The Heritage Of Days Past

[Viridia]

Disclaimer; This is a WIP story, and the section so far done deals with no Astartes. They'll turn up later on. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the brief section I can post.

 

Corporal Alifa Tariq lifted up the waterbottle to his mouth, the lid flapping as he shook it to get the last few drops of his water ration into his parched mouth. The raging heat inside his throat just barely consoled, he turned back to the rest of the five-man strong Rough Rider squad. The burly form of Alishka nodded at his bottle from atop his own mount, "You empty too?" Tariq licked his lips, regretting it as the heat baked the moisture before replying.

"Yes. Damned water-debt will be the death of us unless we get back to Forward on time."

The burly man just nodded again. Patrols in the desert were their stock in trade, but even the Entakai had to be careful here. The war had forced the Verdusian PDF to stretch itself too far to cover adequately against the phantom forces of the Eldar, and the Entakai 20th had been deployed to guard the Mechanicus adepts who were still producing materiel and equipment for the war effort. Their output was the only reason the planet's defenders so far hadn't been defeated comprehensively, and the desert was the one weak point in its already fearsome artificial defences, forcing regular patrols to sweep it in efforts to keep it secure.

 

The sand started to whirl up into the air, and Tariq shook his head in an effort to get the cloying grains out of his eyes. The sandstorms had always been seasonal, happening at most on a yearly basis, and yet since the cursed Eldar's arrival it had been far worse, and some men had already been carried off by the force of the howling wind. He dug the tips of his barbed spurs into the flank of the great Mukaali beast he rode. The lizard-like creatures had a long history of use on Entakai, stretching back to their importation from Goru-Prime. The animal trotted forward, hooves padding through the sand. As the five guardsmen got back underway, none of them noticed the sand behind them, as a line broke through it following them.

 

"Another hour, dammit. Who the hell told Big Ears to draw the patrol circuits so wide?" moaned Yussain. The sallow-faced trooper was one of the smallest men in the 20th, which along with his 'lazy' demeanour, though some had been more than willing to call it cowardice, was one of his distinguishing traits. The rest of his squad regrettably thought they were his good ones. Alishka grunted back in reply. "Sure," he said, "You go and tell the major that you're being inconvenienced. I'm sure him and the Mad Hatter will be glad to hear your complaints."

Another of the squad chimed in, "More like glad to finally have a pretext to shoot him," chortling at his own joke as the diminutive trooper gestured back with his hand. Tariq opened his mouth, ready to tell them all to shut up, but boredom with the banter turned to shock as the mukaali reared up. The sand beside him burst upwards into a tower, a broad-statured figure clad in a matt-green suit of armour, striated lines of black flowing across the segmented plates.

 

One armoured hand held a keening chainblade, a slim thing compared to the one that the guardsmen's commissar, 'the Mad Hatter' wore. It swung in a blur, Tariq only realising he was still alive when the head of his mukaali dropped to the ground, the neck gouting bright scarlet blood onto the sand as he slid off the collapsing corpse. The thing moved inhumanly fast, its other hand carrying a slender pistol that hummed as razor-sharp discs disembowelled Alishka while the blade took another man's head and the creature kicked out and snapped bones on the riding beasts, forcing the humans to dismount or be trapped beneath the bleating animals. Tariq fumbled for his lasrifle, desperate to get a shot off at least. He never saw the creature appear behind him, quiet as a whisper while the blade's teeth sawed through his neck. Only Yussain was left alive now. He looked around the gore-soaked remains of his squad, a trembling hand holding his laspistol as he turned frantically, whimpering like an animal trapped in a cage. The desert wind began to blow, a fierce force that gusted the sand and blood into the air, blinding him to the thing that had attacked them.

 

He kept looking around, head down against the dust while the pistol pointed, jumping at every shadow and eddie in the vortex. He felt that hand grow wet, fumbling for his knife with the other as the creature appeared, walking almost cockily towards him out of the storm. He pulled the trigger, waiting for the shot that would surely kill the thing and save him. Nothing happened, and he looked down at the neatly severed remains of his wrist, the hand and laspistol fallen onto the ground. His face paled as his legs failed him and he scrabbled backwards on his arse, an undignified attempt to escape the undoubtedly painful and violent death that the creature was going to inflict on him. The thing carried on walking, head cocked as it surveyed the human. Reversing the grip on its blade in one smooth motion, it lunged forward, forcing the keening sword downwards into Yussain's chest, the teeth juddering on bone and scraps of gristle and cartilage thrown from the wound by the cycle as the man vomited blood onto its facemask, an obscene addition to the insect-like markings of the creature.

 

The creature wrenched the blade out in a savage pull, letting the ruptured body fall to the sand. It stowed the blade and pistol, leaving its hands free to pull off the swept helmet enclosing its head, reversing it as it studied the blood left on it. A grimace marred its alien perfection, a reflection of the distaste it felt at letting the blood of the foe stain it. The wind began to blow even more fiercely, and the creature remembered its purpose, reattaching its helmet as it awaited the great warhost that would now be advancing from the west. The Striking Scorpion had opened the way to the Iron Works, as the Mon-Keigh called the pollution-belching abomination, and the Eldar were coming.

 

“Captain, patrol One-Twelve has just reported in. Zero sign of any hostiles.”

“Thank you adj,” al-Fussad replied as he accepted the sheaf of papers the sergeant handed over. He leafed through it, eyes scanning the transcript of the report. Same as normal was the bitter thought. It had been a half-year in the local calendar since the Eldar had appeared in the Governor’s Palace and demanded that the Imperium leave the planet. Nobody knew why the Eldar had made their demand, but the importance of Verdus Prime as the site of a Mechanicus facility that supplied the entire star system, including the densely populated desert world of Entaka, had precluded the Governor giving into the xenos’ demands. The response had been unequivacol. Nearly a dozen regiments of the Entakai Desert Warriors had been shipped in, the Verdusian PDF put onto full alert, and the rumour mill amongst the Guard had it that the Mechanicus were readying their own forces.

 

His own 20th Entakai had been placed on the western boundary of the Iron Works, the nickname for the local Mechanicus facility, a vast conglomerate of manufactorums, research buildings, and underground armouries. It was essentially a make-work position, given that the western and northern approaches were blocked by the scorching white sand of the Expanse. He’d seen a pic-capture of it from orbit before they’d shipped down, a huge white scar in the obsidian earth of Verdus Prime, a natural barrier argued the locals, and even his own Entakai men found travelling it in the routine security patrols hard going. Weeks on end of boring patrols with nothing to show for it but a handful of deaths from heat stroke, and the accidents that accompanied any Guard unit with nothing to do to occupy itself.

 

“Wait...where’s Patrol One-Zero’s report? Tariq better have a damn good reason for not submitting it.” The sergeant looked puzzled. “I don’t believe Private Tariq’s patrol has reported back in yet, sir.”

“They were due back half an hour ago weren’t they?” The captain got up, grabbing the lightweight flak vest all the Entakai wore as he did so. It offered less protection from enemy fire, but the heat was a far more deadly foe. He spoke to his adjutant as he got dressed. “Run over to the regiment HQ, get the colonel to put the alert out, then head to the stables and get my mukaali.” The other man nodded, ducking out through the tent flap before al-Fussad followed. He’d only just got out when the sky lit up with explosions to the west of his tent, the blast wave punching through the tents between his own and the frontline.

 

It floored him like a gut-punch, and he groaned as he tried to get up. He could hear the crack of lasfire, so some of his men had survived. He grabbed his pistol, running through the dust raging against him with an arm held to his stomach. “C Company! C Company, form on me! Advance to combat!” Voices began to pick up around him as the men roused themselves, dusting themselves off and gathering their weapons. “C Company! Advance!” he shouted again, cresting the edge of the nearest dug-out and dropping in. Three troopers were inside; four if you counted the corpse of Sergeant Tabeq, all of them busy blazing away over the top of the sandbags. “Report!”

One of them dropped down, clutching his rifle to his chest. “Xenos sir! We were on watch when they attacked.”

“What strength? Infantry, vehicles?”

“I don’t know what it was, but they dropped some rockets on us. Shrapnel got the sarge when they took out the next bunker, and there’s some infantry out there. They’re not really advancing though.”

 

A low basso hum suddenly began to drown out the whistling of the sand gale, and one of the most formidable vehicles al-Fussad have ever seen hove out of the desert-mist. The vehicle floated off the ground, the first time he’d ever seen anti-grav in person. But what drew his attention was the large crystal mounted on what was unmistakably a turret. “Fire Prism! Duck!” he bellowed. The dark purple crystal gleamed red as an energy beam lashed out and tore apart the trench on the left, scattering ragged bodies and leaving the ground a glassy crater. The lethal machine seemed to flow away into the sand, looking for more to kill. “Hold your position here, I’m going to get a support team to kill that damned tank.”

 

“Emperor go with you sir,” muttered the trooper, turning his attention back to the fight. The captain clambered out the trench, running at a crouch towards the nearest still standing tent hoping he could find a missile team near it. He’d gotten forty metres when the largest flyer he’d ever seen came barrelling out of the clouds, corkscrewing straight towards the dug-out. It rippled a launch of rockets, their engines screaming through the air before ploughing into the bunker, annihilating the men within. The shockwave hit him, blasting him forwards in the air like a ragdoll as his eyes turned dark. He woke up with a start. Debris was still fluttering down from the explosion, and all he could hear was a dull roar in his ears. Lifting his hands to his head, he felt it go wet as blood dripped down his neck from the eardrums broken by the concussive force.

 

He only saw the Eldar warrior when its blade speared through him, the teeth of its chainblade juddering as they hit bone and ground into the sand beneath. The very last thing he saw was the xenos pistol pointed at his face as the shuriken dug into his forehead.