Secret War: Warhammer 40,000 by Ben Agar (romantic novels to read .TXT) 📕

Chapter 1

Gunfire. Las and solid projectile alike ripped down the corridor, stray rounds punching holes through the wooden walls, showering us in pouts of exploding dust, which engulfed much of the hallway in a thick, white haze—forcing my colleagues and me into cover. Two of whom, Jarvus and Callague, never made it. A las round burned through the side of Jarvus' skull as the ex-guardsman desperately dived. Callague was dead before he could even move, the poor bastard almost cut apart by the intense fire.

Cursing, I blindly fired my autogun from the corner, Into the dust-obscured corridor. 'Spray and pray' is the technical term, and wondered for the hundredth time why I had joined this line of work. No way in hell could I get a clean shot; my only hope was to pin the assailants.

With a quick-fire signal to Garrakson behind me, I slipped back, and the ex-guardsman took my position.

"Fire in the hole!" he sang out in his oddly melodic voice, and with a grunt, the middle-aged man hefted a tube charge down the hall.

The explosion's deafening roar preceded by the hefty clatter of falling debris.

Without hesitation, Elandria and I slid into the corridor. Side by side, we sprinted through the dust and debris, firing our auto guns from the hip. Two unfortunate gangers buckled and collapsed under our withering fire—a pair of darkened figures stunned by the grenade's force.

At the last moment, we dropped our weapons and fell upon our enemies—Elandria drawing twin monomolecular enhanced blades from the sheaths on her back. I drew my mono-sword from its hip scabbard. Elandria let out a spine-chilling cackle and dodged a ganger's clumsy blow, then countered with a deft slice, relieving him of his head.

Not in such humour. I parried a ganger's stabbing knife and kicked my boot's knife into his shin. The man's agonised scream became gurgling as I stabbed through his chest, and I kicked the convulsing idiot off my blade. Immediately, I was forced to duck the next Hammer's wild swing of the butt of his Lasgun. My blade arced into his left hip and through to his right shoulder. The man gurgled blood then fell onto his back.

Beside me, Elandria finished the last ganger, disembowelling him with a quick slice of Setsukia, then decapitated him with Katrina.

She and I worked well together, but our combat styles could not have been more different. I was taught the way of the combat pragmatist: to do anything and everything to win, to fight with quick, brutal and practical techniques.

She fought like a gymnast, with acrobatic and fanciful techniques I found at first contemptuous. But I could not deny that she was skilled, very skilled.

She had yet to reveal what school of assassins she was taught in, but I could hazard a guess.

Elandria enjoyed killing. To such heights, it disturbed me and her obsession with decapitating her victims, unnatural. Hence why she wielded twin blades: Setsukia, for blocking and wounding. Katrina, specifically to decapitate. She fought while amped on combat drugs, which I was taught to do too, but detested. If you relied on enhancements, what good would you be without them? I supposed that was why her fanciful style was so effective.

I do not enjoy killing; I do it because needs must, in a professional manner and pride in my work. I am Attelus Xanthis Kaltos, I am a mercenary, and that is that.

Despite her ruthless, bloodthirsty nature, Elandria was an attractive young woman. At times her beauty held me in awe. Her skin, deathly pale and her straight brunette hair, jaw length. But I was wise enough to know a girl like her was only to be looked at, not chased being so indoctrinated by her cult, all she would ever know was the mindless urge to kill. It was quite depressing, really.

The four that fell to our blades were the last; another three had taken the brunt of the blast.

'Good work, you two', said Garrakson, his heavy boots crunching on the debris as he approached our backs.

Elandria and I turned to our colleague. Elandria was tense, shaking and as she spun, she almost toppled over. Fortunately, Garrakson was smart enough to stand out of range of Elandria's blades; she was hugely unpredictable when in such a state.

I shrugged. "All in a day's work," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "We must be getting back before the local Magistratum arrive."

Garrakson grimaced slightly. "Or the damnable Arbites."

"C-cut the chit chat s-shall we?" said Elandria her voice was painful, needy. "Our master will be wanting to hear of our exploits.' She was twitching madly now, another reason I kept off stimms; the withdrawal was intense.

"What?" said Garrakson. "Our exploits being that we lost even more good men chasing yet another dead end?"

I sighed; Garrakson's words rang true. I had been part of Taryst's army for half a year now, and so far, this had to be the most horrible, thankless job I've ever had.

Taryst, a famous Rogue Trader, well known throughout the Calixis sector as a master of trade and business. Who, for an unknown reason, was waging war against the gangs of this Hive world: Omnartus. So secret this struggle was any mercenary who joined had their mind blocked from psyker intrusion. That was over two thousand men and women. Emperor only knows how even he could afford it.

"What are we to do about Callague and Jarvus?" I said, starting down the corridor and past Garrakson, although already knowing the answer.

Garrakson sniffed, causing his scarred, square-jawed face to contort. "Do what we always do," he said, shaking his head. "Leave 'em; we don't have the time, kid."

"Just for a change, huh?" I sighed. "Poor bastards. I hope that the Magistratum treat them well."

"Why does it matter?" asked Elandria; despite a drug-induced withdrawal approached with such feline grace she seemed to float. "The dead are dead; it does not matter how well you treat them."

I sighed again. No matter how many times I explained it, she still didn't understand.

Garrakson sniffed again, but this time he hawked up a wad of phlegm he unceremoniously spat to the floor. "Okay, kiddies, we split up," he said. "Elandria go south-west-"

"Yeah, yeah," I sneered. "We know the drill: I go south-east, and you go south, meet at the base at eighteen hundred, we know."

Garrakson shook his head with a bemused smile. "How long has it been now?"

"One hellish half of one hellish year," I answered, though I was not sure either.

"Hellish? Hellish?" said Garrakson. "Now that's the damned understatement of the damned century. Alright then, just move out now, if you know the bloody drill so frigging well."

And we did it, yet again.

 

I ran out of the building and into the polluted, darkened streets. My black flak jacket whipped and snapped in my wake.

I did not need to check my wrist chronometre's compass to know I ran south-east. Ever since I was a child, I had an innate sense of direction. I could find my way through the thickest of bush on my homeworld, Elbyra, with only my wits.

As I silently moved, my thoughts wandered. Half a year ago, our squad numbered ten, but with the losses of Callague and Jarvus, now we're reduced to four.

The fourth was Torris, an ex-Arbitrator. He was wounded in our last incursion; the poor bastard lost an eye then got knifed in the guts. His condition was still uncertain. I was not into praying, but I was tempted to for Torris.

It was quite depressing, really; seeing your colleagues killed off, one by one. Was it like this to serve in the Imperial Guard? Perhaps I should ask Garrakson one day if I ever remember to.

Better do it sooner rather than later, Garrakson maybe the next. Or perhaps me.

I shook away the morbid thought. The morale of Taryst's army was at an all-time low. We may be mercenaries; throne gelt was a good incentive for us. But Taryst expected us to give up our lives without ever telling us why.

We were human as well if we had a cause, a meaning! It could make us fight all the harder.

Anger started to well, my jaw clenched. What was the point of implanting us with psychic blocks if you don't give us any information to protect?

But I was no stranger to secrets and sabotage. Everyone has an ulterior motive. I learned my lesson 'trust' from my dear old dad, my dear old frigging father.

I sighed; too many memories suddenly flooded back. I shook it away, now was not the time for sentiment.

There was never any time for sentiment.

I turned a sharp corner out of the alleyways and into the main streets.

We were meant to meet at the base at 1800 hours, but I intended to get there sooner. I felt I needed to speak with the employer, a mother-figure to us, and was more of a mother than my own ever was. Her name was Glaitis; she saved me after my first, futile assassination attempt. Glaitis taught me the way of the assassin in more detail than my father ever would. And she knew my father, my real father.

My brow furrowed, and I sped up my already fast pace.

 

 

She never looked up, and she never seemed to need to as I entered her office.

"Ah! Attelus Xanthis Kaltos. What is it that brings you to my humble abode, my apprentice?" said Glaitis. She was a tall, harshly beautiful woman, and I couldn't help my gaze gliding over her. Glaitis sat at her desk, long legs crossed. Her cold blue eyes studied a data slate intently.

My jaw clenched. I hated it when Glaitis used my last name, and she was well aware of it. It was part of her constant testing, which drove me nuts. It was to anger me so I could learn to control my anger- I almost always failed.

I swallowed the anger, and nervousness replaced it. A nervousness that overtook me when in her presence.

"I-I am here to advise you of-."

The sharp snap of the data slate suddenly shutting interrupted me, and she fixed me with her piercing gaze.

"No stuttering young one, unless it is an act! You are to be confident! Precise in your words and your demeanour and stand up straight! Your posture is utterly horrendous!"

I did as told, holding back an annoyed sigh.

"Now, Young Attelus, you may start again."

"I am here to advise you that we have lost two more members of our squad."

"And who were they?" she said, her gaze falling to her data slate, uninterested.

"Callague and Javus."

"They are of Taryst's ilk," she stated.

I nodded, already knowing what she was about to say.

"If they are not part of our own organisation. I do not care, and you know this as well as I. come out with it then. I know you, child, tell me the actual reason you are here."

I let out a heavy sigh, hoping that it didn't sound too fake; right now I was testing myself to see if I could hide the exact reason why I was here. "The men are losing morale-"

"I am well aware of the state of the morale, my apprentice," she interrupted. "You are just here to seek guidance for your own melancholy. Am I correct in my assumption?"

I hissed air through clenched teeth, hesitating my response. Damn it, outwitted yet again!

'Yes...'

She smiled a steady and starkly rare expression.

"At least you have learnt from my teachings the value of deception, young Attelus, but yet not the proper technique. As I told you when we first began your training, your father had taught you well in the basics; close-quarters combat, swordsmanship, ranged weaponry. But he had neglected the more subtle arts of an assassin's trade."

My jaw set at the mention of my father.

"Do not do that!' she hissed. "That is one of your many tells young one.