although he had suffered no physical injury.
‘I have plans you would not understand. You have served me well, slavestock, and for that I will give you mercy. But do not seek to follow me. Leave now before I kill you.’
Gumede collapsed onto his knees. ‘My people are gone. I have nowhere to go. You may kill me if you wish, Red God.’
Barsabbas began to think tactically, an instinctive cognitive process that was the product of intense psychiatric therapy. He could kill Gumede now and be done with it. It would give him little satisfaction but it would minimise further complications. Or, he could exploit Gumede as his guide. Traversing the northern badlands would be significantly more difficult without the aid of someone who knew the land. From his brief encounter with the Bassiq, Barsabbas had learned to value their connection with the land. Perhaps this would be the most tactical choice.
‘You will come with me, Gumede. I need your knowledge of these lands,’ Barsabbas said.
‘I will not,’ Gumede said, staring vacantly. ‘You are a betrayer. You left us to die. I saw you run.’
‘I am a god to you,’ Barsabbas reminded him, rising to his feet.
‘You are a cruel god.’
Barsabbas could not understand the human’s misgivings. He knew of them, but he could not understand them. Humans formed emotional connections to things, objects, people, animals. It weakened their minds. Barsabbas knew no bond but the blood bond. The blood bond was a pragmatic thing, a multiplier of combat effectiveness. He felt no love for Sargaul, only a need to recover him, like a swordsman who was missing his swordarm.
There was no place in Barsabbas’s consciousness for attachment. He did not understand Gumede at all.
‘Battles will be won and some will be lost. Today, you lost,’ Barsabbas said.
Gumede seemed to wither physically. He shook his head with a grimace. ‘I’ve lost everything.’
‘You were born naked and as you are. You have everything. You have simply lost everything you grew attached to,’ Barsabbas replied. He crossed over to the rock ledge and surveyed the boiling flames of the camp far, far below.
Gumede’s shoulders began to tremble. ‘I lost my sons.’
Barsabbas pondered this. Finally he nodded. ‘They have no gene‐seed. You can replace them,’ he answered, finally enjoying his discourse with the simple‐minded human.
When Gumede did not answer, Barsabbas continued. ‘You will come with me. I calculate, with your field expertise and knowledge of terrain, you will reduce my travel time by approximately thirty per cent.’
‘Leave me be, Red God. There is nothing else you can give me.’
‘I have condemned your people. But I can still save your world.’
116
It was a lie, of course. Barsabbas did not believe that. But lying was another thing that humans did not understand. To lie was to weave reality. Barsabbas did not know what stopped humans from lying – some obscure social contract to their fellow man? Another self‐imposed limitation that reduced effectiveness.
‘How?’ Gumede asked, finally looking up. To see a grown man slack‐mouthed from crying disgusted Barsabbas. The Chaos Space Marine was not even sure he possessed tear ducts any more. Hiding his distaste, Barsabbas put a hand on Gumede’s shoulder.
‘I am a god, remember? I have plans.’
117
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AND SO THEY marched together, Gumede of the Plains navigating, the Blood Gorgon striding behind with his chained, captive dark eldar in tow. They followed the trails through the cracked, stony desert. The ground resembled the skin of a blistered heel, dry and flaking.
Caprids never grazed here, for the stone wore down their hooves. Between the badlands and Ur, the nomadic kinships were considered poor due to the absence of large herds. But it was also a common tale that the denizens of Ur were shrewd traders and tricked the herdsmen of the north.
There was no trade now.
The days were dark and overcast with clouds of mustard yellow. Humid gases sluiced from the atmosphere, a weak corrosive acid that only scoured the earth. The landscape looked prematurely aged, as if the cycle of seasons, renewal and ecology had ground to a halt. New roots did not sprout from the wilted remains of the old.
During the high noon, when the suns were at their harshest and Gumede and Sindul became fatigued, Barsabbas found shelter in the deathly settlements of the northern plains.
The wagons and trailers were empty but stank sour with stale air. Many were marked with the white palm‐print of plague. Of the dead, however, there was no sign. It seemed they did not linger in their homes.
Finally,