[40k] The Howling

We’ve been searching all night long
but there’s no trace to be found
It’s like they all have just vanished
but I know they’re around

A cascade of dirt and chunks of slate rock tumbled down the embankment as Shagrath’s armored boots plowed down its steep incline. At the bottom his feet splashed heavily into a shallow stream of effervescent greenish water. The acidic water frothed irritatedly from the intrusion, fizzling as it ran down the armor of the marine’s greaves but to no ill effect. It had been discovered soon into their venture that the water here on… whatever the warp this barren rock was actually called, was highly acidic but given only to eating organic material. Shagrath halted there, listening to the debris shift down in his wake and feeling the agitated sizzle of the stream, its hunger denied as it lapped impotently at the thick ceramite of his boots, tickle his hypersensitive ears. Everything about this world spoke of death, even the water.

He panned his eyes across the landscape before him, the cool, sepulchral breeze of the place russling his long, raven-black hair and caressing bare, battle-scared features like the hand of a ghost. At one time long past, the broad gully had probably teemed with the strength of a mighty river that now, existed only as the sickly, corrosive stream in which he presently stood. Along the upper edges jutted escarpments of flat, brittle rock which gave way to the bowl of hard-packed dirt that comprised the riverbed. What scant vegetation there was to be seen was nothing but skeletons of whatever it used to be, dessicated and lifeless. They had found traces of human occupation on the planet’s surface and Shagrath considered briefly if those settlements had died because of this place, or because of whatever had killed it. Whichever it might have been, both were now well and fully dead. The blasted planet didn’t even have a name anymore. Or perhaps, no one had survived long enough to give it one.

That the sky had become a moderately lighter shade of grey indicated the coming of local dawn, such as it could be called. The entire planet sported a layer of dust in its upper atmosphere so uniform daylight could be measured only by the lightness of the monochrome sky above, for the sun itself was nigh to be seen. It would be near time for them to report on their progress and Shagrath did not intend to make that report and empty one, not when they were so close. His charcoal-flecked golden eyes darted about the opposite bank of the dry riverbed, hunting for the those he knew to be so near. There was a another tune of death upon the cold, dry breeze. Something lethal yet mellifluous and vibrant, certainly not borne of this bleak environment itself.

Shagrath trudged forward from the stream, trailing sizzling liquid across the parched earth and behind him came the sounds of more disturbed rock and splashing acid water as more armored figures followed suit. Clad in ancient power armor colored a deep violet and trimmed in faded gold, the hulking Chaos Marines fanned out across the basin, covering angles and advancing cautiously in the absence of any reliable cover. Some things not time nor the warp could ever dull and the martial precision of the Emperor’s Children as the Sons of Scorn embodied it was amongst them.

As they moved, Shagrath fancied he could hear every step and every movement of each of the seven other noise marines accompanying him, able to visualize their exact position and facing in his mind’s eye. Skvorjog’s precise motions as he trained his sonic blaster across the lip of the opposite bank. A contrast to the fitful, eager twitching of Irlvok and his ceaseless murmured entreats for pain and bloodshed. Close to his right there was Ktaarvad, advancing slow and steadily to keep the fanged muzzle of his blastmaster leveled at the ready. Within the potent sonic weapon the choirs of destruction and ruin primed their voices impatiently. Still, above it all, he heard the song of death which had been their shadow throughout the night.

The Brides of Khorne [40k]

Everything was coming apart. On all fronts the forward lines were breaking and being overrun. Apocalypse had been taunting the city of Koridan for almost eight months and now it was crashing upon them in a wave of destruction and massacre which stunk of cordite, filth and blood. When the 72nd Arvalone regiment first arrived to reinforce the planet just two weeks after the Ork invasion began, it seemed as if they would be able to fend off the greenskins with superior numbers and firepower. Now they found themselves penned in their own fortifications and winnowed away by ceaseless attrition to a mere shadow of their former strength. A frail levee of flesh, lasgun and Emperor-fearing will helpless to withstand a final surge of the green tide seething beyond the city’s walls.

A great roar surrounded the embattled city, resonating like a clap of thunder sustained indefinitely as the Orks advanced in massed assault. Heavy weapons and artillery mounted up on and beyond the walls opened up with a cacophony of their own in response. Autocannon fire ripped across the Ork front lines, painting the wall of green with red stains of exploded flesh and separated limbs. Shells whined overhead to explode amidst the advancing mass, sending up eruptions of blackend earth and broken bodies but the greenskins continued unabated. They fell by the dozens, by the hundreds as they advanced across the killing fields which had once been the 72nd’s frontline emplacements. Still more explosions punched holes in the Ork’s advance as bobytraps left behind in the trenches were tripped, felling greenskin along side human. Though already dark with spilled blood, the ground drank the fresh offering of death without prejudice.

Lieutenant Artur Bandor watched the bobytraps do their work with a grim smirk, ‘That’s right, you bastards, you’re going to pay for every inch.’ He spit and ducked back down into his trench as the Orks began to unload more steadily with their notoriously inaccurate though still acutely lethal small arms. Even of he’d known the men couched in the trench around him he’d not have been able to recognize them. Each was covered helmet to boot with dirt and dry blood, so much that even their regimental colors were as obscure as their individual identities. Even so, for every weary mask of soil and death there was a pair of eyes steeled with a look of grim determination. Bandor nodded quietly as he met each of those eyes in turn. He thanked the Emperor to be in the company of such fine soldiers but knew there would likely be but one reward for their stalwart resolve.

He licked his chapped lips and slapped a fresh clip into his bolt pistol before retrieving the gore-encrusted chainsword leaning against the firing step. The motorized blade began to rumble anxiously as he thumbed it to idle.

Bandor keyed his microbead, ‘All eastern sections, this is it.’ He began. ‘They’ll be in range any minute. Take up positions and lets make the Orks think the road to Koridan was paved straight through hell.’

The atmosphere inside the Field HQ was no less chaotic than on the frontlines. Another attack had been more than expected but the fact that the Orks were now surging in on all sides in unison had tacticians and adjutants running and and relaying orders at a dizzying pace in an attempt to rally the forces defending Koridan effectively. For all the gusto they were putting in, each man in the command center knew as surely as those on the lines that the city stood not a prayer of withstanding such a massed assault, they were simply too outnumbered.

Muted thumps began to jostle the interior of the command center as Ork artillery opened up and Colonel Turo Arcwald had to chuckle. There was little within the city walls worth bombarding as every able-bodied individual in the city was somewhere near the frontlines. At best the Orks might score a hit on the Arvalone’s own artillery pieces but it was more likely they’d simply be battering the very spoils they sought to claim into oblivion. There was a sort of poetic justice in the whole thing as it was the threat of the Ork’s artillery which caused the Arvalone to withold wiring the entirety of the city’s Munitorium supply caches with demolitions charges, for fear they might be set off prematurely. Now it seemed the greenskins might just do the job themselves although there would still be plenty of surprises awaiting them when they arrived to secure their prize.

Arcwald had just turned his attention back to the tactical map which dominated the center of the room when something far more potent than Orkish artillery sent a shockwave through the HQ, causing his half drank metal cup of recaff clattering to the floor.

‘What the throne was that?’ He looked up to a room of confused expressions as another impact rattled the brass gears of cogitator banks and upset another wayward kit cup. The Colonel moved over to the main auspex array, seeing his second in command already in heated discussion with its operator. Lieutenant Colonel Erlis Matzon looked up quickly at Arcwald’s approach, anticipating the question.

‘Whatever it is, its outside the walls, to the east.’ Matzon said, reaching over to indicate the dense blob of contacts which represented the eastern front of the Ork assault. As the shockwaves of the last impact faded and another kicked in the thick mass of contacts seemed to break up a bit. Arcwald tilted his head, studying the auspex curiously. Even Earthshaker rounds wouldn’t be making that kind of racket.

‘Orbital?’ Arcwald asked, a barely repressed glimer of hope to his tone at the prospect reinforcements had finally arrived. Matzon shook his head, not in contradiction but in disbelief.

‘I can’t see what else would be causing it, sir.’ The two shared a few moments of stunned silence until the auspex operator cut in.

‘Colonel! I’m picking up ships in low orbit, Imperial!”

‘Are you sure?’ Arcwald looked down at the screen as if to confirm for himself, though in truth he could tell little beyond basic impressions from the machine’s many cryptic readouts.

‘Well, they definitely look Imperial, sir.’ The operator reported with a hint of apprehension. The Colonel looked up to the comunications officer.

‘Are you getting anything on the vox? Ship identification cyphers? Anything that’ll tell us what those ships are and whose side they’re on?’ The coms officer nodded distractedly, pausing flailing fingers to adjust thick-lensed glasses on the bridge of his nose. Streams of encryption runes flickered past across them as he worked the levers of his cogitator feverishly. The bustle of the HQ had ceased now, with the attention of all within hinged upon this new development. Slowly, a grin of triumph eased its way across the com officer’s lips.

‘The lead vessel is reading as the Cathedral class Battle Barge Blutrache. It’s the Sororitas, the Order of the Fervent Heart!’

Drown by a chorus of cheers and elation, someone in the command center cried out in horror.

Bandor’s ears popped as the shockwave from another ripple of massive explosions washed over the trench. The tremors were so great he’d bitten down on his tongue when the initial salvo hit and the metallic tang of blood now filled his mouth. Next to him one of the other troopers in the trench was looking up over the parapet and shouting excitedly. The Lieutenant leaned up to take a look, and his jaw dropped.

The Ork advance, now scattered and in disarray, was back lit by a seething inferno. Something roared past overhead and Bandor looked up to see a triad of large aircraft swoop over the walls of Koridan. Bright, bloody red, they stood out starkly against the black sky above and firelight glinted upon the bronzed crests on their flanks. Thunderhawks, but whose? Another string of explosions sounded off from further away and he could see from the tint of the sky to the north and south that whoever they belonged to was thoroughly carpeting all fronts of the Ork attack with munitions.

The Lieutenant looked to his vox man, but the trooper simply shrugged impotently. Signals were a mess with all the ordnance going off. Whoever the newcomers were, at least they seemed to be on the same side. Bandor looked back out over no-man’s land. The Orks were running scared in every direction, some still trying to press forward towards the city. Spats of las fire from the trenches were cutting down the few which got close enough and there now seemed to be weapons fire coming from behind the Ork lines as well.

‘So… what now, sir?’ A trooper on the firing step next to him asked. In truth, Bandor had no idea.

A pair of attendants from the medicae had gotten the priest propped up against a wall but the old man was utterly hysterial. He’d apparently lost consciousness for a moment after screaming but quickly came to and resumed his fit. Sedatives seemed to have no effect and it was all the medicae could do to keep him held still. A few of the troopers posted in the bunker stepped in to try and help while everyone else simply looked on aghast.

Arcwald and Matzon exchanged confused looks as another Ecclesiarchy priest ducked into the Field HQ. The newcomer moved quickly to his fellow and began inciting litanies of blessing and protection upon him, forced to shout over the weeping cries of the frenzied man.

‘Sir!’ I’m showing multiple new ground contacts, all fronts.’ The auspex operator called out. ‘The Fervent Heart is beginning a ground assault, they’ve got the Orks on the run!’

It took a moment for the Colonel to notice the chanting of prayers had ceased, and the newly-arrived priest had crossed to where he and Matzon stood,

‘You… what is that you say?’ The priest asked. He was a man somewhere in his mid forties and his face suddenly appeared pale and fretful at something. Arcwald looked at him warily, fearing another abrupt outburst of hysteria.

‘There are Adepta Sororitas, come to ward off the Ork attack.’ He spoke slowly, watching the priest’s fraught expression. ‘The Order of the Fervent Heart.’ At that the priest gasped and staggered back, narrowly bracing himself upon a cogitator bank. Matzon stepped up to help steady him. Colonel Arcwald shook his head, confused. Why were these priests so fearful? ‘Father, what is going on?’

The priest was obviously shaken, though retained his composure far better than his fellow. He simply smiled ruefully and looked up to Colonel Arcwald.

‘The Fervent Heart has not existed since its name was embossed upon and Inquisitorial writ of Excommunication…’ He spoke somberly and it was Arcwald’s turn to gasp. For those words the entire bunker fell silent, including the sobbing priest. ‘Their homeworld was purged and their name struck from the archives of the Ordos. The were pursued, to the very brinks of chaos, but never successfully brought to task for their heresy.’

Blood Loss [40k]

The building’s top floor was haunted with the protesting creaks and sighs of the structure’s ravaged framework as a stiff wind moaned through the remnants of its roofing and hole-riddled walls. From room to ruined room the shadow moved, its utterly silent passage mocking the disquiet of the stricken surroundings. A crackle of static and murmured tones issued from the next room beyond and the shape of shifting darkness eased up along side the doorway and peered within. A lone figure, outlined in the ashen light of a blown-out window, its form a hunched and profane representation of humanity even in silhouette. The stalking darkness waited for the noise within the room to fade, and made its move.

At the sharp sound of a creaking floorboard the sentry at the window spun around, its battered lasgun barely raised halfway before a blow to the head jerked him violently sideways. A glint of silver flashed from the side of the corrupt human’s skull, dashing blood and gore across the opposite wall before a returning slash lay the heretic’s throat open clean to the spine and sent him to the floor in a flacid heap. There was a damp sputtering like that of a ruined water hose as the man’s death rattle struggled to surface through the torrent of brackish ichor pouring from the grievous wound in his neck. The shadow stepped around the blood pooling on the worn floorboards and moved up aside the window, a curved dagger of bloodied black steel in one hand and the lasgun of its victim in the other.

Though filtered through thick cloud cover and the even thicker smoke and cordite haze of war, the mid-day sunlight made the shadow, Kuril Eugen, flinch. Daytime was not a friend of the Alukard-born trooper or any of his kin. The same native affliction which made the Alukardian’s such peerless night-fighters served to hamper them in lighter hours although, contrary to much speculation and fabricated myths, they didn’t burst into flames at a glance of sunlight. Another of the legends, however, was quite true and it was all Eugen could do to block out the thick scent of fresh blood flooding his nostrils. The taint of corruption rendered the blood of heretics sour and unfavorable but the scent of it, fresh and still pumping from a dying heart, enticed his dark hunger none the less. There would be time later for such indulgence once we free are of this bitter place, he thought, and turned his attention to the rubble-strewn street below the window.

By quick tally he made no fewer than two dozen humanoid contacts and a pair of half-tracks manning the barricade. They had been right to assume a frontal assault would have foundered. The enemy looked to be well-established and double their number in manpower with heavy weapons emplacements and, from the distinctive scent his keen nose was catching, at least one plasma weapon.

‘So, how bad?’ Quizzed the trooper even he was hard pressed to have heard sneak up beside him. Eugen eased back into a crouch against the wall, sparing a rueful smirk for his fellow. The ash, dirt and blood smeared over lean features cracking at the corners of his mouth with the expression.

‘It’s not bad at all. Two-to-one odds, a pair of half-tracks, some emplacements and a plasma in a perigot tree.’ He said casually, reaching over to clean the blood off the black metal blade of his knife on the fatigues of its former owner. Beside him, Arro Marjas chuckled lightly.

‘Is that it? Why with all the sneaking around then?’ The other trooper was grinning a grin that told he was only half joking. The soil of war did nothing but deepen the wicked lines of Marjas’ gaunt, generously-scarred features. A strip of cloth torn off as a makeshift bandana kept back longish, black hair from his face and eyes the color of heated brass carried a habitual glimmer of malice. He leaned up slightly to peer over the windowsill, muttering about a longing for perigot ale, as another unannounced presence cut in.

‘I’m betting there are more in the building across the way from us, there’s regular traffic in and out of there. Probably a staging post.’ A female voice this time, speaking as if to no one but itself. Eugen glanced over to see Maia Kilvora peering out through a narrow fissure in the exterior wall. Dingy sunlight cast a trough across her face though the young woman’s crystalline eyes seemed intent beyond caring.

‘And that means? More heretics to kill.’ Marjas grunted, sitting back from the window and checking over his las-carbine, assuring especially that the serrated bayonet was fixed securely.

‘It means one of us should probably stay here and cover it.’ Eugen replied and Kilvora nodded almost imperceptibly. Marjas, through a few choice oaths, made it clear he was not volunteering for the duty.

‘Don’t worry,’ Kilvora cut him off mid-curse, ‘I’m a better shot than you anyhow.’ Marjas smirked but wasn’t about to argue.

‘Is it time yet?’ He queried, clearly impatient.

‘Most likely.’ Eugen was tinkering with the settings on the lasrifle, drawing an arch look from Marjas. He answered it with the press of a final button, setting the weapon’s capacitors to overload, and pulled the auto pistol from his thigh holster. ‘We need a distraction.’ He said simply. The other trooper was about to retort when a single click sounded in each of their com beads.

 

Something arced through the air and thudded off the hood of one of the half-tracks. Shouts of question and alarm were drown out a split second later when the thrown lasrifle went critical and exploded in a brilliant ball of fire and energy discharge. The blast cooked one of the troopers standing near the vehicle as well as the gunner outright and peppered a few more with shrapnel while the shockwave caused the front end of the track to slew a few feet to the side. The ambush was on and the enemy was dying before they’d even seen who was assaulting them.

Four stories straight to the ground, Eugen landed as if it were nothing. He sprung towards the nearest emplacement, a tripod-mounted autocannon, passing bewildered enemy troopers along the main barricade. They took notice of the intruder just in time to be caught blindside by las fire as Marjas joined the fray behind him. The enemy soldiers in the emplacement had noticed him as well and he took one out with a shot to the neck as he vaulted a slab of rubble. A few more seconds and his boot was on the edge of the sandbag barrier just as the mounted autocannon was coming to bear on him. Eugen sent the gunner reeling with a brutal kick to the jaw and put a pair of shots through the side of his face as he landed. Marjas shouted a warning behind him and Eugen turned in time to see the enemy soldier he’d shot in the neck struggling to aim his weapon one-handed while he clutched the gushing wound in his throat with the other. Eugen whirled aside as the gun fired wildly and brought his knife across the bridge of the cultist’s nose, the keen edge neatly bisecting the man’s skull.

The sound of something heavy chattering sent him to the dirt just as heavy slug rounds from the gun mount of the other track started tearing into the sandbags around him. The cover was bad at this angle with the barricades not designed to protect from rearward assaults. It was all he could do to wedge himself away from the violent explosions of dirt, any one of which could take one of his limbs clean off. A glance of the dirty sky above showed flashes of red streaking from the building nearest him and the gun abruptly fell silent; Kilvora was on point as always.

Eugen holstered his pistol and grabbed for a lasrifle leaning against the sandbags; full cell. He jerked the ammo belt off one of the dead cultists and peered up over the barrier. Marjas was covering behind the nearest half-track and systematically taking down enemies along the roadblock. He could see confusion on the other side of the street which meant, so far, their plan was working well enough. It was then he saw the cultist with a launcher tube taking aim.

‘Scathing blood, Arro, move. Now!’ He shouted over the clatter of weapons and shouldered his rifle just in time to see the white plume of rocket wash streak across the street.

The detonation wasn’t right. He’d fully expected to be knocked on his back as the half-track went up beside him but instead the concussion hit him from behind, and off center. When he saw the exhaust trail pointed skyward he didn’t even need to look to know that the cultist had been aiming for. Bits of stone and wood rained down on the street from a gaping hole four stories up. The shooter had ducked back to reload. He took about for Marjas but saw the news had already registered with his fellow. The spiteful Alukardian bellowed a curse of rage and charged out of cover. An enemy attempting to sneak around the half-track was caught first, taken under the chin by his barbed bayonet and dragged to the ground before having his head blasted free in a spray of blood and scorched bone.

The sound of roaring engines announced the arrival of the rest of their force and Eugen looked to the other side of the barricade to see a pair of wheeled attack vehicles tearing down the street toward them. The LAV’s were little more than 4×4 civilian trucks with some armor plates slapped on but at least one of them mounted a heavy stubber which opened up on the men now streaming from the enemy outpost on the adjacent street corner. Most of the enemy soldiers along the roadblock were dead or soon to be but now almost double that number were advancing across the street towards them. They had plenty of cover but were going to be overrun by sheer weight of numbers at this rate.

Or not.

Eugen tossed his pilfered lasrifle aside and took hold of the grips of the autocannon mount, twisting it to bear on the enemy advance, and mashed the firing stud. Berms of piled rubble provided enough cover to the incoming troops that the heavy weapon would do little but slow them down, at least it would give them some time to regroup and form a plan. The cannon chattered away, spitting shells into the dugout and stitching burning rounds into the enemy lines. That was when he smelled it.

Plasma, the thick odor of extreme heat and singed oil.

A white hot blast streaked from the opposite side of the nearest half-track, melting through a section of barricade before raking across the side of one of the oncoming LAVs. Rubber melted, metal deformed and the vehicle pitched forward into the dirt and rockcrete of the roadway and flipped, sending the gunner flying. The other skid to a halt, its occupants struggling to scatter as another blast of blue-hot fire struck it dead on, withering the vehicle like candlewax before exploding it in a brilliant fireball as the gas tanks touched off.

The autocannon was dry and Eugen sprang for his discarded rifle, bringing it up just in time to blast open the torso of an enemy trooper edging around from the back of the track. He heard it then, the shrill whine of power coils engaging, and threw himself to the side just as another plasma blast tore through the cab of the half-track and incinerated the autocannon emplacement.

He was there, looming around the glowing, melted husk of the track. Something once human now grossly distended to greater proportions; shy of the hulking might of a traitor marine but only just. The man, if it could still be called a man, wore armor bedecked with crude, riveted plates of metal which seemed to be fastened to his inhuman frame directly rather than worn. His face, a mass of scabs and scar tissue, bore lips peeled back in a permanent scowl to expose sharpened teeth stained with decay. A line of rusted bolts were driven in along the crest of his misshapen skull in place of hair. Eugan had already recovered, his lasrifle up and he realized he had already pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He looked down and saw a glaring red malfunction rune winking up at him.

‘Oh bloody throne…’ He cursed and felt an icy chill of impending doom wash over him. Somewhere in its rotten throat, the chaos scum before him was laughing as he took aim.

The whine of power coils…

Then he heard the cadence of the heretic’s laughter hitch and gurgle to nothing; the shadow hanging over him waivered. Eugan looked up and saw a haze of light slithering around the mishapen officer, there was foul, black blood curdling from his rictus grin which now seemed to sag in distress. The haze shifted swiftly and the heretic twitched in time with it, black blood flicking from unseen cuts in thin lashes. When the blur moved away he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, bleeding out swiftly into the dirt from a myriad of precise wounds. Something both utterly lethal and strikingly beautiful unfolded from the very air itself and poised over the fallen man like a predatory animal examining its kill.

‘Such a shame… blood… so tainted.’ The voice, sweet and mellifluous remarked with an acute note of sadness. Eugen jumped slightly when the beautiful creature punched its bare fist into the fallen heretic’s back, it rooted about a moment before dragging free the thing’s cancerous heart. The organ was torn free and inspected before being cast aside with a hiss, ‘So tainted… a waste.’ With a preternatural grace, the lithe female straightened and regarded Eugen with the woeful expression of a child denied its favorite toy.

‘Thank you, Lethyis…’ He finally managed at length, realizing there was still a battle being fought. The officer’s plasma gun lay a few feet away and he moved forward to retrieve it. Hopefully it would serve a bit better than that damned lasrifle had. The woman had turned away, already distracted. She sighed gently, an acknowledgment? And began drifting towards the lines of incoming troops.

 

Eugen watched her go, the thing which was human and yet… not. A L’sombra, those who had given themselves (willingly or unwillingly) to the madness of Alukard’s curse and survived with their physical humanity intact. There were differences, some subtle others not so. Their limbs were a bit longer, more flexible and all were whip-cord thin. They moved with an impossible grace that, it is alleged, surpasses that even of the alien Eldar. As those of Alukardian blood enjoy longer average lifespans than typical humans, the L’Sombra are said to be all but impervious to the passage of time. For all of this, it is the eyes which are most telling. He shook off the writhing sense of unease, that stare, branded in his mind from the first time he’d lain eyes on her kind and renewed each time since. Death… no, worse than death. Empty, utterly scathing empty.

He dragged himself from the dirt and sprinted across the street join up with the rest of the platoon. Marjas was covering from behind the other half-track now and met him with a fanged grin as he approached.

‘Spared from death by death itself.’ He chuckled, clapping Eugen on the shoulder, ‘Thought that ugly bastard had your number.’

‘He did.’ Eugen grinned mirthlessly, looking about for their sergeant. ‘What’s the damage?’ He grimaced at the twin wreckages of their LAV’s on the roadway. Marjas leaned up to unload a flurry of shots over the hood of the track.

‘Not a clue. The Sarge is over there.’

 

Reinforce This (working title)

She came in hard, slipping and stumbling forward into the thick layer of mud that covered the ground. Something heavy crashed nearby, a limp body, smacking into the earth with a splash of wet dirt and grime. Overhead a wounded Kaitos transport plane veered downwards trailing fire, smoke and troopers desperate to evacuate the doomed vessel; if only to wind up in the middle of no-mans land. Heavy caliber slugs tore an uneven path along the ground in front of her, a reminder that her own position was none too ideal. With a grunt she dragged herself up from the slurping mud and drove forward, half blinded by sheets of heavy rainfall.

It was a scene of utter chaos.

The dark shadows of Castern’s city walls loomed over the killing field, sparkling with the glints of muzzle flashes. They had come up short, way short. Scores of half-buried bodies and ruined armor units littered the collapsing trench lines to the south of the city already and now they were going to add to them. She could hear voices shouting over the clamor of weapons and rain and see the momentary red bolts of las-fire streaking through the darkness and tried to move towards them. It was impossible to do much besides crawl, the muddy earth seemed intent upon holding her fast to wait for death.

A sharp whistle abruptly cut above the din and a violent blast snapped the world into a mute, darkened blur. She flopped along the ground like a discarded rag doll for a short distance before coming to rest on her back, incoherent and dazed. From an inverted vantage point she watched the streak of billowing fire that had been her transport arcing downwards until it crashed in a brilliant bloom of orange just beyond the wall. The cloud billowed out in slow motion and she felt her eyes flutter, a stifling ringing in her ears having replaced the noise of battle.

The more she blinked the heavier her eyes felt and the last thing her dulled senses registered before slipping into total darkness was a sublime feeling of weightlessness.

That smell, a sharp knife of stimuli straight into her head. A wave of noise crashed in around her suddenly, aching limbs and the weight of mud and rain soaking her uniform. She doubled over and coughed, spitting up a mouthful of grit.

‘Well thank the damned Throne you’re alive.’ A seemingly distant voice spoke and something jerked her upright, a few sharp impacts to the cheek jarring her hazy mind back into focus. That acrid smell tweaked her nose again and she raised a heavy arm to shove it away. ‘And still kicking, too. How many fingers am I holding up?’ The voice came again, nearer now as she blinked at the shadow standing over her.

‘Six, you damned mutant. Get that stuff away from me.’ The young woman listed groggily and slumped back against the side of the trench.

‘Yeah, right. Do you know who you are… where you are?’ A hand reached out to prise one of her eyes wide open and flick the beam of the stablight into it.

She flinched away from the light, raising a mud-caked hand to massage aching temples. ‘Sergeant Matsuko Suzume… and we are half-past gakked, if I recall.’ The sergeant grumbled and looked up again, the man was smirking.

Mamoru, the platoon medic, chuckled and clapped her on the shoulder, ‘Welcome back to the land of the not-quite-dead, Sir.’

The ground was restless with the crash of incoming shells and the constant streak of small arms fire from the city walls buzzed through the rainy night like a cloud of irate insects. Up and down the trench line were men shouting and clambering to return fire. Her microbead was a fit of static and sentence fragments, desperate calls for order and situation reports. Thankfully her shotgun was still slung across one shoulder.

Seeing his patient was well the medic moved off quickly to tend other wounded and Suzume switched her vox to her squad’s channel.

‘Third, this is lead, sound off.’ She winced at a whine of static in her ear, ‘Damn this thing… Kyosu! Is anyone reading me?’ With a curse she flicked the vox bead jostled next to her,

‘I’m right here, stop shouting.’ Jinkato Kyosu crouched down below the edge of the trench, a shotgun gripped restlessly in his hands. At this distance the Dragoons were mostly helpless even at full strength with at least half of the platoon being armed for close-quarters rather than ranged firefights. ‘The vox is next to useless, just like the rest of this fecked operation.’ The snide, rat-faced trooper peered over the lip of the trench.

‘Have you seen anyone else from third squad?’ Suzume leaned up to share the vantage point, immediately having wished she’d just left it to the imagination.

Before Kyosu could reply something cracked like thunder high above and they both looked up to see the trail of a missile where it gave way to a fresh plume of debris and fire spraying from the fuselage of another Kaitos transport directly above them.

‘There goes fifth platoon…’ Kyosu muttered, his features lined in orange by the expanding explosion.

Suzume shook her head and spat, ‘What in the hell happened? Why did we drop way out here?’ She unslung her own shotgun and started digging the muck out of its external creases. Kyosu settled back against the wall of the trench with a smirk.

‘First platoon’s Kaitos took a hit and Major Takafumi lost his nerve, ordered the jump. Second and third tried to peel off and come back around but second got blasted right out of the sky and third kept on going, we think they might have gotten some over the wall.’ Kyosu paused to savor the look of disdain on his Sergeant’s face before continuing. ‘We kept on going as well but, well.. you know that story I’d imagine.’ Suzume nodded and glanced up.

‘And fifth… dammit. That gakking idiot… now what are we supposed to…’ She paused mid-sentence, something was screaming and it was getting closer — fast. They both looked around for the source and suddenly something brilliant and hot slammed down on the opposite edge of the trench.

A man, charred and still burning, lay there. He writhed in pain and hollered incoherently as the rain hissed into the flames consuming him. Suzume and Kyosu sat dumbstruck for a moment before the private finally raised his shotgun and blasted the man’s tortured expression into a bloody, ashen pulp. He racked another shell, his features intent as he stared at the now motionless, immolated Dragoon.

‘Sweet bloody Emperor.’ Suzume mouthed quietly, staring at the burning man in front of her, so close she could feel the heat of the flames as they cooked his flesh away; she tried not to inhale the smell.

‘I’ve got some of the squad gathered further down the trench.’ He tilted his head, speaking in an even, sobered tone, ‘Whenever you’re ready to move just give the order.’ Suzume nodded slowly, her eyes turning away to search the trench until they spotted the distinctive shogun helm of an officer further down.

‘Get back to them and keep trying to raise the rest of the squad, I’ll be there soon.’ She racked her cleaned shotgun and moved off in a crouch along the trench, leaving Kyosu to head back to where the rest of their depleted unit waited.

The trench was a swamp. Thick, soupy mud stained with blood half-concealed fallen bodies both old and fresh. All along it men shouted and died as they desperately tried to return fire on the city’s looming walls. She saw the officer, a major, hunkered down with what she assumed was his squad and could hear him frantically yelling between his men as she approached.

‘Major Takafumi!’ She called out and offered a quick salute, ‘The vox seems to be down, Sir. What’s our situation, we need orders!’

The major spun around, looking at Suzume as if she’d just crawled out of a mutie commune, ‘What do you want, Sergeant? Can’t you see I’m busy trying to orchestrate this righteous grox-fething?’

‘Orders, sir, what are your orders?’ She repeated, ducking down low as an explosive round punched the ground a few feet shy of the trench line, ‘The vox is down and…’

‘I know the vox is down, Sergeant, I watched the vox man get turned inside out by a mortar round with my own two eyes!’ The Major cursed and rose up to snap a few shots off with his laspistol. Given the extreme range, it was quite an affectation to say the least. ‘Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and wait for orders. We’re not going anywhere until I can raise reinforcements or extraction, this drop is a catastrophe!’

Suzume’s jaw clenched. They were the reinforcements, and no one was going to come in here and bail them out, ‘Yes, sir!’ She snapped tersely and turned to bolt back down the trench. She was about halfway to Kyosu’s position when someone on the firing step called out,

‘Incoming!’ it seemed like an understatement but discipline prompted her to dive to the muck of the trench’s floor anyhow, and thankfully so.

The concussion of the blast blurred the edges of her vision and made her ears pop. A large calibre round, most likely a battle cannon, gouged a huge chunk out of the trench ahead. Water, mud and bodies flew in the air and Suzume sprang back to her feet. They were not staying here. She picked up her pace, ignoring the renewed cries of agony from those caught in the most recent bombardment.

The rain was still coming down so hard she almost tripped over Kyosu before sliding to a halt. It was better than she had expected. She counted seven troopers which meant they had only lost three so far.

‘So?’ Kyosu looked up from bandaging his forearm and Suzume shook her head gravely.

‘Hey, its the boss. Nice of you to join us!’ A trooper poised on the firing step glanced in her direction before loosing a volley of full auto las-fire towards the city walls then ducking back down to reload, ‘It’s a beautiful day here outside Castern.’ He chuckled.

Suzume wasn’t amused. ‘Stow it, Saburo. And stop wasting your ammunition.’ She cut sharply and it was Kyosu’s turn to chuckle. He turned to his Sergeant with an expectant look,

‘That’s what we’re supposed to be doing, no? Sitting here waiting for backup while we get picked off one by one?’ He tapped his shotgun on his shoulder.

‘No, Kyosu. We’re supposed to be assaulting that city.’ Suzume was gazing out across no-mans land. ‘They have tanks, hell… they have whatever we had in there. How do you think they shot down the Kaitos? Even if we were going to be reinforced we’d be dead long before they got here.’

‘Hydras, yeah, I saw them.’ Kyosu nodded and gritted his teeth as another battle cannon shell slammed into the ground just beyond the trenches, sending a slough of loose mud pouring between fractures supports. ‘So what are our orders, Sir?’

Suzume looked over each remaining member of her squad in silence before turning back to the dark, imposing facade of Castern. The glare of explosions and gunfire flashed across muddy, rain-streaked and yet indescribably beautiful features; contrasting the sheer deviltry which burned in her eyes.

‘We’re going in.’ She said simply.

Oncoming Storm

 

It is not power which corrupts
but the greed of a weak mind.

 

It was some time in the late afternoon yet the sky overhead was pitch black. The artificial twilight lifted at regular intervals in the criss-crossing flashes of lightening amidst the thick clouds above with occasional, violent jabs of searing white punching earthward. Rain was coming down like a solid wave of water, lashing and quite thoroughly drenching everything for miles. In spite of this, twilight would likely settle, clear and unmolested, within the hour. As if the storm had never existed.

This was how they watered the crops on an agri-world, regularly-scheduled tropical downpours. It was somewhat comforting, actually. I would have been a bit worried if every piece of the plot had fallen too perfectly into place. The storm served to set a nicely grim mood for my arrival planetside and the task I was here to see through; best to curb too overbearing a sense of vanity, anyhow.

There were ribbons of fire wrapped around the horizon line, the only trace of a sky beyond the oppressive clouds above. Great fields sprawled out to either side of the rocky ridge we had landed on. An indigenous crop, prized for its raw nutrient value and high seasonal yield. This place, Maitzte Secundus, vital Imperial agri-world that it was. I cared little for the facts and figures. What interested me more were the broken shadows of stonework which wove their way up the side of a craggy hill further along the ridgeline.

I pulled my stormcoat tight and moved towards the ruins as quickly as the gravely, rain-soaked dirt would allow for. Making way behind me were the ex-Arbiter Devi Sutano and Anun Malsaard, a psy-knight. Sutano I was fairly sure I could trust in the matter but Malsaard could’ve been questionable. I only hoped the literal simplicity of his vastly-powerful mind would work in my favor. The three of us comprised half of the soon-to-be late Inquisitor Duvious’ personal retinue, the man who was my master. The man we were here to kill.

There was a vehicle parked at the base of the ruins, a chimera of some scout or command variation judging by the vox and auspex arrays sprouting from its roof. The chimera had its forward stablights fixed upon the large door which marked the entrance to the ancient sanctuary, plucking the area out vividly from the darkness which pervaded around it. As we drew closer I saw movement around the vehicle, figures moving in our direction. I assumed these would have to be local PDF forces and could but hope they recognized an Inquisitorial seal when they saw one.

I continued on with stride unbroken though I could sense Malsvaard’s psychic aura bristling and was quite certain I’d heard the distinctive if lightly muffled rack of Sutano’s autopistol. Truth be told, I found their excitability a bit disheartening.

‘Stop immediately and identify yourself, this is a restricted area!’ One of the troopers aimed a portable stablight in my direction though the effect wasn’t blinding enough that I didn’t notice the other moving off to the side with his lasgun shouldered. I did as ordered and stopped in my tracks. Peering through the glare of the stablight so that I was certain I was making eye contact with the trooper. I raised my left hand, palm out.

‘Alastor Krahle, of the Immortal Emperor’s most holy Inquisition.’ I spoke with some sneer of satisfaction. Junior Inquisitor, albeit; the former matters not so long as the latter is present. I doubted he would be able to discern the difference in one from the other by the design of the rosette inlaid on the black metal of my artificial arm’s palm at any rate. It seemed to do the trick as both the light and the lasgun quickly lowered.

‘A-ah, of course, sir! We’ve been expecting you.’ The trooper stammered out. He seemed young and perhaps rightfully edgy, but that was no excuse.

‘Then get out of my way.’ I spoke, lowering my hand and continuing on towards the ruins, ignoring the pair of slackened jaws and their banal ramblings. A subdued red glow towards the rear of the chimera told its hatch was opened, there was another guardsman standing near it with his lasgun held ready.

‘We’ve taken one of Inquisitor Duvious’ retinue into custody, sir.’ A few of the trooper’s words managed to work their way to my ears,

‘Oh?’ I offered a curious look. He nodded and made about ushering me towards the vehicle, where I was heading anyhow. There were three possibilities who might be in there and I was pretty sure of which it was. The guard at the back of the Chimera as I approached and ducked my head inside to confirm my suspicion.

Seated within, opposite yet another notably anxious PDF trooper, was a large man in a tattered blastcoat and a wide-brimmed hat. I have to admit, I personally found it comical to see him there and in such a state. Silent and handcuffed, with a bulk nearly twice that of the man who assumed to detain him. Kaleb Faust lifted his head in my direction, two sparks of smoldering red peering out from the shadow under his hat.

‘Alastor.’ His heavily augmented voice growled like broken machinery and he nodded a slight greeting. I had to express at least a huff of amusement.

‘Kaleb, good to see you are well.’ I offered the old gun a genuine grin. Fact was, it would have taken quite a number more troopers to actually have detained the seasoned Interrogator. Being well over fifty-percent cybernetic and thoroughly schooled in all manner of combat, I had no doubt he could have massacred this particular squad three times over. He seemed to be acting in good faith, and certainly not in league with Duvious in any sense, which I was thankful for.

I turned from the chimera to regard the trooper standing watch outside.

‘Give this man his weapons and let him go.’ I spoke evenly. The man’s mouth flapped momentarily but a nicely fixed glare seemed to do well in silencing any objection he might’ve had to the notion,

‘Of course, Inquisitor.’ He finally snapped, if not exactly crisply.

Early Retirement

 Muffled screams, battle cries and the inchoate dissonance of mixed weapons fire and explosions. Though the noises had drawn near all throughout the night even now, so close at hand, they seemed distant and removed. The midday sun filtered in through the high windows of the church, casting its interior in a blanket of color and contrasts. Thick walls kept the noise outside at bay even as errant gunfire raked across the old building’s stonework and blasted splinters from its wooden shutters. This was the sound of inevitability. This was the day he always knew would come.

Father Mathieu Richter stood at one of the front windows of the church, overlooking the central square of Kaltwald. Down the wide main avenue of the town he could see the foe coming. A mass of soldiers, clad in the liveries of Dornreich’s own PDF garrison, advancing towards the town centre. With indiscriminate volleys of weapons fire they scattered the citizens foolish enough to stand in their way and calmly cut down those who attempted to flee from their assault with disciplined ease. Some among the population had bravely taken up arms against the turncoats but their disorganized resistance was of little consequence to the attacking soldiers and the enemy pressed onward unabated.

At the window on the other side of the church’s main door a heavy bolter opened fire, spewing lines of explosive death into the ranks of traitors as they filed into the square. This, at least, seemed to be cause enough for them to slow their advance and take cover but it was certainly at best only a temporary setback.

The aged priest shared glances with a few of the other men standing vigil in the church’s interior. Fellow clergy like himself yet most far younger and appearing quite unaccustomed to the feel of weapons in their hands. Never the less, the air of quietude which had once blanketed the town of Kaltswald seemed still to hold some reign within the walls of the church. Every man assembled carried a look of fierce resolve, waiting upon a final note of calm for the coming battle. Their lives had steeled them for this moment despite the awkwardness with which they now took up arms. They carried pristine weapons, well-kept and untested like the very men who bore them. Both would be tried today. Peace and prosperity would be shown for the fleeting dreams that they were. The inevitable, the grim reality of existence, had finally caught up.

There is only war.

Richter turned and moved away from the window, taking deliberate strides down the central aisle of the church towards the raised altar at its far end. Though his weathered features creased with the same resolve as his fellows they carried something else none of them could have possessed. In just under a century of life the precious few years of peace he had enjoyed back here on his homeworld did little to dim the memories of the decades of bloodshed which came before them. While the aged priest bore a posture and vital gait which defied the truth of his long years there was nothing which could disguise the horrors of a past his ice blue eyes spoke so easily of.

As he ascended the broad steps up to the altar he paused to make the sign of the aquilla to the great statue of the Emperor which loomed above it before continuing. He approached the altar and lay a hand upon its edge, letting the pad of his thumb press to a hidden sensor which would verify his identity as he spoke a quiet incantation of opening to the mechanism’s machine spirit. With a resonant click the top of the altar swung slowly upward on a concealed hinge to unveil the items secreted within.

Most prominent of the items was a large chainsword which lay across the entire length of the hidden compartment. Etched with catechisms of damnation and adored with long-faded purity seals, the wicked teeth of the sword glinted even now like diamonds in the prismatic light of the chamber. Situated next to this was an elegant pistol of artisan design. It was slender and appeared almost fragile, with a mirror-polished blade which extended out a full foot from beneath its narrow barrel. Despite its delicate appearance, Richter smiled inwardly as he took it in hand and felt the weapon’s surprising, reassuring weight.

The priest quickly went about sifting through his effects, securing the sword and pistol in a mutual holster which situated them across his back. Most of the trinkets were just that, tokens from his past which had no immediate use. He fished out a small monocle from amongst them and affixed it over his left eye, its translucent screen flickering to life with a blinding scroll of unintelligible diagnostic information. Even so, a momentary jab of pain in his temple assured that the interface was still functional.

There was only one other thing Richter could think of and it was not something safely hidden away in secret. Moving away from the open altar he approached the pulpit where a thick tome lay open.

Bound in black and edged with plates of antiqued gold, the book was quite certainly ancient; written and expanded over the course of many centuries. Richter’s own hand had even contributed to its pages though such latter additions seemed almost out of place compared to the faded texts worn into the bulk of its pages. This was the same volume from which he read almost every day before his congregation, yet it was also the same he had carried on journeys to purge feral and alien worlds in the name of the God-Emperor. He ran his fingers reverently across the open page before turning unerringly to another, one far more familiar to him. The litany of battle.

Turning Point

 Three pairs of eyes collectively flinched at the glare of what might as well have been the sun itself as the boarding hatch cycled open. There would be no respite for those temporarily blinded, barked orders having already prompted the troopers around and behind them to begin pushing their way out into the hangar bay. With muttered curses and sidewards glares they eventually moved out as well to fall in with the rest of the newly arrived guardsmen. New yet anything but fresh. The seemingly random selections of color and camo patterns filtering into the hangar were leftovers; the remnants of decimated regiments brought here for reassignment.

Somewhere at the head of the patchwork crowd of soldiers an officer was hollering out commands and attempting to effect some measure of order. He was a considerably larger than average individual with a crop of dirty blonde hair and one augmentic eye which seemed to radiate his evident dislike for his present assignment in its baleful red glow. One after another he read down a dataslate of regiment names, alphabetically calling out the orphaned troopers into ranks.

‘Diablomunda 21st!’ The officer finally bellowed and the three troopers in black, still rubbing their spurned eyes, glanced in his direction.

‘That’d be us…’ Ario Kaspar grumbled, blinking a few times as his pale eyes finally began to adjust to the flood-lighted hanger. He regarded the officer for a few moments before sharing a look with his companions, another man and a young woman.

Liore Masreka, with a mop of restless platinum blonde and drooped eyes, appeared totally disinterested in anything but resuming the nap she’d been enjoying on the flight in. The other man was distracted in rummaging though his kitpack. A bit heavier in build and with blonde hair to Kaspar’s jet black, Dien von Belloch sported a suit of black carapace armor rather than a flak jacket and fatigues like his companions. The right arm of the suit had been removed, leaving the black metal of his augmentic arm to fend for itself. Belloch finally looked up as he produced a pair of sun shades from his pack and slid them down over his eyes with a look of smug satisfaction.

Up front the address was repeated with an intone of impatience and Kaspar gestured his comrades to follow before pushing off through the press of bodies himself. The black shapes wove their way deftly to the head of the crowd and fell in where the officer was indicating. As they approached the red glare of the man’s eye struck them all in turn like a targeting laser.

‘That it?’ The man grunted and Kaspar, at the head of the three Diablomundans snapped to attention and answered.

‘Sir, yes sir!’ He spoke crisply and the officer, now identifiable as a Lieutenant from closer up, sneered down at him.

‘Welcome to the Praedus 44th, you’ll know me as Lieutenant Dross. There will be someone along shortly to figure out just who the heck you are.’ Dross said, finishing with a flash of faux amicability across his weathered features before he continued down the line shouting out more names.

Edict of Blood

‘Is this for certain?’ The voice of Brother-Captain Raul Stavian ground out roughly, clinched with the gravity of what he was being told. The vast hall around him stretched on vacantly both before and behind, imparting a sense of isolation to even the greatly armored Astartes and his lone companion. Beyond soaring windows of patterned glass, the warm crimson light of a mid-day sun threw down pools of fire across the tiled floor. He came to a halt at the centre of one, leaving his coal-black eyes to seek out the source of the light. As its touch spread across battle worn features he took some vague comfort in the harsh, glaring light of Reila’s sun, so much akin to that of his homeworld. The muscles in Brother Stavian’s jaw twitched as he attempted to process his thoughts, leaving the recollection of Cestus to dwindle away.

The woman walking next to him drew to a halt as well but said nothing to break the silence which had settled into the hall. Though nearly twice dwarfed by the size of the great Astartes her own presence rose to match it evenly, stern and resolute as befitting a Daughter of the Emperor. Embre Caelus, Sister Superior to the holy Order of Our Martyred Lady, turned her own gaze towards the window. That the vibrant scarlet and black of her livery robes stood complementary to the Chapter colors of the Red Ministers was pure happenstance; it was by no such incidence the two of them shared the same charcoal eyes and flame-touched hair,

‘It struck me quite so when I first arrived here as well.’ Sister Embre spoke gently, as if careful to preserve the quietude. Yet Even in such mild tones the harsh inflections of a Cestian tongue mirrored those in the Captain’s own voice, ‘The hue, the warmth…’ She trailed off a moment before continuing, ‘And yet you can look to the sky and there is the sun, brilliant and fierce… not shrouded behind clouds of filth and blood.’ Stavian formed the beginnings of a grin as his kinswoman spoke. Though the words ushered a notion of condemnation towards the place, there was an unmistakable tone of reverence and longing for the severity of their homeworld ingrained beneath them.