‘The gods, they have dampened our souls against the daemons that watch us.’
‘I feel–’ Gammadin took a deep, clattering breath. ‘I feel like a dull razor.’
‘A mere blessing of the gods’ gaze. They watch over you now, so you do not need to watch for yourself,’ Muhr replied.
‘Khorsaad¸ there is movement,’ Blood‐Sergeant Makai announced, pointing his boltgun warily.
As Makai spoke, the reeds to their immediate left parted and a man hurtled through the water. He was dazed and bleeding, running wild. He did not even seem to register the presence of the Traitor Marines. He simply tried to churn his legs wildly through the sluggish water.
Makai cut down the man with a burst of his bolter.
‘No!’ Gammadin said, his voice rising slightly in anger. The man was already dead, bobbing softly over a dark patch of aquatic weed. It was not like Makai to be spooked so easily. Something was irritating all of them.
‘I acted hastily, Khorsaad,’ Makai replied.
Hammurabi interjected, shaking his head as if to clear it. ‘Be still, Makai. We came here to test this world for genestock. This is not a kill‐raid.’ As Hammurabi spoke, he flipped the dead man onto his back.
For a brief moment, Gammadin’s flesh tensed. He thought he saw fear in the man’s rigid features. The man had been running and frightened before he had even seen them. As Gammadin studied the corpse, he began to wonder if the Impassives stood on the same soil as something even more terrifying to these humans than an Astartes. Perhaps there was more on Belasia than the topographic scans had revealed. From orbit, the planet had appeared to be a prime slave colony, but now they were on‐world, he was not so sure.
There was just something in the air…
‘This is a lawless world and this human’s suffering is no uncommon thing,’ Muhr said, pointing at the dead man. ‘We should make haste and think nothing of it.’
Gammadin slapped his thigh decisively. ‘Come then. We go,’ he said, resuming his steady wade.
STANDING AMONGST THE chemical‐churned mud and dead reeds of the shoal, Jonah was stripped of his clothing. There was no dignity, no modesty. The captives stood close together, each trying to hide behind the person in front. A cold draught blew across the lake’s surface, drawing goose bumps across Jonah’s forearms.
The stick‐men surrounded them. Perhaps two hundred slaves, shepherded by tall, thin shapes. Jonah dared not look at them directly but he felt them in the corners of his vision.
Stick‐men enslavers hauled against the straining leashes of their hounds. Further behind them, Jonah could hear the high‐pitched machine hum of their war engines. A fleet of four or five craft hovered metres above the ground, their long ship‐like chassis sharp and narrow. Poised for speed, they rocked gently under the gravitational pull as the stick‐men clung to the running boards, shouting and keening in anticipation.
8
When it finally happened, the stick‐men gave them no instructions. They simply pointed across the lake with long, clawed fingers. The meaning was clear enough. Slaves were to run, make a break for freedom across the lake.
And then the stick‐men unleashed their animals.
Jonah could not avert his gaze any more. He looked up and saw a hound pounce on a man at the edge of the mob. They were not like any canines that Jonah had handled in his enforcement days. These were hairless things, all naked flesh and gristle. Teeth with jagged regularity snapped closed as the creature began to savage the man into the mud, grinding the man down with its weight and mauling him.
Jonah ran. They all ran, a stampede that crashed into the water and moved as one.
Blinding fear forced them to stay together.
Flanking them, running parallel, the warp hounds chased the slaves, forcing them to run in the same direction. The animals did not bark, but they laughed with a shrill yapping as the pack communicated to each other, herding the running humans along the lake bank.
A slave went over, tackled from behind by a hound and nailed into the mud face first. On impact, the hound flipped over its victim, hurtling through the air with its legs upturned and twisting. Before the captive could rise, the other hounds were snapping all over him.
GAMMADIN STOPPED MID‐STRIDE, his boot sinking into a mud crater. He raised his hand.
The shore grass swayed beneath a sudden bar of wind. He could smell the scent of humans on the gust, but there was something else too. More than the gamey, mammalian