The Man Who Would Be King

[Wargamer]

Prologue: Reclamation of Tasal. Imperial Expeditionary Force 4th Battlegroup, Day 63 of deployment.

 

This planet, Tasal, was as mad as a Gyrinx in Grox-crap.

 

Lieutenant Keth and his men had seen it all. They'd seen saurian beasts the size of Scout Titans come striding across the plains, looking to make lunch out of the regiment. They'd seen tree roots burst out of the ground and hurl people into acidic lakes. They saw the entirety of Black Platoon stripped to the bone by a cloud of needle-mouthed horrors that swooped down during a thunderstorm. Fifty men were hospitalised with some unknown viral strain, and all of them were dead within three days. Major Oktik and his command squad vanished on Day 41, along with their Chimera. Nobody ever found out what happened to it, but the local Astartes chapter found the vehicle the next week, torn open on a mountain peak a hundred miles away.

 

And all of this madness had nothing to do with the Tyranids, which Keth and his men had come to fight in the first place.

 

It was enough to make a man suck on the end of his lasgun. Many did.

 

The last battle had been the worst. The entirety of the Imaka 44th "Shadow Rats", along with three other Imaka regiments had deployed into the interior jungle, having spent nearly a month fighting to, and ultimately reclaiming some backward fortress city. That had been bad. The Imaka started that offensive with twenty thousand soldiers. By the end they were down to fifteen. Fife thousand were redeployed elsewhere, along with all the heavy armour and, more pressingly, the demi-company of Space Marines who'd tagged along for the back half.

 

The locals were crazier here than on the plains. Out there they fought with muskets and ancient artillery guns. In the jungle they fought with swords and bows, and half of them didn't bother with pants. Standing orders were to assist local tribes, but said locals seemed to prefer to attack the Guard whenever possible. After losing a few men to naked, drugged up lunatics, the standing order was quietly ignored and any tribal sighted was driven off with warning shots.

 

But that wasn't the problem, oh no. The problem was the whole jungle was alive. Alive, bloody minded and hell bent on killing everyone and everything in it. The aforementioned acid dunkings were just one of the joys Keth and crew encountered in the jungle. An entire squad walked into a clearing, only for the clearing to turn out to be the jaws of a giant fly trap. Their screams as the digestion pod burrowed back underground kept Keth up at night for days.

 

The Commissariat was busy, shooting at least two men a day to keep the regiments in line. Their record was thirty four. All the while they told the survivors how the war was almost won, and that with this last push they would secure Tasal for the Imperium and earn their due reward.

 

Then the Tyranids finally decided to stop skulking in the trees and fight beast to man.

 

A while later, Day 63 dawned. Lieutenant Keth had begun this campaign with a platoon of fifty five men, part of a company of three hundred and fifty, and a regiment of two and a half thousand. By that dawn, he was in command of six men, including himself. By midday, the Sisters Hospitalier informed him he was the senior surviving officer of the regiment, giving him mastery of a mighty army of a hundred and eight.

 

An hour later, Commissar Borean delivered Keth his new deployment orders. By evening meal, Keth had shot Borean in the back of the head, shot the adjutant crew of the Commissariat Chimera, and was driving north across open ground with the five remaining members of Red Platoon in the back.

 

Keth didn't know where they were going; he only knew he was done with the Guard.

[KiltedMarine]

I like it so far; looking forward to more!

 

I dig the Kipling reference.

[Wargamer]

Part One: The Daggerpeaks, Northern Tasal.

 

 

Chaplain Hakan paused as the narrow path brought him to a weather-worn cairn. The stones reached his waist, but a glance around suggested it had once been much taller. None of the stones bore any markings, and he idly examined a few fallen stones to see if he could find some carvings to suggest who was buried here. The rocks were not forthcoming.

 

 

The mountain air was clear and sharp and bitter cold. Hakan walked with his helmet mag-clamped to his hip, taking in deep lungfuls and grinning as his augmented senses broke down the tiniest of scents. He could smell the thorny plants that grew wherever their seeds could find purchase, and the hardy grazers that ate them. There was also a faint, yet distinct smell of dung from one of the Great Wyrms that often roosted here. That wasn't enough to spoil his good mood, but his left hand subconsciously reached down to caress the combi-weapon hanging at his side by a red leather strap.

 

 

Satisfied with his reflections, Hakan resumed his long trek. It was an indulgence to visit the lands on foot; normally a Thunderhawk or some other transport would be used to fly directly to the tribal settlements, but after the trial by fire of the Tyranid invasion, Hakan felt a little indulgence was good for the soul. Centuries ago, when he was still mortal, men of the plains would make a pilgrimage up this very path to pay respects to...

 

 

Hakan's brow furrowed. Who had they paid respect to? A king, certainly, but was he alive or dead? He tried to remember, and an image of a great hall of white marble swam into mind, dominated by a golden- no, that wasn't right. He was remembering the prayer hall in the Ninth Bastion. The mountain men didn't use marble, and they certainly wouldn't have built idols. The old Chaplain rubbed his brow and sighed. Every year it became harder to recall what it had been like to be human.

 

 

Walking all day and all night, Hakan came upon a crude stone motte and bailey. The outer walls were heavy, irregular blocks of stone that looked ready to collapse at any moment. Judging by the large gap where one might expect a gate, and the busy work of men hauling rock and timber, they had recently seem battle.

 

"Good morning," Hakan said in a loud, clear voice. The call made the entire settlement stop and stare. Some fell to their knees in veneration, or perhaps fear. The wisest of the workers ran inside to fetch their chief.

 

"Welcome, Sky Warrior!" the chief called out as he approached. He was a giant of a man, almost as tall as an Astartes, draped head to toe in furs and protected by a hauberk of metal scales. Across his back was a lowland autolock, though at a glance Hakan could see the weapon was in no condition to be fired. No-one else in the tribe had anything more advanced than a crossbow.

 

"I thank you for the welcome, chief." Hakan did not bow, as would normally be the custom. Instead, he made a point of examining the lack of a gate. "Have you seen battle recently?"

 

"We have," the giant confirmed.

 

"Against the Tyranids? The monsters from the sky? Or against your fellow man?"

 

The chief smiled proudly. "My men claimed this place not three nights back in the name of the High King of the Mountain! He named me chief of Holmstal as a reward for loyal service!"

Hakan nodded. This sort of thing was hardly a rarity, especially in the harshest realms of Tasal. Borders changed with the seasons; winter camps became war musters in the spring as the tribes clashed over the precious few resources their lands had to offer.

"I come in search of aspirants for the Trials. In two days a Sky Chariot will come to this hall; any youth old enough to hold a sword, but no more than twelve years of age, shall be accepted if they have the courage to volunteer. All may present themselves, be they slave or the child of a chieftain. Sons and daughters alike."

This seemed to offend the chieftain, who curled his lip and spat, "The boys I'll give you, but my men and I have made prizes of the girls. We will not hand them over to you."

The Chaplain stalked forward, and the people backed away quickly. Even the chief, bold as he was, leaned back slightly as the black-armoured Astartes approached.

"My Chapter's need is greater than yours. There are other women to make wives and concubines. Your men must have made plenty of widows; go marry them instead. Two days, chieftain, and if you defy my edict then my wrath shall be that of the Emperor himself."

 

Fury burned in the chieftain's eyes. "Sky Warrior or no, no man speaks to me like that in my hold!" his hand flew to his sword.

"Don't!" warned the Chaplain, but the warning went unheeded.

The chief stepped back and drew his sword, a long blade of foreign steel that glinted in the bright mountain morning. It was not a fancy blade, lacking any kind of ornamentation, but it was perfectly balanced and razor sharp; exactly as a chief's sword should be. "Taekar!" he bellowed.

The Chaplain reached for the Crozius mag-locked under his backpack and swung it out wide in a long, lazy movement. In place of the traditional skull and wing motif, the Crozius was a stylised hammerhead, the sides of which bore an intricate triskelion pattern picked out in emerald green. He raised his empty hand to guard his face, hand open with fingers slightly curved. The chief shifted into a two handed fighting stance.

 

The first blow came from the mortal; a swift and accurate thrust toward the Chaplain's face. He caught the blade with his hand and knocked it aside, stepping in as the chief tried to rebalance himself. A sudden electric surge rushed through Hakan's body as he snapped into combat mode. His two hearts beat faster, his body began to pump hormones to dull pain and enhance aggression, and it seemed to him that time itself began to slow. The chief was frozen in place, bent backward with one foot off the ground, left hand stretching out for balance, right hand still locked on the sword hilt.

 

Hakan had all of eternity to swing his Crozius. He brought it down sharply on the chief's sword-arm, shattering the man's wrist through sheer blunt trauma. He hadn't even bothered to activate the power field.

 

The chief fell, and the real world returned. Hakan's stomach knotted as the fleeting combat high departed and he became, once more, something closer to human. He gazed dispassionately at the chief crumpled on the ground, moaning in pain and grasping his shattered limb. He would never hold a sword again, assuming he lived.

Still, some things had to be done. Hakan picked up the chief's sword and ran it across the man's cheek, drawing from him a fresh cry of anguish. He raised the blade up for the locals to see the blood along its edge, then tossed it to the ground at the chief's feet.

 

"The sword has tasted blood. Honour is satisfied. In two days, when my people come for the aspirants, think of your chieftain." he looked around to make sure the lesson had been learned, then pointed to one of the chief's guards. "You! Show me the way to your High King. I hope for his sake he is more respectful of my wishes."

[Wargamer]

Part Two:

 

Former lieutenant Keth, now High King of the Daggerpeaks, sat upon a throne of stone and fur, considering his kingdom.

 

It was mostly bleak mountain, although he and his men had very quickly established themselves as the dominant power in the land. Their lasguns had made short work of the old king, and the king of the next settlement over. From there, local champions and barbarian armies had been used to claim more territory; Keth and his men had to avoid drawing too much attention to themselves.

 

Still, he thought bitterly as he gazed at the far wall, it would be nice if the locals had some semblance of civilisation. Only two of them spoke anything resembling Low Gothic, and the men still didn't trust the water; the sanitation tablets were running short. Their new home was a cave with minimal reworking, the throne room itself being little more than a crudely hollowed out chamber with a hole in the wall overlooking the main entrance and outer wall. If Keth stood fully upright his head brushed against the ceiling.

 

He told himself and his men they had to be patient. Once the mountain men were under their control they could build an army. There were old silver mines nearby that could be reopened, and goat farmers would give them fur and meat and milk to trade for better weapons and mercenaries. In time they could travel south and conquer a plains city; not civilisation, but closer to it than present. The locals even spoke of some distant tribe called "Yyth", who apparently had laser weapons. If this Yyth could be conquered, and Keth was certain he could out-think any Tasalian savage, lasguns or no, then the deserters could truly live like kings. For now, however, they had to make do with the cave and the cold and the inescapable stink.

 

Private Salf was manning the autocannon at the window. He turned to his loader, Krisc, and whispered to him urgently. Keth saw the colour bleed from Krisc's face as he scurried over.

"There's a Space Marine coming!" he hissed. "Black armour and a skull helm! They've found us! They've frakking found us!"

Keth struck him to stop the babbling. "Get it together!" he spat. Then he strode quickly to the opening and peered through. Sure enough, there was a Space Marine Chaplain, having emerged on the caravan trail out of nowhere.

"Must have come via the goat path. Krisc, go warn the others we have company. Get ready for a fight."

"What are we going to do?" Salf asked.

Keth knelt down and gripped the ammo belt. "I'm going to load, you're going to fire. Make damn sure you hit him!"

 

 

There were many things that Hakan could have encountered that would not have surprised him. A barrage of autocannon fire was not amongst them.

 

The shots slammed home from nowhere. Hakan was knocked to the ground by the first volley and tumbled backward, scrabbling for purchase on the rough stone. His hand found an anchor point and he threw himself sideways, crashing into the raised ground at the roadside. It offered precious little cover, but it was better than none. His combi-bolter swung up toward the blazing cannon and he cracked off a trio of bolt rounds that bought him a moment's peace. He used it to charge forward, acting on instinct, and was almost at the perimeter wall when a second volley tore into him.

 

He collapsed against the wall, head spinning, and took a moment to assess his situation. He could taste blood, and there was a familiar ache of bullet wounds coming from his side. At least one rib was cracked, and his armour's abdominal motors were sluggish. A visual check revealed numerous gouges and deep impacts; not enough to break the plate, but even a small arms round might get through the weak spot.

 

The settlement itself was a bottleneck. The only way in was a single opening facing the cave. The outer wall could be scaled, but that would give the autocannon plenty of time to draw a bead, and Hakan didn't know how much more his armour could take.

 

The cannon had fallen silent, and Hakan could hear frantic movement behind the wall. He unhooked a pair of krak grenades from his belt and hurled them at the wall far to his right. As soon as they detonated he ran for the main gate, bolter raised and firing at the elevated weapon. The gunner's head exploded, and in Hakan's heightened state of awareness the fragments of skull and brain seemed to take an age to fall. Not that he paid them any heed; he was running for the cave, weapons readied, every sense straining for the slightest hint of a foe. The local warriors scattered before him, unwilling to challenge a Sky Warrior. Yet someone here was, and they were going to pay with their lives.

 

Deep down, he knew he should call for backup. If not because he was injured, then because he was clearly dealing with traitors of unknown number and fighting strength. But pride was a curse of the Chapter; their doctrine of self reliance created Marines who could be trusted to act independent of higher supervision, but it also led to Marines reluctant, or even outright refusing to call for aid. Hakan knew this, but the knowledge was buried beneath a primal, instinctual fury; he would carry the day alone, or die trying.