He took up one of the buttons between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and realised that the light wasn’t shining off it, but was emanating from it. He looked at the domed surface of the ring, and saw, among the deep engraving and the glistening gems, not only a thing of great beauty and value, but something of worth beyond anything that he could comprehend. The button bore the sigil, crest and arms of the Lady, the Beati, Saint Sabbat.
She had worn the buttons on her breast, had blessed them with her association. The Lady had found a following on Reredos because she had been part of its history, and must now represent the better part of the planet’s importance to the Emperor. How could the God-Emperor forsake His daughter? How could He forsake them?
Nick Kyme’s gripping novels, including his dwarf-filled Warhammer adventures and his forays with the saturnine Salamanders for 40K, have won him armies of fans. Given the subterranean and volcanic themes present in both of the above, it’s no wonder there’s a whiff of the combustible and petrochemical to this muscular, take-no-prisoners tale, which reacquaints us with an Imperial Guard regiment, high-born and imperious, who have often been a thorn in the side of Gaunt and his Ghosts. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s nice to see them again, especially as they’re moving up from their supporting role and stepping out into the limelight.
Or should that be the firing line?
Dan Abnett
BLUEBLOOD
(Nick Kyme)
‘We were there. We were there on Vigo’s Hill. It was to be our end. Our final hour. Our last stand. Until She came and everything changed.’
The pillar of fire exploding from the desert forced the gunship to bank sharply. A series of warning runes flashed in the cramped cockpit alongside the Valkyrie’s steering column. While the pilot fought to control the vessel, the rest of the crew felt the sudden thrust of motion in the tightening of their grav harnesses. Somewhere, a muffled emergency klaxon droned. In the troop hold men were scattered like debris, amidst vocal curses and angry shouts of pain.
Major Regara stood defiantly in the open hatchway of the Valkyrie, Warbird, with one hand on the guard rail, the other snapped to behind his back. Framed by the hold’s exit hatch he cut a stern, precise figure, the epitome of Volpone starch and sturm.
‘Have you ever seen the Euclidian Squalor-Pits, lieutenant?’ he declared to the burning air outside. The fire-flare tinged his grey-gold armour a ruddy orange and the squalls from the explosion seared his tanned features with a prickling heat.
Regara didn’t flinch. The role of imperious officer, master of war was one he played to military perfection.
The plume of fire died away to a trickling smoke that carpeted the landing zone in a grey fog. They were coming in hard – ninety birds touching down in minutes, scorching the sand to glass with the roar of descent jets.
‘No sir, I haven’t.’ Lieutenant Culcis clung to the guard rail opposite the major and stood just behind him.
Regara looked down into the dispersing smoke, through the growing dust cloud created from the Valkyrie squadrons’ downthrust.
‘It’s like a Volponian bathhouse compared to this hole.’ He scowled and the gesture pulled at a scar running from his smooth-shaven chin to the edge of his collar.
There were troops below, a few kilometres from the landing zone, getting closer by the second. It was an encampment, several encampments in fact. Together they were more like a city, hundreds of disparate regiments, all part of the Crusade reserve, billeted in tents, prefabs, re-appropriated local structures or simply gathered in the open with only a few windbreakers to impede the sandstorms. Like borer-ants at this distance. Millions of them.
‘Tell me again, lieutenant,’ said Regara as they approached their final landing vector. By now the chatter over the inter-company vox, comprising, in the main, barks of dissatisfaction from the other Volpone officers at the explosive welcome they’d received, had ceased. Nine companies. Nine hundred men. A full battalion of the Volpone 50th awaited landfall in silence.
All except Regara. ‘What do we know about this hole, other than it’s at the arse-end of nowhere?’
A tremor of mild turbulence shook the ship’s hold, forcing the major to shift his footing. The bionic leg he wore in place of the organic one he lost on Nacedon whirred and groaned. Compared to most Guard prosthetics, it was a work of art.
‘Sagorrah,’ Culcis began, regaining his footing after he’d stumbled with the sudden bucking of the gunship. ‘A collection world. Approximately one hundred and fifty-two separate regiments are in residence, of varying strengths and fighting viability. A depot, sir – Sagorrah has over three hundred promethium wells, a reserve of several million tonnes, vital fuel for the conquest of the Sabbat Worlds.’
Regara discerned the depot’s central hub, a vast factorum structure attended by a multitude of vast sunken silos.
Another explosion, farther out this time from a distant well, thrust a lance of fire into the hot sky.
Regara turned, uninterested. His eyes were like flint as he regarded the young Culcis.
‘I blame Nacedon,’ he said candidly.
‘Sir?’
Culcis had been on that world, too. They’d fought side-by-side with a ragged bunch of barbarians from Tanith, a backward planet that had long since been atomised from existence. The Colonel, Gilbear, had an especial loathing for the ‘Ghosts’, as they were known. Regara, one of the wounded left behind by Volpone command and subsequently saved by the bravura of the Tanith and their medic, had had the audacity to recommend the Ghosts for commendations. It hadn’t translated well.
Regara turned his gaze back to Sagorrah. A landing party was mustering a few hundred metres below. Though they were little more than slowly resolving specks, he was able to make out the crisp uniform of a Munitorum officer. Clerks, associated ground staff and servitors surrounded him. Regara was reminded of flies buzzing around a carcass. This entire sinkhole was a foetid carcass.
‘Only reason I can think of that Gilbear shipped us here. Must’ve pissed the colonel off royally.’ Since Monthax, relations between the Volpone and the Tanith had improved but between two such polar opposites, there would always be needle. Grudging respect was one thing; outright commendation was quite another. In retrospect, Regara thought he must have sustained a head wound in addition to his lost leg during the Nacedon action. How else could he explain his recommendations?
‘Defending a promethium well,’ he muttered ruefully, the screech of stabiliser jets smothering his voice to a thought. ‘Where is the glory in that? It’s no task for a Volpone.’ No, Gilbear didn’t like Regara. The feeling was mutual. Being left to die by your commanding officers will have that effect on a man.
As the desert basin closed, Regara’s gaze was drawn to a vast brawl erupting deeper in camp in the distance. He discerned several bulky troopers in commissarial black breaking up the fight and breaking heads.
The major’s expression grew disdainful as the last few metres to the ground fell away.
‘They’re animals, sir,’ remarked Culcis, the downdraughts from the engines forcing him to clamp a hand down on his officer’s cap. Their raucous din turned his comment to a shout.
‘Chain a dog in the sun long enough, lieutenant, and it’ll eat its own tail,’ replied the major, dragging a rebreather over his nose and mouth to keep out the worst of the dust. ‘Gilbear must really hate us,’ he said to himself, as the Valkyrie touched down and the eighth through seventeenth companies of the Volpone 50th arrived at Sagorrah.