Sanguine

[Pavement Artist]

Hey all. This is something i've been working on for a couple of days. It's the first part of a longer Blood Angels piece im working on, similar to my Nostramo story, following a citizen of Baal as he is inducted into the chapter. It's set during the great crusade though for the first few parts, the action will be set on Baal just to give us a feel for the chapter and home of the aspirants. Power armour will figure into it later i swear! Posted originally in the Blood Angel section, but i wanted to put it here to bring it to a wider audience. It's not fantastic but comments and criticism are welcome.

 

 

 

 

Get up! breathe with the soul, for it is brave in every battle, and will always win, unless the heavy body be its grave.

 

Attributed to Euro-pan poet Dante C.M2

 

In the mid way: though strange to us it seemd

At first, that Angel should with Angel warr,

And in fierce hosting meet, who wont to meet

So oft in Festivals of joy and love

Recovered from Ural rad basin. Attributed to Poet John Myltonne C.M2

 

 

Death had begun to speak to him. It spoke in cracked, tomb dry tones; A pervasive, Phlegmatic rattle like the final breaths of a dying elder. It whispered in his ear, quiet at first- a soft murmuring that belied the deadly intent. Death spoke as a lover inviting him into their bed, soft and inviting. He ignored the voice and pressed on.

Thus spurned, Death would raise it's voice and begin to howl. His ears filled with a terrible curdling wail, a rolling wave of garbled crackling that leapt monstrously up and down in pitch. Death would protest with the jagged howls of the damned, it would scream as a drowning man would beg for salvation.

He wanted nothing more than to carry on, to Push his burning limbs onwards and to press forward through the desert. Maybe the voice would fall behind- dissipate like the breathy dirges of the night winds that pervaded his waking dreams yet would cease to stir come the dawn. He knew in his heart that he was fooling himself. This was Death's country and to forge a path through these lands was to invite his company. His steps faltered as he heard the mocking death rattle crackle and whine with maddening regularity. Heat blasted and bone weary, the traveller hung his head in defeat and turned back, the gleeful cackling of death haunting his every step.

 

His rad suit was unbearably stifling. Sweat seeped from every pore and ran in rivulets down his body, collecting in every seam of the suit. The death rattle had faded to a gentle ghost echo now, the clicking distant and almost metronomic in its regularity. The suit was generations old and was sandblasted and ruined before he had left his cot as was the rad counter that ticked against his breast.

Failure was heavy on his shoulder like a leaden shawl. It bent his body into a slumped S shape, bearing down on him harder than the searing heat or the acrid bite of the skin desert winds.

Shielding his eyes from the monstrous sun glare, he caught sight of a rocky outcropping in the distance and managed a weak smile as he recognised It as the mesa where his clan dwelt. The failure threatened to overwhelm him once more as it dug, knife sharp in his gut and he tried hard not to imagine the looks of shame on his family and clansmen. The silent, unspoken inference of his failing. He was not sure he could handle his people's quiet anger, the heavy stares that said it all-

You were not good enough. They would say. You were not good enough to join the side of Gods and so you are condemned to live a futile, impotent existence with us.

 

The smile faded from his lips, a ghost image that lost like the sand on the winds. The mesa on the horizon looked less homely now, an ugly broken spar of rock; a blackened twisted knuckle clenched at the sky.

It looked a simple enough matter, home seemed to be straight on towards the horizon but he knew the route would be littered with areas of black earth, the radiation soaked deadlands that were death to any man arrogant or foolish enough to wander into them. To reach the mesa, he would have to swing westwards, scaling the rockfalls that would carry him over the dead earth. The rad counter crackled convulsively, almost in anticipation of the death ahead of him. He thought again of the Rad mother calling the clicking of the counters Death's own voice. The younger members of the clan had laughed at the wizened crone's superstitious ramblings, prompting an unbroken stream of curses from the elder's lips. He bitterly regretted the haste with which they had laughed off her words for the constant crackling now sounded more like a distant yet constant gallow's laugh.

He hefted his pack and began to cut westwards, winding slowly out of sight of the mesa as he headed towards the uplands. After a couple of hours he sheltered in the shade of an outcropping of rock and had a hurried meal of dried scorpion Tfal, washing the stringy meat down with the scant remaining water in his canteen. The heat was less oppressive in the shadow of the rocks and he felt the sweat begin to cool on his body, stinging against the sores that covered his body, a legacy of the world on which he lived.

The distant horizon was a deep terracotta shade, the rich hue of dusk as the desert night began to seep across the plain. Any other eye might have named the sight beautiful but to the traveller it reminded him of nothing but flames dancing in the atmosphere. He started as a loud crack sounded in the distance followed by the ghost echoes of maniacal laughter. He was reminded of the rad mother's tales she would spin to the clan youths of wandering bands of Rad Fiends as she called them. He suppressed a shudder as he recalled the way her cracked voice spoke of the hunched and diseased mutant bands that roamed the rad plains, preying on the smaller, more isolated clans.

 

One evening, years ago, she had gathered the children of the clan by the great fire. Her wizened and crooked form had loomed and danced in the flickering light, her blistered tongue flitting over her sparse yellow teeth as she recounted an old tale of the tribe that had lived on the mesa before The Blood had settled there. Her eyes had gleamed with a wicked light as she spoke of the night a great swell of mutated Plain fiends had descended on the mesa, sweeping into the camp in ramshackle vehicles that belched acrid black smoke, butchering and torching as they went. She told of women and children being torn apart for sport as a hound would toy with it's prey. The tale of the horde of the leprous, foul creatures had embedded itself in his mind and now the sounds carried on the desert air, dredged up that old childhood terror. Knowing he would get no sleep that night, he hefted his bag and pressed westwards, the grinding of faraway engines echoing behind him.

#

The rad mother was in her sixty second year, by far the most long lived member of The Blood that any of the clan could recall. Some even dared to say she was the eldest of all the people of Baal Secundus, save for those that joined the angels in the north.

Near legend though she was amongst the people of the tribe, she remained apart from them. Her family had long since been claimed by the desert, though she never spoke of them. Fifty years ago she had been found wandering the plains by a scavenging party. They had taken her in as a desert orphan, caring for her as their own. She never spoke of her family and to this day, she claimed she could not recall what happened to have left her stranded, naked and alone on the rad plains.

She pulled her shawl about her crooked form and hobbled from the depths of her tent, the cool night air catching the hem of her robes. Around her, the people of the blood busied themselves with securing the camp for the evening. The desert wind was treacherous and could rear up in the dead of night. They had all heard tales of entire camps swept up and strewn across the sands by howling sand gales that tore tents from the earth and stripped the flesh from men, women and children. Gye-wires were pulled tight and hammered deep into the earth, the canvas of the tents were strengthened with braces of bone to stop them from twisting and lurching violently in the wind.

The mood amongst the clan was that of a shared, unspoken fear. They were all touched by the desert from birth and none were insular enough to disrespect her. The Rad mother looked with a distant sadness upon their blighted, leprous forms and wondered if all worlds were as cruel as this one? Were there scores of planets over head where man had turned inward upon himself, dragging all down into ruination until the only way to survive was by tooth and by nail and by beating down the person next to you so you could eat and drink and live?

She hoped not. Inwardly, she hoped for worlds that were once like the Baal heard in faint whispers by the clan fire, a world of beauty and learning where the ambitions of man were turned towards the pursuits of arts and philosophy. She cursed the hubris of her people, that they should deny their sons and daughters the beauty of that world, their arrogance condemning all those that came after them to be consigned to a short life filled with nothing but hardship.

She smiled genially at the clan members she passed. She tried to ignore the faint looks of fear on some of the people as she caught their eye. Ingratiated though she was into The Blood, to some members of the clan, she would always be a worrying enigma- the mysterious child that was found naked and alone in the wastes. Her amnesia of that day's events hardly helped her case, as much as she would have liked to allay those people's doubts. She knew their fear wasn't born out of suspicion- it was a much purer, elemental thing; a primitive fear of the unknown that had plagued mankind ever since they had crawled onto land.

Children darted around her, their cries loud and raucous as if they were challenging the din of the desert winds. She lifted the hem of her robe up to avoid it being trodden on by the onrushing youths. Her cracked lips managed a smile, vaguely jealous of the energy of the young.

She found them sat against the hide wall of Aleppo's tent, crouched over a Quatriss Board. The desert wind ghosted gently over them as they pondered over the scratched and faded board. The Rad mother watched with faint amusement as one of the men- Carlo, cocked his head to the side, reaching a hand out tentatively towards one of the cut stone playing chips.

“Take your time,” The other player- Aleppo said with a wry grin, “I wouldn't want the game to be over so soon.”

“Hush up old man, at least some of us at least bother to think about our next move.” Carlo replied, picking up a stone and moving it diagonally across the board.

“Some of us need not over think these things” The older man spoke, hopping his piece over Carlo's, seizing his chip,flashing a brilliant smile.

“Every bloody time.” Carlo muttered, running a hand through his short crop of hair and looking darkly down at the board.

“Ah the vagaries of youth.” Cocking his head upwards Aleppo smiled warmly as he shielded his eyes from the glare of the setting sun. “Good evening Isabella, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

 

Despite herself, the Rad mother found herself blushing. Old as she was, there was something in those twinkling eyes of his that reduced her to a swooning maiden. To hear her name, even the adoptive one given to her by the tribesmen that had found her, was jarring also.

“Behave yourself Aleppo” she replied, suppressing a smile. Nodding to Carlo, he heaved himself up with an Arthritic groan and dusted down his robes.

“Quite right madame, I appear to be overstepping my bounds with her holiness the Rad mother.”

“Oh don't you start, I hate that name, it makes me sound like some bloody crone.”

“Well I didn't want to be the one to tell you,” Aleppo started, his face suddenly dark “but ever since you came to us, the harvest has been terrible.” He cast an ironic glance over the mesa to the infinite desert beyond before flashing her a wide grin.

She laughed, inwardly cursing herself for being caught out. Aleppo nearly matched her in years, he was born into the tribe in the second year of her adoption and had become the closest thing to a friend she had amongst The Blood. Warm and open, Aleppo had risen to a mayoral role amongst the people and although his thoroughly childish sense of humour irked her at times, the Rad mother admitted he was an honest and strong hand guiding the clan.

 

They skirted the edges of the camp, avoiding the general din of the evening's preparations and halting at the edge of the mesa. The sun was very low now, a blood red eye, peering down at the world. She unhooked her arm from his, staring off across the red wastelands.

“Isabella?” He frowned, detecting her dark mood, “What's going on?”

“Luca.” She replied, her voice distant and airy.

He moved closer to her, studying the lines of her face, the ghostly wisps of his hair blowing erratically in the breeze. In that moment he was faintly away that he still loved her in that ridiculous irrational way that a person's on feelings are in symbiosis with another’s- you worry, I worry. You hurt, I hurt.

“Luca has gone to be tested.” He replied simply, the significance of the words, heavy and leaden in the air.

“Will he succeed?” She asked, turning her eyes to him. He saw in them the look of a mother waiting for vindication for their child.

“You always took too much interest in that one, he's not yours to worry about.”

She moved away from him slightly, eyes fixed on the horizon.

“I would have you know?” She said, voice still ethereal and far away. “I would have looked after him after his mother passed.”

“Yes I know you would have Isabella.” Aleppo watched her as she stared ahead “But it wasn't your place, he had his father.”

She turned back to look at him, her eyes wet with barely suppressed tears. She forced a thin smile and took his arm again.

 

“There was always greatness about him, even as a boy. The angels will have him don't you think?”

He held her close, the sun fading behind the horizon and the din of the camp fading to a low murmur behind them.

“You know, I do believe they will.”

 

#

 

Luca dove into cover, pressing himself flat against a rockpile as the roaring of engines drew closer. His breath came in ragged gasps behind his rebreather as the acrid tang of exhaust fumes crept into his mouth. He felt the rocks at his back rumble slightly at the passing of the vehicles. He waited, as quiet and still as he could manage, his ear cocked, waiting as the convulsive wheeze of the engines faded into the distance.

He crawled from cover, still wary. His hands moved to the cord of his hide bag, pulling it loose, his hand slipping in, caressing the butt of his rifle. In the distance, he could see the thick layer of dust kicked up by the trucks, The wind carrying the cracks of mutant firearms and the coughing of engines across the plains.

He cursed, the band had sped out of the desert and had now cut him off from his clan's mesa. Only quick thinking had saved him from discovery. The clan elder's had spoken at length about the gruesome sport that the mutants of Baal make of their captives.

He slid the rifle from the hide bag. A crude bolt action weapon, it had been a birth gift from his father and despite it's age, was stubbornly reliable. He pulled the bolt back, thin flakes of orange rust falling from the breach. He began to load the rounds, keeping his back pressed against the rock. Loaded, he slammed the bolt up and forwards, clicking the safety off and hefting the rifle. The mutants were heading towards the mesa, whether on purpose or by a twist of fate, it mattered not. If they caught sight of a settlement then their would be no curtailing their blood lust.

He had to break through somehow and send warning to the clan. Breaking from cover, he darted over to the sheer rock walls at his left. If he could somehow scale them, he would be carried over the mutants and then he would simply have to descend towards the encampment. Time was against him though and the mutants had the advantage of speed.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder, reaching out for the rocks, taking them in worn aching hands and pulled himself up. Straining with the effort, he dug his boots into the rocks, pushing upwards, his left hand slapping against the wall, searching for a hand hold. He grasped a rock and gripped tight, panting with the effort. Suddenly, the rock was torn from the wall, he began to slip, his right hand reaching out desperately for purchase, grabbing a sharp outcropping, crying out as he felt it tear at his skin. His left arm dangled wildly at his side as he tried to summon the strength to swing upwards. Groaning with the effort, he finally found solid purchase and continued climbing, the wall crumbling dangerously under his feet.

After what felt like an eternity, he found his hand flail against empty air and he slapped it down hard on the plateau of rock at the summit, dragging his leaden body over the edge and flopping onto his back, taking in deep, ragged gulps of air. Rolling onto his knees, he pushed himself upwards, hefting his pack. Suddenly, he was aware of something breathing very close to him; Warily he turned, his hand slipping to the strap of his gun. Before he had chance to react, the butt of a rifle came up to meet him, cracking against his skull and he slumped into welcome darkness.

#

 

Aleppo opened his eyes and frowned at the night sky. Dazed, he propped himself up on his elbow and looked around. He felt his cheeks colour as he realised he had fallen asleep on the edge of the mesa. He looked to his side and saw Isabella curled there, still asleep, her shawl draped over her like a shroud. He picked himself up and swept off the dust that coated his robes. Behind him, the camp had drifted into their night routine with most of the people asleep or sat beside the main fire. The hard business of survival was done for another day and the world allowed them a moment of rest in the cool desert air.

He was about to wake Isabella when something arrested his attention. A gentle droning crept into his ears, a low rumbling like a flight of locusts. He felt the ground beneath him tremble slightly and he frowned, moving to look over the mesa. He felt a cold weight settle in his gut as fear reached up to curl around his heart. In the distance he could see a cloud of dust sweeping towards them and within in it, dozens of black shapes, swerving and darting like wasps as they raced towards the mesa, Guns cracking in the distant air. Aleppo stood, paralysed as childhood nightmares became corporeal in the night.

“No, no, no.” He mouthed silently.

[Pavement Artist]

PART TWO

 

Luca came to slowly. Sunspots of aching, white hot pain, danced in front of his eyes as he slowly gathered the strength to open them. The moon looked down on him with detached scrutiny, the cold light lending his skin an eldritch hue. Weakly he raised a wavering hand to his face, before a shadow loomed over him, blotting out the light.

“Get up.” It grunted, Luca groaned in response before the shadow jammed a boot into his ribs for emphasis. Moaning, He rolled onto his belly, coughing up flecks of spittle onto the dusty ground. The figure moved in front of his face, crouching down on his haunches and suddenly, the rifle was in Luca's face again.

“Tell me your name.” The voice was rough, Luca got the impression of granite grinding together. Raising his head, he saw a weathered face sighting down the length of the rifle. He pushed himself slowly to his knees, still coughing.

“Luca, Luca Giallo.” He managed finally.

The man seemed to relax, letting the rifle dip towards the ground as he extended a hand to help Luca to his feet. He flashed an apologetic look, gesturing to the young man's head. He looked to be in his late thirties, his black hair fell lank and unkempt across his face and an unruly beard framed a face that spoke of a life spent without even the most rudimentary shelter. His skin carried the same blight as all Baalites though his face was weathered in the extreme.

“You can call me Carlo. Sorry I was so rough with you Son, I heard the convoy roll by and I couldn't be sure you weren't one of them.”

Luca brought his fingers tentatively to his head, wincing as he felt the angry swelling on his brow. He thought of telling the man that his lack of extra limbs or tentacles would've vouched for him, but he quelled the bitter retort.

“It's fine, nothing broken.” He muttered, “What were you doing out here?”

“I've got a rig parked out down the defile,” Carlo replied, idly brushing flakes of rust from his rifle's breach. “Scavenging for scrap metal, was out on a water run yesterday and skipped the truck over a big fugger of a rock. Damn nearly sheared the leaf spring in two.”

“You were out here alone?” Luca enquired, taking the man's hand and hauling himself to his feet.

“I'm always out here alone boy,” he replied, snapping the firearm's bolt back into place. “The world's too dangerous as it is without attracting too much attention to yourself. I get by.”

As Luca brushed himself down, a sudden stab of panic slid into his gut, making him start: The camp!

He stumbled forwards, head still reeling from the earlier blow as he reached for his rifle and pack, slinging them over the shoulders, he headed for the edge of the defile.

“Where are you going?” The man called after him, slinging his own weapon.

“The mutants!” Luca yelled frantically, “They were headed toward the camp, my camp. We need to get there now!”

“My rigs parked at the bottom here, hold up!”

Luca's head swam as he scrambled down the defile, his legs flailing in the loose rock as he fought to stay upright. How long had he been out for? Was he going to return to find a smouldering ruin where his clan once was? He quelled a rush of bile in his throat as he dared to imagine the sickening sport that the mutants would make of his kin. Hitting the bottom of the slope, he fell bodily onto his front and swore loudly, pushing himself to his feet and sprinting onwards. Carlo came down soon after, the older man waved his rifle in the air and yelled to Luca, “Over here!”.

 

They rounded the corner and found Carlo's truck. Like all Baalite vehicles, it was an ugly mass of bare metal, barely little more than a crude skeletal chassis framing a boisterous, smokey engine leaving both passengers and driver open to the elements. Carlo slung his pack into the rear of the truck, leaping in and gripping the roll bars as he swung himself into the driver's seat. Luca vaulted into the back, cocking his rifle as Carlo thumbed the ignition switch- the truck spluttering into convulsive life.

“Where are your people?” Carlo bellowed over the engine.

“Head for the mesa!”

With a shrieking of grinding gears, the truck leapt forward, racing westward towards the rising smoke.

 

#

 

“Mutants! Mutants among us!” Aleppo had raced back into the camp, his joints burning with the effort. Yelling the warning again, he doubled over, hacking a great gobbet of phlegm onto the ground and coughing violently.

The Rad mother hurried over, clutching her shawl tight about her body. Her face was drawn and pale, lined with worry as she stooped beside the old man.

“Aleppo, what do we do?” she asked, taking his palsied hands in hers and helping him to his feet. Her heart tightened as she saw the flecks of blood marking the corners of his lips.

“Go to the children,” he said, his eyes turning to her, suddenly so very heavy with the weight of the years “You need to get them out now.” He broke from her grip, walking listlessly across the camp.

“Where are we supposed to go?” She called after him, watching as his eyes wandered, dazed across the camp. Others were here now, the men of the camp gathering around the old man. The woman and children filtered out of the tents, hanging back, tasting the fear on the air.

“Aleppo?” Her voice cracked, her voice dry and cracked with emotion. The old man faltered and turned to her, his hands bent and shaking.

“Isabella, please....GO!” This last word thundered from his mouth like a rifle shot and she rocked back, shaken by the sudden strength in his voice. Casting her eyes around the camp, she saw the men handing out rifles, ratcheting the bolts back, the sound like branches snapping underfoot, offensively loud in the night air. She knew then, with a terrible understanding, that they were dead; all the men she saw arming themselves for this sudden, hateful war were preparing to die. Fear clutched at her heart with icy talons and she fought down an urge to be sick.

She turned from Aleppo, quelling the terrible certainty that she would never see him again.

The tribe's children were filtering out of tents, guided by a few handful of the tribes women who led them, wide eyed, towards the slope leading away from the Mesa. The rad mother hurried over to them, shepherding the group down the slope. At the foot were the clans trucks and it was in these ugly flatbeds that the children of the blood would make their escape. Aleppo and the other men that stayed behind, would need to ride out and meet the mutants head on, to buy time for the women and children to make it across the plains to the nearest clan.

The ground was scorching underfoot and she stumbled on the uneven surface, her arthritic joints crying out in protest as she reached one of the trucks. She lifted a tearful young girl into the back of the vehicle, buckling a frayed leather harness around her body. The child looked up at her with red raw eyes and Isabella felt her heart break.

“Rad mother please!” She looked up from the girl to see one of the men beckoning her with a frantic hand, sweat running from his brow as his eyes darted nervously off into the distance, towards the deafening chorus of engines.

Nodding dumbly, she took his hand, stepping into the cab of one of the remaining trucks. Her palsied hands shook as she fumbled with the harness. The man leapt deftly into the driver's seat, wrenching the ignition and speeding off towards the rest of the convoy.

Shielding her eyes against the wind, Isabella turned in her seat, taking one last look at the camp where she had spent almost all the long years of her life. Tears came again and she suppressed a sob as she listened to the cacophony of engines and tried not to think about the only men she had ever loved, going to his death.