from their task of packing, craning their necks curiously.
‘Tanbei.’ Gumede’s quiet tone commanded silence. ‘The Godspawn, Tanbei? Where?’
The young rider reined his bird to a sharp halt, almost startling Gumede’s own mount from his hands. Tanbei turned in his saddle and jabbed his finger to the high dunes beyond.
Sure enough, Gumede could see a figure cresting the dune spines. Even at a great distance, Gumede could tell that the figure was large, with a long stride that was as sure and as steady as a rising dust tide.
Gumede hurriedly tightened his saddle and vaulted atop his bird. ‘Prepare offerings!’ he shouted, his tone rising with excitement. ‘Gather the shamans! Spread the word to the tribe!’
Wheeling his bird around, Gumede led his flight of outriders to greet the Godspawn.
WHEN THE GODSPAWN came to Gumede’s kinship, it was as if the war had been forgotten. All the people gathered in nervous clusters around the road train. They were keen to catch a glimpse but afraid of what they might see. They huddled closely, jostling to be in the middle.
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He came to their camp, escorted by Gumede’s outriders.
The warrior was so big that a hush fell over the kinship as he approached. The people actually shivered. He resembled a mountain, his armour craggy and pitted, from the solid base of his boots to the sloping swell of his shoulders, all the way up to the branching antlers of his head. Although he was a Godspawn, his armour was not at all like the bright red of their shukas. It was the colour of ferric earth after hard rain – a muddy, burnt orange.
Radiant with martial aggression, he appeared to them as an angry golem that had been birthed from a rock womb.
Almost as an afterthought, he dragged a blackened, stick‐like captive on a leash. The beast was bound in layers of chain and could barely stand upright.
‘I am Barsabbas,’ he said. ‘The Blood Gorgons have answered your summons.’ His first words, loud and metallic, startled the children. But they didn’t cry. No one dared to disturb the resonance of his declaration.
Half a dozen shamans, all of them elders of venerable years, hesitantly came forwards.
They sacrificed a caprid for him, draining its neck of blood. Another began to pray to him, falling to his knees and touching his forehead to the hot sand.
‘My kin are honoured to receive you, Koag Barsabbas,’ said Gumede. He rode until he was side on with Barsabbas, reining in his mount a respectful distance away. Tall as Gumede was, and mounted on his talon, Gumede was still barely on eye level with the visitor.
‘I’ve come to find your war. Where is it?’ asked the Blood Gorgon. His words were clipped and impatient.
‘Over there, beyond those mountains,’ Gumede replied. ‘You have come to lead our crusade to drive back the evil?’ he asked, his face openly honest with hope.
Barsabbas snorted. ‘I can lead a mount to a watering hole, but I cannot force it to drink.
If you do not want to fight, then I cannot force you to fight well.’
‘We are willing,’ Gumede replied. ‘Many of the kinships of the south and central territories are gathering beyond the Seamless Plains. It is an army that will rid the land of the evil and dead. Can you lead us, great koag?’ Gumede asked.
‘I will,’ answered Barsabbas.
At his words, the kinship erupted into jubilance. The tense mobs dispersed, as if their battle had already been won. Some sprinted down to the creeks to dance in the water or scaled the road train to scream relief to the skies. Those more daring encircled the Blood Gorgon, thrusting offerings towards him – bead quilts, necklaces, empty tins with exotic off-world labels. The shamans cavorted, clapping hand cymbals and tiny percussion drums. All the while, Barsabbas stood immobile amongst them, unable to comprehend their behaviour.
BARSABBAS FELT NOTHING towards these people. They were genestock, they were slavestock.
In truth, he loathed them for their ignorance and their dependency. As the plainsmen groped his armour, tapping him for luck and trying to push votive offerings into his hands, Barsabbas curtailed his urge to strike out.
He knew they would all die. He held no illusions about the outcome of a battle between bow‐armed plainsmen and Plague Marines of Nurgle. But he could not conceive of a better diversion to allow him to infiltrate into the northern territories. With the war host on the march, Barsabbas would be free to head north, ever deeper into the enemy territory.
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They were all