Motherlode (Warhammer 40,000) by Nick Kyme

Author:Nick Kyme [Kyme, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2018-12-12T16:00:00+00:00

V

Rein thumbed the greasy pages of the ledger, making sure they had the right place. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I am genuinely surprised Murlock could even write.’ He showed his brother the stained vellum. ‘And this cursive script is actually quite artistic.’

Raus rolled his eyes.

‘Is this it?’ he asked. ‘You’re sure this is it?’

‘It’s probably it,’ said Rein, tucking away the ledger. With so many contacts, they could go into business for themselves. ‘I mean… it’s definitely in the book. Exotics, right?’

‘That’s what he said.’

Raus attempted the name. ‘Kur-uuk? And he lives in this place?’

A scrap shanty had crawled over an old dockyard, its mooring spar broken and drifting listlessly in the void like a homeless drunk. Two bone antlers jutted from a ramshackle, sloping roof, strung with tiny skulls and wafers of thin metal. A jetty ran out to a hooded doorway drenched in gloom, a stream of effluence trickling beneath it.

‘Looks inviting,’ said Raus. ‘After you, brother.’

‘Oh, I insist,’ said Rein, bowing deferentially.

Raus grimaced. ‘I thought you might.’

The shanty was dark inside and poorly lit. Storm lanterns with closed shutters hung on a length of rope overhead. The stench of blood and carcasses thickened the air, making Raus gag.

‘Worse than Murlock’s armpits,’ he said, cupping his nose and mouth to try to ward off the stench.

‘Or his crotch…’ Rein suggested, the red beam of his sniper sight panning the room, alighting on flanks of rotting meat and counters stacked with bones. Cages and grimy glass cabinets contained the remains of creatures, all alien, all highly exotic. Mercifully, all dead too.

‘A hunter,’ murmured Rein, gesturing to a longrifle hung up on the wall. Several blades, a spear and a hand axe lay stacked in one corner.

‘Does this feel iffy to you, Rein?’ asked Raus, moving quietly, and having slipped a stub-pistol from his belt holster.

‘I don’t think I’ve unclenched since I walked in here, Raus,’ Rein answered.

Raus stopped abruptly, gesturing with a stubby little finger. ‘Up…’

Rein followed it to a ledge, an upper floor of sorts, though with no obvious means of reaching it.

‘Sleeping quarters?’ he suggested.

Raus wrinkled his nose. ‘Smells worse than the rest of the place. Sure that stink isn’t coming from you, brother?’

‘I’ll have you know I’ve had my annual bath,’ snapped Rein, indignant.

Raus caught him sneakily sniffing his armpits as he searched the rafters for a beam or hook.

‘There,’ he said, stuffing away the pistol again and whipping out a hefty grapple gun. With a noisy shoom of expelled pressure the hook soared upwards, the wire uncoiling after it like a tail chasing its comet. It latched on to an overhead beam, grapnel teeth snagging well and holding Raus’ weight when he tested it.

‘I’m off for a look,’ he said and zipped upwards, the grapnel line spooling back in. Hanging one-handed, his dirty bare feet dangling loosely, Raus sagged. ‘Kur-uuk is a kroot.’

Rein nodded, mildly interested. ‘Huh…’

‘He’s also had his throat cut.’

‘Oh, shank…’

Raus’ eyes narrowed. ‘Red foam around his mouth too.’

‘He’s gone feral and slit his own throat!’ cried Rein.

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