War of Words

[Nineswords]

Rattus Rattus

 

Agrippa City, continuous

 

THE GREY ASH was everywhere. It hung in the air like a miasma, so thick it would choke the life out of an unsupported human in an instant. Through the all encompassing greyness, the hab-block had begun to come down in sections following the primary detonation, its upper floors neatly folding into themselves, loose concrete detaching themselves from the steel rebars that were bent and snapped along sections of the floorplate. Another plume rose as the fallout from the detonation began to clear, grey death overlaid the pervasive dust in waves as the debris began to settle down.

 

The noise from the Word Bearers’ Titans’ was deafening, their vibrations causing smaller disturbances in the grey dust.

 

‘We’ve lost contact with them,’ flatly stated the scout, Nascadene, through his rebreather mask.

 

Legionnaire Linus Theo was a few paces ahead, slowly picking his way through the rubble and inspecting the damage. In truth, the controlled demolition had gone awry, which could have been caused by any number of factors ranging from pre-detonation damage to the composition of the concrete of the hab itself. Cut off from the rest of the insertion team, Theo was faced with the possibility of completing the mission without the aid of Ozias Abednego, with only the now mute Mos Zebulon and a scout that would need to be dealt with in the future.

 

‘Keep trying Nascadene,’ replied Theo. ‘I realise those Titans will be jamming communications frequencies, but the blast zone isn’t that big.’

 

–+We can’t get round. We need to go down. P.O is getting away and those Titans are getting close.+– pulsed Zebulon.

 

Theo turned around to face the injured Legionnaire, whose only reaction was to shrug. He was right, getting away from those Titans was the immediate priority. However, Theo conjectured, since they would be moving underground, so would the primary objective for the same reason. Theo had to make a decision: close in on the primary objective now, or spend time trying to locate the rest of the insertion team in order to increase the chances of success, but risk losing their quarry. As he contemplated his position, he noticed Nascadene had bent down to inspect some of the rubble.

 

‘What have you found, scout?’ asked Theo over the vox.

 

‘Blood. It’s Astartes blood too, by the looks of it. I can pick out a sporadic trail.’

 

Zebulon had already begun to head towards the scout.

 

–+Down we go then, Mozes.+– Theo pulsed.

 

+++

 

THE TRIO RE-ENTERED the sewage network for the second time, the pervasive grey ash of the surface replaced by a growing darkness. The passageways that spanned Agrippa were largely unaffected by the conflict that ravaged above them, but the vibrations of the war machines could still be felt, even this far underground.

 

Stepping into black oozing effluent that came up to his knees, Theo couldn’t help but notice the rats. Rattus Rattus. If the Imperium had accomplished one thing successfully in the last ten thousand years since the Emperor’s Great Crusade, it was to make sure the common black rat had survived and multiplied in its trillions throughout the galaxy. They streamed through the passageway, black on black in a great tide; evidently they had also noticed the passage of the Titans above.

 

Nascadent moved ahead taking point, with Zebulon and Theo following closely, tracking the sporadic trail of blood. It was a difficult task: picking out a trail of blood in the darkness, surrounded by contaminants was like picking out the needle in the proverbial wheat field.

 

One hour standard after they entered the network, the combat vox links began to come alive once again, with the trio able to tap into the main combat vox frequencies of the Emperor’s Blood strikeforce waging their counter attack against the Word Bearers. Listening in, Theo concluded that the two forces were at a stalemate trying to control different portions of the city, but the Emperor’s Blood were beginning to be driven back in the western hab-zones. One thing was clear however; the Word Bearers’ Titan identified as Morte Oratus had suffered considerable damage to its port-side weapons systems. Of Abednego and Geddon however, there was no sign.

 

Reaching a junction in the tunnels that looked to Theo just like dozens they had navigated throughout the day, the scout Nascadene suddenly stopped. Gripping his bolter, Theo stalked over towards the scout and noticed what he had seen. The effluent had begun to pool around three bodies arranged in a pile, coating them in a thick blackness. Brotherhood cultists.

 

Crouching, Nascadene checked for a pulse. Two of them were stone dead. However, as Nascadene began to touch the third, the body suddenly lurched forward and coughed out some of the black effluent that had filled his mouth. The response was immediate, with both Theo and Zebulon targeting their bolters on the cultist. Nascadene shook him gently.

 

‘Which way did he go?’ asked the scout. The cultist glared back at him, with a glazed expression.

 

Nascadene unsheathed his combat blade. Tell us and you will die quickly.

 

A thin arm dripping with effluent pointed east and Nascadene’s blade flashed in the inky darkness.

 

Dropping the body back into the stream, Nascadene began to move east, moving fast to catch Theo and Zebulon who had already started moving in the direction indicated by the now dead cultist.

 

The trio followed the tunnel eastwards, which appeared to be getting bigger with every moment. Theo slowed instinctively as the darkness also began to recede. At the edge of the tunnel, Theo’s helm display began to make out an artificial light source coming from below. He crouched low, and peeked over the edge.

 

The chamber was enormous. Like the previous confluence with the narrow ledges, the cavern seemed to be part downpipe and part cavern. In the gloom, Theo made out the outlines of two figures: one, clearly human, the other, something much, much bigger.

 

Theo signed the other two, for Nascadene’s benefit.

 

Objective found.

[Llagos_Tyrant]

Of Mind and Metal

 

Oden set Ariadne down on the floor, making sure to let her stand upright before leaving her to her own devices. These mortals were so frail. It was almost beyond his comprehension that he had once been as they are now. If it weren't for her psychic might, an untapped potential at best, Oden would have thought Ariadne meager prey in any contest. Knowing what he did though, he would keep her under guard.

 

As she took a few steps away from him, Oden snapped a glow stick over his knee-plate. He might be able to see in the darkness of the cavern, but she was blind in the abyss. "Stop." Oden said, rolling the glow stick towards her. She looked at him with hard eyes as she did so and watched the green glow of the device emanate throughout the room. Stuck in a massive cavern in the sewer systems of Agrippa Hive, Ariadne would have stumbled into the massive piping system just a few feet ahead of her. A bout of steam shot out from it as she looked at it impassively.

 

"I would have seen it." She said, her eyes glaring through his armour.

 

"No." Oden said. "You would have scalded the left half of your forehead on it after few steps, girl." She winced and looked away from him as he took stock of their surroundings. "You sensed nothing?" he asked aloud, as he turned his head. Oden wasn't particularly sure who he was questioning when he said it. He did wonder why Ariadne hadn't sensed the danger she faced, but it was possible that she had been too occupied in the run from artillery rounds and a Word Bearers pursuit. He also couldn't help but wonder why he, the Lord and Master of the 7th Grand Company, had fallen into such a trap.

 

When they had dragged Wulfric through the streets of Agrippa, chasing down a group of cultists and sacrifices to the dark gods of the Word Bearers, the bombardment had begun. Breaking into a sprint through the ruined city, Oden and his chosen had found their cultists - along with a band of fifty heretical guardsmen and a small group of Word Bearers Astartes. Under heavy fire, they had left Wulfric to his fate at the hands of the damned while they had fallen back through the city. Chased and hounded until the bombardment began, Oden and his retinue had been forced into the underground to escape the danger. Their delay had been unfortunate, though not altogether unforeseen and Oden had prepared their alternate route before the mission had begun. Leaving a copy with Tyr and Mortez, they had begun their decent to the drains - when a set of demolition charges had detonated the building above them, separating Oden behind his chosen with Ariadne. Moving down a connecting drain, the Warsmith had only just arrived in the opening with his prize when he had stopped them. He had to try raising his Chosen again.

 

"There was nothing to sense, Oden. You survived, and your team is alive. What warning is needed?" she asked with a smile. Oden didn't look at her as he fiddled with the vox amplifier on his neck guard. He had to break through the interference. Switching through a cycle of channels, Oden eventually opened his mic on all Silver Son short ranged frequencies.

 

"Silver Sons, acknowledge radio contact." He called out, standing silent in the cave with his speakers mute.

 

< Remainder of Post expected Saturday >

[Chapter Master Onyxius]

Fire and Ice, day one of the campaign (prelude)

Habron VII, a planet of the Imperium, a backwater world. Nothing of importance was on it, nothing that the Imperium could see as useful. Being the seventh planet in the Habron system and also at the edge of the system, no warmth from the sun could give it life. The planet was bare to its core, only Ice and glaciers existed. Ruins from a forgotten age, lay strewn across the cold implacable Ice.

 

The Imperium abandoned it, because of the lack of resources that could be harvested and the harsh weather that made it impossible to inhabit. But in a city made of bone, lay a portal, this city was the crown jewel of a forgotten age. The portal started to flicker and dancing blue light spilled from the edges of its construction. Simultaneously a rift opened, it looked like glass, but with a liquid effect to it. Shapes were moving within this glass, and a few seconds later, a figure walked out. It looked around with its long elegant shaped helm. It wore robes of vanilla and had a light touch of green trimming on its shoulders. Intricate golden designs were stitched into the fabric of its robes. Walking forward not even noticing the freezing conditions of the world, it looked back at the portal. Muttering words, unheard to all but itself, it raised its hands in the air, looking nowhere but in the grey sky of the world. Figures were emerging from the portal now, they wore armour of pure white and carried guns that looked like they were made of bone. Their heads were encased in cylinder like helmets, they were painted in green and white, each warrior had a heart painted on the surface of their armor. Standing at attention in front of the farseer, they waited in silence for their next command. Lowering its arms from the heavens it looked upon the gathered warriors, even now more were coming out of the webway, soon entire host would be assembled. “This is the place we were summoned to. The strands of fate led us here, let us see what else is to come.” Like an unspoken command, the warriors dispersed and started to build structures and defenses across the landscape. Whatever was to come, the Eldar would be ready.

 

A colossal Vessel, was making its way through the void. The sheer size, the glorious architecture of craft was breathtaking. Colossal lancets, arches and stained glass observation ports. The clean lines of Gothic design and detail: mullions, transoms and clerestory layering. Void steeples and etherspires reached up from great halls, cathedrex and monasterial superstructures all nestled between sensoria, the elongated barrels of long-range lances, nova cannon and squat plasma cannonades. The magnificent weaponry, as well as the gargantuan Scartix engine coils upon which the structures and emplacements sat, was long lost to the Imperium. Cutting the behemoth in four were solar wings of burnished adamantium, giving the vessel the bold and unusual design of two Imperial aquilas – one slotted within the other. Four armoured wings. Four engine coil talons. A monasterial body of supra-Gothic splendor. Four sculpted heads of aquiline majesty, between which the vast craft hid a far larger weapon, the yawning mouth of an enormous torpedo tube.

 

If someone, would look closely at the ship, they would be able to see the craft’s Gothic magnificence assumed the macabre and chilling status of a ruin. The vessel seemed completely without power, as evidence in the expanse of black glass, the tall dark arches and empty lancet ports. The vessel was running without lamps or nav-strobes and seemed devoid of the kind of pods, hump shuttles and barges that might be expected to swarm around a structure of its size. The cold stone and metal of its massive construction was stunning, but close up it was gaunt and weathered. The stone was cracked, granular and disintegrating, the victim of an eternity of ethereal erosion. The solar inlaying was shattered, and the great adamantium expanse and detail of the wings was tarnished with even greater age. In places, it seemed the only thing holding it together were the growths of warpsidium and immaterial deposits spreading out from the nooks like a sterile cancer. Stranger still, the craft wouldn’t have been visible at all against the backdrop of empty space were it not for the spectral fire that burned across every surface and suffused the derelict vessel with golden, phantasmal glow.

 

As the colossal vessel drifted closer to the planet, the giant Aquila heads lit up. The inferno Guard came to the Habron system and they want revenge.

[Olis]

Deeper

 

Descending into the dusty murk and the dank gloom of the sewers, the four astartes surveyed their surroundings as they progressed through the dirty grey rockrete passage, Geddon and his scouts using their natural senses and Cruz checking an auspex periodically. The noise far above never abated as they crept through the dark sludge toward a branch in the system Cruz had indicated they should go.

 

Onward, through the mire and past fleeing rats the group halted. Before them was an auxilliary entrance to Shelter Alpha-Four, heavily barred and, unsurprisingly given the bombardment above, jammed. It wasn't the entrance itself that caught their attention, though. A faint thumping from the other side accompanied by what could only be many people screaming their lungs out did. Those poor souls on the other side were trapped and, by the sound of it, were being slaughtered like cattle. Gunshots and chainsword revs grew ever louder as the scouts and the Stymphalid listened.

 

"We must keep moving." Muttered Geddon. There was nothing to be done that would save those citizens of the Empire. All that could be offered was a prayer for their souls.

 

"Yes, moving." Said Cruz. He consulted his auspex again. "There should be a processing facility not far down this tunnel. We should head there." The two remaining scouts tore away their gaze from the steel slab that was nominally a door and looked to their betters.

 

"Then that is where we shall go." Nodded Geddon. He rotated the shoulder of his battered arm, testing the apendage. It seemed to have healed well enough not to grind whenever he used it anymore but it still ached, especially when he held his sniper rifle with only that arm. When the operation was over he knew it would have to be re-broken and reset to keep the solid bone straight.

 

Through the ever widening outlet the group trudged to the end of the sewer pipe. From the vantage point they had this side of the entire plant was visible, lit up from the inside. A vast chamber housed the boxy facility, gantries and all, with many sewer outlets spewing a thin waterfall of effluent from the chamber walls. The bottom of the chamber was almost too dark to see properly but the augmented sight of the astartes could clearly discern the dirty water that floated there, along with the assorted flotsam and jetsam that sewers tended to accrue.

 

The question was, how were they going to get to the processing plant? There was no way in through the bottom, as the inlets were only one foot wide. There were no connecting gantries to the chamber walls or the outlets. The only way in seemed to be from the ceiling where an open metal stairwell led out and that seemed to likely be a place where a strong-point would be in the fight for the city. The one way they could get across the yawning chasm between the facility and themselves was to throw a line and get there that way.

 

"Wait." Said Thespian, just as Ardimmar was ready to throw the line. "Can you smell that?" He asked. The query got him an odd look from Ardimmar but both Geddon and Cruz had already picked up the same scent through the miasma.

 

"Corruption." Geddon growled. "There is a traitor nearby."

 

The scouts immediately began to scan the area with increased diligence, Geddon himself using a detached scope once carried by the martyred Zlovin while Cruz swept up his auspex again. There was someone in the facility. Someone bearing the power signature of astartes battle plate. Briefly crossing the roaming line of sight of Geddon and the scouts was a wounded space marine in what appeared to be defiled Space Wolf colours. His movements were sluggish and it appeared that he was freely bleeding. The one thing that Geddon hadn't expected, though, was that the heretic was looking at them in the fleeting second before he moved out of sight. He knew they were there.

 

"I believe we have ourselves a lone wolf, Scoutmaster." Whispered Cruz. Geddon wondered if the whisper was necessary. The sons of Russ had infamously good senses.

 

"How do you wish to proceed, Captain?" Geddon muttered. A great explosion above brought trickles of loose dust down through the air around them.

 

"We need to take him out, I say." Cruz pondered. "I shall confront him, with support from one of you, while the others provide cover."

 

"He will need to be rooted out, certainly." Geddon nodded. "Thespian and Ardimmar may take up their scopes here. I will not send one of them over to do something that I should do myself. I will accompany you, Captain."

 

"Then so be it." Cruz acceded.

[Dominicus]

Impossible Odds

 

As the drop-pod hurtled towards the planet, Aurius and his squad chanted the ancient litanies of the Chapter, soothing both their spirits and those of the machine. Around them, empty drop-pods flung themselves towards the ground as well, in an attempt to draw fire from the Third Captain’s pod.

 

“Ten seconds until impact,” Brother-Sergeant Antonius announced over the squad vox, his stern features sealed behind the ceramite visage of his Terminator helm. Aurius nodded his acknowledgement, and took a moment to look at his brothers. As Octavian ran through the final checks, making sure the drop-pod was slowing it’s descent, Brother-Apothecary Octavian checked his narthecium; Champion Seratius stared at the top of the pod, chanting and preparing his soul for the possibility of death; Brother-Chaplain Lorentian sat straight, his crozius across his lap, and his skull visage bled hatred for the traitors he was about to fight; finally, the youngling, Battle-Brother Helicles, ran through final checks on his bolter and power sword, unloading the gun and quickly swiping it clean before reloading it and racking the chamber.

 

“Impact!” Antonius shouted, and the drop-pod slammed into the ground with enough force to kill any mere mortal man. The restraints holding the Terminator-armoured Astartes in their seats retracted as the sides of the pod slammed down, allowing the glaring sunlight to burst into the pod.

“Move out, Gamma pattern deployment,” Aurius commanded, the seals of his helm clamping shut. Storm bolters were raised in perfect unison, and the six Astartes spread out from the drop-pod, scanning their surroundings for any hint of a threat.

 

“We’re clear,” Seratius announced, slipping the auspex back into a holster on his belt. The warriors lowered their weapons a fraction, turning to regard Aurius. The captain merely pointed towards the entrance to the sewers.

“This is where they went,” the captain grunted over the vox, “we will follow them. They still likely need our help.”

“Captain, we have other problems now,” Seratius mumbled. He had the auspex in his hand once again, and he shook his head in disbelief.

 

“There is a massive horde heading this way, Captain,” the Champion muttered, clipping the auspex back to his belt and striding towards Aurius, his heavy Terminator armour causing the ground to shudder as he walked. “Your orders?”

Aurius glanced at the tunnel entrance. He knew that some of his Astartes brethren were in that tunnel, but this latest development left him no choice.

“We take up defensive positions here,” Aurius commanded, his tactical eye viewing the leveled bunker that surrounded the tunnel. “Helicles, take that high ground. Focus on identifying enemy leaders and eliminating them. Precision shots only.”

“Yes, sir,” the young Astartes yelled, his fist slamming to his armoured chest in a salute before he began to climb the only standing part of the bunker that remained.

 

“Antonius, you take the right flank. Lorentian, you have the left. Seratius and Octavian, you are with me.” The captain turned away from his brothers, looking off into the distance. “We have the middle.”

“Yes, Captain,” the men grunted, taking up their allotted positions, their Terminator armour clanking as Lorentian and Antonius jogged away. Aurius turned back to Seratius, who stared at him, his red eye lenses boring into those of Aurius’.

“Brother,” Seratius said as he opened a private channel with the captain. “There are at least a century of traitor Word Bearers in that horde, not to mention close to five hundred cultists. We will not be able to hold this position for long.”

“Aye, Seratius,” Aurius nodded, showing his agreement. “But every second that we hold out here, is another second longer that our brothers below have to catch their prey. We must do this for them, else all will be lost here for not.”

“Understood, my lord,” the Champion said as he drew his power sword and ignited it, and he hefted his storm shield. He switched his vox to the squad-wide channel. “We shall do this, in the Emperor’s name.”

“And to the glory of the Primarch!” the five other Astartes bellowed.

 

Aurius let his lightning claws slide from their sheaths, the relic blades crackling with a power that spoke of the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of traitors. Aurius raised his gauntleted fist into the air.

“Wait for my mark, Helicles,” the Third Captain muttered, his enhanced vision picking out a clear leader of the horde. A Word Bearer, with many skull trophies adorning his blasphemous armour, ran at the front of the horde, his twisted face bellowing both unholy texts and giving orders to the cultists.

“Hold,” Aurius commanded, his voice raised slightly as adrenaline flooded his system. “Hold!”

 

His helm’s sensors told him when the traitor Astartes crossed the one hundred metre mark, and the Iron Brother smirked under his helm. He lowered his gauntlet, pointing at the charging traitor.

“Fire at will.”

The head of the Word Bearer blew apart in a cloud of red mist, showering those who followed in his wake in a bath of blood and brains. With this first kill, the battle for Hydes Bunker had begun.

[Llagos_Tyrant]

The Iron Fist

 

Oden clicked the vox link on his wrist again as he watched Ariadne in the dim glow of the stick at their feet. She had been pacing back and forth for a short while now, muttering something under her breath. It wasn't that Oden couldn't hear it. With his Astartes physiology, he could make out every word. He just didn't care for it. A short prayer to the Emperor was something that he had heard a thousand times before, and it would help her, as much as it helped everyone else. The Warsmith dropped his hand from his wrist and groaned in frustration.

 

"You should pray." The girl said.

 

Oden laughed. "And who would listen?" he roared.

 

"That depends who you pray to." She answered, stoic in repose.

 

"The Emperor?" Oden asked, looking up at her and tilting his head slightly. "Shall I pray to the epitome of mortality? A man who walked with the power of a God, but who sits decaying in his throne? A man who saw everything that awaited him, but never saw his greatest Sons betrayal?"

 

"The Emperor protects." She answered. Oden cursed at the notion.

 

 

"Dorns skull, girl!" He yelled in protest. "How many worlds have burned in ten thousand years of war? How many of his followers has he abandoned to their deaths? How many of his faithful has he cast out for doing his will?" He screamed, hanging on his last words. His breathing thundered in the cold silence, a sudden gentle drip of water and sewage the only noise as the gunfire and explosions quieted momentarily overhead.

 

"That sounds strangely like-"

 

"Say another word, mortal, and I will chain you to my Rhino and barrel through the mightiest fortress of Cadia." He hissed. She had played him. After ten thousand years of war, ten thousand years of plots and ten thousand years of intrigue, and he had been led astray by this girl whom he had thought so far beneath him. It was disappointing.

 

"And what of the dark gods? Those lost to the Shadow are nothing but Thralls of Despair." She dared. Oden paused, his heightened senses catching a sound in the darkness. "You serve the Four Winds, yes? Khorne, the Lord of War? Tzeentch, the Master of Fate? Slaanesh, the Prince of Fulfillment? Nurgle, the Herald of Atrophy?"

 

"The Four Winds?" Oden growled, the plasma pistol on his wrist lighting up as he glared at the mortal. "Khorne is a bastard killer with no sense of loyalty." He took a step towards her as the mechanical clicks of his plasma pistol chimed to crescendo. "Tzeentch is a liar and a traitor." The barrel of the weapon glowed hot as he clenched his fist and light began to glow in the pistols chamber. "Slaanesh is a sadist and an addict." Raising the weapon to level with her face, Ariadne drew her head back as fear finally crept across her face as he slowed his breathing and grabbed her by the neck, pulling her ever closer. "Nurgle is a half dead cancer." The weapon grew hotter against her face as she squirmed in discomfort. Oden pulled her to but an inch from his face as he bellowed in her face.

 

"The Dark Gods will burn with me!" Throwing her backwards with disdain, Oden spun from Ariadne as she barreled over backwards, into the darkness. Against this new enemy, he knew it wouldn't save her, but the space between them would buy her time to react. Arching his fist into the air, his plasma pistol whined into the dark as a ball of flame shot out of the barrel, singing the air as it went. He could smell the plasma before it made impact in an outcropping above them. One of the shadowy figures above howled in pain as the explosion struck the wall beside him, showering his bare face with shrapnel and the excess of the plasma.

 

Oden could see that it was an Astartes Scout he had struck, and the man grasped his face and fell backwards as a pair of bronze armoured warriors dropped into the cavern before him. Wondering at first if these were the fabled Minotaurs, he was disappointed to see the sigil of a white eagle or a hawk emblazoned on their pauldrons. Drawing their chainswords before him, Oden drew his own blade in turn, the fire of its crafting licking at the very tips of the blade itself. The warp blade flickered in white and yellow heat as it hummed in the noxious atmosphere of the sewers.

 

"You, brothers ... you are not from any Chapter I have slain before. Tell me who I face, before I cut you down." He spun his blade in the air, twirling it around his bulk as his plasma pistol whined another charge. Neither warrior moved, though one of them dropped his boltgun to the floor and drew his bolt pistol. Dropping into a fighting stance without naming themselves, Oden was displeased.

 

"You dishonour me then." Oden said, spinning his blade to loosen up his muscles. "I am Oden Tullaris, brothers. Know that as you die, your life is taken by the last true Warsmith of the Iron Warriors." He finished, letting his blade fall low and his arms hang at his side as he waited. There was no pause that he had hoped for. No poetic last breath before the duel. There was only the bronze warriors leaping forward.

 

Blocking high with his sword, Oden spun on his heel and swang low across their midsections with blinding speed. The one with the bolt pistol had barely rolled out of the way, while Mos caught the edge of the sword on his armour, carving a gauge deep into the bronze. For a moment, Oden thought he could see a purplish-blue streak under the chipped armour, but in the light of the sewer, it was nigh impossible to tell. The leader, Oden guessed, raised his pistol as the Warsmith recovered, and the Iron Warrior clicked off his chainmail and wolf pelt cloak before tossing it in the marines line of sight. As fast as he was to whip it from the air, Oden was already on him.

 

Striking high and then slashing low, spinning around and finishing with a lunge, Oden was surprised he hadn't caught the bronze astarte, though the duel was only just starting. Again he fired his bolt pistol, the rounds careening off Odens armour as he stood in defiance. Rolling to the side near the second, Oden brought up his wrist pistol and fired a hot streak of plasma at the marine. Striking the pistol from the soldiers hand, Oden could hear the corrosion of metal in the heat as his weapon ate into the leaders arm. The marine tossed aside his bubbling pistol and lunged forward in silence. The marine with the cut in his armour, meanwhile, jumped from his position and swung wide. Between the two blades, Oden had barely enough time to block them both and grabbed the scarred ones forearms as he did.

 

Kicking the leader into the air and onto his back, Oden brought the seconds forearms down in an ark and snapped his right arm. Twisting the bone in the loyalists flesh, Oden struck his jaw with his shoulder and sent the Astartes off the revving chainsword. Spinning it around and tossing it to the side, Oden took another step towards the battered marine to finish him off, but the glimmer of a soaring blade caught his eye. Dropping to the floor and rolling to the side with barely enough time for the chainsword to skim his plume, Oden blocked another blow by the first as he rose to his feet.

 

The leader was good. Too good for an Astartes of the Emperor. Most of them fought with such practiced precision that it was more mechanical than instinctual. In this Astarte though, Oden found something of a kindred soul - whose only lasting instinct was how to kill his fellow men. A fellow warrior to duel with, though he was the better blades man of the two, Oden could respect it. It was almost a shame that someone had to die.

 

Allowing another strike to come in, Oden parried stronger than usual, knocking the blade back above his opponents head, and leaving his midsection exposed. Rather than gutting him like a fish, Oden struck his midrift with the flat part of his blade, winding the Astarte and sending him keeling over and stepping back. The skull mask grimaced as Oden plowed his sword into the ground beside him, all too willing to test himself further.

 

The first rose to his full height now and gripped his sword in both hands. Hoping to distract the Warsmith, the bronze warrior charged and swung his blade wide, forcing Oden to roll back to avoid the blow. A diagonal slice sent Oden to the side and an uppercut from the chainsword narrowly missed Odens helmet as he swung his head out of the way. The Warsmith could hear the other one now, walking steadily behind him, revving the chainsword in his hands as the leader hacked away, always striking the empty air before him. Stretching his arms to lunge at the Iron Warrior, the first swung too far and Oden jumped inside his guard.

 

Jab to the left kidney, strike midsection right side, uppercut to the chin and connect elbow to jaw. Oden was exorcising his calculated strikes for the kill - a bloody victory to leave no doubt as to the victory. The warrior bounced his head back from the blow and swung his sword low, Oden barely stepping under his strike. Grab shoulders and pull enemy into mid-section knee jab, bring arm over, crash elbow down between the shoulder blades. The leader was wheezing now as Oden grabbed his head and pulled it back to eye level. With a right jab connecting to the face, Oden spun the bronze soldier round and pushed him forward as the second ones footsteps grew closer behind him, the revving of his chain sword boring into the Warsmiths mind.

 

The Astarte spat out a wad of blood that sizzled on the floor. Oden was prepared for his next strike - and the sudden lunge from behind as he dropped to a knee. From behind him, the second brought his chainsword up to strike down hard on Odens back - while the leader had swung his blade wildly round to catch Oden in his midrift. Rolling to the side and tearing a combat blade from its holster before jamming it up and into the leader to end the duel. Digging the blade up between the soft connection between the arm and shoulder plates, Oden held the knife a fraction of an inch from an arterial kill point. He exhaled, not realizing that he had held his breath, and looked to admire his handiwork. When he rolled to the side, Oden had let the battered marine strike down, though he had hit the ground. In his dazed and bloodied state however, the leader had swung wide and dug his blade deep into his brothers armour. Without looking, Oden couldn't tell just how bad the wound was, but the mangled arm hanging by the marines side was a good indication.

 

The chainswords ground to a halt as Oden twisted the dagger in the Astartes body, hissing into his ear. "I have your life by a thread, brother. Another inch, and you will die a slow death for your corpse-god." The bronze warrior dropped his chainsword and spun, striking Oden back with an open palm and the Iron Warrior made sure to withdraw the dagger cleanly. The Warsmith took a step back from the blow before raising his arms to block the next, a jab to the face, and retaliating with his own jab to the mans throat. The bronze warrior crumpled to his knees as he grasped for breath. The Warsmith looked at the Astarte before him, still surprised by the silence of his enemy. Any other servants of the Emperor would have shouted his blasphemies into the Eye itself. Not even the gentle drip of water and blood could be heard anymore, long having stopped in the violence. Without another thought on the matter, Oden wrenched his sword from the ground with a hiss as the blade sensed the inevitable execution.

 

The Scout above them was alive after all, taking in short and panicked breaths as Ariadne crept out of the shadows to take her place by the Iron Warrior. Stopping to lean over the first with his sword at the ready, Oden hesitated as he readied the death blow. In the instant of his indecision, the bronze Astarte slapped a small metallic device onto his leg.

 

"Activate!" The Marine yelled. Oden raised his sword in the instant he reali-

[King Willy]

Dragonslayers

 

Aggripa city

 

The Thunderhawk banked sharply above the hab complex, the winding streets and towering spires flitting by beneath as Mafez looked out of the cockpit, gunfire jumped from spire to spire as traitors tried to clear out the planetary defense forces from the hives. "Ranger-Hunter, LZ in thirty" the pilot said over the vox.

"Copy" Mafez responded, the hold was clear having deployed the Hunter-Captain and his squads at there designated locations and midway through there own mission to destroy the chaos titan.

 

"Prepare for deployment" he voxed to his squad, who stood from there seats to finish there checks, Mafez moving to the weapon rack to pull his bullpup configured Aladozzrian boltgun, calibrating the scope with a quick flick of his wrist upon the wrist computer built into his vambrace, he turned to watch his battle brothers assembling at the forward hatch, weapons ready and oaths said. Mafez moved to the front, his brothers parting as he stalked forwards, the glassy blade hanging from his belt hummed quietly, a comforting warmth sitting against his leg.

 

"You know the mission, clear the street of infantry, plant the bombs, pull out" Mafez said over the vox, his brothers nodding silently as they pulled there bolters up ready to charge, the Thunderhawk shuddered as retrothrusters slowed the crafts descent, a quiet rhythmic thumping came from the side mounted sponsons.

"Open the hatch" Mafez voxed to the pilot, klaxons activating as the hatch split and opened, the Thunderhawk floating ten meters from the street, heavy bolter fire stitched cris-crossing pock marks down the street, a band of Traitor guardsmen turning to fire a mixture of autogun and lasgun fire up at the floating behemoth, Mafez and his squad focused there own bolters upon the clustered band.

 

Dropping out of the crafts hold they quickly spread out across the street, Arkmen signalling up at the thunderhawks pilot, who quickly hit the throttle and the thunderhawk twisted and shot off into the sky, "Advance and sweep" Mafez voxed as he knelt behind a collapsed wall, his bolter poking over the top towards the still twitching renegade corpses, "Watch the hives" he said climbing over the wall, his bolter sweeping across the street, Arkmen pulling up on his left, bolter training across the upper floors, fires burnt quietly in the street, corpses feeding the sickly guttering flames.

 

"Were clear Hunter" Bedizius voxed, stepping over the corpse of a renegade, nonchalantly crushing the skull of the traitor underfoot with a heavy cracking, breaking the silence that had fallen across the street. Arkmens helmet quickly snapped towards the far end of the street, a heavy cloud of dust rushed past as a building slowly collapsed towards the west, "Titans getting closer, gotta act" Mordicai said curtly, his plasma gun sweeping the dust cloud.

A quiet mewling cry started as the sound of collapsing rockcrete.

 

They continued down the street, periodically stopping as the spires were shaken by the weapons of the titan that slowly and implacably advanced upon there position, Mafez looked up and saw the contrails of thunderhawk gunships streaking high above the sky, missiles streaking out towards some unseen enemy as they banked round to attack another designated kill zone.

"Do we still have clear sky" Mafez said to Bedizius, "Yes Hunter, no motion, no transmissions" Mafez looked up into the spires, he could make out feint flashes of las fire, "They should be here by now" Arkmen Voxed.

"Waiting, attack when planting charges, always how it is" Mordicai said in his usual manner.

"Why do you always jinx these things" Gorzak said, the missile launcher pointing down the street.

 

they continued on for another thirty minutes before they reached the target location, a massive superspire, as wide as a reaper titan was tall, gargantuan in form and baroque in detail, the small maintenance door in front was overly gothic, shaped like a large weeping face, "Move in" Mafez said, the squad already moving in before the order had left his mouth.

Quickly making there way into a massive maintenance lift, rising up through the levels 5 floors a second, even the genenhanced physique felt the strain, "Gorzak watch the bridge" Mafez said as the lift slowed, looking out the left side he saw the massive underside of a massive skybridge, connecting the superspire to a collection of manufactorum spires, it's huge form wide enough for a pair of baneblades, the under-structure was a tangled mess of girders, pipes and cabling, light bloated out by huge reinforcement slab.

 

The Rangers spread out along the maintenance gantries as they made there way towards there allocated positions, Gorzak taking the lift up another level to get a clear line of sight down the skybridge.

 

Mafez planted his cluster of meltabombs, small blips telling him when the rest of the squad had planted there charges, "Everyone get to the lift, any movement Gorzak"

"No Hunter, just in lift now" Gorzak said quickly.

The Rangers riding the lift down towards one of the lower levels.

"Bedizius, Tell chapter command we are in position" Mafez said calmly.

[Nineswords]

Echo-Nine-One

 

Unknown location, Continuous

 

 

–sed what that the device was.

 

+++

 

LINUS THEO SHUDDERED violently as he materialised. Despite the supreme discomfort he felt compounded by the sharp pain in his upper arm, the first thing he noticed was the large droplets of black sewage effluent dripping onto a steel deck. The kind of deck that was a long way from the bowels of Agrippa city, or indeed, Habron Secundus. The second thing Linus Theo noticed, was an incredible lateral force that was being exerted around him. He couldn't move. The next thing Linus Theo noticed was the studded, blackened form of Oden Tullaris standing in front of him, surrounded by a ring of twenty Astartes aiming their boltguns at the Iron Warrior across the chamber in a semi-circle.

 

The warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, identical to one another in midnight indigo power armour, marked in dark serpentine heraldry across their chests and shoulder plates. Their eye slits glowed toxic green, lending their helmets a purplish haze, like deadly phantoms waiting to strike.

 

'Do not make any attempt at offensive action, you are surrounded and compromised, and we will not hesitate to kill you should you disobey,' instructed a voice. It sounded tinny and distorted.

 

Theo could hear the distinct grinding whirr of ceramite armour attempting to mitigate the invisible force, before becoming still. He heard ragged, mechanical, laboured breathing, before a guttural bark emanated from the silver skull mask that made Theo wince slightly.

 

'Any attempt at resistance is futile, war-smith,' said the voice. Theo wasn't sure whose voice. 'You and your companions are currently standing in a hyper-localised electromagnetic field that has rendered all movement impossible.' The phantoms still hadn't moved, and neither could he, so Theo simply watched as an orange hazard light played over their armour in continuous rotation.

 

'What. Sorcery. Is. This?' hissed the war-smith.

 

'We have been on your trail a –'

 

'Where. Is. The. Girl?' interrupted Tullaris through laboured breaths.

 

'Long time,' continued the voice, barely acknowledging the interruption. There was a pause. 'Your breathing apparatus has been damaged war-smith, and you know as well as I do that you are slowly suffocating. I will make this simple for you then. Consider this encounter an offer of employment. Accept, and I will have our magus repair your rebreather. Decline, and you will expire through asphyxiation.'

 

The Iron Warrior didn't reply.

 

'I will interpret your lack of response as a sign of assent, war-smith,' said the voice.

 

'Who. Are. You?' the war-smith whispered.

 

'You know who we are, Oden,' replied the voice, but this time in a language long dead. Olympian, Theo recognised.

 

'I mean,' he breathed. 'Who. Are. You?' the Iron Warrior replied deliberately and spitefully in low gothic.

 

'We are no-one, and we are legion,' responded a chorus of voices, slightly overlapping and echoing.

 

'You will assist us in our endeavours,' said a voice, higher in pitch than the original voice.

 

'You will not refuse us,' said another.

 

'Be reasonable, proud Iron Warrior. We will offer you reasonable compensation for your time,' echoed yet another voice.

 

The voices played out in Theo's helmet. Different voices from different sources within the helmet's internal speakers, warped by the electromagnetic field into ghostly whispers that slowly faded. The Iron Warrior's increasingly heavy breathing cut through the ensemble.

 

'Enough. Of your. Pantomime. State. Your. Offer.'

 

'You are looking for the archeo-tech device known to the Word Bearers as the yuya'amaitiyāka. It is indeed on Habron Secundus, as we have its location. We will furnish you with its coordinates and provide you with a strike team to recover the artefact. But first, you will assist us, as your familiarity with aetherial-equalisation technology will aid us in a greater endeavour on Habron Primaris.'

 

A long silence hung in the air, punctured only by the war-smith's respiration.

 

'Recover. The. Girl. And I. Will. Comply,' wheezed the war-smith.

 

There was a slight discharge, followed by a palpable change in atmosphere. All of sudden, Theo stumbled onto the cold decking. As he looked up he saw that Tullaris was still immobile, but the war-smith was literally levitating as the localised electromagnetic field manipulated the Iron Warrior's body parallel to the floor. More black effluent spilled onto the floor as it sloughed off the war-smith's studded armour, exposing grimy hazard stripes.

 

The semi-circle of Astartes parted and Theo registered a figure stalk its way through the chamber towards the immobile war-smith. He was a bulky thing, with an eruption of servo-arms jutting out like its back like a technological caricature of a proto-Sind deity of ancient Terra. A servo arm reached towards the still kneeling Theo. Grasping it with a bronze vambrace, the Legionnaire hauled himself up and looked into a brass mask fashioned into a draconic reptile.

 

'Well met, Magos Bakun,' stated Theo.

 

The thing responded in its own binary databurst, aware that Theo could understand. +++You have brought another onto the Omicron, Echo. Nine. One.+++ It was a statement, rather than a question.

 

Theo turned around and looked over the levitating form of the Iron Warrior. Behind him, the Emperor's Blood scout Nascadene looked over at Theo, hatred blazing in his eyes. His face was a mess of melted and scorched flesh, accentuating his gritted teeth. He was still frozen in place. Next to the scout and slumped on the floor was the prone unconscious form of Mos Zebulon. Ignoring the scout, Theo turned back towards the magos and nodded. Another voice suddenly crackled in Theo's helmet.

 

'Acting sergeant, attend to yourself and report to Legion Command in twenty minutes. Legionnaire Zebulon will be transferred to the infirmary immediately,' instructed the voice.

 

'As you command, Primus,' replied Theo.

 

The legionnaire moved past the magos towards the semi-circle of Astartes. As he marched towards the exit, two of the phantom Space Marines detached themselves from the semi-circle and escorted the legionnaire out the room.

 

'Traitor!' yelled Nascadene, his voice raspy through his ruined face.

 

Theo didn't look back.

 

+++

 

THE TRIO WALKED through the one of the strike cruiser's main circulation corridors towards the arming chamber. The air was cool but slightly stale, thanks to the Omicron's internal mechanical recycling system, and it wafted through the corridor in a slight breeze. They marched in silence along the wide corridor, power armoured boots clanking on the the mesh decking producing a dull echo as it reverberated off the unadorned gunmetal walls. Passing only a maintenance servitor along the way, the trio finally reached the arming chamber.

 

The legionnaire flanking Theo's right had increased his pace and had entered the security cipher next to the entrance hatch. Its thick sawtooth base rose quickly with a hiss, and Theo was greeted by a hive of activity in the chamber beyond. The escort turned around and headed back the way they came as Theo entered the arming chamber.

 

Legion serfs and numerous arming servitors milled around intently through the large chamber, clustering around numerous Astartes who stood at attention as their armour was being attached. Clearly, a large operation was underway. Theo recognised a few of the legionnaires and nodded his head in greeting at his sentinel comrades, and the gesture was reciprocated. Walking towards the nearest empty arming bay, Theo was immediately surrounded by four servitors who automatically began to strip him of his slightly battered bronze plate. He stood immobile like his comrades, and splayed his arms as the mechanical whirr of servo arms began to divulge him of his armour, beginning with his helmet.

 

A small man dressed in a matte jumpsuit approached the group, stopping in front of Theo. He looked up at the legionnaire.

 

'Welcome back my lord,' greeted the man.

 

'I wish you would stop calling me that Ahmin,' responded Theo in Yndonesian dialect. The man chuckled, before switching back to a thickly accented low gothic.

 

'I trust your latest mission was a success?' he asked.

 

'We'll see about that. I am being debriefed in eight minutes on the bridge so we'll need to hurry this up,' replied Theo. The serf clapped his hand twice and the servitors increased their pace.

 

'My compliments Ahmin on the fine job you did on my battle-plate, it's almost a shame to waste it,' remarked the legionnaire. Ahmin received the compliment with a shallow bow.

 

'It will serve. I didn't have enough time to do another bronze laminate before you shipped out. However, it will make it easier to clean off. I can feel your armour's animus wanting to be rid of the skin it wears.'

 

Theo snorted with amusement.

 

'Your armour craft is only matched by your weird superstitions, but it has served me well so I will submit to your esteemed opinion on the subject,' he remarked.

 

The warrior had stepped out the last of his power armour, and another servitor had begun to spray the legionnaire with a torrent of warm water. The last of the sewage effluent pooled around his bare feet, before disappearing into the mesh drain built into the floor.

 

'I'll need it ready as soon as you can Ahmin,' he requested, just as he put on a similar dark grey jumpsuit worn by the serf.

 

'At once sir.'

 

'Ahmin?'

 

'Hmm?' The serf stared at the legionnaire, who had begun to walk away.

 

'Next time, more lho-sticks. Don't leave me hanging again,' said Theo as he left the chamber.

 

+++

 

THE HIVE OF activity gradually increased as Theo paced towards the Omicron's command decks. Waves of utilitarian orange-tinted white horizontal lights lined the ceiling, punctuated by mechanical duct systems and other more specialised technologies Theo had little knowledge of. Entering one of the main spinal circulation corridors that led directly to the command decks, Theo noted four Astartes outside the entrance to the bridge at the end of the corridor. Passing a multitude of deck crew and servitors, the legionnaire was escorted wordlessly by the silent guardians who no doubt were expecting his arrival. The first hatch opened with a hiss and Theo stepped through into a pressurised darkened ante-chamber. It was one of many additional security measures aboard the Omicron, consisting of an operational quarantine facility, although Theo had heard that the chamber also was capable of voiding unauthorised personnel. A buzzer sounded and the second hatch opened, and Theo stepped onto the bridge, nineteen minutes after his summons.

 

The command deck was a rather impressive, athough very utilitarian chamber, with banks of cogitators set into gunmetal wall panels arranged in a rough semi-circle. The floor, consisting of the same decking material as the rest of the Omicron stepped up to form a dias which culminated in the command throne of the Omicron's shipmaster, Tauros. Dominating the main vista where the walls ended was a vast crystalflex port that allowed an uninterrupted view of the void beyond. Theo could see the Omicron had not shifted position and was still harboured in the relative safety of the gas giant Habron VI, which bathed the entire bridge and its crew in a ghostly green glow.

 

Turning to his right, Theo headed for the adjoining chamber, and walked through the open hatch, leaving the background noise of the bridge activity behind him.

 

The Omicron's strategium was an entirely different affair. For a start, it was pitched entirely in darkness which gave the chamber a more intimate feel although it was nearly as big as the command bridge. The ghostly green light from the gas chamber spilled into the strategium, highlighting wooden wall panels near the entrance. The chamber was dominated by a large hololithic caster, which currently displayed a large rendering of Habron Secundus. Numerous icons flashed and crawled over the projection in hues of purple, orange, green and white. Walking around the caster were several figures, dominated by the significantly bulkier frame of a legionnaire. Theo stepped further into the strategium and suddenly some of the figures looked over at him.

 

'Leave us,' commanded the legionnaire, his voice slightly muffled through the box speaker of his helmet.

 

The figures filed out quickly, with the last closing the hatch. The hololithic caster fizzled out, plunging the entire chamber into pitch blackness.

 

'Lights,' said the voice. The blackness was gradually replaced by a number of glow globes recessed into the wooden wall panels, illuminating the large brass contraption of the hololithic caster, and the legionnaire standing behind it in full battle plate. He looked identical to every other legionnaire stationed aboard the Omicron. Theo balled his hand into a fist and thumped his chest in salute. His arm was stiff from his injury and despite his trans-human physiology, his couldn't help but wince.

 

'Acting sergeant Linus Theo,' said the legionnaire, through the vox.

 

'Salutations, Primus,' replied Theo.

 

The legionnaire did not move for a moment, before moving his arms up towards his helmet. There was a click followed by a hissing sound and the legionnaire placed his helmet on the table. Not quite identical then. Theo's trans-human eyesight picked out three small studs recessed above the helmet's right eye lens. In that moment, Theo realised he'd never actually seen his commander in the flesh during his four decades of service to the Alpha Legion. He looked up and was greeted by a heroic, copper-tinged face not unlike his own, although older. The ghost of wrinkles lined the legionnaire's face, and it was clear his nose had been broken several times and reset, but to any non-modified human, the legionnaire standing before Linus Theo was essentially an identical, albeit older version of himself. However, whereas Theo's eyes were a bright blue, his commanders were a sea green. The legionnaire returned the salute.

 

'You have performed to expectations on Habron Secundus, acting sergeant,' began Primus. Theo, nor any of the legionnaires knew the name of their commander, who had always been referred to by his designation. 'The war-smith won't cooperate lightly, but he will be a useful ally in the next phase of the operation,' he nodded, before adding, 'I'm pleased it was you who placed the teleport locator on him yourself. Elban and I had a wager on who would actually do the deed.'

 

Theo snorted. 'I didn't know that the senior captains indulged in such human practices. sir.'

 

'And why not, Linus? Although we are perfect gene-hanced specimens of humanity, we come from the same genetic stock. Just because we excel in every way above our species, it does not mean for a moment that we are above trivial concerns such as wagers. I would cite your inane habit of lho-sticks which you acquire off the deck-crews. Shenk in particular.'

 

Theo was incredulous. How on earth did he know about that?

 

'Touché,' was all Theo could manage. The commander chuckled.

 

'The magos will be a while seeing to the Iron Warrior. I understand you and Mos managed to actually inflict some pain on that psychopath,' mused Primus. 'He's a very dangerous man. Don't let our mitigation measures for a moment fool you into anything otherwise.'

 

Theo nodded.

 

'What about Mos and the scout?' he asked.

 

'Mos has been taken to the infirmary. According to the medicae, he has a clean break through his left radius and ulna caused by blunt force trauma, but that's the least of his worries. He's running a high fever due to an infection in his vocal chords and is currently undergoing surgery to clean up the mess. The surgeons may be able to treat the minor necrosis around the ventricular fold, otherwise we'll have to see about a vat grown or mechanical replacement,' the commander paused. 'The scout will be transferred to Magos Bakun after his wounds have been treated. He will be a fine recruit for Project MN-Gamma.'

 

Theo nodded again and let the silence hang for a moment. At length, Primus indicated that Theo should take a chair, and sat down. The commander brought two glasses of water and set them on the table.

 

'We have some time, Linus. Our intelligence shows the Word Bearer's are engaged in several large scale conflicts in the north-west, as well as the entire area around Agrippa city. The Imperial's force disposition has changed considerably since your last long range communications, with the Teutonic Brotherhood and Praetors of Mars suffering considerable losses. The Emperor's Blood leads the primary counterattack in Agrippa, bolstered by a small contingent of Shadows of Terra and the entirely unexpected presence of Iron Brethren who translated in-system within the last two days.'

 

Theo began to relate the entire encounter of the mission since the arrival of Rip Claw as Primus sat in silence, interjecting only to acquire details skipped over by the acting sergeant. It took more than an hour.

 

'We reached CWP213.2 before beginning to lay down cha–,' Theo was interrupted by the hatch opening again, with a hooded figure filled the portal's opening framed by the ghostly green of the gas giant beyond.

 

'You took your time,' remarked Primus, who had stood up and had begun to refill glasses of water, this time adding an additional cup. The hooded legionnaire strode into the chamber and the hatch closed behind him. Even with the light, Theo couldn't make out any detail under the hood. The figure shrugged.

 

'Acting sergeant, I'm sure you have heard of captain Sirdis Elban,' said Primus by way of introduction. Who hadn't? Captain Elban was one of Primus' most trusted and vaunted captains, who had returned recently from a string of successful campaigns spanning thirty four years across the entire galactic sector. Theo saluted. The captain took off his hood and Theo stared at a familiar face. He blinked in surprise.

 

'Nego?' asked Theo, with a confused expression upon his face. Legionnaire Ozias Abednego grinned at him.

 

'Well met acting sergeant,' said the legionnaire, thrusting his arm towards Theo. He grasped the proffered arm in greeting.

 

'Captain Elban has appraised me of the entire situation,' interjected Primus. 'I just wanted to hear your version of events.'

 

'We have been evaluating you,' began Ozias Abednego, who was Sirdis Elban.

 

'For potential candidacy for a command post,' finished Primus, with a conspiratorial look on his face.

 

Theo stared at his superiors with an incredulous look. At that moment, acting sergeant Linus Theo realised that he had not actually met legionnaires Mos Zebulon nor Ozias Abednego prior to the endeavour on Habron Secundus. The designation 'Echo' was used by Legion Command to specify one-off missions and Theo was selected for his skills as a minor level logokine. Field promotion to acting sergeant was a routine operational procedure normally reserved for training exercises, and did not necessarily mean consideration for a permanent command position. More often than not, acting sergeant's fluidly passed over their authority to more experienced legionnaires if the need arose.

 

'I particularly enjoyed your embellishment of rank when you were talking to Licastus,' offered Elban.

 

'I–I don't know what to say, captain,' stammered Theo.

 

'The captain informs me you were quite inventive with the psyk-sniffers,' said Primus.

 

'Thank you sir. 'Any and all means', is that not the Legion's way?'

 

'Indeed, acting sergeant,' answered the commander. He continued. 'You still remain in probationary period, Theo. As you well know, we allocate temporary leadership for training, but as you can well see, this has far beyond that. Captain Elban will assume command of Echo-Nine and you will be joined by another three veteran legionnaires.'

 

Theo nodded in acknowledgement. When it came to combat pragmatism, the Alpha Legion had no place for pride.

 

'Your immediate priority is to return to the surface of Habron Secundus to recover the psyker, Ariadne, whilst the Legion runs more ground interference and recovery.'

 

'Recovery, sir?' asked Theo.

 

'The hydra strikes with many heads, legionnaire,' said Primus. 'All in good time. The war-smith will not cooperate easily, and therefore we need an incentive. Upon your return, you will re-join Echo-Nine in phase two of our operation. You depart in t-minus three hours, after your armourer has finished making the necessary modifications. Get that shoulder looked at Theo, I don't want it infected like legionnaire Zebulon's.'

 

The commander and the captain saluted together, and the legionnaire reciprocated the gesture. Time to leave.

 

Theo walked over to the hatch and it automatically opened, bathing the legionnaire in the ghostly glow of the gas giant.

[Corsair]

A Search for Sinn

 

 

Halcius concentrated as hard as he ever had in his life, sweat bursting from his pores and his heartbeats pounding in his ears. He took a series of shallow breaths, and with each intake of sterile air he came closer to true control. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he managed to visualise a bubble sitting flat in the palm of his outstretched hand, a shiny little half-sphere glistening gently in the sunlight. He stared at the perfect dome, a crooked little smile upon his face, and then squeezed his imagined hand shut.

 

And just like that, the mortal's head exploded.

 

The remaining humans scattered in a blind panic, abandoning their heavy weapons and screaming about snipers as they dropped to the ground. The two crimson-clad traitors with them were much more controlled, roaring orders to their charges as they slammed into cover, bolters aimed toward the stand of trees where the fire must have originated from.

 

They could not have been more wrong.

 

“Well done, brother,” Lord Perron sniggered as he saw their enemies expose their backs to them. The former Apothecary’s laughter was rendered dull and mechanical through his augmetic jaw and throat, matched by the patchwork of dead skin, dull brass, and glistening bone that made up the rest of his ruined face. As much of the Red Corsair warlord was machine as was flesh these days, thanks to near-mortal injuries inflicted upon him by Sergeant Husq of the Executioners Chapter in the skirmish on Polus II. It was whispered that the surgery required to repair the old bastard had left him in such agony that it was sure to have long term repercussions on his sanity.

 

“Perhaps if you would embrace your power, you might one day even be superior to my bolt pistol?”

 

Halcius found that the thought of his Red Corsair master losing his mind due to unrelenting pain did not bother him a great deal.

 

“Rulius, destroy those autocannon emplacements. Leng, put an end to those Gods-botherers before they realise what is going on.” Rulius nodded at Perron’s order, the eight-pointed star tattooed on his bare forehead seeming to glow in the ruddy light of the strange warp-phenomena hanging over the ridge line. Leng just twitched slightly in response, ceramite mandibles quivering with his eagerness to kill. Staring at his warped brethren, Halcius fought to repress a shudder.

 

Such corruption.

 

“The rest of us shall slaughter these insects,” the vents on their leader’s rust-iron arm spat out a burst of steam, as if in emphasis. Halcius bowed his head, centring himself as he drew the force sword hanging at his waist. It was still a shock to see his armour stained red and black, the ocean blue of a Librarian obliterated as surely as his old Chapter insignia and honour markings.

 

“Are you coming, Ultramarine?” Gersthuss’ voice held an edge of scorn, as it always did. The former Lord of Midnight was newly come to the Red Corsairs, and his arrogant, superior attitude had immediately rubbed his new brothers the wrong way. Only his ability as a warrior had kept him alive so far.

 

“I will be along presently, whelp,” Halcius snarled back, although he could not keep the grin from his face. The Lords of Midnight were an insignificant Chapter, without the record or fame of many of their brothers within the Adeptus Astartes. The one thing they were famous for, however, was their complete belief in their own supremacy, looking down upon even the original Legions as worthy of nothing but pity compared to their own majesty.

 

It was an unjustified arrogance bordering on lunacy, and Halcius had found himself liking Gersthuss for that very reason, almost in spite of himself. Perhaps I see something of my own former Chapter in him, the psyker thought. The fact that the old company champion was as disliked as Halcius within the ranks had also helped to make him somewhat of an ally.

 

The former Lexicanum joined the charge, twin-bladed Mourningstar bursting into psychic flame the colour of onyx. Even that expression of his power brought a shudder, spine arching as the corrupting touch of Chaos caressed his skin.

 

His battle-brothers roared their enthusiasm for the impending slaughter, drawing their close combat weapons and firing bursts of bolter fire into the waiting crowd of humans lying prone in the dirt. The autocannon emplacements, the only true danger within the camp, were quickly demolished by Rulius’ heavy bolter fire, their gunners dying soon afterward.

 

Halcius had a heartbeat of premonition before he saw the first Word Bearer fall, his head bursting like a ripe melon; the second dropped as he spun to face the real threat, Leng’s deadly-accurate sniper fire with his Stalker-bolter felling the two enemy Space Marines in as many seconds.

 

“For the Panetheon!” Rulius' war cry was met with stony silence by the rest of the band, their disgust a mirror of Halcius’ own.

 

“Blood Reaver!” Perron’s static-laced roar came a heartbeat later, taken up much more enthusiastically by the Red Corsairs. Halcius mouthed the words, feeling yet another tiny piece of his soul die at this reminder of his new master.

 

“To have fallen so far, so fast,” he murmured.

 

“For what it is worth, whether an Ultramarine or Red Corsair, you will always be pathetic in my eyes,” Gersthuss ran beside him, the power hammer and combat shield of his old Chapter buzzing with repressed power in his gauntlets.

 

“At least I chose my own destiny,” Halcius shot back with a laugh as they reached the cultist position. A screeching leader was attempting to form his men up into ranks, although just as many members of the group were fleeing mindlessly into the hills.

 

“I walked away from the Ultramarines for their hypocrisy,” the Librarian swept his sword through the torso of a man, feeling the soul extinguish instantly as the warp-touched blade bisected him. “You were defeated in trial by combat at the hands of a child and expelled for your shame,”

 

“So I was,” grunted Gersthuss. The former Lord of Midnight lay about him with his shield and the haft of his hammer, seemingly enjoying caving in the skulls of the few mortals who dared to defend themselves. “My story is a tragedy, one worthy of retelling throughout the ages. You are just a mu-“

 

“Such bravery,” Perron growled as he hit the line full-force, cutting Gersthuss off, scything lightning talons tearing the enemy demagogue in half. “Such idiotic bravery.”

 

This last attempt at resistance disintegrated faster than it had formed, Perron and the other Red Corsairs with him ripping the cultists to pieces.

 

Just like that it was over, the better part of a hundred mortals lying dead at their feet. The rest fled screaming, abandoning everything in an attempt to live a scant few hours more in the inhospitable wreckage of whichever city sat in the defile below them.

 

Halcius found himself oddly sympathetic.

 

“These mortals are poor sport,” Brother Entzmann grumbled as he shook a half-naked corpse from the chain-bayonet on the end of his bolter. “You can see the future; why did the Corpse Taker bring us here, sorcerer?”

 

“Do not call me that,” Halcius looked over at their leader, managing to ignore his battle-brother’s mockery; Perron was crouched over the two Word Bearers, messily extracting their geneseed with his claws. He placed the little fleshy organs in the vials he wore slung across his chest on bandoleers of human flesh, though the vast majority of his foul haul sat in stasis aboard the Claws of the Tyrant.

 

“What do you want, brother?” Perron did not bother looking up when Halcius approached him, flanked by Gersthuss and Entzmann; Leng and Rulius soon joined them, the former moving with his typical fluid grace; the latter the complete opposite, grunting and swearing as he slid down the hill clutching his heavy cannon.

 

“Entzmann wants to know why we have come to this planet,” the psyker looked down on his master, the smoking black blade of Mourningstar still clutched in his hands. “I believe it is a pertinent question, and one worth answering.”

 

Halcius leapt backwards suddenly, the swipe of Perron’s claws hissing through the air a few seconds later; if he had not been forewarned, Halcius would have lost his leg.

 

“Don’t mind me, brother,” laughed the Corpse Taker as he stood, hands dripping with the gore of the slain Word Bearers. “I was just making sure you were still useful to me.”

 

Halcius still held his sword, and considered going at the arrogant warlord; Perron was old, and in pain, and the sword had his claws in both reach and power. He tensed to strike, but had a sudden vision of being swarmed by the rest of the warband before he closed the distance and being disembowelled by Perron as the rest of them held him down.

 

Halcius quickly abandoned that idea. Instead, he sheathed the sword and attempted to give the appearance of suitable deference. He could hear Rulius laughing at him, and even mute Leng was twitching. Oh, how they loved to mock him.

 

“Before I left the Maelstrom on our mission to gather up our old supply depots,” Perron began, a grotesque smile still smeared across his hideous features. “Lord Huron gave me another task; one that seemed almost incidental in the scheme of things, but to which I was to turn my hand on the occasion that my forces were compromised.”

 

Gersthuss let out a harsh bark of a laugh at that; compromised did not even begin to describe the situation they were in. Their vessel was a crippled hulk, slowly decaying in orbit, and the warband had been reduced to a tiny fraction of their former strength at the hands of the Executioners Chapter.

 

“The Blackheart gave me a schedule for a vessel known as By the Bounty of Him on Earth – a Rogue Trader under the command of one Vincent Sinn, which I was to make contact with in the event we found ourselves far afield of our original objectives…and which just happened to be in the Habron system when tragedy struck.”

 

“A Rogue Trader?” Entzmann said, his beaked helm tilted to the side in a gesture reminiscent of an inquisitive bird, though few would ever claim the old Astral Claw possessed much in the way of inquisitiveness; or, indeed, intelligence. “We’re going to steal a Rogue Trader?”

 

“No,” Halcius said, watching as Perron began to laugh again. “Something else.”

 

“Something else, indeed, Lexicanum, for our good Master Sinn is no ordinary Rogue Trader; oh no, he serves a particular group that our own master has had dealings with in the past. We are here to seek Sinn or his representatives on this world, that we may gain an audience.”

 

“And just who are these mysterious powers that will give us aid?” Gersthuss sounded instantly dismissive, though that was not unusual in and of itself; the Lord of Midnight was dismissive of everyone and everything that was not himself.

 

Perron just laughed his wheezing mechanical laugh and turned his back on them, setting out toward the ruined city. Halcius considered ramming his sword through the old Apothecary then, and his vision showed that a few of his brothers would not be quite so quick to stop him this time. But then where would they be?

 

Resignedly, Halcius moved to follow his master, dreaming of the day that he would finish the work begun by the Executioners and end the Corpse Taker once and for all.

 

[Llagos_Tyrant]

Ulterior Motives

 

Oden watched, mag-locked and elevated off the floor as the Magos turned back to him and clicked in binary as the Legionnaire continued his exit. He shouldn't have been surprised. He knew that something wasn't right with the Astarte when they were dueling. He had seemed too familiar, and too instinctual for the training of the Imperials and their Codex. Now, he could clearly understand why. He had worked with the Alpha Legion before, though that was long ago now, and the warlord he had fought with was probably dead. Then again, he had survived - hadn't he?

 

The Warsmith watched the Magos as he drifted his hands over the Iron Warriors armour, fiddling with one or two facets on the re-breather to stabilize it until he could properly attend to it. Oden just watched in silence. The Magos turned away from the Warsmith with a confidence in his safety that was near insulting, before grasping his foot and pulling him forward. If it wasn't for his predicament, he would have skinned the wretch for such treatment. That said however, the red lenses watching him from the shadows would have likely intervened before he had finished. Just more corpses to-be he thought.

 

The hunched serf was leading him down a large corridor now, lined with shifting vertical panels and coils that sparked with ethereal warp energies. He could feel the foulness of such things from the gangway, a line of indoctrinated slaves marching up alongside him to the open door ahead. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, and were it not for the bouts of lightning jumping from panel to panel, he may very well have heard the whispers of the warp daemons as they called to him, marked for death as he had always been.

 

Passing through the doorway and a lone guard who eyed him with suspicion, Oden was pulled onwards and into a large gathering chamber. Inside, he saw a number of scouts and the one he had fired upon on Habron Secundus, chained and kneeling with faces of contempt. Unable to turn his head, Oden stared at them as they passed out of his view and the Alpha Legionnaires watching him turned back to their captives.

 

The Magos clicked in binary again as they passed into another corridor and Oden could immediately smell the iron tang of blood and sewage in the air. Unable to turn his head, he was blind to the ravaged Legionnaire carried by his brethren on a stretcher - it's fabric torn and pale from millennium of use. The marine turned to look at his perfectly still form, disgust rolling over his face.

 

"You, Iron Warrior."

 

Oden stayed silent as he listened to the Astartes words.

 

"You did this to me." said the Legionnaire, glancing at his wounds as he spat a wad of blood onto Odens armour. "Before our time together is over, I'll see this debt fulfilled." The warrior broke into a coughing fit as he finished, and Oden remained silent.

 

The Legionnaires turned away from the Iron Warrior and his Magos not long after that - setting the Alpha Marine in the infirmary as Oden neared Magos Bakuns workshop. They passed through the doors and Oden could smell the oil and metal before he saw the servo arms dangling precariously over his head. The Magos let out a shrill sequence of binary as Oden came to a stop, pulling up beside the Magos' workbench.

 

No doubt the Magos was aware he could understand it. Ten millennium as an Iron Warrior could almost guarantee a fluency in the language of such machines. Still, his comprehension of its speech made it no less assuring. He had known this part was coming. - well aware that the Alpha Legion never missed an opportunity to gain an advantage, and all too aware that he might not leave the ship as the same warrior he arrived.

 

The Magos scuttled silently to the other side of the room before pulling a small collection of tubes over to his breathing apparatus. Clicking them into place, Oden drifted into unconsciousness as the gases flooded his lungs, and the Magos began his work.

[Nineswords]

Retrieval

 

The Omicron, continuous

 

 

‘COUNT YOURSELF LUCKY,’ remarked medicae Rhazes as he inspected legionnaire Linus Theo’s shoulder. ‘It was a clean wound, missing the artery by a quarter inch, and your Larraman’s managed to seal it before it was infected. Unlike your partner.’ The medicae pointed.

 

Theo followed the finger towards one of the many infirmary bays. Sure enough, he could make out the unconscious form of Mos Zebulon. ‘Probably the sewage network. We were down there a long time,’ Theo conjectured idly.

 

The medicae nodded in agreement. ‘Most likely. You’re fine, legionnaire, although expect some more stiffness over the next few hours,’ Rhazes said, as he sprayed counterseptic over a small slit on Theo’s shoulder. Astartes physiology was remarkable, the wound almost healing within hours, rather than days or weeks.

 

Theo swung his right arm around in a tight clockwise circle, keeping his fist in contact with the pectoral. For a moment, he comically resembled a domestic fowl. Placing his feet on the floor, Theo stood up, dwarfing the medicae next to him. The Astartes quickly zipped up his grey jumpsuit and nodded his thanks. Medicae Rhazes waved Theo away and with that, the legionnaire padded out the infirmary, and headed towards the arming chamber.

 

Walking through the main circulation corridor, Theo noted the increase in general activity in the ship as the Legion prepared for a large operation, passing several squads of indigo legionnaires striding towards the embarkation decks in full battleplate, accompanied by serfs who were issuing last minute tasking orders from Legion Command.

 

Entering the arming chamber once again, the scene hadn’t changed since Theo’s last visit, though he knew the activity had stepped up considerably as operational commencement drew near.

 

Although Theo wasn’t privy to the details, it was obvious Legion Command had invested considerable resources and time in this theatre, judging by the number of legionnaires being armed for war. Given the routinely specialised nature of the Legion’s objectives, the deployment of what looked like an entire company of legionnaires drawn from two centuries of recruitment cycles indicated an operation of significance. Usually a single legionnaire or a five man team was enough for most engagements, bolstered by the use of operatives. However in Theo’s immediate future, a single legionnaire would be enough to retrieve the psyker girl.

 

Returning once more to the arming bay he visited several hours before, Theo was confronted by a large grey sheet draped over the imposing form of a suit of battleplate. An arming servitor had reactivated as Theo approached via a proximity sensor, which also alerted Theo’s armourer, Ahmin, who was nearby. Glancing back at the grey sheet, Theo’s curiosity began to get the better of him.

 

‘Go on, master Theo,’ beamed Ahmin and gesticulated towards the battleplate as he approached the legionnaire.

 

Theo pinched the fabric and let it fall away, revealing the power armour beneath it. He whistled. The battleplate before him looked nothing at all like the battered suit he had returned to the Omicron in. Gone was the bronze veneer and the imperial iconography of the Stymphalids’ disguise, replaced by a rich purple-indigo, trimmed with gunmetal and accents of silver. However, what caught the legionnaire’s eye was a number of modifications to the original suit.

 

‘Primus had the magos deliver the parts shortly after you left,’ informed the armourer. ‘You are one of the first to try the experimental scale plate,’ he continued, pointing at various points on the suit. ‘Modified greaves with reinforced plating on the cuisse. The external power systems are now protected by an additional layer of scale plating that continues down to the plackard. The vambrace also has a slight reinforcement, as does the helmet.’

 

The dim green of the armour’s powered down internal systems snaked its way around the armour, illuminating finely wrought serpentine heraldry when caught at a certain light. Legion Command were largely pragmatic when it came to battleplate, reserving markings and iconongraphy for the purposes of disguise, compiled from the Omicron’s extensive database. However, they did turn a blind eye to the kind of subtle embellishments armourers like Ahmin were renowned for.

 

As a whole, the experimental suit was still distinctively Astartes, albeit one that took on the slightest appearance of a lizard, or the hydra of ancient Terra, even. The psychological impact of Magos Bakun’s tinkering were not lost on Legion Command.

 

‘My compliments Ahmin, but surely these modifications would take days?’

 

‘They would,’ replied Ahmin. ‘But most of it isn’t yours. However, the torso is, and my assistants are currently making the adjustments to the rest. Captain Elban asks that you return his legs, arms and helmet back in one piece. We’ll have your complete suit ready within another day or two.’

 

By this point, several other arming servitors had appeared and began to arm Theo, who had divulged himself of the grey jumpsuit and stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, arms splayed. Ahmin began to make routine systems checks, and the entire process took longer than usual as Ahmin triple-checked the armour. It was a snug fit.

 

‘Last minute tasking orders from the captain,’ announced Ahmin, as he produced a dataslate from a large pocket sewn into the front of his jumpsuit. Theo took the device from Ahmin and scanned its contents, before erasing the file with his thumbprint, and handed the slate back to the armourer.

 

Theo sighed. Ahmin looked up quizzically at the legionnaire.

 

‘I hate teleportation.’

 

Ahmin couldn’t help but laugh.

 

 

+++

 

 

THE BRIGHT FLASH of teleportation flare was noticed by no-one, save the multitude of rats who scuttled away in all directions as Linus Theo materialised in the dark, dank sewer system of Agrippa city. Immediately, Theo swept his boltgun in a wide arc, searching for possible threats. There were none.

 

Nearly nine hours had elapsed since the encounter, and Theo wondered if the psyker was alive at all if she’d stayed down here, in lieu of Zebulon’s own injuries. The Alpha Legionnaire began to move forward in a gait that optimised his speed without making too much noise. A schematic of the sewer network resolved in his helmet, sourced from the Agrippa municipal database, indicating the most efficient route towards the storm drain chamber where Echo-Nine had previously encountered the war-smith Oden Tullaris.

 

Approaching the chamber without incident, the warrior dropped into the expanse and moved towards the location of the altercation. As he predicted, the girl was gone, as was the glow-lantern that illuminated the chamber nine hours previously.

 

If I were her, I would have tried to exit to the surface as quickly as possible.

 

Theo scanned across the cavern, looking for the nearest escape ladder. Sure enough, the legionnaire made out the outline of a rusted access ladder at the far end of the chamber. He reasoned that there was no way the girl would attempt to climb the concrete upstands back into the main drains, and so the ladder represented the only way up.

 

Theo cursed as one of the rusted metal rungs collapsed under the weight of the Astartes. Moving up quickly as he noted the ladder beginning to sway, he managed to grasp the lip of a concrete tunnel just as the ladder gave way and tumbled into the black effluent. Tossing the boltgun into the passage above, Theo hauled himself up into the maintenance tunnel, still discomforted by the stiffness in his arm.

 

The passage was small, causing Theo to crouch. Unlike the rest of the sewerage however, it was dry, and lit by a series of glow-globes that stretched down the entirety of the corridor. The helmet display indicated that the shaft ran for three kilometres in roughly a straight line, interrupted every eight hundred metres by an access hatch.

 

Sure enough, a series of black footsteps receded into the distance. Making his way to the first hatch, Theo looked for signs of the girl’s exit, as the footsteps finally vanished about two hundred metres in. There appeared to be none, and the legionnaire continued along towards the next access. Although it appeared flat, internal sensors registered a one degree incline along the entirety of the shaft, bringing Theo closer to the surface levels of Agrippa city.

 

The girl was logical, Theo reasoned after discovering no sign of exit at the second access hatch. If you could traverse an entire city without being seen, you would obviously take the opportunity. Theo began to jog as quickly as he could in the tight confines of the passageway, his vision becoming a blur of monotonous glow globes.

 

Following the tunnel for approximately two and a half kilometres and approaching what would have been the twelfth hatch, the legionnaire finally stopped as he encountered a wall of rubble that no doubt was the result of a detonation, blocking any further movement.

 

Only one way up.

 

Theo climbed the short ladder and slowly raised the access cover. The schematics indicated the manhole opened onto a back street in the Agrippa’s administratum district. Seeing no sign of activity, Theo carefully slid the manhole plate across and clambered out into the street. It was night on Gamma Terra Largo, although plumes of ash from the still-raging conflict continued to cloud the sky, the dust veiling the sporadic flashes of explosions that tore apart the city.

 

The commercia had largely been untouched from the main conflict, but the signs of telltale small arms fire etched the masonry. Theo ducked into the first opening he found, and silently entered the building. It was a florist, and although the property showed no signs of disturbance, numerous bunches of flowers that filled the shop were coated in the sickly grey ash.

 

Just as he considered his next move, Theo’s trans-human hearing picked out voices over the background hum of artillery shelling. The voices were coming closer, and the Astartes edged towards the shop’s shutters, and peered out. Through the ash clouds, Theo made out humans jogging down the side street. Unlike the unkempt hordes of the Word Bearer’s cultists, the group was clearly imperial, garbed in the robes of Administratum staff.

 

Waiting until the group had passed further down the street, Theo stood up straight and exited the florist, leaving a safe distance of eighty metres between himself and the party to avoid detection. The grey ash would do the rest.

 

Making his way through the side streets and avoiding the main boulevards, the Alpha legionnaire was reasonably sure he was the only combat capable operative in the immediate vicinity, but as a precaution, proceeded in a standardised tactical sweep and moved silently across the district. Checking his helmet display, the distinctive heat trace of the imperials had stopped, clustering in what appeared to be a nondescript brick-clad building one hundred metres north of Theo’s position.

 

‘TETRAWheat, inc. (H.S Division)’, indicated the helmet's visual display. Theo began to run towards the building, which was nestled halfway along the unimaginatively named Aestivurn. The local authority made no ambiguity regarding their primary source of commerce.

 

With no obvious alternative, Theo made his way towards the front entrance: a set of heavy double doors with stylised aquila clutching a spikelet of wheat, set into the brasswork. One of the doors was ajar, and the legionnaire gingerly stepped through the doorway into a hall. It was dark, but Theo could see a series of trading counters. He looked down. The floor, carpeted in ash, revealed dozens of footprints criss-crossing the hall. Tracing his eye over the the deepest treads, the legionnaire followed the path of the building’s most recent occupants and silently began to cross the trading hall towards the grain vaults.

 

Passing a perimeter of small offices panelled in dark wood, Theo headed down a red carpeted corridor, terminating in a large brass door, illuminated by a small red glowstrip adjacent to a keypad. Beyond the vault lay the commercial wealth of TETRAWheat, Inc. and with it, Theo was certain, his quarry.

 

Standing by the vault's entrance, the warrior opened a small panel on his left vambrace and drew out a small cable, plugging the end in a corresponding jack underneath the keypad. Theo's helmet display overlaid a series of small white numerical digits, flashing quickly in sequence. If he had time, he would have pulse signalled the Omicron and requested the keycode, but the legionnaire considered it a waste of resource. Instead, the modified battle plate’s sophisticated internal systems performed a brute-force interruption, cycling through hundreds of thousands of permutations every second, as it ascertained the correct eight digit sequence.

 

After a time, a small blip sounded, and the glowstrip changed colour from red to white as the clanking of pistons disengaged the vault’s locking mechanisms. Clinical, off-white light spilled out from the chamber beyond.

 

‘In the name of the Emperor!’ Theo roared, as he stormed into the vault. He was greeted by a chorus of shouts and yelps as the room’s inhabitants registered what was happening. One of the humans fell backwards in a cloud of cereal. The rest dropped to their knees, moaning softly, trying to avoid eye contact with the huge Astartes warrior who had sprung amongst their midst like a predatory animal.

 

‘Where is the girl?’ barked the legionnaire, aiming his boltgun at the nearest figure. The terrified ordinate screamed.

 

‘Over th-th-there!’ squeaked another, pointing towards the back of the room. The Astartes strode through undulating mounds of grain, and the terrified civilians scattered to avoid coming close to the imposing bulk of the space marine. Lying on a flattened mound of cereal, lay the prone form of a human female, swathed in a dark green habit.

 

‘She has a fever, my lord. W–we tried to clear the infection, but we have no access to a medicae,’ offered one of the ordinates. Theo ignored him, and picked up the girl. She shivered.

 

Throwing her over his shoulder and mag-clamping his boltgun to his waist, the legionnaire marched back toward the vault entrance.

 

‘You,’ he pointed with his free arm towards the nearest ordinate. ‘Can you operate a transport?’

 

The wretched human shook his head.

 

‘I can,’ said another ordinate. Theo turned to appraise him. The balding man had a fat face, and sported a crude bionic implant in his right eye. He was sweating freely, and Theo could almost taste his fear. Like the woman, he was clothed in a dark green habit.

 

‘Come, then,’ Theo indicated with a wave of his hand as he stepped out into the hallway. The ordinate followed.

 

‘Are you sending help, brave warrior?’ enquired another one of the Adepts.

 

‘Stay here,’ replied Theo. ‘Salvation will come soon enough,’ as he closed the vault.

 

Outside in the hallway, Theo gently placed the woman on the ground, and returned to the keypad. Plugging into the keypad jack once again, Theo began to punch in a series of commands, that was followed by the vault locking mechanism re-engaging. The keypad began to flash ‘MANUAL OVERRIDE’.

 

The fat ordinate’s good eye widened. ‘Wh-what are you doing?’ he cried.

 

‘I’m sealing this vault, and turning off the internal environmental systems,’ replied the legionnaire casually, without turning around.

 

‘They’ll suffocate!’

 

‘Yes. They will,’ replied Theo, coldly. The Adept began to sob.

 

‘Stop whinging, ordinate. A worse fate would befall your colleagues should they be found by the Word Bearers and their servants.’ The statement did little to abate the uncontrollable sobbing.

 

Theo picked up the shivering girl, and marched down the corridor. He didn’t wait for the ordinate, knowing full well the fat man would follow the legionnaire.

 

It didn’t take long to find the transportation garage, and Theo scanned the TETRAWheat’s conveyance fleet quickly. There were a number of wheeled trucks featuring specialised wheat silos mounted on the chassis.

 

Too big.

 

Theo looked again.

 

There.

 

The vehicle was a black saloon, an anti-grav model that was quite clearly the most expensive vehicle in the fleet. The legionnaire dumped the girl onto the ordinate who had caught up with the warrior, and nearly toppled over, burdened with the extra weight of the near unconscious psyker.

 

After carefully inspecting the vehicle, Theo gripped the windshield with one arm, and with the other, unceremoniously ripped off the saloon's hard canopy. Though expensive, the vehicle was a civilian model, and therefore lacked any real structural reinforcement beyond the aesthetic.

 

The ordinate squealed in terror, having probably had never seen an Astartes close up. Theo retrieved the woman and placed her on the back seat. Part of the dark green habit fell away, exposing the woman’s naked, sweat drenched chest. There was a small cut above the woman’s right breast, but it was infected and it was apparent she needed medicae attention as soon as possible.

 

Theo produced a small aerosol from his utility belt and handed it to the ordinate.

 

‘Spray this on the wound whilst I get this started,’ commanded the legionnaire. The Adept complied, and the Alpha legionnaire began the simple process of overriding the vehicle’s flimsy security protocols. Inside the helmet, Theo grinned as he heard the distinct whine of the anti-grav motors sounded and the vehicle was released from its docking arms.

 

The ordinate clumsily clambered into the driver’s seat, and looked at the Astartes with a fearful, expectant look on his face. He stared into the frightening visage of death, incarnated as a mechanical reptile.

 

‘Head west down Aestivurn, and south towards Spelt district. Drive expediently and follow my every command if you wish to live.’

 

With a creak of metallic garage shutters, the vehicle slowly pulled out of the TETRAWheat facility and advanced down Aestivurn. At the junction, the vehicle turned left and the hum of the anti-grav engine increased as the ordinate began to accelerate. Grey dust began to whip past over the top of the windshield. Although there was comparatively little conflict in this part of the city, Theo kept his eyes firmly on his helmet’s sensor array. There was a blip.

 

‘Ordinate, it would appear there is a road block nine hundred metres ahead guarded by insurgents. Turn off the lights and keep your head low and just keep driving straight. Do not be distracted. I will do the rest.’

 

The man gulped and nodded vigorously, making a point of keeping his eye on the road. His knuckles where snow-white against the leather steering wheel. Eight hundred metres. Seven hundred metres. The whine of engines increased once again as the ordinate involuntarily accelerated.

 

‘Slow down!’ hissed Theo. They could now hear voices shouting. Three hundred metres. Two hundred metres. The roadblock was dead ahead and Theo could make out a number of local security force personnel scrambling to get away from the impending vehicle. Nine targets.

 

Flesh and bone burst as the bolts detonated squarely, the Alpha Legionnaire’s boltgun roared death as he gunned down the guardsmen in powdery puffs of arterial blood. The ordinate screamed at the top of his voice, and closed his eyes as Linus Theo hit each of the targets squarely in the chest.

 

‘Bank left, Adept!’ yelled Theo. The vehicle lurched as the ordinate overcompensated to avoid the plascrete roadblock rendered in hazard stripes. The transport scraped across a concrete wall at speed, causing the girl to jolt violently on the back seat. Theo grabbed the steering column to stabilise the vehicle from the now hysterical ordinate, who in the furore had wet himself.

 

‘It’s over, human. I have neutralised the threat,’ soothed the legionnaire. Just as well the ordinate had closed his eyes, he thought. Had he seen them in the darkness, the ordinate would have picked out the large aquila emblazoned in white across their chests.

 

Theo could hear the man’s heart hammering clearly. A moment passed before the ordinate sighed and began to regain control of the vehicle, slowing down as he guided the trio back onto the main road. The rest of the journey was spent in silence.

 

As they approached the southern edge of Agrippa, Theo checked the coordinates supplied by Legion Command again. He and the girl were to be extracted in Legion transport back to the Omicron.

 

‘Slow down, and right, ordinate,’ ordered the space marine. The ordinate complied and pulled into a large hangar.

 

‘TETRAWheat Docking Port (South)’, flashed the location in Theo’s helmet display.

 

Looking north into the distance, Theo could see large swathes of Agrippa city ablaze in an ugly haze of orange-red hues. The conflict raged and the artillery bombardment hadn’t abated.

 

The hangar was dark, but the bulky form of a gunship could be made out, swathed by a cloud of steam. The transport was prepped to go, and its crew were evidently waiting for Theo’s appearance.

 

Jumping out of the vehicle, the legionnaire picked up the dark green bundle of the woman psyker and carried her towards the open hatch, and disappeared into the craft’s interior. The ordinate scrambled out of the vehicle, and followed the space marine. He rounded the corner and peered into the gunship’s interior, and blinked. Through the steam, several pairs of toxic green eyes looked back the ordinate.

 

Like lizards. Like phantoms.

 

The steam parted and the gigantic space marine walked down the access ramp and stopped short of the ordinate, looking down. The space marine's voice was inhuman through the vox grille of his helmet.

 

‘My thanks, for your courage at the roadblock. Be assured, the girl is now safe. What is your name, ordinate?’

 

The man looked back up towards the phantom that had secured his escape.

 

‘T-t-urin. Alfonso Turin, my lord. Administratum officiate, third class,’ stammered the fat man, visible relief across his face at the prospect of being rescued, although he was acutely embarrassed by the dampness of his green habit.

 

The space marine nodded, and twisted the man’s neck with astonishing speed and supernatural force.

 

Administratum officiate Turin slumped onto the floor, his head facing entirely the wrong way, a glazed eye reflecting the fires of Agrippa. The legionnaire stared at the deceased ordinate a moment, turned, and headed back into the gunship.

 

‘Legion Command, this is Echo-Nine-One. Objective completed.’

 

There was a slight pause, before a tinny voice spoke through the vox network.

 

‘This is Elban. Rip Claw is cleared for take off.’

[Corsair]

Gifts

 

"I think you should kill him, Ultramarine,"

 

Halcius glared at Gersthuss through the corner of his visor, but did not otherwise react. Instead, he focused on trudging toward the smoking hulk that was the distant city, and ensuring that he would sense any attack directed toward him that might be incoming, though the ever-increasing warp taint was interfering quite drastically with his powers.

 

"Witch, I am talking to you," the ex-Lord of Midnight pointed his hammer at Halcius, as though he might get confused and think there was some other witch present.

 

"Who?" the Lexicanum growled back finally. He knew full well what the answer would be, of course, but Gersthuss could not be trusted with an honest response.

 

None of them could be trusted.

 

"Who do you think, idiot: the Corpse Taker!" Gersthuss said it so casually, and loudly enough that Entzmann eyed the brusque fool askance; interestingly enough, however, the other Red Corsair smirked and turned back to the path ahead, bolter raised and tracking for targets along the main highway that they were travelling parallel to.

 

+I'm the idiot?+ Halcius forced the words into Gersthuss's mind, feeling sweat break out in his brow; even what in most Librarians would be considered incredibly simple telepathy was a ruinous effort for him. +Why don't you just open a direct vox-link to Perron now and tell him I'm going to kill him? Hell, why not steal an Astropath so you can include Huron Blackheart in the conversation as well?+

 

"Ha! Maybe that would be enough to make you act like a true warrior?" The old company champion was, if anything, speaking louder than before. "But I always forget, you're little more than a neophyte, aren't you? I doubt you could take him, even if you had the balls to try."

 

Entzmann was laughing outright now, his long, lank black hair swishing side to side as he shook his head at Gersthuss, though whether at his idiocy or his audacity, Halcius could not be sure.

 

"He is old and injured," Gersthuss continued, oblivious. "I could slay him easily myself, of course, but I have no designs on being a Captain."

 

"I think you mean 'warlord,'" Entzmann provided helpfully. Halcius wondered what the Astral Claw would look like without a head.

 

"Pshaw, you corrupt barbarians may refer to the position as such, but I am a noble son of-"

 

"-A whore, yes, we know." Rulius spoke on the vox in his usual sibilant whisper, sending a shudder of revulsion down Halcius' spine. "Now shut your mouth or the speeder Leng just spotted might hear your pathetic boasting and decide to kill you before I do.”

 

As one the Red Corsairs hit the ground, weapons raised. Halcius held the hilt of his sword, but otherwise focussed predominantly on his power, sending tendrils of his consciousness into the ether to sense any threat that might be bearing down upon the small squad.

 

They waited for several minutes, perfectly still, heartbeats slow and energy signatures reduced to the barest minimum. Eventually a click sounded down the vox, as close as Brother Leng could come to speech: clear.

 

The Red Corsairs moved in silence for almost an hour after that. Entzmann had moved further onto their left flank, his helm replaced and eyes locked ahead. No doubt concerned he will be painted with the traitor's brush should Rulius have heard more of Gersthuss's talk of treachery, thought the Librarian. Perhaps both of his 'brothers' might be due for an unfortunate accident in the near future.

 

Halcius was surprised to feel a pang when he thought of having to kill the blustery Lord of Twilight; he was amusingly arrogant and surprisingly loyal in combat. And, if nothing else, he was not an Astral Claw.

 

"Lord Perron approaches," Rulius hissed a second after Halcius sensed the presence of his master in a swirl of bilious hues and a sensation of flesh being torn by rusted knives. That was not a good sign; he rarely saw the future with any clarity unless he was in some form of danger.

 

"Let us hear what our glorious leader has found," said Gersthuss, voice dripping with scorn. Halcius fell in behind him and Entzmann; he never left his back open to members of the warband, not after what had happened on Polus II.

 

Perron smiled as they approached, the ugly brass augmetic that comprised his lower jaw ensuring there could be not even a pretence of warmth and camaraderie in the expression. The Corpse Taker’s lightning claws were retracted, at least, and his bolter was firmly mag-locked to his thigh.

 

Brother Leng stood next to him, Stalker-boltgun twitching where it was fused to his left hand. The Mantis Warrior clacked his helm-mandibles as they approached; Halcius was disgusted to see a viscous, semi-transparent liquid oozing from what had once been the mouth grille of Leng’s helmet, causing paint to smoke as it dripped onto the blood-coloured plates of his armour.

 

Rulius stood upon a slab of granite in the distance, heavy bolter alternately aimed toward the outskirts of the city that now stood only kilometres away and the gathering of the rest of the squad. The freak went without his helm, letting the warp-touched wind caress his tainted flesh. The eight-pointed star branded into the scaled flesh of his face glowed faintly. He noticed Halcius looking and smiled, revealing rows of blunt, bovine teeth in the same shade of red and black as his armour.

 

"Ah, my dear brethren," Perron began, drawing the former Ultramarine's attention back to more pressing matters. "I have found what we are looking for on this ruin of a planet."

 

"And that is?" Halcius crossed his arms, attempting to appear nonchalant as he struck.

 

He focused his will into a spear point and forced it at the old Apothecary’s mind. Perron’s psyche was a battered, pulsating thing, oozing aetheric energy in a hundred places as his thoughts fractured under the slow onslaught of his devastated body.

 

Yet for all of that, the ragged, wounded soul of the Corpse Taker was armoured like a Land Raider. Halcius’ attack bounced off and he immediately withdrew from the other man’s mind. Less than a heartbeat had passed.

 

"For myself and the Tyrant to know, sorcerer, and do not forget it." Perron waved a hand lazily in the air; Halcius spun to the right two heartbeats before the attack came, hand reaching for his hold-out bolt pistol where it was hidden beneath his power plant. He had foreseen the attack the instant his attack had failed, and the Corpse Taker had made a costly mistake moving against him directly.

 

Halcius snapped off a shot as Leng's bolts streaked past him at the command of his master. Perron himself had a moment to look stunned before his eye popped in a burst of goo; the back of the warlord's skull followed suit a second later, the ancient Red Corsair flopping to the ground like a marionette with the strings slashed. Halcius felt a moment of vicious satisfaction as he finished the work the damned Executioners had begun all those months ago.

 

Leng, the damnably fast bastard, realigned his aim and fired again, but Halcius was faster, his talents granting him the ability to outmanoeuvre even the superlative reflexes of the Mantis Warrior. Even better, Gersthuss stepped into the fray, shield raised as he charged at the insect-like marine.

 

Halcius dived into a forward roll as Rulius opened up with his heavy bolter, fiery shells flashing past him. The bolt pistol hummed in his hand as he came back to his feet, and half of the corrupted marine’s face disappeared in a series of small detonations.

 

The Librarian felt exultant as he watched Gersthuss smash Leng into the dirt, the disruption field encompassing his warhammer crackling and hissing as it evaporated the blood that caked the heavy head of the weapon. Halcius looked at Entzmann, who stood off to the side; the other Red Corsair had not even drawn a weapon, content to watch the confrontation with amused disinterest.

 

“Well done, Ultramarine! I knew you had it in-“

 

-The Stalker shell took Halcius in the shoulder pauldron, glancing off to the side and knocking his left hand away from the hilt of Mourningstar; the second shell caught him in the chest without penetrating, deflecting upward toward his helm before bursting in a flash of light that overloaded the autosenses of his armour.

 

The third shot connected with the right knee pad of his greaves and detonated instantly, spinning him to the ground, but doing no real damage. The bolt pistol was still clutched in his hand and the attack had not hurt him. He could rise and finish Perron and Leng and Rulius. Even Gersthuss and Entzmann, if necessary.

 

Halcius lay in the dirt, eyes squeezed shut inside his helm, and felt fear.

 

“Just because you foresee something with your petty little gift,” whispered Perron, leaning over him. Halcius could hear the sneer in the Red Corsair’s voice, and knew that death had finally caught up with him. “Does not mean that it is so. Brother Leng is favoured by the Pantheon with certain gifts, and I am favoured by Brother Leng.”

 

Halcius expected a kick, then, or the finishing blow. Instead, a hand grasped him roughly by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. He could smell Perron’s foetid breath as the Corpse Taker got in close.

 

“Next time you try to read my thoughts, brother, remember that fact.” Perron laughed; the bastard always laughed. “Remember that I am no easy prey and Leng does not miss.”

 

Perron turned his back on him and walked back to his place beside his pet Mantis Warrior. The warlord began to scratch a diagram in the dirt, mentioning something about a slaughtered PDF blockade and lunatics of the Word Bearers Legion running amok through the streets. It was like none of it had ever happened; that his psyker lieutenant was so pathetic as to be completely unworthy of note

 

Halcius barely heard a word. All thoughts of Perron’s mysterious mission for the Blackheart or their supposed allies had disappeared from his mind.

 

His premonitions were the only thing he had. The only thing. They made him special, gave him a chance of surviving as a Red Corsair, or, indeed, at all. Indeed, they were the reason he had fled the Ultramarines, his master’s blood on his hands, lest they return him back to the battle companies or lobotomise him for conversion into a servitor.

 

And it was now useless. He was not even worth killing. Perron owned him, and his little pet mutant was the leash.

 

+Gersthuss,+ He was already shaking, his strength at telepathy even more pitiful than usual. His voice was tiny even in his own mind; a child’s cry against the crash of an angry ocean.

 

+Aye?+ The word was faint; Gersthuss was no psyker, and Halcius could sense the effort it was taking the Lord of Midnight to focus his thoughts even this much.

 

Perron continued to talk about their mission. He could have been spilling the secrets about this Rogue Trader they were hunting or confessing to being Marneus Calgar’s secret lover for all Halcius knew; he could spare no time for anything other than his own focus.

 

+You want me to be your…Captain?+ Blood trickled from his nose and ran over his lips, refusing to clot. His eyes grew painfully hot and dry, like he stood near a fire, or as if they were, themselves, aflame. Halcius was glad he still wore his helm.

 

+Aye, Ultramarine.+

 

Perron glanced at him, then, head cocked. Halcius forced himself to nod, as though he were agreeing with whatever the warlord had said, and gritted his teeth.

 

+Then…b-be my Champion,+ Halcius was fading. It was too much. +I…will kill…Perron, but…o-only…if you can k-k-kill…Leng.+

 

There was a long pause. Too long. The darkness tore at him; called for him; beckoned him.

 

+…Aye, brother.+

 

Halcius smiled through crimson-stained teeth before he finally allowed himself the luxury of fainting.

[Llagos_Tyrant]

A Rock and A Hard Place

Somewhere in the Habron System,

On board the Omicron

 

When Oden awoke, it was to the screech of metal on metal as he moved his chained hands along the cold iron slab he lay upon. His hands clenched into fists and he lurched forward, instinctively fighting his bonds to break loose. They felt like iron on his skin. Fitting, for one of his genes, though he knew it was impossible. He would have torn through iron as easily as paper. Trying for a second time, though with much less effort, he raised one fist as he lifted his head off the slab, winking his eyes in the blinding light above him. He realized that he was naked - his armour stripped bare and laid out on a table across from him. The breathing of his mask was also different. It wasn't the bellowing breathe of ten thousand years that he had grown accustomed too. The image was the same - an open metallic fanged jaw that roared of menace and fury. But it was silent. Even for a warrior as lethal as he, he closed his eyes and dropped his head as his suspicions were correct.

 

They have chained me. He thought, not giving any note to the bonds on his limbs - but to the breathe in his lungs.

 

He rolled his head groggily as the drugs were slowly wearing off, and he saw the outline of a warrior in the shadows. Stepping forward, the midnight indigo power armour of the Legionnaire caught the light as his helmet, and venomous green eyes stayed in the shadows.

 

"You are awake." The Astartes said plainly. "Quite the collection you have." He said, nodding his head towards Odens body. The Warsmith didn`t need a reminder. He didn`t need to look at the mangled scars across his chest and abdomen. He didn`t need to see the scalding burn across his right shoulder, or the piercing wound through his thigh granted by a ravenous tyranid-gene xeno. He certainly didn`t need a reminder of his mangled throat and the augmetic replacement he had crafted - and had defiled - through ten millenia of warfare.

 

"I am Alpharius." The warrior began.

 

"You. are all. Alpharius." Oden interrupted, his throat dry and soar from the procedure and his voice slowed by drugs from his deliberate and methodical tone. The warrior didn't answer as Oden exhaled heavily, trying to tell if he was actually still breathing.

 

"You are Oden Tullaris, Warsmith of the 7th Grand Company. Ravager of the Peruvian Rift, Destroyer of Javik and-" The Astartes paused to let Oden hang on his word. "a broken exile." Oden grimaced through his augmetic jaw, though it couldn't be noticed. "You have some specialty in siegecraft, and a deliberate habit of killing your employers." The Legionnaire said.

 

"Some. Specialty?" Oden struggled, ignoring the latter remark in recognition of the truth. "I am the scion of the greatest Iron Warrior to grace the stars. There is no fortress I cannot take - and no place I cannot fortify beyond compare." He growled as the drugs wore off.

 

"You speak of your gene-father unusually. I was under the impression that you were on-" Alpharius trailed off in speech, as if searching for a particularly gutting phrase. "wanting terms." he settled. Oden bellowed a guttural laugh as he ended coughing and convulsing on the slab.

 

"You think. I speak. of Pertuarbo?" Oden barely managed. He roared in another fit of painful convulsions and wheezing as he struggled to calm himself. "No." He said as the wheezing eased. He rolled his head to the side for a better view of the Legionnaire. "No, I do not speak of that excuse for a Primarch." he repeated. "I will not name him to you, Alpharius. You are not worthy of his legacy, and He survives through me, and I alone." Oden said with a finality that galled even death itself.

 

"I doubt that. It is lucky for you, that we have greater tasks at hand." The legionnaire said, walking over to the table baring Odens armour. he picked up the gauntlet with the mounted plasma pistol and examined the intricate workings in his hand - feeling the writhing warp stuff that held and powered the corrupted plasma weapon. "What do you know of Donjon?" The warrior asked, setting the weapon down on the table as he picked up the plumed helmet and felt the weight in his hands.

 

"The moon?" Oden affirmed, not waiting for a response. "It is of little consequence. A prison for the scum that hadn't earned itself the honour of death." He said.

 

"The Honour of Death?" The Legionnaire turned, tilting his head slightly. "Curious words for an Iron Warrior, on the run for his life since the Heresy." Oden stayed silent, content to let the Legionnaire wonder if the jab gnawed at him - or if he spoke out of ignorance. Thinking back on his history, Oden wasn't quite sure either. "And what of your Chosen? Have they embraced the Honour of Death?" The Warrior said, tossing the helm onto the table irreverently. Oden winced at the sound of the metal clanging off the slab table before ringing as it spun on its neck before coming to a stop.

 

"I do not know." He answered.

 

"Where were they headed?" The Legionnaire asked.

 

"To the Space Port."

 

"To wait for you?"

 

"To get off world."

 

The Warrior paused momentarily, considering the facts and his prisoners mood.

 

"You know more than you share, Warsmith. That is not the foundation of a strong friendship." Alpharius finally said, his soothing voice betraying a slight of paranoia.

 

"And I suppose you know how to begin such strong friendships, Alpharius?" He said, raising his chained hands in cold humour.

 

"A necessary precaution." He said, coldly, turning back to the armour before walking over to another slab, the outline of a tall pitcher of water barely visible in the dark - even for Odens gene-hanced sight. When the hiss of a disengaged helmet shot through the dark, Oden looked for a hint of the warriors face. With his back turned as he downed a glass of recycled aqua, there was no hint of the Astartes features to discern. "I'm sure you can appreciate my position." Alpharius said, his soothing voice more clear and strangely warm without the relay through his helmet.

 

"I appreciate that we will be traveling to Donjon soon - though probably not together. I appreciate that aetherial-equalisation technology has everything to do with the yuya'amaitiyÄka - and I appreciate that for the time being, we are allies with a common goal." He said, passing over his appreciation for the status of prisoner and the danger for Ariadne. He narrowed his eyes on the warrior as his helmet sealed itself back on his head. The warrior turned to Oden and stood straight before him.

 

"Then I appreciate your understanding, Warsmith." The Legionnaire said, a low click in the room signalling an open vox channel with one of his ilk. The bonds on Odens limbs released themselves and Oden slowly brought himself upright, flexing his muscles and stretching his neck after the procedure. It was sore, but he would recover within the hour. What miracles the Emperor had worked on his wretched beginnings - and how ironic that they were turned against him.

 

"There is something else you should appreciate, Alpharius." Oden said as the Astarte turned for the door.

 

"Oh? Is there?" The warrior asked without even the most cursory of glances. The door shut behind the Legionnaire as Oden held his tongue.

 

From Iron cometh Strength. He answered in the dark.

[King Willy]

Fallen Gods

 

Mafez moved cautiously through the large piping of the water mains, his squad moving in formation behind him, Mordicais plasma gun casting a soft blue light across the dry rockcrete walls.

"Hunter, thirty meters then turn right at intersection, ladder will take us to the target zone" Bedizius said quickly over the vox.

"Good, we should be clear, double time" Mafez said starting into a quick jog, the intersection rounding the corner quickly as the squads genenhanced bodies made the distance in a matter of seconds.

 

"Arkmen, you first, Mordicai second, Bedizius behind me, Gorzak watch the rear" Mafez said as they gathered around the hatch leading up through the roof of the pipe. Arkmen moved in under the hatch, reaching up to push the small skull that acted as the open button, the hatch sliding open with an audiable grinding in the silent and bone dry pipping, a small ladder lowered in front of the Astartes who quickly clambered up into the small hole, looking up Arkmen could see a feint yellow emergency light, though the bulk of his armour blocked out the sight to those below him.

 

He quickly reached the top, poking his head over the lip of the manhole into the basement of a large hab block, geothermal power plants sitting silent in the grimey darkness, he pulled himself up quietly, before pulling his bolter out from the mag clamps of his powerpack, sweeping it slowly across the darkness, Mordicai followed next kneeling across the hole from Mordicai his plasma gun slowly plused as he to scanned the room.

"Were clear" Arkmen said standing and wandering around the small room they where in.

 

"Service lifts" Mordicai said monotonusly as Mafez pulled himself through the gap and turned to help Bedizius.

"Get to them, we heading to the roof" Mafez said, Mordicai and Arkmen jogging with heavy metallic steps through the silent room, dust clouds twisting through the still air as they jogged.

 

"Now signs of movement hunter, scans show clean building till the top floor, report of guardsmen on top, loyalists holding out against Renegades" Bedizius voxed as he followered Mordicai and Arkmen into the gloom.

 

Mafez felt a prickle on his neck, not fear for no Astartes knows such a thing, but a reaction to something in the air, anticipation perhaps.

 

He shook himself off as he hauled Gorzak up onto his feet, "Hunter, I don't feel right" Gorzak said, stumbling unsteadily to his left as he ripped his helmet off, a torrent of black and green bile flowing from his mouth, Mafez stumbled back in surprise looking down at the unceaseing torrent, Gorzaks eyes widened in horror at what was flowing like a river from his mouth.

 

"Reform on me!" Mafez voxed, only static replied a quiet whisper beneath it, "Chaos" Mafez snarled, looking in Gorzaks eyes, giving him an almost indistinct nod, Gorzak responded in kind as he brought his fist up to the side of his temple, without a second thought he closed his eyes as the concealed blade mounted to his fist blasted out like a bolt into his skull and craved off the top half of his skull.

 

"Squad respond" Mafez said into the vox again as he pulled a small transmitter from his belt and placed it atop Gorzaks corpse, bile now trickling out of his mouth.

 

Mafez gave a prayer as he jogged in the direction his squad had gone.

 

As he approached the lift, he saw his squad, bolters trained on the shadows and the fading forms of a pair of small blue daemons, "Hunter, we tried to contact you, where is Gorzak?" Arkmen said quickly lowering his bolter.

 

"This Daemon must of cast some kind of spell, he gave himself the Emperors mercy" Mafez said stepping into the lift, "I'd expect any of you to do the same" he added turning to his squad, silence falling once again like a blanket across the vast basement.

 

The Rangers stepped quietly onto the lift, each giving there own silent prayer for Gorzaks soul, only Mafez held his head high, the others eyes stayed down as the lift shuddered up towards the top floor.

[Olis]

The Bloodied One

 

Falling into the semi-solid sludge below was not exactly what Cthastus Geddon had envisaged how the fight would go. Then again 'falling' would be an ignoble way to put it - granted he fell from a gantry and yes, he did indeed land face first in a pile of foul muck. But he didn't slip off, nor lose his footing. He was thrown off.

 

When he and Cruz had approached the lone Space Wolf from both sides, they didn't expect the sort of fight that they were in for. Even when Geddon drew his Bolt Pistol, ready to put down the renegade, the Wolf curiously did not react. He just stood there, bleeding profusely from many rents and cracks in his ceramite battle plate, muttering under his breath. The nature of the mutterings made the hairs on the back of the scout Sergeants neck rise and his face twist into a disgusted sneer. The ruined chest piece that covered the marines injured physique rose and fell in time with a wet, rattling breath Geddon could

clearly make out, discernable from a reasonable distance. It may have a been a death-rattle, but it was harsh and loud, indicating the fallen Wolf's time should be soon to expire.

 

There were a few disconcerting details Geddon had noted as they approached, signs of corruption as clear as the sickly sweet smell that Thespian had detected. The Wolf's mouth-grille bled thick, rich astartes blood, as did the broken lenses in his eye slots. There were six inch long industrial nails still embedded in the renegade's hands and matching - bleeding - holes in his feet, telling of a recent crucifixion. Then there were the clear markings of Ruination. In several prominent places the Blood Mark, a forbidden glyph for good reason, decorated pale grey armour. That itself was enough to put down the lone Wolf, let alone any other sign. Although it may have been the case that he had been corrupted against his will, that hardly mattered at this point. He was a sick animal that had to be put down.

 

Cruz nodded to Geddon, holding his own combat blade ready should the idling chainaxe, held loosely enough to convince Geddon that it would be dropped any second, be brought to bear and the Space Wolf became violent. It was a notion he wasn't disabused of when the traitor, finally reacting when Geddon raised his firearm, revved and swung his chainaxe, roaring at the Scoutmaster. Knocked away, the pistol skittered and bounced across the iron mesh floor before tumbling away into the murk below, leaving Geddon momentarily without a weapon. As a matter of course he drew his blade to defend himself, more out of muscle memory than conscious thought.

 

With the Wolf preoccupied, facing down the threat that Geddon posed, Cruz was free to assault the bleeding berzerker from behind with his own melee weapon. A swing at Geddon creased a ragged gash across the sergeant's carapace breastplate while Cruz spun the grip on his steel and plunged it down into the join between the soft neck armour and the breastplate of the bellowing berzerker, wedging the steel into the traitor's chest where it stuck fast. Cruz realeased his grip, not willing to risk hanging onto the flailing berzerker. This measured strike, to Geddon and Cruz's concern, did not slow him down at all.

Between shouts for blood or cries for skulls, any other scream from the blood-streaked maniac came out as a lupine howl, eerily akin to the totemic animal his parent chapter based their iconography upon.

 

Another wild axe swing was barely fended off by the veteran as he had attempted to back out of reach of them wicked chain weapon, eager not to taste it's bite. Again, a two-handed swing of the buzzing chainaxe swept around, the power of it spinning the warding knife away as Geddon once again retreated out of reach. In the brief respite backing off gave him, he keyed his vox.

 

"Tell me one of you has a shot."

 

++Negative Sergeant.++ Ardimmar voxed back.

 

"Balls." Geddon muttered under his breath.

 

Cruz, now beginning to regret leaving his blade embedded in the rabid Wolf, had grabbed the handle of the chainaxe the Wolf was weilding and was attempting to wrest the weapon away from him. The howling renegade fought back, punching Cruz's helmed head hard, over and over, cracking the ceramite a little at a time. Geddon leapt on the back of the Wolf, grabbing the embedded combat blade Cruz had left seconds earlier. Cruz, reeling from the pounding, staggered back while the Scoutmaster sawed away at the neck of the renegade. His not-long-healed arm strained as the Wolf flung him around, the renegade losing his grip on his chainaxe to Cruz in an effort to dislodge Geddon.

 

Geddon spent another four seconds riding the bucking and howling traitor out onto the gantry before the Wolf grabbed Geddon's camo cloak and tore him from his back, the knife sliding away from the brutal, bleeding wound in his neck as the Scoutmaster went up and over onto the deck. Before he could recover the Wolf had hoisted Geddon up and bodily threw him, sending him away from the sewage facility and into the chasm. As he fell, Geddon knew this was not working out as he thought it would.

 

Picking himself up from the wet pile of waste he landed in, Geddon looked up, hearing the fight carry on without him. Although caked in human dirt, he keyed his vox again.

 

"Send a rope down, Thespian." Geddon ordered. With little else to do, the scout obeyed the command with commendable speed. The rope, though long, came down just out of reach. The brother-sergeant knew his attempts at jumping up to grab it would be undignified, he was just glad there was no-one around to mock him. As he finally grasped the end of the rope, he spied a shape leaping across the gap back to where the scouts were. The shape had a chainaxe and was clad in bronze. Cruz. Although the Captain barely made it, Geddon knew the Captain was in no danger of falling. What he was in danger of, still, was the insane berserker, now making it's way over the gap in a leap mimicking Cruz's.

 

Hand over hand the Sergeant clawed his way up the rope, watching the drama above him unfold. The Wolf held onto the foot of the Captain he had caught after not quite making the distance of the jump, drizzling droplets of blood down on Geddon. Cruz kicked furiously at the berzerker, keen to be rid of the corrupted astartes. Further and further up the Brother-Sergeant climbed, slowly being showered with crimson rain, mixing with the filth he had just prior landed in.

 

A howl rose in pitch as the Wolf fell past him, dropping again once as the figure receded until he splashed down. Watching him the entire way down, Geddon grinned knowing they had bested a minion of one of the powers of the Warp. The grin faded as the Wolf began to climb after Geddon, his bloodshot eyes wholly focused on the Scoutmaster. Now was not the time to gawp, he thought as he increased his rate of climb.

 

At the top he was helped over the lip of the outlet, a picture of filth and grime. He gave back Cruz his own combat blade as he took back his rifle from Ardimmar. He wiped his face, clearing the blood and muck that might interfere with looking down his sight. Taking a position at the corner of the outlet he lined up a shot with the berzerker and fired, planting a shot in the gaping knife wound in his neck. A howl gurgled wetly from the maniac but he kept climbing. Geddon lined up another shot but the traitor dropped away, the line slackly dropping away with him. Cruz, his hand on Geddon's shoulder, shook his head.

 

"We are wasting time." He said.

 

Geddon looked back down at the stranded Wolf. Leaving him alive left a taste in his mouth that he was certain did not come from the excrement or blood. It almost felt like defeat. Geddon lined up his scope with the Wolf again. This had to end. His finger squeezed the trigger, but his shot went wide. Cruz had pushed the rifle gently away from the traitor just in time to stop the shot connecting. He rose, looking at the Captain accusingly.

 

"We need to go. That is an order, Scoutmaster." Cruz sternly told Geddon, holding his gaze. Geddon turned to stare at the Wolf.

 

"He needs to die!" Exclaimed Thespian. "We suffer not the traitors to live!"

 

"We are not afraid of him." Declared Ardimmar.

 

"We are not leaving because we are afraid of him, whelp. We are leaving because he refuses to die. That and the fact he can best both Geddon and I means we should leave. We have better concerns, scout. Like our finding lost comrades, or eliminating Karshan, curse his name." Cruz gunned his newly acquired chainaxe for emphasis.

 

"Do not threaten me, Captain. Agent of the Inquisition or not, I shall not be bullied into not doing my duty!" Thespian shouted.

 

"Leave it, Thespian." Geddon said. "I do not need us earning the Inquisition's ire."

 

"A sensible answer." Cruz curtly acknowledged. Geddon gazed down into the pit again. Something was wrong.

 

"Next time..." He muttered, shouldering his rifle. He turned away to head into the sewers again. The Wolf howled all the same.