Sarik put a bolt-round into the alien’s head, and it went down for good.

Then the entire plantation seemed to erupt in savage fury as the two groups
merged into one another. A spiked rifle barrel swung in towards Sarik’s head and
he ducked, the spike catching on a vent of his back-mounted power pack. That was
all the opening he needed, and he pistol-whipped his attacker, staving in its
bird-like skull with the butt of his bolt pistol.

Another creature leaped in from the right, its spiked rifle held two-handed
like a stave. The alien came in high, feet first, and before Sarik could reach
his chainsword it had slammed into him, one foot on each of his shoulder plates.
The savage was surprisingly heavy, and its muscles so powerful that Sarik was
pushed backwards under the weight and power of the impact. Instead of resisting
the weight, Sarik rolled backwards with the alien’s momentum, his back striking
the ground as his opponent was suddenly forced to struggle for balance. Then
Sarik brought his legs up sharply, his knees striking the alien in the back and
powering it overhead to strike a nearby tree. Sarik was up in an instant. The
alien was stunned, struggling to regain its feet. Sarik made a fist and
unleashed such a pile-driving punch that the alien’s head was pulped into the
tree trunk.

A brief lull in the melee allowed Sarik to draw his chainsword and thumb it
to screeching life. The fight was finely balanced. The aliens were no match for
the Space Marines on a one-to-one basis, but they outnumbered Sarik’s force
three or four to one. Sarik looked around for a means of tipping the odds in the
White Scars’ favour. Then he saw it.

Twenty metres away, beyond the swirling combat, stood an alien that Sarik
knew instantly must have been their leader. It was tall, and robed in a long
cloak of exotic animal hide. Its olive green skin was daubed with swirling
patterns of deep red war paint, applied, Sarik guessed, from the blood of the
fallen Rakarshans. The alien was screeching loudly and gesticulating wildly as
it issued its shrill orders to its warriors.

“You!” Sarik bellowed, pointing his chainsword directly towards the alien
leader and gunning its motor so that its teeth wailed a high-pitched threat. The
alien heard him and turned, its beady, bird-like eyes narrowing as they focussed
on him. It seemed for an instant that the swirling mass of the raging close
combat parted between Sarik and his foe, affording a clear path between the two.

The alien ceased its racket, and turned fully to face Sarik, the
dreadlock-like quills sprouting from the back of its skull bristling with
evident challenge.

“You hear me,” Sarik called mockingly. “Face me!” Knowing the alien would not
understand his words, Sarik put as much symbolism into his tone and body
language as possible, so that even a brain-damaged gretchin would get the
message and understand he was being issued a one-to-one challenge.

To Sarik’s surprise, the alien nodded. It might have been coincidence, but
Sarik was struck by the impression that the savage somehow understood his
tongue, though he could not see how. It screeched again, and every one of its
warriors nearby leaped backwards, disengaging from the Space Marines. Several of
Sarik’s warriors pressed instinctively after their foes, but Sarik stilled them
with a curt order, and silence descended on the plantation as both groups of
warriors eyed one another grimly.

Sarik stepped forwards, and the alien leader strode to the centre of the
clearing to meet him. Another air-bursting shell exploded high overhead, and for
the first time Sarik was afforded a clear view of his enemy. The alien was tall,
taller even than a Space Marine, who were counted giants compared to the bulk of
humanity. Its muscles were like steel cables, and it appeared not to have an
ounce of fat on its lean body. The leader wore its ragged animal-skin cloak as
if it were a stately robe of office. Apart from that it wore no other garments,
but numerous leather belts and bandoliers hung with pouches and fetishes were
wrapped about its torso.

As it came to a halt, the alien threw one side of its robe back over its left
shoulder, revealing a sword scabbard at its belt. Sarik’s eyes narrowed as he
saw that the blade was obviously a power sword, its guard worked into the form
of the aquila, the Imperial eagle and icon of humanity’s faith in the Emperor.
It appeared then to Sarik that the alien was actually boasting of its possession
of the weapon, as if the Space Marine was expected to respond in fear or
admiration.

“I’ve seen a power sword before, bird brain,” Sarik growled.

The alien’s beak opened and it issued a sibilant hiss. Its warriors repeated
the sound until it echoed around the entire plantation.

Sarik decided to play along. “I come in the name of the primarch,” he called.

“Honoured be his name!” his gathered warriors responded, drowning out the
aliens’ hissing.

Energised by his brothers’ proud war cry, Sarik raised his chainsword high
and rushed in towards the alien. He expected his opponent to reach for the power
sword and attempt to parry the attack, but to his surprise the alien made a
casual gesture with its clawed hand, and Sarik’s blade rebounded as if from an
invisible barrier.

“Psyker…” Sarik spat, raising his chainsword to a guard position. That
changed things.

“So the power sword’s just for decoration,” he said, seeking to distract his
foe and buy time to engineer an opening. The alien hissed in response, its
worm-like tongue writhing in its beaked mouth.

“The Librarians will hear of this,” Sarik said, as much to himself as to the
alien. “Even should I die.”

As he spoke, Sarik worked his way around his opponent, then circled back the
other way, all the while seeking to gain the alien’s measure. He feinted to the
left and the alien gestured again, invoking its invisible psychic shield. He
feinted right and it did so again. A third feint further to the left told Sarik
all he needed to know.

Sarik gunned the chainsword to maximum power and raised the weapon high for
an obvious downward strike. The alien raised its hand and as the blade descended
its screeching teeth were deflected once again. But the ruse had worked. Even as
the chainsword came down, Sarik was drawing his bolt pistol with his left hand.
The alien never saw the pistol coming, and Sarik had correctly surmised that the
shield was a highly localised effect only able to protect the alien leader from
one quarter at a time. The bolt pistol spoke, and a mass-reactive round
penetrated the alien’s chin, lodging deep inside its skull.

Amazingly, having a large-calibre micro-rocket slam into its head barely
registered with the alien. It stepped backwards beyond Sarik’s reach, and
screeched its anger at the Space Marine, its eyes wide.

Then the bolt-round detonated, and the alien’s headless body toppled heavily
to the ground.

“Take them!” Sarik bellowed, and twenty boltguns levelled on the aliens.
Within seconds, the ground was littered with shattered and burned alien corpses,
trampled beneath the armoured boots of the rapidly redeploying White Scars.

Brielle seethed inside, drawing on every ounce of her noble-taught discipline
to remain outwardly calm. She was standing in a ceremonial robing chamber
belonging to the water caste, and it was lined with rail after rail of garments
of office. Having been disrobed by water caste attendants, Brielle was being
fitted for the finery of an envoy such as Aura.

Aura had not joined the spectacle, leaving it to a group of more junior
members of his caste. The first time she had sworn at one, Brielle had learned
that none of them spoke her tongue.

Everything was happening too fast. The tau had fallen for Brielle’s gross
exaggeration of the crusade’s strengths, and that had without a doubt bought her
time and saved lives on the ground. But the tau empire was small and
concentrated, and its fleets were able to respond to local threats far quicker
than would be the case in the Imperium, where populations were separated from
their neighbours by huge gulfs of space. The tau fleet, of which the
Dal’yth
Il’Fannor O’kray
was now a part, was inbound for Dal’yth Prime in massively
overpowering strength.

“Ow!” Brielle spat with unconcealed irritation as one of the attendants
manhandled her ankle. He was trying to get her shoe off, but he was unfamiliar
with the human ankle arrangement, for the tau’s lower legs were reverse jointed.
She flicked her foot and the shoe came off, the attendant scurrying off after
it.

That was another thing that annoyed her. Though the tau were treating her
with politeness, they had no idea of personal space. She had submitted to the
ritual disrobing, though only grudgingly, and the attendants had treated her
more like a mannequin than a living being. It occurred to her that the tau’s
collective philosophies were probably the cause, the needs of the individual
being secondary to the needs of the many. At first she had been reticent to
stand bare before the attendants, but they had proven entirely disinterested in
her body. She told herself that was a good thing, but it just served to annoy
her even more…

Another attendant approached, carrying in his arms a folded shimmering,
silver robe. It was made of the same material as the robe worn by Aura, though
Brielle noted its embroidery was not quite so intricate. The attendant came to
stand in front of her, and with a gesture he ordered her to hold her hands out
to either side. Another attendant joined the first, and together they draped the
silver robe over her shoulders so that it covered her body from neck to feet.
The material felt cool, and although it covered her entirely, Brielle was
nonetheless pleased with the way it draped across her form and accentuated her
curves. Her thoughts were not rooted in vanity, however. Even as a second layer
was being lifted over her head and fastened around her waist, she was
calculating which of the Imperium’s merchant families might be interested in
acquiring such fabrics, and how much they might be prepared to pay.

More of the attendants closed in, the idiot who had had such trouble with her
shoes lifting one of her feet gingerly. She looked down and saw the monstrosity
that he was about to place on her foot. “You’ve got a lot to learn,” she told
the uncomprehending alien. “No way am I wearing those… hideous things. I’ll go
barefoot, thank you.”

The water caste attendant looked up at her as she spoke, and seemed to get
the message, backing off and taking the ugly, tau-made shoes with him. Others
closed in from behind, and a fine array of interwoven braids was applied around
her waist and neck, cinching the silver fabric and completing the costume.

Brielle regarded herself in the wide mirror. Her robes glinted in the white
overhead light and her dark, plaited hair tumbled down her shoulders and across
her back. The costume resembled nothing she had ever seen a human noble wearing,
and she felt a deep unease at the sheer alienness of her reflection. Then a soft
hiss sounded from behind as a door slid open, and she saw in the mirror the
envoy Aura step into the chamber.

“Mistress Brielle,” Aura said as he came to stand beside her. “Your
transformation is almost complete. Soon, you shall not only wear the trappings
of a senior water caste envoy, but you shall wield the power of one too.”

Almost
complete? Brielle turned towards the envoy, her mind racing but
her expression congenial.

“This,” Aura reached towards Brielle’s neck and pulled aside the robe’s
collar. “I bring you a gift; a far more appropriate adornment for one of your
station.”

Brielle looked down and saw that Aura was holding the aquila pendant she
still wore on a slender chain about her neck. In his other hand, he held the tau
equivalent, a bisected circle, with a smaller circle within the first.

Her gorge rose as Aura’s alien hand closed around the eagle, the symbol of
humanity’s faith. Despite all she had done in turning aside from her family and
the crusade, she had nonetheless never abandoned her faith. And now, that was
exactly what the tau expected her to do.

It was too much.

Brielle stood stock still, staring at her own reflection as Aura removed the
eagle and passed it to a water caste attendant. Then he took the chain of the
pendant, and placed it over her head, the symbol of the tau empire settling on
her chest.

“Now, you are one of us,” said Aura. “The fleet closes on Dal’yth Prime, and
your duty awaits.