The hooded warrior found a lofty crag high up in the lee of the cavernous gateway, and settled down for what he reckoned would be a six-hour wait.

  Gusts blasted in from outside, showering him with dirt and grit. The rimward journey had left his long-las singed and battered. He unscrewed the barrel and eyeballed it. The tube was unbound and sound. He screwed it back on, unclipped the powercell. It was good, but he slipped a fresh one in, just in case. This moment was years in the making.

  He could picture the approach of the Halcyon Dawn on its bi-yearly circuit of the Necromunda System. The trade route was simple if not entirely danger-free. On the fringes of the system it docked at one of the filter rigs that harvested precious minerals from the circumstellar clouds. It was a journey he had taken a thousand times. In his mind’s eye he could see the snub-nosed tugs filing into visual contact, could hear the clunks that ran through the Halcyon Dawn’s metal superstructure as each freight vessel was secured with mag-locks and landing claws.

  It was a time when all the ship’s crew were busy. He pictured the activity as ore-tanks were clamped into place under the tugs then finally lifted clear. He recalled the slow approach to the anchor stations above Necromunda. The clang as the freighters detached and special goods were ferried to the planet’s surface by the team of tenders. He had worked the tenders before. It was an odd experience, coming down to any planet. You were still high in the atmosphere when they started to feel the tug of the planet. The competing gravitational pulls caused gravity sickness in even the toughest constitutions. Headaches. ­Nausea. That was what his old shipmates would be feeling now.

  He wondered who it was that was piloting the tender down from the void-craft upon which generations of his family had been born.

  It could be Macneel. Or Baptiste. Or Silas Rut.

  He imagined the moment he revealed himself. He imagined their faces when his shipmates saw him return, and he was mulling on this when he saw an ore-loader begin to approach through the dust storms. The cargo-20 had enormous wheels, each one three times the height of a man. There was no road on the dust plains, just furrowed routes that the winds had scoured across the desert floor.

  The carrier moved slowly under the immense weight of its ore-hopper. It was so far off it seemed almost like a toy that a child might push across the soil. It took an age to roll over the foothills of slag and debris. Yar Umbra checked his weapons. They were all in good order. He had nothing now to do but stand by.

  ‘It’s a long wait, isn’t it?’ a voice said suddenly.

  Yar Umbra spun round. A young man stood behind him holding a lascarbine low. He handled it like an expert. He wore the distinctive body-enclosing suit of Van Saar membranes, the suit speckled with colour-coded tox-filters and water plugs.

  Yar Umbra took in all these details in a bare moment. The Van Saar ganger had a broad chin and wide blue eyes. His face was young and hairless, with a smattering of orange freckles, and a matching mop of orange hair. Yar Umbra’s rebreather hissed. ‘Have we met?’

  The Van Saar ganger did not lower his gun. ‘Don’t you know me?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a flicker of disappointment in the stranger’s pale blue eyes. Yar Umbra saw that there was sweat on his lip and forehead. He had a noise diffuser strapped to his waist. So that was how he had snuck up on him.

  ‘Leave me,’ Yar Umbra warned.

  The young ganger shook the pistol in his hand. ‘I am Elden Hames.’

  Yar Umbra was barely listening. Another fool he would have to kill. ‘Leave!’ he hissed.

  The ganger did not move. ‘Remember Dynamo Lunn. Of the Flame Serpents?’

  Yar Umbra’s temper flared. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘We had just taken the lightning farm. The whole frekking lot.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘You took our leader out.’

  It all came back to Yar Umbra now. One of his first contracts… A rising Van Saar ganger getting too powerful for his own House’s comfort. The moments flashed back like the strobing neon lights of Sludge Harbour.

  He remembered approaching the hab of one of Dynamo Lunn’s mistresses. Standing under the porch as the acid rain dripped from above. Hearing the sounds inside. A bottle opening. The call of a woman. The sound of glasses being filled. A voice calling out, ‘Who is it?’

  Yar Umbra had burst inside, knocking the table over.

  Dynamo Lunn was a handsome man with freshly slicked-back hair. He was fast too, flinging the glass into his face and shouting. But Yar Umbra was too savvy to be distracted. The first shot hit Dynamo Lunn in the chest. The second in his cheek.

  There were screams and shouts as the concubine threw herself at him. He shook her off, kicked the table aside.

  Lunn was crawling along the bottom of his hab wall. Yar Umbra stood over him, put the lasrifle to his head and fired. The body flinched as the round went through it. Then it lay still, as a spreading pillow of blood cushioned the shattered skull.

  Yar Umbra left the metal Escher token his employer had instructed. It rang out on the floor like a spent cartridge as he left the room.

  The yellow flashing light on top of the cargo-20 began to strobe the dark chamber.

  ‘We had everything a gang could dream of and you took it all away.’

  Yar Umbra felt a cold chill go through him. ‘Do you want credits?’

  The boy was cocky. ‘You’re in no position to bargain with me. I’ll take whatever I want when you’re dead.’ He waved his pistol. ‘But first I want to see your face.’

  Yar Umbra paused.

  ‘Go on,’ the Van Saar ganger said. ‘Take it off. What is it you’re hiding?’

  There was a steady hiss as Yar Umbra took the rebreather unit from his mouth. He put both hands to the back of his hood, and lifted it from his bent head.

  ‘Go on. Look up. I want to see your face.’

  There was a long pause. Very slowly Yar Umbra lifted his head.

  A look of terror passed over the ganger’s face. ‘Throne!’ he hissed. ‘What are you?’

  ‘Death,’ Yar Umbra hissed, and threw himself forward.

  It was over in bare seconds. The young ganger lay on his back, the anchorite’s sickle blade embedded in his gut.

  ‘Such speed is not human,’ he managed. It was almost an excuse he gave himself for not killing this thing that stood over him.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Yar Umbra said. ‘To all this.’

  The dying man started to shake. Blood welled up, but Yar Umbra realised that it was laughter.

  ‘Failure has changed your tune.’

  ‘You think you’re going home…?’ The laughter came again. ‘You’re not going anywhere…’ the Van Saar hissed. ‘The logbook. Ash Gate Nine. The pict-slate… All a trick. You’re never going to leave. You know that, don’t you? You’re going to die here, with me. You’ll never leave Necromunda!’

  Yar Umbra stared down. A wave of nausea ran through him. It took the strength from his legs and they began to shake. The hurricane winds moaned in the hollows about him. Yar Umbra’s brainstem ached. His joints howled. He fell forward to his knees as the gravitational tug of the planet pulled him downwards. He needed more stimms.

  Necromunda was killing him.

  LOW LIVES

  DENNY FLOWERS

  PROLOGUE

  The settlement of Hope’s End had only one watering hole.

  Dunwich, the owner, claimed this was because he knew how to meet his customers’ needs. Not that these needs were extravagant – for the most part the miners were content to drink in silence, drowning their memories of the day’s toil. Even after the Granite Lords occupied the mine, few of them cared to discuss the situation; no one saw any point in discussing a problem that could not be solved.

  None except for the stranger.

  He had swept in with a cheery confidence that Dunwich almost found insulting. For the man was hardly an impressive figure, neither tall nor broad, his face partially covered by a faded green scarf. But he strode to the bar as though he owned the establishment, ordering a bottle of Wildsnake for himself, and another for anyone who cared to drink with him.

  That was enough to draw some attention. A crowd had soon formed and, as the drink flowed, they began swapping news and stories with the newcomer.

  Eventually the topic came around to the occupation.

  ‘See that’s what I don’t understand,’ the stranger said. ‘The mine belongs to you. You built it, you took all the risks. You should be reaping the rewards, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Dunwich sighed. ‘The Granite Lords aren’t a bunch of juves fresh from the foundry, looking to make a name. Each of those men is a cold killer, and Redcap is the worst of the bunch. You’ve heard the story of how he got his name?’

  ‘I hear lots of stories,’ the stranger shrugged, reaching for his glass. ‘For example, I heard the Granite Lords barely survived their encounter with the Badrock Boys. Didn’t Bonesnapper kill two of them with his bare hands?’

  The bar’s occupants tensed slightly. They had no love for the Granite Lords, but the gang was still House Orlock, and some loyalties ran deep.

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ Dunwich said after a moment’s grace. ‘Besides, the Badrock Boys were unstoppable – I heard Bonesnapper once took a krak grenade to the face and didn’t even lose any teeth.’

  ‘I heard that too,’ the stranger replied. ‘And yet those same unstoppable monsters were slain, cut down in a single night-cycle.’

  ‘That’s a bunch of grox-turd.’

  The stranger spread his hands. ‘It’s just what I’ve heard.’

  Some of the other barflies nodded.

  ‘Yeah?’ Dunwich grinned. ‘Well, someone told me one man killed all six of them, armed with only a knife.’

  ‘So they say,’ the stranger replied. ‘In fact, I heard it was the same man who slew the Unseen Beast of Sumptown.’

  Crank, one of the eldest of the miners, nodded in agreement. ‘My brother lost half his crew to that monster,’ he said. ‘He told me it could hide inside your nightmares. No one could track it.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The stranger smiled. ‘But such a talent only works on prey who know fear, and that was the beast’s undoing. You see, the Badrock Boys and the Unseen Beast of Sumptown have something in common. They were both thought to be invincible, until they pitted themselves against the underhive’s ninth most dangerous man.’

  The barman raised his eyebrow. ‘You mean both were slain by Caleb Curseborn?’

  The stranger glared at him. ‘No,’ he said, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘I mean they were slain by Caleb Cursebound. Not Curseborn, Cursebound.’

  Crank frowned. ‘I heard it was “born”.’

  ‘Well, you heard wrong,’ the stranger snapped. He paused, taking a deep breath and composing himself, his smile slipping back into place. He then turned, hopping nimbly onto the bar stool and addressing the crowd.

  ‘I know all the stories of Caleb Cursebound,’ he grinned. ‘I know that he escaped the Blood River massacre and carried the sole surviving child a hundred miles through the Ash Wastes. I know that he scaled the heights of the Spire and battled the great Lord Harrow, besting him in single combat and stealing his most treasured possession. And I know that, one day soon, he will be known as the hero who freed the settlement of Hope’s End from the ruthless Granite Lords. And do you know how I know this?’

  They exchanged glances. Crank shook his head.

  The stranger pulled the scarf from his face and smiled.

  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.