Sword Bearers: Completed Fiction

[Spaced Hulk]

Hi everybody. Over on the Dark Angels forum I've been gradually posting background and fiction for my new Successor Chapter, the Sword Bearers. As the short stories I've written were posted in small segments (as they were written, basically), I've decided to post the completed versions over here in Fan Fiction, just to make reading them a little easier.

More background on the Chapter can be found here: http://www.bolterandchainsword.com/topic/272544-sword-bearers/

Here's the first story

SWORD BEARERS: SHADOW AND DEATH

PART ONE

The character of the Sword Bearers has long hindered attempts to compile detailed accounts of their deployments and campaigns. Secretive by nature, the Chapter is inherently distrustful of outsiders, with very few visitors permitted to even set foot inside their mountain fortress home. Only members of the Holy Inquisition are allowed any degree of access to the Chapter's own records, and even then only grudgingly. The location of their deployment, so far in the galactic east, also makes gathering information on the Chapter's activities highly problematic. As a result, only major actions, particularly those instigated at the request of the Inquisition, have been recorded in any level of detail. Perhaps the best example of this is the Isis Campaign (707 to 724.M41), and it is from this account that the most accurate data on the Sword Bearers can be found in recent times.

Extract from 'Battlefields of the Astartes', Author Unknown, 835.M41.

The assault team regrouped in the ruins of a small chapel. Visible through the shattered roof, the Necropolis towered above them. As tall as a hive spire, the city of the dead filled the horizon, dwarfing everything nearby with the immense scale of it's construction. Taking it would not be easy.

“I hear Fourth Company has taken a beating.” As always, Mathius was the first to speak. In a Chapter renowned for it's reserve, the youngster was far too verbose. The team leader was well aware of the reasons for Math's promotion, but even now he wondered if it had been premature.

“Aye. They dropped right. In the middle. Of a heavy infantry division.” It was Hagan who answered, his speech as slow and as laboured as ever. To be fair, the team leader thought, it must be difficult to speak with no lower jaw. The mechanical prosthesis was a poor substitute. As the oldest amongst them, Hagan had the honour of carrying a company standard, the banner pole attached to the power plant of his ancient Corvus armour.

“Some sort of abhuman regiment. Bionically enhanced. I hear they were nearly as ugly as you Hag.” The team leader smiled but said nothing as Aaron joined the conversation. Aaron Rolendis. The jester, his brothers called him. There were many within the Chapter who would take offence at his dry wit, but none of the warriors in this team were quite so dour. Which was fortunate, the leader thought to himself. Despite his sarcasm, the weapon specialist's skills were highly useful.

They were all veterans, but none yet had been elevated to the prestigious ranks of the Penitent. With only sixty suits of terminator plate in the Chapter armoury, it was often a long wait to join the First Company elite. Instead they remained with their battle brothers, leading squads, training new recruits, or, as with this campaign, forming their own units to undertake special operations.

“Well, we're here.” Viktor, the fifth and final member of the assault team. The haft of his power lance rested lightly across his battered shoulder guard. For reasons of his own, Viktor refused to have minor damage to his armour repaired by the Company artificers. His memoirs, that was how he described the cuts, burns and indentations that adorned the Mark 7 plate. More than once he had been admonished by the Interrogators for the state of his equipment. It seemed to have had little effect. “Where's the Captain?” He asked the question they were all thinking.

“He'll be here. I've never known him be late yet. Sergeant Balian finally joined the conversation. A typical son of the Marshes, he spoke rarely, and when he did, he kept his voice quiet and restrained. His brothers had long been calling him the Silent Sword, a reference as much to his personality as to the two handed power blade he wore sheathed across his back.

“Incoming. To the south.” Even as he spoke, Mathius was moving, aiming his scoped boltgun up towards the smoke filled sky. The team reacted instantly, taking cover amongst the rubble, bolters and combi-weapons raised towards five black specks falling towards them at high speed.

Only Balian remained stationary, his hand resting on the holstered boltgun at his side, staring up at the rapidly closing figures. A faint tell tale clicking, barely noticeable, indicated his helm's autosenses zooming in on the targets.

Speak of the devil, he thought to himself, and he will surely appear. “Stand down,” he voxed the others, “I told you he'd be here.”

Beneath his helm, unseen by his brothers, a frown appeared on normally impassive features.

“And he's not alone.”

PART TWO

The much documented Isis Campaign was a seventeen year crusade against the seditionist forces of the Phormian Dominion. Secession has always been a common occurrence in the Eastern Fringe, where worlds are isolated by vast distances and there are few reminders of Imperial authority. However, the rebellion of the entire Isis Sector and their rejection of the Emperor's rule was an act which could only end in the most fearsome blood shed.

Sometimes known as the Phormian Rebellion, the war would eventually involve the combined forces of eighty Imperial Guard regiments, two battlefleets of the Imperial Navy and three Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes. The Sword Bearers entered the conflict in 723.M41, after the rebel forces had been driven back to the cemetery world of Phormia Prime, their main military stronghold and the focal point of the Secessionist's extreme form of deluded fanaticism.

Extract from 'Battlefields of the Astartes', Author Unknown, 835.M41

They had landed half a click from the chapel. Still pretty impressive, Balian mused, considering a drop from such high altitude. The jump packs had kicked up a huge plume of dust from the parched earth, the dark cloud rendering the newcomers as little more than ghosts amongst the ruins.

“Should we go meet them?” Mathius asked, the zeal for battle obvious in his voice. Still so impetuous, Balian thought.

“No.” The team leader's tone was firm and unequivocal. “We're where we're supposed to be. They can come to us.” The five figures were moving through the dust and haze, their outlines becoming gradually more distinct as the distance closed.

As they waited, each of the team removed their helms. Amongst the Sword Bearers, it was customary to bare your face to your superiors. A combat situation usually rescinded the tradition, but with this area pacified, the obeisance would be expected. They were getting closer. Balian began to mentally prepare himself. Already, he could feel the effects, and from past experience they would only worsen. Looking at the faces around him, he knew he wasn't alone in his discomfort.

Mathius was particularly pale. “What's going on?” The previous eagerness was gone, an involuntary shiver running through him.

“You haven't fought with Second Company before, have you Math?” It wasn't that unusual. After nearly eighty years of service, Balian had witnessed the Revenants in battle only a handful of times. Which was more than enough, he thought to himself. There were good reasons why they operated so independently from the rest of the Chapter.

“What is this?” Mathius asked again. There was a film of sweat on his brow. They were nearly upon them.

With so much of his lower face missing and replaced with prosthetics, it should have been impossible for Hagan to physically display emotion. Nevertheless, he managed to give a good impression of a scowl.

“Shadowcaster”, he growled, spitting black oil into the dust.

***

There were many rumours about the Second Company. Regrettably, in Balian's opinion, most of them were true.

To an outsider, they were simply a dedicated fast attack wing, no different to their counterparts in any of the Legion's Successors. That was true enough. The Revenant's used bikes, landspeeders, jump packs, anything that would get them close to their enemies as quickly as possible. And, he had to admit, they used them very well. Perhaps not quite as skilfully as the vaunted Ravenwing, but still with a flair unseen in most Space Marine chapters. Even the company's official title, Celerem Mortem, translated into low Gothic as the Quick Death.

However, speed was not their only speciality. Over time, they had evolved into something different, something darker. Psychological warfare had become their weapon of choice. From the death masks they each wore to the utter devastation they left in their wake, the Revenants were an instrument of intimidation, terrorising their foes even before the first shot was fired. This was not that exceptional, of course. By their very nature, all Astartes could be considered terror troops. But the Revenants had refined this natural ability and then added to it.

They called it the Shadow. An aura of depression, of doubt, of dread and of despair that was their constant companion. In complete discordance with the Codex, the Second Company included a large number of psychically gifted battle brothers within their ranks. Known as the Shadowcasters, their unique skills had been trained to create this psychic field at all times, shrouding the Revenants in a mantle of fear itself.

It was undoubtedly effective. Balian had heard stories of a single Revenant attack squad routing an entire enemy regiment, of even Orks fleeing rather than face the skull helmed warriors in combat. It was said that the most powerful Shadowcasters could summon darkness itself, and that, mounted in landspeeders, they raced across the battlefield creating an impenetrable black shroud to shield their brothers from enemy fire.

***

They were close. Finally free of the heat haze, they were now clearly visible. Four were Revenants, their usual jet black armour and shining death masks dulled by the clinging dust. The jump packs served to make them even more physically imposing, and as usual they were all heavily armed. Due to it's isolation, the Chapter frequently experienced shortages of ammunition and equipment, but Second Company never seemed to be affected. Whenever they deployed, they were invariably armed to the teeth.

This was no exception. Two of the skull helmed warriors were equipped with plasma guns, the live induction coils pulsing with a pale blue glow. The closest of the two also wore a pair of holstered bolt pistols, while the other had a cumbersome looking eviscerator slung at his side. They were both equipped with melta bombs, the cylindrical explosives mag locked to their armour. The third Revenant was obviously a close combat specialist, as he wore a brutal looking power gauntlet on each arm. A modular grenade launcher was attached to his right glove, and he too carried melta charges in a harness across his chest.

The fourth warrior was unmistakably the squad's Shadowcaster. Frost glistened across his ornate psychic hood, the arcane device frozen despite the desert's heat. He carried a force stave of blackened steel, while a similarly crafted short sword was sheathed at his hip. A wrist mounted flamer was attached to his left vambrace, leaving both hands free to use the weapons of his calling.

This close to the psyker, the shadow field was almost unbearable. Darkness clung to the edges of Balian's vision, and his blood burnt like ice in his veins. Concentration was difficult. Even looking at the Revenants took every ounce of willpower.

“How can he stand it?” Aaron murmured, staring at the fifth member of the drop team.

“I wish I knew”, Balian sighed.

***

It shouldn't affect them. Every time Balian encountered the Revenants, he was always left with the same thought. They were Space Marines. Fear was alien to them. As their bodies were moulded into weapons, so too were their minds. Even the possibility of doubt and despair had been expelled from their intellects.

But the Shadow was not a normal emotion. It was a weapon. A psychic attack that made a mockery of everything the Astartes held true. All his training and conditioning were meaningless in the face of the mental onslaught.

This was the reason the Celerem Mortem usually operated alone, independently of the rest of the Chapter. The Shadow, whilst devastating, was also indiscriminate. It did not distinguish between friend or foe. Amongst the Sword Bearers, only the elite warriors of the First Company served alongside the Revenants with any regularity, but whether it was their terminator plate or their unbreakable resolve which protected them, Balian did not know.

And this was also why the Second Company were so unpopular amongst their fellows. To serve with the Revenants was to be reminded of things long forgotten, to be made aware of the limits of even your own incredible abilities, to somehow become human once more. It was a sobering experience, and one that lingered long in your thoughts.

***

They'd stopped, thankfully, about ten metres from where the assault team stood. At that distance, the aura seemed like a physical barrier between the two squads.

Leaving the Revenants behind, the final member of the drop team approached. His artificer armour, still unpainted in the Chapter's colours, was a gleaming silver seemingly untouched by the dust storm around them. A power axe was held in one hand, a pristine Maximus helmet in the other. A black hood covered the warrior's head, the cowl's shade obscuring his features. Halting directly in front of Balian, the newcomer casually tucked his war helm under his left arm and threw the hood back, revealing a face perfectly at ease.

“Hail brothers.” His voice was calm and good humored. If the Shadow did affect Ivan Orbec, Captain of the Sword Bearers Third Battle Company, there was no outward sign.

PART THREE

Death cults and ancestor worship are common throughout the Imperium, and are usually tolerated as long as the Emperor remains the principle focus of the religion. However, after the faith of the Isis sector become irrevocably corrupted, their leaders declared dominion over their worlds and independance from the Imperium in 707.M41.

The spiritual heart of the Phormian theocracy, the Necropolis of Phormia Prime was a vast, city sized edifice constructed to house the mortal remains of an entire sector, a mortuary complex on an immense scale. In the wake of the secession, it was adopted as the Dominion's seat of government, and so the city of the dead began to control the future of the living.

Extract from 'Battlefields of the Astartes', Author Unknown, 835.M41

"Here's our target." Orbec indicated a location on the flickering holo-map. The projecter, built into the vambrace of his artificer armour, cast the three dimensional image directly onto the cracked flagstones in front of them.

The six of them were crouched inside the chapel, the ruined walls creating enough shade for them to see the hologram clearly. Outside the walls, the glare of the midday sun was simply too bright. The Revenants had disappeared, for the time being at least, leaving them blessedly free of their effects. Mathius was still pale. The first exposure to the Shadow was always the worst.

"It's an artillery position," the Captain continued, "Situated on the southern foothill of the Necropolis. Twenty guns. Mainly basilisks and siege mortars."

"It defends the approach to the South Gate." Balian studied the topography thoughtfully.

"Indeed." Orbec smiled at the sergeants perception. There was a reason why he'd chosen him to lead the team. "As long as those guns are still firing, any attempt to breach the fortress from the south will be compromised. Probably fatally."

"So we're here to silence the guns." Viktor, always blunt and to the point.

"What about orbital bombardment?" Balian again, his gaze still focussed on the map in front of them, committing every possible detail to eidetic memory. "It would save a lot of time", he said, finally looking up from the hologram.

"Impossible, I'm afraid." Orbec answered, switching off the projector. "That close to the Necropolis, they're covered by the city's own void shields, which are strong enough to deflect any bombardment we could justifiably commit. An airbourne or drop assault is also out of the question, for the same reason."

"So we do it the old fashioned way" Aaron grinned, cradling his combi-bolter to his chest. The weapon's specialist had only recently returned to active duties following his injuries, and was obviously impatient to see combat once more.

"Correct. Be aware though, the enemy is not blind to it's importance. Resistance will be heavy." Orbec smoothly rose to his feet and replaced his war helm. The time for talking was almost past. Each member of the assault team copied him, their armour sealing shut with a mechanical hiss.

"The majority of Second Company are launching a bike mounted assault on the northern gate. That should hopefully divert attention away from us." Orbec unslung his power axe, the relic weapon gleaming as a beam of sunlight hit the blade. He turned to Balian. "Attack from the south west, through the grave fields. My squad will support you as necessary. When the moment is right, we will join the fray".

"Laminae ducantur." The Captain raised the axe in salute as he spoke the Chapter's ancestral battle oath. The blades were drawn.

"Gloriam aut mortis." As one the team answered him, lifting their bolters into the air as they spoke in unison. Glory or death.

As Orbec walked briskly away, Balian suddenly felt apprehensive. A second later, four black armoured figures emerged from amongst the ruins, falling effortlessly into pace behind the captain. But even after they had disappeared from sight, the sense of unease did not leave him.

***

The ogryn was massive, half again as tall as Balian and almost as broad. Iron plates had been crudely stitched into it's flesh, and each forearm ended in a shrieking chain glaive. A pacifier helm was surgically implanted into it's skull, black ocular lenses shining where the beast's eyes should have been. Strings of saliva drooled continuously from it's gaping, slack jawed maw.

Balian circled the brute warily, great sword in one hand, bolter in the other. A clumsy combination, as the blade was meant to be used two handed, but this would not be a contest decided by skill.

Suddenly the ogryn screamed, emitting a terrible, keening howl, it's whole body shaking as combat stims flooded it's blood stream. Time to end this, Balian decided. The rancid creature charged forward with it's glaives once more, but instead of parrying he adroitly sidestepped to the left, bringing his blade down in a single cut through it's right knee. As it crashed to the floor in front of him, he clinically put a three round burst through the back of it's head. He was running again before the beast had stopped convulsing, moving deeper into the graveyard towards the sound of continuous gunfire.

This was not going well, he thought.

PART FOUR

One of the most notable, and worrying aspects of the Isis Secession was the considerable military power the Dominion had managed to gather together in relatively short period of time. In addition to the vast number of planatery defense forces that fought under the rebel banner, Imperial Guard elements and Adeptus Mechanicus forces from within the Sector had also defected to the Secessionist cause.

Extract from 'Battlefields of the Astartes', Author Unknown, 835.M41

It had seemed like a good plan.

Infiltrate close to the gun batteries, using the dense terrain of the grave fields as cover. Silently eliminate any sentries or patrols. Assault the position from multiple directions, exterminate all opposition.

It was standard Astartes tactical doctrine, Codex approved and used for the best part of ten thousand years.

It fell apart the moment they encountered the first ogryn sentry.

***

Another of the abhumans had found them. Although this one was less heavily augmented than the others, the beast's entire head was encased in a control helm. But it still had both hands, and armed with a pair of shoulder mounted heavy bolters, it was systematically demolishing every tomb and crypt nearby. Sooner rather than later, they were going to run out of places to hide.

Hagan and the Jester were crouched behind a massive stone monument, a tribute no doubt to one of the wealthier families of the Isis sector. Even heavy bolt rounds would take a little time to punch through such a solid block of marble, but eventually it would crumble, leaving them totally exposed.

"Ready?" Aaron had switched the combi-bolter to full auto.

Hagan nodded silently and raised his ancient boltgun. They moved in unison, leaning around the opposing sides of the monument and opening fire. The roar of Aaron's combi-weapon, an early version of the storm bolter so commonly used by terminators, easily drowned out the staccato bark of the lighter gun.

At that range, and with such an imposing target, it was near impossible to miss. Unfortunately they just weren't doing enough damage. The beast's chest exploded in a shower of blood and meat and muscle, but still it remained standing, blasting away with it's shoulder guns as though impervious to the physical damage they were inflicting.

With a dry click, Hagan's boltgun jammed. Cursing he ducked back into cover. He was armed with a very rare pattern of bolter, longer barrelled and belt fed, a relic dating back to the First Legion's earliest days in the Great Crusade. It was longer ranged than more modern weapons, with a higher rate of fire, but the belt feed was exceptionally prone to jamming.

"I don't know why you perservere with that antique". Aaron was also back behind the monument, loading a fresh magazine into his weapon. "This isn't working anyway. You could fire a demolisher cannon at that thing and it wouldn't notice."

"Any. Better. Ideas" Hagan had cleared the jam now and looked across at his fellow veteran. The conical face plate of his corvus helm was blackened by a near miss.

"Actually, yes." Aaron passed over the combi-bolter, and unslung his secondary weapon. "Give me some covering fire." Keeping low, the specialist disappered into the rows of tomb stones surrounding them.

The combi-bolter had a folding stock which attached to an armour's vambrace, allowing the weapon to be fired one handed. Hagan locked it into place, then picked up his own bolter with his other hand. Stepping out into the open once more, he began firing with both guns. He was less accurate now, but sheer weight of fire meant he didn't need to be. Fresh craters appeared in the ogryn's ruined torso, but again with no visible effect. He saw a single shot richochet from the pacificer helm, as the beast ponderously turned it's own guns towards him.

Suddenly a plume of blood erupted from the beast's chest, a crimson geiser that splattered across Hagan's armour despite the distance between them. It didn't stop, and soon fragments of bone and flesh were raining down on him as well. A hole appeared in the brutes torso, and even as he watched, it widened, becoming a massive, gaping tunnel straight through the stricken creature. A foul smell of burning meat filled the air.

All firing stopped. Incredibly, the ogyrn was still on it's feet despite the colossal wound. Hagan realised he could see straight through it's chest. Behind the beast, staring right back at him through the hole, was Aaron. The meltagun in his hand was still smoking, and he jovially gave a thumbs up sign to his fellow veteran.

As the creature finally collapsed into a steaming heap, Hagan glanced down at his blood sodden tunic and armour. "Very. Funny." he growled.

***

Balian ran across the row of crypts, leaping from monument to monument in a succession of perfectly timed jumps. Five metres below him, another ogryn was slowly shuffling amongst the tombs. This one walked on all fours, reminding him of the large primates native to the hills and moorland of Mire. Some sort of heavy autocannon was strapped to it's back, turning the beast into a living artillery piece.

He took two more jumps to get into the perfect position, then grasping his sword with both hands, dropped to the ground alongside the creature. As he fell he swung out with his blade, decapitating the ogryn with a single stroke.

The sound of gunfire was very close now. Sheathing the sword across his back, he drew his bolter and started running once more.

***

Mathius and Viktor had managed to get the closest before being discovered. The artillery they had been sent to silence was visible on the hillside above them. Unfortunately they'd run straight into a pair of the hulking abhuman sentries, and a firefight had ensued. One of the beasts was down, a lucky krak grenade had blown it apart below the waist. It was still alive, but armed with only close combat implants it was a negligable threat at the moment.

The other ogryn had them pinned down in a shallow drainage ditch. This particular beast was almost completely covered by armour plates, turning it into a ridiculous, monstrous parody of a Space Marine. It's right arm had been amputated at the elbow and replaced with a six barrelled heavy stubber, while a flamer was gripped tightly in it's gnarled left hand. Bizarrely it carried a rider. A human sized figure was mounted in a saddle between the brute's shoulder blades. Clad in the red robes of a Tech Priest, it's mechanical, needle like fingers were buried up to their knuckles inside the ogryn's skull.

Another long burst of stubber fire raked the ditch, forcing them to duck down even lower. Their bolters had so far been completely ineffective against the beast's crude armour.

"Just about had enough of this." Mathius snarled as a volley of shots ripped into his shoulder pad, the edge of the pauldron splintering under the impacts. Raising his bolter once again, he sighted down the sniper scope.

"That may not be a good idea." Viktor said quickly, realising his brother's intent. "We don't know what.." The bark of the boltgun interrupted him.

The Tech Priest's head exploded in a shower of gore. Almost immediately the ogryn went beserk, shooting wildly in all directions. The stubber was firing continously, blasting the nearby tomb stones into fragments of stone and marble. A jet of intense flame washed over a nearby section of the ditch, sending up a cloud of steam as the trickling drain water vapourised.

"You may have been right" Mathius grudgingly said. The youngster always found it hard to admit his mistakes. "What do we do now?"

Viktor said nothing as he waited for the stream of stubber fire to pass over them once more. Choosing his moment, he quickly stood and pulled back his arm, launching his power lance like a javalin. It was a risky throw at such long range.

The lance speared into the creature's throat, penetrating the armoured gorget and the body beneath with ease. It would have passed straight through the Tech Priest's skull as well, if it had still been there. Dead instantly, the ogryn stopped firing and dropped to it's knees. A second later the weapon's energy field caused the flesh to ignite, smoke rising in thin streamers from the beast's bisected head.

"Now, we retrieve my lance." He grinned at the youngster as they began to walk towards the still twitching corpse.

"That was incredible" Mathius began, "I've never seen anything..." He never finished the sentence. A shock maul almost as large as he was crashed into his back, sending him flying into a bullet riddled tomb stone.

The other ogryn. Crawling on the stumps of it's shredded lower limbs, it had somehow got behind them. Viktor reached for his boltgun but before he could draw it from the holster, the beast had grabbed his ankle and pulled him to the ground beside it.

He grabbed it's arm as it tried to bring the shock maul down in a killing blow. Even without the electrified field, the sheer weight of the weapon would instantly pulverise his skull, helmet included. The beast's face was mere inches from his own. He stared into a single huge, blood shot eye that sat forlornly next to mechanical implants. He could smell it's rancid, stinking breath through his faceplate, while goblets of saliva drooled foully onto his visor.

It was a contest he could not win. Despite all his gene forged strength, the beast was far stronger than he was. With his free hand he beat ineffectually at the control helm.

A single shot rang out and a neat hole appeared in the ogryn's forehead. The bolt detonated inside it's skull, the blast completely obliterating the back of it's head. Viktor had been using bolt weapons for nearly sixty five years, but he had never seen their effects at such close range before.

The corpse collapsed on top of him. Looking around, he saw Hagan and Aaron helping Mathius to stand and checking his armour. There was a huge dent in the youngster's power plant, but it seemed to still be functioning.

Balian lowered his boltgun and walked over to where Viktor lay trapped. With effort, the two of them rolled the ogryn's immense body away.

"Come on brother" the sergeant helped his team mate to his feet. "There's still work to be done."

On the hillside above them, guns began to fire, one by one.

PART FIVE

Towards the end of the Isis Campaign, when casualty rates were mounting swiftly, the Seditionist's employed large numbers of mercenary forces to bolster their armies. Of particular concern to the Imperium were the Renegade Space Marines that began to be encountered within the rebel ranks. Even to this day, the reasons for their involvement are unknown.

Extract from 'Battlefields of the Astartes', Author Unknown, 835.M41

The rebels were led by three Space Marines. Their armour was bare ceramite, stripped of all paint and insignia, excised of anything that might indicate their former allegiance. They were warriors with loyalty only to themselves. Mercenaries. Renegades.

They had organised the rebel troops into staggered firing lines across the hillside. Small arms and heavy weapons began to fire in co-ordinated volleys. The majority of the Secessionist infantry were unaugmented humans, their array of different uniforms attesting to their backgrounds in the Imperial Guard. Groups of Skitarii combat servitors were scattered amongst them, the tell tale scarlet robes of their Mechanicum overseers marking the locations where resistance would be heaviest.

It was all irrelevant, Balian thought to himself. They were traitors, one and all. And he would remove the stain of their existence with blade and bolter, or die in the attempt.

***

They were pinned down behind the remains of a Basilisk. Krak grenades had rendered the gun inoperable, and now the team used it's wreckage as cover, trading fire with the rebels ensconced higher on the hill. They had captured and destroyed five of the artillery pieces so far, but progress was slow.

“You know,” Aaron grumbled, firing a short burst almost like punctuation, “some backup would be welcome any time now.”

Balian didn't answer. To be fair, the Jester was right. It had been over an hour since they had begun the assault on the hillside, and so far there had been no sign, or word, from Orbec and his squad.

They were heavily outnumbered, by entrenched and well armed opposition. The terrain was not in their favour. Ammunition was beginning to run low. It was not an ideal situation.

For the first time ever, Balian realised he would be glad to see the Revenants.

***

It was the Skitarii that launched the counter attack. For some time they had been visibly massing on the hill above them, safely outside of boltgun range. It was obvious that an assault was forthcoming, and it was equally obvious who would lead it. It seemed that all the Mechanicum forces would be committed. A single, devastating strike to crush the invaders.

Mortar fire preceded the attack, the fragmentation rounds bursting around the Basilisk in blooms of fire and steel. Ducking down, the team sheltered from the blasts as best as they could, shrapnel pattering harmlessly against their armour. The barrage had barely stopped when the Skitarii were upon them, the mechanised warriors moving far faster than Balian had given them credit for.

It was intense, brutal combat. The Mechanicum infantry were strong, quick and well armoured. They could withstand a significant amount of punishment, even severe head trauma wasn't a guaranteed kill. Their weapons were powerful enough to penetrate power armour. It was a battle of equals.

***

Balian rammed his blade through the torso of one of the machine warriors, leaving it embedded there. Sensing more movement behind him, he dodged as a power claw punched the air where his head had been. He spun around and emptied his bolter into the combat servitor, blasting it into bloody chunks of flesh and metal. Turning back, he ripped his sword free in a fountain of oil and intestines. A chain halberd swung at him from the right. He couldn't parry quickly enough and it struck his shoulder guard, adamantium teeth chewing into the ceramite. Cursing, he kicked the Skitarii backwards, then swung his great sword down vertically, slicing the warrior in two.

To his right, Mathius stood with his damaged power plant against the wrecked shell of the Basilisk, steadily executing the enemy one by one with head shots. Aaron and Hagan were also fighting nearby, eliminating any Skitarii that slipped past the youngster's aim. Out of ammunition, the Jester had finally discarded his combi-bolter and was using his meltagun to incinerate anything within range. Once again, Hagan's bolter had jammed and he was fighting hand to hand, a combat knife in each hand, dispatching his opponents with efficiently lethal strikes.

Viktor fought alone, as was his preference. His bolter was holstered, and he wielded his power lance with both hands. Whirling the spear in lethal arcs, he used the reach of the weapon to full effect, beheading or gutting any Skitarii that came near. He was the epicentre of the carnage, every movement was perfect, every strike a killing blow.

***

The Jester was the first to die. Rushed by six combat servitors at once, even the meltagun couldn't kill them quickly enough. Hagan, locked in combat with another Skitarii, could do nothing but watch as they literally ripped his friend to pieces, their servo arms pulling his body apart with irresistible force.

On Balian's helmet display, Aaron's life signs went to amber, and then, perhaps not swiftly enough, to red.

The sergeant had four krak grenades left. Quickly priming one, he threw the entire grenade belt into the mob of servitors that were still systematically dismembering his brother's body. The blast simply obliterated them, leaving nothing but charred flesh and twisted metal.

As the smoke cleared, Balian noticed movement on the slope above them.

The rebel guardsman had formed into a firing line, three ranks deep. Bi-pod mounted lascannons and heavy bolters had been set up in front, while the middle rank bristled with las-rifles and autoguns. At the rear, missile launcher teams prepared their weapons. The Renegade Space Marines had also advanced, their dull metallic armour towering over the sea of uniforms around them. Even as Balian watched, one of the traitors seemed to issue a command.

As one, the guardsman began to fire.

***

They were all going to die. Balian had accepted that now. The rebels, indifferent to the few surviving Skitarii, were simply going to scour the hillside of life.

There was nowhere to hide. The fire-storm was so intense that taking cover was futile. Balian fell to his knees on the barren hillside, las beams and heavy bolter rounds utterly destroying the armoured plates surrounding him. He watched as a lascannon beam speared a Skitarii next to him, boiling it's flesh and fusing it's mechanical components into a twisted mass of metal. He watched as a missile hit Viktor dead centre, the explosion throwing what was left of his body back to the bottom of the hill.

He did not fear death. He was Astartes, fear was an alien concept to him. To die honourably in the service of the Emperor was the only fate any of them could ever expect. But even as he accepted what was about to happen, a sudden chill flooded his body. An overwhelming sense of doom and despair pressed down upon him, beating him into the dirt more effectively than all the fire-power that was ravaging the hillside. Fear gripped his soul, and it would not let go.

Somehow, above the explosions and the gunfire, Balian could hear the shriek of jump packs.

***

The Revenants had arrived. Through his shattered visor, Balian watched as the black armoured warriors went to work.

Unsurprisingly, the Shadow did most of the damage. Even before the jump team had landed, the rebels were screaming. Some of them simply dropped their guns and fled, scattering in all directions. The rest fell to the ground, sobbing and writhing in their terror. The four Revenants dropped right in the middle of this chaos, crushing bodies beneath their armoured bulk. Then the butchery began.

The two plasma gunners raised their weapons and opened fire, each blast of energy searing through an entire line of infantry, their carapace armour offering no protection at all. Further up the hillside, the close combat specialist aimed his gauntlet mounted grenade launcher, launching a frag round into a group of fleeing guardsmen. The blast knocked the entire squad to the ground, and before they could rise again, the Revenant was amongst them. With a click, lightning claws extended from both gauntlets, and he began to methodically slice them to pieces.

Balian watched as the Shadowcaster strode impassively through the rebel ranks, his very presence forcing them to weep and cower even more. Raising the flamer built into his left vambrace, he began to incinerate them.

The Renegade Astartes were struggling to fight the effects of the Shadow. Despite their treachery and dishonour, they were still Space Marines, and like the Sword Bearers themselves, they had been created purely for battle. One of them raised a boltgun, trying desperately to aim at the psyker that was terrorising his senses. Together, the Revenant gunners turned and fired, streams of plasma converging on the Renegade's armoured torso. His body simply exploded, even power armour ineffective against the energy of a star.

Drawing a chainsword, the second Renegade charged towards the Shadowcaster, somehow managing to ignore the effects of the psychic aura. Turning to face the traitor, the Second Company Librarian calmly raised his force staff. As Balian watched, time itself ground to a halt. The Renegade seemed to be in slow motion, moving slower and slower until finally he stood unmoving before the psyker. For a second he was simply frozen there, staring into the gleaming skull helm. Then in one swift movement, the Shadowcaster drew his ebon blade from it's scabbard and thrust it through the Renegade's throat. Time instantly snapped back to normal, and the traitor collapsed, blood gurgling from the fatal wound.

The last Renegade was finally moving, lifting a discarded missile launcher and aiming it at the black armoured figures. At such close range, the blast would probably kill the traitor himself, but there was no hesitation in his movements. However, his resolve was not allowed to be tested. Before he could fire, a gleaming axe blade clove his head in two. As he sunk to the ground, body twitching, a silver armoured figure stepped from behind, wrenching his power axe from the traitor's skull.

The battlefield was silent at last. Ivan Orbec, Captain of the Sword Bearers Third Battle Company, walked slowly through the sea of bodies, solemnly surveying the carnage spread across the hillside.

***

Incredibly, three of them still lived.

Balian and Mathius were both relatively in one piece, despite the damage inflicted by the rebel's guns. Their armour was almost completely destroyed, and the Sergeant personally doubted that either suit would be salvageable, but against all odds, they had each survived with only minor wounds.

Hagan had not been so lucky. A lascannon beam had sheared off both legs below the knee. Bionics were available of course, but even so, it would be many months before he could possibly be fit for action. The veteran was tenacious though, and Balian had no doubts he would live to fight again.

There was very little left of either Aaron or Viktor. It was a double tragedy for the Chapter and Third Company. Not only had two of their most experienced veterans been slain, but the gene seed of neither warrior had been recovered. Such was war, Balian knew, but that thought did not ease the sadness at the loss of his brothers, or the sour taste that lingered in the wake of the operation.

He knew that they had been used. That the Revenants had waited until the Skitarii had been eliminated before committing to battle. And he knew why. It was blatantly obvious. The Shadow would have been totally ineffective against the mechanised warriors, and so Balian and his team had been dispatched to remove that particular threat. It was a logical, clinical decision, and he understood the tactical reasoning behind it. He was still angry though, and like the Shadow itself, that feeling would not fade quickly.

While they had waited for the Thunderhawk to extract them from the battle site, Balian had watched Orbec for a long time. For some reason, he had seemed more interested in the dead renegades than the fallen members of his own Company. The bodies of the traitors had even been loaded into the gunship's storage bay, for transport back to the fleet.

Balian did not know what was going on. But he intended to find out.

[Wulfkry]

good read mate

[Spaced Hulk]

Thanks mate

[Spaced Hulk]

Here's the completed second story

SWORD BEARERS: LAND OF THE DEAD

PART ONE

They were hunting the survivors.

The ash desert stretched as far as the eye could see. A sea of fine grey dust, shaped into an undulating landscape of constantly shifting dunes by the howling wind.

Dust particles filled the air, coating their armour, clogging visors and respirators. Phormia Prime was technically a Terran class world, it's environment and atmosphere within acceptable parameters for human existence. But within the Ashlands, no human, or even post-human, could survive for long without adequate protection and breathing equipment.

Such wastelands were common throughout the Imperium. Even the fact that the Ashlands were entirely man-made was not particularly unusual. The toiling factoriums of the Mechanicus created similarly ruined landscapes all across the galaxy, mass pollution and contaminants always the inevitable side effects of Imperial industry.

However, this desert was not some industrial bi-product. What made the Ashlands unique was the composition of the dust itself. Phormia Prime was a cemetery world, a planet that for thousands of years had been dedicated to housing the mortal remains of the entire Isis Sector. But while the wealthiest of it's citizens were interred within the great walls of the Necropolis and it's surrounding grave fields, the poorer members of society could expect a far less ostentatious fate.

Cremated en mass upon their widely separated home worlds, their ashes were brought to Phormia Prime from across the Sector, massive cargo ships constantly transporting their combined remains to this one, centralised location. Brought to the surface in trains of shuttle craft, the huge quantities of ash were then unceremoniously dumped onto the extensive plains that ringed the northern hemisphere.

The Ashlands were literally a desert of the dead, a dust bowl created from the mortal remains of billions of former Imperial citizens.

In the aftermath of the Sword Bearer's initial, devastating drop pod assault, the remnants of the main rebel army had scattered into this foul, desolate wasteland. Without life support equipment, many had perished already, their lungs choked with the ashes of their ancestors.

The bulk of the Chapter were now besieging the Necropolis itself, the seat of the Secessionist government and the heart of the rebellion. Alongside the rest of Tenth Company, Aldous and his squad had been dispatched to the Ashlands to search for any remaining survivors. And to exterminate them.

PART TWO

In contrast to the Neophytes under his command, Mentor Sergeant Aldous was well protected from the harsh conditions of the wastelands. His Mark Eight plate was completely enclosed and self sustaining, unlike the carapace armour worn by his charges. Although each young recruit was equipped with a breathing mask and protective goggles, the rest of their body was exposed to the shrieking wind and all pervasive dust storm that swirled constantly around them. Most had cowls drawn over their heads, but even the toughened fabric of their camouflage cloaks was an inadequate defence. Without full power armour, the dust was simply unavoidable, and knowing it's origin made it's invasiveness even more loathsome.

Adversity was good for them, he reminded himself. Watching the Neophytes around him scowl and grimace, their skin grey with the clinging dust, he doubted they thought the same. Even with eidetic memory, it seemed an eternity since he'd been one of them. Over four hundred years had passed since he'd worn the white tunic of a Neophyte. Four centuries of battle, of blood shed, of harsh decisions and terrible truths. Still, he remembered his earliest days within the Chapter well enough that he could feel a measure of empathy with those he now commanded.

In a way he envied them, he realised. Despite the conditions they currently endured, none of them bore the burden that weighed upon him. A constant, oppressive weight, a millstone of responsibility that strained his mind and his spirit. To be free of that burden, to return to the innocent simplicity of youth was now an impossibility. He knew too much for that.

It had been twenty years since he had left the ranks of the Penitents, passing his suit of silvered terminator plate on to another incumbent. Aldous knew that for some Unforgiven, the armour of the First Company was, once earned, a permanent possession, kept until death as a symbol of the secrets it's wearer helped preserve. Amongst the Sword Bearers, this was simply not possible. With so few suits surviving in the Chapter armoury, each of the sixty that remained functional was too tactically valuable to be hoarded by any individual. Thus, whenever a warrior left the First Company, their terminator armour was always passed onto another, worthy successor, keeping the Penitents constantly at full strength.

Of course, most Penitents fell in combat, their armour repaired and bequeathed after their death. But for those that survived long enough, two options lay open to them. Some were promoted, taking command of a Battle Company and joining the Chapter's ruling elite. The leaders of the Sword Bearers exchanged their terminator plate for ancient, master crafted weapons and finely crafted suits of artificer armour, but usually retained the bare metallic livery that signified their membership of the First Company.

For others, the choice was far more humble but no less important. They returned to their very beginnings, rejoining the Scouts and Neophytes of the Tenth Company, instructing the new recruits and moulding them into the battle brothers and veterans of tomorrow. It was both ironic and satisfying, Aldous thought. To have progressed so far in the Chapter’s hierarchy and then to return to the training Company, to stand once more at the start of a path begun so long ago, it gave him a sense of a journey coming full circle. Known officially as the Mentors, their role was essential but unglorified, their honour unspoken but never questioned.

There were good reasons why their achievements remained unsung. Each Mentor also bore other duties and titles, honorifics known only to the highest ranking members of the Chapter Council.

Pathfinders. Seekers of Redemption.

Fallen Hunters.

PART THREE

The ten man squad was travelling down the side of a particularly massive dune, a hill of ash several hundred feet high. Progress was slow, each foot step sinking deeply into the dust. It was more akin to wading than walking, Aldous thought to himself. Visibility was also very poor, even with prey sight activated he could see only ten metres in front of them.

They were following an auspex trail. Harek, one of the most promising Neophytes in the squad, was on point, using a battered scanner to track their quarry through the dust storm. With vision so restricted, the scouts had slung their sniper rifles, drawing bolters and bolt pistols that would be more effective in these conditions. Aldous still carried his hunting rifle though, an oversized boltgun that had been converted to use heavy bolter rounds. Although the weapon could only fire single shots rather than fully automatic, it's stopping power was considerable. Not all of the rebels that had fled into the Ashlands had been merely human, and he felt more comfortable knowing that heavier firepower was to hand.

“I don't understand.” Harek's voice was slightly distorted by the vox, the dust that filled the air around them even affecting the narrow beam transmissions used for inter squad communication.“According to the auspex we should be right on top of them.”

“Sure you're reading it right?” Bryce, another Neophyte that showed great potential. There was a growing rivalry between the two, and neither missed an opportunity to disparage the other. Aldous hadn't interfered so far, as competition between the new recruits was actively encouraged as a way of honing their skills and abilities. Only if the rivalry became too disruptive or divisive would he be forced to rein in the banter.

“Think you can do better?” Harek snapped, his temper always the more easily goaded.

Ignoring their bickering, Aldous shouldered his rifle and unhooked his own auspex from his belt. Beneath his Errant helm, he frowned as he realised Harek was right. The scanner was reading multiple signals all around them. Even in the dust storm, at such close range their targets should have been clearly visible. Either the conditions were effecting their equipment far worse than he'd expected, or...

He was already moving as he shouted a warning, bringing his rifle to bear on the shifting ash beneath their feet. Suddenly the dune around them exploded outwards, sending the entire squad flying into the dust filled air.

***

The Ork dreadnought had been completely buried in the hillside, it's crude systems powered down, the alien pilot protected from the surrounding ash by the sealed crew compartment. Only life support and the walkers own sensors had been left active, passively scanning the dune above. The rebels knew they were being hunted, and so had left a trap for their pursuers.

Regaining full power with impressive speed, the dreadnought had erupted from it's hiding place. The force of it's emergence had displaced a huge section of the dune, the dust cloud exploding into the air like a detonating munition.

The walker was massive but ungainly. Standing over three times the height of a Space Marine, it's cylindrical body was covered with riveted steel plates and supported by hissing piston legs. Four mechanical arms emanated from it's armoured torso, each terminating in either brutal looking claws or a buzzing power saw. The skull of a huge, alien beast was lashed to the front of the vehicle, a pair of curved, elephantine tusks protruding amongst the flailing arms and crude sensor arrays.

It had not been alone in it's living burial. All around them, Orks clad in primitive environment suits were emerging from beneath the shifting dunes, ash streaming from their hulking exo-armour. Vicious chain blades and bulky, brutal looking firearms gleamed in their clawed hands.

Aldous knew that the rebel forces had included alien mercenaries, but these were the first Orks he'd seen since the deployment had begun. As he was thrown bodily into the air, he cursed his lack of foresight.

The Mentor crashed back onto the slope and began rolling, the gradient and the weight of his power armour keeping his momentum going. As he tumbled, he saw others of his squad falling around him. Bryce was closest, coughing and choking from the dust, his breath mask and goggles torn from his face in the chaos. The ash was fluid beneath them, giving no resistance to their uncontrolled descent.

Even as he fell, Aldous heard the gunfire.

PART FOUR

Blackness. He could see nothing but blackness. His visor was dark. Internal displays were non functional.

Silence. There was no sound. No vox signal, not even static.

He realised he had no idea where he was, or how he had got there.

For a moment, Aldous wondered if this was death. Like all Astartes, he had always been pragmatic about his own mortality. Death was simply an inevitability; indeed, it was the only certainty any of his kind could expect. He had never wasted time wondering what happened afterwards. It would be the last, perhaps greatest adventure he would take in a life that had never been short of surprises. Whatever fate ultimately awaited him, he would face it when the time came, not before.

All the same, if this was death, it was not what he would have expected.

All these thoughts raced through his mind in less than ten seconds.

Suddenly, like a fog clearing in the morning sun, his memory returned.

He remembered.

***

The projectile, probably a large calibre solid slug round, had struck his Mark VIII helm even as he rolled down the seemingly never-ending slope of the ash dune. A direct hit, straight between the eyes. It had to have been a lucky shot. Orks, even in the best of conditions, were not known for their marksmanship.

Incredibly, it had not penetrated. Power armour was highly resilient, but certain locations, particularly the helm, were more vulnerable than others. It was not unknown to survive a direct head shot, but nor was it a certainty. Of course, if he hadn't been wearing full plate, if he had worn scout armour for this mission as he had originally intended, then his skull would now be lying in a thousand pieces amongst the ashes of the Isis Sector's population.

Reaching up with both hands, he forcibly disconnected the mangled helm from his gorget. It was not easy, the kinetic energy of the shot had twisted the helmet into a completely different shape, one which did not want to be removed from it's seal. Eventually he wrenched it free, and sight and sound returned in a rush.

As did the dust storm. The contrast was absolute, from experiencing near total sensory deprivation Aldous was now bombarded by sensation. The desert winds screamed in his ears, while ash particles lashed against his face like razors. Instinctively he had held his breath as he'd removed the ruined helm, but he would need to find some sort of respirator quickly.

The first thing he saw was his bolt-rifle, half covered in ash just a few feet away. The second thing he saw was Neophyte Mores, lying motionless behind the weapon. A wound, a great vertical tear, split the recruits torso from shoulder to groin. It was not a clean cut: carapace armour, flesh, muscle and bone had all been ripped rather than sliced, chewed through rather than hewn. A chain blade then. Blood was still pumping from the wound, dust particles sticking to the fluid as it pooled around the body, turning it into a grey sludge. The killer must still be close, Aldous realised. He reached for his rifle.

An armoured boot stamped down, kicking the boltgun out of reach. The Ork's bulk cast a shadow over him, blocking out what little light was penetrating the ash storm. Covered in crudely fashioned steel plates, the alien was massive, one of their leader caste presumably. It gripped a two handed chain axe tightly in it's gnarled, clawed fingers, the teeth of the weapon still clogged with chunks of ash greyed meat.

A clear face plate covered it's bestial, porcine features. Aldous stared straight into black, malicious eyes. It was laughing, he realised. It's maw, a gaping hole filled with sharpened yellowed tusks, was grinning widely as it laughed. The sound was stolen by the howling wind around them, but he could see spittle spraying against the inside of the breathing mask as the creature convulsed in it's amusement.

It was still laughing as he rammed his combat blade through the gap between two armour plates, straight into it's abdomen.

The beast's grin became a grimace of pain, then of fury. It raised it's chain axe high, bringing it down in a killing blow aimed at Aldous's head.

He was not there. The shrieking chain blade chewed wildly into the ash, throwing the beast off balance. Rolling to his left, he grabbed the rifle with one hand, raised, aimed and fired, all in one quick, continuous movement.

The hunting rifle was intended to be used two handed, for the recoil caused by firing heavy bolter rounds was immense. As Aldous pulled the trigger, the stock of the weapon slammed into his arm. Even with Astartes physiology, without his power armour to absorb the recoil it would have certainly dislocated his shoulder. There was no way the weapon could be accurately fired with one hand.

The Ork was only a few feet away. He couldn't miss. The beast's head simply exploded, pulped into nothing by the blast. For a second the headless corpse swayed, leaning on the chain glaive embedded in the ash, then, like a falling colossus, it collapsed into the dust and lay still.

With less reverence than he would have wished, Aldous removed the breathing mask, respirator unit and dust visor from the body of Neophyte Mores and quickly fitted them in place. Only then did he release the breath he had been holding.

The sound of bolter fire, barely audible against the screaming desert wind, drifted down from above. Raising the rifle, Aldous became to climb the dune once more.

PART FIVE

Gathering together in a loose semi-circle, the survivors surrounded the last Kommando. Only four Neophytes had escaped the Ork ambush, and they all bore wounds to mark the encounter, several of them severe.

Five of them had not been so fortunate. Hewn apart by crude blades or riddled with heavy calibre bullets, they were gradually being consumed by the desert. Fine ash, falling like rain, building up layer upon layer over their bloodied remnants. The dead shrouding the dead.

There was a certain, grim satisfaction in this execution.

The Ork should be dead already. Bolter fire had already removed most of the left side of it's body, eliminating the beast's primitive firearm and it's mobility in the process. It wasn't dead though. Not even close. It's frenzied snarls were audible even over the shrieking desert winds and the revving chainsword it swung furiously in it's remaining hand. The sheer resilience of the creatures was always impressive, Aldous thought to himself.

As one, without instruction or encouragement, the squad aimed their weapons. Bolters and bolt pistols, the weapons they would use and master throughout their careers. Those that survived anyway.

Attrition and casualty rates were always high amongst the Sword Bearers, as much a result of their temperament as the harshness of their deployment zone. They each inherited the same stubborn determination that characterised all Sons of the First Legion, and it was a trait that had threatened the Chapter's survival many times in the past. Mortem Ante Ignobilitate. Death before dishonour.

Tenth Company was no exception. Each scout and neophyte, despite their inexperience, was still expected to fight and die like any other battle brother. It was considered an essential part of the training process. Fortis Laminae Tolerare. The strong blades endure.

Aldous hadn't joined them in the firing line. This was their kill, their recompense. They had fought hard to get to this point. As the bolters roared and the brute exploded in a shower of blood and gore, the Mentor turned away. Hunting down the last few Kommandos had been a distraction, but there was still a bigger problem to deal with.

A hundred feet below on the slope of the ash dune, the Ork dreadnought was once again slowly lumbering towards them.

***

Despite the sudden fury of it's appearance, they had been able to simply avoid the Dread so far. It's colossal weight drove each footstep deep into the shifting ash, reducing it's speed and mobility to practically nothing. Only the immense power of it's pneumatic limbs enabled it to have any movement whatsoever. It was easy to outmanoeuvre.

Damaging the alien machine was another matter. Bolter fire was completely ineffective, and even the Mentor's rifle could not penetrate the armoured shell. Krak grenades, the most powerful ordinance in the squad's arsenal, were the obvious weapon to use against the walker, but getting close enough was problematic. The charges needed to be strategically placed for optimal effect, which meant moving within range of the brutally effective claws and saw blades. Harek had been the last to try, and after seeing his most promising Neophyte ripped into pieces, Aldous had forbidden any more attempts. Approaching the Dreadnought head on was suicide.

As he watched the machine slowly getting closer and closer, the Mentor realised that courage alone would not defeat this foe. The Lion himself had taught that sacrifice, although sometimes a necessity, should never be futile. There must always be a reason for your actions. Death, no matter how glorious, should always achieve something.

It was a philosophy that all his brothers would do well to remember, Aldous mused.

Watching the Ork machine struggling to climb the ash slope, he smiled briefly to himself.

There were always alternatives.

PART SIX

Aldous stood alone at the top of the dune. The dust storm which had assailed them since their arrival had, miraculously, abated, slightly improving both the air quality and visibility. From this vantage point, he could see the Ashlands stretching from horizon to horizon; an endless, undulating grey desert.

Forty metres below, the Dreadnought lumbered towards him, closing the distance as quickly as the treacherous conditions underfoot would allow.

He was down to his last clip of heavy bolter ammunition. With only five rounds left, every shot needed to count. He had also salvaged a boltgun from one of the fallen Neophytes, but doubted it would be much use against the walker's heavy armour. Taking careful aim through the rifle's sniper scope, he began to fire.

It was almost impossible to miss the steel behemoth, but it's frantic movements and clumsy, hobbling gait through the ash meant that hitting it accurately was extremely difficult. The first two rounds struck the heavily protected crew compartment and ricocheted away. The Dread continued to climb.

Thirty metres away. The next round hit one of the great curved tusks protruding from the walkers torso, detonating in a shower of bone fragments.

The fourth shot finally hit it's mark. Each of the Dread's four close combat arms were powered by crude hydraulic motors and actuators. The heavy bolter round smashed into the shoulder joint of the machine's upper right arm, destroying the hydraulics in an explosion of oil and metal. The flailing arm instantly stopped moving, the snapping power claw frozen in place and suspended high in the air.

Twenty metres now. The final round ricocheted from the armour protecting the upper left arm. Without hesitation, Aldous dropped the rifle and brought up the Neophyte's boltgun. Switching to full auto, he aimed at the same location and opened fire, emptying the magazine in seconds. The bolt rounds exploded in a thunderous salvo against the armoured torso, shattering the great skull trophy strapped to it's chest but inflicting no other damage.

The Dreadnought was ten metres away. Seeing it's target so close, the walker's vox speakers emitted a deep, mechanical roar; it's pace quickening as it made one final surge forwards.

Aldous remained stationary, despite his every instinct telling him to fall back from the massive steel beast charging towards him. Deftly loading a fresh magazine in place, he opened fire once more, bolts hammering into the Dread's upper left shoulder. Suddenly, one of the rounds hit something vital, possibly a fuel line, and the whole hydraulic joint exploded, the buzz saw arm it controlled falling limp against the machine's side.

Undaunted by the damage, the Dreadnought stormed onwards, it's remaining two arms reaching forwards in a killing embrace. Five metres.

The Ork machine took one final step before the dune exploded in a cloud of fire and ash.

***

The krak grenades had been buried immediately in front of the Mentor's position, linked together and set with proximity fuses. As they detonated, Aldous dropped the bolter and raised his arms, shielding his exposed face against the blast.

***

Time stood still. He watched as the Dreadnought pitched forward into the dust, both mechanical legs severed by the explosion. The two lower arms, the machine's last functioning limbs, continued to thrash and flail even as the massive armoured torso crashed into the ash dune.

In his peripheral vision, the Mentor saw the four surviving Neophytes emerge from the ash on either side of the fallen walker. Like the grenades, they had been hidden beneath the surface of the dune, their camo cloaks wrapped around them like funeral shrouds.

Each Scout was armed with a single krak grenade, the last in the squads arsenal. As the Dread struggled to raise itself on it's remaining arms, the Neophytes rushed forward, magnetically clamping the explosives to the vehicles hull. They just had time to sprint away before the charges detonated, obliterating the Ork machine in a furious conflagration of fire, smoke and sundered metal. The shock wave threw Aldous and his squad to the ground, shrapnel mixing with the ash and dust that rained down around them.

PART SEVEN

The dust storm had returned with a vengeance, reducing visibility to practically nothing. Aldous waited amidst the wreckage. The Ork Dreadnought had been comprehensively destroyed, leaving nothing but shredded armour plates and mangled machinery strewn across the surface of the dune. The ash was already claiming the remains, the shifting surface gradually swallowing the ruined walker.

This was a truly pernicious place, he thought. Beyond the harshness of the environment, the Ashland seemed to literally consume life, devouring all those that fell here beneath it's constantly changing surface. Throughout his long career, Aldous had served in many abhorrent war zones, from irradiated nuclear wastelands to corrosive chemical seas, but this desert was particularly loathsome and soul destroying. He would be glad to leave, the Mentor realised.

He had requested an extraction. Considering the opposition, it had been an impressive victory, but a costly one nonetheless. Although the survivors were arguably still fit for action, the casualties the squad had suffered, combined with the sheer amount of ammunition and ordinance they had expended, meant that for the moment at least, their mission was over. A Thunderhawk was en route to retrieve them.

The remaining Neophytes were currently out of sight, searching for their fallen comrades down the sloping bank of the dune. Aldous suspected that he had given them an impossible task, but he would not willingly abandon any son of Mire to such a desolate final resting place.

Against the howling wind, his enhanced hearing picked up the faint sound of jet turbines. It was difficult to determine their direction, but gradually a dark shape appeared in the dust laden sky. Checking that the homing beacon was still broadcasting, the Mentor sent a vox signal to Bryce and the other remaining Scouts. Their ride was here.

As the craft closed the distance between them, it's outline gradually became clearer and more distinct. The Mentor frowned momentarily as he realised that the dimensions were all wrong. As was it's colour scheme and markings.

It wasn't a Thunderhawk.

***

The jet black flyer hovered several metres from the top of the dune, it's landing jets on continuous burn, blasting huge quantities of ash and dust into the air. Missile racks gleamed under each short wing, and a dorsal mounted turret armed with twin plasma cannons rotated and locked onto the Mentor's position.

It was a Night Raven, a variant of the ubiquitous Storm Raven gunship used by so many Astartes chapters. Smaller than a Thunderhawk but still heavily armed and armoured, the Night Raven was a fast, agile predator that retained some of it's larger cousin's transport capacity.

Amongst the Sword Bearers, Night Ravens were fielded exclusively by the Revenants of Second Company.

Shielding his face from the constant barrage of dust, Aldous watched as the Raven's disembarkation ramp lowered, allowing two armoured figures to drop to the dune's surface and start walking briskly towards him.

The pair were a study in contrast, similar in form and yet glaringly different. They each wore a baroque suit of power armour, weapons sheathed at their sides, with war helms fashioned in the aspect of a grinning skull. But while one was clad in plate as black and morbid as the gunship they had emerged from, the other wore armour as white as bone. Together, Aldous mused, they represented the very soul of his Chapter. Twin angels of light and darkness, of redemption and death. It was a visual representation of the struggle that permeated his existence.

Already he could feel the Shadow tainting his thoughts, the psychic aura emanating from the approaching ebon clad warrior. Fortunately the Scouts were still some distance away; unlike their Mentor, they would be totally unprepared for the mental assault of the Revenant. Instinctively, he began to recite the Catechism of Salvation, the litanies of self protection he had memorised as a member of First Company. Most of the Chapter believed that it was their terminator plate which protected them from the Shadow. It was a logical assumption to make; indeed, before his promotion, Aldous had assumed exactly the same thing. How else were the two Companies able to work together so closely? Like all Penitents, Aldous had found many of his preconceptions shattered when he had advanced to the First, and the true nature of their resistance to the Revenant's psychic aura was relatively inconsequential compared to many of the secrets he had learned.

In fact, no physical armour could deflect the psychic assault. Mental fortitude was the only defence, and even then, it needed to be enhanced and strengthened to become truly effective. Emotion was the key. Just as the Shadowcasters projected fear, doubt and despair into their victim's mind, so other, equally powerful emotions could override the psychic barrage. Anger, hatred, wrath; these were the means by which the Penitent's kept the Shadow at bay. Entrusted with secrets both ancient and terrible, such emotions were especially easy to nurture within the brooding warriors of First Company. Controlling them was the difficult part, Aldous had found. It was all too easy to allow rage and hatred to dominate his thoughts, to cloud his judgement. This was a mental battle he fought almost on a daily basis, one which contact with the Revenants brought into a bitterly sharp focus.

***

As they reached his position, the warrior in black raised his hands into the air, warp lightning crackling around his armoured gauntlets. A shield of invisible, impenetrable force materialised around the three of them, creating a bubble of calm and silence amongst the shrieking winds of the dust storm. It was easy to forget that the Casters were potent psykers in their own right, that the Shadow they created was just one of their abilities.

With the force dome in place, Aldous removed his dust visor and respirator. Although he was older and more experienced than either of the two officers in front of him, technically they were still his superiors. Rank must be honoured, traditions must be observed. However, he suspected that ritual obeisance was not the only reason the psychic shield had been raised. The dome did not just serve to keep the storm out, it also prevented all sound escaping from within the bubble. Whatever the three of them were to speak about, it would be for their ears alone.

“Hail Brothers.” The Mentor raised his arm in salute. As he expected, the Revenant didn't answer or acknowledge him. They rarely communicated with anyone outside their Order. Even as a Penitent, whenever the two Companies had fought side by side, it had been a rare occurrence to hear one of them speak. Whether it was a result of tradition, ignorance or arrogance, Aldous did not know. Secretly, he suspected it was all three.

“Hail Sergeant” The warrior in white returned the salute, then reached up and removed his skull helm. The face beneath was gaunt and heavily scarred. Cold grey eyes, as focused as lasers, scrutinised the Mentor's face. The mask he wore was actually an improvement over his natural features, Aldous thought to himself.

“You've been busy, I see.” The bone clad warrior continued, motioning towards the wreckage of the Dreadnought.

“Aye, Brother Interrogator. We had not expected such heavy resistance. Casualties have been higher than I anticipated.” When dealing with the most senior members of the Reclusiam, Aldous knew it was wise to be truthful at all times. The Interrogators, it was said, could sense deceit or deception instantly. Of all the Chapter's Chaplains, only the most noble and devout were chosen to wear the white armour of the Interrogator. It was somewhat ironic, the Mentor had always believed, that the purest of heart should be selected to perform the blackest of deeds.

“Unfortunate, but not unexpected in the circumstances.” The Interrogator shrugged.“The dead will be honoured, the strong will survive. Fortis Laminae Tolerare.” Clearly, Aldous thought, the recent battle was not the reason for the Chaplain's arrival. A suspicion began to form in his mind.

“We were expecting an extraction?” The Mentor queried, his mind racing. As always, it was hard to concentrate in the presence of a Revenant, conflicting emotions of rage and fear, despair and hatred embroiling his thoughts. All the same, he could see where this conversation was leading.

“Indeed. A Thunderhawk will be here shortly to return your squad to the Southern deployment zone.” The Interrogator's stare was intense, as though he was looking beyond the Mentor's features and into his very soul.

“You, however, are to return with us to the fleet. Your presence is required immediately by the Chapter Council. Priority code Alpha Omega One.” There was no hint of emotion in the Chaplain's voice, despite the importance of his message. It had been a long time since the Mentor had heard that particular code. The hatred within him flared even stronger, taking all his willpower to keep it under control. He nodded his assent as the Interrogator continued.

“It would appear your skills are needed once again, Pathfinder Aldous.”

[Spaced Hulk]

Here's the third story

SWORD BEARERS: PATHFINDER

PART ONE

The Lords of the Chapter were waiting for him.

Deep within the bowels of the flagship, the vault was the most secret and secure chamber in the entire Sword Bearers fleet. It's location was not marked on any plan or structural diagram, it's integrity protected by metre thick adamantium, void shielding and psychic wards. The vast majority of the vessel's crew, both mortal and trans-human, were completely unaware of it's existence.

Aldous stood in a circle of light, surrounded by utter, impenetrable darkness. He was still clad in his battered, dust covered war plate; as instructed, he had proceeded to the vault the moment the Night Raven had landed. A hood covered his bare head, shrouding his features in shadow.

One by one, the Masters of the Sword Bearers stepped out of the darkness, forming a circle around him. Like the Mentor, their armour proudly displayed the marks of recent combat, and like him, their faces were hidden. It was a symbolic gesture, for their identities were known to them all, but the tradition was observed as a reminder of the secrets they each kept. None outside the Inner Circle must ever know of gatherings such as this.

As always, Torr was the first to make his presence known. Bold, brutal, bellicose: the personality of the Lord Penitent was a perfect match for his massive suit of Cataphractii armour. Elric Torr had been Master of the Terminator elite throughout the Mentor's service in the First Company, and had held the position for as long as anyone could remember. Beneath the hood that obscured Torr's ancient, battle scarred features, the Mentor could just make out the tell-tale red glow of twin bionic implants. The Lord Penitent had lost both eyes many years before. More machine now than man after horrendous injuries acquired fighting the largest Hrud migration in living memory, many in the Chapter believed that Torr was physically and permanently bonded to his archaic terminator plate.

To his right stood Mordrain, Lord High Interrogator and Master of the Reclusiam. It was a testament to the Reclusiarch's stature that he was not dwarfed by Torr's imposing bulk. Even in power armour, Mordrain stood almost as tall and as broad as a terminator armoured warrior. His pale war plate had been created especially for him by the most gifted of the Chapters artificers, utilising a wide spectrum of different armour Marks. The grinning skull helm, the symbol of his calling, was mag-locked to one hip while a huge tome, it's pages chained shut, hung at the other. Across his back was slung the Scipione Redemptionis, the massive, two handed crozius arcanum he wielded as his mark of office.

Next to the Chaplain, Reynard Crom glided effortlessly into the light. The Faceless, as he was unaffectionately known. Even in full plate, the Chief Librarian appeared skeletally thin for a Space Marine, the slightness of his build seemingly at odds with his gene forged constitution. It was all an illusion of course, a psychic glamour which Crom cast over his appearance to mask his true form. Aldous did not know why the Librarian should wish to be seen as weaker than he actually was, but he had seen the psyker in combat enough times to know that he should not be underestimated. Alone amongst the gathering, Crom did not wear a hood to hide his features, as his psychic gifts were able to shroud his image far more effectively than any cowl. No matter how hard he tried, the Mentor had never seen the Librarian's true face, his visage constantly changing to disguise his appearance. In truth, he sometimes wondered if anyone knew, or had ever known, what Reynard Crom actually looked like.

To the Mentor's immediate left stood Ivan Orbec, Captain of the Third Battle Company and heir-in-waiting to the Chapter Master. Of course, many of the Company Commanders believed that they should be next in line for succession, but with the full endorsement of both the Lord's Penitent and Revenant, there was little doubt that Orbec would be the next leader of the Sword Bearers. By ancient tradition, the Masters of the First and Second Companies were prohibited from gaining higher office, and as a result their backing was deemed essential to any who would lead the Chapter. To be fair, the charismatic Orbec was easily the most obvious candidate, his battle record exemplary and regardless of his relative youth, he was already renowned for his keen mind and analytical skill. Secretly though, Aldous had reservations about the future Supreme Grand Master. Although his tally of victories far out stripped his contemporaries, Third Company's casualty rate had also never been higher. There was a clinical, even cynical callousness about the young Captain. The Sword Bearers had never shied away from sacrificing themselves for the sake of glory or honour, but Aldous had long believed that this tendency needed to be tempered, not encouraged.

The final member of the circle stepped into place directly behind the Mentor. Although he knew who it must be, Aldous resisted the urge to turn around. A strict code governed meetings such as this, and he could not move, or speak, until his presence had been formerly acknowledged.

There could be only one reason why he had been summoned here, and as he waited for his instructions, he struggled to keep his emotions in check. Despite his many years of service, despite all the missions he had undertaken as both Penitent and Pathfinder, at moments such as this he still felt as apprehensive as a new recruit.

So much responsibility rested on his shoulders, so many secrets entrusted to his keeping.

Whatever his mission, whatever his orders, he must not fail.

PART TWO

The arming chamber was a hive of activity. Artificers, Chapter serfs and their servitor assistants bustled around Aldous, carefully removing his battered armour, plate by plate. It was painfully slow work; in addition to the battle damage it had suffered, the constant dust barrage in the Ashlands had clogged joints and even eroded some of the connection ports. The Mentor struggled to hide his impatience as his left vambrace finally came free. This was taking too long.

In the alcove to his right stood the armour he would soon be wearing. A heavily modified Scout carapace suit, it exchanged the protection of his Errant plate for a number of other benefits, particularly stealth. Power armour, despite all it's technological advances, could hardly be described as inconspicuous. The Scout suit would grant Aldous far greater mobility and clandestinity. They were advantages he would need in the hours ahead.

To his left, covering the entire far side of the chamber, was his personal armoury. Guns, blades and other, more esoteric pieces of equipment were arrayed in ordered racks across the wall. The huge collection of weapons, many of them unique and custom made, was one of the privileges of his rank and experience.

Glancing down, he watched the artificers struggling to remove the cuirass of his armour, the heavy, ash coated breastplate resisting their efforts.

“Faster.” Aldous sighed, his thoughts turning once again to his meeting with the Inner Circle.

He was running out of time.

***

“The Legion calls. A pathway to redemption has been revealed to us.” It was Mordrain who broke the silence, the Lord Interrogator's voice a deep, bass growl, the rumble of thunder in a hail storm.

“Our honour is compromised. Absolution must be sought. Retribution must be dealt.” Torr continued the ritualised words that opened the meeting, his speech a staccato, mechanical bark. Like his sight, the Lord Penitent's vocal cords were a bionic implant, a legacy of old, terrible injuries.

“Secrets must be safeguarded. Regardless of consequence, the sins of the past must remain forever hidden.” As was customary, the Chief Librarian spoke the final vow. Like his visage, Crom's voice was distant and ethereal, undefinable, like words whispered into the wind.

“I answer the call.” It had been many years since Aldous had last spoken the Oath of the Hunter, but the words flowed freely from his lips. Once learnt, they could never be forgotten. “I will seek our redemption and protect our secrets, following the path until death or journey's end.”

Satisfied that ritual had been correctly observed, the Lord Interrogator looked across the circle and nodded to Orbec.

The briefing could begin.

***

“The situation is critical,” the Third Captain began, his voice as calm and measured as ever. “Six hours ago, I led an assault against the perimeter defences of the Necropolis. During the attack, we encountered three renegade Astartes, who appeared to be in command of the rebel forces.”

Instinctively, Aldous felt his body tense, his hatred and anger rising. Sensing the Mentor's reaction, Orbec continued quickly.

“The renegades are of no consequence, thin blood traitors from the Thirteenth lineage. However, before they were killed, the squad's Shadowseer was able to initiate a psychic probe. The information he discovered is...momentous. The renegades were part of a twenty strong group, inducted into the Secessionist armies as mercenaries. Although the traitors seem to be unaware of the significance, the leader of the group, a warrior named Barazadon, is garbed in the colours and heraldry of the pre-heresy First Legion.” Orbec paused, allowing the importance of this news to sink in.

“Omophagean analysis of the traitor's remains have confirmed the Shadowcaster's findings.” Mordrain added his support to the Third Captains words. For a second, Aldous wondered which of the Inner Circle had consumed such tainted, treacherous flesh in order to gain their genetic memories. He suspected it would have been the Lord Interrogator himself; he knew all too well that the High Chaplain would stop at nothing in his pursuit of redemption.

“For many months, members of the Librarius have been reporting visions and omens of this moment. The portents have clearly indicated the presence of our ancient foe here in the Isis Sector.” Crom joined the conversation. “It was not solely the will of the Inquisition that brought us to Phormia Prime.”, he added, with a slight hint of amusement. The Chief Librarian's disdain for Inquisitors was well known, and he made little attempt to hide it.

“Together, there is enough evidence to prove almost conclusively that a Fallen Angel lurks within the city of the dead.” Orbec continued, his normally calm voice becoming harsh and aggressive.

“Time is against us, Pathfinder” Torr's vocal synthesiser emitted a slight electrical hum as he spoke. “The final siege of the Necropolis is scheduled to begin in thirty six hours. Inquisitorial forces are already deploying to form a second wave of the attack. To postpone or delay the assault now would cause an unacceptable level of suspicion.”

“We cannot risk the possibility of the traitor escaping amidst the chaos of the siege. Equally, the possibility that he might fall into hands other than our own would be beyond calamitous.” Despite the hoods that hid their faces, Aldous could sense the scrutiny of the Lord Interrogator as he spoke again. “Should the Inquisition even learn of his existence, it would present a dire threat to all sons of the First Legion.”

“These are your orders Pathfinder” Mordrain continued. “Infiltrate the citadel and locate the traitor. From the information we have recovered, we can provide you with details of his probable location. Breaching the city's perimeter should be relatively easy. The Necropolis was not constructed to serve as a fortress and despite it's subsequent fortification, there remain several points of entry. However, until the city's void shielding is deactivated, you will be without both communication and teleport reinforcement.”

“When the siege begins,” Torr rejoined the conversation, “Second and Third Companies are tasked with assaulting the main power generators. Once they have been destroyed, the Penitents will be able to teleport to your location. Find the traitor, and when the city's power grid fails, activate your beacon. We will do the rest.”

“One last thing.” Mordrain spoke, his voice grave. “The Fallen must neither be allowed to escape or to be captured by the Inquisition. If either situation appears imminent, you must terminate the target immediately and destroy all evidence of his existence. Do you understand your orders, Pathfinder?”

“I understand.” Aldous answered, his eagerness to begin evident in his voice. “Whatever action is necessary, it will be done.”

“Then prepare yourself. A drop ship will be waiting to transport you to the surface within the hour. Redemptionem aut mortem.”

The briefing concluded, the Lords of the Chapter began to disperse into the darkness once more. Aldous found his mind racing, his thoughts focussed on his mission and the preparations that needed to be made. He took a first step towards the vault's exit.

Suddenly a voice spoke from behind him, the final member of the Circle making his presence known at last.

"A moment, brother, before you leave. There is one more thing to be discussed.” Although full of authority, there was a pained, wearied quality to the speaker's tone.

Aldous turned and faced the speaker, automatically dropping to one knee in reverence. Within the circle, rank and status were traditionally ignored, all the Legion's Sons considered equal in their shame and quest for redemption. With the briefing over, formality and obeisance instantly resumed.

The Supreme Grand Master of the Sword Bearers deserved such respect.

PART THREE

Amongst his brothers, he was known as Hektor Tiberias Talyn, although it was not the name given to him at birth. He had been born nearly four hundred and twenty years before, amongst the warring highland tribes of Mire's largest continent, and his first name, his birth name, was as lost to him now as the faces of his parents. Even with eidetic memory, the Chapter had been all he had ever known.

Over the long years of his life, he had accumulated titles and honorifics the way his fellow warriors collected scars and kill tallies. He became famous, and infamous, to both friend and foe alike. To the people of the Ferroja system, he was respected as both the Angel of Deliverance and the Blade of the Emperor, while their oppressors, in their fear, simply called him Executioner. Amongst the Deathwatch, his acts of valour led him to be known as the Lionheart, and the nickname returned to his Chapter with him. The Eldar of Alaitoc cursed him and named him the Buanna Dannan: the Death Reaper. For the Orks of Charadon, he would forever be Foe-smasher, the Crusher of Armies. His reputation and status grew, and eventually, there had been no debate when he received the greatest honour and title his kind could aspire towards.

He was the Supreme Grand Master of the Sword Bearers, Lord of Mire and Keeper of the Blades. For a hundred years, he had led his Chapter, protecting their interests, guiding their path and choosing their wars. His victories were innumerable, his honour unsurpassed, his name legendary.

For the last five of those years, he had been patiently waiting to die.

***

It was ironic, but the Scout suit was far less comfortable than normal power armour. His Errant plate, despite being considerably heavier and bulkier, felt much more natural once plugged into the connection ports of his black carapace, more like a second skin than a suit of armour. The Scout gear, although heavily customised compared to those issued to Neophytes, was still, fundamentally, a more primitive piece of equipment.

Aldous ran a final check of the suit's systems, then turned his attention to the wall of weapons. On the racks directly in front of him were a pair of modified Astartes shotguns, each bearing a silver inscription inlaid into the blackened steel. Most Space Marines discounted such simple weapons the moment they left Tenth Company, considering them ineffective and archaic compared to the boltguns they now wielded. After four centuries of battle, the Pathfinder had long since decided that simplicity was under-rated. He slid one of the shotguns into a holster strapped between his shoulder blades, then slung the second casually over one arm.

Moving further along the armoury, he contemplated the vast array of assault weaponry he had collected over the years. Broadswords, chain blades, power mauls, thunder hammers, energy flails; almost every conceivable type of close combat weapon was available to him. Eventually he decided on a slim armoured gauntlet that fully covered his right arm up to the elbow. Locking it in position, he connected the power feed to his suit's back mounted generator. Clenching his fist triggered the mechanism, and the short gladius blade hidden within the glove sprang forward and clicked into place. Touching the pressure pad built into his palm activated the power field, sheathing the entire weapon in crackling blue energy. Satisfied that the blade gauntlet was fully functional, he deactivated the field and retracted the sword once more.

As he began filling pouches with ammunition, grenades and other equipment, he found his eyes drawn to the far end of the armoury. The most powerful and devastating items in his collection were stored there: plasma weapons, combi-meltas, phosphex throwers and grenade launchers. Such weapons were usually restricted during hunting operations, where the objective was to capture the foe relatively in one piece.

Looking at the arsenal, he realised he still had a decision to make.

***

"Leave us." Despite the obvious weariness and strain in the Chapter Master's voice, there was still the same, underlying confidence, the same self-assurance that had defined his entire career. It was a voice that expected to be obeyed, but which somehow avoided arrogance or condescension and retained it's humility.

Silently, the other members of the Circle each gave a slight but respectful bow, before filing, one by one, through the chamber's narrow doorway. Aldous remained kneeling, his head still hooded and bowed. The Supreme Grand Master stood before him, his face similarly shrouded, his ancient silver armour partially covered by long black robes.

Talyn waited until the chambers door had sealed shut once more before speaking again."At ease brother. There is no need for such fealty between us."

Aldous rose to his feet, the servos in his battered armour protesting loudly as the Lord of the Sword Bearers continued. "I think we can dispense with these now as well," he said, throwing back the hood and exposing his features to the harsh light of the circle.

The Pathfinder followed suit, trying not to react at the sight of his Master's visage. There had been rumours of course. Even in a Chapter renowned for it's reticence, some secrets could not be hidden indefinitely. As their Liege had become more and more reclusive, avoiding even previously close companions and confidants, so the rumours of his illness had spread throughout the Chapter, eventually becoming common knowledge. It had never been officially stated though, and whenever Lord Talyn had appeared amongst them, he had always remained helmed. Thus it was a shock to finally see his disfigurement in person.

It had been many years since Aldous had last seen the face of the Grand Master, but he could still picture him clearly. The two of them were almost the same age, but while Aldous was as weathered and war beaten as every Astartes who survived so long, Talyn had remained remarkably youthful, even escaping any significant facial scarring despite a life time on the front lines. From his days as a Neophyte to his investiture as Supreme Grand Master, he had barely changed at all.

There was little left of that youthful visage now. Talyn's face was literally eroding from the top down, the soft tissues rotting away even as he still lived. His bare, hairless head was covered with dark veins and weeping sores. Nose, ears, eyes were all gone, a single bionic replacement had been implanted in one hollow socket to enable him to see, at least until his remaining optic nerve decayed any further. For some reason, his tongue and vocal cords had so far been unaffected, but the blackened skin around his jaw and throat promised that this would not last much longer.

The air around them was full of incense and candle smoke, but even disguised by such pungent aromas, Aldous could discern the unmistakable charnal house stench. Over the years, he had experienced the same smell of rotten, corrupt flesh on countless battlefields, but never before from a being that still lived.

"Save your pity, brother". Talyn broke the moments silence. It had been impossible not to show some sort of reaction, Aldous realised. "I must endure this condition, I will not suffer compassion or condolence as well."

"Forgive me, my Lord. I had heard...rumours. But I had not expected..."

"For them to be so accurate." Talyn finished the Pathfinders sentence, his ruined face forming into a mischievous grin. Some things hadn't changed, Aldous thought to himself. In a way, that made it worse. "And just brother will suffice. There is no need for rank or title between us, not in private anyway. We've known each other far too long for that."

"I'm sorry my Lo....brother." Aldous corrected himself. "The Apothecaries, can..."

"Do nothing. Although it is not for want of trying." Talyn had always had a habit of finishing his sentences. He had been exactly the same during their training together, so many years before. "Whatever toxin the Eldar used to poison my blood stream, it is beyond the Apothecarion's knowledge to treat, or my own ability to heal. They tell me a mortal would have succumbed far more quickly. I must confess though, I find little comfort in that fact."

For a second, Aldous sensed the frustration in his Master's words. He could not imagine the pain that Talyn must constantly endure, watching his own body slowly, irrevocably decay. To know that your own genetic gifts were actively prolonging the agony, fighting a futile battle against the corruption, would have broken the spirit of most. There would have been no shame in seeking a quick death on the battlefield, or even in asking for the Emperor's Peace. But Talyn, despite his seemingly perpetual good humour, had never taken his responsibilities lightly. It was one of the characteristics the Pathfinder had always liked about him, in a friendship that had seen them both progress from Neophyte to Penitent and beyond. As Supreme Grand Master, Talyn was responsible for the survival of the Chapter itself, and Aldous knew that his friend could not relinquish such duties easily.

"The end draws near." Talyn continued, his voice steady and matter-of-fact even as he spoke of his own death. "The Apothecaries have not yet chosen to inform me of this, nor do they need to. I can hear the bell, even though it has not yet begun to toll."

"This will be the Chapter's last campaign under my leadership. The Sword Bearers deserve a Master who can lead them in battle, who can wield the blades he keeps. Not a blind cripple, who's rotten flesh is contained only by his own armour. Once the Necropolis has fallen, I will abdicate my responsibilities, and Orbec will be invested in my place."

Aldous remained silent. There was nothing he could say.

"This is the reason I wanted, and needed to speak to you. I have borne the blades for almost a hundred years, and fought for them three centuries more. While this is certainly not the ending I would have wished for, or predicted, I remain proud of my achievements. I do not wish my honour to be tarnished, now, at the end." Talyn sighed, the exhalation becoming a hacking cough.

"Your name will endure brother. The Chaplains will be reciting your deeds to the Chapter's last day." Aldous said earnestly. The Pathfinder watched in concern as Talyn removed a gauntlet and wiped bloody spittle from his face, his hand twisted and gangrenous, deformed into a three fingered claw.

"If that is indeed the case, my last wish is that it be for the right reasons."

"What do you mean, my Lord?" Despite their long friendship, Aldous had always found it difficult to ignore rank and title. The slip into formality was ignored this time.

"Your mission, brother. The Fallen One. I know you understand all too well the gravity of the situation, and I have no wish to further add to the pressure and responsibility already heaped upon you. But add to it I must. Whatever happens, the traitor must not fall into the hands of the Inquisition. I have reconciled myself with my fate, but I cannot be remembered as the Sword Master whose leadership led to the undoing of all the Lion's Sons. I will not be responsible for the downfall of the entire First Legion."

"What do you ask of me, my Lord?" The Pathfinder spoke the question, even though he knew, deep down, what the answer would be.

"Only this my brother. Find the Fallen, as you have been instructed. But unless you can be certain, one hundred per cent certain, that our extraction team will be successful, you must execute him immediately. Leave no trace of the traitor behind. Do you understand brother?"

Aldous felt his blood run cold. What he was being asked ran contrary to every oath he had ever sworn. The Fallen must be taken alive, if at all possible. Every member of the Inner Circle knew this. Redemption could only be truly earned through the repentance of the traitors. However, there was no way to completely guarantee the mission's success. He was torn between two conflicting emotions, between allegiance to his Chapter, Legion and Primarch; or loyalty to one who was both his Lord and oldest friend.

"I understand, my brother," he replied quietly, echoing his earlier words to the Circle. "Whatever is action is necessary, it will be done." Even as he spoke, Aldous wondered if he had just made a promise he could not keep."

Seemingly satisfied, Talyn visibly relaxed. "There is one last thing you should know, something omitted from your briefing. I have read the Shadowcaster's report, the account of his journey into the renegade's thoughts. He states that the traitor was afraid. In fact, his mind was practically consumed by fear."

Aldous smiled. "All who encounter the Revenants experience fear, my lord. Indeed, the Shadowclad would be disappointed were that not the case."

Talyn laughed, and for a second Aldous was reminded of the warrior he had once been. Then the laugh turned once more into the choking, convulsing cough. When it finally subsided, he continued, the grin fading slowly from his deformed features.

"Very true, my brother, but unfortunately, that was not what I meant. The Revenant states that the traitor was almost completely unaffected by the psychic aura. In fact he attempted to engage in close combat, forcing the psyker to use more...direct methods to disable him. No, the fear the Shadowcaster sensed was directed towards another. To the one you seek. The Fallen Angel known as Barazadon. Apparantly the emotion was strong enough to override even the effects of the Shadow."

The Lord of the Sword Bearers turned to leave, wiping blood from his mouth once more. When he spoke again, there was none of his characteristic mirth in his voice. They were the last words Aldous ever heard him speak.

"Be careful my brother. I do not know why the Fallen should be feared so greatly by his own warriors. Nor do I know what afterlife awaits me, but I have no desire to meet you there so soon."

***

Alone in his arming chamber, Aldous finished his equipment checks and walked the few steps towards the doorway. The Night Raven was waiting to return him to the planets surface. As the door hissed open, he hesitated, then turned back to the weapon racks. Taking a plasma pistol and holster, he checked the power cell, then strapped it to his side.

The decision made, he left the chamber and started on the path to redemption once more.