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Death Mask – Cavan Scott – Extract

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Death Mask

Cavan Scott

A shell slammed into the defensive wall, forcing Holt to duck. What in the name of the Eye was that? Last time the cultists had tried to run the stockade, they had been armed with simple handguns, crude rifles at best. But this?

Another missile whistled through the air, taking out an entire section of the barbed wall. The screams of his own men joined the battle cries of the enemy, who were flowing onto the field now, more than Holt had expected.

The captain slapped his laspistol against his thigh, the magna-lock holding it in place as he retrieved a pair of field glasses. The grainy image zoomed in on the cultists and Holt cursed beneath his breath. On previous escape attempts, the cultists wore nothing than leathers and their savagely-tattooed hides. Not now. Now they were sporting hefty armour, twin-barrelled ripper guns spewing hot metal from their drums, and that wasn’t the worst of it. Behind this advanced guard, a trio of massive exoskeletons waded into the mud – crude yes, but intimidating all the same. They’d obviously started life as heavy-lifters for the hive’s manufactorums, designed to carry unwieldy parts on the production line, but the cultists had been busy. Armour plates were riveted across the chest cavities to protect the operators, flamers and missile launchers mounted on each pneumatic arm.

‘Man the autocannons,’ Holt screamed, shouting to be heard over the increasing barrage. ‘Fire!’

Within seconds the gun-turrets sounded, a thunder to rival the storm overhead and the last noise the cultists would ever hear. The exterminators carved through the advancing force, silencing at least some of the heretic’s weapons.

Some – but not enough.

For every armoured cultist the Guardsmen mowed down, two more were ready to take their place, each bearing arms more powerful than the last.

Holt’s mind raced. He had two options. Deactivate the rest of the minefield remotely and give the order for his men to surge forward, taking the battle to the enemy, or bring fire down on their very heads from above.

Holt’s scarred lips twisted into a smile as he barked into his vox. There was no contest.

‘Skyraptor, take them down.’

Guardsmen cheered as the sound of Skyraptor’s engines filled the air. The Vendetta gunship swung around Hive Vinter, spotlights illuminating targets on the ground for the twin-linked lascannons to send to the mud.

One of the exoskeleton-clad heretics swivelled towards the looming aircraft, its shoulder mounted missile-launcher zeroing in on the gunship’s cockpit.

Skyraptor’s pilot fired first, reducing the exoskeleton to scrap.

‘You’ve got your toys,’ Holt grinned, his laspistol kicking in his hand, ‘And I’ve got mine.’

The cultists didn’t know which way to attack. The Vendetta swooped low, blazing death, while Holt’s guards continued the barrage from behind the containment wall. The cultists were outgunned, plus they had made a fatal mistake showing their hand.

If they were manufacturing weapons such as these inside the hive, Holt thought, he may be able to persuade command to bring the entire building down. When the news of the uprising within Vinter first broke, defence forces were sent in. The battles were fierce, the cultists sacrificing themselves – and their prisoners – to defend their newly won territory. The decision had been made. Shut them in. Don’t let them pass. Let the cultists starve in the mouldering tower.

All it would take is a few well-placed missiles. Holt had made the recommendation before, only to be told it was a waste of resources.

‘Just keep the miscreants within Vinter’s walls, Holt. And remember your place for Throne’s sake.’

Better to defend the other hives. Better to keep watching the skies.

They’d been wrong and he would prove it.

The Vendetta’s engines whined as it came about for another sweep. The cultists were already breaking rank, running back for the exit. The sound of battle was incredible, almost drowning out the sergeant’s shout.

‘Sir, head’s up!’

Holt glanced up just in time to see something hurtling down from on high. Something large.

‘Incoming,’ the captain yelled, willing the Vendetta to bank out of the way. The pilot slew the gunship to the side, but not fast enough. The falling object smashed through the Vendetta’s port wing, sending the craft spiralling out of control., Skyraptor ploughed into the defensive wall, its lascannons still firing, a ball of flame blossoming into the rain.

Holt was thrown from his feet, his vox filled with the dying screams of his men.

‘What is it, sir?’ Lang asked, boggling at the steaming metal cocoon now half buried in the ground, metres away from Skyraptor’s burning wreck. As the cultist’s assault began anew, a hatch blew from the side of the pod, neatly taking out an armour-clad attacker. The sergeant’s face blanched behind his visor. ‘Could it be the Angels of Death, sir? Have they sent reinforcements?’

‘I don’t think so, sergeant,’ Holt replied, watching as another cultist rushed towards the pod, firing into its cramped quarters. The advance didn’t last long. A single shot from within downed the heretic, a haze of bone and brain matter exploding from the back of his head.

The captain was right. The figure that burst from the pod couldn’t have been more different to a Space Marine. Yes, it wore black armour, but it was as sleek as members of the Adeptus Astartes were imposing. It raced out of the pod, a heavily modified bolt pistol thundering in one hand, a power sword growling in the other – but it was the thing’s head that caused Holt to gape. It was completely encased in a bone-white death mask fashioned after a human skull, red eyes glowing above a grinning skeletal mouth.

‘Sir, what is it?’ the sergeant spluttered as the thing’s power sword neatly separated a cultist’s head from his shoulders.

‘A distraction,’ Holt replied, struggling to hold the mastiffs back, the hounds driven wild by the newcomer’s scent. They pulled on their chains, eager to get away, even as more cultists fell at the mysterious aggressor’s feet. ‘Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be here. Bring it down.’

‘But sir, the cultists–’ began Lang.

‘Bring them all down!’

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