Blood Gorgons - By Henry Zou Page 0,78
arrow into the Plague Marine’s throat, piercing the rubberised neck seal. The Plague Marine died. It was an island of triumph amidst a rolling ocean of slaughter. Four squads of Plague Marines were too many.
The braves broke. It began at the edges first: a tense, hesitant withdrawal as the screams of the camp became too much. The braves had accounted for themselves longer than Barsabbas had expected. After all, the Plague Marines were gods to them. Malevolent gods, but no less awesome for that. In their retreat, the braves were butchered. Autocannon and heavy bolter fire chased them, chopping them down as they fled.
The camp had been overrun. Plague Marines and their Septic minions were putting the settlement to flame. Hooded men with canister packs and nozzle guns hosed the area with gas. Native kinsmen wandered about, half‐dressed and confused. Some did not even try to 114
run, for there was nowhere to go. Clothing and household items were scattered into the dirt. Black smoke and poisonous gas gathered in thick plumes.
The moment had come for Barsabbas to steal away.
He churned across the cactus fields. He stepped amongst the dead and crushed succulents, running ankle‐deep through a mire of mud, gore and crushed pulp. Hobbling several paces behind, Sindul was trawled through the fields. He ran several steps and fell, dragged along by his knees, before he regained his footing and tripped again.
A rearguard of Septic infantry spotted the lone Blood Gorgon and his captive. He was a prime target, a proud trophy. They gave chase. It was a stupid thing to do and a trained officer should have known better, perhaps voxed for reinforcements or a gun platform, but their commander was riding the high of a victorious slaughter. They gave chase and Barsabbas shot them all down. He turned and emptied the last of his clip, auto‐targetters skipping from one head to the next.
Without turning, Barsabbas set a hard pace up the mountain pass, heading ever north.
The sounds of the massacre echoed up the valley, but Barsabbas did not look back.
THE FUNERAL MOUNTAINS were a desolate place. Creosote bushes squirmed from between the cracks of dolomite slabs and pupfish dwelled in the alluvial salt pans. Even the mountains themselves were small and steep, squeezed together to form telescopic peaks that fell away into vertical chasms. The plainsmen interred their ancestors here, marking their resting places with petroglyphs and stick‐like carvings.
The rocks were soft and crumbled dangerously beneath his grip. Yet Barsabbas climbed on with an urgent recklessness. He vaulted onto a narrow ledge and dragged Sindul neck-first up the slope after him.
‘Please,’ choked Sindul. ‘Slower.’
Barsabbas ignored him. The enemy were still giving chase. His auspex imprinted the ghostly contrails of their pursuers across his visor.
‘Let me free. I can fight. Just let me see the daylight. I can fight,’ Sindul wheezed.
Barsabbas tugged the chain leash sharply. ‘Be still.’
He settled beyond the ledge, crouching down to minimise his profile. If the enemy insisted on pursuit, then he would give them something to find. He plucked forth one of the frag grenades that hung from chain loops across his left shoulder pad. Stilling his breath, he waited.
Beneath the rock ledge, on the rock‐strewn escarpment, a single solitary reading flashed across the auspex. The target was nimble, fast, scaling up the mountain with sure-footed speed.
‘Are you stupid? You don’t need that,’ Sindul murmured from beneath his hood.
‘Quiet,’ hissed Barsabbas, yanking the chain taut. The target scrambled closer.
‘Are you scent blind? That doesn’t smell like a cultist of Nurgle. This one stinks of milk curd.’
Barsabbas paused, testing the air with his olfactory glands. Perhaps the dark eldar had a keener sense of smell than he realised. Heightened sensory perception was a trait of the eldar species, but Barsabbas had not expected anything so acute. Although he heard the skitter of pebbles bouncing down the slope, he could smell no distinguishable scent except for the blood and gunsmoke as the updraught carried the stench from the valley below.
‘Plainsman!’ Sindul shouted out.
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Before Barsabbas could silence the dark eldar with a swift repercussive strike, a voice answered from below. ‘ How de bod, koag!’
A long‐limbed man scuttled up the ledge with his hands and feet gripping the rock with practiced ease. The shredded remains of a feather crest flapped from his head. It was Gumede.
‘Why did you follow me?’ Barsabbas growled. His hand fell to the mace looped at his hip. ‘Why did you abandon us to die?’ Gumede asked. His voice cracked. He sounded wounded