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Salvation's Crucible - Denny Flowers

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Kal Jerico: Sinner’s Bounty’

A Black Library Publication

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Salvation's Crucible

Denny Flowers

The Pyromantic Conclave's herald was light itself.

Long-dead lumens spluttered into life at its approach and furnaces roared in appreciation as the conclave drew close. Settlements would hum as the procession passed by, its presence bestowing warmth and illumination to the darkness of the underhive.

Yet few dared to let their eyes linger on the crimson-robed figures of the Guild of Fire. Those that did would soon rouse the attention of the pack of hive scum hired to guard the conclave. Any who risked a glance beheld a lavish palanquin propelled by jets of searing blue flame. Beside it strode the pyromagir attendants and cynder guards, their faces sealed behind welding masks, their eyeless gaze ever seeking any threat or resistance to their master's cause.

Lord Silas Pureburn's gaze never wavered either. He stood at the dais at the palanquin's fore. Before him lay the path to the wastes known as Salvation, the final entry point to the settlement of Under Pipe. Behind him, mounted on an ornate plasteel chamber the height of a man, was a crucible of polished bronze. Within the crucible flickered an iridescent flame, burning without a hint of smoke or ash.

Corbin checked his stubber, confirming for the sixth time that he had indeed remembered to load the chambers. He was sweating. There was something unpleasant in the air, like the clamminess before a grid-storm. He glanced to the other gangers slumped about him, seeking validation that at least one of them shared his discomfort. But all he saw in their eyes was boredom underscored by a yearning for violence.

All but Mandrex Sawblade.

He stood proudly, an unlit lho-stick dangling from the corner of his mouth, his magnoculars trained on the tar dunes of Salvation. When Corbin was young he'd heard stories from before the Big Burn, when the dome now known as Salvation was a hazardous storage unit for a factorum uphive. But the Plague of the Undying had come to Under Pipe, and the only way to vanquish the horde was luring them into the chemical pit and igniting it. The inferno had swept the lower levels, only the warren of gantries and walkways surviving unscathed.

Corbin remembered how Mandrex had dismissed the story, just another tall tale, but even he would not deny the value of Salvation as an ambush site. Gunther and two of the gang's snipers had already taken position on the gantries overheard. The rest of the gang would use the dunes to surround the guilders.

Corbin had never seen a Pyromantic Conclave. As a child he'd worked in the boiler room of the orphanarium-fane, and had on occasion caught sight of one of the Fire Guild's intermediaries accompanying the promethium shipments. But these were minor figures, merely the bearers of the fuel.

The boilerman spoke in hushed worth of the Eternal Flame carried by each conclave, the divine spark that brought light to the dark places. Then again, the man was House Cawdor. He'd taught Corbin how to strip scrap and say his prayers. He'd been setting him up for a life as a beggar.

But Mandrex had found him, brought him up from the sump-gutter. Corbin was proud to be his follower, proud to be third-in-command of the Waylanders, the true rulers of Under Pipe. It was a meteoric rise, his rapid promotion in part due to his predecessors' habit of dying with alarming regularity.

'They're taking their time,' Mandrex murmured.

Corbin blinked, glancing to the gang leader. He was still intent on the tar plains.

'Perhaps they have taken another path?' Corbin said. He knew of at least a dozen routes that led to Under Pipe. All were safer than passing through Salvation.

'Oh, I'm sure they'd like to,' Mandrex grinned, lowering the magnoculars. 'But I've had a few reports on this Lord Pureburn. You think he wants to slum it down here with us for long? He wants to float through, be seen by as many people as possible, then float back uphive. This is the quickest way that takes him straight through the centre of town.'

He winked at Corbin before resuming his vigil. He never seemed bothered by such questions. Corbin had once considered this testament to Mandrex's good temperament. But he was beginning to suspect that the man simply enjoyed it when others appeared foolish.

Corbin watched as Mandrex flicked on his comms, 'Gunther? You in position?' he said. The response was inaudible. 'Remember, controlled bursts,' he continued. 'I don't want you burning through your reserves again and leaving us exposed. Just lock 'em down. I'll finish the job.'

The comms felt silent. Mandrex stared across the plain. For just a moment a sliver of doubt pierced his steely veneer.

'Come on, Ubel,' Corbin heard him whisper. 'Take the bait.'

Ubel was struggling to appear calm.

'We cannot just walk into Salvation,' he said. 'Not until we've scouted the area.'

'I appreciate your concern,' Lord Pureburn replied evenly. 'But I am afraid we have a schedule. I swore by the God- Emperor that I would bring light to the good people of Under Pipe three days hence. It is an oath I have every intention of keeping.'

He smiled, spreading his hands helplessly. It made Ubel want to stab him.

They had been travelling for two days and the pyrocaen had yet to raise his voice or utter a word in anger. He responded to each of Ubel's entreaties and warnings with unwavering civility, and never took the slightest notice. He never stepped off that damn dais either, which hovered just a little bit higher than was comfortable. Just holding a conversation with him gave Ubel a pain in the neck.

He sighed.

'Listen, I know this territory. I used to run it. A regiment could conceal itself amidst those tar dunes, and the upper gantries are a sniper's haven. We need to sweep down from the dome above, drive any snipers to the tar plains. Even then, if Mandrex puts up the slightest resistance we could be pinned down.'

Lord Pureburn considered his words. Or at least gave the appearance of it.

'If this Mandrex tries to obstruct our mission he will face the fire of my judgement.'

Ubel resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

'With respect,' he said, 'all the flame weapons in the world will count for little if we're being shot at from half a dome away.'

'Ah. You misunderstand,' the pyrocaen replied. 'I speak not of our armaments, but the strength of our faith.'

Lord Pureblood turned his head, and Ubel followed his gaze to the chamber mounted at the rear of the palanquin, and the bronze crucible mounted on its roof. Within its confines the Eternal Flame blazed like a humbled star. Ubel had come to loath that light. It was difficult to sleep with the flame constantly blazing beside him. Even when he closed his eyes he could not escape the image of the fire.

He knew better than to say as much.

'Lord Pureburn,' he tried, 'I respect the—'

The pyrocaen held up his hand.

'My trade-brothers are good and righteous men, but most of them are merchants at heart,' the pyrocaen said, his gaze returning to the path ahead. 'But the Pureburns are custodians to something more valuable than currency. The flame we carry is older than the guilds themselves. Our legends tell us it was once an ember from the God-Emperor's own blade, a flicker of the flame He used to drive the darkness from the galaxy. We have tended it ever since, and it is now our duty to bring His light to the dark places.'

The older man glanced at Ubel, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips, his eyes as sharp as rock-glass.

'The God-Emperor's light preserves us,' the guilder whispered. 'If necessary, it will scour Salvation clean of the unworthy.'

* * *

'All right, scum-suckers, this will be a big one,' Mandrex grinned, his gold tooth gleaming like a hidden blade. 'I don't need to tell you what's at stake or what they are trying to take from us. Not just our lives, but our livelihood.'

The Waylanders nodded. They shared little history or culture; few of them could even claim lineage from one of the Great Houses. But under Mandrex's leadership they had taken hold of Under Pipe. They would not surrender it easily.

'Those Fire Peddlers,' Mandrex continued, his finger stabbing towards the entryway. 'They saunter down here with all the pomp and circumstance, like a bunch of brats from up-hive. They cradle a candle like it's a newborn and expect the good people of Under Pipe to pay them for the privilege of lighting their burners from it. They want to muscle in on a service we already provide but for a token fee.'

He shook his head, as though in disbelief at the very thought. Corbin had to concede it was a well-run operation. The settlement had been long resigned to paying a toll for the power tap. The Waylanders might not have established the operation, but they knew how to exploit it.

Mandrex's head was still bowed as he turned, gesturing to the tar plain.

'Those bastards think they own light itself. They think that we don't have the right to tap the power lines that run freely across our lands. Maybe that would work if we were uphivers, used to doing what folk tell us, or the sort of inbred idiots that live in Under Pipe and don't know no better. Maybe then they could scare us with their magic flame.'

He grinned. There were a couple of sniggers from the group.

'But we are the Waylanders,' he said, unsheathing his chainsabre and gesturing across the tar plains. 'When their little procession emerges from the main valve we will be ready. We'll slip through the dunes, get nice and close. Then Gunter and his lads will open fire. Once they are pinned down we move in, dispose of Ubel's little gaggle, smash their magic flame and drive them out.'

'That's it?' asked Terrex One-eye, a frown forming amid the mess of scar tissue that constituted his face.

'That's it,' Mandrex shrugged. 'They claim their flame is something special. Without that they're nothing - just another bunch of grifters trying to make some easy creds.'

'Are they armed?' Corbin asked.

'With flashy stuff. Flamers and that,' Mandrex said. 'Won't be much use when they are pinned down by stubber rounds.'

'Yeah,' Terrex grinned. 'We'll cut them all down easy enough.'

Mandrex shook his head. 'Nobody kill the guilder unless you have to - no point making this more high profile than it has to be. Let him lick his wounds.'

'And Ubel's lads?'

Mandrex's smile disappeared.

'You know our history,' he said. 'If he'd had his way, I'd have bled out in some badzone brawl long ago. Do as you like with the rest of the gang. But you save Ubel for me. We have a little score to settle.'

'I say we run.'

Ubel cuffed the juve round the head absently. Not so much for his suggestion, which was not unreasonable, but more the fact that he'd opened his mouth.

'We run and they burn us,' Rath murmured, glancing towards the palanquin. The pyromagir attendants were checking their weapons and did not appear to be paying the hive scum much attention. Then again, it was hard to tell with their faces concealed by boilerplate welding masks.

'They can't bum all of us,' the juve said, rubbing his head.

'You volunteering to be the first?' Rath said. 'Because I ain't.'

'Nobody is getting burned,' Ubel said. 'We took a contract to escort them to Under Pipe and that is what we are going to do. Nobody is running out on it before we even enter Salvation.'

Rath glared at him. 'You want to explain again why we are giving up our old turf to this bunch of bankers? Salvation was ours.'

'Because they are going to burn anyone involved in Mandrex's syphoning operation,' Ubel replied. 'The guild is here now - the days of the free market are over.'

'It used to be our operation.'

'Then we were damn lucky to have lost it when we did,' Ubel hissed, glancing over his shoulder. 'If we still controlled the power tap then it would be Mandrex escorting the guilders to take care of us. We have nothing to do with that operation and never have, understood?'

Rath stared at him a moment.

'Yeah, we was really lucky to lose that gig,' he said at last, leaning in just a little too close. 'Good work there, boss.'

There was an edge to his voice. The gang might have been known as Ubel's Killers, but this was not a mark of respect or affection. The pack would follow whoever got them paid. They would just as soon be Rath's Killers if that was more profitable.

Ubel smiled, hoping it appeared at least a little sincere.

'My point is we are being paid well to protect our esteemed merchants. We should do everything we can to earn that pay… providing they remain in a position to settle up.'

Rath cocked his head.

'Meaning?' he growled.

'Meaning that we can guard them. Perhaps between us we can finally put an end to the Waylanders. And if not… Welt if the time comes for a strategic withdrawal then we can let Mandrex and Lord Pureburn settle the matter between them. Then approach the victor to discuss terms.'

Rath thought for a moment, then nodded, his gaze fixed on Ubel's.

'Yeah,' he nodded. 'Good plan. Once the fighting starts all sorts of things might happen.'

He smiled. It was not reassuring.

Corbin was first to spot the conclave.

Mandrex had grown bored, delegating lookout duties to his subordinate whilst the rest of the gang gambled at dice. Through the magnoculars Corbin could see the guilders emerging from Salvation's Gate. It was slow going, the undulating terrain impeding the palanquin's propulsion system. Atop the hover-carriage he could see a bronze dish in which the Guild's Eternal Flame blazed. Somehow, he'd expected it to be bigger.

Corbin glanced to Mandrex, nodding to the entrance.

'They are coming,' he said.

Mandrex's head snapped up. 'Is Ubel leading them?'

'…Yeah,' Corbin nodded. 'I can see him bringing up the rear.'

'I knew it,' Mandrex said with a joyless grin. 'I knew he ratted us out. Couldn't win the battle on his own so he brought in the big guns to end the game altogether. Little scav.'

He shrugged, unsheathing his blade.

'All right, lads,' he said. 'Keep low and hold your positions. Nobody opens fire until I say so. Corbin - keep watching them and keep your comms open. If they start moving in a different direction, I want an update.'

The Waylanders departed, flowing with practised ease through the tar dunes. This was their turf, and they knew every ridge and crevice. Ubel's gang might have done likewise, except they were restricted by the ponderous palanquin. Corbin watched as the gang fanned out into a half-circle; taking firing positions amidst the dunes.

'Anything?' Mandrex asked.

'Still heading straight, maybe twenty yards from the entrance. They don't seem in a hurry'

'Copy that. Gunther, wait for my signal.'

Corbin watched as the Waylanders drew closer. Ubel's boys were still inching forward, scanning the upper gantries. They were no idiots; they must have known what was coming.

A single shot broke the silence, a sniper round from the upper gantry. Corbin watched as one of the hive scum was punched from his feet. Mandrex swore over the vox as the rest of Ubel's boys dived for cover, the palanquin grinding to halt

'Damn it, Gunter!' Mandrex bellowed. 'I said wait for my order.'

'The lads got jumpy. Should we hold off?'

'There's no point now! Open fire and pin them down. We can't give them a chance to use those flamers.'

The dome hummed to the crack of the heavy stubber, punctuated by the occasional burst of autogun fire. But Ubel's boys were dug in like ticks amidst the dunes. Only the palanquin was exposed, and it appeared to be struggling. Wreaths of smoke were billowing from the propulsion system. The Waylanders were still advancing, albeit cautiously.

'They're keeping low,' Corbin hissed.

'Don't matter,' Mandrex replied. 'We're almost on them, Don't let up, Gunter.'

He was right. The Waylanders had now encircled the conclave, though it was getting harder to pick out Ubel's gang, the smoke from the palanquin was getting thicker.

Too thick in fact.

'Mandrex…' Corbin said. 'I think the guilders are using some sort of smoke screen.'

As he spoke the stubber fire fell silent.

'What now?' Mandrex barked over the comm. 'Keep firing!'

'Barrels've overheated,' came the crackled response.

'What, all of them?'

'Mine and Crank's. The feeds keep jamming.'

'Idiots,' Mandrex spat. 'Well if you're not providing covering fire then get down here. And if each of you hasn't skragged at least one of these scum suckers before the day ends I'll cut you down myself. Corbin, are they still straight ahead?'

'I can't see any more,' Corbin replied. 'There's too much smoke.'

Salvation was wreathed in fog. The occasional flash of gunfire burst through the smoke, but the only persisting light was emanating from the palanquin's Eternal Flame.

'Damn it. You get in here too. I can't see a blasted thing.'

As Corbin lowered the magnoculars he heard the roar of the first flamer.

Ubel could barely see through the smoke.

He had decided that Pureburn was not just a fanatic but also an idiot. In the darkness the flamers he'd so generously given to Ubel's men were as much a liability as a boon. His gang had no doubt already stumbled upon ingenious ways of setting themselves on fire. He did not know where to run.

The Waylanders were a threat of course, but given how badly things were going it was just as likely that Rath or one of the others would take advantage of the confusion, especially if he seemed to be fleeing the battlefield.

Where was safe?

He peered through the smoke, ignoring the din of battle. A jet of flame pierced the gloom for just a moment, but beyond it he could make something out - a candle holding back the darkness. He crept towards it, keeping low. The glow grew stronger, the darkness recoiling at its touch.

It was the Eternal Flame.

Smoke was still billowing from the palanquin's jet housing, flooding the dunes in darkness, but the platform itself was untouched by the shadows. Lord Pureburn was still stationed at the dais, staring down at the figure beneath him, who had a chainsabre resting across his shoulders and a bolt pistol in his hand. The man had his back to Ubel, but Ubel knew him from the greasy locks clinging to his shoulders.

Mandrex had reached the Pyrocaen.

Ubel remained still, hand inching towards his stubber, hoping to plug his rival in the back. But Lord Pureburn failed him once again, his gaze locking on Ubel.

'Ah, Mr Ubel,' he said with a warm smile. 'Your timing is impeccable.'

Mandrex turned, an evil grin carved across his face.

'Well, if it isn't little Ubel,' he said. 'So, you finally accepted that you lost our little war and decided to sell out to these bankers?'

'I just made a business choice,' Ubel replied. His mouth was dry Mandrex's pistol was still levelled at the guilder, but the man had the reflexes of a phyrr cat. Ubel doubted he could outdraw him on a good day; with a weapon to hand it was impossible.

'Business,' Mandrex sighed. 'That's all this is to you, isn't it? Fighting over money. It ain't just business for me - this place belongs to my family. It's my inheritance, and no one is taking it.'

'It was mine before it was yours!' Ubel snarled.

'Yeah?' Mandrex said. 'That why you ran uphive like a coward?'

'Ran? You drove me out!'

'Like you were going to do to me!' Mandrex bellowed. 'I just made the first move.'

They exchanged glances.

'So, how do we play this?' Ubel said.

'Seems like I have the draw on you,' Mandrex grinned, revving his chainsabre. 'How about we set the guns down and settle this like proper gentlemen. You got a knife, right?'

Corbin was struggling through oily clouds of smoke, broken only by bursts of gunfire and the screams of the dying. He'd already stumbled over Gunter's body, his chest a mess of las-rounds, the heavy stubber lying beside him. Corbin had briefly checked the weapon. Gunter was right; it had overheated and seized up. The barrel was warped, like the, weapon had been exposed to a blast furnace.

Corbin peered through the smoke. He could still see the Eternal Flame. Somehow, no matter how thick the smoke, it was still visible. Always burning.

A figure suddenly lunged from the shadows, an axe swinging in a clumsy arc towards his head. Corbin lurched aside, raising his pistol. In the flash from the shot he caught sight of a boilerplate mask. It shattered under the impact of the rounds, and the body fell. Corbin kept running, sweat dripping from his brow. He could now make out the roar of Mandrex's chainsabre.

The smoke was thinning ahead, banished by the light. Suddenly the palanquin was before him, Mandrex and Ubel circling beneath the dais. The former wore a manic smile that filled Corbin with dread. He was in no hurry, the blade whirling about him in a competent display of swordsmanship, the blade's teeth revving in anticipation of spilling blood. Ubel was keeping his distance, armed only with a rather battered combat knife. It had no doubt slit its share of throats, but the weapon was near worthless against the chainsabre.

Mandrex beckoned his opponent forward, the unlit lho-stick still hanging from the corner of his mouth.

'Come then, young Ubel,' he said. 'Serve your master. Earn your coin. Unless, of course, you think you can outdraw me?'

Ubel snarled but kept back. He had a stubber bolstered in his belt, but Mandrex must know that and was no doubt faster. Still, Ubel seemed to be playing for time. Corbin could not figure out why.

Then he saw it: a figure creeping silently towards Mandrex's exposed back.

'Look out!' Corbin screamed. At his cry, Ubel went for his gun but Mandrex was faster, sweeping forward and dashing the weapon aside with his sabre. But he was left open and Ubel darted forward, knife poised to plunge into his throat. Mandrex seized the knife arm with his free hand smashing his forehead into his rival's face. Ubel stumbled and fell, dazed.

The figure had emerged from the shadows. It was one of the guilder's entourage, its once human form twisted to its master's needs, its left arm forged into a burning brazier, its face hidden by an iron mask.

Mandrex turned, too slow, as it brought its weapon upwards, ready to engulf him in a blast of promethium.

'No!' screamed Corbin, firing his stubber. He was still running and the shots were wild; most missed but one glanced from the pyromagir's shoulder, throwing it off balance.

Mandrex did the rest.

He stepped into his opponent's guard, the flame passing inches from his head, and hammered his elbow into its midriff. As it staggered back, doubling over as it struggled for breath, Mandrex brought his weapon down in a savage blow, separating its head from its shoulders.

He turned to face Corbin as the body fell, grinning. Smoke trailed from his now-lit lho-stick.

'Anyone else?' he said. 'No? Just the old man then.'

The pyrocaen had not moved from his dais. Mandrex levelled his bolt pistol at the guilder.

'Hello again,' he said. 'Now, ideally I'd rather not kill you and turn this little skirmish into a full-on war. Then again, I really don't like bankers. So, let's not give me a reason to put pleasure before business.'

The pyrocaen smiled. 'I find the two to be one and the same.'

'How very interesting,' Mandrex said, cocking his pistol. 'I would love to hear more, but first, how about you switch off that light of yours?'

'I am afraid I cannot do that.'

'Well, I can,' said Mandrex, raising his pistol and firing at the crucible that housed the Eternal Flame. The shot burst in the air inches from the metal - a flash of light followed by wisps of smoke.

'Refractor field?' Mandrex frowned, glancing at the guilder. 'For a big candle? You really do have more coin than sense.'

'The Eternal Flame is more than a light.' The pyrocaen smiled, seemingly untroubled. 'It is a spark of the God- Emperor's power.'

'Well, if you don't switch it off it's going to be your funeral pyre,' Mandrex snarled.

'As I said, I cannot,' the pyrocaen sighed. 'Not without opening the chamber.'

'Then how about we just do that?' Mandrex said. 'Sharpish, because otherwise I will shoot you in the face.'

The old man shrugged his shoulders, turning to the chamber and passing his hand across a hidden panel. There was a faint click. The chamber doors lurched open.

Corbin was not sure what he had expected to see inside Perhaps some vast fuel reserve, or a more exotic mechanism beyond his understanding. But the chamber was stark, the plasteel walls offering neither control or fuel source. They were entirely empty.

Except for the girl.

She sat cross-legged on a bench of refined plasteel, clad only in a plain white robe. She could have been twenty cycles but was hairless, her face lacking even brows or lashes - and her skin glowed, radiant with youth.

'Behold, the Keeper of the Eternal Flame,' Pureburn said sadly, stepping away from the open chamber.

Mandrex frowned, his bolt pistol now trained on the girl. She stared back at him, serene, the reflected light of the Eternal Flame dancing in her eyes.

'What is this?' he said, stubbing out the half-smoked lho-stick and lucking it behind his ear. 'Where's the power source?'

Lord Pureburn shook his head. 'I warned you,' he said. 'We are the power.'

Mandrex swung his arm around, his pistol now aimed at the pyrocaen.

'I think I've had enough of you,' he said, his finger tightening on the trigger.

The lho-stick tucked behind his ear began to smoulder.

Then it burst into flames.

Mandrex swore as his hair caught, the greasy curls consumed by the flames. He collapsed, trying to bat out the fire with his hands. Corbin was already running forward, tearing the coat from his shoulders and throwing it over Mandrex, smothering the blaze.

'Bastard!' Mandrex roared, raising his weapon and pulling the trigger.

The shell travelled barely a foot before it detonated, the blast jarring the bolt pistol from his hand.

Lord Pureburn spread his hands apologetically, before turning to the girl. She was still intent on Mandrex. But it was more than a spark that danced in her eyes.

'Keeper,' Lord Pureburn said, addressing the girl. 'Deliver unto them the God-Emperor's light.'

Corbin felt the rush of heat as the air began to shimmer. It was just like the boiler room at the orphanarium-fane, the ambient heat destroying his vision.

Mandrex lunged for his pistol, screaming as he touched the metal. It was red hot.

Corbin could not see now, the air but a haze.

All but her eyes. They still burned.

The tar felt warm against his face.

Ubel frowned, struggling to raise his head. His nose felt broken. He was surprised to still be breathing.

It was then he heard the screams.

The smoke was thinning now, diffused by the dome's extractor fans. Figures were visible in the haze, from both Mandrex's gang and Ubel's. But they were no longer fighting

All eyes were fixed on the palanquin. Even through the receding smoke it shone like a beacon, the plasteel gleaming. The chamber was open somehow, the light spilling from within too bright to look upon. Ubel had never seen anything so pure, scourged of any hint of dirt or grime.

All except the pile of ash that lay at the foot of the dais.

Through the smoke Lord Pureburn stared down from the pulpit, surveying the carnage. He picked out the bodies of his fallen guards before finally meeting Ubel's gaze. The pyrocaen gave a sad smile.

'I am sorry it has come to this,' he said, addressing the fallen fighters. Behind him a figure was stepping from the central chamber, her white robes shining brighter even than the plasteel.

Lord Pureburn turned, bowing his head to her and offering up the pulpit. As she ascended he retreated towards the chamber. Someone took a shot at him; Ubel heard the distinct thump of the stub-rounds. But the bullets never touched him, evaporating in wisps of smoke. He entered the chamber, the plasteel frame sealing around him.

The girl stood at the pulpit.

Rath surged forward, his chainaxe held two-handed. Ubel could not tell if his blow was intended for the girl or the palanquin itself. It did not matter; the ganger exploded in a searing blast of light. Ubel did not wait to see who was next. He turned, running, his gait hampered by the tar sucking at his feet. He heard shots from behind him, followed quickly by more screams.

A blast of light lit the scene, searing the back of his neck and throwing his shadow across the dunes, but he did not look back. The ground felt a little more solid now and he broke into a sprint, his heart pounding in his chest, sweat dripping from his brow. He was always quickest on the uptake. Now he just had to run the fastest. The others would slow her down. He just had to get away.

But the heat was rising, sapping the strength from his limbs. He felt himself slow, gasping for air and choking on tar fumes. He ignored the light blazing behind him, even as the skin on his back began to blister…

About the Author

Denny Flowers is the author of the Necromunda short story ‘The Hand of Harrow’ and novella Low Lives, featuring the characters of Caleb and Iktomi. He lives in Kent with his wife and son.

An extract from Kal Jerico: Sinner’s Bounty.

‘Oh, scav.’

Kal Jerico was already dropping into a crouch as the exclamation left his mouth. The axe was little more than a rusty fan blade lashed to a length of bone, and it cut the air with a thin whistle. With no Kal to stop it, the makeshift weapon continued its arc unimpeded, burying itself in a steam pipe. A boiling fug gushed, filling the causeway corridor.

Kal cursed again and fired one of his laspistols in the general direction of the axe-wielding mutie. He threw himself aside as a second cannibal erupted from a side corridor opposite him, autogun blazing. The newcomer wasn’t aiming, just shooting. A fine old underhive tradition – fill the air with enough lead, you were bound to hit something.

‘Scabbs,’ Kal snarled. Then, ‘Yolanda!’ The only answer he received was more shooting. No sign of his partners anywhere. Slugs perforated support struts, and the causeway gave an audible groan. It only remained aloft thanks to centuries of rust and a bit of luck.

Kal shoved himself across the floor, returning fire with more enthusiasm than accuracy. No time to worry about where the others were now. Not when he could hear the whoops and howls of his attackers, as they raced up creaking gantry stairs or shimmied down through broken transit shafts. He needed to be elsewhere, and quickly.

The fug began to thin, leaving a greasy residue on the air. The mutie with the axe was down, having caught a slug meant for Kal. But the other one was still standing, curses dripping from his blistered lips as he struggled to clear a jam in the autogun’s firing chamber. Kal rose to his feet, laspistol extended. The mutie froze, staring.

Kal winked, and shot him.

A moment later, he was running down the causeway, the rest of the cannibals in pursuit. Kal fired in his wake without looking. At worst, the volley would slow the fastest ones down. At best, he might kill one or two, and the rest would stop to eat them.

The causeway was a long stretch of rusty iron and sodden ferrocrete – one of a dozen extending across the upper reaches of the ruined hab-dome. Phosphorescent flora climbed the struts and girders that held the causeway in place, and slow drifts of glimmering pollen hung heavy on the air. The causeway was crumbling in places. Wide gaps made the path treacherous, but Kal was an old hand at running for his life in difficult terrain.

Even so, he was soon forced to holster his weapons. He needed his hands free to haul his lean frame along the more unstable sections of the causeway. But however cautious he was, he didn’t slacken his pace. The muties were hot on his heels, and they were hungry, by the sounds of it. Then, they were always hungry.

Of course, they also weren’t supposed to be this far south of Pipefall. Even as he ran, he wondered what had drawn them to this badzone. If the mutie tribes were moving south, that meant they were heading up from hive bottom, and that was bad for everyone. Bad, but also profitable. Mutie scalps were worth five credits apiece in Steelgate. Too bad there was no time to stop and collect a few.

He bounded over a chunk of rubble, his sword clanking against his legs, and saw that the path fell away into darkness ahead. Without slowing, he holstered his laspistols and darted out across a broken girder that extended partially over the gap. A tumble of torn hoses and conduits dangled over the empty space and as he reached the end of the girder, he leapt.

His intention, formed in the half-second before his leap, was to swing across the gap and land adroitly on the opposite side. Unfortunately, his weight pulled many of the artificial vines loose from their corroded housings. He found himself clinging desperately to a single length of electrical conduit, his momentum lost in his momentary flailing.

As he swung out over the gap, he glimpsed a forest of glowing flora below, and the polluted streams cutting through it. The lower levels of the hab-dome had collapsed under the weight of strange growths, and he could smell the sickly-sweet stink of toxic fumes. He heard a giggle, and saw that the muties had caught up with him.

They stared at him from the edge of the gap, eyeing him the way a rat eyed a hunk of meat. At least a dozen, maybe more. Starveling-thin, or bloated with cancerous tumours, they shifted and murmured, following him with their eyes as he swung gently from side to side. A few might have been licking their lips, but it was hard to tell, given the malformation of their faces. One of them looked down, picked up a length of pipe and jabbed at him.

‘Stop it,’ Kal said, kicking ineffectually at the pipe. The effort sent him in a slow circle. This seemed to amuse them, and more jabbing followed until he managed to kick the pipe out of the mutie’s grip. It clattered away into the dark below. They watched it fall, and then looked back up at him. Kal stared back at them.

Muties were the worst of the worst. The flotsam and jetsam of hive bottom, scraped out and churned up. Inbred, gripped by disease and malnutrition, they murdered, robbed and ate anyone they could catch. In Kal’s professional opinion, life in the underhive would have been vastly improved if every mutie was dead and their corpses safely incinerated.

Nonetheless, he tried an ingratiating smile. ‘So… what’s the cost of safe passage, these days? I’m all out of credits, but I’m always up for a bit of bartering.’

‘Nice boots,’ one of them grunted.

‘Nice coat,’ another wheezed.

‘Looks like he tastes nice, too,’ a third said, smacking her lips in a manner that was decidedly not lascivious. Heads nodded, and grunts of assent followed this assertion. Kal shook his head.

‘I warn you, I’m fairly certain I’m mostly gristle.’

‘Soft,’ a mutie crooned. ‘Soft uphiver. Smells so sweet.’

Kal began to regret taking his weekly bath so recently. It was just that a man wanted to look his best before going on a job. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. He was glad there was no one to witness him dangling here.

At the thought, he looked around, hoping to spot the familiar forms of his partners. They’d got separated when the muties had sprung their ambush. It was every man – or woman – for themselves in such situations, and Scabbs and Yolanda were experienced enough to look after themselves. Unfortunately, the muties had followed Kal, rather than the others.

‘Go find Scabbs,’ he said. ‘He’s slow and I’m sure that unsightly dermatitis of his will make him easy to chew.’ The muties, unfortunately, didn’t seem inclined to follow his advice. ‘No one ever listens to me,’ Kal muttered, as he spun slowly around and around. ‘I’m doomed to be unappreciated in my own time. Or eaten. Or both.’

He looked down, trying to gauge the distance to the bottom of the hab. Or even just to the glowing canopy of flora. But it was too far, even for someone with his luck. He looked up. The conduit wasn’t going to hold forever. There was no telling if it would last long enough for him to try and climb it. He was stuck, good and proper.

‘I admit, this is not a good day for the underhive’s greatest bounty hunter,’ he said, out loud. A mutie laughed and Kal made an obscene gesture. ‘Who asked you, you blister-faced sump-rat?’

One of them tossed a chunk of stone at him, and he drew a laspistol. Those closest drew back. Others levelled their own weapons.

‘Not the wisest option,’ Kal called out. ‘Shoot me and that’s your dinner gone.’ He gestured downwards meaningfully. ‘Wouldn’t want that, would you?’

The muties paused. Jaundiced gazes flickered back and forth, and they began to murmur among themselves. It soon took a heated turn. An exchange of blows swiftly followed. They were clearly at odds over the best course of action.

Kal used the opportunity to take stock of his surroundings. Experience had taught him that there was always a way out, if you had the wit to see it. He twisted about, looking for anything that might be of help.

The causeways stretched like a web of ferrocrete across the upper reaches of the dome. After centuries of neglect, toxic rains and hive quakes, most were little more than sections of skeletal struts and support beams. The cavernous slopes of the dome’s interior were a latticework of rotting walkways and abandoned transit shafts. Thousands of pipes jutted from among the ferrous escarpments, spilling sump-water down into the dark below. Hot slurry gushed ceaselessly through broken aqueducts, joining the rest of the spillage in torrential rivers of chemical toxicity.

In the distance, hidden by the steamy fug that rose from those slurry rivers, ancient mechanisms the size of battleships loomed like mountains of rusting slag. He’d heard stories to the effect that mutie tribes sometimes worshipped the primeval machines, but he’d never seen any evidence of it.

‘Picturesque, but unhelpful in the short term,’ Kal muttered as he blew a blond plait out of his face and turned his attentions to his immediate surroundings. As he’d expected, no sign of Scabbs or Yolanda. Not even any sign of Wotan, his loyal cyber-mastiff. Then, something had been a bit off about Wotan since he’d got his sprockets jangled during the… thing, the last time Kal had had the bad fortune to journey spirewards.

Thinking about the… thing made Kal even more desperate to escape. ‘You’ve been in worse situations, man,’ he said, out loud. ‘I mean, is this honestly worse than being – gah – married to Yolanda Catallus?’

Yolanda was an ideal partner in crime – most of the time – but as a partner in matrimony? He felt a shudder run through him at the thought. Yolanda was beautiful, in the same way that a Phyrr cat was beautiful – all the colours and general slinkiness hid a murderous temper. He’d once seen her beat a man to death with another, slightly smaller man. Then there were all the times she’d tried to kill him, either to collect one of the occasional bounties on his head or just because she’d been in a bad mood at the time.

And yet, there was something about her. A gutter-sheets poet of his acquaintance had once described her as Our Lady of the Underhive, in an ode to her fierce beauty. The poet had claimed that Yolanda was the underhive manifest – all its good points and bad, wrapped up in one tattooed package. Of course, when she’d heard about it, Yolanda had fed the poor bastard to a sumpkrok. Some people weren’t good with compliments.

But still, the thought lingered. Until he remembered where he was, and that now was definitely not the time to be thinking about Yolanda bloody Catallus. ‘Steady on, Kal,’ he muttered. ‘One problem at a time.’

The muties were still brawling. No one had started shooting yet, but it was only a matter of time. He spotted the girder he’d leapt from. He could just about reach it with his foot. He swung himself closer. If he could use it to boost himself, he might gain the momentum to swing to the other side.

But as his boot touched the girder, a mutie turned. Eyes wide, the mutant gabbled something unintelligible and swung a crude billhook out, trying to catch Kal’s ankle. Kal shot him, and swung backwards as the rest of the muties set up an ear-splitting caterwaul.

‘Backup would be nice,’ he shouted, hoping that someone might hear. ‘Anyone? No? Well scav you both!’ As he swung back towards the gathering muties, he fired again, not bothering to aim. The cannibals were so densely packed that he couldn’t fail to hit a few of them. But even as the wounded fell, the others pressed forwards, grabbing awkwardly for his legs or the edge of his coat.

‘Hands off the material, this is prime off-world leather,’ Kal snarled, as he lashed out with a boot and sent rotten teeth tumbling from a blistered mouth. He spun on his cable, swinging back out over the gap. The muties howled in frustration. Kal stretched out a foot, trying to hook a piece of broken pipe extending from the far side. He just missed it, and the motion sent him drifting back towards the muties. Another howl, this time of jubilation, stabbed at his ears. He spun in mid-air, his stomach lurching.

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up!’ He fired his laspistol again and again. ‘Slither back into your holes, because today isn’t your day, sump-scum. No one eats Kal Jerico.’ Leprous hands clawed at his trousers, and he thrashed his feet. ‘I said… back off!’ His grip on the conduit began to slip, and he quickly holstered his weapon. He looked up, wondering if he could reach the top before the conduit gave way. ‘Got to risk it. If the old plan doesn’t work, come up with a new one.’

He started to haul himself up, but the muties weren’t giving up so easily. He needed to get out of range of grabbing hands. He shifted his weight slightly, and the conduit swung away once more, out of easy reach.

A mutie held on a moment too long, and was dragged along with Kal as he swung back towards the opposite side. The mutant wailed in panic, mouldering paws clutching desperately at Kal’s legs. The creature was stick-thin, and wrapped in filthy bandages and rags that might once have been a cheap hazard suit. A ragged cowl covered his – her? – head, but for a mouth full of splintered, yellowing fangs.

Kal swatted at the mutant, trying to dislodge him. The conduit wouldn’t hold both of them, not for long. The mutie snarled and jerked a knife from his rags. They spun in an awkward gavotte as Kal caught the mutant’s bony wrist, narrowly preventing the knife from opening his belly. Dust and pollen sifted down from above, as the rubber casing of the conduit began to stretch and tear. Kal looked up.

‘Oh, scav me.’

Click here to buy Kal Jerico: Sinner’s Bounty.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Black Library.
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