Blood Gorgons - By Henry Zou Page 0,86
empty beyond its half‐drawn shutters. Through the dim green of his visor display, Barsabbas made out ancient machinery trapped beneath the woven fabric of thick dust. There were ripples of disturbed dust on the rockcrete ground, kicked‐up tufts of floss that showed recent activity. He nodded at Sindul, a meaningful nod that reminded him of their pact.
With a soft click of his boltgun’s safety, Barsabbas ducked underneath the shutters.
They shuffled through the dust carpet, dragging their feet along the woolly filth to muffle their entrance.
They found themselves in some sort of workshop, dark and cavernous. Cogs, motors, pipes and power blocks were stacked like tetric sculptures, promising dark hiding places for the enemy.
‘This way,’ Sindul said, flitting up a short flight of metal steps that led into a porthole door. ‘The slaves are beyond there.’
Wary of his captive but needing his guidance, Barsabbas rescanned the area with his auspex. Despite the high metal interference in the area, the dark eldar did not seem to be lying. The Blood Gorgon saw the distinct bumps of life signs overlaid with the contoured graphics of crowded machinery.
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‘Stay within my view, or I will shoot you. Give me any reason to suspect deceit, I will kill all your comrades first and I will bury you alive,’ Barsabbas promised.
Sindul did not seem fazed. ‘Better a proud traitor than a shameful slave,’ he replied.
Barsabbas’s knotwork mace flashed in the dark. ‘Then go.’
BARSABBAS CLIMBED A low walkway above furnace vats. Corrugated iron and brittle board shored up gaps in the rusting mesh platform. Below, he could hear the delirious drone of voices, shrill from panic and distress.
Four dark eldar raiders stood guard over the slaves. Close to two hundred prisoners slept on the rockcrete floors, miserable huddles of bodies swathed in rat’s‐nest clothing.
The dark eldar were taking their time to process the slaves, separating any with signs of the black wilt. Three squat furnaces were firing up for the first time in centuries. Barsabbas could imagine what the dark eldar did to dispose of the sick and infected. Further down the power station, separated by a chainlink fence, healthy slaves were being loaded into cubed shipping containers, ready to be shifted off‐world.
Barsabbas fired from his vantage point. One of the dark eldar fell away, his torso ruined.
Another was chopped down at the shins. In one fluid movement, Barsabbas rolled off the gantry, firing as he went. Sindul followed, landing on his knees and spinning into a forward roll. At the sound of gun‐shots, the slaves rose up in one panicked tide. Confused by the sudden chaos, the dark eldar guards fired randomly, spraying splinter fire into the oncoming crowd.
Like a herder, Barsabbas fired his boltgun into the dense, mass of slaves. He switched his vox‐casters to maximum amplitude and screamed so loud that the rafters rattled and the dirty‐paned windows blew out. Terrified of the braying giant in armour, the captured plainsmen overran their guards. Hundreds of slaves ran amok. People began to shriek in terror.
Barsabbas blasted his voice at Sindul. ‘Release the chainlinks, traitor.’
Sindul made his way across the station floor. He knifed any slave that came too close, his pair of hook swords drizzling blood. Crossing over to the holding pens, he struck the greasy padlock with a downward stroke, cutting straight through the soft iron. As the cage door swung open, Sindul had to vault up on top of the chainlink roof in order to avoid the stampede of plainsmen gushing out.
From the side doors and connective rooms, dark eldar raiders emerged from their sleep. Some were half‐dressed in kimonos of dark silk. Bleary and dazed, they nonetheless began to lay down indiscriminate splinterfire.
Snatching Sindul by the back of his cuirass, Barsabbas snapped at him, spitting behind his helmet. ‘Lead me to him,’ he shouted. ‘Lead me to him now.’
SARGAUL WAS CLOSE by. Barsabbas could feel the old pains returning, the familiar shared aches and throbs of blood binding. He was sure of it. Sargaul’s presence was a tangible thing.
Almost irrational, Barsabbas began to wade through the rush of escaping slaves.
Splinter shards drummed off his ceramite plates but he did not care. He fired his boltgun but his mind was not there; the targeting systems locked onto incoming muzzle flashes, framing them with triangular icons, and Barsabbas simply went through the motions. Years of incessant drilling had prepared him for such a moment.
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‘Where is he?’
Sindul lifted a trembling finger to the metal balconies on the second storey. ‘They store personal slaves up there. Hand‐picked