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Low Lives – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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1

Four hunters departed Slag Row. Five if you counted the unbloodied rookie, though none of the others did. The trail was not hard to follow; wherever their quarry passed there would be stories, improbable deeds and daring feats. It did not concern the hunters that the accounts were mired in contradictions. All that mattered was the hunt.

The five suffered their first casualty just outside Sump City. Whilst the rest slept, Bor Meathook pressed on alone, intent on being the sole claimant of the bounty. The other hunters found his body a day later floating in a pool of refuse, unharmed if you discounted the knife wound in his chest. They knew Meathook had been arrogant and at times sloppy, but he was no amateur. Lars the Sly, the group’s self-appointed leader, had seen him break a man’s neck with a backhand slap; had seen him dislocate a shoulder with a vigorous handshake. The former Goliath had been a mountain of muscle, and surprisingly quick for someone his size, but his life was still ended with a single thrust. The rookie obsessed over the injury, measuring the length of the incision and the path of entry, as though cataloguing the killer’s methods. The rest of the party silently paid their respects, each recalculating their share of the bounty now it would be split three ways. Four if you counted the rookie, though none of them did.

The remaining hunters continued, more cautious now. Since Meathook’s death the trail had vanished, their quarry aware of the pursuit. Perhaps they would have escaped had it not been for Garak the Seeker. The old man struggled to keep pace with the younger hunters, but he had the uncanny ability to know where their prey would flee to. It would sometimes be the smallest clue – a stray hair or errant boot print. More often there was no real sign at all, and the old man would consider each route in turn before inevitably guiding them down the right path. He’d smile when they asked how, exposing a motley collection of ill-formed teeth, and explain that he’d spent most of his life running; he knew where they ran because it was where he would have run.

The hunters lost him just outside Sinkhole, the sump lake that had long since swallowed the Orlock territory of Ironcrown. The old man had been so intent on the trail he had failed to spot yellow eyes bobbing just above the surface of the toxic waters. He screamed as the sumpkroc seized him, his fingers scrabbling on the bank as he was dragged below. The rookie fumbled for her weapon, but Lars held out his hand, motioning her to be still. There was no need for a tracker now; there was only one path left.

A few miserable souls scratched out an existence on the sump lake, cultivating fungus and trawling the waters for scraps. A handful of credits bought information, confirming their quarry’s flight across the lake, and a handful more secured passage on one of the trawlers’ barges. The two remaining hunters, three if you counted the rookie, wordlessly gravitated to the centre of the vessel, backs pressed together, gaze intent on the emerald waters. The trawler was unfazed, propelling the makeshift craft with a sculling oar that ended in a barbed hook. He would pause occasionally, reversing his oar to haul some trinket from the sump.

No one knew how far the lake extended. The trawler claimed to have sailed further than most. He told of a forgotten shore where twisted creatures wore the faces of men. When asked whether their quarry had headed for those shores, the trawler laughed, and told them that none dared cross the lake, for those who once tried had never returned. The rookie rightly asked how he knew of the creatures on the far shore if no one had ever returned, and the trawler smiled, his teeth surprisingly white and just a little too sharp for comfort, and said these were but stories.

Still, neither the hunters nor their quarry were interested in crossing the lake. Their focus was the island that lay at its centre.

The land mass was unstable, little more than jetsam drawn together by the currents, the toxic waters fusing it around a steel cylinder, perhaps ten feet in diameter and that much again in height, the top sealed by a bronze cap with a rich turquoise patina. Before the hive quake, back when Ironcrown was a centre of industry, the shaft had been one of a dozen used to haul valuable ore from the mines below. Now it was all that remained; the final passage through Sinkhole to the last remnant of the lost empire. It was their prey’s final refuge.

For a modest fee, the trawler promised to return in three days to retrieve them. Lars threatened that reneging on the deal would have dire consequences, though in truth he knew that this would be a difficult threat to enforce.

Within the former mineshaft, a cage of corroded iron and tarnished copper was suspended on frayed cables and worn chains. It was barely a few yards across, and heavily worn by corrosion and filth. The motor had long since fallen into disrepair, so they alternated operating the winch, two hauling on the rusted chain whilst the other rested. A single spluttering lumen was their only source of light, like a candle in darkness. Not that there was anything to see, suspended in a steel shaft deep within the sump. But they were not alone in the waters. Occasionally something would brush against the metal of the shaft – perhaps a trailing tentacle or malformed fin – and the cage would rock, the chain creaking as it sank deeper.

Their third loss came during the descent. The rookie awoke to find Lars pulling on the chain alone, the body of Scrag Dry lying at his feet. Psychosis, Lars would tell her, no doubt brought on by the confines of the mineshaft and the dangers lurking in the sump. Lars had been forced to act in self-defence. A pre-emptive defence, admittedly, but defence nonetheless.

The rookie said nothing.

At the next waste valve the two of them flushed the corpse. Through the viewport they could just see it floating, suspended in the iridescent sump. Then there was a shadow, and a flash of teeth the size of a Cawdor polearm. The body vanished.

They both set to work on the chain, redoubling their efforts.

Eventually they came to a juddering stop at the bottom of the shaft. When they stepped out of the cage, they emerged into a vast cavern, having left the sump far above them.

Lars stepped from the cage, rifle slung low but always to hand, his olive-green greatcoat buttoned tight, his pockmarked face set in a sneer. The rookie followed close behind, her long-las strapped to her back. Before them lay all that remained of the Ironcrown of old: a subterranean desert of ash and crumbling stone, pierced by vast stalactites the size of mountains. They grew from the dome far above, the tips having long since pierced the ash dunes. A few rusted gantries linked some of the larger stalactites, and far above he could just make out the glow of the remaining dome lights. It was hard to imagine that above those lights were the festering waters of Sinkhole. He wondered how large a hive quake it would take to open a crack in the dome and drown them in the sump, and decided it would be best not to dawdle.

The rookie was studying the maps, trying to pinpoint the under-realm’s only remaining settlement. She’d survived longer than he’d expected, outlasting three seasoned hunters, and had acquitted herself admirably during their travels. He would still most likely kill her once they had claimed their bounty, but she was worth keeping around for now. If nothing else she might catch a stray bullet intended for him.

She caught his gaze and pointed. Before them, shrouded in smog, he could just make out the settlement of Hope’s End – barely two score buildings, some welded from rusted bulkheads, others carved directly into the spoil heap. To his left a workshop was stacked with minecarts and drilling equipment. On the far side was some form of distillery, which at least raised the possibility of getting a drink. Centrally, one building stretched slightly higher than the others, presumably belonging to whoever ran the place. A crowd was gathered outside of it, and he could hear the distant echo of voices.

Lars raised his rifle, adjusting the telescopic sight. He was too far to risk taking a shot, but he could at least see clearly now. The settlement was indeed in the throes of some celebration, though it did not appear planned. People were still emerging from some of the buildings, converging on an improvised stage assembled from rusted bulkheads. On it, a bottle of Wildsnake clasped in each hand, a lone figure was addressing the crowd. He was average height, clad in a fraying shirt and tattered green scarf that had probably been the pinnacle of fashion a couple of cycles ago, his hair worn in a fading blue mohawk. His face was unremarkable until he smiled, the warmth of the expression either genuine or a flawless facsimile. Lars had the bounty in his pocket, but he didn’t need to check it. The face was all too familiar.

‘Caleb Cursebound,’ he whispered. ‘Nice to see you’re enjoying yourself.’

Satisfied, he turned to the rookie, who was still adjusting the scope on her long-las.

‘Quickly,’ he snapped. ‘Our boy seems to be making a spectacle of himself. I think we should put him to bed. Permanently.’

He grinned, pleased by the joke. Still, Caleb was only half the problem. There was a secondary target, Caleb’s accomplice. He had neither her name nor picture, but he knew the ratskin would be close, even if she was proving rather elusive. He could not find her on the stage nor in the crowd. It was only when Caleb concluded his speech, his closing remarks eliciting a roar of approval, that Lars noticed a flicker of movement on the roof of the central building. There she was, barely visible in the shadows, but he could just make out her face, the eyes framed by crimson markings that looked a little like tears. She was scowling.

‘Not enjoying the party?’ he said, grinning, and displaying an incomplete set of rotten teeth.

As he spoke her head snapped round, her gaze meeting his own. He flinched involuntarily. There was no way she could mark him; even a bionic eye could not spot someone at this distance, but he still felt a shiver of fear scurry along his spine. He would enjoy making her pay for that.

‘You think you could make this shot?’ he asked, turning to the rookie. She was still struggling with the long-las, displaying an unusual level of incompetence.

‘Give me that,’ he snapped, snatching the weapon from her hands. It was still a long shot. He was confident that he could pick off either of the duo, even at this range, but doing so could reveal his presence and potentially give the other target the opportunity to escape. The ratskin would be the better choice, he decided. Alone on the rooftop there was a good chance nobody would spot her fall. That would give him time to adjust his aim and take the second shot at Caleb.

He barely felt the rookie’s blade slide across his throat, effortlessly parting skin and flesh beneath. He managed a gurgled scream before folding to his knees, clutching weakly at the gushing wound. Then he fell forwards and was still.

Elissa wiped her blade on Lars’ shirt, sweeping up the long-las with practised grace. Through the scope she could see Caleb on the improvised stage. He raised his hands and the crowd roared again, the sound carrying to the hilltop. She felt a bubble of hate swell within her chest. For an instant her finger tightened on the trigger.

But she stopped, lowering the weapon, taking a deep, slow breath.

No.

She had pictured his death a thousand times. It would not be quick and not be clean. His last moments would be as a broken man, a pariah to the pitiful underhivers whose approval he so desperately craved.

Her fingers danced over a silver vambrace on her forearm, the metal smooth and unadorned barring the symbol of a golden dagger set against a field of blood. The holo-matrix display blossomed into life, and she pulled up a set of coordinates half a mile hence. She slung her weapon over her shoulder and set off, leaving Lars’ corpse sprawled in the ash desert.

Her pace was methodical. There was no hurry. Not yet.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Black Library.
This eBook edition published in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Giorgio Baroni.

Low Lives © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2019. Low Lives, 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.
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ISBN: 978-1-78999-483-4

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