The Buried Dagger - James Swallow Read online

  ‘No,’ his second countered. ‘Brother, we have to fall back!’

  The suggestion of retreat ignited a towering rage in Mortarion. ‘Never!’ he bellowed, storming away from the next cascade of hits. ‘Not now, not when we are so close!’

  ‘I am the arrogant fool, not you!’ Typhon shot back. ‘Don’t lose sight now, Mortarion! Necare wants you to be angry – he wants you to react instead of think!’ The other warrior jabbed a finger at the carnage around them. ‘Ahrax is gone! Haznir will suffocate before we can get him off this blasted mountain! We will be dead before we can reach our objective!’

  Belatedly, Mortarion realised that his breaths were coming hard and rough, and he looked down to see that his own armour was peppered with impact damage, the undersuit beneath it marked with tears from shrapnel hits.

  ‘No,’ he spat, even as the red rumble of another fiery rain bore down on the squad. Mortarion saw a fireball hurtling directly towards him, the roar of it ringing in his ears. He swung his mighty war-scythe around in a shrieking arc, the blade at the head of the heavy shaft connecting with the infernal bolide mass a split second before it would have struck him.

  The creature inside the flaming shell died in the impact with a bubbling scream, but Mortarion did not hear it. Momentarily deafened by the thunderous detonation of the fireball, he was torn from the ground where he stood and thrown like a child’s doll, across the black earth and far down the slope of the mountain pass. Mortarion’s hood was torn open and his helmet wrenched from his head by the force of the blast, a shock that would have broken the neck of any other man.

  He crashed down amid a spray of cracked stone slick with ash-coloured lichen, skidding to a halt and recovering in a rapid twist of motion. Robbed of his war mask, the stench of the poison haze filled his lungs and he fought down a gag reflex. He had not taken an unfiltered breath of the air of this place since leaving it on that fateful night, and the raw toxins made his gorge rise.

  Shaking off the moment, he saw Typhon come staggering towards him. Following close at hand was the Bitterblood, who worked with Rask to carry the wheezing form of Haznir between them. Lothsul and the other survivors came in their wake. Each man was injured, each one’s armour damaged and ragged.

  ‘We can go no further,’ Typhon gasped, as he came closer. ‘If we pull back, we can regroup, return with more men…’

  Mortarion could not countenance a reply, unwilling to speak lest his fury be unleashed by the act. He turned his back on his warriors and trudged away, never meeting their gazes as he put his face towards the clearer skies of the valley below.

  A brooding, seething rage radiated from every atom of his being, a fury stoked higher and higher by the warring voices in his heart that left Mortarion torn between the need for revenge and the compulsion of duty.

  In that moment, a piece of him hated Typhon and the others, hated the lessers and all they were as much as he detested the Overlords. He despised them for their weaknesses, for being unable to fight until he had shown them how, for their frail human bodies that fell apart at the first touch of the toxic mists.

  Why could they not be the same as he was? He was cursed with ability, stronger and faster than any man who walked on Barbarus, quicker and keener of mind than any one of their doleful numbers. The others dragged him down, made him slow. Kept him from the one thing he wanted above all else – the death of Necare.

  But that rage and frustration pulled against an urge that he could not express, could not fathom. I am not like them, he told himself. I am no freak of nature, no Overlord experiment grown out of control. Mortarion knew, as surely as night knew the day, that there was a reason to his existence. If there was a fate that had shaped him, then that purpose could only be one thing.

  I am a weapon for the war. It was the only truth that fitted his reality.

  But what war, if not this one?

  He walked on, haunted by the possibility and the image of Necare watching him from on high. The Overlord’s laughter followed them down into the lowlands, biting the air and echoing at their backs with every leaden footstep they took.

  When they reached the site of the battle they had left behind at the foot of the mountain, there was only the silence of the enemy dead, and a single scout who sat waiting atop a blasted granite tor.

  She stood as they approached, and Mortarion watched the passage of emotions across her face. He knew her; it was the woman who had brought him water on his return to Safehold years before, once the child whose life he had saved in a rain-soaked field of hardwheat.

  She gave the salute of a mailed fist. ‘Mortarion. I was ordered to wait for you. I have a message from Caipha Morarg.’

  He looked around, scanning the bodies of the dead golems. They were shredded, torn remnants that appeared to have been blown apart by fusillades of pinpoint fire, from weapons far more powerful and precise than those wielded by the Death Guard. ‘Speak it,’ he said.

  The scout pointed towards the horizon, and the distant glitter of torchlight where the ruins of Heller’s Cut still stood. ‘Our forces returned to the settlement to regroup after…’ She paused, trying to find the words. ‘After the Hawk came.’ The scout pointed up at the sky. ‘In a single swooping pass, it finished them for us. And then there was a voice, and…’ She trailed off again, her gaze distant.

  ‘The Hawk,’ repeated Rask. ‘You mean the flying machine that was observed in the outlands?’

  The scout nodded. ‘I can’t tell you. Words… are not enough. You need to see it for yourself,’ she told them. Her eyes were wide and there was a strange flutter in her voice. ‘Then you’ll understand.’

  The craft the scout called ‘the Hawk’ sat on the ruins of the crop fields out past the tumbledown walls of the blasted township, and it was like nothing Calas Typhon had ever seen before.

  He knew machines – steam-powered war engines with great piston-legs or rattling tracks had been common enough among the battle order of the Overlords – but never anything like this. The low and eternally lethal skies of Barbarus made any attempt to achieve aerial superiority a foolish endeavour doomed to failure, and so conflicts were always fought down in the mud, where opponents could look one another in the face.

  Even as the Hawk sat at rest, silent and still in the middle of a circle of burned grasses, it appeared to be flying. Sleek lines of bright, polished gunmetal and shimmering gold glistened in the weak daylight. The fuselage resembled something carved by a masterful artisan, the bullet-shaped main hull blending smoothly into wide, swept-forward wings and ventral lifting surfaces. Dense lines of ornate engraving covered every part of the Hawk’s visible exterior, and as they approached, Typhon picked out what appeared to be writing in the old Gothic style along the wings.

  Haltingly, he read the words aloud. ‘Ave… Imper… Ator.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mortarion, walking at his side. His old friend was one of the few men learned enough to recognise the symbols for what they meant, and his tone made it clear how wary he was because of them.

  Close by, Murnau faltered in his pace, his face a map of fascination as he beheld the golden vessel. He started towards the craft in interest, then caught himself and looked back to his commander. For his part Mortarion said nothing, and kept walking.

  Still, Typhon slowed his march to take in as much as he could about the Hawk. He saw that a few bolder souls had dared to venture from the ruined settlement to take a closer look, but they were held back by a line of Death Guard regulars serving as a cordon. Typhon’s fellow warriors were clearly supposed to be watching the vessel for any sign of subterfuge, but it was clear that many of them were as captivated as the civilians and camp followers. The elegant, teardrop weapons cupolas visible on the Hawk’s fuselage made it clear that the craft needed no one to protect it, and Typhon briefly dwelled on the dark thought of what would happen to those men if the vessel chose to open fire. He rememb
ered the obliterated remains of the golems and frowned.

  The scout walked a few paces behind him, muttering to herself, but Typhon ignored her. Instead, he applied himself to considering a tactical analysis of the craft. There appeared to be only one way aboard, through a hatch that opened like a yawning mouth at the vessel’s arrowhead prow. An odd heat-haze shimmer surrounded the Hawk, and upon the ramp leading up to the hatch, Typhon caught a flash of movement. A human figure in golden armour with a high, conical helm and carrying a great halberd moved on the threshold, then vanished inside.

  Something seemed off, and it took Typhon a moment to understand the reason why. He had misjudged the scale of the figure in gold. Rather than the height of a normal man, the wielder of the spear would have to be at least as tall as Mortarion. He shot a sideways glance at the Reaper, and Typhon saw that he too had noticed the giant in the sky-craft.

  At the perimeter of the township proper, they were greeted by other troopers and auxiliaries who took away poor, dying Haznir to give him aid – as pointless as that was. It was a marvel that Typhon’s comrade in arms had lived long enough to reach the valley floor, a testament to Death Guard resilience. But Haznir was a dead man walking, as all who looked upon him knew. At least he would perish among kinsmen, if that counted for anything.

  The matter seemed secondary, however, as did all else but the presence of the new arrival. Those the morose returning fighters met in Heller’s Cut should have been asking them about the failed assault on Necare’s citadel. Instead, everyone was animated with stories about the arrival of the Hawk and a man they were calling the Newcomer.

  One of them was Raphim, an armsman from a warband that Typhon had once trained, who fell in step as they marched on. ‘This is turning into a day for wonders,’ said the younger warrior. ‘When the Hawk came, we feared it was some new Overlord weapon. But not so! First the Newcomer aided us in ending the battle on the plains and then he brought us both supplies and medicines…’ He spoke quickly, like an excited child. ‘He has sciences unknown to us. New ways of healing. And food, he brought food!’ Raphim pointed towards the follower camp. Typhon was aware that many of the non-combatants had been suffering from malnutrition in these last days of the conflict, holding on to the hope that once Necare was dead liberation would bring succour to all.

  ‘Such generosity,’ growled Mortarion. ‘And what does this stranger want in return?’

  ‘He talked about salvation. He said there are people like us out beyond the clouds… On countless other worlds. All united in a great empire.’ Raphim shook his head as if he could scarcely process the idea of it. ‘He said he will give us whatever we need to take back our world, even remake it if we so desire…’

  Typhon watched the progression of Mortarion’s ill mood, growing darker with every word that fell from Raphim’s lips.

  ‘An outsider bearing gifts drops from the clouds on the eve of our most testing battle,’ said the Reaper, ice forming on the words. ‘Am I the only one who distrusts this with every living fibre of his being?’ By the end of the sentence, Mortarion was almost snarling. Raphim recoiled, lost for a reply.

  ‘Where is this Newcomer?’ said Typhon. His own curiosity was rising, but he kept it hidden. The younger Death Guard pointed towards the town’s dilapidated lodge hall, visible through the mass of a whispering crowd that had gathered around it. Whoever this stranger was, they all wanted to catch a glimpse of him.

  Mortarion grunted and set off towards the lodge, scattering those not quick enough to get out of his way. Typhon and the others followed, and Rask lowered his voice so that his words would not carry. ‘I know that look, Calas. The Reaper of Men is angry enough to cut stone with those eyes.’

  ‘Can you blame him? This was meant to be a day of deliverance for Barbarus. Mortarion has fought since the moment he freed me to liberate this world, but we have been driven back in failure only to find this?’ He nodded towards the lodge. ‘A man from the sky who chooses this exact moment to overshadow all that the Reaper has done for our people.’

  ‘Can’t be an Overlord trick,’ said Rask. ‘Those bastards don’t have the patience for anything other than open cruelty.’ He paused. ‘There is the possibility this stranger may be what he appears… Never forget, the stories say that the Reaper himself fell from the skies as a foundling.’

  ‘The thought did occur to me,’ Typhon admitted.

  Ahead of them, Mortarion put out his fist and slammed open the doors of the lodge, and his warriors hurried to follow him inside.

  All within fell silent at the arrival of the Reaper. Seated at a table near the intact edge of the lodge, Typhon saw leaders from the civilian support cadre, along with the senior Death Guard warriors Mortarion had left in charge in his stead. And with them was…

  A stranger…

  For the briefest moment, the man that Raphim had called the Newcomer raked his gaze over Typhon, and it lingered there. He found himself frozen in place, such was the potency of the gaze. Dark eyes that were clear and fathomless, yet ancient with it, held him in check. The warrior suddenly felt as if he were transparent. He held his breath and there was a tension in the muscles of his legs – an instinctive compulsion to kneel – that he had to consciously fight off.

  Those eyes were framed in a patrician face with bronzed skin like hard leather, and sable hair hung down to the Newcomer’s shoulders. Then that gaze moved on, and found the Reaper of Men. A peculiar, conflicted aspect passed over the stranger’s expression. There was sorrow in it, but also warmth. Anticipation, but also reluctance.

  The stranger rose slowly as Mortarion came to a halt in the middle of the room, and Typhon saw a broad, muscled frame supporting heavy golden armour that was just as ornate as the scrollwork on the sky-craft outside. Upon it, designs of brazen lightning bolts and the stark motif of a two-headed eagle glittered in the dimness, and despite the obvious weight of the man’s battleplate, he moved easily. His motions were fluid and graceful, but there was a coiled power there.

  This Newcomer appeared, in every way that Typhon might have reckoned it, to be the polar opposite of any Barbarun-born. All of them were gaunt and pale, even the biggest of their kind like Skorvall, their physical aspect a legacy of generations amid the life-sapping toxicity of their home world. And yet, there was one with whom the stranger did share similarity.

  Typhon glanced towards Mortarion, and he saw it. Subtle, and not immediately visible to the eye, but definitely tangible. There was a resemblance in the line of the jaw, in the way the Reaper carried himself. Something ephemeral but all too real connected Mortarion to this stranger, and Rask’s comment about the Reaper’s shrouded origins sounded in Typhon’s thoughts once more.

  If Mortarion shared this insight, he showed no outward sign of it. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘What do you want on my world?’

  ‘I am… a friend,’ said the stranger, his voice calm and resonant. Now he was on his feet, Typhon noted the presence of a huge, wide-bladed sword that rested in a scabbard at his hip. The weapon was easily the height of a lesser, chased through with jewels and precious metals, but its mass and obvious balance made it clear the blade was not just for show. ‘I have come to Barbarus in search of noble souls,’ the stranger added. ‘In search of you.’

  ‘In the name of your… empire?’

  ‘Indeed.’ The Newcomer nodded, and Typhon shifted slightly.

  Something about this stranger made Typhon want to keep him at a distance, and the Death Guard moved so that Mortarion and Rask were between them. For his part, Rask looked on dumbfounded, his hands clasped into fists.

  ‘You have been orphaned from the Imperium for far too long, this world and thousands more,’ continued the stranger. ‘Our lost kindred. It is time to return to the fold. And I promise you, glory and prosperity await. It will be the dawning of a new age.’

  Typhon found it hard to look away from the stranger. His
words were mesmeric, and they seemed to echo through to him alone. A powerful, magnetic aura surrounded the Newcomer, and it became clear why so many of the Barbaruns had been quick to welcome him into their midst. He couldn’t explain how, but Typhon had the very real sense that he was only seeing a fragment of the stranger’s true aspect. There was far more beneath, and he was afraid to look deeper.

  ‘We don’t want your glory, outsider,’ retorted Mortarion. The antagonism crackling away below the surface of his words rose. ‘Nor your charity, or your Imperium.’

  ‘Are you certain of that?’ The figure in gold armour cocked his head. ‘Our technology can turn your marshlands into verdant fields. Strip the poison from your air. We can heal those you would consider beyond help… Just as my servitors are doing now, with your friend Haznir.’ He nodded towards the walls, and Typhon wondered how the stranger could know Haznir’s name, let alone that he had been fatally wounded.

  ‘Barbarus has endured alone for centuries beneath the talons of our oppressors!’ The Reaper let his anger flare. ‘Where were you then?’

  ‘It is my great regret that it took me this long to find you… Mortarion.’ The stranger gave a rueful smile. ‘This never gets any easier.’ Then the smile faded. ‘Trust me when I say, I can give you understanding of your own origins. I can help you defeat the Overlords and purge the last of their ruinous taint from this world.’

  ‘I have no interest in where I was birthed, it matters nothing to me,’ Mortarion said, seething with cold fury. ‘Barbarus is where I was born, it is where I was made whole.’ He gestured to his warriors. ‘The Death Guard are the only kindred I have ever known. My unbroken blades. And by our hand alone shall justice be delivered to the Overlords.’ He turned away. ‘You’re not needed here. Go back to your pretty bird and fly away.’

  ‘With respect,’ said the stranger, ‘I would contest your assertion. Your comrades here have told me much of the war you have fought. And while there are a great many victories to be lauded at the Death Guard’s banner, the High Overlord still lives. You and your elite have been unable to reach the tower where he abides, is that not so?’