The black Stormbird descended onto the fourth planet. Nareth and Hannibal stepped down the embarkation ramp.
Nareth noticed Hannibal's nose twitch.
"The smell of meat mixed with fungus."
Watching Hannibal's expression, as though he had caught the scent of a fine dish, Nareth said:
"Your sense of smell is sharp."
Hannibal's charming smile took on a shadow of melancholy.
"Lecter is a world of scarcity. Mads and I were never full as children."
"So, you understand, the hungry are always sensitive to food."
His tone darkened. Lecter had too few alien beasts; compared to it, the Wheel of Fire was paradise.
Nareth gave a slight nod and turned to Arsena Dunn.
"The holo-scan."
Arsena raised his left arm and activated the projector built into it, displaying the planetary scan in front of the two Primarchs.
"Lord Hannibal, the fourth planet is the closest of the eight worlds to its sun. Because of gravity and other factors, its volcanism is extremely active."
"The eruptions enrich the soil and bring ores to the surface. Human colonists built their domains around these volcanoes, just outside the eruption zones.
"After the Orks seized the world, they built their strongholds atop those same human settlements."
Hannibal studied the shimmering projection, covered with countless points of light.
The silver-haired Arsena highlighted sixteen of them.
"The Orks' large strongholds number sixteen, each surrounded by many smaller ones."
Nareth, silent until now, finally spoke:
"Given the situation, my cleansing plan has two phases. Phase one: seize the large fortresses, then withdraw."
During the journey from Terra aboard the Wheel of Fire, Hannibal had listened to Suárez and Erlang describe the Orks' nature. Though their battles had been small, they had given him some understanding.
He quickly grasped Nareth's intent.
"Once we withdraw, the Orks from nearby outposts will swarm into the fortresses. Their infighting will consume them."
"Exactly," Nareth said approvingly. "Once they've fought and bled, we strike the survivors."
What he didn't add was that this tactic only suited worlds like this one, with many tribes, but not in the billions.
For Orks grow stronger through battle. The warboss who emerges from such struggles can become vastly more powerful, his horde surging into a great Waaagh!
That was seen, in the future, on Octarius.
Thus Nareth planned to strike as soon as each fortress produced a victor, never allowing one warboss to unify the planet.
Confident he could contain any threat, he embraced the tactic.
"In the past two months," Nareth continued, "my legion has already cleansed three fortresses, One, Four, and Eleven."
Hannibal noted that those three were marked in green on the projection, the remaining thirteen in red.
"In the second phase, my legion will take Fortresses Three, Thirteen, and Fourteen."
"The Second Legion will strike Fortress Two. According to the Auger Matrix, it is the second-largest Ork bastion."
"Good," Hannibal replied with his dazzling smile, quick and certain.
He understood: Nareth considered his return to the Imperium still fresh, his legion still adapting. He gave Hannibal only one target, but the greatest, to honor his dignity.
The two primarchs spoke further, Nareth both teaching Imperial lore and studying his brother.
At last, with the Second Legion's landing ships fully deployed, the two parted.
Hannibal boarded a Stormbird to his army.
When it descended, the Faceless erupted in thunderous cheers.
Suárez and Erlang had already assembled all captains and lieutenants. Hannibal strode before them.
His gaze swept across his sons. Each carried a forged steel blade. Hannibal smiled in satisfaction.
"You have all equipped yourselves with the bear-hunting knives I required."
"The first principle of the hunt is timing. Against powerful prey, striking too soon is unwise, their resistance is strong. We must attack with speed and fury, weakening them first. Only then begins the true feast."
He watched his sons think deeply, and smiled.
"Form up. I will teach you, hand to hand, what real hunting means. Tell every Faceless: those who excel will be rewarded with dishes cooked by my personal chefs."
Suárez and Erlang felt their throats water. Compared to their crude rations, their gene-father's cuisine was divine.
The Second Legion assembled. Hannibal gave the order to advance, leading from the front.
He raised his bolter and fired, explosive shells tearing Orks apart.
The Faceless followed his lead, their own bolters spitting death.
Minutes later Hannibal keyed the vox.
"Remember, the proper time to feast is when half the prey is dead. This is Lecter's wisdom, honed over a thousand years. When half are dead, the worst-tasting are gone. What remains are the choicest cuts."
"Now, draw your bear knives."
He slung his bolter and drew his curved blade.
On Lecter's forested mountains, such knives had long been the hunters' tools against bears, balanced, deadly, leaving the hunter steady and unshaken.
Scanning his sons, Hannibal saw every blade drawn.
"The first step is choosing your target: proper proportions… firm, elastic flesh…"
He rattled off sixty-eight criteria, rapid-fire, in just two minutes, matching each to the Orks' bodies.
"To pick the best prey in an instant is a trial."
"To avoid clashing with your brothers, to strike in harmony, that too is a trial. But if you would be true gastronomes of the hunt, you must master it."
He had already chosen his quarry, not the biggest, not the strongest, but the one that best fit his philosophy.
"Now comes the crucial step," Hannibal said over the vox.
"This is the test of the knife. We must not spoil the essence of the meal. End the prey swiftly; this is our respect for the food. And for taste: meat spoiled by fear turns sour."
He licked his lips, dodged a crude Ork club, and swept his knife. A head spun away.
The stench of an Ork's armpits was vile, but Suárez and Erlang had told him that only beheading truly killed them without ruining the meat.
He strode onward. One Ork could not sate him. His stomach growled with hunger. He needed more.
Five heads later, he paused.
Around him, Suárez and the other officers had learned quickly, each selecting a worthy meal. Even by Hannibal's exacting standards, they were fine choices.
They used bear knives only, never chainswords or power blades that would spoil the flesh.
They struck swiftly, sparing the meat the taint of terror.
Hannibal opened a private channel to his chef corps.
Two hundred and sixty chefs, mostly from Lecter, others recruited from Terra, served him, with twenty always active, the rest rotated after gene-surgery.
"Prepare the feast!"
Twenty chefs, with a thousand apprentices, set to work.
Washing, carving, slicing…
The smell of fungus-laced meat filled the camp. Golden steaks gleamed in the sun.
Hannibal pointed to the most outstanding sons. "Suárez. Erlang…"
He named over three hundred in all. "You will share my chefs' dishes. The rest, eat what the apprentices prepare."
The legion's thralls set folding tables, covered with spotless white cloth.
Hannibal washed his hands, wiped them on a white towel, and sat. A napkin was tied at his neck.
Hands clasped, head bowed, he intoned:
"Before tasting, we give communion."
"Thanks to the Emperor, for giving me an appetite. Thanks to the Orks, for becoming my food."
The Faceless echoed their father in prayer.
Hannibal smiled, took up knife and fork.
"Now, let us feast."
Twenty-six minutes later, Suárez and Erlang dabbed their lips with white cloths.
They sat smiling, eyes meeting, each reading the same thought in the other:
'We have been too crude, too wasteful. We must be like our gene-father, refined, true connoisseurs.'
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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