Inspirational Friday 2017: The Black Legion (until 1/5)

[Scourged]

@Olis: My friend, welcome. To answer your questions, yes the current topic is about the Alpha Legion, and no there are no limits! Simply write what you like within the prompt and submit. If you head to the first page of this topic, our fearless leader Kierdale has a full description of how the deadlines and judging process works (as well as a very long list of past topics and winners). Really, though, you can write whatever you like and submit it anytime. The prompts provided are just for fun and inspiration.

[Olis]

Grand! Thank you for the pointers, Scourged. I have work to do... :tu:

[Olis]

Hopefully, a HH era story will be OK...

 

Hidden Content

Tarantula

Parmas Latrodectus monitored the communications relaying from Theraphosa Squad. They were being taken apart by their foe. Sworn foe, in fact. Parmas watched a well-placed pict-feed as yet another of the beleaguered Alpha Legion unit fell, dragging his killer with him over the edge of the hab-spire railing. The railing itself gave way easily and tumbled after them.

The measured discipline from earlier in the mission had disappeared now that only two of them remained. Both Stirmi and his compatriot, Apophysis, knew the other lived but neither was in a position to immediately link up with them. Theraphosa himself was dead, bolt round to the face, and his second, Nhandu, had been ripped to shreds by several chainswords in succession. That was when the pair had split and sought to gain an advantage on their Ultramarine adversaries.

Now the hunt began. The enemy, the damnable Ultramarines, outnumbered the remains of Theraphosa by two to one. They knew where Stirmi had been, beginning their sweep there, though they weren’t sure of Apophysis’ position. Still, they were to sweep and clear. As ordered.

Parmas knew. He began to grin at his game.

Apophysis had powered down his battle plate and waited in the lee of the spires mag-generator. Each auspex pulse ran over the gigantic mechanism and, with the reduced output from Apophysis’ suit, he had effectively become invisible to them. He could not remain there for long but it afforded him the opportunity to break contact and strike from another quarter. But not right now. The placement of himself and his nemeses was wrong. Unless the fight moved to another floor or Stirmi distracted them for long enough, the Legionnaire had to wait. A roach skittered over his armour haphazardly, struggling to gain purchase. It fell, landing upside down and Apophysis shifted his boot. The soft crunch was markedly quieter than the skittering.

Stirmi, however, had been cornered by three sons of Macragge. One had already fallen as he discovered Stirmi, a shattered breastplate and distinct barks from bolt weaponry alerting the others quickly to where he was. They were immediately on him, bolt pistols and chainswords making short work of the isolated Alpha Legionnaire. He did, however, make a good account for himself – his combat blade had lodged itself deep in the eye socket of the squad leader. That left two. Stirmi himself, though, lay dismembered and broken.

Parmas began to consolidate his mnemonic purgation equipment and pack it away. Cultists would take care of its removal. He continued to monitor the last of Theraphosa. He held Squad Ctenizidus on standby.

Bolt shells bursting through the cheap hab-walls wounded and downed another of the Ultramarines, with Apophysis followed them in quick order, knocking the survivor sprawling. The first’s power plant had been ruptured, so it was unlikely he was going to be of any help to his brother. The second, however, blocked the blade aimed for his neck and disarmed Apophysis in one deft move. They grappled for the better part of a minute before the Ultramarine ripped Apophysis’ helmet off.

For a brief moment, he stared in confusion at his enemy’s visage. A stylised tattoo adorned Apophysis’ flesh. A large blue agemo, right in the middle of his brow. This opening was all Apophysis needed, striking at the neck-seal and crushing the Ultramarine’s windpipe. As he choked to death, the son of Guilliman reached to Apophysis’ face but the Alpha Legionnaire slapped the hand away and rose. The gurgling was silenced by a swift boot to the head. The last Ultramarine was then summarily executed. The Alpha Legionnaire tossed the now-empty bolt pistol back at its owner.

Parmas signalled to Squad Ctenizidus, to remove their own equipment and prepare for departure. He then headed to meet Apophysis. Squad Theraphosa had been victorious. Not only had the enemy dedicated time and men to hunting down Alpha Legion elements, they had lost the strategic advantage by doing so. The Alpha Legion still remained and the limited strike force of Ultramarines had lost a good number of men in the attempt. The spire had stayed in the hands of Parmas’ cohort.

Apophysis turned as he heard the approach of Parmas. He had already taken a bolter and scrounged ammunition from the dead, but was not concerned. He was being reinforced, as Parmas had promised. Squad Ctenizidus languidly followed their leader at arm’s length.

Parmas Latrodectus stopped in front of the waiting Apophysis and, with all the detachment in the galaxy, blew his head off. The body fell amongst the other corpses. He thought back to the trouble that this little endeavour had cost him and smiled again. He scuffed the armour of Apophysis with his boot, revealing a deeper blue under the newer one.

It had been… tricky.

Yet the satisfaction of watching two squads of Ultramarines rip each other to pieces had been a thrill.

[Kierdale]

Thanks for answering those questions, Scourged :)

And yes, 30k or any setting is fine :tu:

If someone wanted to write sometime post-40k even I'd love to see how they think the Long War might end...

 

Perhaps that might be a good theme for a future IF :)

[Olis]

Question: Are you still looking for Death Guard entries?

[Kierdale]

It's too late to make a grab for the Pox Amulet ;), but we're always looking for entries for past themes :)

[Honda]

Who Hunts the Hunter?

 

 

Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. - Gen 3:1

 

 

 

+++

 

Jorda could feel consciousness slipping away with every heartbeat.

 

<nick>

 

The safety of the forest she was depending on had turned into an orchestra of knives and blood. Each turn or pause resulted in a fresh cut, a little more of her precious lifeblood yielded from rent flesh,  her  assailant <was there more than one?> invisible, silent, and relentless.

 

<nick>

 

Her world was reduced by every slash.

 

+++

 

Initially, this mission started out like so many others.

 

Her body was subjected to a multitude of poly-morphine treatments, endocrine washes, and hypno-conditioning. Then something unusual and unsettling took place. When the treatment had completed, her body did not feel like her own anymore, that some other agent was in control. When she questioned the medicae servitor, it merely responded that the accelerated gene therapy protocol had been successfully applied.

 

She had never heard of gene therapy before, but questioning the servitor only returned the same response, "Accelerated gene therapy protocol successful."

 

Before she could pursue her concerns further, an anesthesia servitor injected her with medicants and the edges of her world slowly folded into darkness.

 

She awoke to unfamiliar surroundings.

 

Her entire body was restrained to a medicae gurney. A servitor hovering near her shoulder, stated in a monotone voice that "immobility during the recovery period would be enforced."

 

This time, Jorda was unable to question the servitor.

 

They had done something to her throat.

 

+++

 

When consciousness returned, a servitor declared that the surgery was successful, allowing her training to continue. For a brief moment, she wondered what the consequences would have been if it had failed.

 

During her rehabilitation, she was informed that the physiology of the human throat would not allow her to meet specific operational parameters. The servitor explained that she would be expected to converse in the language of the alien breed known as T'au.

 

Therefore modification of her vocal mechanisms was required. She was told that this assignment required an ability to converse in their native language. Other operational requirements would be revealed later.

 

The surgery bothered her.

 

It was explained that she had undergone an extensive set of operations to remove her human esophagus and replaced it with an alien's equivalent. She never had a chance to ask where the "equivalent" had come from, nor if it should have been placed inside her.

 

The pace of her preparations accelerated.

 

The next day, more revelations came as the bandages on her hands were removed.

 

Her hands had changed.

 

She no longer wielded the delicate, deadly fingers she was born with. Instead a much less elegant four fingered appendage formed at the end of her arm. She also noticed that her skin tone had turned a light blue. Since there were no mirrors present, she could not see how her facial structure had changed, only that it felt... different.

 

Alien.

 

The sound of her breathing had changed. She no longer felt the warmth of her exhalations upon her upper lip. Now when she exhaled, the sound emanated from higher up, closer to her eyes.

 

+++

 

Once she had healed and the transplanted alien voice mechanism was deemed "viable", she began an intense curriculum of Xeno linquistics and mental reconditioning. Soon she began to listen to transcripts of intercepted T'au vox communications to familiarize herself with intonation and vocal cadences.

 

The training was incessant and brutal. There were no breaks. Jorda could not remember the last time she had slept.

 

She was attended to by a cadre of servitors. She never ate, being fed intravenously. She was told that these precautions were to ensure that no damage occurred to her speaking apparatus.

 

No human contact was allowed.

 

+++

 

The next phase of her training was even more unconventional.

 

She was conducted to a softly lit, plain white room. The only contents were a large screen fastened to a wall framed by banks of vox emitters, a chair, a broad shallow table and several microphones.

 

A headset rested on the table before the chair.

 

Jorda sat down, put the headset on and waited.

 

For many long moments nothing happened.

 

Suddenly, the screen flashed, COMMUNICATION IMMINENT followed by one word:

 

LISTEN.

 

She heard the sound of a conversation between two individuals. She did not know who they were, nor understand what they were saying.

 

The screen flashed, CLOSE YOUR EYES.

 

LISTEN.

 

Jorda complied and as if a switch had been turned on she understood. It was as if the two individuals began speaking in her native language. She was hearing their conversation in their language.

 

Slowly, her head began to nod in rhythm with the conversation's cadence.

 

+++

 

Many weeks had passed since that initial session. Jorda no longer just listened to the conversations.

 

Soon she was sending communications and interacting with T'au individuals.

 

The vox screen told her what to say and she obeyed. Her training had transitioned directly to the actual mission.

 

What had also changed was the nature of her communications. Initially, the vox screen would present statements of fact or queries for the respondent to answer. The responders always dutifully complied with the requests.

 

Then everything changed again.

 

The vox screen flashed, TARGET LOCATION IDENTIFIED, followed by a string of instructions.

 

TRANSPORTATION IMMINENT.

 

MISSION OBJECTIVE TO FOLLOW.

 

ATTACH DEVICE TO TARGET.

 

Two images flashed on the screen.

 

The first was apparently a device followed by an arrow pointing at the second. The second was much larger than the first. She noticed that on the side of the target a metal plate was inscribed with the letters "TRD.Z".

 

The last image was a line diagram of a set of buildings along with a highlighted path. After five seconds, the image faded and the vox screen went dark.

 

The door to her room opened to a lighted hall as the lights in her room flickered out.

 

Time to go.

 

+++

 

The infiltration of the T'au compound was surprisingly easy.

 

As Jorda moved through the complex, she sensed a design philosophy firmly rooted in an overconfidence in technology. This allowed her unfettered access to apparently every area of the complex. Along the path she had memorized, multiple encounters with drone/AI security stations occurred.

 

It seemed that as long as she was able to pass what she assumed were 3D scanning protocols while responding to the audio challenge, the armed sentry systems would let her travel wherever she wanted.

 

The absence of organic controls struck her as very practical, efficient, and effective.

 

It was also extremely naive.

 

The Imperium would never have relied on so simplistic an approach in an area as critical as security. Systems can be hacked <had they?>, organizations compromised, operatives infiltrated.

 

Except for the security checks, the rest of her journey was uneventful.

 

Jorda wasn't the only person in the complex. Many T'au were walking on sidewalks or riding on conveyors. She observed almost no interaction between anyone. It struck her as odd, and she briefly wondered what kept a society together that did not interact on a personal level.

 

It certainly made her task much easier.

 

She stood in front of the door where the target was located and mentally prepared herself. When the security protocols finished processing her response, the portal opened and she immediately launched into action.

 

There were three T'au in the room.

 

Banks of diagnostic equipment lined the walls. Other machines orbited the target located on a raised and lighted dais.

 

The T'au looked up from their workstations at her as if deep in thought, expressionless.

 

She charged into the room.

 

The closest T'au died from a strike to its neck, instantly severing the spinal cord.

 

The second dropped to the floor after she stabbed it in the eye with a stylus shaped device.

 

The third T'au fumbled with a data slate, perhaps attempting to call security. Jorda crossed the room and punched through the T'au's chest with her four fingered hand.

 

All this took approximately 2.7 seconds.

 

5.007 seconds later, security blared, presumably as a result of the dead T'au biometric traces no longer being published to their network.

 

No matter, her mission was nearly complete.

 

Next she slowly ejected from her abdomen, a pouch containing the first device displayed in her training. Once the device was attached to the target, she pressed the activation button and stepped back.

 

The edges of her vision darkened, followed by a blinding flash that filled the room. When the light finally faded away, the target was gone.

 

Jorda left the room and retraced her steps back to the compound's entrance. She kept her head down, continually scanning the surroundings within her peripheral vision. Interspersed with the plodding masses, armed security teams accompanied by weapons-bearing drones moved in the opposite direction she was traveling. Multiple squadrons of the weapon drones also sped at high speed in the same direction as the security teams.

 

Exiting the compound had been as easy as entering, but then she paused.

 

Now what?

 

It did not occur to her until now that her instructions did not include any extraction protocols.

 

Stunned by the revelation, she quickly reviewed the plan. How had she missed this detail? Was she not expected to succeed?

 

Moving to avoid thinking about the implications of that line of thought, she traveled in a manner designed to confuse any pursuing forces.

 

Then another shock. Her body would not respond to her muscle commands. She was unable to shed her current form and return to her natural shape.

 

Holding her anxiety at bay, she stopped to formulate a plan.

 

Which is when the first cut occurred.

 

<nick>

 

She never saw where the attack came from. She was only aware that her brow had been sliced open and that she was bleeding across her left eye.

 

<nick>

 

The second cut caused blood to run down her face as well as into her nasal area. Everything smelled like  blood.

 

Her battle reflexes quickly turned her to face the attacker.

 

There was no one there.

 

Jorda ran.

 

After sprinting through the trees for several kilometers, she stopped to catch her breath. She could see that she was leaving a trail of blood. Somehow, she had to get back to her Order and report what had happened. They had to be made aware of what had happened.

 

<nick>

 

Jorda shrieked in pain as the next cut landed directly across the Achilles tendon of her right leg. Using her good leg, she somersaulted back into some nearby brush, rolling down a hill. Each impact elicited a grunt of pain.

 

She had to escape.

 

Keep moving.

 

<nick>

 

Unwilling to give up, she pulled herself along the ground, since neither of her legs functioned.

 

<nick>

 

It would not be much longer now...

 

<nick>

 

...she was bleeding out...

 

<nick>

[Kierdale]

Azekai, your Death Guard entry was fantastic. I just got around to reading it. Excellent writing of both the Death Guard and the Iron Warrior in my opinion :tu:

 

I haven't read anyone's Alpha Legion stories yet but will get started on those posted so far once I've posted my own entry!

[Azekai]

Azekai, your Death Guard entry was fantastic. I just got around to reading it. Excellent writing of both the Death Guard and the Iron Warrior in my opinion

 

I haven't read anyone's Alpha Legion stories yet but will get started on those posted so far once I've posted my own entry!

Thanks Kierdale, that means a lot coming from you! 

 

Not that I am getting antsy or nothin', but any word from Dogwelder?  

[Iron Father Ferrum]

I humbly submit the following for contention.

 

Clump, clump. . . clump, shuffle.  There it was again.  The unmistakable cadence of footsteps, but he’d never heard anything that sounded like that.  It was like giants were shuffling their feet while wearing boots made of metal.  None of the knife-gangs this deep in the hive wore armor like that.  Throne, nobody this deep in the hive could afford armor of any kind.

 

The boy padded as silently as he could towards the sounds.  Every now and then he would hear something else too, not just the footsteps.  Muted clicks that would echo faintly up and down the darkened corridors.  The occasional voice, speaking softly but in such a deep baritone that it couldn’t help but carry a little through the still air.  He wondered who it was, why they were here.  The local enforcers – “local” being a somewhat nebulous term in Sump City; the closest enforcer sub-station was about twenty levels up-hive – never came down this far.  He’d heard tales of the feared Arbitrators: beasts of men clad in night-black plate with booming shot-cannons, crackling stun mauls, and accompanying by baying cyber-mastiffs that would tear a ganger in half.  But no one had seen an Arbitrator down here, either.  Not in living memory, at least.

 

The boy worked his way ever closer to the commotion.  Sump City was, as far as he knew, at the base of the hive.  Massive pipe works dominated the area, bringing clean water up from giants wells sunk into the roots of the planet and sending down the refuse from the up-hive recycling stations.  The knife-gangs fought bitterly over every leak in the up-flow pipes; fresh water, even with a little rust in it, was so much better than the bitter, chemical-infused stuff you could get out of a recyc machine.  The lowest of the low had to make due with drippings from the sewage pipes.  No one ever fought over those leaks, and no one lived off of them for long, for that matter.

 

The boy was one of the lucky ones.  He and his mother and his little sister had found a leak in one of the smaller pipes; instead of a pipe fifty meters across, it was only about as wide as he was.  It branched off from the main to go where Emperor-knew-where, and was exposed in the ceiling of a small alcove only about a hundred meters away from Sump City’s small market square.  It was a miracle no one had found it when they had stumbled across it.  They hadn’t told anyone.  They kept it a secret.  It was a small leak, little more than a steady drip from around a few loose bolts, but it was enough to keep them alive.  And it was clean.

 

His mother had kept him away from the knife-gangs, and that wasn’t easy.  Stubbers were such a rare commodity down here, and anyone who owned a firearm was the kind of person everyone steered clear of.  But knives?  They were easy to make and easy to find.  Wielding a blade was a survival skill in Sump City.  Either you could defend yourself and your family, or you were dead.  It was that simple.  The gangs fought over everything.  Water leaks, breeding stock, sheet metal to make more knives, it didn’t matter.  His mother had been a slave once, owned by the Four Fingers.  She’d learned how to use a knife too, and then she hadn’t been a slave anymore.

 

The boy was pale, his skin a sickly white from never having been kissed by a sun.  He honestly didn’t know his hair color since his mother kept it shaved to the scalp so that there was less for the fleas and lice to hang on to.  He was still coming into his majority, still all skin and bones.  That was good, she told him; as long as he was lanky and not muscular, the knife-gangs would be less interested in him.  But he was dexterous.  His mother had traded for a good knife for him, and he drew it now as he crept closer to the disturbance.  The handle was bone wrapped in leather, the blade hammered from a section of broken pipe.  He kept it sharp, and he was good with it.  One of the Four Fingers had come back for his mother a few months ago, and the boy had made sure no one ever saw that bastard again.  Old Man Morley had tried to kidnap his little sister, too.  That hadn’t gone well for Old Man Morley, either.

 

And all the while, the clumps and clicks and muffled voices had gotten louder and louder as the boy got closer and closer.  There was a new sound now, like a tremor in the air.  Something subsonic, like a deep bass hum that set his teeth buzzing.  He clambered slowly up a piece of empty ductwork and climbed into the pipe where a gash in the side had opened it to the stale air.  He slithered down the pipe as quietly as he could, trying not to slosh the tepid . . . whatever the liquid in it could be called . . . until he got to another section where a shot cannon blast had filled the duct with holes.  He peered through one such aperture and had to hold back a gasp.

 

Those weren’t gangers.  They weren’t enforcers.  Some twisting feeling in his gut told him they weren’t Arbitrators either.

 

The room he was viewing was little more than a relatively open junction of several corridors.  They were about half a kilometer from the market, and it was downtime so most of Sump City’s residents would be sleeping (or thieving, as the case may be).  He recognized a few of the people in the room.  Most were boys his age or thereabouts, some from Sump City’s huddled families and others were obviously initiates from the knife-gangs.  He saw tattoos from the Staring Daggers, the mutilated hands of Four Fingers, the brutish builds favored by Sword Slingers.  But the other boys aren’t what drew his attention.

 

The room was also filled by giants.  They had the shape of men, but they were massive, easily twice the height of any of the younglings in the chamber with them.  They were wearing what he assumed was armor of some kind, great glistening plates of metal in a mesmerizing blue-green pattern.  They were the source of all the sounds he’d heard.  The clumps were their heavily armored foot-falls as they shuffled about.  The clicks emanated from their helmets, as if they were conversing like acid roaches.

 

He was frozen in fear for a matter of seconds.  When his mind decided that this was not a good place to be, the boy started backing away with every intention of sneaking back out of the pipe and fleeing to the alcove he shared with his family.

 

He never got the chance.  An armored gauntlet punched its way up through the duct wall beside him, gripped the now-loose metal, and yanked it back down.  The ducting, already old and rusted, gave way easily and half the pipe fell from the ceiling.  The giant caught it before it could hit the ground and make even more noise, and then upended the section.  The boy tumbled out of it in a tide of slop.

 

He jumped to his feet and whipped the knife out of his belt.  The giant gently placed the section of piping on the floor at his feet, then stepped forward with his hand held out to grab the boy.  He ducked under the hand and came quickly inside the giant’s reach with his blade leading.  It was a killing stroke, stabbing into the plate underneath where the rib cage would have ended and piercing straight up into the bottom of the right lung.  Except the blade hit the giant’s armor and simply stopped with an audible ting.

 

The giant swatted the knife away and grabbed the boy about the scruff of his neck and lifted him up.  He turned to one of his compatriots, and the boy heard another round of clicking noises from the being’s helmet.

 

The giant then put him down, resting the boy on his feet but kept a firm, ever so slightly painful, grip on his shoulder to keep him from running.  One of the other giants walked over to them and stared down in silence at the boy for a moment.  Then he did the last thing the boy expected.  The giant kneeled before him, then lifted his hands to his horned helmet.  There was a hiss of escaping air, and then the helmet lifted free.

 

The giant’s face was human.  Huge, definitely, but noticeably human.  His features were over-large, perhaps, but the skin was an exotic golden-brown the boy had never seen before on a person.  His featured were crisscrossed by old scars, and there was one particularly vicious cut that started above the bridge of his nose and slashed down diagonally across his right eye and cheek.  His eyes were the one thing that was not normal.  The irises were not round like they should have been.  They were instead slitted, vertically.  Like a sump cat’s eyes.  No, the boy thought.  That comparison seemed intrinsically wrong.  A sewer-saur’s eyes seemed a more apt analogy.

 

“Hello, young man,” the kneeling giant said.  His voice was pitched low, not quite a whisper but obviously trying to keep as quiet as possible.  “Quite the sneak, aren’t you?”  He picked up the boy’s discarded knife and studied it for a moment before adding, “And quick, too.”  He cast his gaze at another of the giants and asked, “How did we miss this one?”

 

The giant who responded was, for lack of a better term, monstrous.  His helmet was no mere device, it was his face.  The grill was fashioned into a fanged maw, and when the giant spoke, the fanged grill moved like actual lips.  There was something indescribably terrifying in the way that the blue-green metal moved so organically.  “We never logged his appearance in the market or at any of the gang lairs,” the monster replied.

 

The kneeling giant looked back at the boy and, of all things, he smiled.  “Don’t be afraid of me, lad, or my companions.  I know we can be strange to your eyes, but I promise: we’re not here to hurt you.”  The giant extended his massive gauntlet to the boy in the ages-old gesture of greeting.  “My name is Occam.  The scary looking one there is Ozzymandias.  The one holding you?  That’s Oan.  What’s your name?”

 

The boy swallowed heavily before tentatively taking the giant’s hand (really, just a few fingers).  “My name’s Obi,” he said in a small voice.

 

The incongruous smile on the giant named Occam only widened.  “Of course it is.”

 

The boy cocked his head, suddenly more curious than frightened.  “What does that mean?”

 

“It means that I, like the gods, do not play with dice and do not believe in coincidence.”  Occam withdraw his hand from Obi’s meagre grip and pulled a device from a pouch at his hip.  Obi immediately tried to squirm away, but the other giant kept him relatively immobile.  “Don’t be afraid, Obi.  I know it looks scary, but this device isn’t going to hurt you, either.  This needle?  I’m going to use it to take a blood sample.  It will sting just a little and you might feel a touch light-headed, but it will be over before you know it.”  Obi looked away as Occam slipped the needle into the flesh of his arm, expecting the worst, but the giant was right.  There was a slight pinch for a moment, and then nothing.  He opened his eyes again to watch Occam swirl the dark red blood – his blood – around the insides of a vial and then insert the tube into a slot at the base of the device.  It burbled for a moment, then chirped softly.  A bright green light on the side of the device clicked on.

 

Occam grinned again and waved the monster – Ozzy-something? – over to Oan and his prisoner.  “This one,” he told the monster, “is a perfect genic match.  Embed the engrams in his mind and log his name and home area for Oscuro to come down on a recruiting trip in about two years, sidereal.”

 

Obi felt his mouth go dry.  He didn’t understand what the giants were talking about, but by the tone of Occam’s voice, he knew it was nothing good.  Managing to work a little saliva back into his mouth, he asked, “What are you going to do with me?”

 

Occam placed a hand on Obi’s shoulder.  It was supposed to be comforting and familiar, but the weight, the feel. . . it was anything but.  “My dear boy, you are going to help me destroy a planet.”

 

The boy’s mind whirled in confusion and he felt his jaw drop open.  “What. . .?  What planet?”

 

Occam smiled again, but this time it twisted his face into something that truly stole the warmth from Obi’s body.  It was like staring down a sump-snake.  “Why, this one, of course.  Ghorstangrad.”

[Kierdale]

 

Azekai, your Death Guard entry was fantastic. I just got around to reading it. Excellent writing of both the Death Guard and the Iron Warrior in my opinion :tu:

I haven't read anyone's Alpha Legion stories yet but will get started on those posted so far once I've posted my own entry!

 

Thanks Kierdale, that means a lot coming from you! 

Not that I am getting antsy or nothin', but any word from Dogwelder?

Well, I PM'd DogWelder on the 16th but they haven't yet read it.

I'll give it another day and if they do not post then I award you the Pox Amulet. To be honest even if DogWelder chose one of my entries I would refuse it.

I really wanted to do a DG piece about their time 'lost' in the warp and the submission to Nurgle, but just couldn't get it to work in my head (not enough DG/Nurgle knowledge, for one), but you got some of that in there in a way I couldn't. :tu:

[Teetengee]

 

 

Azekai, your Death Guard entry was fantastic. I just got around to reading it. Excellent writing of both the Death Guard and the Iron Warrior in my opinion

I haven't read anyone's Alpha Legion stories yet but will get started on those posted so far once I've posted my own entry!

Thanks Kierdale, that means a lot coming from you! 

Not that I am getting antsy or nothin', but any word from Dogwelder?

Well, I PM'd DogWelder on the 16th but they haven't yet read it.

I'll give it another day and if they do not post then I award you the Pox Amulet. To be honest even if DogWelder chose one of my entries I would refuse it.

I really wanted to do a DG piece about their time 'lost' in the warp and the submission to Nurgle, but just couldn't get it to work in my head (not enough DG/Nurgle knowledge, for one), but you got some of that in there in a way I couldn't.

 

I had similar plans, but not the time to execute...

[Kierdale]

As we have not yet heard from DogWelder, I'm taking it upon myself as IF master of ceremonies to award Azekai the Pox Amulet for submitting the best entry for Inspirational Friday: Death Guard. To me your work truly captured how a plague marine 'lives' and thinks. The writing about his conversion was, as I said, something I had wanted to do but just couldn't.

Step forward and take your prize:

...and with it comes the duty of judging IF: Alpha Legion.

So get reading ;)

(Unless you really want/need to relinquish judging to me)

[Azekai]

As we have not yet heard from DogWelder, I'm taking it upon myself as IF master of ceremonies to award Azekai the Pox Amulet for submitting the best entry for Inspirational Friday: Death Guard. To me your work truly captured how a plague marine 'lives' and thinks. The writing about his conversion was, as I said, something I had wanted to do but just couldn't.

Step forward and take your prize:

...and with it comes the duty of judging IF: Alpha Legion.

So get reading

(Unless you really want/need to relinquish judging to me)

Thank you Kierdale! I think the unhealthy weirdness of plague marine psychology is likely why they haven't been featured much in the Black Library; difficult to identify with creatures so wretched.

I have been reading these entries, and this is going to be a difficult choice... but I will do my best. For the Emperor!

Edited August 23, 2017 by Azekai

[Kierdale]

The great majority of my entries feature my Slaaneshi renegades the Psychopomps. This entry is unashamedly another in that series, featuring a character – an Alpha Legion agent – I brought in back before I was at the helm of IF, in Feb 2015 with my entry for Inspirational Friday: Chaos Assassins.

They’s not required reading in order to understand Unmasked, but if anyone is interested...

Librarian-turned-sorcerer Holusiax’s rebirth and corruption. and Jinx’s introduction in `Reborn`

 

 

Unmasked

Hidden Content

Was the puppet better off knowing that they were a tool of their master? Or that a master indeed existed?

The agents of the Alpha Legion were numerous and Jinx wondered how many of her peers knew that they served the Hydra. If one served a local crime lord and was captured by a rival, one could sell out their employer for passage on a vessel to another system and likely survive. But to know that you served the Legion you knew there was no escape. It instilled one with a great sense of loyalty, born of great fear.

 

 

As they closed in on her she knew they had been sent by the Legion. No one else could have planned the trap so meticulously, could have set so tempting a bait. Not even her adopted war band.

No matter which way she turned, she could sense them. Many were beneath her: pawns and cannon fodder, likely they did not know who they worked for nor who or what they hunted, but there were enough of them that if she tried to get through them the commotion would surely draw the real operatives. And with the speed that they were coming, she did not have the time to concentrate and use her knife to escape behind the veil.

Five fell: one, a toxin-coated blade embedded in his eye; two with their neural pathways shredded by her pistol; four sliced open with her knife and the last she punched her fingers through the throat of before his accomplices caught her with their webbers.

She was an assassin, an agent of the Hydra, and as they took her she knew they wouldn’t kill her.

 

Consciousness did not return with the grogginess that drug residue in one’s system usually brought, it returned in an instant with unbelievable agony. Her face was afire. She immediately remembered the cathedral on Cyprius III: the twisted monster that had once been the chief librarian of the Stygian Guard, turned into a psychic black hole. An abomination. She had used Holusiax, second of the Guard’s librarius, to strike at the creature and by all accounts it had been he who finally slew it. Her own face had been flayed, skin and muscle, down to the bone, by a blast from the monster’s cavernous maw. It was that horrendous memory which she now relived.

Because the mask had been removed.

The mask had been removed and though she heard voices, calm and controlled in tone, she registered them as noise but could concentrate on naught but the agony of her raw, exposed face.

She had lost flesh before: her left hand had been carefully reconstructed from vat-grown muscle tissue and flesh by the Legion chirurgeons, and had managed to complete that mission with a skinned arm, but this pain was far worse. A thought passed through her mind: was it this the Stygian Guard – now the Psychopomps – felt as they strapped themselves into their Infernal Engine? Could it be pain of this magnitude that they strove to experience?

And the fact that the wound, even after all these years, was unhealed and excruciating, indicated to her that the wound was indeed unnatural. An injury to her soul as much as her flesh.

“The mask! My face! My face!”

More voices.

 

Servo arms extruded from the darkness about her and needles sank into her slender neck. The pain receded.

Sensation returned to her body and she could feel the restraints about her limbs. She was naked, her scarred body strapped to a slab. She could see the darkness and the three figures before her. Could hear filtered breathing and the hum of electrics and engines. She was aboard a ship.

There was either three Alpha Legionnaires before her: one immediately ahead and one to each side of the first, or only one and the other two were reflections. She could not move her head to see if there were more to her sides. That their stances were identical and their breathing seemingly synchronized added to the illusion.

“Why did you not return?” The interrogation began.

“The mask! Return it! Please!” she screamed between panted breaths.

“We have you on the best pain balms and unguents. You do not require it. Why did you not return?” She couldn’t even tell from which of the marines the voice came from.

“The mask!” She pleaded. The concoctions they now pumped into her numbed the pain in her nerves but not that in her mind, and she knew that only the mask’s return would calm that.

“It is being studied as we speak. We made you, Jinx. We gave you all you need. You do not need the mask. Why did you not return?”

 

 

Years Earlier

She awoke, the memory of the psychic blast raw in her mind, her hands flying to her face only to stop as they struck the cold, stone surface of a mask. She found its edges, the flesh there raw and bloody, and tried to remove it. It would not budge no matter how hard she tugged at it, digging her fingertips into the ruined skin at the sides of her face, her scalp and her jawline until blood flowed. She screamed in frustration and at the memory of what had happened.

“You are ssafe. You are alive.”

She spun, taking in her surroundings at last: the inside of a rhino, spent bolter magazines and discarded packaging littering the floor, Chaotic symbols scrawled and carved into every surface. Holusiax addressed her. The sorcerer, for he was a librarian no more, had once been a space marine. Loyal to the Golden Throne. He had been caught by the cults of this world – Cyprius III – early during the Stygian Guard chapter’s assault (that itself a follow up to the disappearance of their first company here years before). She knew not what had happened to him during his captivity but his lower torso was now that of a roseate serpent and a second pair of arms, slim and lilac in colour, sprouted from under his muscular Astartes arms. He had been transformed, reborn even, in the image of Slaanesh. And he had saved her.

“The final assault will commence ssoon,” his voice was distorted by the forked tongue he spoke with, “in which our chapter masster will throw down the grand maguss of thesse weakling cultss and he will bring the errant first captain to heel.” He spoke as if it were prophecy.

Even as she listened she took in her surroundings. The rhino was on the move. To this final battle, no doubt. Her weapons were nowhere to be seen. Did the chapter, evidently having embraced their fall as Holusiax had, not trust her? No great surprise, though perhaps they underestimated her: she was unbound, and was confident she could slay the sorcerer and escape unarmed. Unless the mask upon her face granted him some control over her.

“You aided me in sslaying the beast that Diarthet, my former masster, had become,” he went on, studying her, “for that I thank you, and ask you once again why?”

She ran her fingertips over the contours of the mask. It was smooth, evidently fine craftsmanship, and cold to the touch. Heavy too, but not tiring for one as fit as she. It had pointed ears and she soon realized it had a daemonic, wicked visage with a harsh brow and a mouth of fangs.

The left shoulder pad of her bodysuit had an image of three interwined serpents upon it, teal upon the blue-green sheen of her suit. She pointed to it and the sorcerer nodded.

“The Legion sent you. But why?”

She looked out through the eye holes of the mask at him.

“They foresaw his fall. His transformation. They sent me to destroy him.” She had no doubt that, if he possessed such abilities, the sorcerer was scrying the truth of her words.

“Why?”

She inclined her head. “Do you know why your patron saw fit to save you?”

That brought a smile to the sorcerer’s face. Great powers worked in mysterious ways. There was also the implication that, like her, he was but a tool of his master’s will.

“And now you return to them. Mission complete.”

It was at that point that she broke eye contact with him and it was his turn to tilt his head to a side, folding his lower, daemonic arms across his waist as he regarded the woman, still seated on the deck of the rhino.

“I am not your prisoner?”

“I have seen you fight. While attempting to confine you might prove exhilarating, it might also prove fatal and, having only just been reborn I am somewhat keen to avoid a second death.”

That provoked a grunt, Holusiax believed of mirth, from the assassin.

After a minute’s silence she reached up and detached the armour plate from shoulder of her bodysuit. The plate with the entwined serpents on it.

“My mission is complete.”

“They will come for you.”

“Then make use of me.”

 

 

“Then you have betrayed the Legion and will be destroyed.”

At last one of the three legionnaires moved independent of the others, the one to her right turning to face the one in the middle. “Has she?”

The marine on the left faced her. So there were indeed three. “And they believed you?” he asked incredulously, ignoring the comments of the other two.

She spoke through gritted teeth, with every breath wanting to scream out for the mask to be replaced, to take away the pain. “Initiation wasn’t easy.”

The leftmost marine nodded, indicating the scars upon her body. Far more than before she had been sent on the Cyprius III mission. “Evidently. Your body and mind are scarred.”

“You are damaged. Corrupted. A broken weapon is of no use to us.” Middle. She did not rise to his provocations.

“Why did you choose to stay with the Stygian Guard?” Right.

“What did you learn?” Left.

“I sent encrypted transmissions out, piggybagged to their own comms and hypno-encoded messages via their astropaths,” she spat. “Read them.”

“We have.” Right.

And that was no doubt how they had traced and caught her, she knew.

“But such transmissions are no substitute for a true reading,” Middle said, leaning forward, and she broke out in a cold sweat as she realized that he was a psyker.

The pain balms held at bay the physical agony of separation from the jade mask, but her mental barriers were shattered as the Alpha Legion librarian drove a psychic probe into her mind.

Her screams sounded distant even to herself as years of memories flashed before her eyes like a broken cogitator spool.

 

 

“We are reattaching your mask. It has been scanned and found to be inert. Merely a carved jade mask of unknown origin. Likely carved on one of the worlds within the Eye. It is naught but a placebo, Jinx.”

She could not respond, her body was drenched in sweat, her limbs ached from straining at the straps that held them, and her mind was awash with shredded visions and images. Foam dribbled from her mouth.

“Why? Why?” She managed to whimper eventually.

“You will return to the Psychopomps. You will continue as their agent. As our agent.”

Servo arms slowly lowered the jade mask down over her face. As the cool stone touched the raw flesh of her face she felt like a diver breaking the surface of the water after too long. The pain in her body and her mind vanished.

 

 

‘I did as you demanded,’ she told the voice in her mind.

`We are as one once more.`

 

 

Left turned to face his comrades.

“The psychic keys have been implanted?”

Middle nodded.

“She is ready.”

[Kierdale]

Six entries in Inspirational Friday 2017: Alpha Legion! A good number and very good quality too. It seems many were inspired to write about the hydra...even an entry from one of our more ZEALOUS brethren. Many thanks to all who submitted their work.

Adreal gave us Snake In Sheep’s Clothing, in which a lord commander struggling to quell a rebellion is distraught to discover that Astartes have arrived to deal with the issue, only for him to them discover which Astartes have come...

Scourged’s piece was In Plain Sight, showing us just how far and how deeply the Alpha Legion had penetrated not only a planetary government...

Tarantula was Olis’s Horus Heresy-era entry showing that the Alpha Legion is just as deceptive in `open` combat.

Honda gave us Who Hunts the Hunter?. I enjoyed the description of the agent’s transformation and the way she saw the Tau defences and technology. It appears the Legion, once used, discards its tools...

Iron Father Ferrum wrote about a sump youth stumbling over Legionnaires rounding up and coercing other dwellers of a hive’s lower levels, laying the plans to bring down a world. Googling the planet name and seeing it was in established 40K fluff but not fleshed out was nice. Inspirational Friday is a chance for us to show how we think those little gaps could be filled in.

And lastly I gave you Unmasked: the (ex?) Legion assassin Jinx having been caught by her (former?) masters is forcibly debriefed and separated from the jade mask which she has worn since she infiltrated the Psychopomps of her own volition.

It was nice to see a mix of stories with some focusing on the agents of the Hydra, and some on the Legionnaires themselves.

I hereby close the 15th challenge of IF2017, but if anyone has more stories on that theme, at any time, please post them here with a suitable title.

And here begins our sixteenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2017:

Desert Warfare

Back in October last year we got wet with Inspirational Friday: Aquatic Combat and the heat of summer (for those of us in the northern hemisphere at least) now brings us to Inspirational Friday: Desert Warfare, where the elements can sometimes be more dangerous than the actual enemy. Inhospitable terrain, low humidity, the importance of mobility, a lack of cover and wild-life in addition to extremes of temperature make the desert a truly punishing warzone.

Be it a siege of an oasis fortress, an ambush of a supply convoy, the hunt for an elusive foe or an all-out clash upon the sand, tell us this time a tale of desert warfare.

I invite armies from all the factions of 40k to submit entries, with the caveat that - protagonists or antagonists - at least one of the sides must be Chaos.

So slap on some sun lotion, oil your weapons, hydrate, hydrate, hydrate, leave your map at home ‘cause it all looks the same, and get ready for Inspirational Friday: Desert Warfare!

Inspirational Friday: Desert Warfare runs until the 8th of September.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Azekai.

To whomever is chosen as the victor goes the Hydra amulet:

...and the duty of judging IF: Desert Warfare.

And to whomever wins IF: Desert Warfare goes the Octed Amulet..

.

[Azekai]

I will pick this weekend after I double check make sure I read and weigh every entry... It is gonna be a tough call!

[Warsmith Aznable]

Lateral Thinking

 

Hidden Content

“You cannot refuse the Primarch’s command.” Consul-Delegatus Ambrus, more recently self-styled Lord of Spite, struck an imperious pose, pointedly looking away from the Warsmith.

 

The two Iron Warriors stood on the hard, flat plain many kilometers from the reaching, skeletal remains of the ancient Imperial hive complex. The Delegatus vainly posed in his polished artificer armour next to the Warsmith, his haughty attitude overshadowed by the brutish mass of battle scarred Terminator armour that seemed to barely contain the hulking Warsmith Bolverk.

 

“We shall save that argument for another date.” The Warsmith replied dismissively. His ruddy, craggy face looked all the more wilder for the halo of tangled and matted grey hair surrounding it. “The Lord of Iron asks this of me-”

 

“He commands it of you.” Amrbus interjected, the steel shutters his gold framed bionic eye irising into a narrow, accusing pin prick of red light. While the outside was smooth, cold, and mechanical, there was something unsavory, something other residing within its housing.

 

“-and because my gene-father asks this of me,” Bolverk continued, clearly annoyed but refusing to acknowledge the interruption. “I will have it done.”

 

“It will be a long and bitter fight.” Ambrus smiled cadaverously.

 

“I imagine it will.” Bolverk allowed, a distant expression upon his barbaric countenance.

 

“You seem distracted.” Ambrus finally deigned to look at the Warsmith. “Is it the thought of your precious battle station emptied and vulnerable to carry out a protracted siege?”

 

“No,” The Warsmith said simply, turning to look to the bright blue sky. “I was just thinking of my daughter.”

 

Ambrus was nonplussed. The two Iron Warriors stood in silence for a long while. Ambrus considered the many outrageous stories he had heard of this Warsmith, and decided that the only true thing to be learned from those wild tales was that Bolverk was mad as a sump rat.

 

Beyond the rusting, twisted remains of the long lost hive complex could be seen the faint shimmering of the outer void shields of the Imperial garrison. These loyalists were on the wrong side of the Cicatrix Maledictum, but they were well dug in and had recently been supplied by Guilleman himself. It could hardly be believed, but the 13^th Legion’s Primarch’s miraculous return to the Imperium had been verified by the 4^th Legion’s agents and informants to Lord Perturabo’s satisfaction many times over. The so-called Avenging Son’s fleet had appeared in an impossible number of locations in a ludicrously short period of time, reinforcing many such worlds as this one. Worlds that should have been easy prey, left to be mopped up by secondary forces or left to starve themselves into madness and death, were now long, poisoned thorns in the side of the Warmaster’s grand cataclysm that had to be dealt with by experts.

 

The shimmering blue-green of the void shields became more pronounced as the system’s star touched the horizon. The tall ruined spires of the old city cast shadows many kilometers long, and across the distance between the ruins and where the two Iron Warriors stood, the shadows of many thousands of ruined war machines and battle engines began to creep.

 

“I need to understand you, Lord of Spite.” Bolverk suddenly broke the silence. He shook his head, rubbed a gauntleted hand absently through his unruly beard, and turned to look directly into the eyes of the Consul-Delegatus. “No. No, that’s not exactly right.”

 

“What are you getting at?” Ambrus snapped. “Speak directly for once.”

 

“I need you to understand me.” Bolverk leaned forward, still looking down at the Delegatus.

 

Ambrus stifled the instinct to step away from danger. His rank among the Lords of Medrengard had meant that only the Primarch himself had dared to menace him in many decades. He was by no means a coward, nor was he powerless. The sudden shift in tone had off put him and, he was not quite certain about this, but the Warsmith, already abnormally large, seemed to now be even larger.

 

“What do you know of this place, Ambrus?” Bolverk just as suddenly turned away, and just as suddenly seemed no larger than he was before.

 

“I know they have enough void shields, macro cannons, and flak that we had to park the Stormbird much too far away.” Ambrus found himself forcing those hard facts into an attempt at levity, and was instantly angry at himself for having let the Warsmith rattle him. He resolved not to let it happen again.

 

“I also know that is your problem, Bolverk, not mine.” Ambrus recovered his bearing and continued, sneering at Bolverk. “The Lord of Iron knows where you would rather be, but requires this task of you. I’ve done my own projections; this will be a long, difficult fight. It’s a pity you won’t be able to pay your debt to Warsmith Barnabas. I understand he is in great need of it.”

 

“You studied the fortifications and the terrain,” Bolverk said contemptuously. “But you weren’t once curious enough to learn about this planet’s history.”

 

The Consul-Delegatus’ reply was curtailed by the distant bass rumble of the Imperial fortress’ macro cannons. The mighty batteries of the sprawling complex began firing at a steady, drum-like pace, then quickly devolved into a frenzy of indistinct, continuous rumble that Ambrus felt deep in his chest. This was joined by the uneven cracking and thudding of atmospheric entries exploding from intense friction. The clear desert sky faded in a final, brilliant orange to a deep purple, then a clear, star filled black. The distant flashes and twinkling lights of an army of falling stars passed the furious streaks of ascending fire that sought orbital victims, all in never ending waves.

 

From horizon to horizon the shooting stars fell. Many thousands were small, and burned out high in the atmosphere. But a not insignificant number of them were large enough to reach the surface of the planet. Great geysers of dirt and rock erupted across the desert, carpeting the arid landscape in glittering debris. A handful careened through the bent girders of the ruined hive, sending assemblies of steel and concrete as large as void ships crashing down.

 

The scene was so captivating and spectacular that Ambrus was not aware of the Landraider’s approach from behind until the assault ramps dropped and the troop compartment’s red lights cast their shadows before him.

 

“Daddy!” A tall, lithe woman in garish, expensive clothes in an anachronistically piratical style bounded down the assault ramp and wrapped her arms girlishly around the Warsmith’s left arm.

 

“You are late, girl.” Bolverk admonished, pushing her away. “It is not the Way of the Legion to ignore precise timetables. My precise timetables.”

 

“What ludicrousness is this?” Ambrus recoiled from the fae-looking young woman.

 

In a flash of movement the girl in the ridiculous costume spun to face him, drawing her broad power cutlass in the same motion and expertly inserting the blade through the side of his neck. No major arteries were breached, and the tip of the blade penetrated just deep enough into his spine to severe his neural connexions to the rest of his body, but not decapitate him or otherwise end his life.

 

Ambrus fell helplessly and heavily to the hard, rocky ground. Eyes wide, face contorting, yet unable to form his spitting moans into coherent words. He could only rage impotently as a squad of Iron Warriors veterans tramped out of the Landraider dragging heavy chains and a cross made of iron beams. He bared his sharp, filed teeth and growled as he was lashed to the cross with chains. Ambrus stared with hatred as Bolverk personally positioned the iron X shape’s base so that its victim faced the same broad plain they had stared over together for several hours.

 

“A strategic planet, yes.” Bolverk was saying. “Once also a major population center. A terrible place to live, you know, very inhospitable to life, but the mines here made it worthwhile.”

 

Bolverk stopped pushing the iron X back and forth and stepped back, satisfied with his work.

 

“Metal ore and humans to fight for it,” Bolverk smiled mirthlessly at Ambrus. “That’s what brought the greenskin here.”

 

Bolverk leaned in and put his face near the Consul-Delegatus’ bionic eye. He slammed a fist into his chest in salute, then addressed the bionic eye directly.

 

“My Lord Perturabo,” Warsmith Bolverk said. “My honorable gene-father. You require this Imperial strongpoint destroyed or otherwise unable to hinder our war efforts. I have somewhere else to be, unfortunately, but I’m leaving brother Ambrus here to observe the action. I have no doubt that you will see this message, just as I have no doubt that this particular Imperial stronghold will be too busy with its own problems to cause you any dissatisfaction for a long time to come. You ever faithful son-”

 

“Hi grandpa!” The pirate woman leaned in and waved at the bionic eye, despite the Warsmith’s efforts to move her off.

 

“-Warsmith Bolverk, 49^th Grand Company, the Iron Hounds.”

 

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

 

The rain woke Ambrus from his tortured dreams, delivering him again to his tortured reality. It was dirty black rain, mixed with the sun blocking soot and dust from the fires of war and the initial bombardment of the 49^th Grand Company. The greenskins, spores long dormant on the parched desert world, had accelerated through their evolution at an astonishing pace thanks to the ice bombardment seeding the atmosphere with heavy, gravid water clouds and turning the hard pan of the desert to thick mud. Grots and runts skittered and squabbled through the wreckage of the titanic armour battle that had ruined the once prosperous Imperial world. Ambrus himself was now the possession of a group of Boyz, the first he had seen, and had been for perhaps a few weeks.

 

An engine roared to life, and gouts of green flame erupted in jagged spurts from just beyond his vision, sending roiling, choking smoke wafting into Ambrus’ face. The iron X that Bolverk’s warriors had chained him to had been mounted to some kind of war vehicle cobbled together from an unlikely collection of scrap.

 

How long had he been out? He was definitely having trouble remembering anything from moment to moment, and spent most of his time attempting to call out curses upon Bolverk’s name. The rasping, evil words delighted the greenskins, who repeated them to hooting, vicious laughter.

 

With a violent lurch the machine moved forward. Ambrus heard others sputter and roar to life. Through the smoke and chaos his machine navigated recklessly though mobs of thousands of boyz. They saluted him with raised fists and the waving of jagged metal blades. Here and there he heard the clang and pop of primitive shootas.

 

The greenskin horde chanted in their gutteral alien tongue, instantly whipped into a violent frenzy at the sight of the shiny beakie and the sputtering, incoherent rage it bellowed and snarled at them in its every waking moment. They were finally ready to have a go at the umies in the big walled place, and it was only right that the foul mouthed beakie ride on the front of the Boss’ war trakk.

 

Ambrus, for his part, could not help but feel a little excitement as he was driven face first toward the lap dogs of the False Emperor.

 

He would live through this, somehow, and Bolverk would pay.

[Azekai]

Hoooo boy, this wasn't easy. All the entries were good, but I gotta give the award to Iron Father Ferrum. His story put a human face on the Hydra and I enjoyed the atmospheric world building. When the Alpha Legionnaires show up at the end, they proved to be equal parts cool and scary.

Thanks for letting me judge, Kierdale!   





^{Edited because I used the winner's old username lol}

Edited August 28, 2017 by Azekai

[Trevak Dal]

All factions? So...could I have T'au fighting the Siege Dancers (slaaneshi Iron Warriors)?

 

I want to write more about the Nightblades but I'm sort of revising things with Adrastus and all. Filled several pages of a notebook with the practicalities and day to day of a Astartes sized person having giant wings attached to his body-having to cut his wings off to get into power armor and such (I was having a hard time figuring how he would stretch his wings through holes in the shoulder armor-how constrictive it would feel, how that would affect the seals on his armor-how I want to have it like how I modeled him-with the "biomechanical backpack wings" like in the 4th/5th Gavdex (you could give guys wings back then which allowed them to act as jump infantry but still ride in rhinos with no penalty).

 

I also was running into problems of how they would have gotten off the ship without making the Dark Angels look incompetent, and without having deus ex machina or being frivolous. The Dark Angels would secure all potential exits with their best troops (Deathwing) while limited, would be enough.

 

I didn't write the Nurgle/Death Guard thing because...I don't like Nurgle. Giselburtus has many friends, associated and colleagues from his adventures within the Eye and without, one of them is a Purge Dark Apostle, but I didn't feel it was ready to be talked about until I figured out how to get them off the ship.

 

Though I could just pull a Bungie with Sargent Johnson from the Halo games and say "Yeah we don't talk about that. :cussing Handwavium Extrordnatus"

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Hoooo boy, this wasn't easy. All the entries were good, but I gotta give the award to Iron Father Ferrum. His story put a human face on the Hydra and I enjoyed the atmospheric world building. When the Alpha Legionnaires show up at the end, they proved to be equal parts cool and scary.

 

Thanks for letting me judge, Kierdale!   

 

 

 

 

 

^{Edited because I used the winner's old username lol}

 

I was waiting for Kierdale to come along, but I also don't want to be rude, so I'm going to go ahead and thank Azekai for picking my story!  I must admit I was a little surprised at how well it came out because I literally whipped that up off the top of my head.  As someone who has actually fought in a desert, I look forward to judging the next round!

[Kierdale]

All factions? So...could I have T'au fighting the Siege Dancers (slaaneshi Iron Warriors)?

All factions.

Chaos versus anyone.

Anyone versus Chaos.

Chaos versus Chaos.

Or any threesome so long as Chaos gets a portion.

 

 

And Iron Father there's no need to wait for me to post :) the judge chose your entry and you deserved your win :tu:

 

It's good to hear that this theme's judge has experience with the subject. A rare thing in IF :D

[Honda]

Congratulations IFF!

 

A well deserved win. 

[P3AKHOUR]

Hey all, thanks Kierdale for bringing this to our attention over on the Astra Militarum board. I'd have missed it otherwise and it's been really enjoyable reading previous submissions by some phenomenal talents. I also had a lot of fun putting this story together over the past few days. Desert warfare is thematically so powerful for me and I've done my best to capture some kind of vibe. It ended up being a longer piece than I anticipated, but I'd be stoked to hear the opinions of anyone who can get through it. Hopefully it's enjoyable.

 

++The Oasis++

 

Dawn

Arris started as the dawn call to prayer echoed harshly off the whitewashed ferrocrete buildings huddled around the well. After three days in Zelfana he still hadn’t gotten used to the cacophony which emanated from the ancient Aquila-topped vox tower 3 times a day. He cursed the locals and their parochial customs under his breath then filled his canteen before placing it into a battered ammo box alongside those of his fellow crew members.

When he passed out of the eastern gate, the dunes were glowing pale pink in the soft morning light, a herd of maeiz milled about, the geneered goat-analogue’s bells tinkled quietly as they bedded down to sleep out the day. The serenity of the scene was disrupted by the brooding, angular silhouette of his track, sitting hull-down amid the prefabricated huts and barricades of the roadblock which overlooked the highway.

As he climbed up onto the turret he was greeted with a scowl from the Colonel, who was heating a pot of caffeine on a heat brick balanced precariously on the turret bustle.
“The maiez seem to have forgiven us” remarked the older man. The barrels of Emissary’s main gun were still plinking and ticking as they cooled after the incident a few hours earlier. Nusram, their gunner, had opened fire on a herd of the nocturnal beasts a few hundred meters out from the checkpoint, their strange heat signatures and lurching gait obviously capturing his fertile, combat-stimmed imagination.
“I want you to find the owner today and pay him for that mess” the Colonel gestured to the gruesome remains of the animals spread across the highway. “We’ll have another uprising on our hands if we don’t handle this properly.”
“Are we here to win a war or is this another ‘hearts and minds’ mission sir?” Enquired Arris. Colonel Danek took a sip from his battered pewter cup.
“They are one and the same, boy. These people have been here for generations. They guarded the caravan routes and the promethium pipelines which followed them. If and when the Cult arrives here, they’ll know about it before we do. Our survival depends on them trusting us enough to tell us.”
“With respect sir, all I’ve heard are the ramblings of superstitious nomads, tales of monsters under the sand-”
“They’re probably true!” all humour had left the older man’s eyes.
“The foul creations of crazed gods defy belief, even when your ears are bleeding from their howls and you can smell the stench of their breath, the sane part of your mind will refuse to believe they exist!” He threw his caffeine grinds over the side of the tank in disgust, landing with a wet splatter on the rocks.
“But they do exist. I’ve seen them on the steppes of Qom Salah and in the dunes of Tallarn, Tilak still sees them in his sleep.” Arris recalled the muffled cries of their driver as he slept each night in the grips of some vivid terror.
“Get below and make sure that idiot gunner gets his water ration. He’s useless enough without being dehydrated.” Ordered the Colonel. Arris disappeared through the top hatch, happy to have several inches of armour between himself and the old man’s foul mood.


Noon

The midday call to prayer woke Arris from his fitful sleep. He tried to stretch and jarred his elbow painfully on the large serpentine ammo feed that coiled around his cramped loader’s station. Deep within the belly of their track the air was humid and thick with the pungent bouquet of men and machines in prolonged co-habitation.
“The tribesmen will be gathering around the bazaar after prayer, find the owner of those beasts and compensate him for his loss” the gruff command was accompanied by a thud as a wad of notes wrapped in a sheaf of leather dropped from the Colonel’s command station above. As Arris reached for the money, Nusram reached over the back of his gunners’ seat and grasped his wrist.
“Arris!” he growled, low enough to not be heard by their commander, “you think I haven’t been looking down this sight long enough to tell the heat signature of a man from a goat? The things I fired on this morning were shaped like men, as soon as I opened fire they burrowed beneath the sand. I know what I saw!”
“Then why is there a pile of dead maiez where your monsters stood? Why do I have to go out in this heat to apologise for your itchy trigger finger?” Arris shot back in a hoarse whisper.
“If you’d seen what I did you’d watch your back in the bazaar, this place is touched by the Rot.” Warned the gunner, before turning back to continue staring intently through his targeting optic.
Arris squinted as he emerged from the side hatch into the sun-bleached landscape of mid-day. Palms shimmered in the heat haze and dozens of flies alighted on his back and around his eyes. He slung his carbine over his shoulder and trudged toward the centre of town.

After two frustrating hours of asking around the teeming bazaar, Arris finally had a lead. His enquiries as to the ownership of the animals by the eastern gate were met with dismissive grunts and suspicious stares. He followed the directions of a nervous power-pack vendor. Up a narrow flight of stairs between two tall buildings off the main square, he arrived at an arched doorway with a tattered curtain. A young woman with a stub gun cradled in the crook of her arm looked him up and down and made him leave his weapon by the door, then waved him inside.

Four old men sat cross-legged on a carpet around a large black hookah, lho-smoke drifted through beams of light filtering in from a small balcony overlooking the market. Several autoguns with the characteristic wooden fittings and sickle-shaped magazines of local patterns leaned against the back wall.
“What new indignity does this arrogant young soldier of the Emperor mean to foist upon us today?” Enquired the man with a tattered blue skull-cap, the creases around his eyes betraying a kindness that belied his words. His friends moved to the balcony and continued their conversation in the native tongue.
“Are you Jalfa? I was told you owned the herd that grazes around the eastern gate, I’ve come to buy them off you” said Arris
“How many are left?” Enquired the man, suddenly looking grave.
“Uh, I want all of them, our rations are running low and my friends are hungry for real meat” Replied Arris, wondering how the man had heard about last night’s debacle.
“Your friends will have to look elsewhere, those beasts are marked for the Djinn, as long as we provide for them, they stay beneath the dunes and do not bother us within the town walls.”
Arris felt the blood drain from his face and pool in a cold ball in his gut.
“What do you speak of! Offerings to the Dark Gods? What heresy?”
Jalfa made a dismissive gesture. “The taint has always been in this land, we live with it and it lives with us, what you call an offering, we call keeping the peace.”
“Why were we not told of this? We came out here to protect you from the Cult, yet you are providing them with food? What else have your people given these enemies of man?” Stammered Arris, fighting the urge to turn and run back to the safety of his tank.
“Go back to your green zone, there has been no cultist activity here for months and it is not them we are providing for-“ the old man’s indignant reply was cut short by a shout from one of his friends. He took his rifle and hobbled to the balcony, Arris followed.

The elders were talking excitedly and pointing down to the bazaar at a man pushing through the villagers crowded around the well. He wore a threadbare grey robe and his face was hidden by a headscarf.
“He should not be within these walls!” Jalfa grabbed Arris by the shoulder, “Get back to your friends and tell them the Cult is here!”
Before Arris could turn to leave, the man by the well emptied a small pouch of what looked like ash down the shaft. A couple of onlookers shouted and ran towards him as he made a strange gesture with one gnarled hand and melted back into the crowd.
The men on the balcony stood transfixed as a dense, churning black cloud rose up out of the well. The crowd flowed back in revulsion and people began to shriek as the cloud unfurled to whip angry tendrils toward them. A sinister buzz filled the air, Arris saw a youth fall, flailing under the carpet of flies. To his horror she stood up a few seconds later and began lurching toward the crowd in and unnatural, ratcheting gait. He turned and dashed back through the room, the girl on the door tossed him his carbine as she ran past him to the balcony. Gunfire erupted in the street below, adding to the screams and other, less natural sounds filtering in from outside.

Arris tore through the crooked, cobbled alleyways of Zelfana. The screams and gunfire of the marketplace seemed to follow him as the pox spread rapidly in the densely populated centre of town. He burst through the eastern gate into the blast-furnace heat of late-afternoon desert and began screaming and waving his arms wildly as he ran towards the checkpoint. A few men from the mechanized detachment looked up from their card game. “Don’t you hear the shooting? Stand-to you fools!” Upon seeing the look on Arris’s face, the soldiers quickly decided that what they had dismissed as another celebration was definitely trouble.

The foetid crowd shuffled through the streets and laneways toward the eastern gate, sensing their quarry just outside the walls. In the buildings above, cultist kill-teams clad in the mucus-green robes of the Cult of Rot darted from house to house, shooting and slashing their way through the cowering population in a murderously efficient operation.

The Imperial checkpoint was a hive of activity as the garrison hastily re-oriented its fields of fire on the gate behind their position. Men leapt over the ferrocrete barricades and hunkered down behind them, nervously adjusting their sights for a close engagement. With a roar and a belch of black smoke, Emissary hove her slab-sided bulk around 180 degrees, tracks whinnying as they ground up the stony earth. Inside, Arris pulled on his padded leather tank helmet and checked the turret feed mechanisms, the cabin was filled with the sounds ancient machinery being prepared for combat as each crew member muttered litanies to the subsystems under their care.
At the gunner’s station, Nusram looked through his sight and went visibly tense.
“Gunner, troops, direct forward, 1 second burst” called Colonel Danek calmly.
“Emperor save us. Identified, two hundred twenty metres!”
“Let the wretches bunch up through the gate… Fire!”
“On the way!” Nusram’s announcement was drowned out by a rising whirr followed by a deep, grating growl like high-voltage electrical arcing. The tank rocked back on its suspension as ranks of shells clattered through the feed tray in a blur before Arris’s eyes.
On cue, the muffled crack of lasguns erupted from the infantry to the left and right.
“Loader, I need you on the hull mount, fire at will!”
Arris swung expertly though to the front of the tank and settled in with his cheek against the boxy bulk of the heavy bolter. He squinted through the sight. Hundreds of bodies surged through the gate, tumbling over the piles of disintegrated flesh and clothing that was all that remained of the first wave. Some of the pox walkers had already sprouted horrifying, thorny growths from their heads and necks, all were covered in weeping sores. The air above them was thick with files. Arris said a litany of accuracy and squeezed the trigger, feeling the weapon buck in his grasp. Rounds streaked into the advancing throng, bodies exploded. The main gun barked again and the entire front collapsed in a haze of blood, dust and spores. Still more walkers lurched forwards, spreading out with unnatural speed as they passed through the gate, their screams and moans were broadcast through the tank as a steadily rising hum.
“One hundred forty metres!”
“Fire”
“On the wayyy!”
A rocket streaked out from a parapeted tower overlooking the gate, tracing a gentle spiral towards them. It impacted the right side of the turret with a bone-jarring clang.
“Feth! Gunner, tower, traverse right, two hundred fifty metres!”
“Identified”
“Fire!”
The turret motors worked to realign the Punisher cannon, which whined and spat.
“Keep firing, bring it down!”
Arris’s sweat turned cold as the gun fell silent and an alarm started to shrill behind him.
“Weapon feed malfunction! They must have hit the external belt.” He shouted, already swinging away from his station toward the side hatch.
“I’ve got it, stay on that bolter boy.” Called the Colonel from his command chair as he reached up to pop the top hatch.
Arris froze for a moment, feeling the weight of his responsibility come crashing down on him, then he looked up. “Sir, I’m on it, with respect, no one will be able to fix it faster than me.”
The Colonel looked down at him for a moment, then nodded. “The Emperor protects.” He said, making a benediction toward his loader before reaching for his vox set.

Arris tumbled out of the side hatch into hell, the stench of rot and death and ozone was overpowering. A couple of infantrymen looked up in surprise then turned back to firing. He sprinted round the back of the tank, reeling in the blast of heat as he passed too close to the exhaust shrouds, then ran expertly up the slanting rear track. Steadying himself on the intake filter, he unclipped a tool kit and proceeded up to the turret. The armoured belt feed that ran along the side of the turret bustle was blackened and dented by the explosion, creating a blockage. Arris began a litany of unjamming and shoved a pry-bar into the gap between two belt links and began to lever the mangled steel back into shape, singularly focussed as the battle raged around him.

He looked up as the Colonel emerged from the top hatch.
“Get inside boy, the rest of the garrison are fighting their way to our position from the north gate, we need to fall back to the dunes and regroup.”
Arris looked over his shoulder to see the braying hoard ambling toward them, now less than 20 metres away. His eyes took in details too horrific for his brain to process, but the smell reached in through his nose and emptied his stomach over the side of the tank. As he stood to climb inside, the engine howled and the tank lurched backwards. Arris fell sideways and grasped the ammo feed as the track moved beneath him, dragging his leg painfully against the battered tread. He looked up to a gurgling yowl.

Something that was until recently a man was crawling toward him along the top of the exposed track, having been lifted off the ground by the same conveyor belt motion that had caused him to fall. The pox walker’s face was a distended mass of pustules and his clothing had been shredded by a mass of needle-like spines which had erupted from his back. Emissary continued to reverse, pulling the thing within reach of him. There was a series of sharp cracks and Arris opened his eyes to see the creature tumbling off the side of the tank. He threw his arm up to cover his face as a huge wave of heat washed over him and the din of battle was replaced by a high-pitched ringing. He saw men rising to cheer and his eyes followed their excited gestures.

Old Diplomat topped the berm to the right at full speed and crashed back down in a cloud of dust, smoke whipping back from the barrel of her thick, large-bore cannon as she tore through the flank of the enemy. Lieutenant Hamza sat waist deep in the command cupola, expertly stabilising his torso to compensate for the rocking vehicle whilst firing short bursts from his las carbine. Diplomat fired again and the mass of walkers to the front evaporated in a fireball. Dirt clods and chunks of ichor rained down all around.

Arris slid through the turret hatch and collapsed onto his loader’s seat, ears and nose caked with dry blood and grime. Tilak looked back from the hull weapon station, “Forgive me brother, your seat looked more comfortable than mine.” He said before turning back and firing a burst at the cultists disappearing back within the walls, their meat shield having dissipated.
Dusk
As darkness fell, the prayer tower in the centre of town crackled to life. Within his track, Arris waited for the lilting cadence of the adhan. Instead, a sickening babble of half-formed phrases and glottal clicks echoed out across the desert, causing a stab of pain through his damaged ear drums. In the cooling dunes behind the checkpoint, hundreds of tiny runnels of sand tumbled down the barren slopes as something shifted beneath them…

Edited September 1, 2017 by P3AKHOUR

[gunnyogrady]

Hey there folks! Really glad I was able to pull something together for this. I took a geological liberty with the "Desert" concept, that I feel is still an applicable version of this theme! Hope you all like the story, and feel free to leave any feedback!

 

++Devils in the Ash++

 

It looks like snow, Sergeant Baern of the United Carcatha Mariner Corps thought. Only, it wasn't. The pyroclasts drifting from the sky in grey sheets covered every surface. Baern's two-man sniper team had chosen this particular ridge on the slopes of Mount Barik because it had a few pieces of scraggly brush within which they could blend. It was an obvious place to observe from. But then again, after nearly twenty hours of laying motionless in their ghillie suits, falling silt had covered their bodies, melting them into the earth. Besides, Baern thought, there's no reason for these people to think they're being watched. He looked through his spotter's magnoculars, down at the drab, tuffaceous buildings of the village a half klick away. The red shift from the ash in the sky made the sun glow with a dull red-orange, turning the cloud line to blood.

 

Of the tribes of mountain folk dwelling among the snowy evergreen heights of the planet Carcatha, only a few hardy peoples chose to live in the desert between her twin volcanic peaks. The volcanic desert rested in a vast valley hemmed in by mountain ridges, crowned by two violent volcanoes. An ancient tectonic rim enclosed this hellish arena, devoid of all but the barest of life. It was called the Fasach Creach, which in the local language meant roughly, the Hellish Wound.

 

Two Nation States made up Carcatha's great pangeaic continent, one state consisting of mountainous heights, the other lush lowlands. The two states were at near-constant war despite the best efforts of the United Carcatha Government. Operating from the sea, the United Carcatha Mariner Corps would frequently launch ashore to keep the peace, turn the United Government's will into action, and investigate reports of behavior unacceptable to the ever watchful Imperial eye. If a Mariner Corps reconnaissance team was being sent all the way out into this infernal volcanic desert, then they could be sure their purpose was the latter.

 

"Sergeant, comms check?" Corporal Briar said over the short-distance comms channel. Although they only laid an arms length apart, their throat mics and earpieces allowed them to speak with each other at a whisper that disappeared into the desert wind.

 

"Good copy, Corporal." Sergeant Baern said.

 

"We've been out here for, what? Twenty hours? I haven't seen anything but sad pale people pooping in shacks" Briar said.

 

"Corporal. Do you think our magnanimous United Government would send out a couple of highly qualified Mariners such as ourselves if they weren't certain we would find some villagers with The Rot?"

 

"I think they're nervous to make sure the Imperial shipments of lho sticks, recaf, and amasec keep coming in. And I think they don't mind if a couple Mariners suck ash-dust into their lungs chasing rumors in the desert, when in reality we're just sitting here watching mountain-folk rubes feed goats and stay indoors all day." Briar said.

 

"Corporal, you have a way with words." Baern said.

 

"All I'm saying is, we've been watching this village for a day. We've seen no rot growths, no cult ceremonies... hell, I haven't even see any weapons." Briar said.

 

"What are you suggesting, Corporal?" Baern asked.

 

"Manual recon. We go down, knock on some doors, and make sure none of the villagers have The Rot."

 

Baern remained silent on the comms for a moment, looking out across the wastes, spotting an animal on a distant slope. In his pre-mission brief, his Captain had warned him about all kinds of monsters in the valley.

 

"Whadayasay, Sergeant?" Briar pressed.

 

The desert wind picked up, swirling the collecting pools of volcanic ash. The cover of the pale storm had brought out the Ash Stalkers, man-sized hairy bipeds who walked with a skiddish, hunched step. They were fast and quite carnivorous. Baern observed the beast in the distance through his magnoculars. It was well out of range to be dangerous, but even sighting one reminded him of the myriad dangers of the Fasach Creach.

 

"Alright Corporal. What if we go down there, the reports of corruption are true, and we run into the infected? Or worse, a Plague Idol?" Baern said at last.

 

"Throne, Sergeant!" Briar ribbed his superior over the comms. "When was the last time you - or anyone else - even saw a person with The Rot on one of these government recons? Much less a Plague Idol! We go down, have a look, and you're sipping recaf in the chow hall by breakfast."

 

Again, Baern deliberated silently. The Corporal had a point.

 

"Let's do it." Baern said, "but we go in slow, respect the locals, and leave as gracefully as possible."

 

"Aye aye, Sergeant!" Briar said with enthusiasm. He stood up from the ash and brambles, and shook off the dust from his ghillie suit like a shaggy dog.

 

Sergeant Baern stood, stowed the spotter's scope in a side pouch, and brought his autogun to the sling attachment on his chest rig. Carcathan recon teams would often use hard-slug firearms as opposed to the standard las-weapons. The hard projectiles could be silenced, and their muzzle-flash dampened, as opposed to the bright traceable arc of lasfire. Briar, holding a large bore sniper weapon, made sure his safety was off. Moving invisibly, like wraiths passing through the austere hills of the underworld, they descended the five hundred meters of slope to the village below.

 

Approaching the village, they walked onto the Main Street that ran between the dozen or so family buildings. They strode slowly to the center of town, with not a soul in sight. As they walked, they heard the shutters of windows flap open and shut, those inside getting quick glimpses of the two snipers.

 

"Bloody ghost town." Briar keyed his mic.

 

"They're just shy." Baern said. "They probably don't see a lot of people from outside the valley, much less a couple of uniformed Mariners."

 

"Right." Briar said, a tinge of nervousness drifting over the mic.

 

They stood in the middle of the street. The ash-fall from the volcanic eruption earlier in the day had subsided nearly an hour ago. Eddies of ash stirred in the breeze, but there was no other movement besides.

 

"Starting to get a little nervous, Sergeant." Briar said.

 

"Not shy. What is it, then?" Baern muttered to the empty street.

 

The wind howled louder than before, sweeping through the single dusty thoroughfare of the village.

 

"Monsters." Baern said.

 

"I did not copy that, Sergeant. Say again." Briar yelled into the mic.

 

"Monsters!" Baern called out, "The ghillie suits! They make us look like Ash Stalkers! Get off your hood and gas mask, they need to see that we're human!"

 

"But Sergeant! The ash, The Rot-" Briar started to say.

 

"Do it, Corporal!" Baern cut him off.

 

The two men threw back the hoods of their camouflage suits, rifles dangling off their chest rigs as they clawed at their air-filtering face masks with both hands. Baern ripped off the rebreather, and felt the warmth of the smog-red sun on his cheeks, felt the ashen air immediately burn his eyes, nose, and lungs. He looked around at the houses. He spun around, glaring at the closed doors and latched windows. Still, nothing.

 

From behind him, he heard a door open. A man, in the sooty robes and head wrap of a local, waved him to come in. The man grasped a barbed, rusting harpoon launcher, a device used to hunt the monsters of the volcanic desert.

 

"Holy Terra." Briar said, looking down at the weapon as they entered the house. Baern looked outside just as the man was closing the door, and saw a host of villagers starting to emerge warily, all with the vicious harpoon weapons in their hands.

 

"Well," Baern keyed his mic. "That was close."

 

***

 

"I would offer you water, but it is scarce here, and I will save it for my family." The man, who had introduced himself as Yanuk, said to the Mariners. He continued, "I am glad you removed your masks when you did. With these... furry suits, you looked like the beasts. When the ash falls, they come into our village to prey on the weak." He had a thick dialect. He spoke slowly, as if Low Gothic hadn't passed his lips in a long while.

 

"Thank you, we do not desire your water." Sergeant Baern said, sitting cross-legged across from Yanuk. "We won't stay long."

 

"You will pardon my wife's absence. The ash in the air, you see. She doesn't feel well."

 

"No problem, sir." Corporal Briar said.

 

"It is Father, actually." Yanuk said.

 

"A Father of which faith, may I ask?" Baern said.

 

"Suspicious, yes?" Yanuk said with a humorless chuckle. "The Imperial Faith." He said, searching for the words in Low Gothic. "Why don't you tell me why you came to Fasach Creach?" He said quickly.

 

"I meant no offense, Father. And I'll be plain: we were sent to investigate reports of The Rot in this village." Baern said.

 

"The Rot." Yanuk said and spat. "Every moon, we make an offering to keep The Rot from spreading to the people of this village. I lead the service myself."

 

"Is there anybody who has been acting strangely here, or who has shown signs of sickness?" Baern pressed.

 

"The only strange ones here are you." Yanuk said.

 

"Of course." Baern said. "I know the mountain people don't particularly like the United Government-" Baern began.

 

"What, because you send teams of killers to hide above our homes with silent rifles?" Yanuk said.

 

"Yes, Father. But if you could let us meet the people of your town, take us to them and let us see their homes, then Mariners will not have to return for a long time. Years, maybe." Baern said.

 

Yanuk considered the offer in silence. He regarded the Mariner sitting across from him in his plain living room. He tried to determine if this was the kind of man who could be trusted. Evidently, he was. At length, Yanuk said, "I will do this. But only because we do not want your people to return for many years. You promise this, I can show you this village."

 

The three men ventured back out in the desert. With Father Yanuk, the recon team met with the heads of a dozen households. Yanuk translated Baern's Low Gothic into the archaic and unknowable language of the Fasach Creach. With his word, the Mariners were permitted to see inside the large family houses. The men, proud, fearful of the United Government's reach, glared at them as they passed their eyes over daughters, wives, children, and rooms full of meager supplies.

 

At last, they finished searching the homes. Nothing had been found. Yanuk walked them back to the door of his home.

 

"You see, then. We may be isolated, out here. But we are faithful." Yanuk said.

 

"Your generosity and willingness to help will not go unrewarded. I will pass on that the village has been thoroughly cleared." Baern said.

 

"Thank you, Warrior." Yanuk said.

 

"But, Father, there is just one more thing..." Baern said, hesitating for just a moment. "We need to see your home, and see your wife."

 

"You have seen my home. Sat in my living room and asked for my help. And you know my wife is not feeling well-"

 

"Father. I have to see every house, and every citizen." Baern said.

 

"You are ungrateful. You have no respect!" Yanuk yelled, taking a step towards the Sergeant.

 

Baern's hand dropped to his sidearm, unhooking the holster latch and flipping the safety off all in a split-second maneuver.

 

"Father." Baern said heavily. "Do not do anything foolish." Yanuk stopped in his tracks.

 

"Throne, Baern!" Corporal Briar said.

 

"Corporal, stay out here with Father Yanuk. I will be right back, and we will egress as planned, and not come back for a very long time."

 

Yanuk stared the Sergeant down, a feral fury in his eye. Slowly, reluctantly, spitefully, he stepped out from the doorway just enough to let Baern pass. The Sergeant slipped through the threshold and keyed his throat-mic.

 

"Corporal, comms check?" Baern said, sweeping through the living room.

 

"Good copy, Sergeant." Briar's voice chimed into his ear.

 

Baern checked the house slowly, scanning to absorb every detail. His gut had told him something here was amiss. Yanuk's sudden aggression had proved it.

 

"Living room clear." He said into his mic. "Back wall of the living room has three doors. That makes three additional rooms. I'm starting on the far left."

 

"Copy that, Sergeant. You might want to hurry, he's getting pretty agitated out here." Briar said.

 

"Copy, keep him outside." Baern said.

 

The first room was mostly storage. Some tools, some food, and a couple large canisters of water. He thought it looked like a lot of water for a household of only two. In fact, why did only Yanuk and his wife live here? All of the other houses were full of extended families. Baern scanned the food, and none of it looked spoiled or rotten.

 

"First room all clear, moving to the second room." Baern said into the mic.

 

"Sergeant, he wants in. He's, he's... growling." Briar said. Then, Baern heard scuffling from the mic. "Hey! Hey!-" his Corporal said.

 

The second room was a bedroom. There was a large bed with an ash-net hanging over it, suspended from a lacquered wooden frame. A few pict-capts sat atop a plain dresser, of the Father with a dark-haired woman of about the same age. The wife herself was nowhere to be seen.

 

"Corporal, the wife isn't here! Keep your eyes out for the wife!"

 

No response came back on the channel.

 

"Corporal, how copy?" Baern yelled. "Corporal, how copy!" Baern burst from the second door. He was headed for the third door when he saw the scene unfolding in the living room.

 

Father Yanuk had forced his way inside. He had gone for the monster-hunting harpoon. The barbed spear was impaled through Corporal Briar's torso, and Yanuk had a foot on his chest, yanking unsuccessfully to pull the jagged implement from Briar's lifeless body. The Father snapped his head up to look at Baern with a psychotic fervor.

 

"You know nothing!" Yanuk yelled. "The Great Unclean One gave my wife a gift! The Great Unclean One gave us the resilience to survive in this valley of hell! The Great Unclean One-"

 

Sergeant Baern pulled his sidearm up in one smooth motion and blew Father Yanuk's brains out the back of his head. The body hit the floor, and even as a steady trickle of blood emerged from the forehead entrance hole, Baern placed two hammer shots into the corpse's chest to ensure the matter was done. Baern paused for one pale moment, observing the two bodies pooling blood on the floor. He turned to the third door at the back of the room. He raised his sidearm, and stalked to the final, unchecked threshold. He reached for the doorknob. It was cold to the touch, the metal wet with condensation. He swung the door open. He looked inside, and the sight and smell made him wretch immediately.

 

Plastered to the wall in a twisting, festering mass of open sores, rows of misplaced teeth, and palpating flap-covered breathing holes, Yanuk's wife had been devoured by a horrifying, mutating Rot. She was a Plague Idol. Her flesh had become a sacrifice to the Chaos God of Decay, a conduit for his sickly creations, and a canvas for his joyful, putrid art. At the sight of the Mariner, she screamed. It was a labored and hideous sound that emerged from a face half-melted into the fleshy mass. An oozing, distended bulb attached to what was left of her chin swayed as she shrieked.

 

Sergeant Baern could not hold back the stream of vomit, his insides churning with revulsion and horror. Fighting through the maddening nausea, he pulled a special-issue incendiary grenade from his web belt. He pulled the pin, tossed the explosive into the room, and slammed the door. Still struggling to keep his balance, Baern turned back into the living room. He stepped over the bodies of Father Yanuk and Corporal Briar, holstering his sidearm, slinging his autogun, and bringing the Corporal's sniper rifle to his shoulder. He slammed the front door shut, and peered through one of the slatted windows next to the entrance. Outside, he saw men, women, and children slowly approaching the house, many armed with the horrible harpoons, but most with simple blades and bludgeons. In the sealed room behind him, he heard the crackling of fire starting to spread. Baern's vision was still swimming. He snaked the barrel of the sniper rifle between the slats in the window. He tried to sight in on a man carrying one of the spear-launching harpoons. He breathed out. He squeezed the trigger. His weapon coughed. The shot went wide, and the villagers advanced without even noticing the silenced shot in the desert wind.

 

"C'mon!" Baern yelled at himself. He resighted. Breathe. Squeeze. The rifle coughed, and a solid round punctured his target's sternum, sending the man sprawling to the ground. The villagers all lurched, looking around, not sure what had happened. By that time, the Sergeant had cycled another round into the chamber and resighted. Breathe. Squeeze. Another villager dropped, this time a woman. Her harpoon clattered to the hard earth. Breathe. Squeeze. The villagers realized where the silent shots were coming from. One of them shouted in their unknown language. Baern saw several of them raise their weapons, and he dove back just as three spears burst through the wooden slats.

 

The Sergeant stood and repositioned to the other window facing the street. Breathe. Squeeze. Breathe. Squeeze. The villagers broke into a mad run for the front door as elders and brothers slumped lifelessly to the ground. Baern let the sniper rifle hit the floor, unslung his autogun, and used the butt of the weapon to smash open a side-window. The Plague Idol, the creature that had once been Yanuk's wife, screamed as the flames of the incendiary grenade burned her body. The villagers hammered at the door. Baern dove from the window even as the flames began to spread into the living room.

 

Moving low and sights up, Baern circled around the side of the house. He stopped right at the corner of the building. He took a breath, and made sure his firearm was on full auto. With his eye steady, he wheeled around the corner and aimed down his sight at the mob that was just breaking through the front door. He opened fire on them from the side, an enfilade of controlled bursts. The mob writhed and broke away from itself like a school of fish from a predator. He fired into their bodies until his magazine ran dry, releasing the mag into the dirt and tossing a flashbang grenade into the tripping cluster. He reloaded as the grenade detonated, and then sent a new salvo of slug rounds into the fleeing crowd. The villagers had broken, giving the Sergeant a brief chance to escape.

 

Baern ducked back around the building, and sprinted into the slopes of the desert valley. Just the way he had descended into the village, he left, moving upon the wastes like a wraith on the banks of some stygian river. He moved away from the death throes of Yanuk's wife, the wailing of the villagers who were powerless to protect their living altar as she burned.

 

The valley had been born of flame, the twin volcanos crafting the austere and barren place over thousands of years. Baern would make his report, and the peoples of this volcanic desert would be purged in a fire greater than any the valley had ever seen, their heresy only charred remains in a charred land.

Edited September 6, 2017 by gunnyogrady