Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 7

The jungles of Copan XII were a sweltering pressure cooker of heat and humidity. Under a canopy so thick that the strongest daylight was reduced to twilight teeming life performed the eternal dance of predator and prey. Insects were devoured by vermin who were hunted by larger animals, who in turn were preyed upon by shadowy beasts that passed unseen. The plant life itself was no less deadly, omnivorous tangle vines and poisonous dart-trees seeking to add rich protein to their diet of soil and light. In the dark squatted a larger example, a telepathic pitcher plant, grown immense on fat and gristle digested from the bones of its prey. Semi-sentient and ever alert for food, it quivered as it sensed motion closing, the unmistakable scent of meat walking nearer. Thorned vines untangled, ready to seize the intruder as petals unfolded, revealing hypnotic lights dancing over a bath of acid strong enough to dissolve a man. The prey was here and it readied to strike, acid bubbling in anticipation of the feast to come.

Its efforts were shattered by a Ceramite fist plunging into its maw, ripping out the stamen with a violent jerk. The gauntlet drew back with a violent flourish that sprayed acid everywhere and a cry of "Vas'ka, nerueth kinoare!"

The figure shook acid off its hand as another stepped from the twilight and mocked, "Netre jusha."

"Berut," the first snarled in anger.

But the second laughed, "Y'uk jinat ferum!"

The first didn't take this well and his hand gripped the trigger of a bolter, but before he could fire a third form emerged and barked, "Vas'atsi!" Both figures backed down as the third inched into a stray beam of light, illuminating his plate. This being was tall in the manner of Transhumans, his Ceramite unmistakably Mark IV, the finest model ever produced by the Imperium. There the similarity to Loyal sons of Terra ended. This one walked in midnight-clad, his plate dark and forbidding. Lightning bolts danced over the surface, projected by subdermal microfilaments that made him look like a mobile storm. The breastplate bore the winged skull of Nostramo and his gauntlets were dyed red. In his right hand he clutched a tall stave, topped with a grisly human skull and spinal cord, not polished but left with rotting meat on it. His face was what marked him out, under the shadow of a psychic hood was a leathery mask of tanned skin, attached to his skull by crude staples, but at the edges revealing flayed muscle that glistened redly. The rest of his head and neck was bereft of skin, exposing raw muscle to the world and only the faint shimmer of sorcerous power betrayed how he was yet alive. He was Xavaar, Librarian-Sorcerer of the VIIIth Legion, butcher of Herdain Medical-hab, and he was not amused.

Xavaar switched to low gothic and spat, "What did I tell you two?!"

The pair didn't seem admonished as Greul hissed, "I crave blood."

"Then you shouldn't have come," snapped Cantus, "You should content yourself with Ork heads."

"Orks don't feel fear," Greul rumbled, "I need the stink of piss and the thunder of a heart about to burst out of its chest, as I slit the throat."

Xavaar growled irately, "I care nothing for your needs Greul. You two agreed to follow me to collect tribute, do not screw this up."

"As you say," Cantus mocked, "Skinned Man."

Xavaar turned in irritation and strode off, the use of his hated epithet annoying him. There was no point getting aggravated though, it would be a sign of weakness to reveal how it irked. He sensed hands lingering over bolter triggers but the pair would not fire, he was sure of it, there were few in the Legion willing to test themselves against the Butcher of Herdain. Xavaar heard them troop resignedly after him, crushing a path through the fetid jungle with their sheer bulk. Their Stormbird rested some way back in the tangled mass, out of auspex range of their target. They could have just flown down from orbit and landed at the site, but Xavaar preferred to emerge from the jungle like a revenant shade. If there was no mystery to their comings and goings, then they might as well give up the name Night Lords.

He heard the pair grumbling as they trailed after him and it amused greatly. Both were decorated claw-leaders, Greul the Bloodseeker and Cantus the Unerring Eye, they mocked and sneered but neither of them dared to think themselves his better. That was good, his reputation was his greatest asset, not that he couldn't beat them if he had to, but it would be troubling if the rank and file started to think him weak. Life in the Night Lords was a constant sparring match, ever alert for a moment of vulnerability to sink the knife in. To stand out one must cultivate an aura of strength and ruthlessness as well as a vindictive streak. To betray doubt was to invite a knife in the back. Xavaar had no wish currently to engage in bloodshed, not least because he would have to explain it to Lord Kharkul and even Xavaar had reason to fear the Red Flayer.

As they walked Greul moaned, "This jungle has nothing worth killing."

Cantus snorted, "There's more to life than slitting throats."

"Blood is all," Greul snarled, "Blood for the blood god!"

"That worship I hear in your tone?!" Cantus jeered, "Not turning to faith in the gods are you, like Lorgar's whipped curs?!"

Greul's anger spiked but Xavaar commented without turning about, "Take care not to mock the Ruinous Powers, they are dangerous foes to make."

"Khorne bestows strength," Greul crowed, the three crossed bars on his breastplate attesting to that.

Yet Xavaar cautioned, "But take care not to sink too far into their embrace. The powers of Chaos are strong but jealous and fickle, they take more than they give. To use the warp demands cunning and trepidation, lest the master becomes the slave. Worship, ha, the midnight–clad laugh at all forms of faith. The Night Lords bend the knee to no one, man or God, so commands Curze himself."

Cantus shook his winged helm, stirring the air as the fangs on his faceplate glistened, "The Red Flayer does not tread lightly in the warp, he is careless with his experiments."

"Lord Kharkul treads a fine line," Xavaar stated, "But if you wish to tell him that you disagree with his methods, then I will enjoy watching him force you to eat your own eyeballs."

Silence fell at last and Xavaar's mirth grew. His reputation was fierce in the Legion but Kharkul's was terrifying. He could well have been in the Atramentar, had he not fallen foul of one of Curze's mercurial mood swings. A fate Xavaar knew all too well. That thought spoiled his mirth, as his staples ached, reminding him of the cruel agonies of the Night Haunter's touch. He cast such thoughts aside as he strode on, carving a straight path through the jungle. Wet fronds slapped his midnight plate, leaving poisonous sap on Ceramite. A spider's web with cords as fat as a man's finger tried to ensnare them but he strode through it with ease, the eight-legged fiend baring sharp fangs, only to think better of it and retreat. Xavaar was not concerned, these were the lowest forms of predator in the jungle, deadly to mortals only though there were greater dangers within that would trouble even a Space Marine.

Soon they reached their destination, a cliff face, rising out of the jungle like an icebreaking boat. High above buildings and terrace farms resided, the human settlement itself. Xavaar knew early attempts to clear the jungle and plant off-world crops had proved an abysmal failure, native lifeforms overrunning all humanity's efforts to tame the biosphere. Instead the miners had retreated to mountaintops and high mesas, where the air was cool and the mineral bounty easy to harvest.

The struggles of mortals didn't interest him but what did was a flash-burned clearing at the foot of the cliff, scorch marks still steaming. They had timed it well, arriving just as the sun slipped into dusk, leaving a world of twilight shadows. There awaited the tribute, a score of young boys, bound hands tied together in two lines of ten. Around them were a dozen men with lasrifles, fearfully eyeing the jungle in case of predators, or worse. They were right to expect worse, it was Xavaar they were waiting for.

"Only twenty?" Cantus hissed.

"They insult us," Greul snarled, "I'll eat their hearts!"

"Wait," Xavaar chided, "First, let them see us."

Carefully Xavaar leaned into the open, revealing a hint of his location. One of the guards started and turned his head to yell an alarm, and in that instant Xavaar slinked back into the dark. The mortals cried aloud and looked everywhere for a sign of where he had gone but they found nothing. Xavaar moved like oil on water, slipping into the twilight, being anywhere except where the mortals were looking. He relished the pounding of their hearts and the smell of fear in their sweat, tantalising and intoxicating to his senses.

Suddenly he reversed direction and strode into the clearing, from an unexpected direction. The mortals yelped in terror and gripped their rifles tight, but none dared point them at the Night Lords, knowing well the price of defiance. Confident in their superiority the trio emerged, striding towards the party. Xavaar used a morsel of warp power to shade his eyes, even the dim light hurting since he had no way to close his eyelids.

He strode up to them and snarled, "What pathetic tribute is this?!"

The mortals shrank before his wroth and tried to inch behind each other for protection. One man was shoved to the fore and lowered his eyes as he pleaded, "Forgive us my lord, these are all we had."

Xavaar turned his head to examine the youths, and enjoyed the looks of revulsion as they spied his flesh mask pulling, then sneered, "Wastrels and degenerates, criminals and parentless boys, you offer us the thinnest of your blood."

But the man wailed, "Please, you've taken all the rest! All our sons, we haven't anyone left to give you. There isn't a family among us who doesn't mourn."

"Why must you test us so?" Xavaar murmured as he laid a gauntlet upon the man's shoulder. The mortal sagged under the weight but better was the scent of piss running down his leg at the violation. A man behind him dared to lift his rifle but suddenly Cantus was there, skinning knife pressed to the jugular, one twitch away from ending his life. The others shrank back, too terrified to move and Xavaar knew the fight had gone out of them.

Xavaar leaned in and whispered, "The galaxy is a dangerous place, you are fortunate that we are here to protect you. There are worse things than Xenos lurking among the stars but give thanks that Lord Kharkul wraps you in his tight embrace, yet he has his needs too. Your tribute must be better, else he will withdraw his favour and... well... you do not wish to make the Red Flayer angry. I shall plead for mercy on your behalf and tell him the next tribute shall be doubled. Unless, you think we treat you too harshly?"

The man shook his head, utterly defeated in spirit. Xavaar left him to stew in misery as he looked over the boys. Few among them were strong or well-fed, mostly fit only to be Legion slaves but there was one who caught his eye. A young boy with fair hair stared at him, while all others cast their eyes down. There was a hint of defiance to this one, bravery or ignorance making him lift his head where all others cowered.

Xavaar stepped over to him and whispered, "You, what is your name?"

"Togal," the boy grunted.

"You do not fear me," Xavaar probed.

"You'll kill me either way," Togal growled, "I won't give you the satisfaction."

"Pride," Xavaar mused, "Good, but how come you to be here?"

"Ask them, cowards the lot. They round us up for the slightest thing. They pay for their lives with our blood. They should fight you, not cower like wretches!"

"Brave too..." Xavaar pondered, "But are you smart enough to acknowledge when you are outmatched?"

In answer Togal drew back his head and spat a gobbet of spittle at the Night Lord. It marked his plate and Xavaar's anger grew but not so much as Greul's. The Bloodseeker started forward, knife in hand as he snarled, "You die for that!"

He was brought up short by Xavaar's hand and the barked, "Stay your wrath!"

"He insults the Legion," Greul growled, "He must die."

But Xavaar chided, "Night Haunter taught you better than that. Never go for the kill... when you can go for the pain!"

With that his boot lifted and stomped down on Togal's leg, engulfing knee, thigh and hip. The boy screamed as bones imploded, collapsing to the ground weeping profusely. His bones were shattered in a million places, leaving him crippled for life. Even if he survived this injury he would be lame forevermore, and in constant pain.

Mortals looked away as Xavaar sniffed, "A shame, he had spine enough to join us in midnight-clad, but he was too stupid to become a Night Lord. Leave him to rot, take the rest." Greul and Cantus moved to round up the rest of the boys, grabbing the rope in case they ran. They wouldn't though, none would dare to defy them. Xavaar suspected they were in for short lives of misery and toil, but that mattered not. The only thing that mattered was that Kharkul would be appeased and Xavaar would continue to live. Until Konrad Curze recalled them to his side, staying alive was all that mattered.