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Devilhunter – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Devilhunter

Nicholas Wolf

I

Mason had spent much of his adult life watching t’au die. Indeed, many of them he’d killed himself, defending his home world of Andar Prime from a benevolent intercession that had looked much like an invasion.

When the t’au had finally crushed the Emperor’s forces and turned their full attention to Andar Prime’s hinterland settlements, Mason had killed a score before being taken captive. He’d fully intended to lay down his life protecting his wife and son from the godless xenos, but they’d given him a choice: join the so-called ‘Greater Good’ and share in its bounty, or face vengeance for the blue blood he’d spilled.

As the choice had been no real choice at all, he’d pledged his services to the t’au in exchange for the safety of his family.

Despite how many t’au he’d seen die in the hinterlands, he’d never seen so many die so quickly or so gruesomely as he had since his secondment to the Devilhunter.

Shas’vre Takka, the hero of Nafka. The tyranid killer.

In his time as a gue’vesa Mason had quickly learned that the t’au loved their titles, to the point where every third or fourth commander he’d heard of had some pretentious nom-de-guerre like ‘Shadowsun’ or ‘Farsight’ to promulgate. For Takka’s part, the old t’au didn’t overtly revel in it like some of them did. Mason suspected it was more rooted in the t’au’s racial propensity to appear humble than any genuine humility the species possessed.

The Devilhunter stalked the drop-ship as it raced over the O’Tash’Var jungle, his dappled armour pitted and scarred. A long sword was sheathed across his back, and an equally scarred gun drone called XV-7 haunted his shoulder like a faithful hound. Takka held his ion rifle in his gloved hands like a savage hunter gripping a spear.

‘Shas’las, I have good news from the front!’ Takka announced, his voice feral. ‘The y’he swarm remains stymied near the Undama Nebula, a testament to our air caste brothers!’ The proclamation was met with a cheer from all but the strange kroot, another in a long line of specialists Takka had seconded for his hunts. ‘The Avenging Sword has hunted well over O’Tash’Var’s skies, slaying the y’he’s foul infiltrator pods!’

Another cheer. A last bit of good news before the bad, Mason assumed.

‘That means that, to our knowledge, only one pod has slipped through our blockade and reached O’Tash’Var’s surface.’

And we’re probably already too late.

‘As such, our mission remains unchanged,’ Takka growled. ‘We will ascertain whether any of the alien spoor survived the impact, and if any did, hunt them down and make them wish they hadn’t.’

Before it connects with the rest of the tyranid fleet, in which case this entire system is doomed.

The cadre responded with another cheer. Mason rolled his eyes. ‘Devilhunter, Devilhunter!’ they called. It wasn’t a bad speech, but he’d heard it enough times that it had lost its lustre.

You’re all still going to die.

His triumphant oration finished, Takka went and sat down next to him. Mason focused on his data-slate, checking and rechecking his complement of trapping equipment stowed in the Orca’s belly. It helped distract from the t’au’s oily smell. He absently fingered the beaded bracelet Anna had woven for him while he worked, but stopped short of uttering a prayer to the Emperor.

The t’au hated prayer.

‘Still think L’yun should’ve glassed the damned landing site,’ Mason grumbled, mostly to himself.

Takka frowned, his scarred, sebaceous face bunching in a scowl. ‘A decision you know belongs to Kor’o L’yun,’ the Devilhunter reminded him.

‘I know, I know, damn it all,’ Mason grunted. ‘I understand how the Greater Good works. Shas’vre.’ The xenos title felt slippery in his mouth, like a rancid bite of food he wanted to spit out.

Across the Orca the strange kroot pointedly cocked its head. ‘Sick,’ it squawked, apropos of nothing.

Mason regarded the revolting xenos. Its build was broad and its muscles hard, and its leathery skin was unusually pale for a kroot, with chitinous ridges on its sloping forehead.

‘Sick,’ it repeated, pointing to somewhere in the Orca’s path. ‘Sick hears them out there. Sick hears it below.’ It squawked, pointing to the troop ship’s ceiling and floor respectively. ‘Like worms. Crawling. It lives, Devilhunter. Sick find it.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Mason asked. Takka shot him a reproachful glance.

‘You do realise our brother can hear you, gue’vesa?’ the Devilhunter replied, pointedly using his rank.

Mason shrugged. He didn’t care, and irritating his commander felt cathartic. ‘Heard it’d eaten some tyranid.’

The Devilhunter’s eyes narrowed. Mason realised he’d overstepped. ‘Where did you hear such nonsense?’

The trapper motioned vaguely, though far less flippantly, to the fire warriors filling the Orca. He couldn’t remember which of them he’d heard say it, nor had he bothered to learn any of this squad’s names.

The Devilhunter leaned close, his dry, hard voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. ‘I forbid you to repeat such sacrilege. The Shapers forbid their kind to feed upon the y’he, on pain of exile. To suggest Sick has done so is a grave insult, one I will not tolerate. Do you understand me, gue’vesa?’

Mason nodded. Takka must have taken it as an apology, even though it wasn’t: he’d simply wanted to end the exchange. The Devilhunter slowly leaned away, his scowl never fading. Mason released the breath he’d been holding.

The kroot leaned forward in its crash couch. ‘Ssssiiick,’ it hissed, its yellow eyes wide and unblinking. Mason wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw clusters of teeth budding inside its beak.

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Cover illustration by Kevin Chin.

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ISBN: 978-1-80407-711-5

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