Ten guns-for-fire stood
at the Downminster Gate, gazing into the darkness. Behind them, the
settled zones of Daggerhole, the Ba'kings' fortress-generatorium and
Hacked Knee, Nord and Sud. Ahead of them, the long, unlit tunnel
bored though the shellward rim of the 25M megadome, descending
sumpwards, leading to the notorious E-Sec badzones.
A fetid, pungent breeze
issued from the tunnel entrance, which was an unassuming three-metre
high hole framed by a tangle of derelict scaffold and machinery
stretching up the pitted rockcrete of the boundary wall. A cage hung
from the scaffold above the dark portal, and in the cage a rag-clad
anchorite, full Redemption fanatic, gnashed his teeth and rattled the
bars. Whether he had been imprisoned there voluntarily was impossible
to say; either way, he had words for the gathered mercenaries.
'I see you, sinners!
Just as I saw them, all that went before you! You'll not set foot
this way again, none of you! Those you seek have hearts blacker than
the sump, and you walk beyond the searing light of the Emprah! Aye,
for He sees you even as I do, sinners, and pleased He is not! You
turn from his light and embrace the darkness of sin! You will die!
You will die!'
Overexcited, the
swallowed his tongue and began to choke. He thrashed about in the
cage, sending it jerking back and forth, bouncing off the upper edge
of the portal.
Jonn Gunn, veteran
bounty hunter and de facto leader of the crew, shrugged his carapaced
shoulders. 'Well, you heard the man. This is it. Last chance for
second thoughts. Are we all in?'
'Like lice on rats,
popz,' said one of the two Eschers who'd signed up for the crew. This
was Zondra Zee, her voice muffled by the respirator covering her
face. Her twin, Zamandra, was similarly clad, and similarly scarred
by extensive spore burns – they weren't called the Blister Sisters
for nothing. Zamandra didn't say anything, just drew the edge of her
stiletto sword along the barrel of her autopistol with a menacing
scrape. Gunn took that for an affirmative.
'Good killing
thataways, I can feel it, yeah yeah,' said the hulking Goliath next
to the Zees, concluding his comment with a slurp to contain the drool
that was spilling between his jagged teeth. This was musclebound,
microcephalous Jak 8-10, known for being too crazy even to run with
his house brothers, and for his lethal skill with cleaver and
spud-jacker.
'We came this far,
didn't we? We're with you, Gunn.' This was 'Drifter' Zensen, speaking
for himself and his three companions – 'Mumbles' Mervik, 'Crusher'
Retzo and 'Snags' Skivvens. Hive scum didn't come any scummier than
these rogues. Gunn suspected that they'd boosted half their gear from
a PDF cache and their blood warrants were almost certainly fake.
Still, given the hazards they'd be facing in E-Sec, Gunn was glad of
any extra hands.
'Just watch me go,
fellows. Old Brokeface'll show you the way,' slurred the penultimate
hunter through ragged lips. This was 'Brokeface' Edwydd. Venator
trade tattle had it that he was once a dashing gunslinger who took an
unfortunate tumble into a sump spider nest and emerged a dessicated
wreck of a man. A flask of second best was never far from his gnarled
fingers – but he was the only one present who'd ever actually
ventured into E-Sec, so he had that going for him.
The last hunter was
Lurbo 'Ratbite' Ruddlestone. The ratling never spoke on account of
his stitched-up mouth, but he waved his longrifle in the direction of
the tunnel, giggling and nodding suggestively to Gunn. Enough of a
yes.
In all his long cycles
hunting Underhive outlaws, Jonn Gunn couldn't recall being part of a
more bloodthirsty crew. It was hard to scan what was motivating them
more – the hefty bounty on offer for tracking down the infamous
Hellhounds, or sheer appetite for violence. As for Gunn, his resolve
to gain a measure of vengeance for the blameless downhivers of H8
who'd suffered at the hands of the sadistic cult was as strong an
impetus as the cold hard creds.
'All right then,' he
said. 'On we go.'
Jonn Gunn strode ahead
into the tunnel, the rest of the crew falling in behind.
And so ten
guns-for-hire passed through the Downminster Gate as the anchorite
choked and died in the cage above their heads.