Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 92

The hard banging of boots upon metal ran in the compartment, making the crew of Most Profitable Venture shake in fear. Pampered popinjays shuddered as a second bang ran out, echoing in the gilded passages and refined atriums. A third bang boomed in the section, causing chandeliers to shake in the mess halls and the cooks to clutch their puffy hats in dread. Many thought it was a sign the Gellar field was failing, that the nightmare tides of the Warp would consume them. They were wrong, but not by much. The Smoke Jaguars were in dispute and no man was safe.

Damchak stood naked, stripped down to his Black Carapace. His pale skin was slick with sweat and oil and his implant sockets gleamed. His armour lay disassembled on a bier, right down to the undersheath. Techwright Raxaa intoned solemn verses over the plate, appeasing its spirit and its sibling. Abizil's plate too lay dissembled on the bier, leaving the twins equally naked.

"I don't understand why you have to do this," Crovin protested as the banging feet of other Prowls rang from the next room.

"Insult was given, redress must be made," Damchak explained.

"I understand the principle, but this rite seems positively primitive. Throw him in the brig and let him stew."

"One of Umbral Flame Prowl shamed their First in front of the Raven Guard, his lax tongue disgrace upon us all. As First I must chasten my errant Kinsman. No other can do this, it falls to me alone."

Abizil didn't comment, continuing to scoop ritual oils onto his limbs. Damchak glared in condemnation, but his twin didn't respond. The dispute between them was too sharp to resolve with words, only action. Abizil's snide insult to the Raven Guard had nearly overturned Damchak's efforts to forge a unity between the Chapters. Tuun-Ok, the name of a plodding, unimaginative butcher, one who would send a million men to die for a stretch of mud. The Smoke Jaguar's long conflict with the Orruk had ingrained a vehement disdain for battles of attrition, and scorn for those who threw lives away for no good cause. By naming the Raven Guard 'Jade Foot' Abizil had cast his fitness to lead into question, and by extension Damchak's. If a Prowl questioned a First in public and was not chastised then no other Prowl would follow. Damchak had to punish his brother and be seen to do so.

Crovin didn't seem happy, "Do you have any idea how much that thing cost me?!"

Damchak shrugged, "Spend money to make money."

Crovin glared, "Who taught you that phrase?!"

"Our ears are sharp," Damchak sniffed, "And you acquired the beast on Copan, we did not make issue then, we do now."

Savant Zim scrolled a data-slate and asked, "For the record, why can't you just form a circle and cut each other with knives like a normal Chapter?"

Aapo spoke then, "To spill the blood of Kinsmen is against the laws of Sedaxus. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth is our way. Save for ancient rituals bloodshed is not permitted. The Headsmen would repay every blow in kind. Thus when two Smoke Jaguars are in dispute they must settle their quarrel by other means. The Chase shall test their mettle, and the victor will be whoever claims the hunt-kill."

The ringing of boots was growing more ardent and Damchak took up a wooden spear with a flint head. No Transonic blade, no armour, no auspex, the Chase demanded the huntsmen be shorn of all tricks and technology. Sharpness of eye, keenness of wit and strength of arm, these were the qualities that must be proven. All must see Damchak win on his own merits, and know he was worthy.

Damchak led them to the next room, where the Prowls awaited: Ghost Cry, Night Caller, Bone Gnawer and the rest of Umbral Flame. They stood in two rows, save Nizca who held a shivering crate at the far end. As one they slammed their boots into the floor, demanding the Chase begin. They were hungry for the contest and would not be satiated by words. Damchak nodded at Nizca, who stooped to a grate and opened the crate. Something slithered out and down the duct, disappearing with a squelching noise. Crovin looked irate at his latest prize begin set loose, but Savant Zim was typing furiously on his slate. Damchak ignored them as he moved to the far door, then set his spear down, facing Abizil with a stony glare.

Aapo's feet rang loud as he drew to a halt and declared, "Challenge has been made, and the Chase begins. Let all know that shame has been brought and chastisement is due. The noble Raven Guard have been insulted and our Prowlmaster's fitness questioned. This Chase is more than punishment, it is to settle the issue. When Damchak wins let no man doubt his decision to humble ourselves before our progenitors."

Damchak heard Crovin whisper, "What happens if he loses?"

Zim checked his notes, "As I understand it he can't be a First anymore, he'll be exiled and sent on suicide missions as a Moritat."

"Oh," Crovin muttered, "He'd better not lose then."

Damchak addressed his twin with ire, "You shamed me before the Raven Guard."

"I speak as I see: they march in straight lines."

"Do not think that Mother's memory will compel me to run slow enough for you to keep up."

Abizil stared back, "I was always the faster."

"I won't have to run at all, you will be too busy stuffing your face with ship-weevils!"

"Weevils?!" Abizil smirked, "I seek richer prey this day."

Damchak gripped his spear tight in anger, but then Nizca opened the hatch. Instantly the pair bounded from the chamber, driving along a corridor. Naked they ran, slick with oils, uncaring for propriety only that the prey not get away. A crewman saw them coming and gasped at the sight of two naked Space Marines barrelling towards her, she flattened herself against the wall, her powdered wig leaving stains on the panelling.

Damchak left her in his dust as he saw a metal stairway and thundered down it. Abizil carried on, seeking another route. The cold metal dug into the soles of his feet and the lighting was dark. His eyes cut through the dimness with ease, barely a patch on the gloom of Copan's jungles. Down he went, level after level, seeking the dampness of the ship's bilges. The prey was known to him, a Cephaldon, an amphibious ambush predator from the murkiest swamps. It could travel far by moving from branch to branch but favoured the dampest environs and most fetid mires, it would instinctively seek the wetness of the bilges.

A few minutes passed as he descended many decks and emerged in a mouldy sump-dump. Most Profitable Venture's upper decks were gilded splendour and decadent furnishings, but the lower decks were as dank as any other human starship. Exposed pipes, mould as thick as a man's torso, puddles on the floor and barely lit. The smell of sewage recycling plants was heavy in the air and the tang of dead men rotting was everywhere. Perfect for a Cephaldon to hide in.

Damchak levelled his spear and began to stalk along the corridor. His Shadow-path allowed him to blend into the wall and his presence became the suggestion of a ghost. Carefully he trod, disturbing not a puddle on the floor with the slightest ripple. His senses opened to their fullest, drinking in the scent of scum and manure that pervaded the air and every puff of air caressed his skin. Nothing alarmed him, but the cunning hunter never rushed. To blunder about crying for the prey was a sure way to die in the jungle, and this bilge was no different.

Damchak was struck by how human this ship was. He'd walked many worlds and the pattern was always the same, kings in their fine palaces, the downtrodden dwelling in squalor. The few owned most of the finery and the many were left to eke out whatever lives they could. City, jungle, ship, desert, mountain or plain humans never changed. It spoke much of the wider Imperium that this truth was unchanged, perhaps they were not so different as some held.

Damchak paused as he found the first trace of his prey, a body lying face down in the scummy water. A crewman by the tunic he wore, but not one who walked the upper decks. His leggings stopped above the ankle and his wig was made of straw. What caught Damchak's eye were the purple welts over the body, sucker rings dotted with tiny puncture marks. Venomous threads extended out from the marks and the dead face was a rictus of agony. A Cephaldon's touch no doubt, but where had it gone? The creature took days to digest its prey, it would not abandon a kill without good reason. Someone had disturbed it mid-feast.

Damchak hastened on, worried that Abizil was ahead of him. If his twin claimed the hunt-kill then Damchak would no longer be fit to lead, he had to get there before time ran out. Damchak moved swiftly as he dared, pushing the limits of his Shadow-path. He gripped his spear tight as he ran down pipe-lined passages, then he found his second sign, a length of rubbery flesh slowly oozing into the mire. Damchak screeched to a halt, seeing the scales turn grey as chameleonic cells died. Thorns filled the suckers, dripping venom and the dissected end was ragged, it had not been cut but torn from the body. Damchak realised then he had been played for a fool.

From above a mass of writhing tentacles plunged, wrapping about his shoulder and neck. He dove to the side but too late and the oozing mass clung tight. Searing pain stabbed into his neck as the Cephaldon sank its thorns deep, injecting venom into his flesh. His left arm became a stone, hanging inert from his shoulder. Damchak could see only grasping tentacles and shimmering flesh, the saggy body of the Cephaldon hanging from its writhing tentacles. Its black eyes were pits of hunger and its grip tightened second by second yet it made no sound, silent as the vastness between stars.

Damchak threw himself against the wall, trying to crush the beast but it had no bones to shatter. A wet bag of muscle and cartilage, without a single bone in its mass. Venom was nearing his hearts and his pulse fibrillated, losing its steady rhythm. He tried to bring his spear to bear but the range was too close, he could not pierce its heart. Damchak fell to the floor as his sight dimmed, feeling coldness sink ever deeper into his guts.

A flash of motion in the eye, a whisper of presence, and then Abizil was racing down the corridor, his spear held ready to cast. Damchak's soul quailed, Abizil was about to claim the hunt-kill and with it end his time as First. Failure loomed, Damchak was about to be proven unworthy of being the Umbral Flame, his esteem would be gone and he would walk as a Moritat to the end of his days. All he could do was lay helpless as Abizil drew back his arm and made the cast: but he missed.

The spear flew wide, clipping the Cephaldon's arms only, sparing the heart. Grasping tentacles fell away as the trashing thing toppled backwards. Damchak was not freed, the creature still hung from his left arm but his right hand was loosed. Barely able to see he shortened his grasp on the spear, holding it right behind the head. Like a dagger he rammed it up and across, nicking his bicep and running the Cephaldon straight through. Finally it let out a noise, a sad wheezing whine, and then it fell away, splashing into the puddles as its remaining tentacles drew together. Colour drained from its form, the eyes went milky grey, then with one last shudder it died.

Damchak fell onto his rear, veins burning as he pulled severed tentacles from his body. His hearts pounded and his eyes watered but he lived, but there was no joy to be found. Abizil strolled over, "The hunt-kill is yours."

"Why did you miss?!" Damchak spat.

"Bad aim?" Abizil shrugged.

"You are not so poor a shot!" Damchak accused, "You missed on purpose!"

"I do not know what you mean."

"You allowed me to claim the hunt-kill!" Damchak accused.

Abizil mused aloud, "Is that what we tell the Prowls, that I let you win? Mighty Damchak failed to win on merit, a disgrace most high. You will walk as a Moritat, First no longer. Damchak will not be a name spoken with esteem ever again or… we tell them I tripped, I stumbled, I stopped to feast on ship-weevils and arrived too late. All know Abizil is a fool and a glutton, what more shame can be added to that?"

Damchak furrowed his brow, "You would lie?"

"Why does any brother lie to save his sibling… because you are my brother."

"We two will know the truth though."

Abizil nodded as the fell Cephaldon, "The truth is your spear claimed the hunt-kill, the rest is words."

Damchak found he could not hate his sibling. A fool, a loud mouth and a glutton yes, but ever stalwart and unflinching. They often quarrelled, as siblings do, but never had Abizil taken umbrage. Any who ever threatened Damchak had found Abizil's fists ready and willing. Though he drove Damchak to distraction their bond was tight. Damchak would never tell what had happened here, and Abizil was content to follow. Gratefully he swallowed the indignity of being helped to his feet, then Abizil picked up the spear with Cephaldon hanging from the tip and handed it over. United again the siblings began their stumbling walk back to the Prowls, to affirm once more Damchak's right to bear the name Umbral Flame.