Fading Light: A tale of the Storm Stalkers

[InquisitorHayn]

              Thalian's wearied gaze drifted slowly down the length of his heavily muscled arm, coming to rest on an outstretched hand and the object enclosed in still, untrembling fingers. It was an ancient thing, simultaneously functional and elegant. Barely perceptible traces of repair, nearly invisible to the mortal eye, the only clues that betrayed many centuries of hard use. These were not new observations, of course. Thalian had held this particular item many times before. Each time, he had spared a moment to marvel at its entrancing mixture of beauty and purpose for, though there were many of its like, there were none like it. He mused, in a moment of quiet introspection, that he might have loved it were he capable of such a feeling. He thought of how he had cared for it over the years. How he had seen it, and it him, through countless difficulties and hardships. How its immaculately wrought silverite inlay shone in the dim light like the tails of ghostly comets amid the firmament of space, the phantom glow highlighting burnished surfaces of darkened metal.

 

               But it did not shine for him now. This night was darker than most.

 

              “Truly Sergeant, I wish I had more to say, but I must conduct further tests to discover the means of his passing. Preliminary diagnoses indicate some form of paralytic toxin which stilled his pulmonary and respiratory activities to the point of failure. For such a thing to be of sufficient strength to overcome the oolitic kidney is rare, but not impossible. I am certain that the substance will be identified in due course. In truth, it will be most fortunate if the progenoid glands are not corrupted as well. It would be such a waste.” With that, the apothecary turned to a small metal table and began to clean his instruments, bloodied by the work of autopsy and organ extraction. But Izak Bereon remained unsettled by the medicus' report. There was something in the apothecary's smooth demeanor and unwavering gaze that made him think the man was hiding something. But what was it?

             “I do not understand,” Izak said. “I stood beside him the entire time. Once we cleared the extraction point, we engaged the remainder of the xenos forces at range until the Thunderhawk landed. When I turned to order the withdrawal, I watched the life leave Aryn's eyes as he fell to the ground on which he had so vigorously stood mere moments before. No foe yet drew breath about us. How then was he slain?”

             “I understand there were a great many of the vile creatures. You're certain none slipped amidst the line of your guns?”

             “I am,” growled Izak. “The squad successfully maintained a fire-quarantined zone prior to tactical withdrawal. All of this information is included in the mission report, which I suppose you have yet to read.”

              If the more senior marine was bothered by his irreverent tone, the apothecary gave no indication. Raising his eyes from his work and fixing them upon the younger warrior, the surgeon continued, “I have. In it, you also state that your squad was ambushed by a sizable band of the enemy en route to extraction, at which point you were engaged in melee for approximately three and one quarter minutes. I would assume that it was at this juncture Brother Aryn was wounded, giving the toxin that killed him the time it needed to circulate through his system.”

             “You would assume incorrectly. All squad members followed standard protocol and reported their status once the threat was neutralized.”

             “In the midst of battle, there are occasionally wounds that go unnoticed or overlooked as unthreatening.”

              And there it was again. Many men, when unexpectedly pressed into speculation or simply relaying an unwelcome truth, would have softened or averted their eyes. But the alabaster-clad physician stared at him as if to sear belief into his very skull by sheer force of will. He had prepared himself for this moment, his cold words reeking of recitation. But why? Izak seethed. “Guard your tongue, flesh carver! Aryn was no young, foolish pup ignorant of the difference twixt face and flank. Nor am I, and I will brook no further insult.” His left hand unconsciously drifted to the blade at his hip. “I am fully aware of what transpired on that thrice-damned world and my part in it. Now speak the truth!”

              Seemingly untroubled by his brother's ire, the apothecary replied, “If you would but cease your ravings and look there, you would surely see for yourself.”

              Izak hesitantly turned toward the examination table whereupon lay the corpse of Battle-Brother Kand Aryn, divested of his war plate, staring blankly at the apothecarium ceiling as if searching for an answer in the stark white of its tiles. Izak's eyes meticulously combed his friend's lifeless form, but paused and held their gaze when they reached his former comrade's face. The young warrior had come to believe that, since his ascendancy, he had seen nearly all of death's myriad masques: the faces of anguish, agony, defiance, horror, despair, sorrow, even the madly elated countenance of murderous delight. Indeed, the release of mortality's grip was often, he found, the moment of greatest emotional extremity for the departing soul and the most honest instant in a creature's existence. A dead man's visage bared his innermost character for those present to witness. Here, though, in the face of Kand Aryn, he saw nothing. No courage, no rage, no pain. Nor was this the stoic calm of a man at peace. Just an absolute and utter stillness, chilling in its bereavement, blank as the faces of the stone-carved hashak dolls in the village seer's hut when he was a boy. It was as if his friend's very soul had been severed before he died, leaving nothing but an empty husk.

               Forcing himself to continue his examination, Izak, as earlier aboard the Thunderhawk, saw nothing. Carefully tilting the fallen marine's massive bulk to one side, he scanned Aryn's back and once again saw exactly what he expected to see. Absolutely no-... no. It was impossible. He had checked and rechecked numerous times on the return flight to the strike cruiser. There had been no wound. Yet here, before his very eyes, was a blood-spattered tear in Aryn's lower back, beneath where the weaker soft armour of his vestment would have covered. Not a massive wound, but enough to pierce flesh and sufficiently deep to penetrate a primary lung, which would accelerate a poison's entrance to the bloodstream. Confusion wracked Izak's mind as self-doubt set upon him. His thoughts raced, attempting to rectify the image he now witnessed with his previous examinations. His near-eidetic memory could not recall seeing anything in this area before. Yet here it was, a perfect killing wound. Perfectly placed. Perfectly shaped. Perfectly...

 

              Perfectly shaped.

 

              Izak released his hold on the form of his erstwhile comrade. In the time it took the lifeless mass of chiseled flesh and hardened bone to crash once more upon the table with the dolorous thunder of a mourning bell, the marine had crossed the room towards the white-clad healer, driven a crushing palm strike into the apothecary's chin, and pinned the stunned medicus to the ground with blade to throat.

              The apothecary regained his senses quickly, attempted to struggle, and cried out, “What is the meaning of this?!? Release me, madman, or I will have your accursed skull for a mantelpiece!”

               Ignoring the straining fleshsmith's threats, Izak grinned the feral, toothy grin of a predator preparing to deliver the final blow. “It occurs to me now that you were not present on the ground during this campaign, apothecary. You see, the Shevaalan wretches we slaughtered are very particular about their weapons. Every blade is barbed so that, when pulled from the enemy, it mangles and enlarges the wound leaving a ragged tear in the flesh. The blade used to wound Aryn bore a straight edge, not unlike the blades we ourselves bear. You've made a grave error, Brother, for which you will pay dearly. Now speak truth, and I may grant you a swift death.”

               To his credit, the apothecary did not beg for his life. Unable to free himself from beneath the armoured bulk of his enraged attacker, he ceased his struggle and merely stared the same contemptuously hard stare as before. Izak's muscles tensed as he drew the blade upward along the pale skin of the flesh carver's face, blood beginning to seep out along its gleaming edge.

               “Sergeant Bereon!” boomed a voice from the doorway. Instinctively, Izak froze. His back was turned to the portal, but the voice like crumbling rockcrete was unmistakable. The sound was that of judgment personified, effortless menace written into every syllable. Every marine who had come to the Chapter in the last eight decades knew that to disobey its owner was the most grievous, and often the most final, of errors.

                Sergeant Primaris Thalian Ghilan, chief instructor of the Chapter's inductees, stood glaring in the open door with a mixture of anger and disapproval on his face. “You will sheathe your blade, report to the southern training hall, and await my arrival. Go now.”

               “Sir, you don't understand, I-”

               “I understand that I gave an order. I understand that I am not accustomed to repeating myself, and I understand that I have no need to be told by an impudent whelp what I understand. Go. I will not say it again.”

                Izak bared his teeth at the apothecary in sparsely contained fury. “Our business is not ended,” he growled as he stood, sheathing the blade at his leg and marching from the room.

                As the doors closed behind the young marine, the apothecary dragged himself from the floor, fingers tracing the fractures in his jaw and dabbing the already drying blood from his face. “You should rein in your men, Thalian. The youth is mad as a fevered hara-mare. If he tries that again, I'll ki-”

                “You will die quickly, Uron, and that is a kindness you will find that I lack if you continue to speak in ignorance. Bereon is one of the best killers I have ever trained and has won many honours in his short time. It would surely upset your master if your loose tongue found you receiving a more direct example of that education.”

                “Spare me your threats, Thalian. You know the fault does not lie with me. I am doing my sworn duty to the Chapter.”

                “You mutilated the corpse of one of our fallen brethren.”

                “I did what must be done for the good of us all, just as you must-AAACK!!!” The apothecary's words fell short of completion as Thalian seized him by the throat and slammed him bodily against the bulkhead. His face mere millimeters from that of the man locked in his grip, eyes fixed firmly on those opposite like some nightmare reflection in a mirror, the sergeant spoke with a quiet, icy calm completely at odds with the raging violence of his actions. “Your insolent mouth is still housed atop your body only because of that boy's loyalty and my command. Remember this, and choose your next words carefully lest they be the last that I allow to ride upon your ill-begotten breath.” Thalian lessened his crushing grip on the apothecary's throat, ever so slightly, enough to allow the surgeon to speak.

                “He...knows. How...long, Thalian...how long until he...he finds out...about the others?” With a low, feral growl, the sergeant released the medicus, letting him slump to the floor. “He will not...take this idly,” Uron continued, clutching his throat, “He will demand answers that cannot – must not be given.” All trace of guile left the apothecary's face, replaced by anger and the faintest notion of somber melancholy. “We have never born love for one another, Thalian, and you have never approved of the shame we guard at such great expense. This I know. I also know that, above all others, you have favoured him most. But you have also, as I have, sworn to our masters to keep the secret of our weakness - this accursed pox that plagues our genetic legacy – at every cost and by any means necessary. You may find me and my methods distasteful, but I am an honourable man, in my way. I don't enjoy the notion any more than you, but you know what must be done.”

                Thalian remained silent for several moments, staring in simultaneous sorrow and rage. He knew the apothecary was right. He had sworn a solemn oath. If it became known among the ranks that Battle-Brothers were simply falling dead without explanation, it would damage morale and likely stir dissent. Should word leave the fortress-monastery's walls, the Chapter would be declared tainted by sorcery or heresy...it would mean complete annihilation.

                “Tell our masters that if it must be so, then I will be the one to do it,” said the sergeant. With a heavy heart, the veteran warrior turned and strode toward the door. Without looking back he called once more to the apothecary. “And, Uron, if I ever hear you say again that you do not favour this vile course, I will rip your deceitful tongue from your mouth. The lie is more reprehensible than the truth.”

 

                  Izak stalked through the vast expanse of the southern training hall. He had always thought that referring to it, and its ilk spread throughout the monastery, as a hall was wildly understated, at best. The matte black ceiling with its randomly scattered, dim illum-globes was nearly forty metres high, giving the impression of the clearest of night skies. Its walls were separated by kilometres of carefully maintained, transplanted terrain in every direction. Each was designed to represent a different variety of combat environment to which a marine might find himself deployed. This particular one was patterned after a great forest, numerous species of enormous trees and dense shrubbery spreading forth as far as the eye could see. Usually, the constant drilling and intense exercises in such locations allowed him little time to contemplate his surroundings beyond their use as potential cover or impediment to his field of fire. Now that he stood alone among the stillness of its confines, however, he marveled at its immensity and was truly amazed at how something so complex and alive was able to exist so far beneath the desolate sands of the surface.

                  The young sergeant allowed his wonder only the briefest of moments as his mind returned to Kand Aryn. Confusion and anger returned with a vengeance as a part of him began to regret not killing the apothecary and damn the consequences. Something was very wrong, and he hoped beyond hope that when the Sergeant Primaris arrived, he would find the answers he so desperately needed. Izak's ire flared hotter and he found himself cursing his absent-mindedness when the barest flash of movement in his peripheral vision told him that he was not alone after all. He instinctively dropped and rolled behind the decaying bulk of a fallen tree, his weapon drawn, scanning in the direction of the motion's origin. Izak saw nothing, but remained on his guard.

                   Perhaps his former master had ordered him here in hopes that training would quench his anger. It would be the first time he had known his instructor to be wrong, he thought, but he could not allow that to distract him here. The training drills were designed to emulate live combat and, though it was a rare occurrence for such skilled soldiers as his brethren, death was a very real consequence of laxity.

                   Failing to detect anything further, Izak moved quickly and quietly through the trees, careful to take a path that would bring him to his quarry's last location at an oblique angle. In the unlikely event that he caught his prey unawares, he would have the advantage of surprise. If not, he would not be rushing headlong into a trap. Within minutes, he arrived at a spot near the location he had seen his phantom foe. Dropping to a crawl, he inched his way toward the crest of a small rise, hoping to catch a glimpse of his target while remaining unseen. Looking out beyond the hill, however, he saw nothing. He lingered for several moments to be certain and then, still sensing nothing about, he stalked forward and searched for signs of his enemy's passing.

                    Izak completed his investigation of the area without spotting anything indicative of what he faced. As he considered his options, his mind drifted back to a time when he was still amongst the Chapter's novitiate, and to a lesson Sergeant Ghilan had taught him that had stayed with him throughout his decades of service. “Sometimes what you don't see can tell you just as much as what you do,” the old warrior had said, and it was certainly true here. Izak had not misjudged the location. Years of battle experience, post-human senses, and near-perfect recall placed him beyond such errors. No, it was that his quarry was skilled, and trained or equipped for stealth. That eliminated the customary combat servitors from the list. Those mind-scrubbed, half-machine drones lacked the cunning to cover their tracks and were too heavy not to leave any. This also removed any wild beasts of sufficient size to do him harm from his concern. All that remained in likelihood was some sentient, xeno-breed creature. A prisoner taken from some past conflict reserved only to challenge the truly skilled. And so the hunt was joined.

                    Izak chased the elusive shadow for hours. Now and again, he would be so close on its heels he could feel it, but each time it evaded him and never once did it attack him. This served only to sharpen his attentions as he began to hear the unsettling voice in his mind that told him he was being lured somewhere. Determined not to be bested so foolishly, he decided to turn the tables. He stopped his advance and began to head in the opposite direction of his previous hunt, hoping to force his foe to come to him. He doubled back on his own path several times and occasionally stopped and rolled several metres to one side to give the impression that he was attempting to hide his trail, knowing that his quarry, having thwarted his own trained efforts so thoroughly, would be capable of following it anyway.

                    Continuing onward into the darkness, eyes scanning the area for a suitable ambush site, Izak's enhanced vision detected something amiss. He dropped into a crouch and stared intently at the disturbed earth. Sensing no immediate threat, he cautiously approached to study it further, thankful that he had finally located a clue to his foe's identity. Upon closer examination, he realized it was a foot print. A depression formed by a boot, in point of fact, made by a bipedal organism as large as...himself. In an instant he knew what hunted him and why it had eluded him for so long. Amidst a sudden flood of thoughts and emotions, Izak heard once again the words of the Sergeant Primaris as he experienced the closest thing to true fear that he had ever felt, “If you are hunted, let the hunter find what he seeks.”

 

                    But this time the words were not in his mind.

 

                    Izak hurled his body to the side as the short knife sailed through the air at incredible speed, piercing the vacant space that his head had filled fractions of a second before. Before he had even finished moving he knew that the throw had not been meant to kill him. The warrior to whom the weapon belonged did not miss. Rolling to his feet, he spun to face his mentor's emotionless visage, anger and disbelief written clearly across his own features. “I don't understand,” he managed to say. “What is happening? Why are you doing this? How did Aryn die?!” His only answer was his teacher's blade lunging toward him, this time ready to end his life.

 

                    Thalian's blade crashed again and again against its twin, held in the hand of his most promising protege. To see the way his student moved and dodged, attacking and counter-attacking with the superb precision of an elite soldier the sight at which the Emperor himself would beam with pride, filled him with the greatest sorrow he had ever known. As a smith in the forge, he had taken a raw thing and shaped it into a perfect weapon, a thing of artful, beautiful death, and now he had been ordered by his masters to break it asunder as so much useless detritus.

                    More than that, this young man might have been his son in another life. Had he not been chosen to rise above such mortal concerns, he could think of nothing more he could have desired in a child. Strength. Discipline. Honour. Loyalty. The youth that was even now weakening under his assault, so admirably defiant in his will to survive, was not simply a good soldier. He was a good man. The idea that such a man could not be suffered to live sickened him. Before him, fighting on though bleeding from a dozen wounds, was everything he fought to preserve in the Chapter. Everything that it, and he himself, valued. Was it worth preserving the body from destruction if the price was the extirpation of the spirit?

                    The pain intensified as the boy swung wide, slow and ungainly from excessive blood loss, and the elder man caught his hand. A brief movement shattered the youth's arm with the sound of a great edifice fracturing at its foundation. Another blur of motion drove the broken marine to his knees, and it was done. Thalian stood over the lad as time slowed to the thick, liquid crawl of dripping blood. He looked into the defeated soldier's eyes, a child's eyes pleading with his father for forgiveness, not knowing the wrong he had done, and anguish rent the last remnants of his soul apart.

                    He drew the ancient bolt pistol from its holster, willing himself to level it at the young man's head. Thalian's wearied gaze drifted slowly down the length of his heavily muscled arm, coming to rest on an outstretched hand and the weapon enclosed in still, untrembling fingers. There was no solace to be found in the beauty of its silver glow. It did not shine for him now. As the old sergeant stood with pistol aimed, trapped in a frozen moment of eternal hell, Izak Bereon opened his mouth, crimson blood cascading from his lips.

                    “At least tell me why,” he said, the barely audible words crashing into Thalian with the force of a hammer blow.

 

 

 

                    “Because we are monsters.”

 

                     And the thunder roared.

[InquisitorHayn]

Apologies in advance for the weird text size-shifting. Not sure what happened there.

[deathspectersgt7]

Wow that was good.

[InquisitorHayn]

Thank you, deathspectersgt7. I've been putting this together for a good while now. Still open to suggestions, though, if anyone has improvements to offer.

[exetus]

Great read and well-crafted.  Appropriately 40k grimdark!

[InquisitorHayn]

I appreciate you saying so, exetus. Thanks so much for reading!