The Shield

[Carrack]

Signs and Portents

 

Part 1.1

 

The Eye Will Blink

 

Aspis, sub-sector seat

 

 

"I see it coming, the eye will blink open and terror will come to those who meet its gaze. The eye will be black. Not just dark in color, but the blackness of a sinful soul, the blackness that blinds our vision, the blackness that we feared as children, and if we are honest, sometimes fear even as grown men and women, the blackness of death separated from eternity at His side. The eye has blinked before, and we think we are prepared for it to happen again, brave men stand ready for it, yet they are not prepared for this. The eye will gaze at us hungrily. We will be devoured by a beastly maw of darkness and teeth. We will be devoured! Repent! Beg forgiveness for your many sins. Let us at least face our deaths with clean souls, filled with nothing but hate for the enemies of mankind.

 

Yet perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps He will deliver us from the coming blackness with the light of his holy angels. It is our only hope. Perhaps, but as we live today, never. We must cast aside all wickedness. We must erase all evidence of sloth in our workplaces and work harder than ever before. Take the extra shift, skip your breaks. Work is its own reward. We must purge the unclean from our midsts! The unclean in body, the mutant who has twisted the sacred form of man, must be expunged from our congregation. With Fire! The witch, the witch, the witch will hasten our doom like no other! His Angels will not bother saving those who harbor the witch. Mothers, watch your children, foremen, watch your workers. If you see witchcraft, don't hesitate for a moment, even if it's your cherished child. To the flames with the Witch! Save their soul as well as ours. Give all to Him. Give your sweat, your blood, your soul. Give your alms, for what better use is money than what His servants can put it to. Give your attention. Honor Him in all things, be at prayer with the God-Emperor more than you converse with your fellow man. Do these things. Do what the Emperor expects of you, and perhaps he will take mercy on us all. Perhaps he will intervene with His most righteous Angels of Death and save us from this maw of blackness that will come when the Eye next blinks.

 

-Sermon by Joshua Mosso

 

Your Most Revered Archbishop Valeri,

 

I have another firebrand on my hands, your eminence. You once told me I would get more than my share in the Ebro Basin Manufactorum District, how right you were. However I am unsure how to handle young Mosso.

 

He was ordained by me, two years past during the feast of St Lennious. He was sent to the West Central Parish of my see, where he quietly worked away. Frankly, I have never from him since, although capable and intelligent, he comes from a minor Manufactorum's owner family. I expected him to remain in his position without incident until he went to the Emperor's breast.

 

Recently however, he has started a new line of preaching. I heard about this from trusted sources and sent some frater to investigate. The above sermon was what they brought back. What Mosso asks of his parishioners is well within the bounds of orthodoxy. He is effective too. When I sent my frater, some of the owners and bosses of the manufactorums got wind of my investigation, and sent letters expressing their support for the young preacher. Apparently he is having a positive effect on production. My problem is the opening of his sermon smacks of prophecy. I'm told other sermons have had similar openings. Prophecies consistent with what the Lord Aspis is rumored to be looking for. I'm sure Your Eminence, is more familiar with the particulars of the sub-sector commander's queries.

 

As a matter of course, I summoned Joshua Mosso to my palace. He was completely agreeable and cooperative with my summons. He even asked for advice on how to reach some of the more notoriously secular manufactorums. When asked directly about this "blinking of the eye", he had no answer. He said his sermons were spontaneously given, and worked off of the mood of the congregation. He was much more charismatic then I remembered him to be at his ordination. I think a few years of experience has been a boon for his confidence. I sincerely believed his claims. In the mean time, I have remanded him to my palace, to study and learn more of the political nature of our vocation, but he yearns to be back on the streets of his parish, preaching his message. How shall I proceed?

 

Ever your servant, and of Him on the Golden Throne,

Bishop Rideric Trias

 

 

 

Ready

 

Calimyr, Aspis sub-sector

 

 

"Are we ready? The time is nigh." Asked Magos Bitao. Sacay considered the question for a good minute, then answered, "We have a good supply of 10mm, enough bombs for everyone to carry at least a pair, everyone had a sword or ba club, but only half have gotten rebreather masks, and that flamer has never been fired." Magos Bitao looked at Sacay disappointed, he said, "That is not what I asked. Are we ready? Is our faith in the true gods sufficient? Has our message found enough listening ears to support our revolution? Have we offered The Four enough for them to bless us? Go forth and ensure that we are ready." Sacay ran out of the forest clearing, headed back to the village with understanding and purpose.

 

 

Right and Proper

 

Morber, Aspis sub-sector

 

 

That runty weird boy Gubba ran up like he had something important to say. I politely asked, "Out wit it ya runty, buzzy brained git!" He groveled a bit, ducking my gentle gesture of goodwill. He said, "Boss Smacka Biggest and Stompiest of all Bosses, that Eye of Terror thingy is acting strange, something is coming." With a gentle nudge of my stompy boot, I indicated for him to elaborate. With a squeal and some hilariously high pitched wheezing, he complied with my request, "It's going to be a roight and proppa fight!" "Right and proper, eh." I replied. I would have to get the boys ready, they could handle a right fight, or a proper fight, but they would need extra encouragement for a right AND proper fight. I grabbed my most encouraging bashy stick and went to get them ready. A right and proper fight, this would be quite enjoyable.

 

 

Carrack

 

Judgment's End

 

Excerpt from the Narrative Section (Section C) of incident report 16-888-G46

 

 

-Convict Durgen had been screaming all day about voices in his head, as usual, when he dropped his shovel and fell silent. In spite of his affliction, Durgen mostly does his redemptive work without need for flogging. As I approached, Convict Durgen began shouting something like Carrack, or care act or some such. Before I could correct his stoppage of work, his head exploded in a spectacular red shower. It took eight minutes to get every convict of my detail back to work. I will strive to make sure no such laziness repeats itself on my watch. Convicts Kallo, Noel, Wallace, and Vernon required medicae attention. Convict Gardner was granted final absolution. Nothing follows.

 

[Carrack]

The Triple Spear

 

Pillars of Fortitude

2.1

 

 

 

Lythane the Black studied the lord of the Black Maw Warband. Lord Carrack, scion of the Black Legion, was playing the role of the consummate commander again. Or was he playing a role, or was this his true nature? Lythane had no idea. Lord Carrack stood hulking in his ancient terminator plate, directing his fleet and his legionnaires once more into war with the slaves of the False Emperor. Simultaneously while taking in a rushing stream of data on ship positions, auspex returns, troop reediness levels, and a myriad of other tactical information, he was playing along with the teasing of his junior most chosen. A leader's display of confidence when so much was being gambled with the opening gambit of this campaign, maybe, but just as likely it could have been the joy of anticipation of upcoming battle. Lord Carrack had earned the title "Slayer of Multitudes" by doing what he loved most. Lythane had yet to figure out the true nature of the lord he was equerry to.

 

First and foremost of Lythane's concerns on what was being gambled, was his own life. If the assault proceeded as planned, a long range teleport was about to be conducted by Lythane. He was already going through the preliminary rites of the ritual now, the focusing stanzas and preparations of the sacrifices. The range was too great for an ordinary teleport. The formidable orbital defenses of the Pillars of Fortitude prevented a closer approach by the fleet of the Black Maw. That was the problem they would attempt to solve by launching a triple spear tip assault on three orbital defense stations.

 

Lythane gave up on studying Lord Carrack and began the more complicated second act of the ritual. Instead of his preferred method of using a carefully prepared focus circle, he had dabbed the runes of translocation upon the control lectern of the teleporter in blood. He would amplify the archeotech device rather than make the teleport through sorcery alone. He was using the finest ingredients for this ritual, the blood came from he former Cardinal of Fewood, in the conquered Siliquastrum sub-sector. He began reciting the Stanzas of Harbor, that carefully described the precise location for his and his lord's teleportation to arrive. Once he had gotten through the stanzas enough times to feel comfortable repeating them, he made the final preparations of the sacrifices. He could have forgone the sacrifices, and forced the teleport with his considerable willpower alone, but that risked draining his Ki to the point of making further use of his sorcery more dangerous, and he may have need of it during the assault. So Lythane circled the sacrifices, young maidens and boys with a latent psychic potential yet to have manifested. He needed to get their heart rates up, so their blood would flow more freely, but they had been chemically constrained, less their powers manifest at an inopportune time. He made small, controlled slashes with the blades of his force staff and the spikes of his own terminator plate. Their blood started flowing, and in spite of their dazed states, their adrenaline glands kicked in and their heart rates rose to peak levels. Satisfied, Lythane swept his staff through a broad arc, cutting the throats of 3 sacrifices, and his backswing took out the fourth as well. Their blood flowed through channeled grooves to the control lectern and the ritual was fully powered. Lythane looked once again to Lord Carrack, he could control the power of the ritual, but not indefinitely, it was now or never. The brutish lord merely made a cutting gesture with his great axe and Lythane let loose the power of the ritual through the lectern of the teleporter sending him and Lord Carrack, along with their terminator retinues and a squad of Legionaries each, into the hellish mindscape of the warp.

 

Fortunately, at least for Lythane, the time in the warp was short. He materialized on a gun deck of orbital fortress 27B. His retinue of terminator elite in a tight circle around him. His squad of power armored legionnaires were off to one side in a separate circle between two macrocannons, on their knees wrenching and writhing in pain. It would take some time for them to recover, if they could. Lythane the Black's spear tip had struck the intended target. Now could he complete his assault's objectives, and what of the other two spear tips?

 

 

[Carrack]

The Silent Approach

 

Pillars of Fortitude

 

Part 2.2

 

 

 

Garaduk One-Eye silently flew through the black void towards his target, straining to control the forces of the warp he had bound to his will. As always, the cloud of flies that clung to him wherever he went were his companions. A constant nuisance, flying across his targeter, finding their way into his audio pick ups, they annoyed him. At least the silence of the void gave him rest from their incessant buzzing. Even the cruel vacuum of the void could not dismiss those gifts from the Grandfather, he had tried before. This flight was approaching 48 hours in duration, with another 6 after that. It had started from a lighter, launched from the Ruby Mace, at the system's edge. But the lighter could only approach the target to a certain range, before the target, a system defense station, could easily destroy the small craft with its wing of interceptors. So Garaduk had jumped from the lighter's bay along with his personal retinue, and two other squads of the Vultures Raptor Coven. They had carefully aimed themselves at the target, then fired their jump packs on a short burn that would propel them to the station. Their dispersed formation, along with their small size, will prevent them from being detected until it will be to late. That was the plan anyway. There would be no way to save himself if the Garaduk, or his raptors were discovered.

 

But Garaduk and three squads of raptors, all consummate warriors with centuries, if not millennia of experience, were still not enough to secure the defense station. So Garaduk was bringing reinforcements with him. In the fires of Callebra Hive, Garaduk had bound the daemon prince Cacon-Nagashesha to his will using the archeotech weapon known as the Candle of Light. The weapon recognized him as its rightful owner, and enslaved any other who dare touch it, that was how he had tricked the daemon to servitude. For this mission, Garaduk had strained the bonds of control over the daemon to briefly send it to the aether, until he reached the station.

 

One by one, Garaduk and the Vulture Raptors shed their external supplemental oxygen tanks, and made the briefest of burns from their jump packs to correct their trajectories. The defense station grew larger. It was not a traditional orbital station, but instead, a fortified mountain peak that penetrated the very atmosphere of Tancrea, one of the so called Pillars of Fortitude. Macrocannons sat in banks stop the armored roof of the station, along with smaller defense turrets. A great launch bay sat open to the void, a full wing of fury interceptors within stood readied, along with a squadron of starhawk bombers, also loaded, manned, and fueled in the highest alert status.

 

As he approached the extreme range of the defensive turrets, Garaduk decided to pray to his patron. It was not something he did with any great frequency. Certainly as an officer of the Black Maw Warband, Garaduk attended, and even presided over some of the warband's rites and rituals, but actual prayer was not something he liked to do. But there was little he could do about the defensive turrets and their cannons, either they would hit him or not, no action he could take would change that, but perhaps the power of the dark gods could. He viewed his relationship with Nurgle as mutually benefiting. As such his prayer took the form of bargaining. He offered up the defenders of the station as sacrifices in return for protection from the defense cannons as he entered their range. The quad mounted autocannons opened up as soon as he entered their fields of fire.

 

Detected, Garaduk broke vox silence and commanded his forces to follow him, as he fired his jump pack and dove to get below the fields of fire of the turrets. One of his retinue, didn't make it in time. Both other squads took losses as well. It could have been worse. Perhaps his prayers had paid off. The cannons were designed to shoot down void fighters, bombers, and assault craft, not the much smaller raptors. The gunners too, were well practiced, but this was their first time firing at live targets, training, no matter how realistic, was not battle, and some of the gunners choked, hesitating and waiting for orders, or were to excited, and wildly over corrected their first missed shots. As Garaduk and the Vulture Raptors of the Black Maw came in close to the base of the station, they fired their packs again, launching themselves into the open bay, even as the first fighters were catapult launched into the void. His other two squads began immediately disabling the voidcraft with melta bombs and shots, and butchering the deck crew. Garaduk and his retinue charged into a squad of armsmen running through a set of double blast doors, ignoring the scatter shot from their shotguns and charging into them with jump pack assisted force. As they made short work of the first squad, a second squad was working to secure the blast doors, no doubt a stalling maneuver to buy time for a proper counter attack. Garaduk let loose a gout of green hellfire into them from his ensorcelled flamer, burning half the squad alive. The remainder of the squad bravely continued their task, and manage to shut one of the blast doors. But they loss their nerve when Garaduk let go of his hold on the Daemon, and allowed Cancon-Nagashesha to tear through the walls of reality into the launch bay. The squad fled, catching a few bolts in the back from Garaduk's retinue's pistols. Garaduk looked back with his remaining eye to see what had caused the armsmen to flee.

 

Standing in the middle of the launch bay was Cancon-Nagashesha. Little of Cancon remained, his body had swelled in size to larger than even an Astartes, his facial features had twisted into the face of a daemon, then rotted away, although Garaduk could still see some of the one time cultist in the face of the Daemon Prince. Claws, fangs, scaly wings, and a slimy tail had grown with his apotheosis. His flesh had toughened, and turned a sickly green. Nagashesha was the same as before. He was a great serpent, a constrictor, that sprouted from daemon-Cancon's chest, and could change the color of its scales dependent upon his mood. All of the daemon bore the loving touch of Garaduk's patron, Nurgle. The Daemon was waving the Candle of Light, corrupted now into a mace with a head of absolute darkness, about as both mouths of the daemon chanted words of calling in the black tongue. Sickly gasses spilt out of rents in the veil of reality, growing larger, until tiny, jovial, and disgusting Nurglings clawed their way through, then scattered across the station, their movements announced by shotgun fire from the stations defenders. In short order, station 27C was his.

 

[deathspectersgt7]

Only had one like left.

[Carrack]

The Martyrdom of Captain Valedor

Part 2.3

Tancrea, The Pillars of Fortitude

 

Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

 

 

Captain Valedor took a brief moment to calm his nerves, snatching a lho stick from his Master Voxman. Under normal circumstances, he never smoked in front of his men, it was not fitting of an officer he had always felt. Instead, he saved the guilty pleasure for after hours, in the privacy of his own quarters. Now was not a time of normal circumstances, and if his men saw him engage in an enlisted habit during the last moments of their lives, he doubted it would have any effect on their discipline. So he smoked away, and told his Master Voxman to try for Commissar Halen again.

 

He hadn't heard from his commissar, or any of his 1st platoon, since they had reported back that they had successfully sent off the distress signal. He had heard the heavy reports of bolter fire in the background of their last communication. His station was being overrun.

 

They had known that attack was imminent. The fleet of the Arch-Enemy had taken days to fully translate, enough time to put the world on fullest alert, and send out warning to sub-sector command. Where exactly the attack would come was the question. They had chosen the three defense stations of sector 27 for a teleport strike, of which Captain Valedor commanded 27A. How long the enemy held them would determine the size of the army they could land on Tancrea. If they managed to land a large enough force, they could create a wider opening, make a beachhead from which they could land enough forces to neutralize the fortress world, and freely attack the Imperium beyond. Commissar Halen had achieved their first priority of defense, and gotten word to command that the Arch-Enemy was pushing through their defense sector. It saved time command would have taken to ascertain their status after the next scheduled communication. Reinforcements were likely speeding out to bolster their sector now. It was up to Valedor to keep the guns of his station firing as long as possible, and delay the start of the heretics landing for as long as possible. A successful defense of the station was not a realistic possibility. The enemy had struck with traitor marines, the most vile, and the most deadly of assailants.

 

Captain Valedor was well aware of the strengths of traitor marines, and the best tactics to use against them. He commanded a company of Tancrean Guard, and their fortress world was right at the edge of Imperial space before the Eye of Terror. It wasn't near the Gate of Cadia, not near the only stable path out of the hellish warp storm, but it was close enough to the Eye to be a frequent target of raiders using less stable exits to escape their damnation and plunder humanity. He knew enough of the enemy, to know that they couldn't be beaten. His family was on this world though, and those of his men, they wouldn't sell their lives cheap.

 

Valedor finished the lho stick and made ready for his next move. His commissar and first platoon were gone. His third platoon had made the initial contact with the enemy near the main magazine for the station's guns, but they had been quickly defeated. Fortunately, the remnants of two squads had gotten away and regrouped with his second, and last infantry platoon. His fourth platoon, the weapons platoon, had been repurposed to main the AAA turrets when they had rotated to this station from field patrols. That was a serious misfortune. Their missiles and autocanons would have been a greater threat to the traitor marines then the shotguns that had been issued upon assuming the defenses of this station. Captain Valedor quickly formulated a plan, and grabbed the master vox headset to start issuing out orders. He was frank about the situation with his sergeants and 2nd platoon's young lieutenant. The sergeants in return were stoic in the face of bleak orders, Captain Valedor couldn't help but feel pride in their steadfastness. The young LT, on the other hand, was clearly emotional, not cowardly so, but full of equal measures of anger and sorrow. Captain Valedor preferred the stoic responses of his sergeants.

 

 

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

Red Smile

 

 

 

Sergeant Red ran his men down the tracks of the ammo rail to alpha macrocannon. It would have been difficult for many to run over the metal ties, and avoid the middle rail that held a charge from the station's generators, but for the Tancrean Guard who were used to the treacherous footing of mountain slopes, for them it was easygoing. They reached the blast door to alpha macrocannon's gun pit. The Sergeant Red sent forward Designated Marksman Wallo to check the door. He had the best eyes, and could be quiet when he needed to be. Carefully, DM Wallo crawled up to the door, making a quick sign of the Aquilla, then signaled to Sergeant Red. He began manually cranking the door as slow and smooth as he could. The crank kept sticking and noisily freeing itself, the human flotsam of the navy that manned the station's guns must have neglected to perform the rites of lubrication upon the cranking mechanism. They tended to neglect quite a bit, personal hygiene, and regulations pertaining to sobriety being the most notable. The door slid open enough for DM Wallo to poke his head out into the gun pit at deck level. It didn't get shot off. Sergeant Red led his squad into the gun pit.

 

It was a charnel house. They had known the enemy had silenced the gun, and suspected they did it by killing the crew, but they were not prepared for the atrocity they found. Blood was everywhere, so were intestines and brains, scattered across the wreckage of the gun, which had been spiked with a krak grenade. Disturbingly, there were no skulls to be found, amongst the dozen or so crew. Sergeant Red had always disliked the Navy. They all did, the troopers of the guard. The men and women of the navy were all ne'er do wells who had been taken up by press gangs to continue their lives of petty crime in His Holy Fleet, and the mates all tried to act real hard like the worse sort of commissars. The officers were never seen. In spite of his poor view of the navy, he was appalled at the gruesome manner in which they were killed, and he felt a kinship with them when he saw the makeshift weapons laying about that they had used to defend themselves with. They had gone down fighting. Sgt Red would make them pay.

 

Each gun in the batteries of macrocannons were connected by a narrow corridor that could be used by runners to relay the commands of the battery's gunners mate. They were also connected by the ammo rail that Red had used to reach alpha macrocannon, but the enemy was going from gun to gun using the corridor, otherwise they would have made contact on the rail. It was time to move forward, Sergeant Red had paused in the gun pit only long enough for his squad to get a good glimpse at what the heretics were all about. They made a mad rush to beta macrocannon, and found a similar scene, but they could hear the revving of chainswords, the fire of boltguns, and the maddened screams of the enemy. Screams for more skulls for the skull throne. At his orders, his men took up defensive positions using the gun and an anmo cart as cover. He and Wallo went up to the edge of the corridor, Wallo once again going prone, this time with his long las readied with its bipod extended, and the blade of Sgt Red's chainsword held up in the high guard. Wallo eased forward on the deck, exposing as little of himself as possible out into the corridor, and immediately fired.

 

Wallo slotted another shot pack into the sniper rifle with the speed of a well drilled trooper, and sent another high powered blast down the corridor. Then repeated. After the third shot he called out, "Nine chaos marines coming this way!" Then he shot off his final round. As he went to reload a fresh shot pack, his shoulder blew apart with the fatal detonation of a mass reactive round that struck the stock of his rifle, then exploded. Sgt Red thumbed his chainsword, on and began reciting the Pledge of Hatred. His men joined in.

 

The first of the enemy rushed into the gun pit. Whether it was blind luck, or the Black Legionary's superhuman reflexes was difficult to tell, but the ambushing hack that Sgt Red took was blocked by an iron spear topped with a brass rune. The marine didn't pause, but continued rushing towards the waiting squad, firing off bolts from his pistol held in the other hand, and lashing out with the but spike of the spear. Sgt Red tried to step inside the swing, but the strike was too quick, and the spike pierced his thigh, coming out the other side. Just as quickly, the spike was withdrawn, taking a chunk of meat with it. More marines followed in. They, along with the first, met a hail of scatter shot. The tiny flechettes that would have shredded exposed flesh bounced off the black power armor harmlessly. Sgt Red shouted out the prearranged command, surprised by his weakened voice, "Fall back to B company's heavy weapons!" The two men who had drawn the face cards out of the deck before they started their suicide mission ran back to alpha macrocannon. The others, including himself, fought their hardest to cover their withdrawal. They died to a man. Sgt Red, managed to fight off the stronger, faster, and better armed chaos marines, but the initial wound had punctured the big artery in his thigh. He fell before the enemy could land another blow, his vision tunneling out from blood loss. Before he died, he heard the heretics reporting in that there was another company aboard the station. Captain Valedor's plan had worked. Sgt Red died with a proud smile on his face.

 

 

[Carrack]

The Severity of the Situation

 

Part 1.2

Aspis, Sub-Sector Seat

 

 

Lord Aspis, Sub-Sector Commander of the Aspis sub, slowly walked to his throne of state. A flock of cherub servitors assisted him as he took the solemn measured steps required for a formal audience. Some of the vat grown cherubs carried the train of his official robes of office, another carried the crown of laurels suspended above his head, others bore smoky incense censors, wailing bugles, large jewels, and his sword of command. His ceremonial guard, the Silver Shields, crisply saluted his passing. The audience of his court included cartel factors, landed nobility, various adepts of the Imperium, and a collection of brothers, sisters, cousins, and more distant relatives of his household. They all stood at attention, and would remain standing until he was situated on his throne.

 

The Lord Aspis suppressed a sigh, these tedious formal audiences were largely a waste of time. Largely, although the important members of his court had already been briefed on the situation, it was still necessary to show the wider court the seriousness of the circumstances. His sub-sector had been invaded. He might need his court's support, and couldn't afford to slight anyone by not including them from the start. Yet he had so much to do that he didn't wish to waste time with the pomp and ceremony. He paused before his throne, scanning the gathered crowd and making eye contact with as many as he could, before taking his seat. Normally, his chancellor, or more rarely, he himself would make the address, but for this audience, his vice-commander of military affairs, Lord Marshall Mallet, his favorite uncle, had the honor.

 

Lord Marshall Mallet cut an impressive figure. He was tall and lean, like most of the men in their family, and his dress uniform was covered in medals, gold embroidery, and braid. All lord marshals had enough decorations to cover their chests, but Lord Marshall Mallet had the scars to go with the medals. He had lost an eye and much of a cheek to an ork's slug on Morber, two fingers from his left hand, and his right arm below the elbow had been taken by a raiding traitor marine's chainsword at Tancrea, and these wounds were suffered as a flag officer. All had been replaced with military grade bionics, even though he could afford more natural looking replacements. He wore his scars and his medals with pride. With all eyes on him, he began the address.

 

The Lord Aspis watched the court as his vice commander told of the invasion. Their first expressions were predictable. The adepts were consulting their staffs for additional information when it was announced that the Black Maw Warband of the Black Legion were the invaders. The cartel factors were worried at the size of the heretic's fleet when Lord Marshall Mallet gave the report taken from the defenders of the Pillars of Fortitude, wincing at the names of some of the more notorious ships. The landed nobility were planning their protests, when the number of active and ready regiments that would be sent in to bolster the fortresses of Tancrea, The Pillars of Fortitude. But they were even more upset with the size of the foundings he was calling for was announced. All were silent and speechless when Lord Marshall Mallet spoke of his call for aid from the Angels of Immolation chapter of Astartes. That fact alone spoke of the severity of the situation. All knew that calling upon the Angels of Immolation was not a routine matter. Not only was Lord Aspis asking for outside help, but he risked having the entire defense of his sub-sector commandeered by the Astartes. He risked exposing any flaws in his domain being discovered by the most merciless Angels of Death. He was risking his throne for the security of the worlds it commanded. He kept his outward appearance calm and severe, yet inside his stomach churned with fear, his mind began racing with doubts. The severity of the situation had finally reached him as well.

 

[Carrack]

Horror

Part 2.4

Tancrea, The Pillars of Fortitude

 

Apologies for the length.

 

 

 

Lythane the Black charged forward along the ammo rail. He had to reach the magazine of the station's guns before the defenders decided to detonate it. In the long run it wouldn't matter, he might have to blow it himself even. Better to not have the guns fire at all, then to have them firing at the invasion force. But that mattered very little in the face of losing his own life in a spectacular explosion. So he raced to the magazine, alone, his terminator retinue blasting their way into operations as he ran. His other squad had secured the generatorum. The magazine was the only place left that could self destruct the ship. He had to get there. He had to rig the tons of shells to blow, then trap his demolitions against tampering, then trap the trap, and trap that, and trap the trap that trapped the trap nine times, and then lay nine wards and summon more horrors, more horrors, more horrors.

 

Lythane the Black had been forced to pull daemons into reality to help with his invasion. The strike had been bogged down by the hit and run and delaying tactics of the guardsmen defending the station. He hadn't counted on them being as competent as they were. Instead of risking losing his spear tip's momentum, he had to perform the riskiest of black sorceries, the summoning of daemons. He had managed to pull nine plus one horrors into the station, and send them off to fight the defenders, but it had cost him in a severe way. They were pulling at the frayed edges of his mind, already weakened and disoriented from the fell sorcery. What was worse, they were trying to call more horrors in on their own. He didn't know if he could control them. He didn't know if he could control himself. He broke his runaway thoughts with the reflexive firing of his combi-bolter into the enemy ahead. The familiar act of shooting down enemies brought him back to himself, at least temporarily.

 

The enemy was not the guardsmen of the station in this case, it was the naval gun crew. They were advancing to meet him protected by an ammo cart filled with macrocannon shells that weighed a ton a piece in front of them. The rail must have had enough of a charge left in it after the genetorum had cut its supply to get the cart moving, but the crew were having to push it along to keep it rolling. It was an effective means of cover. Lythane had taken out the two men pushing on the sides, but most were directly behind the cart. Worse, the full cart took up almost all the space on the rail's passageway. Lythane, monstrously large in his terminator plate, could not squeeze by the cart. He glanced at the passageway walls, they were designed to carry tons of high explosive shells, and were to well armored to force a breech. He would have to call on his Ki and cast another sorcery to overcome the rolling obstacle. He didn't know if his mind could take it. Perhaps if he had time to read from the black sharkskin bound book chained to his waste, the dread Liber Apocal, he could do it. That was it, read from the book, so many sorcerers had fallen to the cursed tome by making hasty readings, but they were not Lythane the Black. They did not command the powers that he commanded. He could read nine pages and blast his way into the magazine with warpfire, then he could call more horrors, more horrors, and more horrors.

 

The cart was getting closer, Lythane began fumbling with the clasp to the Liber Apocal, but then checked his hand. The Liber's curse was simple, any mortal who touched its pages would have his soul sucked into the book, and become imprisoned within for eternity. He had almost done it. His mental faltering had allowed the cart to get too close. It slammed into him. Lythane was an Astartes, and his superhuman strength was assisted by the servos of tactical dreadnought armor. He was easily as strong as ten normal men. After picking off two gunners, the gun crew had thirteen naval gunners. Men and women used to hoisting heavy charges, and slamming massive breeches shut, strong men and women fighting for their lives. They began to push him back. Lythane looked inward and found his focus. He drew out what remained of his Ki to funnel into his inward focus. Pink witch fires began to play across his helm and the top of the cart. It was enough for them to stop pushing momentarily in shock and horror. He needed more horrors, so many more horrors. The pink witch fire was not the actual sorcery however, merely a side effect of the warp power he was manipulating. The Sorcery went off and invested him with strength, funneling energy through his musculature, from his head to his toes. He caught the cart with his shoulder and arrested its movement. Then he heaved forward and the cart started rolling back at the crew. They tried to stop it. They gave everything they could to stop it, including the lives of two gunners who fell and got caught under the wheels. It wasn't enough. Lythane, with muscles fueled with arcane power, pushed the cart forward. The gunners tried, but quickly realized that they were no match for Lythane, and turned tail and fled back to the magazine. The blast doors were shut, and the defenders within turned a deaf ear to the gunners' pleas to open the doors. Lythane pushed the cart all the way to the doors, crushing the 11 remaining gunners into a composite pulp of flesh and bone before the blast doors. The cart didn't stop. The blast doors were designed to mitigate the damage of a magazine detonation, if every door was closed, and the magazine was down to 14% capacity or less, the ship would likely survive a magazine explosion. That's what the doors were rated for anyway. Currently, the magazine was nearly full. In spite of the strength of the doors facing inward, they were not nearly as strong facing the ammo rail. Lythane, imbued with sorcerous strength, rammed open the doors with the cart.

 

The doors opened up to a large chamber, stacked to its vaulted ceilings with shells. At the floor of the chamber, before the breeched doors, was a squad of infantry led by a bolt pistol toting man in a greatcoat and peaked cap, a commissar. They had 14 naval crewmen lined up against a wall. A 15th lay on the floor with his brains spilling out of an exploded skull. The ammo cart Lythane had shoved through the doors continued rolling up the rail, striking the back spring of the rail with too much force. The cart tipped, spilling its shells onto the floor. One shell however, bounced off the floor in a shower of sparks, then landed hard on the capacitor that connected to the middle power rail. For a moment, both the Imperials and Lythane ignored each other, as they stared at the ton of high explosives that had landed on a capacitor that could potentially detonate the shell, and the magazine with it. Curses were said both to the Emperor and the Dark Gods. The shell came to a rest, unexploded, the capacitor wasn't holding a charge.

 

Lythane was the first to react, shooting down the commissar with his combi-bolter, and laying into the infantry with his force staff. Still empowered by his sorcery, he slammed two of the shotgun toting guardsmen into the wall with enough force to break most of the bones in their bodies. The rest of the guardsmen rushed in with point blank fire from their shotguns. The disarmed naval crew high tailed it down another ammo rail. The loads of flechette fired from the guardsmen's shotguns merely bounced off of the thick plates of Lythane's terminator armor. The few tiny barbs that found perfect angles to strike less armored seems in his armor, were painful, but not debilitating. Lythane the Black swung his charged force staff about, striking with each swing, and killing with each strike. Before long, the squad of guardsmen had dwindled to four, all on the periphery of the melee. They ran off after the naval crew, avoiding the final swearing of Lythane's staff. Lythane began lumbered around the perimeter, manually securing the doors, as the warp fueled strength leaked out of his body, leaving a tremendous soreness in its wake. Now with his body weakened, and his mind exhausted, he was not capable of defending the magazine from counter attack. Not by himself, he needed daemonic assistance, he needed to summon some horrors from the warp to help defend him with the last bit of Ki he had remaining. He started inscribing a circle with the powered blade of his force staff, cutting a shallow groove in the armored deck. He looked inward to his Ki, massaging what little remained to get the most out while taking a few recharging breaths from his practiced lungs.

 

Just before he started the blackest of sorceries once more, one of the frayed ends of his mind, that had been pulled taut by a summoned horror, slackened, then another, and another after that. The horrors were being sent back to the warp. Soon, all were gone save one, one that was pulling on a specific ambition of his. Pulling on his desire to rule the Black Maw Warband for himself. Somehow, the horror spoke directly into Lythane's mind, telling him, "I like it here, I think I'll stay." Lythane wearily checked in with his retinue and his squad of Legionaries, he would have to deal with the interloper in his mind soon. With power limited to auxiliary generatorums, the guns limited to the few shells stored in each pit, and primary auspex, communications, and targeting down with his retinue's securing of operations, the station was effectively neutralized. He voxed into the Bitter Revenge his own progress, but the transmission would take hours. He would wait till all three spear tips had completed their missions before sending the faster telepathic message. He voxed to the other two commanders. Garaduk One-Eye, who had been assigned the much larger launch bay station, reported that not only had he neutralized 27C, but he had taken it completely, he was even managing to launch attacks at defense stations in 18 sector. How he got the pilots was a mystery. Garaduk One-Eye just might be a worthy ally. Lythane the Black received but the briefest response from his lord, "Hold ten minutes, I am facing unexpected resistance." Lythane resent a vox message to the Bitter Revenge and the officers of the Black Maw, detailing who was delaying the operation.

 

 

[Carrack]

The Martyrdom of Captain Valedor

Part 2.5

Tancrea, Pillars of Fortitude

 

 

 

Captain Valedor crouched low in the service tunnel, drawing his pistol for the first time since earning his second bar, outside of the practice range, of course. Even in the simplest of training exercises, he was too busy directing his men to get personally involved in the action, but now, he had so few troops left that his pistol was needed more than his commands. His men had done him proud, each and every one of them. His 2nd platoon had gone down, almost taking the enemy with them. Their LT especially, the young man had moved his platoon into the genetorum to hold it from the enemy's assault, on his orders. However, instead of merely holding the power plant, he had taken two minutes to address the naval crew that worked, ate, and slept there. Whatever he had said, had moved the disreputable men and women of His Holy Fleet so much, that they had followed him out to attack their invaders, armed with nothing but wrenches, makeshift knives, and the occasional zip gun. They had charged chaos terminators. If Captain Valedor had two minutes left in his short life to do whatever he wanted, it would be spent with his family, but if he had two minutes after that, it would have been spent hearing what the young man had said in the genetorum. The surviving men of 2nd platoon had said that they had taken two of the heretics down with them.

 

Captain Valedor duck walked down the service tunnel, leading a band of about 30, half his own men, and most of those walking wounded, and the other half a gang of naval ratings and the naval operations officer of the station. It was the first time he had seen his naval counterpart in person. The pompous fool had tried to assume authority, only to balk when Captain Valedor calmly, and easily, disarmed him and took his power saber for himself, he was sure he would make better use of it then the dress uniformed Lieutenant Commander with the pudgy physique. They reached their destination, gun pit omega, the last of the station's macrocannon, and found it unoccupied. Captain Valedor dropped to the gantry surrounding the pit, spraining an ankle and jarring his back with the fall. He would feel that in the morning, he thought, than laughed heartily at that absurdity. Much of the overwhelming stress dissipated with the laughter. He helped the rest of the men down more easily. His laughter was infectious.

 

They couldn't stop themselves if they wanted to, they were laughing in the face of death. They all kept it up as they took their positions. Captain Valedor's men divided into two teams, guarding the communication corridor to psi gun pit, and the ammo rail to the magazine. The naval crew took manual control of the gun, and began loading it while it was traversed to the extreme left and lowered to its lowest setting. The Lieutenant Commander, still chuckling with the rest of them, finally said, "Captain Valedor, we are ready to say hello to the traitors on 27B. You have the honor." Captain Valedor took off his helmet and commanded, "Fire!" A firing chain was pulled by the Lieutenant Commander himself, and the propellant was ignited. The gun rocked. It shook the floor of the pit and the bones and teeth of the brave men present. The gun boomed. It blasted out the eardrums of the same men. They would never hear again. Gunners helmets had not been available. The shell launched. The gun crew was all over omega, hoisting another shell, and cleaning the opened breech with an oversized version of what Captain Valedor used to clean his ears after climbing up and down the mountains of his home. Staring down the manual targeting reticle, the Lieutenant Commander jumped up and started mouthing something in excitement. Everyone stared until he regained his cool and made a few broad gestures with both arms. The crew started piling in more propellant into the breech. The officer glanced over at Captain Valedor and gave him a big grin and a thumbs up. Captain Valedor started laughing again, but nobody heard it. Nobody heard the enemy rushing down the ammo rail firing boltguns. Nobody heard the defenders standing their ground firing off the last of their ammunition in the face of their impending doom. Nobody heard, but Captain Valedor saw, and grabbed the other team to bolster the ammo rail. Their shotguns were scattering flechette into two chaos terminators. It might as well have been a light rain for all the damage it did. The enemy was upon them.

 

Captain Valedor did not even register the second terminator. The first was too terrible to allow him to comprehend more. The enemy charged like a beast, a third simian arm scraping its claws on the rails like a beast that could barely walk upright. Racks of spikes crested the terminator's power plant, each holding a skull or a helm. Spikes protruded from its great helm as well, holding aloft a brass rune that caused reality to shimmer, like it was at war with the rune's presence. The armor of the beast was thick, slab plates and huge pauldrons. But the worst was the axe. The axe was evil. It radiated evil that Captain Valedor could feel in his soul. Captain Valedor had made his peace as soon as they had been invaded. He knew he was going to die fighting, he was no coward. The sight of the axe weakened his resolve. Not enough though. He stepped forward, shooting his pistol off to no effect, and brought the power saber up to the high guard. He tried to slash down on the helmet of the beast, but the enemy was way too fast. Before he had swung more than a few inches, the cursed axe swept horizontally under his guard, taking his head from his shoulders. For a brief moment, as his head flew to the floor, his brain still had enough fluid and oxygen to function. In that gruesome moment, Captain Valedor saw omega gun fire again.

 

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

 

The two shells fired during the Martyrdom of Captain Valedor into defense station 27B, may have saved the Pillars of Fortitude from a fate worse than death. A massive Daemonic Incursion was on the cusps of invading reality. However, the two shells that struck the station, exploded into the pathfinders for the legion of Horrors that almost manifested, and in doing so, prevented the incursion. Unfortunately, the significance of Captain Valedor's heroic sacrifice was only known by one man, and he had betrayed the Imperium long ago. Thus was the final act of defiance before defense station 27A fell to the enemy.

 

 

[Carrack]

Author Notes

This story is intended to tell the tale of the Black Maw Warband's invasion of the Aspis sub-sector. It will be a collection of narrative stories, reports, and maybe even limericks. No, there will be no limericks. It will be grim, and it will be dark.

 

Here is how I'm going to organize my posts. I will post them in chronological order as much as possible, but for organizational purposes, will number them according to setting.

 

Part 1.0- will take place predominantly on Aspis, sub-sector seat. It will also include stories that effect the entire sub.

 

Part 2.0- will take place on Tancrea, the so called Pillars of Fortitude.

 

Part 3.0- will take part in the agri-world of Calimyr

 

Venicus 4.0-will take place in the Admech shipyards of Venicus IX, and it's system

 

Chellah System 5.0-mining system

 

More to follow. I will edit in additional settings.

 

 

I Love feedback of all kinds, and I have a thick skin, so don't be afraid to criticize.

 

Previous campaigns of the Black Maw can be found here

 

The Doom of Red Siliquastrum

http://www.bolterandchainsword.com/topic/307717-the-doom-of-red-siliquastrum/?do=findComment&comment=4062505

 

The Assault on Calebra Hive

http://www.bolterandchainsword.com/topic/312127-assault-on-calebra-hive/page-4?do=findComment&comment=4223736

 

The Wanderer

http://www.bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/?do=findComment&comment=4309605

[Carrack]

Fires of Calimyr

Part 3.0

Calimyr

 

 

Lavam, the Voice of the Black Maw, saw the fires burning on the world of Calimyr from the bridge of the Bitter Revenge. He smiled in spite of himself. They were his doing. So much of the invasion of the Aspis sub-sector was. His hordes, well technically the warband's hordes, but hordes of mortal warriors he had cultivated, trained, or corrupted, were dying in droves on the Pillars of Fortitude. They were keeping the fortress world from projecting power and cutting off the Black Maw's invasion route though. Their sacrifice was completely intensional, it was a strategic move to keep the Imperium's focus on the front gate of the sub-sector while the Black Maw conquered the worlds beyond. If Lavam found some pleasure in gaining the loyalty of fools, and seeing what limits he could push that loyalty to, well that was just taking pride in one's work, no flaw in his character.

 

 

The fools of Calimyr burning their own cities were led by a handful of psychically receptive magi he had been able to contact with prior to the invasion. He had enacted a ritual that had allowed him to enter the dreams of the receptive magi. It was a method that was useful because of the range involved, and the size of the audience, but had significant drawbacks as well. He was speaking through dreams, a medium wildly influenced by the subconscious of the receivers, and an entirely one way form of communication. He wasn't sure if he had been successful at all, so he was pleasantly surprised when the world erupted in revolution upon news of the Black Maw's arrival to the system. Of course he didn't let his surprise show, he played it off as the expected result of the power given to him by the gods. This was an ambitious undertaking by the Lord Carrack, it might end in victory, but it could also end in defeat, and either outcome might see a fracturing of the warband as Carrack's empire either grew too large to control on his own, or the warband might break apart following a terrible defeat. Either way, Lavam would be ready to seize what he could, and as he had so often discovered, the perception of power was almost as good as actual power.

 

The fleet drew closer to Calimyr. Fast moving frigates were ranging ahead, eliminating orbital defenses with long range torpedo attacks, and capturing the few small cargo haulers trapped in system. Some were carrying hastily founded regiments of the Imperial Guard, but most were carrying frozen produce. Fruits and vegetables, that was what Calimyr provided for the sub-sector. The system was strategically unimportant for the overall defense, hence the lack of significant orbital defenses and fleet presence. The system could easily be bypassed, and its contributions as an agri-world really only impacted long term health of its client worlds, they got their calories elsewhere, so it's loss would not be felt for some time to come. But to the Black Maw, it was an important target early in the invasion.

 

The Black Maw had no desire to actively occupy Calimyr, its production was equally unimportant to them as it was the Imperium, but they had designs on the world nevertheless. The world was a victim of its own unimportance. The value of its produce was not enough for its lords to invest in technology, so the labor intensive farming was done by hand, lots of hands. Unlike some agri-worlds given over to farming gene-forged super crops, or raising of hyper efficient livestock like grox, the world was teeming with unskilled serfs, barely surviving while scratching at the ground with stone plows. The lords were not much better off, considering the heavy tithes levied out by the Administratum, so they were forced to oppressively tax their subjects, and deny them the most basic of rights and services, often at the barrel of a gun. The end result of Calimyr's economy was a large population chaffing under its rule. A population ripe for Lavam to exploit. They would fill the holds of troop ships emptied out at the Pillars of Fortitude, give them the meanest of equipment and training, then use them to secure their next conquest. Full troop ships were important, for in war, their was always need for meat for the grinder.

 

The lances of Bitter Revenge began firing into Calimyr. They were striking cathedrals, Arbites precinct fortresses, and the palace of the Lord Governor. Lord Carrack also wanted to make an example out of the doomed world. He needed a demonstration of power, not just for the slaves of the Corpse God, but for his own warband as well. Both his Equerry, Lythane the Black, and Captain Garaduk One Eye had outperformed the Lord of the Black Maw in the opening gambit of the invasion. Rumors were running rampant, that he had lost control and ignored his objectives to slaughter the crew of the station he had struck. No one had said as much, but Lavam was sure that some would question his fitness for command. Lavam himself never repeated such rumors. Not personally, anyway.

 

The fleet entered high orbit, and began sending down lighters with small squads of thinbloods to gather up the rebels. Lavam made his way to the launch bay. He would be seen leading this victory from the ground. Even the respect of the thinbloods might be important in the future.

 

 

[Carrack]

Fits of Revenge

 

Part 3.1

Calimyr, agri-world

 

 

 

Jovver pulled his mask from his face in the throws of another coughing fit. This one was bad, there was blood on his hands and the inside of his mask. He discretely cleaned it off with a handful of thatch he pulled from the roof. His followers glanced at each other in concern. He had to stop that. Jovver had to prove he was fit to lead, or he would never have his revenge. He was to weak to do it on his own. So he tossed the rebreather mask to young Makisig and loudly proclaimed that he no longer needed it. He then set fire to the back of the hut and moved to the front door.

 

Jovver did need the mask though, he needed it badly. His lungs were wracked with consumption, and the smoke from the fires and the riot gas being used by the overseers was killing him. Well killing him faster than he was dying from the consumption. It was the overseers fault. As a young man they had accused him of trying to organize the serfs, threatening a work stoppage. In fact, he was only courting a pretty girl one of them had their eyes on, so they got him out of the way with an accusation. He had been sent to the ice mines. The brutal work of mining the chemicals used to artificially freeze the vegetables and fruits most serfs spent their lives picking. He had survived the 3 year sentence, but not intact. Three fingers, two toes, the tip of his nose, and an ear had been taken by frostbite in the icy mines. A beating had shattered his teeth, making eating the softest of foods an exercise in agony, but worse of all, the crammed packed tents he had lived in had left him with the red lung, tuberculosis, consumption. He had returned home after his sentence saddled with the undeserved reputation as an organizer. He had to be extra careful and extra subservient around the same overseers that had sent him to the mines. But with word of the coming revolution being whispered in the fields, and secret forest meetings, the downtrodden serfs, who had reached a point where they couldn't take any more, looked to Jovver to lead them. Jovver cared nothing for revolution, nothing for his followers, but he would use both to get his revenge on the overseers before he coughed his lungs out.

 

The firing of the hut forced the revolutionaries out of their temporary refuge. Las fire immediately shot down in their direction from the keep. They ran passed the next hut, to the first wood building before the keep. Rey spouted out a gout of fire from the flamer to into a window covered by strings of wooden beads. The flames poured into the building, igniting the piles of fire wood beside the crude forge, forcing the smith and his pair of apprentices out the front door. The smith lived too close to the keep, he enjoyed the good graces of the overseers, he had been the one to put the chains on Jovver before he was sent to the mines. Jovver didn't hesitate when he saw the smith, he pulled the trigger on the blocky stub gun given to him by the cultists, and a fat round blasted out of the long barrel with a cloud of smoke and fire. The round tumbled through the air to strike the burly smith just beneath the eye. The soft lead stub, with its hollow center flattened out on impact before pushing through the skull of the smith. Jovver shouted in joy at his first taste of vengeance. Then he fell to his knees coughing. It was worse than his last fit.

 

Fortunately, one of his followers took a winging shot in the shoulder from the las fire coming from the keep and spun to her back besides Jovver. The rest of the followers assumed he was rendering aid. He would have if he thought she could get back into the fight, instead, he leaned over her coughing up blood, and cuffed her with the hilt of his machete, knocking her out. He couldn't have her cries distract his followers from his revenge. He managed to pick himself up and get inside the smithy before the overseers shot him down, leaving the unconscious follower in the street.

 

His followers were wavering inside the smithy, doubt written clearly across their faces. Besides Regta lying in the street, Mortel and Jevin had been shot by the overseers and bludgeoned by the apprentices respectively. Including himself, they still counted 17, but their youthful ideals of liberation were running into the reality of a fight against better armed overseers. A fight to the death. They crouched low in the smithy, a building with large open windows to let the heat from the forge out, but also the las fire in. He needed to rally them before they rushed the gate to the keep, but he had no idea what to say. The young men and women had all assumed he was an experienced rebel, based on his reputation, but in truth, he had never led anybody before. He paused a moment trying to come up with something, and his followers fell silent, clearly expecting a rousing speech. Instead, Jovver quietly spoke, "In the mines, there was no room for bravery. Bravery gets you beaten." He looked up and smiled, showing his teeth, then continued, "In the minds there is no room for friendship. Friendship has you running down into the collapsed cave, digging out your buried friend with your barehands." He brushed his missing fingered hands through his unkept hair. He coughed a bit and said, "In the mines, there is no room for faith. Faith has you holding the body of the first person to ever be truly kind to you, and praying that their sickness goes away. Praying your heart out to the Emperor to save him. But instead, he punishes your audacity to be of such low station, and ask Him for help. His help is reserved for the undeserving overseers. But the new gods they talk about in the forest, they don't care about your station. Not the one you were born into. They care about your strength to rise higher. They care about your courage, your power." Jovver stood up readying his weapons, the Emperor will give you nothing, because that what he decided you deserve. The gods of the forest, they will give you nothing to, if that is what you really deserve. We deserve more. We will take more!"

 

His speech was part lies about his experience in the mines, in truth he was never brave, a friend, or prayed, he kept his head down and struggled through his sentence, and the rest of the speech was repetition of what he had heard in a forest meeting with the cultists. He had gotten in out without coughing though, or being shot at from the wall of the keep. The lack of coughing was a mystery, but the lack of shooting wasn't. The overseers had stopped firing long enough to change the massive barrel that was blowing out riot gas. None was getting into the smithy with the wind anyway. In its place they put a familiar green barrel with a black skull painted on the side, and moved the hose to aim down at the base of the wall by the smithy. The barrels were known to all. They contained the most lethal pesticide used in the fields. The green pesticide that left the fields unworkable for several days, until the serfs went back with crude rebreather masks and picked up all the dead animals killed by the poison. Most of Jovver's followers had the same masks, but not all, and not Jovver. He began to cough as the poison spread into the smithy, it sounded horrible and wet, and was complete with phlegm and blood, but strangely, it wasn't immobilizing him like it had always done before. He ran to the back door of the smithy. Those with masks followed. Those without began to claw at their eyes and throats. Jovver and his followers, now 12, never looked back. His followers were out to prove themselves, Jovver still just wanted revenge.

 

 

They were before the wall. Rey sprayed the battlements of the keep with flames, torching two overseers who were firing las guns at them. Jovver and the rest shot their stub guns into the pair of overseers working the pesticide hose. Jovver was sure he had gotten another headshot in, but the two were so shot up, it was hard to be certain. Without the two overseers controlling the hose, it slashed around like a ba snake with its head cut off, before the nozzle found its way down the battlements' ladder to spray the deadly poison into the keep. The other overseers stopped shooting into Jevvor and his followers, and rushed to disconnect the barrel of pesticide, but had to expose themselves to the stub gun and flamer fire to get to the device placed atop the parapet. Jovver laughed in joy as each overseer was shot or burnt down. His laughter of course gave him another fit, and the fit hurt his chest and throat with wracking pain, but he didn't care. He was having his long awaited revenge. It must have been righteous revenge too, for in spite of the pain, he still fired his stub gun as accurately as before, he still directed Rey when to fire the flamer, and spoke clear enough to be understood.

 

 

The gas started to do its work on those inside, they must have saved all their masks for those on the battlements. The gate flung open from the inside. Coughing, retching, overseers spilt out of the keep and fell on the dirt street, gasping for air in between coughs, and clawing at bleeding eyes. Jovver let each one lay there until they started to recover. Then he took his revenge with hacking cuts of his machete, taking fingers, toes, noses, and ears, then smashing in teeth. None survived what he had in the mines. Meanwhile, his followers stared in morbid fascination, not quite sure how they should feel after they had won. They stood there and a few began to cough.

 

 

Time for a little grim, dark, future.

[Carrack]

Words

Part 3.2

Calimyr orbit

 

 

Gon sat with his back to the door of the rear compartment, ensuring no one opened it. There was sickness back there, he could hear the hacking, wet coughing through the door. A sick man could not work the fields, and Gon assumed could not fight for the revolution either. A sick man had to rely on the charity of others, and looking around, these were not charitable men and women. The leader of the revolution, The Voice, and his guard especially so. They were huge men garbed in black armor that Gon doubted he could move in, if he was somehow able to put on. The armor spoke of wealth, The Voice's more than those of the others, but they all had gold and bronze embellishments masterfully crafted on their armor. Their armor spoke of cruelty. Spikes protruded from elbows and knees, skulls hung from chains, and vile symbols were etched into the plates. The armor spoke of wealth and cruelty, the very reasons Gon and the others in the lighter's hold had rebelled against their overseers and lords. Gon feared he had merely traded in one oppressor for another.

 

The Voice took off his helmet. It was disturbing, to say the least. The flesh of his face and bald head were the pallid flesh of a disinterred corpse, complete with lips peeled back from yellow teeth. This was the orchestrator of the revolution? This was The Voice? Gon shuddered, but there was no turning back, there was no way he could undo the fires, the bloodshed, and the destruction of the Imperium on Calimyr. Maybe wherever they were going would be different. Maybe there would be a true liberation, there had been too much unleashed rage on Calimyr. The Voice stood up moments before his guard leapt to their feet and began walking the aisles, shouting for the revolutionaries to grovel on the deck. Some weren't fast enough, one taking a clubbing blow that left one shoulder painfully lower than his other. Another bled his life out onto the deck after getting punched in the heart by a spiked gauntlet the size of a head of cabbage. Gon pressed his head to the floor unimpressed. He had seen the overseers set examples like these all his life. Gon knew that they couldn't be avoided really, other than to be as far away from the overseers as possible, like he was now at the back of the compartment.

 

The Voice spoke. The words he said had meaning, but the power of his voice was all that Gon could comprehend at first. The words were said in a deep and loud voice, one that could carry across a battlefield, but their was more to it than that. The words had power. Gon didn't just hear them with his ears, he heard them with his very soul. All previous thoughts or notions going through Gon's mind fled, there was nothing but the words. The Voice spoke truth, even though lying lips. All the things the magi who called the revolution said in clandestine meetings in the wilderness, or whispered in the night inside dark sheds, were repeated. He spoke the truth of the lies of the Imperium, but he spoke the truth with lies of his own gods as well. Gon's soul knew. He knew, in spite of what The Voice said, that the gods would exploit him more completely than any Imperial overseer, but he knew they were real. He knew he could use them just as they used him. He knew with their blessings, he could create a better way, a way free from oppression, not on Calimyr, what was done was done, but wherever they were going to take the revolution to next. What a fool Gon was.

 

[Carrack]

The Descent and Climb of Ramone

Part 2.6

Pillars of Fortitude

 

 

 

Ramone checked the men and women of his squad. He scurried down the line of prone fighters, stopping at each one. First he checked their weapons, seeing if any had fouled the barrels of their autoguns during their slipping and sliding voyage down the mountain. Then he checked their feet, making each one remove their boots and socks, and if necessary, apply a lubricant to any chaffed areas, and taping any blisters before they grew larger. Uncared for feet would take a fighter out just as readily as an Imperial las blast. Checking their feet brought painful memories of his own feet, now partially augmetic, they had almost been completely lost to frostbite because of his carelessness. That carelessness had led to the gods abandoning him, leaving him wounded and devoid of followers. It had taken a monumental effort to win himself a new squad, and those were but conscripted fruit pickers from his home world of Fewood, not fellow veterans hardened in the fires of Calebra Hive. He shrugged the memories off and checked their weathering. Most had issued furs, smelly and lice ridden, but some like himself, had procured down filled coats, along with wool hats, scarves, and mittens. One, Anna, a former lady's handmaiden back on Fewood, had a thermal insulated body glove, underneath a fine black cloak. Ramone had almost had to duel a rival squad leader over the expensive gear, and then had been laughed at for not claiming it himself. Ramone felt his gear was sufficient, and didn't claim her fancy gear, instead, he had earned Anna's complete loyalty by merely drawing his saber, he considered it a good move. As he checked the last in the line, his #2 auto cannon's loader, he looked over towards third squad. Their leader, Carlo, the man he had almost dueled, was laying on the ground with the rest of his squad, resting. Some of Carlo's fighters, the ones closer to Ramone's second squad, had been watching Ramone check his squad, and occasionally glancing back at their idle leader.

 

A half day ago, the platoon had disembarked from an orbital lighter on defense station 27C, one of the so called Pillars of Fortitude, a mountain so massive it peaked out into the void. They quickly boarded vacuum sealed line cars that descended them down the mountain and into the atmosphere of Tancrea. The line cars, each capable of transporting one of their 20 fighter squads, if they crammed them full, stopped at the end of the High Road 27. This road was an artery that facilitated troop movements into the sector. The Imperials had cut the end of the road that led to 27C, the largest of the three defense stations in sector 27. They had blown the bridge between the next mountain and the Pillar. Ramone and the other squads of his platoon were to climb over to the opposite bridgehead, and secure it as the Black Maw spread its control out from the point of the initial invasion.

 

The climb down the rest of the pillar had taken less than 10 hours. The slope was mostly safe, and gravity did most of the work. There were times when they slid down the snowy slopes on their packs. Ramone had volunteered his squad to take point, he was the only man in the platoon with any experience in these types of climates, and his cautious approach had gotten the platoon down the mountain safely. The climb up would not be so easy.

 

Ramone's hetman, the first squad leader Victor, the other veteran of Calebra Hive in the platoon, gave the signal to move up. Ramone waited for Carlo to take his fighters up the mountain a ways before moving his own squad up. Carlo looked back at Ramone and told him he was number 1 with a single fingered hand gesture, perceiving Ramone's delay as cowardice. Ramone ignored him, the man had drawn his saber, only to balk when Ramone had drawn his own, Ramone had no concern for the man. Victor didn't either, and took his first squad in behind Carlo, screening himself with Carlo's men.

 

The climb was tough for sure, but Ramone's men had trained for it, they had walked longer and longer routes carrying heavier and heavier loads aboard the slaver ship Thrall's Lament in route to the invasion. The few times they had to scale short cliffs, were easily traversed by the na fruit pickers of Fewood who were used to climbing the trees to retrieve the expensive fruit. Carlo's squad on the other hand, had lagged behind Ramone's, and would have to catch up at their next rest. Ramone saw the frustration on Victor's face at the slowing of their pace, with each delay, Carlo solidified his position as the most expendable.

 

 

High Road 27

Part 2.7

Pillars of Fortitude

 

 

They continued their climb until their objective was in sight. It was hard work, and slow going. Their objective was High Road 27, the second alternate route for the Imperials to sector 27, behind Low Road 27, and the underground rail. The platoon paused as they crested an angle in the slope of the mountain that had so far shielded them from sight of the High Road. They had a little more than 400 meters of slightly less steep mountain to reach the road, but it was a bad 400 meters. They were above the tree line, and the land had been leveled. It was 400 meters uphill, with no cover whatsoever. The enemy was already on the road.

 

The enemy had a string of three, 6-wheeled cargo trucks along the center of the road, and a line of infantry stretched out against the near curb. By Ramone's count, they had 35 men, well spaced apart, about half that of Victor's platoon. Both forces had good cover in their current positions, the Imperials with the high curb, and the Black Maw fighters at the edge of the slope. The Imperials shot off a few bursts from their heavy bolters, informing the Black Maw that crossing the distance would be costly. Ramone told his two autocannon teams to give the Imperials the same message. Ramone looked over to Victor, who was talking on the vox, his counterpart was no doubt doing the same. Ramone went to his squad, telling everyone to dig in, artillery would settle this duel, and at 400 meters distance, wounds were as likely to be self inflicted as not. He and his fighters scrambled to scrape out little indentions in the rocky mountainside with small picks and entrenching tools. Up above them, the Imperials pulled back half of their men from the curb to take cover beneath the trucks. That was a mistake Ramone thought.

 

The Imperials were the first ones to start the artillery duel. They were bringing a fencing foil to the fight. Their attack was announced with the whistling approach of mortar rounds. The first three shots went long, striking much further down the mountainside than the Black Maw platoon. The next ones cut the distance in half. The third barrage struck their positions, but barely. Only one fighter from Hetman Victor's squad fell, not from the explosion or shrapnel, but from a 10 pound jagged rock that had launched when the round impacted the mountain behind his position and caved his unprotected skull. The Black Maw answered the foil of the Imperials with a broadsword strike from an earthshaker round fired from the mountain that held defense station 27C. The round went low and wide, not killing anyone, but landing a lot closer to Carlo's squad then the enemy.

 

Ramone watched Carlo panic, he jumped up with his squad and tried to run back down the mountain, only for Hetman Victor to turn his squad's guns on the cowards. Carlo turned to go back to his position, but the Imperial mortars hit his fighters as they were turning about. Five of his fighters were cut to ribbons by shrapnel. Ramone shouted, "Get down you fool!" But Carlo remained standing. The earthshaker fired a second round that hit the mountain wide of Carlo, but much further up and closer to the Imperials. Carlo was rattled. Ramone had seen it before. Some men couldn't think when in combat, this was not necessarily bad, if they instead fell back on their training and did what was drilled into them. Carlo just panicked. He couldn't flee, he was too cowardly to take cover and see how the battle of the big guns played out, so instead he charged. For all of Carlo's faults, Ramone was surprised that his fighters followed him up the mountain. Ramone saw his chance, and let Carlo get a couple dozen meters up, then charged after him. His squad also followed, but Ramone never doubted they would.

 

The imperials started firing into Carlo's squad, but only half of them were on line, and only one heavy bolter. Still they were quickly whittling down Carlo's fighters. They had only made it 100 meters and Carlo was at half strength. He started looking over his shoulder, back down the mountain, but Ramone was right there behind him. For effect, Ramone shook his saber. Carlo continued up the mountain, his men shooting from the hip as they went, but not hitting the Imperials behind the curb, not that Ramone could see at least. The third earthshaker round hit the road a few meters from the Imperials lead truck. With the smoke and dust of the explosion, Ramone couldn't tell if it hit anyone. The Imperials must have been rattled at the least though, for their fire grew sporadic and wild, up until this point, their shooting had been uncannily accurate. The cover from the dust cloud, and the brief period of ineffective fire from the Imperials, allowed Carlo to close within 70 meters of the road, and Ramone right behind him.

 

The dust blew away with a gust of wind, the Imperials opened up at close range. The heavy bolter fired a long burst, hitting one of Carlo's fighters and tracking through the snowy mountainside to hit another. Accurate las fire brought down a few more, and a plasma weapon incinerated another. Worse, grenades started bouncing down the slope, detonating early, but raining debris and fragments down on Carlo and Ramone's fighters. Ramone fought the urge to fall back, they had only a little ways to go, but the last stretch would be the most trying. Ramone was determined to prove himself worthy of the gods blessings and cried out, "Death to the False Emperor!" He charged.

 

While Ramone charged, Carlo fled, but he screened Ramone's squad for long enough to take the next burst from the heavy bolter. It was enough protection for Ramone to keep his momentum going and make the final uphill charge. His men hit the road gasping for breath, but with enough adrenaline fueled rage to quickly lay into the Imperials with rifle buts and knives. The Imperials in contrast, were calm, performing well drilled parry and smash routines with their las guns. It was a contrast in abilities and temperaments. Ramone's fighters, fruit pickers from Fewood with the most rudimentary training, but fueled by the thrill of surviving a harrowing charge, against well trained professionals, stern in the face of death, fighting for their home world. Ramone saw the battle teetering in the balance, the barrage had done more significant damage to the Imperials then he had thought, he had the numbers, but the guardsmen were better fighters. He would have to do something himself or lose the battle. He hoped the gods hadn't completely forgotten about him since he had lost their favor on Odeanta. There was only one way to find out. He disengaged from the plasma gunner and shifted behind one of his fighters, then ran towards the young man with the silver bar on his helmet and a revving chainsword. The guardsman recognized his opposite and what was at stake, and created space for a duel.

 

The guardsmen's hetman looked on Ramone with contempt. He was bigger than Ramone, better armed and armored too, but he had also seen how poorly the Fewoodians fought. He was humoring Ramone, and collecting another notch for his sword belt. He held his chainsword up high over his head, ready to strike down with the weight of the blade adding power to the strike. Ramone eased forward, casting his eyes about like he was looking for a way out. The Imperial sneered in contempt and strode purposely towards Ramone. Ramone cooly shot him in the groin with his autopistol, just under the protection of his flak vest, then, as the Imperial hetman fell to the ground, doubling over, he slashed down with his saber onto the back of the hetman's neck. Ramone's men howled as they tore into the Imperials with new vigor. Ramone felt a spark in his soul that he hadn't felt in sometime. He felt the gods' favor once again.

 

[EesiOh]

COME ON RAMOOONE COME ON! COME ON RAMOOONE COME ON!

[Carrack]

COME ON RAMOOONE COME ON! COME ON RAMOOONE COME ON!

Ha ha, I like the character as well, I still might kill him off though, maybe :) But to drag out the suspense of the Battle for High Road 27, I'll go to another world in the Aspis sub-sector, and revisit some old friends there.

 

The Scream of the Beast

Part 4.0

Venicus System

Home to the Shipyards of Venicus IX

 

 

 

 

Scalpella sent an electric jolt down Commodore Mallori's spine as the engines exceeded their optimal temperature. She told her bridge to back off, and a quartet of junior officers adjusted dials and issued commands, in the aft of the Scalpella, the domain of the engine masters, cruel taskmasters relaxed their whips, a little. The engines cooled to a sustainable level, but the push had thrusted Scalpella out in front of her squadron, and through the burning wreckage of another fuel hauler. The jolt down Mallori's spine was disconcerting though, not the pain, that was tolerable, but the reminder of her physical body. For decades Commodore Mallori had been submerged to the neck in a neural-responsive gel, only her perfectly flesh-sculpted face and neck were visible above the wrought iron latticed tub of her xenotech throne. She had almost forgotten physical sensation with the overwhelming connection to her Scalpella's machine spirit. She didn't miss it. The jolt seemed like a crude way for her ship to communicate her displeasure at the push of the engines, as opposed to the elegant flashes of color sent directly to her mind that Scalpella normally used to display the strain of overworked engines. A momentary pause to consider the sensation was all she allowed herself at the moment, the raid demanded her full concentration, she redirected her focus to the cold void. She did wiggle her toes a bit, unsure why she did so, but pleased with the feeling nonetheless.

 

The raid was a risky endeavor, but a potentially rewarding one. Much of the fleet of the Black Maw was compromised of a collection of pirate factions that, like Mallori's squadron, called port in Black Maw facilities and enjoyed the protection and prestige of Black Maw colors, and to a lesser extent, the same privileges from the Black Legion at large. In return they gave tribute to Lord Carrack out of a portion of their booty, and answered his call when the warband demanded. In previous campaigns, Lord Carrack had united the fleet to strike the heart of the enemy's defenses, than released his vassal raiders to pick over the remains of his conquest. However, the invasion of the Aspis sub-sector was different, he had let loose most of the raiders to strike all over the system at the onset, before a unified defense was mounted. This masked the target of his next assault by striking everywhere at once. Commodore Mallori had been awarded the right to attack on one of the most vital of targets. She was raiding the shipyards of Venicus IX.

 

The system was abuzz with activity. Venicus IX was a refit and resupply station for Battlefleet Obscuras, and was scrambling to get ships out for the defense of the sub-sector. Commodore Mallori had already destroyed a trio of fuel haulers on the systems edge after all but one of her squadron had translated from the warp. She couldn't wait on the straggler. The system was not an easy prey however, already wings of bombers were heading her way, protected by void fighters in four groups, to each flank and above and below Mallori's squadron. Headed directly her way was an overwhelming volley of ship killer torpedoes. The fast Infidel Raiders of her squadron, and her own Mako class destroyer, were fast enough to match the speed of the voidcraft and ordinance headed her way, but not fast enough to avoid the wide intercept net launched by the shipyards. She committed her squadron towards the shipyards enough to be an immediate threat and to force the wings of voidcraft to likewise commit, then abruptly turned, circling Venicus IX, and drawing the pursuing torpedoes and voidcraft along with her. She timed the turn perfectly to draw out the counter attack, although she couldn't move closer to the shipyards, the volley and bomber wings would take at least 96 minutes to intercept her, unless she disengaged and turned out-system.

 

There was more to Commodore Mallori's crucial turn then just forcing the defenders to follow her squadron, there were feints within the feint. Her turn had brought her on line to strafe the ammonia recovery shrines of Venicus X. The coolants captured by the small outposts were not exceptionally vital to the shipyards, but they were administered by highly skilled techpriests who were valued by the forge masters of the shipyards. The shipyards took action to prevent this strafing run by launching another volley of torpedoes out on a wide arc to head her off. Mallori cursed her fortune, she had hoped they would send out one of their two remaining bomber wings to stop the threat of her run. Instead she commanded her squadron to disperse as they turned out-system, each raider heading off to pick off more of the scattered fuel haulers, and remain as a nuisance until the shipyards were either relieved or were able to release the Mars cruiser and her Dauntless light cruiser wing mates from their maintenance. The shipyards decided not to tolerate this potential harassment, and launched both of their remaining wings to drive off Mallori's raiders. She let them pursue and prayed.

 

Timing of warp jumps, especially this close to the Eye of Terror was a near impossibility for conventionally navigated vessels. Even the less conventionally navigated ships, like Mallori's squadron had difficulty with it, she had yet to see her sixth raider enter reality in the system. But for this raid, every expense had been made to time the jump with precision. The witches that guided her ship through the Sea of Souls had flooded their navigation deck with the blood of expensive sacrifices. She had purchased talismans and xenos aether-sextants that beggared her treasury. Lord Carrack had promptly reimbursed her. Still she prayed. Not to the Weaver of Fates as so many captains did when asking for timing on a warp voyage, but to the Skull King, to the Blood God. Her prayers were answered.

 

A flash of crimson light and a blast of energy lit the system in the opposite direction Commodore Mallori had turned. The energy covered all bandwidths used for vox communication. It sounded like the howl of a great beast. A hunting predator stirring fear in a herd at night. Out of this flash materialized a terror too often forgotten by the Imperium that had given it form at its inception. Burning into reality amidst the feral scream was the Blood Eye, an Adeptus Astartes Strike Cruiser whose keel had been laid at Holy Mars, but had earned her status of betrayer above the burning worlds of Istavaan. A beast it was, only worse, for a beast only killed what it could eat, while the Blood Eye would kill until it was slain itself. In 10,000 years this hadn't happened, despite numerous attempts by the Imperium she had helped forge. The Blood Eye turned towards the shipyards, hardly defenseless, but empty of its bombers and interceptors.

 

 

Edit: Roman Numerals are confusing me.

[Carrack]

Venicus Shipyards

 

Part 4.1

Venicus Shipyards

 

 

The beast charged the shipyards, echoing the scream that had announced its presence once again in the realms of man. The shipyards was not a fat, toothless merchantmen, even with its wings of bombers and fighters deployed. The shipyards were more like a turtle, secure behind a thick shell, and with snapping jaws that would wound any predator that got to close. But even a turtle could become prey to the true monsters of the seas. The Blood Eye was one such monster. She had the reach to strike the shipyards outside of its guns and lances, and was closing fast, fast as any frigate, but with the power of a capital ship.

 

The Shipyards of Venicus IX did what they could do in the face of the striking predator. They recalled their wings to head towards the greater threat. They wouldn't get there in time to save the shipyards from the Blood Eye's great lances, but they would not let the Arch-Enemy keep striking until all was destroyed. The shipyards sent out another volley of torpedoes, forcing the Blood Eye to launch its Swiftdeath fighters, but other than than that, the torpedoes would have no effect on the Blood Eye.

 

The Blood Eye came to a halt outside the shipyards' formidable guns and lances, but within range of its own prow lances. The lances had replaced the traditional bombardment cannon of a strike cruiser millennia ago. The lances were crafted from the twisted forge worlds of the Eye of Terror, and much of the energy they fired was not of worldly origin. Out of the "pupil" of the great red Eye of Horus that covered her prow, the Blood Eye fired her lances into the shipyards.

 

The first strikes were pinpoint attacks, not on the vital facilities of the shipyards, or the naval warships in its bays, but at a number of minor defenses. The Blood Eye shot out the defensive turrets of the shipyards that faced her. Then the real strikes happened. Not lance strikes, but Dreadclaws filled with maddened slayers, long gone berzerk under the influence of the ship they sailed.

 

The shipyards had defenders, a skitarii legion armed with the best weaponry of the Mechanics, but most of the workers were techpriests and their servitor teams, not in the least capable of defending themselves against Astartes. The Blood Eye's marines washed the decks and walls of the shipyards with their blood, only returning to their Dreadclaws when the Skitarii were able to strike back. Ammunition magazines were left with melta bombs in their midsts, fuel reserves were set ablaze, and techpriests, highly trained to repair and refit warships of His Holy Fleet, were slaughtered by the hundreds. Meanwhile, the Blood Eye turned her lances on the warships caught in the bays, stuck with decks exposed for repairs, umbilicals pumping in fuels and other liquids and gasses. Meanwhile Commodore Mallori's squadron blasted apart targets of opportunity unimpeded by the defenses of the shipyards. Finally, as the wings of bombers drew near, the Blood Eye relented its assault, and withdrew to the system's edge, to return to the hells from which it came from.

 

[Carrack]

Sealing the Covenant

 

Part 2.8

Pillars of Fortitude, High Road 27

 

 

With the Imperial hetman dead, Ramone was able to roll up the disciplined line of guardsmen, slashing at their hamstrings and necks as he raced behind them. The last handful turned and ran down the opposite side of the mountain from which Ramone had climbed, one of them missing his step to tumble head over heels. Ramone's surviving fighters went over to the far side of the road to fire into the backs of the retreating enemy, and saw the three mortar teams on a shelf 100 meters down the reverse slope. They opened up with their autoguns onto the exposed mortar teams, but the Imperials' last barrage was already in the air. Two of the three went long, striking the mountainside, but the third was a direct hit. They had fired on their infantry's recently vacated position to blow the legs off of two of Ramone's fighters. The mortar men didn't get another shot off, the fire from the road was wild, but had enough of it to wipe out the battery.

 

Huffing and trying to catch his breath, Ramone took accountability of his squad. Of his original 19 fighters, 9 were uninjured. Another two could be treated and continue fighting, with three more requiring hospitalization, four were dead, and another was soon to join the four. Ramone directed the treatment as best he could and looked back down the mountain. His own hetman, Victor, was bringing his squad up the mountain. The artillery duel had cut his squad down to 12, and he had picked up two survivors from Carlo's squad, Carlo not being one of them.

 

Ramone knew an important decision was coming, how to reorganize the platoon. Hetman Victor could just go with two smaller squads, or consolidate the survivors into his own squad. There was no way the hetman would allow two squads though, with Ramone having earned the glory of taking High Road 27, and when he consolidated, Ramone would lose his squad leader position. He didn't want to have to earn himself a new squad all over again, but didn't see much alternative. Ramone cursed, this hard fought victory would set him back rather than propel him forward. Still cursing, he reached for his canteen. It was empty. More curses followed as he fumbled through his pack for a fresh canteen when he pulled out the pink one. Ramone had three canteens in his pack, two were gray and filled with water, the third was pink, and filled with a concentrated tea made from a hallucinogenic moss that grew on Fewood. He had filled it when he had returned home to gather fighters for the invasion. It was the same drug he had used to bind his fighters to the Dark Prince back on Calebra Hive. He took a big swig of the tea, and passed it to his fighters as he made the preparations.

 

Ramone had tried to make it on his own. His fall from the favor of Slannesh on Oneanta had left him a wounded man, physically and mentally. For a while he had worked as a servant for one of the Legionnaires, sweeping, cleaning latrines, and all sorts of menial labor, as he hobbled along on his frostbite ravaged foot and drudged through withdrawal from obscura. His low status, possibly the lowest in the warband, had given him but one advantage, the freedom to move around unseen by his betters. He had used that time wisely. He would watch the legionnaires at practice, waiting in the wings with a mop bucket. He watched them on the ranges, and at the practice arenas, he knew he would never match the legionnaires at either, but he picked up a move here and a technique there. What he really learned from, was how their Champions led there squads, and simple drills performed on the tactica deck. It wasn't enough though, he used his social invisibility to steal books, at first the rare primers to increase his literacy beyond the rudimentary level he had learned in the temples of the gods, but later he stole the plentiful treatises on tactics and leadership. When he had learned enough, and healed enough, he put his knew skills to the test, challenging the mortal warriors for a right to fight at their side, then working hard to show his potential as a leader, and be given a squad of conscripts from his home world. It had been a hard road, but he was on the Path of Glory, and he was doing it on his own, not relying on the fickle blessings of the gods. He was not about to take one step backwards for Hetman Victor, but a duel between him and his hetman would as likely see him die as win. Ramone decided to call on Slannesh's power once again and seal a covenant with the surviving Fewood fighters. This time though, he would only give as little as possible to the Dark Prince, and maintain as much of his independence as he could. This time would be different. Ramone began chanting the ritual.

 

The chanting was hard, his concentration was already distracted at the colors of the setting sun over the mountains, and the smell of the gore at his feet. He didn't have time to enact the full ritual he had performed in Calebra Hive, but he made up for the shortcuts he was taking by sacrificing the wounded Imperials on the road. It wasn't a blood sacrifice, it was a pain sacrifice, he used his knife to make cuts on faces, armpits, and other sensitive areas, his squad joined in. When Hetman Victor reached the High Road, he was speechless, not just at the atrocity, but the aura of power over the site of the ritual. Ramone's fighter Anna, passed the pink canteen around to Victor's squad, they all drank, they all cut, they all took part, each wanting the power that was in the air. The tea took its hold on the fighters, what happened none would remember in full, only glimpses of depravity seen through a haze. The covenant was sealed.

 

[paulJam]

Coming along well carrack. Especially enjoyed the emphasemic preacher, the ship docks, and the latest post. Very good.

[Carrack]

Coming along well carrack. Especially enjoyed the emphasemic preacher, the ship docks, and the latest post. Very good.

Thanks. I'm digging the freedom this story is allowing me to write, there are so many opportunities. The scale is a little daunting though. Maybe I'll need to commit Exterminatus on a few worlds to bring it down to manageable levels. :)

 

I'm enjoying Kraits Divergent as well. The background is very rich, and Esrah is still one of my favorites.

 

Make Them Burn

Part 5.0

 

Chellah System, mining system

 

 

Gisco waited on the grenade, three...two...one...blam! The hatch blew open and Gisco sprayed burning promethium into the next compartment. The screams of heretics sounded his success. Brother-Sergeant Mago rushed the rest of the squad into the smoldering compartment, and with brief revs of his chainsword, along with cracking thuds of boltguns on skulls, the compartment was secure. Gisco entered the compartment, an area of the enemy ship devoted to controlling the port directional thrusters, judging by the equipment inside, what was recognizable anyway. He surveyed his handiwork. His flamer had blasted into the compartment, filling it with flames, except for a small area to either side of the hatch, but that had been covered by the exploding hatch. Gisco smiled, he had used the least amount of promethium to cover the entire compartment, that efficiency is what let him be the flamer bearer for the squad, an honor he relished. The next hatch had been set with a krak grenade and the squad was hustling back behind him as he moved to a point two and a third meters from the hatch with his flamer shouldered. Three...two....one....Blam! Gisco sprayed his flamer, jerking it right at the end, to hook the flames over to cover the wider compartment. The scene was much the same.

 

As squad Mago moved towards the bridge of the heretic vessel, Gisco went over the action that brought him here. All Battle Brothers of the Angels of Immolation were expected to have a grasp of void war, and at some point after this action, Brother-Sergeant Mago, or perhaps another more senior member of the chapter, would ask for his analysis of the engagement. Gisco would be prepared.

 

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

 

The Arch-Enemy was raiding across the sub-sector, causing havoc, inciting seditious acts, and concealing the true path of their invasion. Since the chapter's arrival in the Aspis sub, worlds and ships had been sending out distress signals indicating that they were the target of the Black Maw. In most instances it was not their fault for believing so, a small flotilla of raiders was more than enough to cause dire concern, but it was confusing the defenders as to the actual location of the main force. The Chapter was patrolling, trying to catch the Black Maw's flagship, deal a decisive strike to the heretics, stop the invasion, and avenge past transgressions.

 

Here in the mining system of Chellah, the main element of the Black Maw fleet was not present. There was but a single Iconclast Destroyer, along with a pair of small up-gunned merchantmen, hardly the might of the Arch-Enemy. The Angels of Immolation outclassed the invaders, waiting in the system was the Strike Cruiser Pyromania. The Invaders had translated within the system, a risky move that would give them the element of surprise, but to the Emperor's fortune, would not allow them to escape. The Pyromania had quickly scuttled the two merchantmen, then maneuvered behind the Iconoclast, and boarded the heretic warship with the goal of capturing senior officers of the enemy. Perhaps they could learn more of the heretics' plans when Brother-Chaplain Hamilax put them to the question.

 

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

 

Gisco watched his brothers firing across the open deck, picking off the pirates scurrying across a gantry parallel and above the one they were advancing across. Below was a collection of land raider sized boilers, steam leaking from numerous seams dabbed with some quick-fix compound and marked over with blasphemous symbols. The other gantry was out of range of his flamer, so Gisco contented himself appraising his brothers' marksmanship. Brother Mapen was shooting superbly, not a miss, and each bolt fired ended in a perfect headshot. Gisco mused that his brothers must be relishing their bolter drill, having been denied clean kills up to this point because of his own expert flamecraft. As they approached the end of the gantry, Gisco calmly drew his sidearm and fired off a single, long ranged pistol shot. The mass reactive bolt ignited its rocket after its propellant launched it out the barrel. It sped across the distance between the gantries to strike a 15 centimeter thick retaining pin at the end of the far gantry. The explosion of the bolt blew apart the pin, the end of the far gantry fell to the distant, steam shrouded floor. The pirates not shot by his brothers, fell with the gantry, breaking legs, hips, and necks to leave them immobilized in the scalding steam. Their screams almost drowned out Brother-Sergeant Mago's approving chuckle. Krak grenades were set on the hatch at the end of their gantry.

 

Three...two...one...blam! Gisco once again let out a gout of flame into the compartment at the end of the gantry, then switched containers as Squad Mago rushed through the breech, Gisco following in after the squad. This compartment marked a change in the pirates' ship. It was better appointed, but just as heretical. A rug covered the grated floor, it's design charred off and still smoldering, but judging by the edges, quite intricate. The rest of the main room in the compartment was too badly burned to make out, but a small cell, not unlike the one Gisco resided in on Pyromania, was opened to one side, and had escaped the fiery destruction of the main room. It was messy, but there was evidence of wealth that Gisco hadn't seen yet aboard the heretics vessel. Piles of skins of various beast were loosely stacked about the room, a cloak of leather string and beadwork hung from a torch sconce, the detail of which spoke of a master of that particular art was responsible for its making. Bits of silver were piled upon some type of organic growth that was coming from the floor, some were chips off of jewelry, but others were silver fillings used in dentistry, as well as a few arrowheads and silver bullets. The richest item was an ornately crafted wooden pipe, a meter long stick of wood that had been worked to a level equal to that of an Imperial Governor's baton. But where such a baton would have holy symbols carved into it, proclaiming the will of the Emperor in the badge of an office bestowed by His most holy servants, the symbols carved into the pipe were obscene, pornographic even, but still, expertly done. All these items were set in the open, the next hatch was unbarred. Judging by the scurvy looking pirates they had encountered so far, the owner must have been powerful indeed to prevents their theft.

 

As they briefly examined the cell, Brother-Sergeant Mago pointed to one pile of skins, it was the largest of the bunch. Gisco had no idea what his leader was pointing out until Brother-Sergeant Mago looked at him with his unhelmeted face and flared his nostrils. The squad saw this and unsealed their helmets. The air was dank and foul, life support systems were rarely a major concern even among Imperial escorts, but clearly worse here. That wasn't what the squad leader was indicating with his nose though. It was Brother Mapen that finally picked up on it, perhaps if they were Space Wolves, they all would have gotten it sooner. The smell was urine. Not ordinary urine, but the concentrated, enzyme rich urine of an Astartes, and it had been sprayed all over the cell, the walls, the floor, and also the large pile of skins Brother-Sergeant Mago was indicating, a pile large enough to act as a bed for a space marine. This made Gisco mad, madder than he was at the traitors of the Imperium, mad because the complete lack of personal discipline that was the foundation for everything it was to be a marine. These traitors had the audacity to call themselves Astartes. Gisco would make them pay. He would make them burn. They would now hunt these foul traitors down.

 

[Carrack]

Thrones

Part 1.3

Calimyr System and Aspis, sub-sector seat

 

 

 

Lord Carrack wearily walked his bridge, making his way to the throne of the Bitter Revenge. The throne that was, more than anything else, the symbol of rulership of the Black Maw warband. A fitting symbol, practical in its command of the flagship and by extension, the fleet. A throne that he had desired for ages. Now he had it, had sat upon it for 50 years, and would continue to hold it in spite of the attack of rumors launched by his equerry, and fueled by his prophet. The rumors weren't a true challenge to his rule, just a foundation being laid from which to build a credible threat, should the invasion not be successful. Lord Carrack would tolerate foundations, he was surrounded by ambitious warriors, he expected no less, but he would come down with wrathful vengeance upon the first fool to lay a brick.

 

The thought of meeting out a bloody reprisal to those who would challenge his rule, sparked the bonfire of hatred that was Lord Carrack's soul. He sat upon the throne and commanded his fleet to prepare for the warp. He would move on to the next phase of the invasion, and show the slaves of the False Emperor what depths his hatred knew. But the throne he sat reminded him of the trouble it posed, even as he focused on unbridled rage.

 

The throne that he had fought for, was a prison. It was a tower Lord Carrack had unknowingly locked himself in. The fall from the tower would mean his death, but the tower would not climb to further heights, it's base would not support it. There was no higher seat than his throne in the Black Maw, and this invasion would push the limits of what the Despoiler would allow for a Black Legion warband. Any further expansion in power would see Abaddon tighten his reigns on the Black Maw, and the warband would lose its autonomy, and cease to exist as Lord Carrack knew it. So what was the purpose of it all? Why should he continue in conquering worlds of the Imperium? Lord Carrack lashed out with his axe, decapitating a slave that had ventured too close as he brooded upon his throne. Blood spattered across his helm and sizzled away from a thirsty heat manifesting from the warp in response to the fire in his soul. He would conquer Imperial worlds as long as he could. He would never stop. They rightfully belonged to him, not some mortal bureaucrat who bowed and scraped before a corpse saddled throne of gold tarnished with the lies of his father's father. He would make the Imperium remember their folly. He would make the galaxy burn.

 

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

 

Lord Aspis was wondering the halls of his palace again, unable to sleep. Servants scurried out of the way while trying to bow at the same time. Outside of his personal suite, and that of his wife, most of the staff that worked this late had little contact with his person. He ignored them, they did not know to do so in turn. Lord Aspis was never truly alone, even now he was escorted by secretaries, man servants, messengers, and of course his personal guards, the Silver Shields. The only way he found solitude was by ignoring his staff, the day staff had learned to ignore him in turn when he did, it was a compromise of sorts, having never had a moment alone in his long life, and he likely never would, so he settled for the illusion. He made his way to the court, as he had the last two nights.

 

His court was outlandish to him in these dark hours. He only ever entered when it was teeming with the cream of the sub-sector, dressed in their most elaborate costumes. Now it was dark, only enough light to be safely monitored by a detachment of his silver shields, who were walking cyber-hounds around the perimeter of the grand hall. Even in the low light of the sleeping palace, Lord Aspis marveled at the mosaic floor of his court. It was a true masterpiece taking the likeness of his sub-sector, each world colored with bits of glass to an exact picture, each star glowing faintly with luminescent gemstones. In the day time it was covered in voluminous robes, and trains from dresses that required up to six handmaidens to help lift. But the floor was just a distraction from what he came to see.

 

Wearily, Lord Aspis walked to his throne, the symbol of his rule. He knelt before it and prayed, as if he was praying before The Throne. He prayed that he would be worthy to sit on his throne. He prayed for the protection of the Emperor who sat upon His Throne. He was there for hours, on his knees praying, and though he ignored his servants and guards, they did not ignore him.

 

Those who observed Lord Aspis's piety told of what they saw to friends, coworkers, and their families, and those told, retold what they heard. By the end of the third night, the whole palace knew of Lord Aspis's humble prayers. They had always respected their lord, now they loved him. By the end of the week all of the world knew, and word spread from the seat of the sub-sector out to every world in its domain.

 

[Carrack]

Not One Step Back

Part 6.0

City of Hammish, Imperial World of Lemish II, Lemish System

 

 

 

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

The main element of the Black Maw had invaded the Lemish System, a prosperous Imperial World grown rich off of trade and banking. There have long been rumors of some mysterious, but valuable treasure stored in vaults beneath one of its cities, Hammish, but nothing had ever been found by numerous digs. However, there may be something to these rumors, for the Emperor's Finest of the Angels of Immolation Chapter, had deployed a Strike Cruiser to the system, and when the strike cruiser was forced to flee in the face of a vastly superior fleet, they first deployed a contingent of space marines to defend the city of Hammish.

 

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

 

Vinno jumped the last trench and slid down the far embankment, tossing a frag over his head into the trench behind him. He was fairly sure it was clear, judging by what he saw as he leapt it, but an extra frag would make sure. He didn't want guardsmen shooting into his back while they breeched the void shielded fortress ahead. Vinno quickly glanced to either side, ensuring his squad, along with the others made it over the trench as well. As the grenade exploded behind him, he rushed the nearest rain washed gulley that was suitably large enough to let him pass. That was the weakness of the fortress. Rain. It was otherwise well built. The fortress boasted slanted and angled walls, covered by a thick layer of absorbing soft dirt, and protected by anti-tank and anti-personnel gun emplacements. But the walls and guns were but secondary defenses, for a dome of void shields was placed a hundred meters out from the walls, and layers of trench works beyond that, all the way to the base of the hill Fortress Dominique sat upon. The fortress had enough artillery to blanket the entire city of Hammish below, and enough ship wrecker cannons to keep the orbit clear from bombardment. But rain had opened a crack in the fortress's formidable defenses. The years, decades, Vinno didn't know or care how long, of precipitation had eroded the hillside beneath the void shield dome, to the point that numerous gullies, big enough for an Astartes to walk under and slip underneath the void shields. He did so now, along with his squad, the Chosen of Lord Carrack.

 

Vinno ducked under the dome of shields, feeling the powerful energy raise the hairs on his neck underneath his armor, and stepped into a wall of bolter fire. The last stretch of ground to cover was going to be hell, but there was no turning back. They had teleported down to the hillside just in front of the last trench, and would not be able to be extracted until they silenced the ship wrecker cannons. But Vinno had not survived the Long War by being timid, and he would freely admit that he hadn't survived it with his sanity intact either. The bolter fire, coming from a hurricane emplacement directly ahead, only maddened him, well maddened him further than he usually was. He screamed out for blood and skulls, he would take both from the bastard sons of Guiliman defending the fortress. Angels of Immolation, he spit at the thought of the name. A bolt struck him center mass, slowing his stride a half step and defacing some of the gold octed star on his chest plate, he continued. A few steps later, a better placed bolt took out one of the Chosen, Marbas the Revenant, the insufferable whiner lit up like a green bonfire, as hell flames announced his soul's return to the warp. Vinno's icon bearer, Saint Tiam, swept Marbas's legs with the butt of his standard's lance as he passed, served him right, let him go to hell on his back rather than his feet, Vinno thought.

 

Vinno reached the wall, directly under the hurricane bolter, too close to be fired on. The rest of his squad, minus Marbas, made it as well, without mission effecting wounds. Vinno slapped a melta bomb onto the wall, latching it onto the gun emplacement in a way that prevented it from fully traversing. As he ducked down and left, he saw Casper shove a bunch of dirt into a grenade tube with his boot, just in time. The dirt blew out with force as heat started pouring out of the melta bomb, enough heat to slag the front armor on a tank, and enough to open up the emplacement. He tried to charge in, but the damage from the melta bomb and the exploded grenade tube had made his footing unsafe. The weight from him and his armor caused his foot to drop a half meter with the rubble he had stepped on, and his momentum tripped him up, causing him to fall face down. His squad didn't care apparently, Vinno indigently felt the crushing weight of eight Astartes run up his back to slay the loyalist marine and some guardsmen loader who were manning the hurricane bolter. They were in.

 

[Carrack]

Leaving the High Road

Part 2.9

Defense Sector 27, Pillars of Fortitude

 

 

Ramone lay on the end of High Road 27, staring up at the moving stars in the cold night air. His head was still swimming from the moss tea he had drank, and there was both a euphoric sensation tingling through his body, and an overwhelming feeling in his soul. He was trying understand it, it was a good feeling taken to the extreme, a desert that was so sweet it churned his stomach, a woman so pretty that he could not even form words to speak to, a song so beautiful that he was saddened, because he would never hear it's equal. It was one side of Slannesh, it was everything good, taken to the extreme until it was bad. That was the reward given to him by the Dark Prince, or as his fighters, more primitive in their understanding called, the spirits. His fighters were moaning in the throes of the same sensation. But Ramone knew the other side of the dark god, the extreme negative experience that the truly faithful could take as positive, the pain so extreme it became pleasure, the noise so horrible it became beautiful, or the deed so vile it became the purists in the eyes of the Lord of Excess. These were the perils and rewards of walking the Sixfold Path on the Journey to Glory.

 

Ramone had no idea how long he lay their until the staticky calls from the Vox started blaring across the High Road. He went to answer the vox calls and saw four of the brighter stars headed his way from the mountain that bore defense station 27C on its airless crown. He ordered his fighters to their feet, they did so languidly. He told them to remove their hats and hoods to let the cold air revitalize them, it sort of worked. Quickly he set the fighters recovering what equipment they could from their fallen squad mates and the Imperials alike. While they did this he had to make adjustments to the platoon he was now Hetman for. He kept most of his fighters with him, but to offer a position to Victor, and perhaps placate the man, he made him in charge of a support squad, using the three mortars taken from the Imperials, for insurance, half of the squad came from his original fighters. The artillery had destroyed much of the Imperial gear, but he was able to salvage enough krak grenades to issue two or three to each member of his squad. They also recovered bits and pieces of armor and helmets, as did his mortar squad. Various gear such as bayonets, oversized coats, ration packs and rebreather masks were individually claimed as the fighters saw fit. For Ramone, the helmet and chainsword of the Imperial hetman were claimed, as much as symbols of his authority as practical war gear. He was left with 2 plasma guns that probably worked, 16 lasguns and 45 power packs, a heavy bolter with 11 belts, but no spare barrel, and the Imperial Vox, taken by Anna, who was transmitting over every communication the Imperials were using, blocking their communication for several minutes, until they switched frequencies and encryption.

 

The first three stars approached, growing bigger, until they were visible as Arvus lighters. They touched down and out stepped hard men and women, fighters from the Daemon World of Vaska. Mutations were rampant in the cold blooded killers, and they were armed to the teeth. The lighters hovered for a moment while the Vaskan Chieftain walked up to Ramone, clearly recognizing Ramone as the leader. He could tell that something had been done to attract the attention of the gods. The chief told him he would be pushing down the road, and Ramone was to climb over the next mountain to set up on Low Road 27, either in ambush for the enemy, or over watch if it was already in Black Maw control by the time he got there. Ramone was to answer to War Chief Mocus. Ramone had heard of the mutant warlord, but not enough to know if his assignment was a good one. As the fourth star grew bigger, Ramone began bargaining with the Chieftain. He was offering up his stolen booty to try to get something more practical for his fighters. In the end, he gave up the las rifles and power packs for a high caliber sniper rifle, and the parts to fix one of the damaged heavy bolters and a pair of spare barrels for the support weapons. The chieftain also claimed the dead and defiled Imperials, for unknown reasons.

 

The last star came in brighter and louder than the Arvuses. The noise and glare were almost to much for Ramone. Some of his fighters held their ears or wretched. The last lighter was a Dole Heavy Lighter, and it had four armored vehicles slung loaded underneath its boxy frame. The lighter came to a hover over the high road and the Vaskans unhooked the armored vehicles, a Leman Russ and three Chimera. They mounted the bodies of the guardsmen on spikes on the vehicles, and began following the road. The Dole touched down on the high road, cracking pavement, and opened its doors. Two squads of Vaskans came out with a crate of ammo, water, and rations, as well as some rope and climbing gear. Their squad leaders came and told Ramone that they had been assigned to him for his next mission.

 

Ramone told his fighters to restock from the crate, as the lighters turned back to defense station 27C, and he looked over the Vaskans. They were rabble, too young, or too old, or too small, none were the impressive Vaskan clan warriors who had mounted the armored vehicles. Ramone would make do, he gave each squad a heavy bolter and told them to follow him to the next checkpoint, at the bottom of the mountain. He told Victor to follow the Vaskans. Ramone led the decent down the mountain. Glancing back at the scene of the ritual and wondering if he could keep Slannesh's favor this time.

 

[Carrack]

The Hunt

Part 5.1

Chellah System, mining system

 

 

They had raided my den. They had burnt my rug, and put their paws on my things. They would pay for that, it should be me raiding their dens, and stealing their things, for I am Yenaldlooshi, called Skin Walker, Coyote, and Trickster, and I have been stealing from man since he hunted with flint spears. Even now, I have stolen the skin of a man, and not just any man, an Astartes, a powerful warrior whose name was Keeper, he is still here with me in his man-skin, but he knows better than to challenge me for control. He better know better.

 

So now I hunt the invaders, they are Astartes like the man-skin that I walk in, but they are different, pure, disgustingly pure. Keeper was never pure, he was willing to invite me in, the fool. I have gathered the fourth, and last of my pack mates, all Astartes possessed by lesser spirits. We begin to hunt through the maze of dens and caves that make up this ship. I can hear them advancing towards the ship's pack leader's den, they are using grenades to open the doors, then spitting fire through the openings. I've plumbed the secrets of Keeper's mind to learn how my prey acts. I know I can split them in two packs equal in numbers to my own. Combat squads is what they call it. It's just a matter of tricking them, and tricking warriors can be easy.

 

I've moved my pack into a cave where they store meat and the plants that men find tasty. Judging by the sound of the prey, they will move into the den to the side of the food cave. I mark my territory as I wait. Boom...they have opened the door with a grenade. I run my pack through the caves to come in behind the prey. I let out a howl from the snout that has protruded through my man-skin's armor. The prey turns and sees my pack and runs towards me, like the bulls of a buffalo herd when they see predators, and just like hunting buffalo, I run away, drawing the bulls out. Eventually they split, one pack going back towards the ship master's den, the other in pursuit. I keep running my pack, to an intersection of three caves. I take the left but slam the door shut behind us.

 

This ship is my territory, the prey should have realized that, I have extensively marked it as mine, but the prey are fools. I cut through the side cave to come out into the central cave of the three way intersection. The prey are waiting on a grenade to open the door I had locked. My pack charges. They see us, but it's too late. They shoot their potent weapons wildly, but we are almost on top of them. Like buffalo bulls, they chose to fight rather than flee. They are still prey though. I let my pack get ahead of me as we charge through their wild shooting. We draw the eyes of the Great Shaman, and he pushes a tiny bit of his power into our claws, fangs, and weapons. The prey try their best, but they are prey. We tear through their armored hides to get at the soft meat inside. One of my pack goes down to their sharp knives, but I slip behind the killer and trip him with my forepaw. As he falls I fall with him, biting down on his neck, not suffocating him as I'm use to, but crushing his spinal cord like Puma would. The prey are dead, we feast quickly, there are more prey about.

 

The ship quakes, the cave ahead collapses, and high pitched horns blare a painful sound in my ears. The prey has gotten away. But they are still in my territory, and I know other paths to cut them off. My pack is faster than the prey, and we can cut them off going through the side tunnels, but my prey is not the only enemy in my territory now, there are others who smell the same as my prey, but they didn't raid my den. I carefully lead my pack through the tunnels, I have to pause for another enemy pack to pass, fearing for a moment the larger pack will challenge the smaller, prey pack, and absorb the survivors, but they don't. Man can be so unpredictable, it must be there tendency to graze on plants as much as they eat meat.

 

I am close to the ship master's den. The den raiders' pack leader is fixing something to the door, a melta bomb, Keeper tells me. What, is the fool trying to be helpful now? It will get him nowhere. I bark out to the pack to charge. Once again the prey doesn't run, they wildly shoot their powerful weapons at my pack in front of me to negligible effect, but in addition to the boltguns, one has a different weapon, a flamer I am informed by my host. The weapon shoots out a smelly fire that plays across my pack mates. One burns up, screaming as he is banished from his host back to the warp, another ignores the flames as they tickle his armored hide, and the third steps into the warp for a split second to dodge the flames, he returns just as quickly covered in pink and green ice crystals.

 

My two remaining pack mates charge into the prey, biting, clawing, and slashing. The prey's pack leader raises his noisy, tooth filled weapon in some sort of challenge for personal combat. Seriously, man is so foolish. I slink over to the fool, acting subservient and scared, I even urinate as if I was terrified. As I get close, I lower my claws and twist my snout to bare my throat. The fool thinks I am begging for mercy, and raises his whirling weapon to strike my throat. Just as he is poised to strike, I twist my snout back and spit into the eyes of the fool. I have performed this same trick on brave warriors many times, but this time is the best, because my man-skin's spit is corrosive. I have blinded the fool. I start to toy with him, throwing my voice behind him or to the side, then biting him with painful, blood draining bites. It is such fun tormenting these pure and noble warriors.

 

Crack... Something is wrong, I feel a shocking pain in my left hind leg. I drop to all fours, unable to stand. I look up and see the blind enemy pack leader as he swings his weapon towards my head. Well, it was fun walking in Keeper's Astartes skin, but it's time to go now. I flee to the warp, leaving Keeper to take the strike. I'll have to figure out a way to get back to the Black Maw, I miss them already.

 

 

Author Note.

I like this installment, but I'm unsure if it's any good. First person can be tricky, and this particular narrator is a challenge. He is almost like writing Skaven, which some authors do very well, but it can easily be overdone with the quarks in how they speak.

 

[paulJam]

It works.

Hidden Content

Contrasts/compliments perspective to the previous post for this system.

 

Im curious as to what this hunter is though. Implied but not stated i think.

 

Just claws in the dark is a cool image though.

Is good.

[Carrack]

It works.

Hidden Content

Contrasts/compliments perspective to the previous post for this system.

 

Im curious as to what this hunter is though. Implied but not stated i think.

 

Just claws in the dark is a cool image though.

Is good.

Most of Keeper's story has been Inspirational Friday entries on the CSM board. You should give them a try, they are fun. For completion, I will include the tale of Keeper from beginning to end. Or is it the end... ;)

 

 

Returned

 

 

One...three...four....five....the Gene-thrall counted off the numbered alcoves, the same repeating 18 numbers, over and over again, until he reached the first empty alcove marked XVI. All the alcoves were sealed behind coded security doors, but unlike all the other plain stainless steel doors, the doors marked with the XVI were faced with jet, and trimmed with pure gold. These were the alcoves considered the most sacred to the gene-thralls of the Black Maw.

 

The gene-thrall entered the 10 digit coded sequence and the black door slid open to reveal two basins. The basins were a combination of a work of art, and a technological marvel, and something else. The exterior of the basins were carved from a beautiful black marble with veins of gold. The basins were filled with a glowing green gel. Tubes and wires, all sheathed in gold, protruded from the backs of the basin into the wall of the alcove. Some maintained a constant temperature, some pumped oxygen into the gel, some kept a steady electrical charge consistent with human neuro-electric activity during deep slumber, some did things that the gene-thrall could not comprehend. They all provided the perfect environment to store their sacred offerings.

 

There was something else going on in the alcove that the gene-thrall could not see. There always was when a XVI was opened. Eight of the other numbers had similar phenomena, but not to the extant that the XVI alcoves did. There were whispers when the alcoves were opened. To listen to the whispers was to spend the rest of your life a raving lunatic. The gene-thralls were surgically deafened. The alcoves would sometimes change colors, not normal colors meant for mortal eyes, but colors so vibrant, so intense, that to see the colors would lock a man in place, to stare away in total disregard for everything else, even the need to draw breath. The gene-thralls eyes were altered to only see in black and white. There was sickness in the alcoves. Not a normal sickness, but to draw breath from the alcoves would invite a spiritual sickness, a corruption, a sickness so infused with despair, that as the body rotted away, the victims could do not but laugh, as the slow and painful death was a joy compared to living with the rot infecting the soul. The gene-thralls' lungs were ripped from their bodies' by the chirurgeons and replaced with augmetic lungs with their own oxygen supplies. The alcoves were filled with emotion, hatred. It was so thick, it was palpable. Opening such an alcove was to remember every slight ever done to you, and unbidden, a plan for revenge would take root in your mind. The plans always involved bloodshed, and if the perpetrator of the slight was already dead or unreachable, well someone else would have to pay the blood-price. The gene-thralls were given paralytics before their duties with just enough onset time to complete their tasks. Afterwards, their frontal lobes were wiped clean, and their personalities were constructed anew.

 

The gene-thrall placed the two progenid glands into the twin basins uttering the Sacred Words, "We Are Returned." and sealed the door. He wondered how many times he had performed this ritual. He would never know.

 

 

 

Keeper

 

 

Puppy Spit was nervous, not that he would show it to the braves and other boys assembled around the central fire of the Ursgatch tribe's camp. Tonight was the night he would leave the camp to become a man, or die trying. The elders were whispering amongst themselves, no doubt planning some additional hardships for the boys' rite of passage. After the elders were done whispering one stepped close to the fire and said, "We have decided. This year we will follow the old ways. You boys will go out into the tundra, with only the clothes on your back and a knife, and acquire something from the den of our tribe's Totem, the Ursgatch, the Greater White Bear. Should you be to cowardly to become a man, you will keep your child name forever and become a slave to the tribe. Never again will you get another chance to become men."

 

Before they left, skins of Kefinog were passed around the fire, with the elders watching, to ensure the boys drank deeply of the hallucinogenic drink. The rite of passage for the Ursgatch was a spiritual test as well as a physical test.

 

********

 

Three nights later Puppy Spit, the last of the surviving boys, to return, came stumbling back to camp, barely conscious from loss of blood. He had indeed acquired something from the den of a Greater White Bear. He had acquired twin scars and a shattered jaw from a clipping swipe of an Ursgatch paw. The full force would have taken his head off. He wasn't sure if his wounds or the lingering effects of the Kefinog were playing tricks on his mind, but at the fire stood a giant in black robes trimmed with bronze. The giant was the last thing he saw before his eyes closed and he fell to the ground. The last thing he heard before unconscious overtook him was the booming voice of the giant, "I name him Keeper, and I will take him to fight for the gods as we wage war in the stars."

 

*****

 

The pain, it was overwhelming. He couldn't so much as turn his head without vomiting from pain induced nausea. But this was to be the last of it, somehow he had survived the torments of the creatures he called the cutters. He had survived their potions, their needles, their knives, their saws. The cutters told him that should he survive the week, he would become an Astartes, whatever that meant.

 

******

 

Keeper slipped into the barracks just as the waxing moon had set. It wasn't his barracks, it was Levin's squad's barracks. This was the last rite of his training, he had spent countless hours sparring, target shooting, fighting mock battles, and learning the intricacies of fighting in a wide range of terrains, all training to be a warrior. As well as extensive studies of theology, the Black Maw's history, rituals, and customs, as well as those of the parent legion. But this training rite was different, it was an unofficial custom unique to Keeper's own training squad. It was the murder of a rival aspirant. As Keeper cupped the mouth of the sleeping aspirant and slashed the same knife he had taken into the Ursgatch den across the throat of his rival, an urge, a craving, that he had endured since the days of the cutters was satisfied, so blissfully satisfied.

 

******

 

Keeper clutched his boltgun to his chest as he followed his champion, Allep, down the landing ramp. His other three squad mates were newly made Black Legionnaires same as him, but Allep was a Legionnaire of a different sort, he was a one time loyalist, an Angel of Immolation who had seen past the lies of the Imperium, and seen the truth of the dark gods. He had forsaken his livery of red and orange for the black of the legion. They were all labeled "thinbloods" by the ancient veterans of the Black Maw, but with the blessings of the gods, and a long string of victories, they could rise in the Black Maw to levels equal to those of the ancients.

 

Keeper looked out from the circumvallation trenches surrounding massive Calebra Hive as Allep was given the squads orders. This is where my legacy truly begins, he thought to himself. This would be the first of many battles that would leave the hated Imperium fearing the name of Keeper.

 

 

 

On the moon of Odeanta

 

 

 

Keeper kept his spacing as his squad made their assent. They were climbing the ravine edge, dragging a huge optic scope that was meant as a back up system for the prow lance array. The scope was many times more massive than what the combined efforts of the squad could lift, much less haul up a three kilometer ravine under normal gravity. Terran gravity. One day Keeper would feel true "normal gravity" as he burnt down the heart of the Imperium and threw off the chains of the Corpse God, but not tonight. Tonight they only needed three Black Legionaries to haul the scope up the steep slope, because the moon's gravity was much less than "normal". This let the squad's champion, Allep, take the lead and act as pathfinder for his squad. Climbing in low gravity was deceptively easy. There was less strain on the Astartes' muscles, they could even leap gaps or short vertical cliffs, but as they got higher, a missed leap or an unsecured handhold could prove dangerous even to their genetically enhanced bodies. Keeper was the squad's security. He guarded the flank facing the Wanderer's ship with his plasma gun. The Wanderer was lurking nearby, they had been told, and may be looking to seize the Bitter Revenge, or his own ship, the Ocultis Chartis.

 

Keeper followed Allep over the crest of the ravine and their squad hustled over to a low depression in the quartz and hydrogen surface. Allep began directing the rest of the squad to set up the scope and direct it towards the location given them by Lord Carrack. It took some time to set up, and would take at least 25 minutes to scan the area with a slightly greater than 50% chance to find what they were looking for. Finding a ship in the void was not a simple task, and they did not have the time to more thoroughly scan the area the ship was believed to be in. Keeper remained scanning the area around him and the ravine below him, and it was good that he did.

 

Coming from the direction of Ocultis Chartis, was a flock of flying monsters, unconcerned with the airless void, for such mortal concerns were completely foreign to these daemons. Some looked like gargoyles from some cathedral's buttresses, others were more avian, with feathered wings and hooked beaks, all had sharp talons and were flying towards Keeper and Squad Allep with tremendous speed. Keeper called out the distance and direction across their squad vox net and took fire at the incoming daemons. One dropped to the ravine after a hole was burnt through its wing, and much of its shoulder. They kept coming, now about 16 strong. Keeper squeezed off a pair of plasma blast with silent prayers to the gods that his potent relic of a weapon held it together for the shots. It mostly did, discharging a bit of excess heat into a large crystal off to his right. Keeper's plasma blasts were joined by boltgun fire from his squad mates, and more plasma from the main barrel of Allep's combi. They kept coming, down to 12, but they were now almost on top of them. At this close range, Keeper opted to shoot his bolt pistol instead of wildly shooting the dangerous plasma gun. He hit one center mass, but the mass reactive bolt passed through the daemon as if it wasn't there. They made the last burst of speed to slam into the Black Legionaries. Daemonic talons were met with bolt pistols, clubbing blows from boltguns, and strikes from spiked and armored feet, shoulders, and forearms. The daemons fought hard with their initial charge, but the return strikes, coupled with the losses they sustained trying to cover the distance were telling. They fled back to the hell which had spawned them. One of Keeper's squad mates had his helmet torn off, but should be able to survive on held breath until they returned, as long as temperatures remained sustainable. Allep was in the worse predicament, the daemons had tried to bull him over the ravine edge. He almost fell completely down, but was able to arrest his descent by driving a blade from his combi plas into some frozen hydrogen. Allep was hanging off a cliff holding onto the pistol grip of his weapon with ichor soaked and slippery fingers. Keeper told the squad to finish their search and climbed down to Allep. Allep commanded, "Keeper, pull me up." Instead, Keeper grabbed the boltgun barrel of the combi plas, and fired a bolt out of his pistol at point blank range, into Allep's head. Allep fell, bouncing several times at first, until he was thrown out into the center of the ravine, to meet the ravine floor at a speed fast enough, in spite of the low gravity, to finish what Keeper's bolt had started. Keeper made his way back to the squad, and tossed his plasma gun to one of the other Legionnaires, Panith, the most likely to contest, keeping Allep's combi-plas for himself. He announced, "Allep didn't make it, I am now the champion." They looked at him for a moment, each his peers from when they were recently made into Astartes, then went back to work. Panith seeing the chance for greater glory with the potent weapon. Perhaps they would try Keeper later.

 

Keeper's squad found something. Still trailing contrails of warp energy from its recent translation, was a massive warship, lean, deadly, and ancient. A ship from a time when humanity's forges could more easily craft such deadly weapons. A ship covered with litanies and battle honors of both itself, and the Angels of Death it carried to battle. A ship marked across her prow with the icon of a winged sword. A Dark Angels strike cruiser, bent on bringing the wrath of the Emperor to his foes, or perhaps to go to any length to cover up the dark secrets of its chapter's past. Not bothering with recovering the sight, only taking a moment to spike its lenses with a krak grenade, Keeper took his new squad racing down the ravine to the Bitter Revenge. Perhaps this discovery, when personally delivered to Lord Carrack, would be enough for the Doom of Callerebra Hive to sanction Keeper's position as champion of his squad. His squad said nothing as they passed the broken body of Allep on the ice of the ravine's floor.

 

 

 

The first part takes place after the Doom of Magurn, and the second part sometime later.

 

 

The Path to Power

 

 

 

As the strike force reassembled in the assault bay, awaiting Lord Carrack, who would be the last to return from the world below if he made it, tensions ran high. They always did when the fate of the lord of the Black Maw was in question. The officers, Lythane the Black, Lavam the Voice of the Black Maw, Captain Garraduk One-Eye, the Warpsmith Chain Maker, and Vinno the Champion of the Chosen, all eyed one another warily, a new lord would not be selected peacefully. But Keeper, his first time experiencing this oft repeated ritual, noticed that the tensions ran high amongst every legionnaire of the warband, not just the top echelon. If a battle for succession occurred, undoubtedly vacancies would appear that each member would try to fulfill. For the sake of the Black Maw, it could prove disastrous, but each Astartes had a chance to improve his lot, except for Keeper.

 

Keeper was a thinblood, a newly made Astartes only recently made champion of a small squad of other thinbloods, and being a thinblood mattered in a warband where the leaders had all fought the Long War since its beginning. From what he had seen, he knew he was at the peak of his possible standing in the warband. The only thing left for him was to ensure his squad members didn't usurp his position, something he was all too familiar with considering the way he had taken control of his squad. But perhaps there was a way. The Black Maw respected the legacies of their ancient warriors, but they respected power more. Such was the Will of the Gods that was enforced upon any who had called the Eye of Terror home. Keeper had heard of a way to possibly gain such power without having to prove his worth over ten Millenia of war.

 

As the tense minutes dragged on, Keeper eased himself closer to the apostle Lavam. Something of a stand off was brewing between Vinno, the Chosen Champion, and the former Captain Garaduk One-Eye. Space had cleared between the two as they stared each other down. Vinno's helm was slightly inclined, presenting his horns forward in a subtly challenging gesture, not so bold as it couldn't be ignored, but obvious enough for all to know its meaning. For his part, the cyclopian captain stood in a relaxed stance that could either be a resting position, or a loose fighting stance. He had also neglected to extinguish the pilot light on his ensorcelled flamer, an omission which fooled no one. The stand off attracted enough attention to allow Keeper to slide up to Lavam unnoticed. Not truly unnoticed, everyone in the assault bay was hyper alert, but the actions of a thinblood champion were a less interesting side show to the main event that could occur at a moment's notice.

 

Lavam didn't deign to look in Keeper's direction or verbally acknowledge him, but tellingly, he opened a private vox channel between the two. Keeper made his case, "Your teachings are still fresh in my mind, Voice of the Black Maw. You taught us all, of the potential blessings of the gods for those faithful in their devotion. My squad may be young, but we are fervent in our devotion. We wish to show our allegiance to the gods by hosting their emissaries." Keeper could not see the knowing expression of Lavam behind his helm, nor the glance towards Keeper's squad that confirmed their ignorance of their champion's request. Lavam replied, "I see that I have taught you and your squad well when you were naught but aspirants just a few years ago. Perhaps if I had recognized your wisdom then, I would have taken you under my tutelage. Nevertheless, I can see that you have grown worthy of such an honor quicker than anyone else suspects, and I will guide you in your quest to be born again with the power of those who never were born....For a price. You must pledge your service to me. You must come to my aid, should I call upon it. You must be at my side, even against our brothers, should I call. But I warn you, the path you seek is not an easy one, you will be asked to make sacrifices to achieve the power I can grant you." Keeper merely nodded his assent.

 

Confusion filled the assault bay, and weapons were drawn. The main engines of Bitter Revenge had begun powering up. The ship was getting ready to move. Just at the brink of blood being shed on the deck of Assault Bay 4, the booming voice of Lord Carrack thundered over the ship's all stations vox from the teleportation chamber. Lord Carrack, the Doom of Calebra Hive, addressed his forces, "Our mission was successful, I have recovered the Wanderer. Prepare for void war, we will be fighting our way out of this system. The tension eased, as first the rank and file, than the officers of the Black Maw left the assault bay to prepare for boarding operations. The moment to seize a better position in the warband had passed. Keeper wondered if he should have rushed into his decision so quickly, and if he would have done so if the chance for advancement wasn't dangled in front of every legionnaire while they waited in the assault bay. If he knew what he was in store for, he certainly wouldn't have agreed to take this fool's route to power.

 

 

This is part two of my possessed story, where the thinblooded Keeper decides to allow a possessing daemon to share his body in a grasp for power. I couldn't finish it in time for last week, but wanted to add it in anyway, consider it out of competition.

 

 

A walk in Man-Skin

 

 

 

 

Yenaldlooshi stretched out his new flesh form. It was interesting, and definitely bigger and more powerful than he remembered man to be. It has been a long time since Yenaldlooshi had worn man-skin, maybe it hadn't been that long, who knew, who cared, it was time to enjoy the world of men once again. He forced his way into the eyes of the man-skin, no doubt turning them yellow, as tended to happen ever since his own eyes were stolen by Tzentch, and he had been forced to make new ones out of aether sap. Oh and what dark and grand sights were there to see! This would be a fun walk in man-skin, indeed. He was in some cave, and there was evidence of a ritual, instinctively he knew this was what called him to the world of men. Summoning circles formed of silver and salt, sacrifices too mutilated to make out, but hopefully maidens, and a collection of eight trophies, each gruesome and representing completed acts that the gods would find pleasing, told of the care and wealth of those calling him. A flayed skin cloak, bearing the scars of a whip, a rotting and cirrhosis scarred liver, a skull, and a miniature man, still alive, but preserved in slime inside a small jar, were among the trophies present. Yenaldlooshi was pleased. The ritual offered attractive incentives for him to wear the skin of the victim. He could remember simple medicine bags as offerings and the force of a witch's mind had been the typical means for him be called to go on a walk in man-skin.

 

Something pushed feebly against Yenaldlooshi's will. It was the rightful owner of the man-skin, his name was currently Keeper, but the name felt new and unfamiliar, like moccasins that needed to be broken in. Yenaldlooshi sniffed through the man for a different, more familiar name. He found it, a child name his host had worn before he had completed some rite of passage, a dangerous one at that, the child name of his host was Puppy Spit, how amusing. But the search for the name had revealed far more interesting information. Puppy Spit was no mere mortal man, he was a superhuman warrior with genetic traces of a great master of the warp known to most denizens of the warp. Puppy Spit was a son of Horus, after a bizarre fashion.

 

Unfortunately, Puppy Spit was part of a tribe of other superhuman warriors known as the Black Maw. Many were in attendance for the ritual. Yenaldlooshi would need to be a little careful when testing the limits of his power in order not to bring the wrath of the tribe down on him. He had been similarly constrained in previous skin walks, but the consequences of offending the Black Maw were more severe than any tribe he had faced thus far.

 

Back to the task at hand, Puppy Spit was under the impression that he was in control, and that Yenaldlooshi was summoned to grant him power. Hosts thought the silliest things. Yenaldlooshi decided he would let Puppy Spit know who was in control, and take a position of dominance in the Black Maw. He fumbled with the solid clothes, power armor it was called, as he walked over to the edge of a summoning circle, lifted his leg, and marked his territory. The look on the gathered tribes' faces was exquisite. Keeper, Yenaldlooshi just couldn't make his child name stick, was horrified. Not just at the act of ownership Yenaldlooshi had displayed to the tribe, but at what the consequence of that act might be from the ritual master, one called Lavam, the Voice of the Black Maw. Keeper brought the full might of his will to bear on the skin walker. It was considerable for one not familiar with mastering the warp, it was the will of a warrior who had spent hours everyday mastering a variety of weapons and while so doing, mastering himself. However, in spite of the willpower of the warrior, Yenaldlooshi was stronger. He was old, older than even the other warriors of the Black Maw. He had tormented ancient Terra when mankind was still using flint tools. He was Yenaldlooshi, the Coyote Spirit, and he had walked in the skin of men many times, and he knew every tactic they would try to regain their bodies. Brute force was always the first attempt. He feigned submission to the warrior's will, and offered him a boon of power from the warp, if he could but ride in the skin of Keeper, and see what the man saw. He then asked Keeper to mentally describe the binds he would place upon Yenaldlooshi, and as Keeper did so, Yenaldlooshi misdirected Keeper's conscious into those same bonds, leaving the man naught but a rider in his own body. He laughed at the surprised Keeper, and told him he had been called Trickster since mankind was young. It was still funny, tricking men, after all these years. It appears they hadn't grown any wiser.

 

Lavam was a different matter. He walked nonchalantly towards Yenaldlooshi, casually swinging his lightning covered war club. He had begun to speak the words of calling backwards, without difficulty or strain. Other warriors of the tribe were lowering weapons, boltguns, he knew from his host's memories, in his direction. Yenaldlooshi knew his man-skin could not withstand the violence that was threatening him, and without it he would quickly have to return to the warp, and he wasn't done playing in the world of men yet. He lowered his eyes. Still they aimed their boltguns, still the Voice of the Black Maw chanted on as he advanced. Yenaldlooshi could feel the knots of his host that tied him to the world of men unraveling, his grip on reality was slipping with each backwards word. Never really a proud daemon, he dropped to the ground, exposing his belly and barring his throat. He decided to stick around, and see what havoc he could cause as part of the Black Maw. Keeper screamed in rage at his confinement, how amusing.