Renegades: Harrowmaster

Harrowmaster. Solomon Okura emptied his bolt gun's entire magazine one-handed at the Imperials, causing even the Silver Templars to dive for cover as he grabbed Drazus Jeyte's corpse and hauled it farther back behind the Chimera. There would be no recovery on the Apothecary's table for the Harrowmaster. His skull had been pulped by the bolt shell that had killed him, and he was essentially headless. But his progenoid glands would still be intact, and both they and his artificer armor were too valuable to be allowed to leave the Legion. T'oh! Solomon barked, a shot spanged off his cover. The Loyalists had recovered quickly. Hell's damn you! Where are you? He had left the witch right here. Shadows next to him shifted, and resolved into the shape of Talavadine. She was middle-aged, by the standards of humanity, and the lines on her face were not just from the weight of the powers she wielded. Her skin was maggot-pale, a contrast with Solomon's which was a deep umber, and the right side of her head was shaved, with the hair on the other hanging in tight braids dyed in greens and blues. She had long ago abandoned the uniform of the Imperial Primaris Psyker she had once been, in favor of a nondescript navy jumpsuit, although she had added a carapace breastplate taken from the corpse of a Tempestor Prime. Tal had not survived this long in the galaxy by trusting entirely to her innate abilities for protection. Don't tell me you still want me to get through them for you, she said, risking a glance over the top of the Chimera's hull. The flames of the burning vehicle glinted off the bare side of her half-shaved scalp. I never did, Solomon told her, and Jeyte is no longer in a position to argue. He was reaching for a new magazine when his eyes lit on the body of the Silver Templar. The Harrowmaster had killed. A particularly ornate bolt gun was clamped to the Imperial's thigh, obviously a weapon of some renown, and with the look of a piece that had been lovingly cared for, repaired and restored to achieve its current appearance, as opposed to nearly unscratched and decidedly unfamiliar armor to which it was attached. So, what are your intentions? Talava asked. Other than having us pinned down and, if I might offer my opinion as someone who lacks your tactical genius, hilariously outgunned. We are leaving this planet, Solomon said. He ignored her sarcasm. Humans reacted badly to their lives being endangered. Besides, Tal had earned the right to speak her mind to him. Many times over. The Legion will pull back and the mortals will cover our withdrawal, but we need a distraction to make it in good order. A distraction? Tal repeated flatly. And did you want it clean or dirty? Some of her old instincts still held sway, sorceress though she might now be. Clean was their code for her innate psychana abilities, which had once made her so valuable to the Imperium, while dirty meant delving into the realms of gods and demons in practices the Imperium abhorred. Right now, I'll settle for quick, Solomon said. Talava grimaced. Dirty it is. She sat down cross-legged and held her Force staff across her knees. Solomon reached out and grabbed the Templar's relic weapon, tugging it free from its mooring. The tiny, ancient, and stubborn machine spirit within objected to his touch. It knew its owner, and it knew that he was not him. Well, it was not the only thing with the spirit. Very cautiously, Solomon relaxed some of the warding on his bionic arm.