CHAPTER 3 ~ The Company of Murderers
"We were murderers first, last, and always"
— Jago Sevatarion, 1st Captain of the VIIIth Legion, M31
Agust Vesnius Kaeso crouched in the long grass and watched his prey. He had been in the same position, motionless as a statue, for over an hour. In the shade of the tall growths, set against the dying light of the day, he was near invisible.
"Kaeso." The voice in his helm's vox speaker was a low, mocking growl. "I'm a patient man, as you know, brother. But so help me, you'd better move soon — or I might have to finish the job for you."
He dismissed the channel with a blink. Taln Zarilah was attempting to provoke him. He must not allow himself to respond. For all it's bile, his brother's tongue was a blunt weapon.
Once, Zarilah's childish barbs had made no impression on the calm waters of Kaeso's mind. Now, he felt a tiny flicker of annoyance at his brother's pettiness. He caught himself and quelled the emotion. It served no purpose. His reputation for patience and self-control, he reminded himself — the ability to deny his own worst instincts — was what made him leader of the Tristessera.
He sensed movement a hundred metres ahead of him, hearing the crackling sound of the tall, stiff reeds being broken and crunched underfoot by the returning PDF patrol. He counted three distinct new heartbeats and grinned despite himself. His prey were now assembled in one place.
Kaeso accelerated forward, moving directly from a crouching start into a full sprint. The only additional sound was the soft-whirr of his armour's servo-mechanisms — far less noise than the returning PDF troopers were making.
The vox blipped into life. Zarilah again. "What's this, brother? Don't tell me you've finally decided to act?" He gave a soft chuckle.
Kaeso ignored the jibe but gritted his teeth in a snarl. While some of his brothers, Taln Zarilah included, were genuine veterans of the old legion, it was less than two hundred years since he himself had been ripped from the arms of dead parents on a planet he had no memory of and elevated to transhuman status. Yet, even the oldest members of the warband deferred to his leadership. They recognised in Kaeso the capacity to rise above the urge to cruelty. Of all his brothers, only he saw a theatre of war dispassionately, as a leader must, resisting the dark lure of the geneseed. It was a voice which came from the dark core in each of them, insisting they seek the most vulnerable opponents and prey upon them, indulging the old, deep-seated need to inflict horror, pain and fear.
Agust Kaeso heard it as all the Tristessera did, but only he truly despised it.
The others were content to accept this failure in themselves. They were corrupt beings and they knew it. The warband existed in a state of continual internecine conflict but even this served a purpose. Like a pack of dogs, the Tristessera were happiest serving under a single, dominant figure. To some, this meant the most accomplished warrior. The oldest members saw it differently. They realised their motley outfit could not remain viable unless led by one who retained some sense of discipline and strategy. Of all the veterans in their band, only Taln Zarilah seemed unable to understand this.
Kaeso was now only twenty metres from the Imperials' small encampment. He heard their muted conversation, then as he closed the distance, individual heartbeats. He counted six, seven — no, eight. At ten metres, he leapt, landing in the centre of the astonished group. One soldier, quicker than the others to recognise the threat of the giant warrior, brought his las rifle to bear. Kaeso backhanded the man and heard the crunch as his nose was shoved into his brain.
The others were on their feet now, cries of surprise and fear competed with a single, loud voice, exhorting them to action. Kaeso singled out the source of the orders and impaled the man on his talons. It made no difference really. The PDF soldiers posed no real danger to him, but it was best to practice good battlefield doctrine. Identify and eliminate the greatest threats first. It was their inability to maintain such discipline that had made his brothers what they were; decadent, degenerate killers.
Agust Kaeso stabbed and slashed with his talons, reducing two more bodies to bloodied ribbons. His head was knocked back and he felt a slight heat as a las shot scorched the side of his helm. He turned in the direction of the shooter, lopped off the barrel of the weapon and kicked the man in the chest, reducing his torso to a jellied pulp.
Kaeso saw that the handful of survivors of the group were fleeing. He paused to drop a frag grenade in the barrel of the abandoned flak gun. He could afford to take his time, to indulge in the thrill of the chase. Even he could not ignore that rapacious, dark appetite indefinitely. It was a need within him that could never be banished entirely, only temporarily sated.
He loped unhurriedly after the retreating men, savouring the promise of their cries of pain and outrage as his talons violated unwilling flesh.