The Shield

deathspectersgt7 · September 24, 2016

BOOOoooooooooooooooooooooo !!!!!! :)

Carrack · September 24, 2016

"It ain't over till it's over." -renowned reader of the Emperor's Tarot, Yogi Berra.

Carrack · October 3, 2016

Fate

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Macar flew down the corridor standing on his Solomon Carpet. The carpet was a marvel of both sorcery and science. It was a bulky affair of a heavy adamantine platform that protruded exhaust pipes, spikes, and weird ethereal lights that shone from nothing that resembled a normal light source. The Solomon Carpet was not entirely constructed of inorganic components, and nor was it entirely of this world. At times it hissed and belched colored steam, other times it was silent and seemed to move with no visible emissions. There were no bindings or clamps, yet Macar's feet stood firm on the device, even when it rolled 90 degrees to one side. It was fast too, faster than even an Astartes could run, and Macar was racing far ahead of his warriors.

It was a race to the scene of the death of the Angels of Immolation's Chapter Master at the hands of the Lord of the Black Maw. Macar raced the fallen loyalist commander's honor guard, who had run after their Chapter Master after their opposites, Lord Carrack's retinue, had disappeared in a teleport. The honor guard was after revenge. Macar was inclined to let them have it, but he had to be there just in case. Either to gain the prestige of avenging the killers of the warband's leader, or to finish Lord Carrack off. The race was a race for the future of the Black Maw, and one way or another, Macar was going to win.

The loyalists were not looking back at Macar, only looking to kill their master's slayer. Lord Carrack was looking at Macar. He was focused on the charging honor guard, but he clearly identified his spiteful captain behind them, and was wary. Lord Carrack lumbered into his own heavy charge to meet whoever would reach him first.

Macar flew up to the heels of the honor guard and slowed, matching their pace. In an attempt to cast off suspicion from his lord, he leveled his plasma pistol against the trailing honor guard, and fired a blast of white hot energy into the loyalist's lower back, just below his backpack power plant. The powerful, barely controlled energy blew the marine apart, legs and upper torso flying away in three separate directions. Two of the remaining four marines turned to face Macar, just as he slammed into them. The bulky carpet tilted, just before he struck, angling its spiked edge into the left marine's chest. The Solomon Carpet barely slowed, its impact crushing the marine's chest into a pulp, and sending him flying into the back of his brother. Macar struck for the neck of the marine on the right, but Hilketa, his enchanted sword, was bound to the soul of a different enemy, and was parried by the loyalist's own blade. Macar rained blow after blow on the defiant marine as his carpet abruptly halted in midair without affecting his balance between n the slightest, and eventually, he overwhelmed the loyalist's defenses, battering through his red helm to cleave into his skull. The flurry of strikes was lightning quick, but provided an instant for the loyalist's brothers to turn and react. Macar dodged a cut from another power sword, only to be left open for a follow up swing from the fourth marine's axe. The axe would have cut deep into his chest, but somehow, angled wide at the last moment, burying its head in a fleshy part of Macar's carpet. The two swordsmen flanked Macar in the wide corridor with practiced footwork, dividing his attention long enough for the axe wielding marine to surprise him. Instead of withdrawing his axe, the marine let go of its hilt, along with his pistol, and wrapped both arms around Macar's knees, attempting to tackle him off the Solomon Carpet. It was a suicidal move, the Marine had entangled himself, as well as Macar, and could not prevent him from sliding Hilketa into the back of his neck, but the Angel of Immolation knew that. His maneuver, which had to be countered, less Macar be dismounted, allowed the marine's brothers to strike from opposite angles, slashing through his ceramite plated back and chest, and leaving deep gashes in his torso. Macar had suffered enough wounds to know that these were serious, but not immediately fatal. All that mattered was the next few moments. Macar had gambled everything for this opportunity, and was not going to let these thinbloods stop him from reaching his destiny. He blew the head off one with a point blank shot from his pistol, and drove Hilketa through the other's vox grill.

Cleared of the honor guard, Macar stared at his nemesis, Lord Carrack down the corridor. Lord Carrack quickly glanced around, as if noticing for the first time the absence of his retinue. Lord Carrack, a practiced murderer, recognized the absence of witnesses, and what that entailed. He lowered his axe, and casually walked towards Macar, like two comrades who had survived a hallowing battle. In a way they were, but Macar was not so easily fooled by Carrack's nonchalance. He shot his lord in the chest with his plasma pistol. The weapon overheated, or seemed to. A blast of heat singed Macar's left side at the exact time he pulled the trigger, but the weapon still fired its eye-searing beam of energy. It still spun Lord Carrack around, leaving a burnt hole in his chest, and dropping him to a knee. Macar glanced down at the pistol, and it appeared unscathed. Then he saw the source of the heat that he thought was the temperamental weapon exploding. The wall on his left melted away, as a ball of blue fire flashed where it once stood. The explosion revealed an intersecting corridor, its doors once concealed in a fresco, and behind it was another Black Legionary, or what was left of one. +I AM KHARFUS+ announced the helbrute, as it charged headlong into Macar. Macar was stunned by the sudden intrusion, and unable to move in time to react to the circular saw, as big as a rhino's road wheel, that came cutting through his midsection. Macar watched his legs remain standing, still balanced on the Solomon Carpet, as his body fell to the floor. The helbrute Kharfus, didn't even stop at his death, just fired again into the opposite wall and ran through the hole he created into the next compartment, yelling his name out again, unless anyone forgot. +I AM KHARFUS+

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deathspectersgt7 · October 3, 2016

:D Coffe clean up in Aisle 3 .

Carrack · October 5, 2016

Stolen

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Crow watched the other thralls of the damage control gang gingerly step around the dead lord just beyond the blast doors, pressing themselves as far as they could against the walls to avoid the fallen legionary, then scurrying beyond to get past the corpse as fast as they could. Even dead, the legionaries held respect and fear amongst the thralls. Crow knew this to be wisdom, not mere superstition, the legionnaires typically had recording devices imbedded in their armor's sensory suites, and these were likely to be reviewed when recovered. Any scavenging of a legionary's corpse, was likely to be discovered, and brutally punished. The lords liked their examples. Crow knew though, that if carefully done, he could pilfer something and get away with it. He had been stealing since he had became a man. Crow had earned his name in the Old Ways of the Ursgatch tribe.

When he was but a boy, with a boy's name of Owl Pellet, the elders of the Greater White Bear, the Ursgatch, had sent him and the other boys into the wilderness, drunk off of Kefinog, into the frozen waste of Hell's Holdfast's North Pole, to retrieve an item from the den of their namesake and return to the tribe a man, or die trying. Crow had been the first to return to the tribe. He had secretly planned for the rite of passage long before. The ursgatch would leave their dens at the first hint of spring, hungry and violent, awoken by their bellies more than any slight change in temperature. Before long they would devour all game in the surrounding area, and venture closer to the shore, to eat their fill of seals. That was when Crow had struck. He had driven holes into the ice above three carefully selected empty dens with bull tusks, not completely through, but deep enough, and filled the holes with dried dung and lichen, wrapped in watertight sealskin. On the first night of his rite of passage, he had gone to one of these dens, creeping quietly and carefully, even masking his scent with bear scat he found along the path up to the den. Then, foregoing the luxury of flint and steel, he lit the first of the holes by rubbing wing bones together. It had taken almost an hour to get the fire lit, a heart racing hour wondering if the ursgatch' nose or ears would awaken it from hibernation. It didn't, and with one fire lit, he lit the others, then retreated. The den collapsed and killed the bear before it arose. Crow retrieved its paw, after digging it out from the suffocating ice.

When Crow had returned with the paw, and the story how he got it, the elders had begrudgingly given him his name. It was not unanimous, there were some who said he had cheated against the spirits, and his actions were not fitting of an Ursgatch Brave. Yet in the end, he hadn't violated the Old Ways, and was given his name and made a brave, but some were bitter, and his status in the tribe was the lowest of any brave, so Crow left the Ursgatch hunting grounds, and made his way south, to the realms of the Outsiders, eventually, all the way to their capital, Howler's Charn. All along his journey, he stole to support himself, and did the same in the spires of Howler's Charn. Until he himself was stolen, to serve aboard the mighty warship Bitter Revenge. Crow hadn't stopped stealing yet, and an opportunity like this couldn't be ignored.

Crow carefully creeped up to the fallen lord, an officer, judging by his terminator plate, keeping himself out of view of the dead legionary's helm. As he knelt down beside the lord who had been felled by a cross-cutting blow from collar to hip, Vander, the last thrall in the gang, came sneaking back to the compartment of the dead legionary. A life of thievery had taught Crow that witnesses at best would require payment. Crow slid his compact stub gun into his palm from its hiding place in his sleeve, and fired all four shots into Vander's questioning face. The small caliber rounds were relatively quiet, considering the noise of the burning and exploding engine decks, and they did their work before Vander had a chance to cry out. Crow was sure they were recorded by the dead legionary though, so he would have to make sure there was no record of him serving on this gang later. That meant killing the mate of the gang, so he quickly put four more hollow points into cylinders of his stub gun, and got back to the task at hand.

The dead lord was covered in gold, but most of it was worked into his armor, and would take a serious effort to retrieve. His combi-bolter was simply too big for Crow to conceal, and the staff still clutched in his gauntlet was as well. The staff looked valuable though, but it also looked like a badge of office, and Crow would have a hard time selling it. Crow pulled a pair of bolt cutters from his tool box and eyed a book that was chained to the legionary's waist. He had originally intended to cut some of the gold chains, which could easily be fenced, but the book looked special. He tried to ease the corps's arm up so he could get to the book, but the arm, an Astartes's giant arm, clad in the heaviest of armor, was more than he could lift, so he pried open a little gap between the arm and the torso with a crow bar, and extended the bolt cutters through the gap to cut the chain. The book fell to the floor in the pool of blood, and Crow extended his foot out, flicking open the spikes from the sole of his boot with his toe, and snagged the book away from its former owner. He shoved the book, after drying it on the lord's cape, into his box under some tools and went back out the entrance, looking for a side corridor to reconnect with his damage control gang.

Crow finally found a passageway to his gang, and could hear them cursing up ahead, but then an explosion rocked the ship. The explosion came from where his gang was working. He scrambled back to the muster point, stopping at a lectern by an auxiliary generatorum, to look over his loot. It was a heavy tome, bound in black sharkskin, with gold clasps and runes covering its cover. From the looks of it, and an eire feeling he got from touching it, it was a grimoire, and the warp-dabbling specialists of the ship would probably pay quite a bit for it. Crow had to know what he was holding though, and even though he could barely read low gothic, he opened the book and turned the page.

As soon as he touched the pages of the book, the dread Liber Apocal, he was attacked, not physically attacked, but spiritually attacked. The spirits of the book were as powerful as the greater white bear was physically, and Crow was overwhelmed. His soul, his essence, his consciousness, were pulled into the margins of the book as his body shrunk and flattened itself, then it too was pulled into the margins, a perfect little picture of his screaming form, trapped in a sorcerous tome, with no one but foolish and mad sorcerers for company, until the apocalypse that the book predicted came to be.

Carrack · October 10, 2016

Michael, it seems that the Wolves and lions hunt together again. Our priority is of course the mission. We can not let the traitors establish a new route from the Eye into the Realms of Man. However, I have a little side wager for you. The Wolves of my Great Company will slay more traitors than the lions of your company. I put four barrels of my finest mjod on who has the higher total kill count. You can put up four barrels of whatever passes for drink among your sort, and we will settle up when we take care of our customary after battle greetings. Try not to throw any sucker punches this time.

Engir Krakendoom, Sea Wolf of the Vilka Fenryka

-Message found in the waste bin of Company Master Michael's war council chamber.

Author's note.

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Carrack · October 10, 2016

Life Worth Living

Tancrean System, The Pillars of Fortitude, Defense Sector 24

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Gunne screamed with primal fury as Geirr, Gunne's land speeder, arrested its fall from the heavens with its contra-gravity suspension. Geirr almost crashed in a fiery death from the fall, stopping barely a meter from the mountainside, and tilting back over its back end until it was almost vertical. Only the well timed firing of Geirr's jets on full after burners kept the speeder from going completely over. Gunne didn't care, it would have been a glorious death. He opened up with the heavy bolter, stitching a line of bloody death along the column of heretics fleeing down the mountain. This was what Gunne lived for, cold wind rushing through his locks as he cheated death with an orbital plunge, followed by an abundance of enemies to his fore. As he paused for a moment so as not to overheat his heavy bolter, he leaned out of the cockpit to grin at his pilot, Balder. Balder of course said nothing, stoic whoreson that he was, he hadn't even removed his helm, to feel the battle the way a wolf should. Not dampened by his pilot's perpetually dour demeanor, Gunne walked another line of high caliber bolts through the column of fleeing mutants and cultists. This was the life, and his pilot could not take away his joy.

Balder may always be in a foul mood, but he was a decent enough pilot, and when he started in with the missiles of Geirr's typhoon launcher, he did so like an artist. Gunne didn't at first see the picture his pilot was painting, but when he did, he howled with joy. Balder had apparently missed the first several missiles, to Gunne's curses, not striking the mass of fleeing heretics. However, when his pilot's intentions became clear, Gunne could see that these wild shots, were in fact, striking a more cunning target higher up the mountainside, and they caused an avalanche of ice and rock to crash down on the renegades. The avalanche killed about a third of the heretics in the middle of their escape, and stranded another third above the sheer cliff that was left after its rough face crashed down on those below. The stranded cowards would have to fight the Sky Claws and Grey Hunters that had dropped on their artillery position at the top of the mountain, and chased the column off the position. The bottom third, they would serve as targets for Gunne's heavy bolter, and the remaining missiles from Balder's typhoon launcher. The slaughter was great. This was what Gunne lived for.

paulJam · October 10, 2016

Orbital drop in a land speeder, did i read that correctly?

Carrack · October 10, 2016

On 10/10/2016 at 6:23 AM, paulJam said:
Orbital drop in a land speeder, did i read that correctly?

Onto a side of a mountain no less. The most awesome way to deploy one. And according to http://warhammer40k.wikia.com/wiki/Land_Speeder a capability of the craft, and if it's on the internet, it must be true. :) also, some of the mountains of Tancrea reach into orbit, or are pretty close.

Carrack · October 10, 2016

Pride

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Gisco abruptly glanced at Brother Sergeant Mago across the troop compartment of the stormraven. The withdraw to their strike cruiser, Pyromania, had been a test of Gisco's patience. He and his three surviving battle brothers had sat and watched their squad leader communicate with the chapter over the closed command channel, knowing that they would not be briefed on the state of their chapter until the situation was developed, and time permitted. Gisco knew it would be bad, just not how bad. They had left the enemy vessel with half their number, and worse, their objective not attained. They had retreated. Gisco's silent, patient waiting, filled with concern for his brothers, had ended when Brother Sergeant Mago had opened a link for Gisco to the chapter's command channel.

The situation was dire. The heretics had taken the Angels of Immolation's flag. Ember was in the hands of the enemy. All surviving brothers were to rally aboard Pyromania and the ship was to disengage the battle and make an emergency jump to the warp. The Angels of Immolation were to regroup and reassess. They had lost the battle.

Gisco glanced at his nearest peer, Brother Bomlicar, seeking solace by sharing his shock and grief. Brother Bomlicar stared in silence, he obviously had not heard the reports and orders over the command channel. In confusion, Gisco looked over to his sergeant, who waved him off with a raised gauntlet as they listened to the last transmission of tragedy. Chapter Master Barcar had fallen. Gisco stuttered for first time in his life since the Tempering. Brother Sergeant Mago voxed over the squad channel, a moment after the death of their master was confirmed, "Brother Sergeant Gisco, you now have command of the squad." Brother Sergeant Gisco's voice responded, seemingly on its own, "As you command, Captain Mago." Gisco found no pride in his promotion, only grief at the circumstances of it. No doubt as had so many brothers before him, and so many other brothers would today.

Carrack · October 13, 2016

The Promise of a New World

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His world was ending. Lott initiated the Rites of Descent on sacred Conveyor Number 9 for the last time. All of his life, he had worked on this conveyor, bringing personnel and goods up and down from the decks of Bitter Revenge. His earliest memories were pushing buttons for the previous techno-drone assigned to this conveyor. Techno-drone Marg had been as a father to the children of the conveyor. Lott's maturity was marked by learning the mysteries of the conveyor under Marg's tutelage, the more common Rites of Descent and Ascent, but also the secret rituals of maintenance, and emergency prayers and protocols associated with battle damage and malfunction. He had learned these better than the other acolytes, save for the brother he had pushed down the shaft. When Marg had been poisoned, the techno-drone implants and title of Marg had been transferred to Lott. He became the Lord of Sacred Conveyor Number Nine.

Lott's reign was ending. Bitter Revenge was being scuttled. The damage inflicted to the engines by the backstabbing sons of the IX Legion had been serious. Given time, it might have been repaired, or so his surviving peers from the engine decks told him, but the lords of the Black Maw didn't have time, and they had seized a prize that was a more worthy flagship for the fleet of the warband. So the orders had been given, by no less than the Doom of Calebra Hive, Lord Carrack, to load as much as they could onto shuttles, and ferry it to Ember, the new flagship of the Black Maw. Sacred Conveyor Number Nine would remain.

Lott left his conveyor with his coven of assistants to scavenge the areas of the engine deck that were not yet burning. He hated to leave his conveyor, the decks of the ship were so unfamiliar, so static and enslaved to their position, it was as if they were perpetually stuck, and no Rites of Recommencement would move them. Still, Lott would need goods to barter when he established a new position on Ember, and the engine decks were no longer quarantined. He knew, for he had taken the last Astartes up to the assault decks after the phenomenon caused by the warp engines destruction had quieted. Less legionnaires ascended then descended. He would have to be carful.

Lott's coven went to work opening panels and removing components at control lecterns. He had directed them to gather the most portable wealth possible, but none of them had more than a rudimentary understanding of what they were doing. The thralls of his coven were trained in damage control procedures, but that mostly involved welding armored patches and containing fires. It was up to the gods if he was to be blessed with valuable salvage. Lott made the best assessments that he could, and directed his coven to the best of his ability, but his implants only allowed the most basic communion with Bitter Revenge's machine spirit, and that spirit was being transferred along with as much of the physical body of the ship as the crew could carry off.

As he directed a member of his coven to shut off a conduit at its containment valve, a harrowing scream sounded from further into the engine deck from Lott's conveyor. The scream was from one of his baritone chanters, and sounded particularly horrific as it dwindled off in volume. It was not the familiar scream of a thrall being electrocuted. Lott flicked the safety off of his shotgun and drew his cutlass, before heading towards the sound of the scream. Lott entered the chamber where the scream originated and saw no sign of his chanter. The chamber was empty, save for a control lectern attached to a reserve generatorum. At the foot of the lectern was one of his chanter's socket wrenches and duffle bag, along with two toolboxes from different work gangs. Upon the lectern was a heavy book laying open with heavy chains dangling from its gold clasps and binding. Power emanated from the book, power from the warp. This was Lott's reward for faithful service to the Weaver of Fate. Lott knew that such a book, obviously a grimoire, would earn him his choice of assignments on the new ship. Or should he keep it for himself, he could study its dark knowledge and gain true power. Lott sheaved his weapons and approached the lectern, drawn by the promise of great power the book seemed to be offering. Just as he stepped to the lectern, brazen horns blared across the ship, loud enough to be heard over the fires and explosions from deeper in the engine deck. The book would have to wait. Lott slammed it shut by its black sharkskin cover and secured the gold clasps. On doing so, he strangely breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe the dark secrets in the book should not be revealed so casually.

Lott tucked his prize in his robes and called his coven to return to the conveyor. His coven poured out their emotions in chanting the Rites of Ascent. The normally solemn rites sounded like a lamentation for a fallen lord. Tears streaked his covens faces as they left Sacred Conveyor Number Nine for the last time. Silence reigned in the cargo lighter as they left Bitter Revenge for a new world aboard the new flagship.

Carrack · October 14, 2016

Blessed Dreams

Tancrea, Defense Sector 20

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Ramone could barely stomach the greasy stew. Clouded ibex, a cloven hoofed beast with a wooly coat was the main ingredient, but the skinny animals had little meat on their bones by the time Ramone had discovered them huddled in the cave. The stew was more marrow and organ than meat, but truth be told, in his current condition he couldn't have stomached even a light salad of greens and na fruit. His overuse of stims and tranqs had run its coarse, and now he was in for a long night or three of suffering. Every part of his body save for his augmetics foot ached, his head pounded, he was sure he was feverish, and his intestines seemed to be twisting in warp-spawned knots, but he had to eat. He hadn't done so in days.

As he struggled to hold down the first couple spoonfuls of stew, he looked around the smoky cave at his huddled fighters, and saw that most were worse off then him. That was something anyway. He couldn't afford to let them think he was weak. Ramone let them wallow in their silent misery as he finished his stew. He had made sure he was the last to fill his mess cup, and that they had seen him waiting until each had got their share before he ate. It was a simple act, and he was sure the more jaded fighters knew it for being a show, but it would instill loyalty from his less experienced fighters, and he would need that. The less experienced ones were the ones he would have to worry about in the coming days.

Finished with his stew, Ramone slowly rose to his shaky feet, one real and one metal and hydraulics, trying to make his ginger movements appear deliberate. Ramone addressed his fighters, "Do not doubt that we are favored by the spirits. War Chief Mocus was boastful of the physical blessings the gods had bestowed on his mutants. He is dead. Magos Helveti was proud of the wealth of war machines at his disposal, yet he is dead as well. We live, because we are truly blessed. I have fought beside our lords, and have learned the ways of their loyalist opposites. They will wreck havoc on our fellow fighters of the Black Maw, those that aren't truly blessed, and then they will leave. When we have recovered, and had our fill of the most awful stew ever made, we will leave this cave and show the spirits that we are worthy of their protection."

Ramone sat back down against the cave wall, and pretended to drift to sleep. He listened to his fighters' mutterings. Most didn't say anything, other than to chuckle slightly at his critique of the stew, but that had served his purpose. He had lightened the mood, but more importantly, he had planted the seed that his fighters were special, better than those of the other warbands fighting in the Tancrean mountains. He had shown them a glimmer of hope in this dark hour. Ramone prayed it would be enough to keep them going, at least until he found a new source of chemical courage that would suffice for his own faltering faith.

Before sleep could overtake him, Ramone felt the first pangs of the price he would pay for his over indulgence in the Dark Prince's blessings. Just as he would settle into a less uncomfortable position on the stone floor, he would twitch and shake, then be unable to find that position again. It was a cycle that would have repeated itself over and over, but his body was beyond exhaustion, and eventually he was snoring with the rest of his fighters.

The dreams were horrendous. Every wrong he had ever done came back to haunt him. Not just the acts he had done here on the Pillars of Fortitude, but every act, from the first time he had poached a monkey as a boy on Fewood, was visited on him in his sleep. He was a witness to his damnation in the most vivid dreams he could imagine. As much as he tried to wake, he could not. He was sure he cried out, but nobody roused him. Just when he thought he couldn't bear anymore guilt and his heart would collapse under the weight of it all, his dreams changed.

The new dream started like the others, Ramone was reliving a moment of failure from his past. He was laid out on a wooden floor of a well appointed hunting lodge, with three basins of water near his feet. He was back on Odeanta when he had still had two feet. Then his dream changed. The beautiful barbarian girl who was about to thaw his frost bitten foot in the three basins, one of cold water, one of tepid, and one warm, was not as he remembered. She still had the high cheekbones and long braid wrapped around her throat like a scarf, and she was still as achingly beautiful, but one of her hands ended in a scissor claw of hard pink chiton. She said, "Ramone, you are truly blessed. This will be the last dream then you will sleep soundly. When you awake, I want to watch you play." Then the girl picked up his foot with her human hand and pushed the first basin closer with the claw. Ramone pleaded with her, "Not the basins, not my foot, please not my foot." The barbarian smiled at him. The beauty of that smile would never be equaled in Ramone's eyes. She whispered, "Well Ramone, if not the foot, how about a hand." Then she laughed like music, full of mirth and melody, before slicing off his right hand with her claw, still laughing as she faded away, leaving Ramone in agony. She had lied, he didn't sleep soundly, in fact he slept in utter agony as if the mutilation was real. When he finally awoke, he immediately looked to his hand. The pain was gone, but so was the hand. In its place was that same pink scissor claw. He wanted to cut someone with it.

Carrack · October 18, 2016

No Time for Meadows

Garland System, aboard Ember

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Harold went to the far left as the Chosen of Lord Carrack fanned out in the sprawling engine deck. The deck was a field of steel grate work, interrupted by hills of boilers at regular intervals. The hills were lined in patterns, three small secondary boilers 2 meters tall, followed by a trio of 4 meter primary boilers aft of the secondaries. Each line was linked by a bundle of conduits a meter in diameter. Most of the conduits had been melted through at various points by an industrial melta cutter if Harold had to guess. This was where the sabotage was taking place.

The thralls were working in gangs as they made the engines ready to accept the commands of Ember's new master. So many of the engines, and other vital systems of the battle barge had gone offline with the killing of the ship's loyal machine spirit and transplanting of the Bitter Revenge's corrupted spirit. Now the Black Maw crew were scrambling to get the newly claimed prize ready. They were making Ember ready to flee, an inauspicious first voyage for the warship under her new ownership. As the Black Maw was transferring its flag to Ember, a first legion strike cruiser had translated into the Garland System. The arrival of the Dark Angels' ship had rallied the fleeing Angels of Immolation strike cruiser Pyromania. Now with two strike cruisers bearing down on the fleet, and the guns and shields of Ember nowhere near battle ready, Lord Carrack had ordered the fleet to flee to the warp. However, with the crew working in gangs to bring the engines online, they were quickly bringing systems to operational status, then moving on to the next system en mass. It was the quickest way to get the ship ready for warp travel, but they hadn't counted on the sabotage.

The saboteurs were Angels of Immolation chapter serfs, and maybe a few marines, who had escaped the purging of the ship by taking refuge in the spaces between decks, and the abandoned and unused compartments that didn't show up on current schematics. It had been their ship, they knew her secrets. The surviving loyalists' guerrilla war would have been a minor inconvenience, but for the untimely arrival of the Dark Angels. Harold and the other Chosen of Lord Carrack led the hunt for the saboteurs.

Harold stalked along the conduit to the last large boiler in the starboard most line, then stopped abruptly lifting his non-firing hand to his helm as if he was listening to an important vox transmission. He wasn't, the only activity on the vox was Saint Tiam needlessly instructing Young Copil on how to properly conduct a grid sweep. Young Copil was remaining silent for now, acting like Saint Tiam wasn't antagonizing him. Harold brought his hand back to the heat guards of his flamer and abruptly turned about, no longer stalking, but purposefully marching back down the conduits.

When Harold reached the first large boiler in the line, he quickly ducked behind it and crouched down. He waited and listened. He remained where he was when Champion Paimun called the search clear and the other chosen left for the next deck. His bluff had payed off. A few minutes after the chosen had left, he heard sounds coming from within the last boiler in the line. Harold heard the manual service hatch of the last boiler opening. He stood up and walked back around the first boiler and saw three serfs in red and orange overalls climbing out of the last large boiler.

In fighting the Angels of Immolation, Harold had learned a begrudging respect for their skills with his own favored weapon, the flamer. The slaves of the Corpse God were economical with their flame weapons. They didn't waste a drop of promethium, and covered the largest area with each gout of fire. They were scientists when it came to use of a flamer. Harold was an artist. He wasted copious amounts of fuel as he squeezed down on the trigger and played the flames into the saboteurs, relishing their fear as they froze in surprise before being burnt to cinders. He didn't stop when they were neutralized either, he continued to play the flames into the open service hatch of the boiler, to burn any stragglers that might be hiding inside.

Immensely pleased with himself at his clever ruse, Harold walked over to inspect his artwork as he informed Paimun of his success. He kicked the ashes of the saboteurs looking for a bit of skull to offer up to the Skull King. He wanted to bank a few extra offerings before Ember dove into the Sea of Souls. He didn't find a fragment large enough to offer, but as he searched the pile before the boiler, he heard movement from inside it. Harold thrust his weapon into the hatch and sprayed a gout that would fill the boiler with flames, but in homage to his enemies, cut the flames short, just enough to do the job. He shouldn't have. As he stuck his head through the service hatch, sure he would find an offering to Khorne inside, he saw the last saboteur.

The last saboteur was in bad shape. Really bad, but still clung tenuously to his life. The only reason he hadn't been killed outright was his fire retardant apron and welders mask protecting his vitals, and a crude augmetic arm. The rest was charred meat. However, that arm, with its casing burned away and exposed pistons and machinery, held the industrial melta cutter the saboteurs had used to damage the engines. Harold tried to pull his head back out of the boiler as his non-firing hand prepped a frag, but the saboteur had been holding on to life for one purpose. The saboteur ignited the melta cutter and sent its burning beam into Harold's head. Harold's helmet was little protection against the cutting beam of high intensity heat. Half his face, including his right eye melted away in agony as his brain started to cook in his skull. He fell to the ground thrashing as neurons fired randomly from his damaged brain to the rest of his body. Strangely, he smelled rain on a pristine meadow. Harold had no time for meadows. He had to kill the bastard that maimed him, the fuse on the frag was counting down. Rage took over, and in spite of his wild and uncontrolled movements, he managed to lob the grenade into the boiler. He blacked out before it exploded.

Carrack · October 20, 2016

The Tempering

Aboard Ember, after the Battle of Garland System.

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Gaboc had nothing left. His muscles had become aching jelly. His hands bled and his eyes had cried the last of his tears. The chapter he served had been defeated. The fires of the Angels of Immolation had been extinguished. His master, the master of his chapter, Barcar, had fallen. Gaboc had seen the headless body of his beloved master lying prone on the deck of the great spinal corridor. He fell to his knees, as much from the shock of remembering that awful sight as physical exhaustion. The Shield slipped from his bloody hands and clanged off the deck, coming to rest with its polished but gouged boss reflecting an image of his hollow face. It was an image of failure and defeat.

Gaboc had known crushing defeat before. He had failed the Tempering. As a boy on distant Punicia, he had been selected to prove himself worthy of joining the Angels of Immolation. He had won the race across Carth Ridge. Hundreds of boys, from as far off as the Kalim desert, had taken part in the race. Only Gaboc and the eleven fastest had been deemed worthy of The Tempering. Most of the racers had fallen early, some to thrown rocks from their competitors, others to the treacherous paths of the ridge. Most of those had survived to return to their homes with broken bones and stories to tell of how close they had come to becoming legend. The boys that had made it further into the wild ridge had to contend with the Carth lions that hunted the ridge. A broken leg, or an exhausted heart was not just failure, but fatal. The circumstances were similar to what Gaboc faced now. He was racing to abandon his master's ship, and he was hunted. Gaboc hadn't seen his hunters aboard Ember, like he never saw the lions on Carth Ridge, but he knew they were following. He could feel it. Gaboc thought of that race and found some hidden reserve within himself, and rose to his feet. He cranked open the last hatch that led to the salvation pod and picked up the heavy shield at his feet. The airlock in between the hatch and the pod was burning. Gaboc was to endure a second Tempering. Hopefully he would have the fortitude to endure this one.

There had been no respite after that race across Carth Ridge. He had crossed the finish line and been ushered into the fortress monastery of the Angels of Immolation. Gaboc remembered the awe he felt at that moment of being in the presence of the holy Angels for the first time. They had ignored his stammering and handed him an enormous sword blade without a hilt. Like the Shield in his hands now, it had been heavy, and cut his hands to hold it. The blade had been meant to cut though, the Shield was not. However it's grip was designed for a marine's armored gauntlet, and like the blade, not meant for bare hands. The blade was but part of the test, Gaboc was ordered to carry the blade across the foyer of the fortress monastery that had been covered in burning coals. If he made it across with the blade, he would join the Angels of Immolation as an aspirant brother. Gaboc had fallen halfway, unable to carry on through the pain of his burning feet. After being taken to the apothecarium and healed, Gaboc had been given the opportunity to serve the chapter as a serf. He had done so honorably, but not a day had passed that he didn't think of his failure, and what it cost him. Now he had a second chance.

Gaboc stepped into the burning airlock, damaged by the battle that had taken the chapter's flagship. His delay at the hatch had allowed his hunters to close. In spite of the battle damage to the airlock, the salvation pod looked intact. Gaboc ran as fast as his burden allowed. Flames licked his head from the burning ceiling, catching his hair afire. He kept moving. His hunters were close. Strangely, in spite of the flames of the burning airlock, flies swarmed his body and the Shield he bore. More flames burnt his shoulder and caused him to stumble just as he heard his hunters reach the hatch. The strange flies were unaffected by the flesh searing flames. Gaboc wanted to fall, to give in to his exhaustion and pain, but he could not. He dove for the salvation pod with the last ounce of drive he had, and slammed the red button that was the pod's only control. His hunters screamed as the pod's door slammed shut and the pod rocketed out of its berth into the void. Gaboc had endured his second Tempering.

Carrack · October 23, 2016

Prayers

Aspis, Subsector Seat

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Lord Aspis wanted to dismiss his uncle's advice. He wanted to remain in his palace proper, not borrow into the bunker deep beneath its hallowed halls. He wanted to disbelieve the messages that the Angels of Immolation had been defeated in battle. He wanted to believe that their flagship, the battle barge Ember, was returning to his subsector's seat as a victorious savior, not an enemy seeking his home world's destruction. Most of all, Lord Aspis wanted the countless hours he had spent in prayer to be answered. Faith was sustaining him through the invasion of the Black Maw, but his faith was faltering with the mounting woes.

His uncle, Lord Marshall Mallet, told him bluntly that he would have him carried to the bunker if he didn't go on his own. Lord Aspis wasn't even sure his uncle was jesting. As they left the war room, his uncle gave him a sliver of hope that seemed to be an answer to his prayers. He grasped at that sliver for all it was worth. He had a duty to the subjects that he ruled in His name, and as long as a single one yet lived, he couldn't afford to despair.

Lord Aspis's uncle and chief military advisor informed him that all was not lost. Ember was coming, and was definitely helmed by the Arch-Enemy, but this was not to be the final battle for the subsector that he was charged with defending. The enemy fleet was formidable, but so were the defenses of his subsector seat, and if given time, the heretics could invest Aspis. Lord Aspis's prayers had been answered by an unexpected ally that had come to his world's salvation. The Emperor's Angels of Death had come to shield his world in His protection, Angels of ice, not flame. The Space Wolves had sent a fleet to bring His holy wrath to the heretics. Caught between the pursuing Wolves and Aspis's guns, the heretics would not have time to whittle away his system's defenses enough to land an invasion. However, they did not immediately withdraw either, and were making a pass through the system with the Space Wolves in pursuit. Lord Marshall Mallet informed him that the heretics would make a pass outside of the range of most of the orbital defenses, and would surely rain fire down on them as they did. It would be a punishing barrage, but not a fatal one. It would be penance for Lord Aspis's lack of faith.

Side by side, the subsector commander and his lord marshall entered the crisis control room of the bunker. Lord Aspis waved off the crisp salutes of the officers and men in the room as his uncle received the latest report. Lord Aspis gave up on trying to follow the acronym and jargon laden report about trajectories, optimal firing windows, and atmospheric conditions, and settled in by a bank of view screens of his capital city. He began to pray as he watched the screens. The bells were ringing, but this was not a joyous occasion. Lord Aspis's subjects were scrambling for bomb shelters and void shielded buildings. He was pleased with how many had been able to find refuge in his palace. The grandiose building would do more this day than drain his family's treasuries with upkeep and needless expansions. The guildhalls, noble estates, and cathedrals had opened their doors too, some only at his personal command. He felt pride and shame as he saw an old woman enter his palace carrying a framed portrait of himself. He felt pride that he had done what his advisors had assured him was unprecedented and improper, in order to ensure as many would survive this attack as possible. He felt shame that it was not nearly enough.

Lord Aspis saw a lull in the activity that was swirling around his uncle and signaled him over. He said, "Uncle, we should address the men and women who will be firing the guns." His uncle immediately agreed and set a communication officer to the task. The com officer raised his hand to show the link was opened, and Lord Marshall Mallet rested a hand on Lord Aspis's shoulder and said, "Make it short my lord, these people have an important task at hand." Lord Aspis was reassured by his uncle's hand, it was a familiar contact that was a rarity for someone of his station, it was technically illegal, but so very welcomed at this crucial moment.

Lord Aspis spoke, "I am Lord Aspis, and I have been praying for you. The whole world has been praying for you. Our world must survive, or our subsector will fall. You are the shield that guards the Shield. You must remain strong, and fire true. The Emperor Protects." Lord Marshall Mallet followed with a brief message, "Give em hell!" Cheers sounded before the link was cut.

Carrack · October 24, 2016

Donning the Black

Aspis System

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Commander Sallow watched the heretics' fleet shift into an echelon left formation with the stolen battle barge Ember at point. Sallow reiterated to his bridge to hold his gunboat, Main Gauche, in position. No matter the enemy's plan of attack, Sallow's orders were to remain in low orbit, and dissuade the heretics from approaching Aspis too closely. It was a pragmatic defense, one that would allow the heretics to bombard the surface of Aspis at range, but not allow them to get close enough to bring their full firepower to bear on the well defended world. It was a sound strategy given the might of the heretics' fleet, and the formidable defenses of the capital world Sallow was defending. With the pursuing Space Wolf fleet, the enemy would only get one pass on Aspis, and it wouldn't be a protracted run. Sallow's orders had counted on this, and the planetary defense command had assumed that the Black Maw would make the most of their pass while staying outside the range of the surface to orbit guns, and not risk being damaged to the point of allowing the Wolves to close and engage. Yet this formation was not suitable to the expected tactics of the enemy. An echelon right would bring the bombardment cannon of the enemy flagship within range of the surface of Aspis, but a left echelon would keep her cannon out of range. Commander Sallow doubted the enemy was making a mistake though.

After twenty minutes, Commander Sallow received a communique from his squadron's commodore. Commodore Beaumont had reiterated their previous orders, just as he had with his bridge. Commodore Beaumont had also linked in an auspex feed from the scout boat Auditor Rex. Auditor Rex was a customs prosecution vessel that had been commandeered for the planetary defense fleet. Her up-engine modifications, and sophisticated auspex suites were equally suited to her role as a scout boat as they were at chasing down smugglers. Commander Sallow ordered the feed displayed on the primary screen for all his bridge to see.

The heretics were passing Aspis's sun. The enemy flagship, still in orange and red heraldry, was widening its gap between the rest of her fleet. She was drawing closer and closer to the sun. The rest of the fleet of the Black Maw began firing to their left, 16 shots each, in sequence. They were firing into the empty void. It was ceremonial fire, and Sallow couldn't help but be impressed by its stately timing. Were they honoring the defenders before battle? Unlikely.

After the 16 gun salute, Ember dove towards the sun. She passed by the star closely, surely straining her engines and hull with the sun's gravity. Auditor Rex briefly lost view of Ember as she rolled through the heat near the sun on her dive. The feed picked up and showed that Ember hadn't even engaged her shields during her near suicidal pass. Ember emerged from the heat and pull of the sun blackened by the fire. She no longer flew the colors of the Angels of Immolation, Ember was black, like her warband and her legion.

Carrack · October 25, 2016

Eyes to See

Aspis System, Subsector Seat

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Kadesh crushed the eyeball in his gauntlet. He had enacted a ritual to catch a glimpse of the future within the pupil of the eyeball, but was granted no such vision. He was as blind as the plucked eye, about the success of his next endeavor. Kadesh was not optimistic. Lord Carrack was punishing the legionnaires that once followed Captain Macar for the failed assassination attempt during the Battle of Garland. Kadesh was a champion of such a squad, and while he was complicit in the assassination attempt, there was no proof that would have given his lord the opportunity to outright execute him. Lord Carrack's power was considerable, but if he blatantly abused it, the rest of the warband would abandon him at the first opportunity. So instead of beheading Kadesh and the other conspirators, Lord Carrack was sending three squads from Macar's company to insert themselves on the surface of Aspis during his bombardment run of the planet. They were to wage war behind enemy lines, and disrupt command and control of the subsector from its capital. So as not to appear as an obvious execution order, Lord Carrack's battle plan had come with the promise of Macar's sword and captaincy to the ranking survivor of the mission. In order to be such a survivor, Kadesh and the others had to see to its success, for if the invasion of the subsector failed, they would be left marooned.

Although Kadesh's patron god had granted him no vision in the plucked eyeball, he hadn't completely abandoned Kadesh either. The Great Schemer was working through the other officers of the Black Maw. The Voice of the Black Maw, Lavam, had come to Kadesh after the battle plan was disseminated, and given him names and signs that could be used to contact cultists that he had corrupted on Aspis. Lavam had hopes of using Kadesh as a check on Lord Carrack's power, but any help, no matter the strings attached, was welcomed. Likewise the Chain Maker had given him a complete firing solution for the coming bombardment, and two data spikes. One had a series of the warp smith's own override litanies, and the other housed a machine virus of his own concoction. The Chain Maker had given no explanation for his motives in assisting Kadesh, and Kadesh had not asked. Clearly the two officers' scheming was a blessing from Kadesh's patron, the Master of Schemes.

The assistance of Lavam and the Chain Maker was not the only sign of Tzeentch's favor for Kadesh. Another officer of the Black Maw was unknowingly helping him from beyond the veil. Lythane the Black, the former equerry to Lord Carrack, had fortuitously gotten himself cut down on a burning engine deck of Bitter Revenge. His body, and more importantly, his grimoire, had been abandoned with the ship. Only grimoires like Lythane's Liber Apocal were not so easily lost. They had power, corrupting power that resonated through the warp and called to their victims. Such damned texts were meant to be read and had a way of being discovered if lost. One of the salvage teams had found it and kept it for themselves, almost. Once the flag had been transferred from Bitter Revenge to Ember, the salvage team had made discreet inquiries for arcanists and warp dabblers experienced with deciphering profane texts. Some of these were to thralls owned by Macar's company. Kadesh had tracked down the source of these inquiries and found the salvage team, reeling from one of the many recent skirmishes over positions aboard the new flagship. Kadesh had dispatched the survivors, and retrieved the dreaded Liber Apocal from their coven leader, techno drone Lott, being careful not to open the book. It now rested in a leather bag hanging from a chain around his neck. It called to him. The book promised power, but Kadesh knew its curse and resisted. The power of the grimoire was of a magnitude beyond what Kadesh was comfortable handling routinely. It would take time and careful study before Kadesh even dared to call the books daemonic page turner, time he didn't have, for the first test was at hand.

The first test would be if Kadesh's squad would even reach the surface. Kadesh was to insert via dreadclaw during the bombardment. Aspis's orbital and ground based defenses would be doing their best to prevent the landing, and at the very least, would likely notice the dreadclaws even if they didn't shoot them out of their skies. The bombardment itself would pose a risk as well, even if some gun crew wasn't ordered to eliminate Kadesh in the fog of war, making planetfall in the midst of a bombardment was a risky endeavor. Kadesh was not going to take the chance of making planetfall in the dreadclaw. He reconfigured the landing solution to the dreadclaw using the Chain Maker's overrides as they waited in the assault bay. Kadesh's squad watched him countermand their ordered launch solution as they readied their weapons and restraints for launch. They said nothing, betraying their loyalty to his command rather than the commands of their lord. Kadesh knew they would remain loyal to him and their god over their lord and his.

The dreadclaw screamed out of the launch bay towards the planet below, then veered sharply to the aft of Ember. Kadesh cut the friend-or-foe transponder as the dreadclaw ducked behind the battle barge, then angled towards the outer perimeter of the fleet's formation. The turret gunners of the fleet were vigilant, yet their focus was on craft entering their formation, not leaving it. Likewise, the Imperial scout boat, Auditor Rex, was busy relaying the Black Maw fleet's bombardment trajectories to the Aspis surface, and didn't notice the dreadclaw approaching till it was too late. Auditor Rex's turret cannons only got one salvo off on Kadesh's dreadclaw before it boarded her. By the will of Tzeentch, the turret cannon shot high and wide.

Tzeentch's blessings didn't end with evading the defensive fire of Auditor Rex. The dreadclaw slammed into the scout boat midship only a few dozen meters from her bridge. Kadesh's unquestioning squad made short work of the scout boat's before seizing the nearby bridge. Kadesh himself relieved the boat's captain by biting out his throat with the lamprey-like mouth growing from the stump that was his left hand. His squad cowered the surviving bridge crew with a few bone crunching blows from boltguns and fists. Silence rained on the stunned bridge until Kadesh commanded, "By all means officers, continue relaying bombardment trajectories to the surface." Kadesh was certain the captured crew would slip in a distress code with their relays, if they hadn't done so already, but he needed time and a steady stream of communication to proceed with his plan. As he waited, he reached down with his unmutated hand, and plucked an eye from Auditor Rex's previous captain's face.

Carrack · October 26, 2016

Aspis Sub, the Short Version

-Quill and Glass, A tavern outside of the Administratum Tower on Crypa Mundi, Segmentum Obscuras.

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Adept Clovis plopped his paunch down at his usual stool next to Adept Verance and asked, "What did I miss?" Verance ordered up his usual seven year amasec and replied, "You were there at the briefing, why do you need me to fill you in? Clovis waved the barkeep over and looked crestfallen when the man shook his head. The barkeep poured Clovis a well amasec instead of his usual Constantine Vintage, and replied, "You know I can't concentrate when Adept Barquess is giving the briefings." Verance looked at him incredulously, but it was true, it was outright scandalous how Barquess's vestments were tailored. Clovis wondered briefly what errors he had committed over the years because of his inability to concentrate whenever Barquess had given briefings. He was sure some backwater world's peasants had been double tithed at the very least. He washed away his momentary guilt by downing the glass in front of him. Verance gave him the short version of the morning briefing.

"Well for one Clovis, you would have learned why your usual vintage has become so hard to come by. The briefing was on the situation in the Aspis sub, you know, one of those State of War or Calamity Fundamental Fact Report blah, blah, blah" This peeked Clovis's interest as the barkeep refilled his glass. His usual wine was imported from the Aspis sub, and Clovis felt the distance his grapes traveled from their vines to his gut made him appear sophisticated, but its mediocre quality still commanded a price he could afford on a clerk's stipend. Verance continued, "The Aspis sub had come under attack by the Arch-Enemy." Clovis immediately downed his second glass, and tried to appreciate its qualities. This news did not bode well for the Constantine Vinyards. Verance gave him the short version.

"Heretic forces designated as the Black Maw warband of the Black Legion punched a hole in the Pillars of Fortitude's orbital defenses. They then landed an army of savages and mutants, you know the usual sort, which have kept the fortress world from closing a temporary passage to the Eye of Terror." Other patrons of the tavern were making excuses to leave the bar, as Verance casually used forbidden, and no doubt classified names. The barkeep gave them the hush signal and refilled Clovis's glass. Verance went on, "The Black Maw went on from the Pillars to raid across the sub, crippling the Venicus Shipyards and corrupting the agri world of Calimyr." Clovis had never heard of Calimyr, but had seen the name Venicus Shipyards a time or two in his reports. He drank to their demise nonetheless, too bad for the dirt farmers and forge menials, but at least there would be a few less Tithe Production Summary (TPS) reports for a while.

Verance didn't stop there, he said, "The Black Maw then attacked Lemish, and unearthed the Magellous Vaults, whatever that is. Records were sparse on the contents of the vaults, it was either virus bombs or ration packs number 7, meaty gruel with added protein. About this time the Angels of Immolation chapter of Adeptus Astartes answered a call for aid from the subsector commander. Our fellow Adeptus brought their fleet to battle the Black Maw's at the Gundrum System. No, that's not right, some System that starts with a G, anyway, The Angels of Immolation lost the battle and their flagship."

The thought of eating meaty gruel with added protein made Clovis knock back another amasec, and another one once that was refilled. Then Verance, now grinning, lightened his dark mood, "Now for the good news Clovis. It appears our fellow Adeptus, only of the Astartes persuasion, have taken on the mantle of relieving the Aspis sub. That means we won't have to requisition materials and men for a crusade, the Space Marines are handling it for us. So other than your favorite beverage running dry, we won't be bothered by this invasion in our lifetime."

Clovis bought another round or three to thank Verance for paying attention and to celebrate the space marines, they were true heroes of the Imperium. He then thanked Verance and cleared his tab, taking one for the road. Clovis left the tavern and stumbled his way back to the Administratum to reach his lectern before his lunch hour ended.

Author notes.

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Carrack · October 28, 2016

Searching

Garland I

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Brother Sergeant Gisco looked over his squad as the drop pod fell from the heavens. This was to be his first mission in command of the squad, his squad now. The abstract weight of responsibility seemed almost enough to overcome the real weightlessness in the pod as the squad, his squad, fell to the surface of Garland I. Gisco went through the normal routines of a drop, checking coms for the third time, reviewing mission parameters and intelligence reports, and watching the auspex of the landing zone, but was not afforded the normal few exchanges of banter with his brothers. That time was spent observing his squad's checks, ensuring that they were doing what he had done so many times before. Of course they did, the were the Emperor's Finest.

The drop pod fired its retro thrusters and barely arrested its plunge before slamming into the desert. The doors blew open into a cloud of sand and dust so thick it obscured even Gisco's enhanced vision. With practiced precision, Gisco's squad fanned out into a wedge as they began to run north. As soon as they cleared the dust cloud caused by the drop pod, Gisco signaled to Brother Bomlicar to take his team to search the secondary objective. Gisco led his team towards the primary. Brother Bomlicar, still toting the squad's multimelta, took four battle brothers to search the vicinity of the downed salvation pod. The salvation pod was the last to leave their flagship, Ember, and had broadcasted its beacon on arrival to the surface, along with the ident code of one of its occupants. Chapter Serf Gaboc, an armor attendant for the former Chapter Master Barcar, had been aboard the salvation pod. Codicier Milkherem, now the Chief Librarian of the surviving Angels of Immolation, had received a psychic premonition that the serf had something of great importance with him. Bomlicar was to go search the salvation pod, and Gisco was to search the grid coordinates where the portable beacon from the salvation pod's survival pack had transmitted its one recorded distress call. Gisco only had 95 minutes to recover Gaboc, any other serfs aboard the pod, and whatever they were carrying that Milkherem had sensed. After that point, extraction would not be possible for the foreseeable future, as Pyromania was leaving the system to assist the Dark Angels attack on Tancrea. Brother Captain Mago had ordered Gisco to recover the serf and his prize regardless of the timeline.

The Angels of Immolation were not the only ones hunting the serf in the Garland desert. A Storm Eagle had been spotted leaving Ember before the heretics fled with their stolen flagship to the warp. The Angels of Immolation had no such craft in their bays. The ancient assault craft had dropped several jump pack equipped traitors to the surface, near the salvation pod, and then disappeared in the flotsam and debris of the Garland orbit. The heretics' interest had confirmed Milkherem's premonition. Something was here that the heretics were willing to indefinitely maroon their traitor marines over.

Gisco slowed his combat squad as they approached the primary objective. It looked to be a taller dune than the others in the area, but the wind was cutting it down for having the audacity to stick its head up in this cruel desert. It was a good position to send a signal on a distress beacon, unblocked by other dunes to reach the broadest range of its transmitter. Gisco gave the order to circle the dune from the right. As his marines followed him, untroubled by the shifting sand with their power armor assisted and enhanced physiques, he received a vox from Brother Bomlicar. The salvation pod had landed intact and was abandoned. Only one set of restraints had been used in its flight. A stretcher, the survival pack and extra water had been taken from the pod, and the medipack had been ransacked. Judging by what had been missing from the medipack, gauze, antibiotic / antiseptic / healing ointments, and plastiflesh spray, the serf had suffered severe burns. The enemy had found the pod first, although there was no signs of struggle, other than that the pod's internal beacon had been shredded by a lightning claw.

Brother Sergeant Gisco completed his circle of the tall dune finding no sign of Gaboc. The desert was quick to wipe away footprints and traces of passage, even those of Gisco's, whose feet sunk deep with the weight of his massive body and heavy armor, were gone in minutes. Gisco signaled Bomlicar to reform the squad, and then led his squad up the dune. From the height of the dune he saw a vast desert that was devoid of features, just dunes after dunes. Two things gave him hope in his mission. The first was the rising sun. It was painting the desert in oranges and reds, his chapter's colors, and Gisco could not ignore that. The second source of inspiration came from one area to the northwest. Their, the loose sand gave way to rockier, but still sandy terrain. That would be where Gaboc would have gone. A burned serf, likely carrying a heavy burden in a stretcher like a travois, would be looking to find real cover from the rising sun, and any enemies that might be pursuing him.

Gisco led the squad, his squad, towards the rocky ground at a pace timed to allow Brother Bomlicar to join him before they reached it. As his complete squad first stepped into the rocky area, a light streaked across the morning sky. Gisco signaled Pyromania and fanned out his squad into a wedge at search pattern interval. Near simultaneously, he received to voxes. The first from Brother Shafat, had reported the discovery of tracks, two grooves on the ground consistent with a stretcher being dragged by a man. The other was from his captain. Brother Capitain Mago told him that a Dark Angels drop pod was falling to the surface, and was projected to land near the downed salvation pod. Gisco adjusted his squad's formation to allow Brother Shafat to take the point tracking Gaboc, and began voxing the Dark Angels, using all common frequencies delineated in the Codex Astartes. Finally he received a short reply from one of them who didn't bother to identify himself, "You have your orders Sergeant Gisco, I have mine, stay out of our way and cease communication. Dark Angels Out."

Carrack · October 31, 2016

Rain Brings Flowers

Aspis High Orbit, Subsector Seat

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The slaves of the Corpse God put up an umbrella of fire in a vain attempt to keep Lord Carrack from bombarding their world. Some of the defenders fired precision missiles, guided by suicide servitors and advanced targeting arrays to shoot down incoming ordinance. Others just lobbed macrocannon shells up into orbit with nothing but prayers that they would get in the way of his incoming munitions. Both the few accurate shots and the plenty inaccurate ones failed to completely stop the hell the Black Maw rained down on Aspis. The slaves had taken other measures as well, drastic measures such as bulk carriers unloading holds of ore into orbit above the subsector seat. Tugboats had repositioned the ore into a blanket of brigandine over their world. It was a threadbare blanket that did little to keep the storm at bay, and would eventually fall upon the world it was supposed to cover. Ember's bombardment cannon found its way between the chunks of metal, and the lances of the fleet cut right through them.

Still, in spite of Lord Carrack's desires, Aspis would not burn today. She would singe and smolder, but she would not be consumed with the fires of his fleet. Lord Carrack could not approach the well defended world close enough to bring his broadsides to bear, and the pursuing Wolves would not allow him the time to take apart the orbital and ground based defenses for him to safely close. Lord Carrack knew this was to be the case, but pounded away at the world with his long range weapons anyway. He wanted to let the slaves of the Corpse God know that nowhere was safe from his wrath, and to symbolically strike at the very heart of the subsector, even if it wasn't to be a mortal blow. He knew the sounds of this bombardment would echo across the subsector, and weaken the resolve of its defenders, while bolstering that of his own forces.

Lord Carrack's forces needed bolstering. He could tell by the demeanors of the officers of the warband on his bridge. His newest Champion of his Chosen, Paimun, was quiet, and kept angling to move closer to him, all the while watching the other legionnaires on the bridge. It was as if he was sure an assassination attempt would occur at any moment. Lord Carrack's warpsmith, the Chain Maker, was muttering to himself in several different voices, his fragile grasp on sanity seemed to be slipping. Claiming Ember for the Black Maw had strained his talents, pushing them to their limits. Even now, the Chain Maker was having to make adjustments to the firing solutions of the bombardment with unfamiliar systems. The warpsmith had argued for Lord Carrack to careen the new flagship at the very least, or better yet, haul her into a port for refitting, but Carrack couldn't pass the opportunity to strike at the subsector seat after his victory over the Angels of Immolation. If the Wolves hadn't shown up, he could have dealt a decisive blow to the Imperium in this subsector. Lavam was the only other officer present, and the only one acting normal. The dark apostle was sending a series of coded messages to the covens, cultists, and agents he had seeded on the world below. As he sent his messages, he chanted praises to the Dark Gods for allowing the Black Maw to strike the unbelievers where they thought they were safe. Typical of Lavam, quick to credit the gods for the successes of Lord Carrack or others, yet equally quick to take credit himself when his own plans came to fruition. Lord Carrack tolerated it, the blessings of the gods were his, any praise of them, was praise of him, for he ruled with their favor.

More troubling than the demeanor of the officers present on his bridge, was the absence of those not present. Lythane the Black was dead, and while Lord Carrack didn't mourn his loss, his former equerry had been installed by Abaddon himself to keep the warband loyal to the Black Legion. Not only would Lord Carrack have to explain Lythane's death, but the Warmaster would surely take new measures to keep the Black Maw in line. Lord Carrack had hated Lythane, but he knew the sorcerers purpose. There was no telling what steps Abaddon would take now that Lythane was dead. Then there was the absence of Captain Garaduk One Eye, who had left Ember after the battle without permission or even informing Lord Carrack of what he was doing. Most of Garaduk's company remained, so it was unlikely that the walking fly nest had simply struck out on his own. However, whatever the Nurglite was up to, was certainly not in Lord Carrack's best interest.

Lord Carrack thrust aside his brooding thoughts on the machinations of his officers, and enjoyed the view of fire blossoming like flowers on Aspis below. Red flowers of atomics and massive high explosive shells bright enough for him to see with the naked eye bloomed with his fleet's passing.

Carrack · October 31, 2016

The Second Storm

Aspis Palace District

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Lord Aspis stepped into the streets before the first of the crowds came out of their shelters to survey the damage. It was extensive. The palace district, in spite of its higher concentration of void shields, had born the brunt of the orbital bombardment. The open market before the main entrance was naught but rubble and craters. It was eerily quiet walking through the devastated market. Lord Aspis picked his way through it to the Shield Way, feeling the hairs on his head and arms prickle as his rad shielding fired up from its belt emitter. He mumbled a prayer, not for his own protection, but for his subjects who would have to make do with lesser protections than his advanced shielding, or no protection at all.

By the time Lord Aspis reached the Shield Way, the boulevard that went from his palace to the Sacred Cathedral of His Holy Shield, the crowds of survivors had started to trickle out of their shelters to witness the extent of the destruction. The dusty survivors stared at him in bewilderment, coughing and occasionally becoming sick, before reverently dropping to their knees and joining him in prayer. It was amazing, the show of faith of his subjects. A sea of kneeling men, women, and children, that only parted for their lord commander. That wasn't entirely the case, though. Lord Aspis was not alone. He never was truly alone. Lord Aspis's personal guard, the Silver Shields, were shadowing him discreetly in plainclothes, as discreetly as big men with armor and hellguns under their robes could.

Lord Aspis paused in sight of the Sacred Cathedral of His Holy Shield's steps to allow a matron to grasp at his robes. He shouldn't have. As the sobbing matron dried her tears on the hem of his robes, Lord Aspis was momentarily overwhelmed by her grief. He should have done more to protect his subjects. If only he had founded more regiments, been stricter with war time rationing, maybe he could have prevented this matron's suffering. Tears came unbidden to his face as the matron's medal caught on a jutting piece of rebar exposed by the bombardment. The medal snapped off its chain his own spiraling grief and doubt broke with it. He looked up and saw that a commotion near the steps of the cathedral was drawing the attention of his Silver Shields.

Perhaps it was a crowd of subjects eager to touch his robes that had jostled each other in the press. Perhaps it was his Silver Shields looking to clear a path to the cathedral, anxious about their exposed lord. Maybe it was worse, maybe not all of his subjects were joining Lord Aspis in prayer. Maybe they were some who blamed him for the bombardment. In any event, pushes were accompanied by shouting, and they soon devolved into punches and curses. The Silver Shields attempted to settle the commotion quickly with rifle butts and arm breaking take downs, but they only succeeded in escalating the violence. The violence spread as his faithful subjects rushed to the scene, eager to fight for their lord. They unleashed their fears from their harrowing time in the crowded shelters on each other with maddened rage. Lord Aspis looked on in shock as his subjects tore each other apart, until a chunk of masonry struck his brow and reminded him of his own peril.

Lord Aspis clicked the vox amplifier built into one of his medallions to address the crowd. He was sure he could get their attention long enough for them to realize they were not enemies. Before he could even get a word out, two of his Silver Shields roughly grabbed him by the arms and began to hustle him towards the cathedral doors. The cardinal's Adeptus Sororitas had deployed to the steps, waiting to usher Lord Aspis to safety once he stepped foot on Ministorum ground. As he was practically carried to the steps by two of his bodyguards, the other Silver Shields opened fire with their hellguns, cutting down scores of his subjects. Lord Aspis was unceremoniously dumped on the marble floor of the cathedral as his escorts assisted the Sororitas shutting and barring the doors. Lord Aspis was safe behind the heavy doors, but had to endure the sounds of the riot that were only quelled by the rumble of tanks and the thunder of guns.

Carrack · December 12, 2016

Crack

-Daemon World of Vassa, Eye of Terror-

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Enasyor ignored the proffered tribute. He ignored the mortal soldiers, Vassan clan warriors, pledging their lives to him and the Warmaster. He ignored the spectacle, the rituals, the homage to him and the legion he represented. Enasyor ignored all

in favor of staring at a crack in a pillar of the temple. He had stood in this temple, then just a lodge hall, when the crack had been made. The pillar had remained unrepaired for thousands of years.

Vassa was different then. The Eye of Terror in which Vassa resided in seemed different too, not just because of the mind bending influence of the terrible warp storm either, but different in the perspective of Enasyor. In that ancient time he was both more and less than the man he was today. He was still young then, still filled with foolish notions of pride and brotherhood, he had still retained at least a semblance of humanity in his heart. He had sacrificed it all, a sliver at a time, to rise to the level of power he held today. He stood today as Enasyor, Scion of the Black Legion, Sorcerer Lord, and Legate of the Warmaster. The crack in the pillar marked a moment that had almost arrested his ascent to the heights he had reached before his climb even began.

****************

Gedi abruptly looked over at me knowingly and donned his helm. I did the same. Gedi had been counting too, while we waited. We had counted the reports from the Iron Warriors guns, along with the explosions that they preceded. The last three volleys from the battery had not ended with deafening booms at the walls of the compound, nor had they missed their mark and struck the hide of the rocky flesh mountain that held the open-columned Canubi Lodge and its walled enclosure. The lack of explosions meant the last three volleys were chemical munitions. Chemical munitions meant another assault was underway. The Iron Warriors were predictable in their grinding advance. They could afford to be. They were winning.

Enasyor had been part of a contingent sent by Abaddon to assist one of the latest groups of Sons of Horus to take the black. Remnants of three companies of their brothers had formed around Captain Huma, and established a base on Vassa, a relatively stable world in the Eye. Huma had bent the knee to Abaddon, but his rivals from the IV had seen Huma's fealty as weakness, and attacked his base. Abaddon had sent a force to bolster Huma, but the Iron Warriors had been reinforced as well, with more legionaries than the Black Legion had on Vassa.

The clan warriors, mutants and primitive hunter-gatherers native to the demon world, had been rounded up by the Iron Warriors and driven in waves at the Black Legion. The Black Legion had been forced to consolidate on the Canubi Lodge and its defensible mountaintop compound. Still the IV sent in waves of mutants at the Black Legion. Only after the rabble had died by the thousands, did the Iron Warriors bring their artillery to bear on the compound, having seen the compound's defenses in action, and noting its strongpoints by the piles of dead. They pounded away at the Black Legion before assaulting. Still they sent in rabble, only now they were crudely armed and fitted with chemical warfare gear, after each barrage. They were grinding away at the walls and whittling away at the Black Legion numbers. Each barrage had culminated with a gas attack which would weaken any legionary that had his armor compromised for an extended period. Gas had signaled the end of the latest barrage as well, and the coming assault, but it wasn't mutants and savages rushing the walls this time, it was the sons of Pertubo themselves.

Enasyor and Gedi fired away from either side of one of the lodge's pillars. The north and west of the lodge was still holding, and the east hadn't been attacked. However, the south was falling. Three of Huma's sergeants, Vinno, Carrack, and Kharfus, had fallen for a feigned retreat, and charged after the Iron Warriors, leaving the south thinly defended. The Iron Warriors had pulled legionaries from attacking the east and west walls, to cross-rush the south wall. Enasyor and Gedi, along with the other legionaries sent by Abaddon, were in the center of the lodge, firing at Iron Warriors that made it over the south wall, but trying to keep from fully committing. It wasn't working.

Gedi half threw his empty bolter to his backpack as he drew blade and pistol, just as I fired my last bolt and did the same. As expected, the order to commit to the south came, and we charged the wall. A lascutter had burnt an opening through the wall big enough for two Iron Warriors to penetrate at a time.

They had sent in formidable warriors protected by breaching shields to push open a salient within the compound to exploit.

Gedi was being pushed back by one of the IV's sons. He was keeping the opponent's blade wide with his own, but couldn't get past the ablative shield, and was steadily giving ground. My opponent was trying to cave in my helm with some sort of heavy trench mace, but badly miscalculated my footwork and struck the flagstones in a shower of sparks. It was the miss I had been setting up, but I didn't take advantage of it, and instead reversed the grip on my blade and drove it into the back of Gedi's opponent's knee. The Iron Warrior fell and wrenched the blade out of my grasp. It was my turn to backpedal, shooting my pistol at my opponent's face, keeping him ducking behind his shield for a moment. The Iron Warrior blocked a few shots, then opened his guard with a wide swing of his mace. For what it was worth, I got a shot off into his faceplate before he knocked my pistol out of my hand and crushed the bones in my fingers. My opponent merely shook his head from the impact of the point blank bolt. His follow up swing would have brained me, but Gedi's blade found that odd angle over the backpack and into the flexible neck armor, and saved my life while ending the Iron Warrior's. I helped myself to his mace before it hit the floor, and Gedi and I turned to face the next pair of enemies.

We had given up too much ground dealing with the last pair. Four more sons of Pertubo had gained the compound, and another pair was stepping through. Still we engaged, this time more cautiously, trying to bide precious moments for our brothers to arrive from the other walls. Although we were focused on containing the breach rather than simply killing the enemy, the Iron Warriors weren't focused on our deaths either, their efforts were directed on pushing us away from the walls so their brothers could pour through the breach. Our deaths would come later. Gedi and I weren't unfamiliar with this type of battle for position, we were Astartes, but it wasn't what we had spent the Great Crusade perfecting, not so for these Iron Warriors. We were pushed back to the pillar. In the heat of battle, I sometimes had odd images spring to my mind. At that moment I imagined two Iron Warriors settling a matter of honor with a pushing match like we were having now. They probably did, inglorious bastards that they were.

The breachers pushed us to the pillar, and their brothers poured in and started rolling up our lines. I was fighting for my life against two breachers who were alternating offense and defense, they weren't toying with me, but they were taking their time waiting for an opening and not risking much. Gedi was facing more aggressive enemies. I felt, more than saw him fall behind me against the pillar. I glanced back and saw an Iron Warrior raise his blade for a killing strike and went to parry the blow with the haft of the trench mace I held, but one of my opponents came in low with a cut at my ankles. A maimed ankle was a serious matter when outnumbered. I would survive the wound, but my footwork would falter, and leave myself open for a more serious blow. I blocked the Iron Warrior's strike at my brother's neck and felt the bite of the blade on my own ankle. Gedi regained his feet, and we prepared to die as brothers.

Our deaths were momentarily reprieved. As our assailants shifted position to exploit my wounded foot, a duet of commands sang out over the compound. Captain Huma, and the Iron Warrior's Warpsmith called an immediate ceasefire. We stood wearily eying each other. My brothers had more to gain from this than the IV legionaries, so our weapons were lower, but still ready to strike should the truce fall apart. Huma linked our vox network with the Iron Warriors', and we listen to their warpsmith address us from orbit. We were to surrender the compound after the Iron Warriors withdrew, but we would be spared. In spite of the indignity of defeat, I was relieved to yet live.

Gedi and I, along with the rest of the Black Legion on Vassa, saluted our enemies as they filed out the breech in the south wall. The last Iron Warrior to leave, an auto cannoneer bleeding from his brow out of his ruined helm, turned as he left, and treacherously fired a burst towards the center of the lodge. He fired on me. I couldn't spring to the side with my wounded foot, so I pulled my brother in front of me. Gedi took a cannon shell to his chest, and the two of us were knocked back into the pillar. My elbow struck the pillar with enough force to crack the marble. No one returned fire, and the Iron Warrior disappeared through the breech. My brother died in my arms.

****

On behalf of the Warmaster, I accepted the tribute and fealty of the descendants of the Vassan clans who had served the Iron Warriors, never once looking at their chieftains, never taking my eyes off of the crack in the pillar. I would take their clans into my troop ships, and bring them with me as I brought the authority of the Warmaster to the same companies that I had fought beside here so long ago. Those companies would form the nucleus of the Black Maw warband, and they would regain and lose Vassa several times over the millennia. The warband would be brought to the heel of the Warmaster by my hand. A Vassan priest led a team of thralls with mortar and pestles to the pillar after the ceremonies had concluded. They must have mistaken my brooding over the crack as disdain for the lack of repair. I splattered the blood of the thralls across the pillar and the priest, telling him that crack was the holiest thing in this temple. With no further words, I left Vassa for the Aspis Subsector.

Carrack · December 27, 2016

Razoo and Otun of Vassan Clan Nalfeshnee

Tancrea, the Pillars of Fortitude,

Razoo

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The gods smiled on Razoo. He was bouncing along the road in high gear, grinning. He had lost cousins and clan mates, but the losses were a blessing from the gods. Most of them were cousins he could do without anyway. Razoo was of the Vassan Nalfeshnee clan, and he had lots of cousins. Their loss had afforded him the opportunity to drive one of his clan's chimeras. So instead of bouncing around in the cramped troop compartment, ducking his head and getting bruised by elbows, knees, butt stocks, and loose equipment, he was reclined in the driver's seat. The driver's seat of a chimera was known to be the most comfortable way to travel for any clan warrior.

As he followed the chimera ahead of him, Razoo considered the blessings the gods had given him since his clan had started its service to the Black Maw Warband. The gods had let their will be known with the opening action of the first war of the Nalfeshnee's campaign for the Black Legion warband. The gods had seen fit to allow Razoo to survive his drop barge getting shot down over the Pillars of Fortitude. A blessing of survival for Razoo, that he divined as the will of Nurgle, a harrowing of the weak and unfit, leaving the strong to survive. Khorne had taken his due from the crash landing, and left many positions clear for Razoo to advance to and raise his standing in the clan. The Skull King had even claimed the head of his uncle Taalay, the chieftain of the warriors on the drop barge.

The Grandfather and the Blood God were not the only great gods to shower Razoo with blessings. Tzeentch rewarded Razoo with gifts as well. His cousin Jyrgel had been crushed by a fuel drum during the fall, and had no need for his fine cadian laspistol that Razoo had coveted for years. Also, Razoo's older brother had been rendered senseless and alone in one of the barge's bolter turret. All Razoo had to do was reseal the hatch and tell the other survivors that he didn't make it, and Razoo was now the heir to his family's flocks and lands. The fact that the barge had crashed on a low road ideal for chimeras, on a planet where such terrain was so rare, was surely the hand of the Architect of Fate.

Not to be overshadowed by the other great gods, Slaanesh had rewarded Razoo by sending in a band of fighters led by one he had favored to rescue him and the other survivors. Furthermore, the rescuing warriors had been on foot, and their chieftain had selected the chimera Razoo was to drive as his own. In the first hour of the campaign, Razoo had risen from among the lowest of the clan warriors, to the driver for a chieftain. The gods smiled on Razoo.

Otun

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The gods frowned on Otun. He in turn looked down from the commander's hatch of his chimera at his chieftain in disgust. His chieftain was the embodiment of weakness. Physically, he was short and slight, there was a layer of muscle Otun had to admit, but his chieftain clearly didn't have the mass and size to survive the frequent duels that a good chieftain had to endure. He was tanned too, evidence of growing up under a warm soft sun on an Imperial world. On the daemon world of Vassa, people did not expose their skin to the sky, not if they wanted to keep it. Nurgle had cursed Otun with a weakling for a chieftain. All of the chieftain's scars were dishonorable, a lashed back spoke of cowardice, and fancy augmetic toes spoke of frostbite, neither were wounds suffered from worthy rivals or enemies. Not the scars of one who ruled with Khorne's favor.

His chieftain's appearance was weak, and his current actions were as well. The man had just barely escaped an Imperial Guard encirclement, apparently losing more than half of his warriors doing so. Truly the Architect of Fate did not favor this runt. Misfortune gathers company, so they say, and Otun and the other Clan Nalfeshnee Warriors had felt the gods displeasure by having their drop barge being shot down. Stranded away from the rest of the clan, they were left with no option but to join the chieftain's warriors, as his depleted force was still considerably larger than the crash survivors, and their own chieftain had perished in the crash.

So Otun's new chieftain had just lost half his own warriors, and gained Otun and the other Nalfeshnee with their chimeras, and what was he doing? He wasn't enforcing his rule by crushing heads, sentencing scapegoats, or even barking out strings of commands. He wasn't restoring morale with rousing oratory, dolling out rewards, or rededicating his warriors to the gods. He wasn't taking stock of his warriors old and new, getting ammo counts and supply reports, or asking of the capabilities of the chimeras he clearly didn't know how to operate. Instead of leading as a chieftain should, Otun's chieftain was sprawled out in the back of the chimera, eyes glazed and smiling, while his disciples fawned over him like he was a prince of daemons. Slaanesh had even taken his hand and replaced it with the claw of a daemonette, no doubt to remind him of his displeasure. He was soft and weak. Otun would challenge his new chieftain as soon as he could do so without being overwhelmed by his foolishly devoted followers, and maybe lift the curses the gods were raining down on him.

Carrack · December 28, 2016

Unforgiven

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Garland

Prone in the sand, Laviel watched the Angels of Immolation box out the tent with a by-the-codex perimeter, two marines to a corner, with their sergeant and the odd marine out pausing at the entrance. The orange and red armored marines were alert of course, but the sand blowing in across the desert was enough to hide Laviel and his squad from their vigilance. Laviel voxed Company Master Michael directly, informing him that he had reached the objective rally point. As expected, Company Master Michael merely acknowledged Laviel's transmission, regrettably, the mission hadn't changed.

Laviel had tracked the Angels of Immolation from a downed salvation pod to this tent at a discreet distance, never betraying his own squad's presence. In turn, the Angels of Immolation had tracked the tent's occupant, one of their serfs, to this rocky outcropping. The rocky outcropping was a good position for the serf to set up the tent from the salvation pod's survival pack. It was the highest ground locally, which would help the serf's portable prayer beacon broadcast its distress signal out of the perpetual sand storms of this desert. It also had enough permanence to keep the tent from being buried in sand for a few hours, which judging by Laviel's assessment of the wrecked pod, would be needed for the serf to tend his wounds. The pod's medipack had been ransacked. Laviel suspected the serf had been badly burned. However, he knew he was not alone in his assessment. Chapter Master Michael had informed Laviel that the Arch-Enemy had sent a thunderhawk into low orbit and dropped a squad of traitors to the surface via jump packs. The traitors had reached the salvation pod before Laviel and cut its internal prayer beacon, but had not been spotted yet. There presence was certainly not a coincidence. However, Laviel had a more immediate battle to face.

Unfortunately, the Angels of Immolation and Laviel had the same mission, the recovery of the relic the serf had escaped his chapter's flagship with, before it was commandeered by the Arch-Enemy. The angels in red and orange, and Laviel's angels in dark green, were both after the Aspis Eternal. Only one could succeed in their mission. Laviel prayed it wouldn't come to violence, but in both his hearts, knew that in the end, he would act loyally to his chapter. The terrible sin of fratricide would be a heavy burden to bear, but then, Laviel was already Unforgiven.

Carrack · January 9, 2017

Remembering Prospero

Tancrean Orbit (before the last Ramone piece, Razoo and Otun)

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Barbican Station 31 was the key to the orbital defense of the 30's series defense sectors for the fortress world of Tancrea. Keep Station 30 was only a command and control station, and while important to a coordinated defense, lacked real teeth of its own. The small Turret Stations 32-36, along with their even smaller substations, were point defense stations designed to keep drop craft from landing on the world below. Tower Stations 37 and 38 were lance platforms, and were to keep enemy vessels far enough away to prevent bombardment. While Sally Station 39 was a launch station, and boasted a squadron of interceptors and one of bombers, which helped project the oribital defense and offense of the 30's beyond even the reach of the lances. Barbican 31 however, was a gun station. Batteries of macrocannon protruded from three gun decks, and they kept the orbit clear of any enemies that sought to overcome the other stations. Barbican 31 was larger than the other stations, and the only one in the 30's that was built on the peak of one of the atmosphere breaching mountains known as the Pillars of Fortitude.

In recent weeks and months, Barbican 31 had endured a harrowing time. The Arch-Enemy had invaded out of the nearby Eye of Terror, and opened the war on the Aspis Sub by assaulting three nearby stations with vile traitor marines. By seizing the stations, they opened a hole in Tancrea's orbital defenses and forced a beachhead on the world beneath them. They had landed hordes of renegades, mutants, and cultists onto the fortress world, and if rumors were to be believed, monsters worse than these as well. All of the defenders of Tancrea, reinforced by regiments from across the Subsector, had fought the heretics to a standstill, keeping the strategically important world from falling from the Light of the Emperor, but kept in turn from projecting power out into the system, and thus allowing the heretics a line of supply from the hells of the Eye into the Aspis Subsector.

The Emperor Protects. In their darkest hour, He had sent His wrathful Angels of the Space Wolves to Tancrea to cut the heretics' supply line, and take back the areas of the fortress world lost to the enemy. The Wolves were out prowling now, with their fleet at the edges of the system, and their valiant warriors in the mountains, hunting down heretics both.

***************

Apepi Ha Namen let the strands unravel as the airlock opened. The spell he had woven to disguise his ship, frayed into quickly fading memories and confusion for the spells victims. The defense station's auspex and auger crew had scanned a Battlefleet Obscuras tender approaching for the scheduled rearm and resupply shipment. The station's vox ensemble had broadcasted and received the correct codes and idents from the tender, and the commander of naval operations had ordered Barbican Station 31 to prepare to dock the tender.

All the crew of the station were fooled by Apepi's spell. Their minds had knitted reality to the illusions that he wove, and when he released the strings of the spell he held tethered within his mind, they were confronted with a reality violently at odds with what they had perceived. The ship docked to the defense station was no feeble support vessel, but an Infidel class raider, Feather of Maat. The idents were not of Battlefleet Obscuras, but of a vessel labeled "tratoris extremus". The passwords transmitted were not the prescribed codes, but the words, "All is Dust."

The airlock opened and out of Feather of Maat's hold poured Apepi's herds of Tzaangor. The bestial mutants were eager to prove themselves worthy of serving Apepi Ha Namen, and savagely attacked the naval work gangs that had been detailed to offload the supposed tender. The Tzaanagor made short work of the unarmed crew, then without pause, continued their assault on the defense station, each herd choosing a different corridor, lift, or service tunnel to penetrate further into the defense station. The nervous and quiet wait in the hold of Feather of Maat, abruptly ended by the violent and bloody seizing of the station's dock, had driven the temperamental beasts wild. Screams soon rang out across the station. However, the stampeding Tzaanagor were but a diversion.

Apepi strode onto the deck of the defense station, the spirits of his brothers behind him. Spirits animating ancient armor, slaved to the will of Apepi's apprentices, and by extension, Apepi. Methodically, they marched to the central fire-control shrine of the defense station, cutting down crew with ensorcelled bolts as they went. Apepi contributed to his ever-silent brothers' fire with his own bolt pistol, and occasionally cut loose with storms of sorcerous flames when the defenders managed to form a hasty strongpoint, but these were absent gestures, deadly, but not requiring his full attention. The majority of his focus was on weaving the strands of a new spell.

This spell was not a delicate tapestry of illusions, each thread touching his mind to one of the station's crew. Instead it was a crude fisherman's net, course, inelegant, but strong and quickly wove. He cast the net wide and far, where even it's simple weave was a taxing strain on his considerable will.

Once the spell was complete, Apepi allowed his apprentices to lead the spirits of their brothers to the fore. Apepi tended his psychic net, strengthening a knot of denial here, and lengthening a cord of silence there. Soon, his net would be tested.

As if on cue, one of his apprentices, Babu, struck asunder the door to the fire-control shrine with his force staff. Immediately, the station's commander sent out a duress call across the vox. Signals were being sent to the other stations, the guardsmen and Space Wolves on the ground, and to the Space Wolves' fleet out in the system. Apepi's net snared all the transmissions, entangling them in sorcery, and prevented them from reaching their destinations.

With the fire control shrine siezed. Apepi's apprentices began divining new firing solutions for the batteries of cannon aboard the station. These solutions were sent with fire orders to all three gun decks. Some were received by Apepi's blooded herds of Tzaanagor, and the beast began laying rounds and sighting guns as directed. Other batteries unaware of what was transpiring outside their gun pits, simply obeyed their commands and did the same. Many guns crewed by the brave men and women of His Holy Fleet remained silent. Apepi directed his apprentices and cursed brothers to remove these stubborn gun crews, or persuade them of the error of their defiance. Shells streaked out into the silent void on flat trajectories. They struck the other 30's defense stations by surprise, and within minutes, had most burning. Apepi had punched a hole in the orbital defenses of Tancrea.

****************

The hole in the orbital defenses would not go unnoticed for long. The Wolves might not hear the calls for help, but they would notice the burning stations before long. Apepi pulled a scroll from his robes, and began to read its eldritch symbols. As he did, he let loose the spell he had cast to silence the orbital stations. The net of silence started to drift away and break up, absent any current or pressure. If the Master of Fortune was willing, the loose spell would still block vox traffic, and delay the Wolves' fleet. If not, Apepi was ever prepared to battle his most hated enemy. Meanwhile, he read the scroll, its papyrus igniting strip by strip as he read.

The scroll was an impossible map. It drew a path through the raw emotion of the warp, from the scroll in Apepi's armored gauntlet, to its sole copy, aboard a fleet of troop ships above the Black Legion controlled Daemon World of Vassa, within the Eye of Terror. The troop ships left their moorings, their holds filled with hoards of clan warriors from the world below.

The normally imprecise, and often dangerous travel through the Sea of Souls, was made instantaneous and certain by Apepi's scrolls. However, in spite of the sorcery's success, the warp took its due from Apepi for cheating his way through its ebbs and tides. He knew it would, daemons aligned to other gods than his own would not want Epepi to accomplish anything, worse were his victims, people he had sent to the warp himself, and they were many, ghosts that he had made through his own actions and inactions. They were out there in the warp, ready to haunt Apepi and harm him in whatever way they could. Apepi, mind strained from three powerful sorceries performed in succession, was not prepared for these attacks from the warp.

Yet the warp was the source of Apepi's strength, it was the substance he manipulated through spells and rituals. He opened himself to it, taking in all the spite and jealousy from the minions of the other gods. He breathed in the vengeance of the petty ghosts. Apepi could feel his power swell with warp energy given him by beings who sought to overload him with it. Apepi took it all in, and screamed it out. The daemons were repelled from Apepi, burnt and shaken for their audacity to strike at him. The ghosts fled or were consumed by Apepi's scream. Apepi himself though, was not immune to his own explosive scream, he was forced to a knee, bleeding from his nose, his crested helm was somehow heavy on his muscled neck, and his vision started tunneling. Fortunately his apprentices were elsewhere during his moment of weakness. One of them might be tempted to usurp Apepi's leadership of the war coven.

Apepi went trough several mental exercises to focus his will as his super human physiology combatted his slipping consciousness. He tried mathematical calculations, reciting ancient mantras, and translating texts to dead languages from memory, anything that would keep him focused and his mind engaged. Yet neither his mind nor his body was winning the battle against passing out. He couldn't afford a lapse of consciousness now. His plans rested on this moment.

Apepi had made a pact with the Black Legion sorcerer Enasyor. He would assist his rival in reopening the supply lines for the conquest of this subsector, in return for the recovery of a powerful book that Enasyor's legion had stolen long ago. Enasyor had been sent to the Black Maw warband conquering the Aspis subsector to assume the position of Equerry from the now dead thief, Lythane the Black. Apepi was to reopen the supply lines so that the fate of the invasion would be held in the hands of an ally to Enasyor, rather than Black Legionaries that could be swayed to the allegiance of the warband's lord, Carrack, thus insuring Apepi's position and importance to the Black Maw warband. In return, Apepi would be given back the dreaded Liber Apocal, stolen from the Thousand Sons by Lythane. The Liber Apocal would grant Apepi the power to rise to eminence within his own legion. His life had been measured in mysteries learnt, and the Liber Apocal would propel him to the next plateau. However, if he failed here, his plans would be forfeit, and likely so would his life. Consciousness was fading.

Apepi's considerable mental and physical strength was not strong enough to overcome the overwhelming intrusion of the warp on his soul. As he felt himself slip away, as he felt his dreams slip away, he gave up. Yet he would not go with what could be his last thoughts, those of pondering dry knowledge. He turned his mind back to the happiest time of his life, when he was young, optimistic, and before he had felt the consequences of what would become an all consuming quest for knowledge. He remembered walking the streets of gleaming Tizca, the smell of salt coming in from the sea, the glory of the shining pyramids. He remembered the last days of Prospero. The memories were so sweet he hung on as his breathing and hearts slowed and he hit the deck with a clang. He hung on till his memories, and their subject, the world he had been born to, reached their fiery conclusion at the barbaric hands of the Emperor's Wolves. His pulse picked up. His breathing quickened. His vision came into focus. His hands trembled with rage remembered. Apepi's blood thirsted with vengeance not yet satisfied. Apepi picked himself up from the floor and finished reading the scroll.

The troop ships, guided by Apepi's sorcery, translated a short distance from Barbican 31. He gave the order to immediately land the warriors in their holds. Then he used the vox to hail the Wolves' fleet. He told them he was waiting for their arrival. He told them he remembered Prospero.

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