Contents

Cover

Kal Jerico – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

1: Family Business

Sun streamed past thick, velour drapes – a luxury not known nor needed in the sunless depths of Hive City – and glinted off gold-flecked cords hanging in loops across the bank of windows. The glittering light fell on the back of Gerontius Helmawr, Lord of Hive Primus, and thus ruler of all Necromunda. Helmawr, who normally towered over every room, his political and economic power giving him the stature of a demigod, now sat head in hands and nearly curled into a ball on one of the soft, leather couches arrayed beneath the windows.

From his vantage point atop the spire, the Lord of Hive Primus was used to the sun beating on his back and the rich appointments of the Imperial quarters. In fact, they were a birthright. House Helmawr had ruled Necromunda in the Emperor’s name since time immemorial. Helmawr himself had ruled for hundreds of years, longevity was just another commodity his immense wealth and power easily afforded him.

But as brightly as the sun shone on this glorious day, it was a dark mood Lord Helmawr found himself sinking into as he looked at the macabre scene before him. It was hard enough to hold onto his sanity at the best of times, but the stress of today threatened to tip him over the edge. Helmawr was not used to the sight of blood and dead bodies – at least not in his home. Assassination was one thing, many a noble had succumbed to the assassin’s blade or a vial of poison emptied into a bowl of soup, but those deaths were clean, artful even, and were accepted practice within the Noble Houses of the Spire. Brutal murder, though, that belonged in the world beyond the Spiral Gates. Violence was a fact of life in Hive City and a way of life in the Underhive. Violence of this nature did not belong in the Imperial palace.

And yet, here it was again.

Helmawr heard himself giggle at the absurdity of the scene before him, and then tried to get a hold of himself. Murder was no cause for laughter.

A palace guard lay dead on the velvet rug at Helmawr’s feet. The pool of blood surrounding the body blotted out most of the house crest woven into the fabric. ‘That will have to be replaced,’ said the lord, pointing at the rug. Four attendants, who always hovered around him like moths fluttering around a flame, jotted down the order on four separate notepads. ‘And I suppose we’ll need to order some more guards.’ Another small giggle escaped his lips.

The body of a second guard lay half on and half off the mahogany four-poster bed that lay opposite him, across the chamber. He’d been cut in half, perhaps while rushing toward his attacker. Blood still dripped off the edge of the silk sheets onto the floor where the rest of the guard’s torso and legs had fallen. The blood had probably soaked through the silk sheets all the way to the down mattress, Helmawr realized. The entire bed would have to be destroyed. ‘What a waste,’ he muttered.

Details. That’s what the doctors told him. Concentrate on the little details. He must re-train his mind to be able to maintain focus. ‘Have that bed destroyed,’ he said to the attendants. ‘Or better yet, clean it up and send it to Lord Ty as a birthday present.’ The attendants scribbled furiously. It didn’t matter whether it was Ty’s birthday or not. None of Helmawr’s attendants would ever contradict him.

Helmawr was getting bored with this gruesome detail. He felt that there must be some important meeting or another he should be attending. That fact was that he rarely remembered where he should be at any point during the day or, for that matter, what had happened at the last meeting. The attendants kept him apprised of the details he often forgot, but it fell to the royal chamberlain to keep track of his daily itinerary and ensure that Helmawr didn’t miss any important meetings.

But that was not possible this day, which made this affair all the more intolerable. The third and final body in the room had belonged to Stiv Harper, Gerontius Helmawr’s royal chamberlain and most loyal servant. The battle for the chamberlain’s life must have been gruesome. He had been literally hacked to death. The man’s severed arms and legs lay at odd angles to his body, forming a crude ‘W’ on the floor. Helmawr didn’t know if it meant anything, but had the attendants make a note of it anyway.

It was the chamberlain’s head that most upset Helmawr, though. The top had been sawed off and most of the contents spilled across the polished hardwood. Unlike the two guards, though, there was very little blood around the dismembered chamberlain. Of course, the man had been more machine than flesh. Stiv had been with Helmawr since the beginning, and no expense was spared to keep such a trusted advisor alive. But this time, there would be no saving Stiv. His wayward son had seen to that. The damage was too severe for even Lord Helmawr’s physicians and augmetists to fix.

As Helmawr broke from his pondering, he noticed that the guards who had been searching the room had finished their investigation. They stepped hesitantly up to their lord and awaited further orders.

‘What?’ Helmawr asked, looking up from the couch.

The guards glanced at each other and hesitated. Finally the sergeant spoke up. ‘We didn’t find it, my lord,’ he said.

‘Find what?’ asked Helmawr.

The sergeant looked confused and pointed at the chamberlain. ‘The royal chamberlain’s… um… his… er…’

‘Oh yes, that!’ said Helmawr, as one of the attendant’s leaned down and whispered into his ear. ‘No I didn’t expect you would find it. Details, though. Mustn’t lose sight of the details. I’m sure the little bastard took it with him.’

He rose and strode across his son’s former quarters, kicking Stiv’s legs out of the way as he came to the door. ‘Clean up this mess!’ he called back. ‘I’m sure I have important matters to attend to.’

Yes, brutal death had once again come to Lord Helmawr’s palace. And once again, it seemed that his homicidal son, Armand, had fled, leaving a tangle of bodies in his wake. But this time the troublesome boy had really gone too far. His son had stolen from his father, and that Helmawr could not forgive. He strode down the hall. The attendants ran to keep pace, feverishly writing down names of advisors, who were to be brought before his lordship immediately.

‘Kal! Don’t shoot him!’ yelled Scabbs.

Jerico glanced over the edge of the catwalk to see his buddy scrambling up the service ladder. The numerous scabs on the little half-breed’s face cast odd shadows that made it look like he was wearing war paint. ‘Why not?’ he called back. ‘Look what he did to my shirt!’ Kal grabbed his sleeve to show Scabbs the rip, tearing the fabric even further in the process. He never should have taken his leather coat off, but it was getting in the way when he climbed the ladder.

‘That was my best shirt,’ Jerico sneered. The thin, balding man pinned beneath his knee squirmed and tried to speak, perhaps trying to apologise, but all he could do was squeak. ‘Hell. It’s my only shirt!’ added the bounty hunter. He shifted his weight to bear down on the captive’s chest.

‘So now I think I’ll just put a hole in your only head.’ Jerico flipped his two blond braids up out of his eyes and pressed the barrel of his lasgun against the forehead of the mousy little man. He released the safety catch and started to put pressure on the trigger.

Scabbs barrelled into Jerico and the laspistol fired, searing a hole through the metallic ledge and taking a piece of the captive’s ear with it. Scabbs and Jerico tumbled toward the edge of the catwalk, both screaming and clawing at the other.

‘Don’t shoot!’

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘We need him!’

‘Get off me!’

Jerico felt the edge of the catwalk bite into the small of his back and knew he couldn’t stop in time. ‘Crap!’ he yelled as they tumbled over the ledge. He dropped his weapon and grasped at the ledge with his free hand. ‘Hold on!’

Kal’s fingers scrambled for purchase as the two men fell in tandem. His hand slapped against a pipe beneath the catwalk and he closed his palm around it as the lasgun clattered and clanged through pipes and cables down to the dome floor twenty metres below.

Jerico’s shoulder popped as his torso whipped around beneath the catwalk. Scabbs, arms clenched tightly around Jerico’s chest, slipped down to his waist, leaving several streaks of dead skin, as the duo came to a sudden stop. He hooked his fingers into Kal’s belt. Above them, Kal could hear his former captive scrambling down the ladder.

‘You let him get away!’ yelled Kal. He tried desperately to get his free hand onto the pipe.

‘I let him get away?’ asked Scabbs. ‘You were going to shoot him.’

‘I was just trying to scare him.’ Kal swung back and forth and grasped at the pipe.

‘You fired your gun.’

‘Only because you tackled me.’ Jerico’s trousers slipped past his waist and Scabbs began to claw at his partner for purchase. ‘Watch it!’ yelled Kal. He grabbed Scabbs around the wrist just as his trousers fell to his knees.

‘Perhaps you two would like to finish your argument up here?’ asked a familiar female voice from the catwalk. ‘Perhaps with your clothes on?’

Jerico looked up into Yolanda’s brown eyes, which were framed by the Wildcat gang tattoos that ran across her forehead and down both cheeks. ‘This is his fault,’ he muttered. A moment later, Scabbs was pulling himself up a rope, using Kal’s body to push his feet against as he climbed. Jerico followed shortly after. He rolled onto the catwalk and pulled his wayward trousers up as he spun.

When he got to his feet, he saw the squirrelly captive trussed up and lying on the grating. Blood oozed from the man’s shredded ear. A nasty bruise blossoming at his temple was just barely covered by thin wisps of hair. Jerico smiled at Yolanda. ‘Good work.’

‘Next time you might want to tie up your informant before you two decide to discuss interrogation tactics,’ said Yolanda.

Jerico’s smile faded. Before Yolanda could react, Kal snatched the laspistol from her holster, and then smiled again. ‘Mind if I borrow this?’ he asked. He knelt down next to the captive and flicked the safety off. ‘Now, you may have heard me say that I wasn’t going to kill you,’ said Kal. He waved the gun in the face of the quivering informant. ‘But that doesn’t mean I won’t shoot you.’

Jerico grabbed the bound man by the wrists and pointed the pistol at his fingers. ‘You might want to unclench your fists and spread your fingers… unless you want me to shoot all of them at once.’

‘Give my troops a day, sir, and we’ll have that murderous son of a bitch standing before you locked in irons,’ said Captain Katerin. His round, red face flushed as he spoke. The sweat that had been beading on his bald head dripped into bushy, black eyebrows.

‘And would I be the bitch in this scenario, captain?’ asked Gerontius Helmawr. The Lord of the Spire lounged in a high-backed leather chair behind an enormous oak desk. There were no windows in this room, and the only light came from an array of lamps on Helmawr’s desk, arranged to keep him in shadow while shining brightly on his staff. The private office was tucked away in the centre of the royal palace, completely shielded on all sides from eavesdropping devices. Long forgotten sound dampening technology made it impossible to hear what was said unless you stood within ten feet of the speaker.

An emergency meeting of Helmawr’s top advisors had been called to deal with the Armand situation. Six men stood in a semi-circle facing Helmawr in his private office: Katerin, the captain of the royal guard; Vin Colouri, the guardian of the coffers; Morten Croag, Helmawr’s top aide in matters of law; Malchi Prong, the chancellor of the Spire; Hermod Kauderer, master of security and intrigue; and the ranking political officer, a somewhat junior official named Obidiah Clein.

The meeting had not been going well. Helmawr’s attendants, who stood behind him taking notes, constantly had to remind the lord who the advisors were and why they were meeting. The royal chamberlain would normally run these meetings, but he was no longer able to perform those duties. The resulting chaos had obviously left Helmawr even more confused than normal.

‘We’re talking about my son… what did you say your name was?’

The military man glanced at the other advisors before answering. ‘Katerin, my lord, Captain Katerin.’

‘Armand is still my son, Katerin,’ said Helmawr. ‘He may be a little rambunctious at times, but you would do well to regard him with some degree of civility.’

‘Sorry, my lord,’ Katerin said, bowing slightly. ‘My enthusiasm gets the better of me.’ The captain of the royal guard dabbed at his forehead with the handkerchief he kept constantly at hand for this very purpose. The sweat began to flow a bit more freely under Helmawr’s stare and even the tangle of beard covering Katerin’s face glistened with perspiration. He straightened his uniform before continuing. ‘All I meant to say, sir, was that my men are ready to tear apart the Lower Hive searching for your… wayward son.’

‘I think, perhaps, a more subtle approach would be in order,’ stated Hermod Kauderer. ‘Kauderer, my lord. Your master of intrigue,’ he added. Kauderer was easily a head taller than everyone in the room and towered over the other advisors, but it wasn’t his abnormal height that put people off. His narrow face, piercing eyes and sharp features gave one the impression of staring into the face of a hawk who was about to swoop down and rip out your eyes. ‘I have agents in place throughout Hive City and enquiries are well underway. I’m sure we can bring this matter to a quick and quiet conclusion, within the hour.’

‘Hah!’ scoffed Katerin. ‘Your agents could never handle that pit b– um, powerful son of our lord. They wouldn’t last a minute against him in battle.’

‘You assume he would still be standing when my agents got to him,’ said Kauderer. He tilted his head slightly and arched his eyebrows as he stared at Katerin. ‘If your men storm through the Hive, it will result in a blood bath that will make Armand’s indiscretions look like afternoon tea. Discretion is the wise move here.’

‘Those were my men he killed up there, Kauderer!’ stormed the captain. ‘I owe it to them to find their murderer and bring him to justice.’ He turned to Lord Helmawr, and continued. ‘I could lead a small number of men into the Underhive, sire. A simple search and retrieve mission. Very little collateral damage’

‘I can guarantee no collateral damage,’ stated Kauderer. ‘And no witnesses.’ His lips tightened into a thin smile, or perhaps more of a sneer. Kauderer always looked like he was sneering.

The other advisors smiled as well. Colouri even nodded his head at the last statement. Captain Katerin felt his influence in the matter waning. He looked around for allies. Colouri, Croag, and Prong all dropped their eyes to the floor to check on some speck of dust on their shoes. They rarely took sides openly in battles between Katerin and Kauderer. Both men had considerable power and influence throughout the Spire, and that influence grew stronger as Helmawr’s faculties waned, as they most certainly did now, with his mind scattered by recent events and his most trusted advisor cut into pieces. The captain’s gaze fell upon Obidiah Clein, the junior political officer. ‘You agree with me, don’t you, Clein?’

Clein was only present in the meeting because his superior was the recently dismembered Stiv Harper. He was a small, unassuming man with short-cropped hair and a soft, doughy face topped by wire-rimmed glasses. He was about half the girth of Katerin and half the height of Kauderer. This was Clein’s first time in the spotlight of the big office, but if Katerin thought the little man would be easily cowed without the chamberlain around to back him up, he had obviously misjudged Obidiah Clein.

‘From a strictly political standpoint,’ said Clein, pushing the glasses up his nose and looking back and forth at Katerin and Kauderer, ‘I believe both plans are deficient in one important regard. The other Houses…’

The two strong-willed advisors interrupted and tore into the newcomer before turning on each other again.

‘We must show strength in this matter!’

‘My agents will never be seen.’

‘The other Houses must see our resolve.’

‘Agents of the other Houses can be dealt with.’

‘Your agents will never get close to him.’

‘Your men let him escape in the first place.’

‘Your agents couldn’t find their rears with a stick and a mirror.’

‘What will your men do, bleed on him?’

A sudden crash from the desk ended the argument. The advisors all turned toward their lord. The shattered remains of a crystal decanter lay scattered amidst a puddle of liquid on the desk. Helmawr stood, his face impassive, yet with an almost comical smirk spreading across his lips. He still clutched the broken glass handle in his hand. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. After a moment, Helmawr dropped the handle onto the desk and sat down in his chair. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I believe – that man there – had a point to make, and I would like to hear it.’

All eyes turned toward Obidiah Clein, who took a moment to clean his glasses before proceeding. ‘Obidiah Clein, my lord,’ he began. ‘I am the ranking political officer after the untimely… accidental death of the royal chamberlain.’

‘What did you want to say, Mr Clein?’

‘The real problem is not apprehending your wayward son,’ replied Clein. ‘It is more important to retrieve the item he  – um – liberated from my predecessor. We need to get the item your son stole, wouldn’t you agree, sir?’

Clein looked at Helmawr expectantly, almost demanding an answer before continuing. Katerin found the tactic brilliant and wished he had thought of it. The addle-brained Helmawr was easily led, if you knew how to guide him.

Helmawr’s response was immediate. ‘Yes. We must recover what my son stole from me, no matter the cost,’ he said. ‘Take care of it, will you, Clein? I feel I must take a nap now.’ With that, Helmawr leaned back in his leather chair and closed his eyes. A moment later, his soft snoring could be heard wafting across the desk.

Katerin dabbed at his forehead as he looked back and forth at Clein and Kauderer. ‘You heard our lord, he said. ‘We must retrieve the item, whatever the cost may be.’

Clein strode over to the captain and stood directly in front of him. ‘The problem with a frontal assault is not the casualties you will inflict on the hivers,’ he said, ‘although I’m sure Mr Colouri would not enjoy paying for your little escapades downhive. The problem is that as soon as you pass through the Spiral Gates, every other Noble House will track your every move. It’s too visible, and this matter must be handled delicately.’

‘Exactly,’ said Kauderer. ‘My agents are the epitome of tact. No one will even know they were there.’

Clein turned and sauntered over to the intrigue master. Kauderer glared at the top of the little man’s head. Clein hopped up onto Helmawr’s desk to look at Hermod eye to eye. Katerin was starting to realise that the diminutive man before him was much more than a novice bureaucrat, and that might be dangerous.

Clein glared back at Kauderer. ‘As soon as one of your agents ask a single question about Armand,’ he said, ‘spies from every other Noble House will report back to their superiors and the race will be on to see who can reach him first. Are you willing to bet your life on your spies against the rest of them down there?’

Kauderer was silent.

‘I thought not,’ said Clein. He jumped off the desk before straightening his glasses which almost fell off his face as he descended. ‘That is what we are fighting for here, gentlemen. The information Helmawr’s son has access to could ruin this House – that is, it could ruin us all.’

Katerin knew that he had lost this battle. It was time for a united front. ‘If we can’t send my guards or Kauderer’s agents, then what do you suggest?’ he asked.

‘A third party,’ said Clein. ‘Someone not officially tied to House Helmawr, who won’t raise suspicions amongst the other Houses.’ He adjusted his glasses again and smiled. ‘We’re looking for a criminal hiding out in the lowest reaches of the Hive. I suggest we employ an expert for the task. I suggest we hire a bounty hunter.’

‘Ridiculous,’ said Kauderer, obviously unable to side with Katerin on anything, no matter how sensible it might seem. ‘You can’t trust scum like that. They’re little better than gangers or muties. They’ll turn tail and run at the first hint of trouble, or worse, take our money and then sell us out to the other Houses anyway. We’ll be no better off at all – worse, in fact. My agents will be a step behind whichever House buys the information.’

Clein just grinned. He had long been ready with the answer to such concerns and, like a true politician, had simply led his counterparts into debating the matter for no reason other than to make himself appear all the more impressive when the time came to impart his own wisdom. ‘You see,’ he began, ‘if my information is correct, I think there is a bounty hunter we can trust.’ He was smiling the wide smile of a child who holds the answer to a question that all of the adults have been asking. ‘This bounty hunter and Lord Helmawr have a somewhat special relationship,’ Clein concluded with a grin.

‘Now, isn’t this more comfortable than climbing around in the ductwork?’ asked Kal.

Jerico, Scabbs, Yolanda and Derindi, the wretched little informant who had nearly cost Kal his trousers, were all sitting at a large, round table in the middle of the Sump Hole, Kal’s favourite Underhive dive. It had all the charm of a rat-infested slave pit decorated with trash, only the rats were much larger and carried weapons.

The ropes around Derindi’s hands and feet had been removed and the bounty hunters were all smiles. To prying eyes, the scene appeared to be nothing more than a group of friends enjoying a drink.

‘I’m a dead man,’ moaned Derindi. He stared at the bottle of Wildsnake – a foul, brown liquid in a dirty, brown bottle. Still, it was more expensive than Second Best, so things could be worse. No. They probably couldn’t. Even the snake in the bottom of the bottle was staring at him. Perspiration matted what little hair Derindi had left above his ears and his palms were so slick that, when he finally picked up the bottle, it nearly slipped from his grasp.

‘Don’t be like that,’ said Yolanda. She giggled and tossed back the blonde locks of hair that had fallen over her cheeks. But Derindi could tell it was all for show; Yolanda didn’t giggle. Not unless she wanted something from you.

The show was for the audience that had been forming at the bar and nearby tables. He noticed the icy edge to her words. ‘I stopped Kal from shooting your fingers off, didn’t I? We’re all friends here.’ Yolanda’s voice grew suddenly loud on the last line, obviously for the benefit of the surrounding gangers and mercenaries.

‘You should have let him kill me,’ grumbled Derindi. He dried his hands on the rough cloth of his clothes before trying to pick up the bottle again. Perhaps the foul liquid would kill him. ‘Bleeding to death through a bloody stump would be like dying in bed compared to what’ll happen to me if I talk.’

Derindi thought about running. He looked at the door some metres past the bar and wondered about bolting for it, heading further downhive where neither Jerico nor Svend and his gangers could find him. Jerico wouldn’t dare shoot him in the back if he ran, would he? They needed him, and even in the Underhive murder is – well it’s at least frowned upon, especially in front of this many witnesses. Derindi looked at the bounty hunter, his teeth clenched into a tight-lipped smile as he picked at the hole in his shirt. Jerico was obviously still pissed off about the rip. And then there was the matter of the trousers. Kal was clearly a man fond of his clothing, and Derindi had thus far made an impressive fist of ruining damn near all of it. Derindi decided not to chance running.

‘Oh, it won’t matter whether you talk or not,’ said Jerico with another forced smile. ‘Everyone will think you squealed either way.’ He reached into his pocket and Derindi flinched, spraying sweat from his chin onto his shoulder. But when Jerico’s hand came back out, it was full of tokens and bonds. He picked one bond from his palm and held it up to look at it.

Derindi saw the gangers at the bar ogle at the ceramite piece as Jerico pretended to check its authenticity. Then, with a flourish, the bounty hunter slapped the bond onto the table and spoke in an overly loud voice. ‘That’s just the down payment, Derindi. You’ll get the rest when we get our bounty for Svend. Thanks!’

Kal flicked the ceramite bond across the table at Derindi, who caught it out of reflex before it slammed into his stomach. Scabbs reached out and shook Derindi’s hands, his wide smile causing a cascade of loose skin to fall from his cheeks. ‘Yeah, thanks, Derindi. You did the smart thing here,’ he said out loud. Far louder than was necessary, in fact.

Then, in a softer voice, Scabbs added, ‘You’re right, Derindi. Don’t tell us anything. Besides, all we need to do now is sit back and wait for Svend to kill you, and then capture him while he’s digging that bond out of your pocket.’ Derindi pulled away from the scabby bounty hunter, and immediately noticed that the ceramite piece was no longer in his hand. Scabbs’s smile looked more sincere now.

Yolanda leaned in toward Derindi. ‘Or you can tell us where to find Svend right now, and maybe we’ll get to him before he gets to you.’

‘Maybe,’ said Jerico. He picked at the hole in his shirt again. ‘Maybe.’

Captain Katerin took a break from the mound of paperwork on his desk and rubbed two podgy digits into his tired eyes. He hated this part of the job. Weapon requisition forms, guard rotation schedules, disciplinary reports, promotion applications, leave requests – it all came across his desk. Most of it simply needed a signature, but he had to read every piece of paper to make sure his subordinates were doing their jobs correctly and, more importantly, that they weren’t trying to deceive him in some way. The last three Captains of the Royal Guard had lost their positions due to ‘gross incompetence’, which was just a fancy way of saying their subordinates had screwed up. That was not going to happen to Almar Katerin.

The blurry office came back into focus after he pulled the fingers from his eyes, and Katerin practically fell off his chair. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’ he roared, staring up into the hawkish features of Hermod Kauderer. He jumped to his feet, snatched a laspistol from his hip, and pointed it at the head spy. ‘Explain yourself, Kauderer. How did you sneak into my private office?’

Kauderer remained calm in the face of the captain’s rage. He flicked at some invisible piece of fluff on his black robes and raised an eyebrow. ‘Your door was not locked, Captain,’ he said. ‘And I never sneak. I do not, however, make any sound when I walk, unlike you soldiers, who announce their presence from down the block.’

Katerin decided not to rise to the bait. Instead, he dropped the laspistol on top of the pile of requisition forms and slumped back into his chair. ‘What do you want, Kauderer?’ he asked. ‘I have a great deal of work to do, so let’s just skip the normal banter portion of our conversation.’

‘Gladly,’ said Kauderer. There were chairs facing Katerin’s desk, but the master of intrigue did not sit in the presence of others. He enjoyed looking down at people and never gave up the high ground, literally or figuratively. Before continuing, however, he pulled a small device from the pocket of his tunic, flipped a switch, and set the item on Katerin’s desk. ‘To protect us from prying ears,’ he said. ‘Now, down to business as you requested. Armand Helmawr must die, and I don’t think either of us believes that bastard bounty hunter is the man for the job.’

Katerin pushed the pile of papers aside and leaned forward, suddenly interested in what his rival was saying. ‘What do you propose?’ he asked. ‘That weasel Clein was probably right about using house resources. Our men will attract too much attention.’

‘That doesn’t mean we can’t direct others to do the job that you and I both know must be done.’

‘And done right this time,’ added Katerin. He spun the laspistol on his desk as he imagined Armand meeting with various, gruesome deaths. ‘Done completely and finally.’

‘You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’ asked the Kauderer.

Katerin nodded, a smirk growing on his face. ‘Spyrers.’

‘For a start, yes.’

Dungo Bain strode into Hagen’s Hole, his metal-tipped boots clanging against the mesh floor, and slapped a token onto the bar. ‘Hagen!’ he called. ‘Snake me.’

The current Hagen, a round man with a long beard and longer, stringy hair, sidled over to the end of the bar. After wiping his podgy hands on a brownish apron that might once have been white, he grabbed a bottle of Wildsnake from the shelf behind the bar and opened it with his last remaining teeth. He slammed the bottle down in front of the bounty hunter, making the credit token jump and sending a plume of the bitter drink sloshing onto the bar.

Hagen wore no shirt beneath the apron, and his flabby chest and protruding gut peaked out around the edges whenever he moved. The patrons never asked nor checked to see if he wore pants. Hagen leaned over the bar to collect the token, dragging his hair and beard through the puddle in the process.

Dungo pulled the helmet off his head and ran a hand through his thick hair as he checked himself in the mirror behind the bar. He still had helmet head, and the scar that ran from ear to ear across his chin seemed redder than usual. He scratched at the stubble around the scar as he gulped the foul liquid in the bottle, and then looked around the bar. A game was already under way in the back room, but there were few other patrons in the Hole at this time of morning. ‘Seen Bester?’ he asked.

‘Not since last night,’ said Hagen. ‘I thought he left with you.’

‘Nah, he stiffed us,’ Dungo replied. ‘Ran out for a smoke with three hundred credits in his pocket and never returned.’ He drained the bottle and spat the snake onto the floor. It flopped onto the grate, but didn’t quite make it through to the pipes. Hagen had another open bottle in front of the bounty hunter before his token even hit the bar.

‘That’s right,’ said Hagen. He owes me for a Snake, too.’ Hagen flipped his hair back over his shoulder, and it hit the mirror with a wet slap. ‘When I see that rat…’

He never got to finish the statement, for at that moment Jak Skreed entered Hagen’s Hole carrying a body over his shoulder. Jak was a bull of a man, easily topping two metres tall and nearly twice as wide at the shoulders as he was at the waist. Sweat seemed to constantly glisten on his bulging, black biceps. ‘We have a problem,’ said Skreed.

‘Ya sure do, Jak,’ said Hagen. ‘Ya know better than to bring your bounties in here. It’s not sanitary.’

‘Not my bounty,’ said Jak as dropped the dead body on the floor. The corpse made an odd sound as it hit the metal grate, like a burlap sack full of sticks. The mouth on the body was wide open and the eyes bulged, as if the poor soul had been screaming at the moment of his death. The skin on the arms and face was cracked and leathery, and had shrunk so much you could see the contour of the bones underneath. He looked like he’d been dead and buried for months. But Dungo noticed the faded green battle suit and knew immediately that couldn’t be the case.

Jak confirmed his suspicion. ‘It’s Bester,’ he said. ‘Or it was yesterday.’ To drive his point home, Skreed dropped the mangled remains of Arin Bester’s shotgun on top of the body. Dungo could see the hash marks etched into the barrel.

‘Thirty-six,’ he said counting quickly. ‘Seven tallies of five and one extra – that’s Bester’s gun alright. He just bagged number thirty-six last week. Bought us all a round of Snake. What in the Spire happened to him?’

‘Can’t say,’ muttered Skreed as he stepped over the body. He walked up to Dungo, and pulled a huge handful of credit tokens mixed with a few ceramite bonds out of his pocket and dropped them on the bar. ‘His winnings were still in his pocket, and all of his weapons were sheathed except the shotgun and his chainsword, which we found still running in his flop spot across the street. The body we found… elsewhere.’

‘It weren’t no robbery then, huh?’ asked Dungo. Skreed shook his head.

‘What could have done that to him?’ asked Hagen, pointing at the desiccated corpse of their former friend. ‘He looks, I dunno, deader than most bodies I seen.’

Jak plucked a token from the pile and flipped it to Hagen, who got him a bottle of Wildsnake. Skreed took a long pull at the bottle before answering. ‘Beddy thinks it’s a vampire,’ he said after a long burp. ‘I think she’s read too many of those pulps, but near as we can tell, all of the blood’s been drained from his body and there are a couple of small wounds on his neck – puncture-like, you know.’

He tilted his bottle up above his face, letting the liquor flow into his open mouth. He caught the snake between his teeth when it flopped out of the bottle, bit it in half and swallowed. ‘Beddy’s out hunting vampires right now.’ He pulled half a snake from his lips and flicked it onto the floor. ‘Says it’s better to do it in the daylight. I told her it don’t matter when you can’t even see the sun, but you know Beddy.’

Dungo didn’t want to ask the next question, so he took a swig from his second bottle to steel his nerves. He swallowed hard as he realized too late that the snake had slid down his throat. He hated the damn snake. ‘Where d’you find the body?’ he asked after a coughing fit that failed to expel the slithering beast.

‘That’s the damndest thing,’ said Skreed. ‘It was stuffed into the power pipes – not the ones running from the Hole over to the machine shop – the main lines hung from the ceiling of the dome.’

Hagen’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean the pipes nobody’s ever scavenged because they’re too high up?’

Skreed nodded. ‘That’s right. We never would have found the body, except there was a pile of copper wiring on the roof. Beddy looked up and saw the feet sticking out. I shot a line into his boot and pulled him out.’

‘Lucky he was wearing his body suit, or his body would have got crushed when he fell,’ said Hagen.

‘Yeah, lucky,’ said Dungo. He grabbed a token from Bester’s winnings and tossed it to the barkeep. ‘Do you think that suit would fit me?’

Nemo sat in the darkened chamber and contemplated the day ahead. The Underhive’s most notorious crimelord (as Nemo liked to think of himself) enjoyed the dark, and often dimmed the various vid screens that surrounded him. He’d lived in the dark most of his life in the twilight world beneath Hive City. That city was dimly lit compared to the golden splendour of the Spire, but it had power enough for luxuries like light and heat. In the Underhive, there was precious little power for anything.

For the crimelord, the choice had been simple. Life was uncertain enough downhive without relying on tools that could fail, get lost or be stolen without a moment’s notice. Instead, he had learned to see, to live, to thrive in the dark. Nemo lived on pure instinct, sensing danger before it arrived, ‘seeing’ contours in the shape of the darkness around him, and relying on reflexes honed by the strap of experience to the unnatural sharpness of a power sword.

A faint hiss from above alerted the crimelord to an incoming message. One of the most recent technological luxuries Nemo had installed in his subterranean base of operations was a message tube. Powering the tube had been easy; he simply tapped into the tube’s power source. The logistics of keeping the tube a secret had been monumental, however. The Hive City end of his tube rotated to a different nexus after passing each message into his network. There were simply too many tube stations in the Hive for the authorities to check, so it was nearly impossible for them to track the tubes back to his base.

Once he had connected to the tube network, a well-trained, highly intelligent rat had been fed into the system that searched for the special capsules Nemo’s associates had to use, and routed these capsules to his tube network. Nemo had considered using the rat to hunt down messages to or from important figures in the Hive, but had ultimately decided the security risk was too high. If someone ever suspected their messages were being hijacked, or found rat droppings in one of the capsules, the game would be up.

Very few people had access to Nemo’s special capsules, and those that did still needed a special code to send a message to Nemo. He periodically changed those codes to ensure that only his business associates could use the system. But the tube had been a profitable expenditure. His most lucrative jobs always arrived via the tube, generally straight from the spire.

This particular message, like dozens before it, dropped from the tube into the inky blackness of the crimelord’s chambers, and Nemo grabbed the capsule before it hit his desk. His fingertips tapped another code – one only he knew – into the end of the capsule. This extra layer of security deactivated an acid trap that would destroy the message before it could be read. In addition to conditioning his senses to life in the dark during his long years in the Underhive, Nemo had also cultivated a healthy sense of paranoia.

The capsule clicked open in his hands and a roll of paper dropped onto the table. Nemo flicked on a lamp to read the message – not because he needed the light, but because the lamp was part of the message system itself. The page practically glowed in the eerie, black luminescence, illuminating words that would have been invisible under any other light.

Nemo read the message twice, not quite believing it the first time. He turned off the lamp after committing the details of the message to memory and then tossed the paper into a different tube that led directly into an Underhive sewage pipe with effluent so corrosive it would destroy the paper quicker than an incinerator. He sat in the dark for a few moments longer, letting his eyes readjust until the shadows came into focus again, then began to write a series of carefully worded notes to be sent to select members of his organisation. This job would require strict discipline and a certain finesse that only his top operatives possessed. Nemo thought he might actually have to get involved in this job personally, but it would be worth the risk. Well worth it, in fact.

Click here to buy Kal Jerico.

A Black Library Publication

Blood Royal first published in 2005.
Cardinal Crimson first published in 2006.
Lasgun Wedding first published in 2007
This eBook edition published in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Adrian Smith.

Kal Jerico © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Kal Jerico, Necromunda, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-835-8

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

See Black Library on the internet at
blacklibrary.com

Find out more about Games Workshop’s world of Warhammer and the Warhammer 40,000 universe at
games-workshop.com

eBook license

This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and

(2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media; and

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 you attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.