Rob's Shorts

[Rob P]

This is a place i'm dropping my shorts (all the puns are intended).

 

Some of the shorts are old and hopefully I will get round to some new shorts in the future.

 

Enjoy!

 

All 40k unless otherwise stated.

 

Trials - July 2011

Castellan Richter sat uncomfortably in the large chair that was still, despite its size, slightly too small for his stature. Sitting and waiting were not activities that came easy to warriors of the Adeptus Astartes and even on the Emperor’s Sword, a battle cruiser made for these super-men, the furniture existed for the servants, crew members and the other normal men and women that required respite from war.

Richter, however, desired nothing more than to don his ornate black armour, adorned with relics and badges of honour, that reflected his rank within the Black Templars chapter and his allegiance to the Emperor.

Despite his unease with this break from what he considered his proper duty, the Castellan’s thoughts brought him to the disturbing matter at hand. A trial was to take place; judgment to be passed from Astartes to Astartes; a circumstance that was becoming a too frequent occurrence within the Imperium.

The offender had been stripped of rank and title, but the Castellan had known him on sight. He had mused that no Astartes in the Donian Sector would have failed to recognise ‘The Bright Star’ Brigai Vantar, Battle-Captain and Chief Librarian of the Solar Sons, on sight.

Vantar was a living legend; had he not beheaded the Warlord Ghaz’Snoggig and, with it, singlehandedly saved the Parsus Cluster from the wrath of the raging greenskins? With delicate words and no need for violence, had he not drawn System Lord Palatar into the light, to embrace the Imperial Truth?

And now this trial, where fame could become infamy; all past deeds would be forgotten and Brigai Vantar would be marked forever as a traitor to the ideals of the Emperor. The Castellan controlled his fate.

A dull click followed by a loud hiss took his attention. Richter turned his head towards the sound. The door to the recreational lounge opened slowly, letting light creep into the room. It blinded him for a moment, but his senses soon adjusted to the sharp brightness. An instant later the silhouette of a fellow Astartes took shape in the doorway, blocking the light and disorientating him again.

‘You come here to play mind games with me warrior?’ he said through squinting eyes.

‘I apologise, my lord. I did not realise you were resting’.

Richter recognised the speaker by his voice. Brother Marcus was a welcome anomaly; like all the warriors of the Black Templars he honoured Rogal Dorn as his genefather, but his birth into the brotherhood of the Space Marines was traced back to their father legion, the Imperial Fists. A chance encounter had brought him aboard the Emperor’s Sword and he had proved his loyalty on many occasions since.

‘Not resting, just thinking, my friend. Join me if you will’.

Richter activated the lights as Brother Marcus took his seat opposite.

‘What do you make of The Bright Star?’ Richter asked.

‘You wish for my opinion on this delicate matter?’ Brother Marcus replied.

A wry smile took to The Castellan’s lips. ‘I know your visit is not unplanned; I am perfectly aware that you have doubts about this trial, speak plainly and I will listen’.

Brother Marcus inhaled deeply before speaking, Richter suspected that he was delaying his words, postponing the moment that might result in his permanent expulsion from the Castellan’s grace.

‘I do not believe that the Bright Star is guilty of any crime. The events in the Badab Sector have made those on Terra suspicious of the Astartes. I am certain that they wish to make an example of him’

Richter had expected a plea for the Bright Star’s life, not this talk of conspiracy and deceit.

‘Do you doubt the allegations?’ he asked.

‘I do not dispute that eight billion died, whilst he alone survived; but is surviving a crime?’

‘Of course not’ Richter replied. ‘However, if he had refrained from channelling the warp we would not be here now and those people would still be alive’.

‘Richter ... My Lord, if he had not made contact with the Imperial fleet we would have received no warning of the xenos threat. All of the worlds in that sector would have been lost and we would still now be none the wiser.

‘Perhaps you are right, but why this talk of conspiracy?’

‘Brigai Vantar asked for nothing and gave everything to protect the Donian Sector. To the Donian people the Solar Sons are the Imperium. Do you think that sits well with Terra?’

‘I am not certain that it sits well with me’.

‘Do you not find it strange that the High Lords place the Bright Star, possibly the most powerful psyker in the region, into the custody of the Black Templars, a chapter that has fiercely opposed the induction of the combative psyker from its founding? I must tell you, I find it very telling’.

Richter let out a sigh of disappointment.

‘I am sorry Brother Marcus, but I find your accusations absurd. I feel it right that you should avoid my company for a while, lest you say something you regret’.

‘As you wish, My Lord.

 

+++

Castellan Richter had chosen the docking bay to give his verdict. It was important that every soul on board the Emperor’s Sword was in attendance.

Brigai Vantar knelt in the fore, a few metres in front of the Castellan, seemingly accepting his fate. He no longer deserved his title; he was a bright star no more.

Immediately behind him stood Brother Marcus and behind him were scores of sober Astartes standing in rank and file formation.

Richter scanned the silent crowd as he began to speak.

‘Brothers, we are always tested. We serve and protect, that is our purpose. But, who do we serve and protect?’ He paused for a moment. ‘We serve every man, woman and child. Brigai Vantar’s hubris caused his failure to remember his duty. No Astartes is entitled to take the life of a loyal citizen; the only appropriate sentence is death’.

 

+++


Date: 647.999.M41

Lord Castellan,

We greatly appreciate the assistance that you have provided with this matter.

However, we would remind you that the High Lords are the voice of the God-Emperor – blessed be His name –your duty is to serve and protect as we dictate.

You have your orders.

 

There are worse things than gods - August 2011

 

Seer Graal was awoken by a strike to his stomach; his first inhale of breath came to nought, winded as he was. His assailant was a shadow upon him and he spoke the common tongue of one of the people. ‘Witch. Filth. Failure’, the attacker whispered in his ear. He had no adequate reply. In his frail state and fearful of death, he simply closed his eyes to block out the world and, on catching his breath, whimpered, ‘let me be’. The shadow ran from the rock-carved dwellings and into the night; on his leave he knocked over and crushed vials of precious tonics underfoot. Graal whispered the prayer of communion over and over again, but he received no answer.

It had not always been this way.

Graal had never been a normal man. He knew he was special; he was the Wise Man, the Divine Sage, the Seer. He had the knowledge and talent to commune with the gods. This ability gave him status and respect, but more so it gave him purpose. He was responsible for his people.

When the winds blew from the north and the Hruskans marched into their lands seeking their own sort of glory, Graal had offered his son to the Blood God and in return he was gifted with the ability to place, with the touch of hand, the undying fire of war into the hearts of the men of the village. The sacrifice had been difficult but proper; his son’s blood to save the lives of many. The Hruskans came for everything and got everything they deserved.

In the fifth season of the long cold, when the line of man was found to be weak and many mother lost their child to the bite of Lady Winter, he had made his pact with Lady Passion, the mistress of fertility. He flayed himself until nothing remained of his manhood; Lady Passion took pleasure in display and did not fail in her part of the bargain. When the ice thawed, the bellies of many a woman were filled with strong boys, heroes and warriors yet to be.

So when the gods shed a single tear of fire that fell to the east, he was not surprised that the elders had sought his guidance. However, no matter which incantation he recited, not even the Master of Fate answered his calling; he was left like a blind man in the wilderness. Being unfamiliar with failure and concerned with what this might mean he simply counselled the elders to send a score of warriors to investigate, with spear in hand and their hunting dogs at their feet.

Three days later the dogs returned, alone. Compelled by honesty and faith that they were fair, good and grateful for past deeds, Graal spoke to the elders and admitted that the gods had gone away. Graal regretted his truthfulness almost immediately; he felt their accusing eyes touch upon him and their silence spoke many words; he did not require his preternatural gift to sense their doubt.

In the following days, as his impotency became common knowledge, he was spat on in the street and villagers shouted vile curses at him as he came by. He was driven away from the centre of the village to live on the outskirts, but it did not stop there. He received nightly visitations resulting in beatings that revealed how far he had fallen in the eyes of his fellow men. Some told him that he was a liar, a charlatan that had never had anything true to offer the village, others blamed him for the deaths of their sons and fathers, others still said that he withheld his knowledge to punish the elders for some disagreement. The truth was worse; the gods to which he had sacrificed his body and blood has cruelly betrayed him.

As the days went on Graal heard that further men were sent to the east with none returning. It was not long before the elders returned with their desperate pleas. ‘Go to the east to appease the gods’, they said.

Each step he took from the green lands of home to the deserts of the east was a step closer to collapse. He had taken this journey naked of possession, save his light white robe, but a weight lay on him, slowing his every step. The chance of redemption was the only thing that kept him going.

As night fell Seer Graal felt the gaze of a malevolent monster on him despite every direction revealing only a barren waste. The hair on his arms prickled up, detecting what he could not see and when he tried to block it out and take a moment’s sleep he dreamed of a beast of metal that enveloped him in its claws and ripped him back to the world.

As the second day of his journey came to an end, a smell of burnt flesh entered his nostrils and spread into his lungs. Like a dog he followed the scent of death to its source. As he came closer to the peak of a dune, he saw the tip of a metal construct, incongruous to its surroundings, and as he met the highest point he saw that this metal object was like a parody of a flower in bloom instead of sweetness to its scent there was a choking aroma of fire and blood, borrowed to it by the bodies that lay at its base. He realised, with no doubt, that within the centre of this construct lay the source of his torment.

He drew closer with trepidation and anticipation balanced perfectly. As he put his shaking hand to the construct he wondered whether this would be his end or the start of something new. His thoughts were broken as the surface he touched hissed open and the hulking beast made its presence known.

It resembled a man in shape, but would easily have dwarfed any man that Graal had ever known. It was wider than an ox and its skin was made from smooth gray metal. Where a man might have eyes it wore a cold lifeless mask. It was adorned with trinkets crafted from fur and feathers and carried the sigil of the wolf on its breast.

Seer Graal immediately realised what stood in front of him and said, ‘O’mighty golem, messenger of of the gods, tell me how I may serve’.

With feral force and preternatural swiftness the creature gripped him in his arms and raised him in the air. The mask dropped and Graal came eye to eye with the beast that was somehow a man but not. It spoke loudly and with jollity, ‘when the wolf howls, your precious gods cower, little man‘. It laughed long and hard with humour that only it could understand. It then tore Graal to pieces.

 

Blood for the ... - September 2011 [WHF]

 

Walach was hung like a piece of meat in the cramped cellar of the keep. Hooks tore through his ankles and held him with feet to the ceiling and head hovering few inches above the floor. His wrists were bound by steel cuffs and his chainmail and plate had been stripped, leaving his muscular yet slender body naked to the air.

His unwitting captor stood before him; the dim light hid all but his broad mass and the glistening double-headed axe in his hands. He was a butcher and ordinarily meat is the currency of a butcher, but he was not interested in cattle or pigs; he was a butcher of men and was not often inclined to take prisoners. Walach didn’t know his captor’s real name, but he knew his titles: The Apollyon; The Destroyer; The Butcher of the Blood God.

The deep stone structure of the keep blocked out much of the noise from outside of the cellar, but occasionally, from above, there came the dulled sound of cheers and the stomping feet of untamed warriors celebrating their victory. Even so, Walach could hear the butcher’s deep breathes and imagined that that he was perhaps trying to slow his heart and subdue his rage. Walach was pleased that he had piqued this warlord’s curiosity such that he was acting against his feral nature.

When the butcher spoke, each word choked slowly out from a throat accustomed to screaming and roaring in fury. ‘You know why you have been spared?’

In the dark, a smile crept onto Walach’s face and he quickly withdrew it. He was not yet ready to reveal the game. ‘Spared?’ he spat. ‘You did not spare me; in truth you simply cannot kill me, you have neither the intelligence nor the means’.

‘This’, the Butcher slammed the head of his axe against the ground, ‘is Bloodspiller. It was crafted in Khorne’s own forge and it is made for death. I cut you with this and the wound will not heal. Now tell me stranger’, the butcher’s voice raised to a roar, ‘who you are and why are you not dead?’

Walach glared at the Butcher, his eyes locked in contact for several seconds, before he responded. ‘Who I am is not important and I am not dead, because I cannot be killed’.

‘Do not play games with me’. Walach saw the Butcher’s breathing quicken and his fingers flex on the hilt of his axe as his temper soared. ‘Tell me why you are here and tell me quickly.’ the Butcher said.

Walach realised that this Bloodspiller could change the rules of his game and he determined that he would need to give some level of truth to the Butcher if he were to get his reward.

‘You have seen my hauberk and the beasts engraved on its surface. I am a Knight of the Draco and I have come seeking you’.

‘For what purpose?’

‘I search for a worthy opponent and for something else ...’. Walach let his words hang in the air.

The Butcher grinned and walked up closer to Walach. ‘You think I am fickle; that I will be swayed by your misguided concept of honour. You are sadly mistaken stranger’.

The Butcher took one step back and dropped the Bloodspiller. A moment later he lunged forward repeatedly throwing his fists into Walachs ribs; each hit accentuated by a crack. Walach gritted his teeth as he felt each of these powerful impacts that would have killed an ordinary man.

After a few minutes the Butcher stopped, his gasping heavy breathes indicating that he had worked himself to exhaustion.

‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Walach looked up at him and chuckled. ‘Shouldn’t I be the one unable to breathe? You may feel pain, but you can’t hurt me’.

The Butcher turned and opened the door of cellar. ‘Insult me if you will, but I am not the one bound and beaten’.

Walach knew that if the Butcher left the cellar now he was unlikely to get what he had come for.

‘Butcher’, Walach shouted. ‘I came here seeking a worthy opponent and I found none. I found nothing but a coward’

The Butcher turned and with preternatural speed he charged into his prisoner, the full force of his body tearing Walach’s feet right off the hooks. As Walach fell to the ground, not a moment of respite was given; the Butcher raised his foot and stomped Walach’s face in to the dirty floor.

The Butcher gripped Walach’s arms and pulled him up so that his face – what was left of it – was raised in front of his own. Walach tried to speak, but his jaw was broken, and all that came out was a muffled groan. The Warlord laughed heartily having bested his foe. He wrapped his arms around Walach in a fierce hug, like a crude mockery of a mother embracing a child, crushing what was left of his torso. Walach’s head lopped so that they were each with mouth to ear and as the Butcher spoke he loosened his grip a little. ‘You have something to say?’

Walach uttered six words. ‘You shouldn’t have dropped your axe’.

Before the Butcher could react, Walach sank his teeth into his neck and drank the thick dark fluid that pulsed out from his attacker’s body. Each gulp filled him with fiery power that he has desired since the moment the winds of the north has whispered of this warrior. Walach felt his jaw click as it corrected itself; his ribs snapped back into place and he contorted in the Butcher’s grip as strength returned to his body and returned to his limbs. Walach wondered whether this blood, of the chosen of the Blood God no less, would be that which would end his blood urge.

The Butcher stumbled and fell back, his legs giving way to the weight of the leech attached to his throat. As the warlord fell Walach released his hold and leapt back whilst effortlessly shedding the steel bond from his wrists.

The Butcher fumbled for Bloodspiller, but on reaching for its hilt and gripping it firmly, he found that, no matter how hard he tried, he no longer had the power to lift it.

Walach laughed long and hard.

‘You are pathetic’ he said. ‘You’re god demands that you spill blood’. Walach shook his head slowly. ‘What a waste. I will deny your god this one last indulgence by ensuring that not a single drop of your blood touches the ground’.

The Butcher climbed to his feet and raised both of his fists high in the air. ‘Blood for the Blood God’, he screamed in impotent rage.

Walach pounced and gripped his mouth to the Butcher’s throat. No, my foolish warrior, your blood is mine.

 

Trial by Fire - January 2012

 

 

Colonel Ibn Matuhkin gazed out from the entrance of the tent; under his bearded face his lips curled into a humourless smile. The tau were indeed an insidious enemy. To all but the most attentive observer the cameleoline coverings that enveloped the great domed shelters ought to have turned the Tallarn 3rd strike Force into nothing but a traveller’s mirage. Furthermore, surrounded by sanded white desert and in such a hot environment, as provided by Maurs II, his specialist Guardsman, the so called Desert Raiders, ought to have had the advantage over their xenos foe.

The colonel had realised that something was amiss within a few days of planet fall. His advantage vanished as quickly as a Hruskan’s promise. Something had directed the tau toward their base of operation and although they remained invisible whilst stationary, any opportunity for a surprise attack had been destroyed.

Matuhkin closed his eyes and inhaled the dusty wind that reminded him so much of his distant home and what it meant to be Tallarn. He unsheathed his jambiya and traded it, back and forth, from hand to hand. He felt the weight of its purpose as he reflected on recent events.

----

The Colonel had stood at a large table reviewing the pict-display of the lay of the land and considering the appropriate direction of advance when a commotion outside his command tent took his attention.

‘What on Terra is going on out there?’ he shouted.

Rhanin and Bulrhan, his vigilant and ever dependable bodyguards entered his tent. Rhanin had his powerful arms wrapped tightly around the shoulders of a Guardsman that the Colonel did not immediately recognise. Rhanin pushed the Guardsman forwards a little too hard and he stumbled into an unintentional bow. ‘He says that he has news for your ears only, sir’, said Rhanin. ‘Sir, he had this with him too’, said Bulrhan holding up a cracked vox-caster like a trophy.

Matuhkin did not have time for unnecessary distractions. He was conducting a war damn it! ‘What do you want trooper?’

Vox-Trooper Solom climbed to his feet and, avoiding eye-contact, mumbled sheepishly, ‘There is a traitor in camp’.

Rhanin lurched forward and struck Solom in the back of his head. Solom collapsed and Rhanin crouched down to the ear of the beaten soldier and spoke firmly. ‘You are addressing a ranked officer; you will address him clearly and properly’.

Vox-Trooper Solom pushed himself slowly up. The Colonel thought he caught a moment of resentment of his face, but in an instant it was gone, if it had been there at all. Matuhkin dismissed his bodyguards. He didn’t want to lose another good fighting man because of a minor breach of protocol, even if he should have known better.

‘Now, what’s this about?’ Matuhkin asked quizzically. ‘A traitor you say? Are you sun addled trooper?’

‘No Colonel’, Solom said as he picked up the weighty vox-caster with both hands and heaved it onto the command table.

With newly revealed confidence, Trooper Solom explained how he had been tuning and setting his vox-caster when he had caught unusual chatter on an unused frequency. He had heard xenos words from a human tongue and the only discernible word was a familiar name. Rajad.

The Colonel’s eyes narrowed as he gripped Solom roughly by the jaw and twisted head so that they were staring eye to eye. ‘If you intend to make allegations against a superior officer you had better well have some compelling evidence’, he demanded.

Solom revealed a smug smile. ‘I do Colonel’.

The Vox-Trooper twisted the dials on the vox-caster back and forth, but the Colonel knew something was amiss when Solom’s approach turned from frantic thumbing into bashing the body of the machine.

‘Something wrong trooper?’ he asked.

‘Your damn heavies have broken it. I had it all recorded and now nothing’.

‘Excuses’, the Colonel said through gritted teeth. ‘I am not prepared to drag the good name of a Lieutenant through the dirt on the word of a nobody’.

‘Perform Bisha’a’, Solom implored.

‘Bisha’a?’ Matuhkin stroked his chin whilst contemplating the suggestion. ‘Interesting’.

----

The Colonel turned around and entered the tent designated DELTA-B. He noted that the interior walls and ceiling of the tent were coated completely with the flags of the third; each a bright red orb of fire set over the yellow sands of home. The Colonel considered it an apt surrounding for a trial born of Tallarn.

In the middle of the tent lay a tall crate turned into a makeshift table. On the table lay an ivory bowl, carved from the hip bone of a Mukaali perhaps, and a bottle containing a dark stinking oily liquid. To one side of this unusual display knelt Guardsman Solom, the accuser and Lieutenant Rajad, the accused, knelt to the other. To the edges of the tent stood a dozen or so fervid witnesses.

The Colonel walked around the room, making eye contact with the spectators for moments at a time. ‘Bisha’a’, he said addressing all present, ‘is a gift passed from the divine Emperor to the people of Tallarn. The Mechanicum have a device that can pull the truth from a man’s mind. The officers of the Commissariat can beat out the truth. These methods are imperfect and they can be fooled because they demand the truth. The Emperor simply asks for it’. Matuhkin let slip a mischievous grin. ‘But, boy does he hate liars’. A few chuckled in response.

As he approached the table he asked Solom and Rajad to rise. ‘The Emperor cares not for rank’, he said as placed his curved ornate dagger down, picked up the bottle of sticky thick liquid and poured its contents into the bowl. He took an ignite crystal from his pocket and dropped it, from between thumb and finger, into the promethium and the liquid sparked into a greenish-yellow vibrant flame. He next placed the dagger into to the flame turning it from side to side.

Matuhkin looked to Solom first. He was stood straight and firm with a wry smile on his face. Was he cocksure or simply assured in his conviction?

‘Do you accept Bisha’a?’, the Colonel asked. Without hesitation Solom replied, ‘I do’.

Matuhkin turned to Rajad. The Lieutenant’s face gave the Colonel nothing. The Colonel had reviewed his file. He was a cold ruthless soldier with a long and impeccable record. What would he gain from betraying his own?

Lieutenant Rajad accepted Bisha’a.

Solom, the accuser, opened his mouth wide in readiness to receive the Emperor’s test. Matuhkin picked up his red-hot dagger and slowly moved the glowing blade forward. He paused for a moment and looked Solom in the eye. ‘The tau may have told you that you have protection from Bisha’a; they lied’.

It was a gamble, but the flicker of hesitation was revealing and in the minutes that followed, the Emperor’s justice burned fiercely.

 

 

Family Values - December 2012

 

They burst through the entrance of the apartment. Three of them: the tattooed man, the bald man and the short man. Blades were there weapons of choice.

I was eating at the table at the time, with mother and father. My older brother, Rhela, had not arrived yet; that was not unusual. We thought it was Rhela coming home. My father shouted from the table, “Rhela, what’s all this racket about?’. You couldn’t see who was coming in from the dining room.

No response. Just silence. Rhela knew that his disobedience angered father and upset mother, but he didn’t seem to care anymore.

The tattooed man strolled into the dining room with the other two following close behind. My father stood and opened his mouth to protest, but the tattooed man revealed the weapon in his right hand and placed the pointed index finger of his other hand to his lips.

The shock of it all caused my father to collapse back into his chair. He was breathing heavily and my mother reached out and grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight. Father tuned his head towards me and mother, trying to will reassurance into his features. He failed.

The bald man spoke with an unexpectedly soft voice. “Certain things must occur. We do not intend to make this any more painful than it needs to be. If you try to run or call for help, it will not end well for any of you”.

My mother, usually a quiet and timid woman, screamed out, “Take whatever you want, just leave us alone!”

The bald man did not take kindly to the interruption. “Fitz”.

The short man stepped forward and grabbed my mother by her hair. He started to pull her toward the living area. When she protested with kicks and screams he punched her about the head until she became limp. That was the last time I saw her; her legs dragging on the carpet as the bald man took her away.

My father sat silent through it all. The bastard. Just breathing deeply and staring at the wall, as if to look away would somehow make it all real.

The bald man placed his palms on the table and leaned in real close to me and father. His mouth turned into a crooked smile. I could see his horrible brown rotten teeth. There was a twitch in his facial muscles, as if the act of smiling offended his body on a base level. “Our business here is ...”. I picked up my fork and jammed it with all of my strength into the bald man’s hand.

As the bald man howled in pain I ran to my front door. As my grip tightened on the handle I heard a voice behind me, “You really shouldn’t do that. We have Rhela. Come back now or your brother is as good as dead”. I paused for a long time.


+++

The mark on Rhela’s shoulder itched. Scratching it gave no pleasure; it was an impatient itch.
A voice came out of the dark followed by a face with a mocking grin. “You really shouldn’t do that, it will get infected”.

Rhela was initially startled, but immediately regained his composure. “Damn it, Grenn, you shouldn’t creep up to people like that”.

“There are times for tippy toeing and times for going straight in with the blade”, Grenn replied.

“And this evening?”

“A bit of both”

“I should have been there”, Rhela said.

“No. You know the rules. When you join our family we have to end your old family. It’s a pact made in blood, as is the old way and the new”.

“As is the old way and the new”, Rhela repeated. “What happened? Where are the others?”

“Lenk was injured. Nothing that’s can’t be fixed, but he’s off sulking about. You’re brother stuck him in the hand with a fork”. Grenn chuckled.

“What about Fitz?”

Grenn’s expression turned grim. “We had to deal with Fitz. He got intimate with what was left of your mother. The arch-deacon wouldn’t have liked that; to be honest, I didn’t like him. Fitz had his uses, but he was not one of us”.

“What happened to father?”

“We sliced him up good. He was marked, as is the old way and the new. He didn’t move, he didn’t even flinch”.

“You didn’t kill him first?”, Rhela asked.

“We didn’t need to. It’s hard to explain. It’s like his body was an empty shell. He just gave up”.

“And Alid?”

“Alid?”

“My brother”.

“Your brother did resist, but we got him good. We got him real good.”

“Oh?”

“The stronger the bond, the bigger the betrayal. The bigger the betrayal, the stronger the magic”.

“So what did you do to him?”

Grenn didn’t reply, he just deeply into Rhela’s eyes, smiling that creepy smile of his.

+++

It’s dark and cold in here, in the basement.

They said that they won’t hurt Rhela as long as I stay here and stay silent, so I will, even if it means my own death.

I love you brother.

 

An Old Man Does His Duty - October 2013
 

The Caretaker sweeps and mops. His sector is 4XY. It is small; it covers an area of no more than a square miles. Yet, it is significant. At its centre lies the cube and therein, locked away for millennia, lies the shackled man.

The Caretaker cares not for he knows not, perhaps. His duty is to clean, to keep tidy. He is satisfied in his duty, nearly.

His hands are withered by time and hard labour and his legs barely fulfil their need. His body embarrasses him; he knows it will one day fail and his duty will come to an end. The thought disappoints him. But for now daily stimulants invigorate his muscles and flavoured mints distract him from the inevitable.

The Caretaker does not leave 4XY and no one else will enter his domain until he has passed. On that day a new young candidate will be carefully chosen, chosen to keep 4XY.

The cube rises to such a height that it is always visible within the sector. Its obsidian surface draws the eye as it draws the light. The Caretaker jokes to himself that it’s always watching him work; this thought keeps him on task but sometimes it unsettles him.

Like the other cleaners on Terra, the Caretaker’s sleeping pattern is calibrated by the chronometer. One-fifth standard rotation is the ration.

Of late the Caretaker has taken to dreaming of the cube and its contents. In such circumstances one-fifth standard can be too long. The Caretaker does not remember the dreams, but something lingers.

Thoughts come to the Caretaker as he works; haunting thoughts. The thoughts turn to colours and the colours turn to stories.

Red.

In the early days of man there was a warrior called Jor, the leader of the Setts, who made a pact with a malign sprit. The spirit thirsted for blood and Jor promised that he would spend his days spilling blood to quench the spirits thirst. In return the spirit promised it would protect his people. The Setts become a brutal and powerful tribe and the spirit became bloated with their offerings. But all was not well. Jor and his tribe became comfortable and the pact was soon disregarded.

The spirit was furious. It ripped open a hole from the ethereal to the corporeal to exact its revenge on the Setts. The spirit was filled with blood and so it became flesh and blood. In one solitary night of violence it wiped the Setts from the face of the earth and within four generations their very existence had been forgotten.

In time the spirit was forgotten and lessons were not remembered.

A man called Abram, the leader of his tribe, made a pact with a malign spirit.

Green with a hint of Purple.

There was an old sailor who fell foul of a sea captain because of their mutual lust for a woman. The sailor’s throat was slit and he was dumped into the shallow waters. His last thought in his living had been of his lover, Jennie, and his will to see her one last time was what brought him back from death.

He awoke at midnight seven days after his first death. He pulled himself out of the water and crawled to Jennie’s waterside cabin. He thumped on the door and when Jennie opened the door and looked down to him she screamed in terror. He wanted to tell her that he loved her and that he had survived death to see her again. His swollen throat allowed him to let out nothing more than a gurgling noise.

Jennie’s screams brought help to her door in form of the very sea captain that had killed him a week earlier. The sea captain made light work of the monstrosity that had accosted Jennie and took his reward in Jennie and all that she had to offer.

What was left of the sailor still lived, but no one is sure of what became of him in the end.

Blue.

There was once a thin man who sold cats, broken mirrors and, occasionally, broken cats. He also had other expertise and it was the other which brought him to the village of Hamelin.

Hamelin was a town that had thrived when others had not. But as the number of residents grew so did the number of rats. The inhabitants of Hamelin would not tolerate the infestation and the thin man was called for.

The thin man took to the task without little instruction. He did not use his kittens, not even the broken ones. To rid the town of this pest required the mirrors.

The thin man careful placed his blue-tinted mirrors throughout the town. Of course, the mirrors were not normal mirrors. They were tinted as they were tainted.

To view oneself in the mirrors was to cause the need to reflect and re-form. And the men of the village became rats and the rats of the village became men. The labours of their loins became rat-men.

Yet everyone was happier and there was no need for the thin man to return.

Black.

There was a powerful man who revealed many faces to many people and he saw that wickedness pervaded the undercurrents of the physical world. He had a great friend who was a keeper of artefacts and a thinker. The great friend initiated a hypothetical discussion of a box so large and strong that it could contain the evil of the world. It was agreed that such a container could only be made secure if there was an observer within and an observer without. It was further agreed that the observer within would need to be secured in some sort of throne to prevent any misjudgement that might give him cause to release the evil from the box. The powerful man grew tired of the conversation and directed matters towards conquest. The great friend made plans.

The Caretaker has some stories and some truths. He touches the solid heavy pendant that rest upon his chest. It is the shape of the warding eye. It comforts him.

The Caretaker sweeps and mops.

 

[Welcheren]

I assume these are all disconnected shorts?

 

I am looking for something good surrounding the Tau and found one of yours.

 

Will give it read soon, and post some feedback if that's what you're looking for.

[Rob P]

Hi

 

Yeah, they're all disconnected.

 

If I recall correctly the only one that mentions Tau was 'Trial by Fire', though it is more about the Tallarn Raiders.

 

They were all written for 900-1100 word comps for fun and I was (and still am) working to make my stories fit that word count without them looking like they end abruptly.

 

Feedback is certainly welcome.

 

I hope you enjoy them, if you have the time to read them.

[Servant of Dante]

I want to know more about the last one. I guess you're probably trying to keep it nebulous, but could you PM me what your intention with that one was? I'll probably send you a PM now . . .

[Welcheren]

Hi

 

Yeah, they're all disconnected.

 

If I recall correctly the only one that mentions Tau was 'Trial by Fire', though it is more about the Tallarn Raiders.

 

They were all written for 900-1100 word comps for fun and I was (and still am) working to make my stories fit that word count without them looking like they end abruptly.

 

Feedback is certainly welcome.

 

I hope you enjoy them, if you have the time to read them.

 

Thanks. I aim to give it read this week.

 

Will have share my thoughts once I have done so.

[Welcheren]

Trial by Fire is a great story. Enjoyed it very much. 

 

I'll start with specific components that were well-executed before moving to a few minor suggestions.

 

1) The introduction was captivating. It pulled me right into story. Its structure (physical description - introspection - back to physical description of the present situation) worked well.

2) Your selection of this specific group of Gaurdsmen was good. Given the tau's stealth tech, that Tallarn Desert Raiders are a good counter measure. As it turns out, this was not actually pivotal to the plot - which is fine - but it gave me the sense that the story had been well planned. You could always develop this a little further. Matuhkin strikes me as a one-off character, and obviously you intended for this to be a stand-alone short. It's length suits your purpose, but if you wanted to go for something along the lines of 10 000 words with this character, I'd certainly give it a read.

3) "a Hruskan's promise"- I am not all that familiar with the Tallar Desert Raiders. I don't know whether this is a standard phrase from official fluff, or whether you made it up. It doesn't really matter. It works well, by adding a colourful little detail, without distracting readers.

4) "Liutenant [spelling error] Rajad accpteed Bishaá." Not quoting Rajad's actual words here works well. It draws the reader closer to Solom and keeps Rajad distant. It helps to build tension, while also hinting that Rajad really is a traitor. So it helps to set the reader up for the surprise. 

 

Overall, I really enjoyed this. The suggestions below really are just that:

 

 

1) "The tau were indeed an insidious enemy". There is nothing wrong with this sentence per se. I can imagine encountering it in an official BL story. But it is something of a stock phrase. The adjective is fine, but the opening The tau were indeed has been used so many times before. It really is a minor issue, but perhaps you can do something different. Matuhkin (great name) can reflect on rumours he had traded with less elite Gaurdsmen, and conclude that on this score they were correct. Just a suggestion. 

2) When Rhanin and Bulrhan talk to Matuhkin, place each speaker's words in a new line; i.e. "He says he [insert has here] news for your ears only, sir," said Rhanin. [strike enter here] "Sir, he had this with him too", said Bulhrhan.

3) There is a minor fluff error that would - technically ruin the plot. The tau's language is incredibly difficult for human vocal cords to master. Consequently, those among the gue'vesa (mainly high ranking ones) undergo surgery during which the Earth Caste fiddle with their cords to enable them to speak the Tau language. If I were you, I would just ignore this altogether. Perhaps Matuhkin doesn't now this, and Solom made it up, in order to accuse Rajad. The point is, this is such a small issue, I would just let it go.

4) If you intend to make allegations against a superior officer you [insert had] better

5) Ëxcuses", the Colonel said through gritted [insert teeth].

6) In the tent where the ritual will commence, Colonel Matuhkin "walked around the room, making eye contact with the spectators for moments at a time". I suggest that you describe a few faces here. Perhaps you can use this to underscore the soliders' confusion about Solom's confidence vs. the unlikelihood that Rajad would betray them. At this point, I was thinking oh yeah sure, you THINK Rajad won't betray you because he's a good solider, you'll see - so the ending caught me off guard. Well done. You can use a brief description of faces to build the tension a bit more. Just a thought. Compare it with other people's opinions before you implement it - if you implement it at all.

[Rob P]

Thanks a bunch. The feedback is excellent.

 

I've corrected the typos and will review the other suggestions when I review the story as a whole.

[Welcheren]

Glad if you found it useful. 

[Rob P]

A little Mantis Warriors story I wrote about this time last year.

 

Baited - December 2017

Lhorak and his depleted squad of three retreated into the lichen covered hard-walled cave which descended into the depths of Tranquility II. The foes’ plan was simple, but effective. The Mantis Warriors would be driven into a dark and dingy corner and slaughtered.

Lhorak could almost admire the ruthless and calculated manner with which his attackers proceeded were it not for their sickening enjoyment in their hunt-to-kill mission. The enemy favoured cruelty over efficiency; this was not something Lhorak could understand.

As far forward as could be seen, the floor of the cave consisted of firm, yet unevenly placed, rocky hexagonal pillars that were identical in size and packed tightly together. Each pillar was just about large enough for a space marine to occupy it. They had the appearance of manufacture but Lhorak had been reliably informed by the writings of the local and long deceased historiographer, Andos Bassoniarn, that they had been naturally formed by the thermal pressure from a volcanic lake which sat deep under the surface of this region of the planet.

The pillars were covered in a green slime which greased them and made swift travel impossible. In the rush to gain an advantage on the enemy Lhorak lost his footing and ungracefully fell forward.

Berec, his second, turned and held out his arm, actioning for his sergeant to take his hand.

Lhorak looked at Berec’s faceplate as he gripped his forearm and pulled himself upright. He could almost see a warm brotherly smile behind the helm. He erased the thought from his mind. There would once have been warmth there, before this war had started, but now they were all a little more like granite. ‘Thank you’, he said in a tone that was a little too formal.

Berec started a reply, but was abruptly halted when a bolt round whistled through the cave, passing his head by mere inches, and striking a pillar a chest width away. The round ignited on impact sending heavy pointed debris into the air. An arrowhead-shaped slither of rock pierced Lhorak’s visor temporarily blinding him as the HUD suffered an involuntary shut down. That wasn’t a kill shot; they were too good to miss. They were taunting them and forcing them to play their game.

Lhorak quickly removed his seaweed green helmet revealing a wisened chocolate brown face. He reverently placed his helm on the ground then looked over his shoulder. He saw, some way in the distance, at the wide cave entrance, the silhouette of the enemy that stalked them. There were at least twenty astartes lined up and possibly more behind them. With the light casting them in shadow, he could not even make out the colour of their armour, but he knew that it was a dull, no more than functional, grey.

Lhorak contemplated ordering return fire, but they simply did not have the ammunition to waste.

He turned his back on them and as he started into a sprint he shouted to his squad, ‘run!’
 

***

As they went further into the cave, Lhorak was thankful that his surroundings were not unfamiliar too him. Without his visor the ever-dimming daylight worked to counter his vision. Post-human or not, black was black.

The slope of the terrain took them further and further down into the dark and the ceiling of the cave slowly lowered until it was only a few feet about their heads.

Lhorak took a quick glance behind him as they continued to descend. The Carcharadons were following but they were taking a much more casual pace.

Lhorak thought about the enemy. They were made of the same mould. They had the same parts. The same armour. The same mission. The same role. But they were not the same. The adversary was smart and strong, but they were too ready to reveal their strength. They did no hold back. They did not appear to contemplate why they were how they were. This also made them weak. He considered the Mantis Warriors chapter stronger, even as he acknowledged that such hubris was a weakness. Yes, each warrior was expected to follow the chain of command and play his role, and, yes, the Codex Astartes was treated with respect, but each astartes in the chapter was trained to be an individual and this extended beyond their fighting tactics and strategies. The chapter bred warriors that were single minded in purpose, but they were given flexibility in thought and application of that purpose. He mused that the wider Imperium would perhaps perceive weakness in that level of individuality.

Lanjod, the final member of his squad, had taken point. He paused several meters down the slope in front of Lhorak and in the dim light he hand-signed -We are at the entrance point-.

Lhorak took in a deep breath and his senses caught the almost imperceptible familiar scent which travelled gently outward and against their direction of travel. He allowed himself a little knowing smile.
 

***

The floor flattened. The pillars were gone. The ceiling, walls and floor were a dusty-sandy rock cut into a perfect square shape. It was conveniently only a little greater than the height of an adeptus astartes and a little wider than three of the Emperor’s finest side-by-side. It had been scrubbed clean of organics. It was apparent, and would be to their pursuers, that they were now entering a prepared area.

Lhorak was now in darkness, and for the time being he knew that he would need to be guided by Berec.

He whispered to Berec, ‘is everything as it should be?’.

‘My scanners are picking up no disturbances in the structure of the tunnel’, Berec said.

Lhorak breathed a sigh of relief. The plan would fail in an instant if the Carcharadons suspected that the tunnel was anything other than solid walls.

‘And do you think the magos can be trusted?’

‘We have to believe that he can be’, Berec replied.

‘And do you believe that the end can justify the means?’

‘On this occasion? Yes’.
 

***

The chest plate of Captain Strake’s armour carried a horrific superficial tear which ran across from his left shoulder to below his right rib. In fact, perforations, dents and battles scars ran across all his equipment. He calculated that the damage reduced the efficiency of his armour by a mere two percent. He considered this acceptable when weighed against the appearance of invulnerability it offered.

As he approached the sandy tunnel he spoke to his brothers over the battle communications unit that was integrated into each of their helms. ‘The vermin have gone to ground’. He holstered his boltgun and pointed towards the dark opening ahead, ‘this doesn’t look natural. Be alert; they may have a surprise waiting for us’. He received forty-six acknowledgements; one from each member of his battle reduced company.

Strake beckoned for those with battleshields and sent them the fore and rear of the unit. He then ordered his force to march down the dark passageway.

Strake was glad that the Mantis Warriors had not simply surrendered; Strake and his ilk were not bred to take prisoners.
 

***

A hundred meters or so in front of Lhorak the tunnel opened into a bright glare of an orange warm light.

In the passing of a moment the light was occluded by a man-shaped shadow and, with programmed instinct, Lhorak reached to his thigh for his mag-locked ornate pistol.

The shadow spoke with its fingers -Area Clear-. It was Lanjod.

Lharok relaxed. Lanjod. A warrior of few words he thought as he allowed himself a small smile.

Lharok and Berec proceeded to join Lanjod at the staging ground.

The room, though the word room did not do it justice, was a huge munitions storage bunker. It ran precisely three by three kilometres and was boxed at the walls and ceiling by an unusual metal compound which resisted probing by Imperial technology. It was by this means that it had been kept hidden for so long. The floor was made up of thick squared metal grating which repeated itself in every direction. Below, through the gaps in the grating, was heat-hazed molten liquid which bubbled and hissed as if threatening confrontation.

Lhorak placed his palm to the surface of one of a hundred seemingly identical tank-size storage containers which layout throughout the bunker. It was a treasure trove. The value of what was held within was not limited to military purpose. There was history locked in every piece of equipment that had been carefully stored here. What was that old terran idiom about not forgetting history? Lhorak felt a flash of regret at his decision to lure the enemy down here. If his plan failed they would lose something more important than their lives.

Berec awoke Lhorak from his brooding. ‘The Sharks are proceeding down the access tunnel and will be with us within five minutes; the time for action is upon us, brother’.

For Lhorak the world sharpened into focus as his resolve returned. He eyed Berec with a piercing gaze and in calm tone he said, ‘Contact the magos. Authorisation granted. Rouse the Mantids’.
 

***

The binary decoder was his most cherished implant. It allowed him to receive electrically encoded messages directly into his skull avoiding the tiresome delays of hearing or reading. To most mortals its effect would be novel, like telepathy; but it’s real objective would elude them. It saved nanoseconds. What are nanoseconds to a man? Nothing! But to Magos Indillian nanoseconds were the difference between death and life; discovery and lost opportunity; ambition and apathy. The magos would be great and he would be remembered. To be remembered he had to snatch at time and have all of it; not a moment would be wasted.

The decoder forced a foreign thought into his head. Authorisation granted.

The magos raised his skeleton mechanical fingers over the console and began to perform the ritual of awakening. As he tapped each key he felt the rhythm of the song pass through him. It was beautiful and complex but the pattern was entirely logical. Over one hundred years ago, when he had first arrived on Tranquility II, he had been introduced to this ancient technology and he had thought to himself ‘it works by pressing buttons? How rudimentary’. But he had come to appreciate the theatre of it. As much as he hated to acknowledge the human in him, when he operated the machine some almost forgotten emotion stirred inside of him.

As the shutters raised, he looked through the thick armour proof glass in front of him. His eyes whirred as they found focus on what lay beyond. It was a large hangar which housed precisely fifty egg shaped metallic objects. Each was as tall at an astartes and they were lined up ten across and five deep.

The music reached its crescendo and the magos hit the final key.

For a moment nothing happened.

Suddenly, the console glowed an entrancing jade green, prompting the magos to eye the front row of eggs, seeking signs of activity.

In unison the ovals cracked open horizontally along their midline discharging a sharp green light which briefly blinded the magos.

When his vision returned the magos was presented with row after row of towering insectoid-like automatas; each carried a pair of rotor canons, a lightning canon and dual power blades. Their heads were drawn forward which gave the impression that they were crouching and posed in anticipation of a call to attack. Each, with appropriate direction, was capable of extinguishing squads of astartes. The were ancient and impressive.

Indillian aether connected his control unit to the freshly awakened battle-automata and called out his command across the link. Carcharadon Annihilo.

The magos watched with reverence as the machines of death uniformly marched from their chamber and into the tunnel that would take them to their targets.
 

***

Lhorak and his comrades lay side-by-side and chest down on the top of one of the many containers within the bunker. Under their camo-cloaks they eyed the enemy through the scopes of their stalker bolters. From their perch, Lhorak reckoned that they could eliminate half a dozen marines before they were located. But giving in to enthusiasm at this stage would defeat their plan.

The objectives of the mission were plain. Kill the enemy and preserve the armoury and relics of the chapter.

To achieve these objectives Lhorak had taken a number of calculated risks. Firstly, he had convinced the Magos Indillian to provide assistance in return for future service. A devil’s bargain but necessary. Then he had lured the enemy to the location of the very treasures they wanted to protect.

He had chosen not to use the munitions themselves as bait as this would have attracted greater attention than they could handle. But the cave was not an unimportant staging ground for the fight to come. It was specifically chosen. For the entrance tunnel leading to the bunker connected through a network of subterranean hidden channels to Magos Indillian’s legio cybernetica facility. Once the order has been made for the Vorax to march, the exit was cut off and the fate of the Sharks was sealed.

Now all the Mantis Warriors had to do was patiently wait.

Lhorak spotted a hulking brute amongst the enemy. His armour was scarred and battered. He pointed commands and carried himself upright in a way that identified him as a soldier of rank. On some unheard instruction, the enemy fanned out with bolters raised and fingers eager for action.

Berec had calculated that it would take the sharks forty minutes to find them and thirty minutes for the mantids to arrive. Whilst it was not a core objective of the mission, Lhorak had hope that this would give his warriors a chance of survival.

Twenty minutes had passed since the hunt started and the enemy had chosen to re-group at the entrance to the bunker. The confidence of victory had seemingly relaxed them.

A number carried artefacts from containers which they had claimed during their exploration of the area. They lined a row of ten Mantis Warrior helmets. Each was a reminder. Each told a story. Each more precious than the life of any single astartes of the chapter. In the hand of the battleworn officer appeared a lightning-crackling warhammer, which he raised and brought down in a long slow theatrical swoop decimating the first helmet.

Lhorak felt his trigger finger tighten as he aimed directly into the eye-lens of the hammer bearer. And then he relaxed his grip.

His fellow astartes were not as restrained. Lhorak heard the pop of rounds exit the bolters gripped by Berec and Lanjod. He kept his face to his scope and watched to where the rounds would land. Two of the sharks were brought off their feet and a third as Lhorak threw caution to the wind and joined his brothers in targeting the enemy.

Lhorak checked his chronometer. Ten minutes until the automata arrive.

Lhorak looked up and noted that the enemy had located them and were slowly approaching behind a protective shield wall.

The three sat atop the container awaiting their fate.

-So this is how it ends?-, Lanjod signed.

Lhorak put a hand to each of them on their shoulders and said, ‘You have served the chapter well’.

There was satisfaction to be had in knowing that the carcharadons would have a pyrrhic victory.