Nemesis

In the rear car, the assassins were thrown into the grox carcasses, the impact

absorbed by the foetid meat of the dead animals. Screeching and vomiting clouds of

bright orange sparks, the derailed cargo train finally slowed to a shuddering halt.

Koyne lost awareness for what seemed like long, long minutes. Then the Callidus

was aware of being dragged upwards and then propelled through a tear in what had

once been the wagon’s roof. The shade took several shaky steps out on to the

roadway, smelling hot tar and the tang of burned metal. Koyne blinked in the

sunlight, feeling for the neural shredder. The weapon was still there, mercifully.

The Garantine lurched past, reloading his Executor. “I think we upset them,” he

shouted, pointing past Koyne’s shoulder.

Turning, the assassin saw armoured giants running down the road towards them,

firing from the hip.

Bolt-rounds cracked into the ground and the shattered train with heavy blares of

concussion. Koyne drew the neural weapon and hesitated; the pistol had a finite

range and was better suited to a close-in kill. Instead, the Callidus retreated behind

part of the cargo wagon. Perhaps a lucky shot might take down one of the Sons of

Horus, even hobble two of them… but that was a tactical squad back there, bearing

down on the pair of them.

“We’re not lucky,” the assassin muttered, considering the possibility that this

backwater would indeed be the place that claimed the life of Koyne of the Callidus.

A ricochet careened off the roadway and the Garantine staggered back into cover.

Koyne smelled the thick, resinous odour of bio-fluids; there was a deep purple-black

gouge in the Eversor’s back. “You’re wounded.”

“Am I? Oh.” The other assassin seemed distracted, clearing a fouled cartridge

from the breech of his gun. A metal canister rattled off the wagon and landed near

their feet; without hesitation, the Garantine scooped up the krak grenade and threw it

back in the direction it had come. Koyne could see that his every movement was an

effort, as more thick, chemical-laced blood seeped from the injury.

The Eversor let out a low, ululating gasp as injectors discharged, nullifying his

pain. He glared back at Koyne and his pupils were pinpricks. “Something’s coming.

Hear it?”

Koyne was about to speak, but a sudden roar of jet wash smothered every other

noise. From between the towers lining one of the side streets came a blunt-prowed

flyer, the boxy fuselage suspended between two sets of wings that ended in vertical

214

thruster pods; it was painted in bright stripes of white and green, the livery of the

city’s firefighting brigade. There was a man in a black stealthsuit at an open hatch, a

longrifle in his grip. A shot snapped from the gun muzzle and further down the road a

car exploded.

Koyne pulled at the Garantine’s arm as the aircraft dropped towards the street.

“Time to go,” the Callidus shouted.

The Eversor’s muscles were bunched hard like bales of steel cable, and he was

vibrating with wild energy. “He said he killed one of them, before.” The Garantine

was glaring at the oncoming Astartes. “That’s two now, if he’s to be believed.”

The flyer was spinning about, trying to find a place to settle as the Sons of Horus

split their fire between the assassins and the aircraft. “Garantine,” said Koyne. “We

have to move.”

The rage-killer twitched and a palsy came over him. “I don’t like you,” he said,

slurring the words. “You realise that?”

“The feeling is mutual.” Koyne had to yell to be heard over the noise of the

thrusters. The flyer was hovering less than a metre from the roadway. Tariel was at

the canopy, beckoning frantically.

“Good. I don’t want you to confuse my motives.” And then the Eversor surged

into a loping ran, his legs blurring as he hurtled out of cover and straight into the

lines of the Astartes. Shell casings cascaded out behind him in a stream of brass,

falling from the ejection port of his combi-weapon.

The Callidus swore and sprinted in the opposite direction towards the flyer. Kell

was in half-cover by the open hatch, the Exitus rifle bucking in his grip as he fired

Turbo-Penetrator rounds into the enemy squad. Koyne leapt up and scrambled into

the crew compartment of the aircraft.

Tariel was cowering behind a panel, pale and sweaty. He appeared to be

puppeting the aircraft’s pilot-servitor through the interface of his cogitator gauntlet.

The infocyte looked up. “Where’s the Garantine?” he yelled.

“He’s made his choice,” said Koyne, slumping to the deck.

The Eversor ran screaming into the cluster of rebel Astartes, blasting the first he

found off his feet with a screeching salvo of rounds from the Executor. He collided

with the next and the two of them went down in a crash of ceramite and metal. The

Garantine felt the boiling churn of energy racing through his veins, his mechenhanced

heart beating at such incredible speed the sound it made in his ears was one