The Fall of Swords and Stars (BL Submission - unused)

[Mazer Rackham]

THE FALL OF SWORDS AND STARS

ADEPTUS ASTARTES: INVADERS CHAPTER

 

 

 

CONCEPT:

 

NARRATIVE SUMMARY (Max 100 Words):

Sergeant Hayl Gideon of the Invaders Chapter accompanies Swordbrother Enric Khordel, to bury an old comrade on the extinct homeworld of Ogrys. Before this can take place, an enigmatic emissary of the Aeldari warns them not to undertake their pilgrimage. Defying the xenos, they continue their quest of honour. This sparks a chain of deadly events, forcing them to ally with sworn enemies to defeat a raiding force of the cruel and sinister Drukhari, who are poised to enslave and ravage a vital recruiting world.

 

I'll be omitting the 500 Word excerpt, since I'll be posting the Chapters of the Short Story in full below.

Edited February 1, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[Mazer Rackham]

++ THE FALL OF SWORDS AND STARS ++

 

1: BAD BLOOD

 

When the point lunged for his throat, Hayl Gideon knew he was dead.

 

He rolled to his left, dropping away from the blade regardless, but the cool blade still nicked his chin. His opponent stood, retiring to show he intended no further harm.

Gideon regarded the warrior opposite, and with a stern face hiding his shame, got to his feet to return the salute his sparring partner described. He couldn’t understand how a Firstborn could be so fast, so agile. Every one of his Primaris genewrought senses and abilities, no matter how well formed into ploys or blows, proved no advantage against the wily veteran. Rubbing the new wound, which would soon be a scar, Gideon smiled ruefully. The Black Templar scored eight successive victories against him.

 

The Crusader’s eyes twinkled in amusement. “Had enough, lad?”

 

“For now, old man,” Gideon replied. He’d tried the term as an insult at first, a paltry attempt to upset the grizzled swordsman, but he’d jousted right back, and the exchange became comfortable between them.

 

With the bout over, they both took the opportunity to cleanse and don fresh robes. Gideon’s the bright olive of the Invaders, and Khordel the Templar in rich black, adorned with a broad-bladed scarlet cross. Not for the first time, the arming serfs who entered the practice room looked at the Templar twice askance, for the height difference between him and Gideon was substantial, and his garb unusual.

 

The translation alarm tolled ship-wide, warning them they tore back into realspace.

 

“I retire to the Reclusiam, brother,” Khordel said. “Will you join me?”

 

Gideon listened as the ship’s bells rang three. He gently shook his head, nodding down to the pious Templar. “I must go to the bridge. We approach Ogrys.”

Khordel offered a bow, and left him.

 

There was a hint of sadness in Gideon as he set off, a sting for something he didn’t remember, coming to the Invaders as a recruit in a Torchbearer fleet. He underwent hypnogogic reassignment and cleansing, bleaching his mind of anything before, other than his induction training. His bones were old, maybe more so than even the veteran beside him, but one way or the other, he had missed the fall of his Chapter’s homeworld. He knew what it looked like before – hololiths and picter stills recorded the great bastions and cities of the rocky world, the great waterfalls.

 

He’d never seen it with his own eyes, but the body they carried in the cryo-casket certainly had. The fallen brother was sent away, saving him from the many dooms which plagued the Invaders, only to meet his end a hero. In tribute to some unspoken honour debt, Khordel was taking the body to Ogrys, as a last wish instructed.

Before he realised, Gideon was approaching the stairs to the bridge, and when he passed through the bulkhead door, hardened blast shields recoiled from the bridge windows. They revealed the shoals of asteroids, laced and robed in long trails of ice circling their destination. The augur station of the Gladius Class reported fabricated objects in the debris field. Destroyed defence satellites and long dead corpses of system monitors passed on the hololithic displays. Each was punctured or cut clean through by the advanced weapons of the Aeldari.

 

The damage was unlike anything Gideon witnessed in his battles against heretics and Chaos Space Marines. A veteran of the Nachmund Gauntlet he’d seen the devilry of Aeldari Corsair vessels and their pulsars. Boarding parties carried dreadful lacerations and burns from close action against the xenos.

Beyond the orbital scenery, lay the scorched and scarred world of Ogrys. Great barrows of mountain ridges split the clouds, and pale, blue-green oceans glittered in the light from the binary star of Ptolemy-IV.

 

“Lord, we’re close enough to pick up the Fortress Monastery,” the duty augurman said.

 

The shipmaster looked up at the Invader, deferring.

 

“Bring it up,” Gideon said, taking the second command throne.

 

The fortress was visible from close orbit, a massive conglomeration of toppled stone. Gideon could picture what the bastions, ravelins, casements and wings looked like before the Aeldari’s hateful retribution. It stirred little revulsion beyond that he already held for the alien, no matter what colour it bled. That such creatures existed was an affront he held in check – a discipline borne of both his training and the ingrained humour of his Imperial Fist geneseed.

 

The Stellum Novis cruised in-system from the Mandeville point, all systems readying for close orbit. Perdition beacons proclaimed the navigation hazards to any light shipping, but the Gladius Class gunnery officer had the dorsal turrets clear a path of the biggest offenders, pulverising ancient asteroids and newer wrecks into atoms.

As the bridge flashed with light from the silent explosions outside, a dark figure joined them. Jet black armour draped by a thick cream tabard, and his pauldrons smocked by a rich scarlet cloak, the gilding and etchings made him appear more monk than killer, but the crusader helm and two-handed sword put doubts to rest. Amongst the gold and black, the highly polished quicksilver of the Deathwatch glinted from the right shoulder.

 

“You are harnessed, then, Swordbrother,” Gideon said. He was always mindful to propriety in front of the crew.

 

“My solemn duty closes, brother.”

 

“Sir, we are receiving a transmission from somewhere in the belt,” the communications officer called to the Captain. “Non-Imperial.”

 

“Identify,” the shipmaster replied.

 

“Cogitator-savant notates it is Aeldari.”

 

“Very well, Lieutenant, set Condition One.”

 

The bridge lights dipped from pale white to arterial red, the crew hurrying to battle stations. Gideon imagined the bulkheads closing, Chapter Serfs running to stations gripping weapons or tools for damage control. If the xenos expected half-trained Imperial Navy Armsmen, they were going to get a shock. Still he alerted his squad, deploying them to bolster the ranks of the mortals.

 

“Sir, nature of communication is interrogative, according to the savant.”

 

“Let me hear it,” Khordel said, looking at the Captain.

 

He nodded.

 

The language of an ancient race spilled across the bridge, mellifluous, yet threatening. Familiar, yet also aloof in sound and meaning. Gideon heard such noises before, shortly before bolter fire. It was, he reflected, closer to listening to an operatic remembrance than a warning. The words appeared to repeat after some time. A human ear wouldn’t have heard it, but Gideon could tell. He looked at Khordel, the Templar’s eyes closed in concentration.

 

An officer opened his mouth to speak, but Gideon hushed him with a gesture.

 

“They ask for parley,” Khordel said.

 

“Where?” Gideon replied, a little too keenly.

 

“Co-ordinates are appended, my lord,” the officer Gideon silenced, finished.

 

“A trap?” Gideon peered at Khordel from under his brows.

 

“I do not think so. The motifs were neutral.”

 

“Very well. Helm, take us there. I go to don harness.”

 

***

 

A large, hollow lump of slowly spinning space rock was the site of the meeting. A cloaked and hooded figure greeted them in the depths of the asteroid. Within was a safe chamber, once used by the Invaders as a listening post. The seals of the airlock Gideon and Khordel clambered through were old, but serviceable enough, but any fittings or equipment were long gone, either stripped by pirates or salvaged by scavengers. Bare walls and floors melded into the rock and dust. A soulless place. Gideon shrugged, glad of his weapons – both Astartes brought them, since no proscription was made.

 

Even if it had been, they would have ignored it. Yet Khordel was sanguine – a rarity in the zealous fury of the Black Templars, although Gideon allowed his curiosity to stave off his own hatred. He studied the slender figure, judging weight, poise, what manner of amour dwelled beneath the swirling pattern of the alien’s cameloline cloak.

 

“You cannot step onto the world below,” the figure said.

 

Difficult to ascertain gender of an Aeldari at the best of times, the words were edged with musical notes. It took Gideon’s implants to split the difference. “We go where we will, she-witch,” he replied.

 

The female alien silently approached; gauntleted hands at her sides, open to show her status as messenger only. A long rifle was strapped to her back, although her shuriken pistol was at her hip. Her inhumanly beautiful face wore an altogether human smirk. She threw the face of her cloak back over her shoulder. Glyphs became readable.

 

Gideon recognised them. “Idharae.”

 

“Yes, you couldn’t quite kill us all.”

 

“What do you here, Ranger?” Khordel asked, firm.

 

“To prevent you starting a war you can’t stop.”

 

“You threaten us?” Khordel demanded.

 

“No. There is a terrible enemy infesting this empty world. Do not disturb them.”

 

“We are honour-bound,” Gideon warned, snarling. “If any foe interferes, they will be eradicated. Our sacred mission will be done.”

 

“Humans,” she said, chuckling. “Go then, as you will. I have spoken.” She turned, re-dressing her cloak, and vanished into the dark tunnels leading to the surface.

 

***

Edited January 15, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[Mazer Rackham]

++ THE FALL OF SWORDS AND STARS ++

 

2: REQUIESCAT IMPASSÉ

 

With great solemnity the casket was borne into the hold of the Thunderhawk gunship, and the bearer party lowered it, maglocking it to the deck with as much reverence as would be afforded a relic. Grim-faced Khordel sat in the acceleration couch usually reserved for the brother charged with the Rites of Lading.

No-one gainsaid it. The couch was at the head of the coffin, and was the only one which would accommodate a Firstborn. The others were all repurposed for the taller Primaris brethren. Gideon watched, as with practiced ease, Khordel folded and trapped his garments neatly before the other Firstborn on board, the Techmarine pilot, pulled the cradle down and fixed him in. The old man took the vambrace of the pilot in gratitude, the latter freezing a moment in surprise before nodding and resuming his duty.

 

“Squad Gideon! Ready for drop!”

 

The Intercessors, a massive clutch of men in Mk X Tacticus Armour broke from the casket, and in a fluid movement racked their weapons and clamped themselves into the couches along the hull. Klaxons rang as the Thunderhawk closed all ramps and doors, securing for flight. The sacred arms and heart of the iron beast warmed to readiness, the Gladius frigate around it also on high alert.

 

Gideon didn’t believe the xenos, all their pretty words were merely lies – but it was foolish not to be prepared. As though to underline his suspicions, Khordel clamped manacles around each wrist, chaining his weapons. Stellum Novis would transmit coded updates to the Invaders fleet every fifteen minutes via subspace channels until the bearer party reported back.

 

“Ten seconds,” the pilot reported via interlinked vox.

 

The other Invaders exchanged short words across the battle net, but below the quick remarks, Gideon could hear the anticipation of facing an enemy on ground that was sacred to the Chapter. Some voices questioned their purpose here, and those he ignored. He knew a member of the Deathwatch, not even of Dorn’s bloodline, carried the fallen Invader one-thousand, three-hundred and ninety-three metres through a dying Tyranid Hive Ship to extract him, and the Progenoids were saved. Khordel said no more of it, and here was silent too, hands clasped in repose. The Invader Sergeant wondered whether it was the fact his brothers were Primaris, or that the humours of the Chapters were different that led to a lack of piety in moments like this.

 

Certainly, some of the men in green were of the first stock, and therefore nowhere near as religious as those mired in ten-thousand years of techno-mysticism. It didn’t matter. Blood, blades and honour were the same in the Emperor’s purpose.

 

Gideon felt the thunderhawk pivot, his Lyman’s Ear compensating for the quick tip left as the massive slab of adamantium and ceramite pitched over and rocketed out of the Gladius’ prow launch bay. Weightlessness lasted only a few punches of his twin hearts, before the gunship burned hard for Ogrys, and the chosen landing site below.

 

“Landing in four minutes,” the pilot told them.

 

Thick flames burned the portholes black, re-entry buffeting the vessel as it continued the nosedive into atmosphere, punching through the shell, until falling into smooth air. Through his auto-senses, Gideon detected the subtle clink and clang of superstructure contracting in the sharp coolness after the abuse of vicious heat. The Thunderhawk levelled out, maintaining a steady list to port, descending anti-clockwise in an ever decreasing circle, a raptor circling the prey.

 

A glint of light on something glassy caught Gideon’s eye. “Contact starboard!”

 

“Confirmed, evasive now.”

 

Quickly, Gideon’s interlaced displays, monitoring the squad, gunship, and telemetry from the Stellum Novis spiked in activity. Markers for two unidentified aircraft sprang up, closing on the Thunderhawk at terrific speed. The hull rumbled as the pilot tossed the gunship around, to present the heavily armoured flank of the vessel, and was rewarded with a rattle of large pebbles. The sound of the enemy blitzing past at supersonic speeds made it through the roaring turbines and weapon impacts.

 

“Confirmed Aeldari fighter craft,” the co-pilot said. His voice was untroubled.

 

Gideon was hurled tight against the brace pinning him as the vessel slowed, slewed to pivot and intercept the enemy. A muted succession of clunk-thud noises proved the release of standoff weapons, the Starstrike missiles sprinting away from auxiliary pylons.

 

The Thunderhawk re-engaged, lurching forward to close the distance, where a fury of bolt rounds could lay down a blanket of fire. The vessel lurched as something tore into the port side, aft, and the forward troop compartment was similarly struck. A fist-sized spot of the front, lower assault ramp suddenly blossomed from dull grey armour plate, into a red hot bloomflower.

 

“Move!” Gideon barked, trying to break from the harness, but it was too late, a blinding flash of dirty light lanced through, spattering the hold with globules of white-hot slag. It struck Millos, one of his intercessors, boring a hole through his chest, flash-fusing his innards even as it cored him, leaving a bubbling fizz on the paintwork and hull behind. He slumped forward, arms flapping about in grotesque marionette. Vox was the only way to speak over the sudden howling wind filling the cabin, but even so, Gideon’s anger forced a shout. “Damned Eldar! They warn us, then murder

us!”

 

“No, brother!” Khordel replied, “It is the Dark Ones!”

 

There was no time for anything further; the chugging thunder of twin-linked heavy bolters shuddered the airframe. A mighty blast and yellow light filled the portholes as debris clamoured against the stricken Thunderhawk.

 

“Brother Sergeant, we can land, but doing so will cripple us.”

 

“Very well, pilot, we deploy at safe height. Return to the ship.”

 

A bleep was all the crewman had time for.

 

Khordel was already moving. He snapped free of the harness, and heaved the ramp lever, stomping around on clumsy magboots. His tabard and cloak billowed, giving him the appearance of some dark spectre, but he released the casket, and booted it out of the hold. It seemed substantially disrespectful, but the horizon plunged, the mountain tops resolving into foothills, the open hatch full of red-brown mountainside. Khordel stepped out into it, and the Invaders followed.

 

***

 

The plummet was severe. For a sudden, vertiginous second, Gideon’s world changed from the stalwart, but enclosed hold of the Thunderhawk to a panoramic view of Ogrys. It was magnificent. It was also rushing up at him.

 

He checked all his maglocks, then closed his arms across his chest, lifting his legs, bending them at the knee as though half sitting. His retinal display sprang up with all the information he needed but didn’t want – airspeed, terminal velocity point, weight, and most importantly the composition of the rock below him. Turbulence battered him and his men, and Gideon thrust out an arm to counteract the spin. Straightening up, he searched for the Templar, but Khordel was out of sight, his signal-link for the bellicosa machine-spirit recognition was stable, but drastically below them, given his plunging head start.

 

The Invader Sergeant was heading towards a steep slope, which he jarringly made contact with, his armoured bulk colliding in a shower of terracotta grit and pebbles as he careened down this new slide. The tough green paint masking the ceramite below, wore away in longitudinal runnels, as he raced towards an escarpment. For a heartbeat he met it, the resistance trying his massive muscles and servo-fibre bundles, before sheer weight and mass reduced the outcrop to shards. Boulders and razor-edged slats of granite came down with him as finally he made landfall, scarlet and amber warning runes decorating his heads-up display.

 

“Had enough, lad?” The swirling miasma parted to reveal the Templar, striding through the murk to offer a hand.

 

“I think I broke my spine, old man,” Gideon replied.

 

Khordel pulled him to his feet.

 

The crunch and shriek of armour plating resisting rock and stone met his ears. Large striations on the mountainside showed where each member of the squad made their tumble. Only Khordel it seemed was unharmed, but he was exceptionally dusty. As Gideon accompanied him to where the cryocasket had made impact, they passed a sand bank, which had a crater pummelled into it. The Templar nodded, jabbed with his sword.

 

“The Emperor provides!”

 

The squad locked onto Gideon’s beacon and closed with him at the casket. They didn’t have far to take it now. Without a word, the Intercessor squad formed a loose column, making ready to cover any angle of attack. Khordel urged them to close up a little, and Gideon nodded. The Templar’s experience made his suggestions easy to follow, as the Swordbrother pulled the casket along with one hand, the gravitic bier hovering behind him.

 

Moving at battle-speed, the brothers pounded along the mesa, heading for a ravine which would take them to the old burial grounds, fourteen kilometres away. Gideon was pleased the others were whole, and glad that Millos was safe above in the Thunderhawk. The last thing they needed was another body of an Invader to drag around down here.

 

***

 

The meagre remains of this planet spurn us, knowing we languish here as foreigners to the hands which built the vaults we plunder. There isn’t much for us. Instead Druxhila has established fighting pits and sadist-chambers t keep the Cabal in line. It is a fractious time. We build our numbers, Ravagers passing through the gateways to Commoragh full of troops I am assured will fall in line. The joy of battle against weaklings, and the taking of slaves draw them. I draw them with the bait. Only this morning my agony gauntlet devoured three warriors who dared to dispute my majesty. A Dracon must secure his power somewhere, and it shall come from skill or spite. She Who Thirsts cares not, and neither should we.

 

The holographic globe spins slowly in my chambers as Druxhila gets dressed, strapping on her battle gear. We lounge in the quarters of a previous master of this ruined keep, his throne broad and wide enough to stuff it with silk-covered cushions. Ork, human and beast hides drape the bed and furniture, reminding me of our tower in the Dark City. I indulge in a little suspicion about what my Regent does there in my absence, before dismissing his small ambition.

 

“Dracon,” a voice springs up in my communicator. It is Baenval.

 

“Speak.”

 

“The Screaming Talon intercepted an Imperial strike craft.”

 

He meant our Razorwing detachment, a small clique of pilots who were bored at home, and agreed to provide us air cover. Being on the wrong side of Asdrubael Vect didn’t hurt either. I manage to hold excitement from my voice. “And?”

 

“They drove it off, after suffering one casualty, but they report a device was dropped, and a team with it.”

Interesting. “Where?”

 

“Within twenty kilometres, my lord,” he replies.

 

I cut the communicator link with Baenval, and Druxhila finishes dressing, before helping me with my armour. We must hurry. They could be a reconnaissance force to probe our numbers, before a larger attack group closes to finish us. The device intrigues me. It is possibly a demolition charge, which means someone has told them we haunt the bones of this place. We need a prisoner to confirm this. I can see the delight in my courtesan’s eyes that she is looking forward to entertaining guests.

 

***

 

No uninvited guests attended the solemn ceremony to begin with, such as it was. Gideon stood, breathing the air of a world of ghosts. It was good, clean wind on the ridge overlooking an inlet of the blue-green sea. Rugged green brush and grass stood starkly against the red agate gems cut into hard angles against the sky. It was a peaceful place for warriors to gather.

 

Several black specks, and no more cut against the opal sea, scything close to the waves to cut thin white wakes. Jagged amethyst daggers grew in shape and definition, as Gideon crammed his helmet on. “Contact left; airborne one-hundred, three-hundred metres, 0303!”

 

The grave his men dug suddenly became a foxhole, as they tumbled inside, large enough for three abreast. Others dived behind large tombstones, the obelisks and carved brown cinnabar vaults providing ample shelter for Astartes in Tacticus, and Gideon joined them. The Marines in the trench were equipped with an auto bolt rifle and grenade launcher, both weapons readied.

 

“Dannax! Targets of opportunity!” Gideon called.

 

Armed with a stalker bolt rifle, Dannax was the Designated Marksman. He would attack drivers, gunners, or idiots who lingered too long in his sights. He gave the only response necessary: chambering the first round. They all looked for the Templar.

 

Khordel eschewed cover. He stood there in the blustery wind, his garments snapping and smocking in the gust, his sword was at the guard position, gripped in both fists. Blue lightning flared from the heavy, cross-hilted weapon. Aurumite and plasteel, silver and ebony, the warrior was festooned with symbols of war, of the sword.

 

“Come and die, then! No cowards or weaklings here abide!” he roared, vox thunder bore his defiance across the landscape. It echoed in the bare hills, bounced from the tombstones. “We stand on the graves of mighty ancestors! By the Emperor! Come and die!”

 

His words lifted the hairs on Gideon’s neck, the righteousness of it electrifying. Then someone was shouting, an incoherent peal of fury, a taunt that lacked Khordel’s eloquence, but made up for it in raw emotion. He realised it was his throat, and as the Dark Eldar erupted over the bluff in a cacophony of shrieking engines, a wall of defiance met it. Were they not Dorn’s own men? Did they not stand in defence of their fallen kin?

 

“Death to the alien!” Khordel bellowed.

 

The Invaders opened fire.

 

Bolt rounds blew silver divots into the flanks of the light craft, finding the insect-like warriors riding upon them. Thick blood sheeted the ground and angular craft in the first volley, sending the xenos raiders tumbling. One, only wounded, fell screaming to ground. With a blur of speed, Khordel closed the gap, and with a heavy crunch of his armoured boot, ended the annoying mewling.

 

The tombs and stones protecting the Space Marines were torn and chipped as crystalline slivers keened and screeched around them. The Drukhari slavers zoomed over the Marines, but even if the Astartes were hemmed in, they had cover from all quarters, and even some protection from above, thanks to monuments of the dead.

Fire hailed down, dirty green beams of energy exploding soil and granite. It sent one of the Invaders flying, his left arm gone, but the Marine snarled, and fired a brace of bolts from his heavy pistol, repaying his injury on the gunner. Dannax fired and shot the xenos’ replacement, popping his head with a purplish splat.

 

Frustrated, the Dark Eldar raider transports flitted around, circling the cemetery in a jagged shimmer. Again they attacked, trying to catch the Astartes by surprise, or exposed, but Gideon didn’t need to relay orders, his squad moved as a group, using the grave as a lynchpin for their defences. A grenade from the trench detonated, blowing off one of the control spars, and a Raider banked hard to port, going out over the inlet to explode in a puff of green and yellow flame, little spindly bodies following it.

 

“Our forebears stand with us! A fortress of bones!” Khordel boomed.

 

Some of the Eldar dismounted, charging towards the Imperials with unerring grace and agility. Hurricanes of fire lashed the defenders’ positions, making the Marines duck back. Metallic clatter announced plasma grenades, but even before Gideon could duck, a giant with a sword struck the Drukhari charge before it began.

 

“Imperator Vult!”

 

The Swordbrother was a slashing, driving menace of steel and fury, breaking the Eldar with pommel strikes, kicks, elbows. He bifurcated anything in measure of his blade, and though alien daggers came close, he used his cloak to foil them, the very fabric a weapon. His crusader helm slammed forward, pulping a fae-like face into bruised mush, before gripping the blade’s ricasso, and driving two feet of steel through more Eldar guts. The last of them tried to flee, but Khordel wheeled, trapped the alien’s head and garotted him with a devotional chain.

 

It was then Gideon saw the distraction for what it was, as the dark-armoured Eldar heaved the cryocasket away, taking to their heels with laughter. They got the bier on board a Raider, even though Dannax shot the pilot, a female Drukhari took over, snapping the controls of the craft away with superb reflexes, deflecting another deadly bolt from the marksman. The Raiders sped away, carrying the precious cargo with them.

 

***

 

Once my prize is examined, I am pleased. It seems we have a prisoner of sorts. The human markings and rudimentary technology tell my savants that the body inside is thoroughly dead, so he will tell us nothing, but I savour the frustration. I will take it out on Druxhila later – but she has done well. The casket tempts me to desecration of the warrior within, his body frozen to keep him fresh for interment into this, his native soil. His sigils and icons match those we have already despoiled, defaced. It would be so simple to pull this wretch from his slumber and spit him upon one of my Ravagers, but I do not. He has been carried a long way by the humans, a journey of danger and burden, and the Astartes with him inflicted heavy losses. One of his pauldrons differs from the other.

 

Curiosity, that bane of my existence, which led me to annoy someone at Court, burns hot. I recognise this corpse as a Deathwatch Space Marine, one trained to the murder of my kind and other aliens, proves a resonance which stays my hand from defilement. He will be a fitting trophy, a reminder of this campaign when we launch our strike against the human muster world of Ghondal. Fresh troops and plunder lie there.

 

We shall reave it wholesale.

 

Yet, this trophy is worthless if ruined. Not only will it prove my victory here, I can surrender it to the fleshcrafters of Vect, perhaps as a token of my esteem. For now, though, it acts as a lure, a draw to the Space Marines here already, their numbers dwindling, as ours grow. The webway spat forth fifty more Kabalites during the raid, their feet touching down onto the soil at our landing ground, followed by their knees as they swore allegiance. Yet my agony gauntlet has more work, and the hunger is upon me.

 

My restraint only goes so far.

 

***

[Mazer Rackham]

++ THE FALL OF SWORDS AND STARS ++

 

3: DEAD MAN'S CHEST

 

Khordel applied the cataplasm patch and synthflesh graft to the wounded Invader, skill with a blade and bold bellows at complete odds with the patience and surety he now undertook. Knossos grunted thanks, the superlative physiology of the Space Marine already washing him with stimulants and Larraman Clusters, sealing the wound and keeping the pain at bay. Gideon admired the open stoicism, some of his kin able to use the Sus-An membrane, that allowed a Marine to detach his mind from the agonies capable of being inflicted on his mighty body, but Knossos was not one of them. Archmagos Cawl bred many problems out of the Geneseed Zygotes, but the faults – no, that was wrong, and unworthy – the lack of the implant still dogged the inheritors of Dorn.

 

Pavonis wasn’t so lucky.

 

A hail of razor shards had pierced his gorget, the poisonous crystals fired by the Dark Eldar ruining his flesh. The Templar had explained much of what dry rote learning of the Drukhari imparted. It was no substitute for his eye-witness. With little more to be done, the meat of the corps turning black and rancid by the minute, they were forced to put Pavonis in the grave they’d dug for the burial. At least it wasn’t wasted effort. Gideon ordered the weapons, ammunition and supplies from their fallen redistributed. He stepped to Khordel as the Templar finished.

 

“I do not ask how you know so much, Swordbrother,” he said, pointing to the electrum-silver pauldron.

 

“Rightly. My vows are many, and all upheld,” Khordel replied, carefully packing away his meagre medical items.

 

“Honour is life?”

 

“And let none dispute it,” the Templar finished, smiling.

 

The two Astartes stood, though the Templar was a good two heads shorter than his Primaris kin. Gideon signalled to his squad, and whilst they policed all their gear, he went to survey the land through the auspex. Topography suggested a good refuge on the shore, a cave with a good overhand to protect from the air, wide enough to lay down interlocking cover, yet tall enough for an upright astartes. He took the lead, marching them down to the beach, the waves lapping at their greaves, eroding even the deepest of bootprints as they skulked upon their homeworld.

 

The dark walls proved a canvas to the dataslates and auspexes, rigged into a holoprojector. The luminescent brilliance gave the angles of the cave a crystalline glow, but the mouth was shielded enough to protect the rugged strategium. Gideon came to Ogrys to bury one man, and ended up burying all of them, in a sense.

What snatches of information the Stellum Novis and the Thunderhawk gleaned, were added to that obtained by the grounded Invaders for study of the enemy. Khordel was careful to impart more wisdom gleaned from the Deathwatch. Apart from the wounded, who were bade to rest, and the sentries, the remaining Astartes gazed into the hololithic recordings of the raid on the cemetery.

 

Khordel’s bare head jerked, nose twitching. “To arms!”

 

No further explanation was required. The Space Marines were used to the veteran, had seen him fight, and gave him their trust. Weapons came to bear, leaving no point of the chamber uncovered. Gideon could taste the acrid tang to his own saliva, the combat stimms, and an adrenal sluice of kill-urge. There. It was just a shimmer, a blur, at the edge of the cave, where the foamy swell kissed the granite.

 

“Wait,” Gideon told his men, familiarity the only barrier to the firing stud.

 

“Stay your wrath,” a musical chuckle accompanied the plea, as the shimmer resolved into an Eldar Ranger, her face and voice known by at least two of the Marines.

 

“Reckless, for an Aeldari,” Gideon growled.

 

“I take it the sight of an ally displeases you,” she replied.

 

“Enough, and out with it, Idharae,” Khordel blustered.

 

The alien offered a benign smile, no doubt designed to infuriate the Templar, but Gideon waited. “The Invaders have a chance to repay us.”

 

“We paid in blood, xenos,” Dannax spat.

 

“And now the Drukhari can pay with theirs,” she replied, ignoring the venom.

 

She approached the projector, sneered at its crude machinery, before producing a crystal which she placed in the sand of the cave floor. She muttered something over it, and it span around, lifting into the air to paint a detailed picture of the Invaders’ Chapter Monastery. “The Dark kin gather. Those you killed are already replaced.”

“It is a spearhead.”

 

“Correct, Sergeant Gideon. Your arrival stirred up the Adharc’s nest. They move sooner than we expected.”

 

“They came here for a reason, witch,” Khordel insisted. “We are not stupid.”

 

“What does it matter now?” she replied, but almost to herself. “They will invade Ghondal. Or we can stop them here.”

 

Ghondal? So the aliens weren’t on a pleasure cruise or a quick slave-raid. It was a strike against a mustering world for the Regiments and materiel of the Astra Militarum, a torrent of manpower which scoured the worlds of darkness and restored the hope of the Indomitus Crusade. A world picked for the purpose by the Regent of Terra. Not only was it a fat target, but it was an insult. A fast-moving force such as the Dark Eldar would be perfect – in and out before the Imperial response could crush them. Clever. Wicked.

 

“And will it be just one Ranger?” Gideon opened his gauntleted hand and swept it up and down.

 

“Will you lower your weapons?”

 

Gideon blink-clicked the order, and the Invaders relaxed – or as much as Space Marines could. He smiled, sensing the game. “By all means, introduce us.”

 

The Aeldari woman smiled genuinely, and emitted something like a low whistle, a trill of notes hinting at something greater, and four lithe figures sprang from the cave entrance, holstering shuriken pistols. They stood tall, willowy as most of their race, faces hidden behind breathing masks or the customary conical helms of the Aeldari race, but there all semblance of uniformity ended, as their equipment was made from a range of hides, items and amulets both new, and battered, the dust of a thousand worlds battered into them. She bowed as they collected about her.

 

“I am Allyria, and these are my Pathfinders.”

 

“Welcome to Ogrys,” Dannax said, drily.

 

***

 

With the additional information memorised, the Space Marines got underway, the Aeldari electing to leave an hour before dawn, vanishing into the early morning mist. The Invaders trampled sand behind them, sticking to the low wash, where the opal waters hid their tracks. Single file, Gideon watched as the men in front of him kept to roughly the same compacted footprints, the exceptional accuracy and capabilities of the warriors making every effort to confuse and reduce signature. Dannax was up front, sweeping the fog carefully for any revenants or surprises on the long march. The wounded kept to the middle of the column, close to their Sergeant and the Templar, where he could support them. An odd, familiar warbling of skimmer vehicles reached their auto-senses, and the Invaders stilled. Gideon’s implants couldn’t pinpoint the xenos engines, but wherever they were haunting, it was far above and to the left of the line of march, in the direction of the cemetery. Nothing erupted from the murk.

 

He only hoped the Pathfinders hadn’t been discovered – but if anyone knew how to evade the vile pirates, it would be them.

 

This sneaking around didn’t sit well with any of them, and the alliance with the xenos, even less so, but the Codex approved such things, and the composer of the work was abroad to answer the criticisms, so Gideon wasn’t fit to complain. He smiled to himself, the strange turns of fate to have seen the Ultramarine Primarch stand with Rogal Dorn, and now to find his genesire had fallen to leave Guilliman to inherit this terrible mess.

Resentment warred with duty.

 

Khordel, with his millennia of traditions, would laugh at such a choice.

 

The Invaders stole towards the destroyed monastery, once a bastion of Imperial might, now just infested with parasites. The Astartes closed on the ruined fort, hour after gruelling hour through the morning, taking their time, nerves taut under strain for immediate battle with a foe which could hit and run, only to return at will. Gideon moved his force carefully, keeping them close together, a hedgerow of boltguns and fury ready to smash down the flimsy Drukhari with honest human hatred.

The readiness of the Aeldari to spill the blood of their distant species was as surprising as it was impenetrable. Imperial dogma regarding the capricious nature of the aliens was well-founded. He couldn’t even be sure the Idharans wouldn’t turn on the Space Marines once they’d served their purpose. One eye open; then. Gideon kept going, the sand clogging his heavy cleats, tide sucking at his footsteps in hissing rush, before retreating.

 

***

 

The lash sizzles over me with snarky actinic cracks, but rolling my hips to twist my torso, arms thrown wide for balance, I am saved from the snare. Another snaking whip coils in with hissing speed to take my legs, but I kick off, and falling already, I strike the arena floor with my shoulders and roll up to my knees.

The hard grit vexes my bare skin, stings me to riposte. A brace of thrown knives is a lightning streak from nowhere as my opponent somersaults in a blur of supple limbs, forcing me to deflect the missiles, or suffer the blissful venom that coats them should they find my flesh. Even so, as my blade rasps against each edge in sparking, rapid fire strikes of metal on metal, it is a near run thing, and I must twist from the last, deliberately thrown on an errant course.

There is a cheer and a howl from the gallery, hot-blooded throats overcoming patience or political safety, but I allow it. It is not mercy, though, just as my opponent shows none. Druxhila races in, electro-whips already creasing for the space she believes I will occupy next, no matter my evasion.

 

However, dodging was not my plan.

 

I allow the whip coming in to my right to wrap my arm, her supporters thinking it over, cheer again, baying for my blood. They almost get it, as the fire erupts along my bare arm; the hairs singed and flesh already crisping. My mind goes elsewhere, the sensation as painful as it is exquisite, and I am forced to grit my teeth against the agony and pleasure both, driving the sensory dislocation away before my opponent guts me. Grounded once more in the present, I use my weight to pull the harpy in. By abandoning the security of the ground, and leaping in, she has no purchase, no resistance, and the sudden tension of the whip takes her by surprise.

Her face understands the peril, even as my long, saw-backed blade comes up for her throat, but still she fights it, letting go of the whips to block with her wrists. The liquid fire scorching my arms fades with the cool certainty of victory as we collide, I can smell hot, spiced blood as I rake the weapon across her bare arms.

Her knees draw up, ready to connect with my chest, intending to drive me backwards, and her left hand scythes down, attempting disarm by stunning the nerve cluster in my right wrist. I pirouette in anticipation, shedding the power of her attack, leaving her to fall into the dirt, as I keep my feet, and my blade.

 

“Dracon! Dracon! Dracon!”

 

The warriors are entertained. There is nothing worse than a bored Drukhari. I can hear both camps united in their lust for blood and death as I steadily approach Druxhila, not trusting her recumbent posture. I am proven wise when she offers murderous strikes with her feet, trying to find my knees and groin, using them to buy room until she can spring upright. Her hands close on two of the throwing knives in the dirt, and she is armed once more.

 

Not the first time do I admire her.

 

Her long hair is a ribbon of crimson silk as she launches in, a flurry of attacks almost too fast to follow. Keening comes from her throat, an ululating wail meant to overcome my wits. I block, parry and cut, elbow strikes onto her arms, into her sides, all meant to slow her down, until we are both reduced to clumsy, crude blows, weapons gone, aching from the mutual punishment.

 

She gives me a smouldering look.

 

Angry at her presumption, I feint with my right, and exploit the gap in her defences with my left, hooking my fingers into the base of her throat. On a human it is enough to render them inoperable, but a Drukhari is different, and she slowly folds to the floor at my feet.

 

“Kill! Kill! Kill!”

 

One hundred throats cry for her death. I tell myself she is my best warrior, and I know she has political allies. If I kill her, they will harden against me, but if I do not, I will look weak to my own allies. I sigh deeply, audibly and raise my bloodied sword slowly. It is quite theatrical – and utterly appropriate to this spectacle.

A clarion rings across the communications network, warning enemy warriors have been sighted. The gallery clears immediately according to my established action plan in such an event. I remain motionless. Druxhila looks up at me.

 

“Do you spare me to fight, lord?”

 

“Fight?" I smile. "Baenval has his uses.”

 

Her eyes widen, and she grasps the ruse immediately, dragging me to the ground in an urgent clinch, sharp fingernails finding all the cuts and bruises, smearing me with her own bloody arms, and clinging grit.

 

There is nothing worse than bored Drukhari.

 

***

 

Our forces quickly discover no intruders, but I do not admit my subterfuge, indeed I foster it with rumours. Let them turn their mind to other things, keeping them alert and on edge where I need them. My Ravagers have swept the countryside for thirty kilometres in every direction the wind could blow, but nothing has been found. I am given to understand these Astartes are not men of great stealth, and their markings match those found around this fortress, along with broken, ten metre high frescoes of their heroic deeds. Even giants fall. The Old Ones taught us that.

 

Pondering all this whilst staring into the face of our dead man, I note the ravages of his last battle. Something hideous – claws, teeth, acid spittle fleck and mar his stern jaw. Even with his eyes closed, his face is a rictus mask of defiance. I can admire that, having seen it many times in my victims as they endure torment, no matter their race. His capacity for excruciation would have been mighty, and the chance to lure his brethren here to ensnare and flay them will feed the acute need burning within me for decades.

 

They will be here soon. I can feel the ache of war in my bones past the drubbing Druxhila inflicted anyway. I send a comms pulse to Baenval. He has a large following, and is eminently capable. It is the reason I do not duel him. I let him scheme as he will, his ambition to lead keeps him in my shadow – for now at least. He takes but a moment to interrupt my thoughts.

 

“Dracon?”

 

“Execute another sweep, have the Talons rake the skies.”

 

The communicator link cuts, and the engines of our Ravagers powering replaces it, the bass rumble in stark contrast to the shriek of the fighter craft lifting off. My warriors need no encouragement – for some, the mere chance to escape this gloomy ruin is enough. It reduces the friction between them too. In a rush of limbs, I launch in the direction of the last complete bastion roof, the tortured air burning through engines my pulse, until reaching the top, and watch the plasma trails harrow the pale blue skies.

 

They are out there somewhere.

***

[Mazer Rackham]

4: SPACE INVADERS

 

When the Ravagers soared over his position, Gideon thought the game was up, but the sleek alien skimmers banked and wove in the opposite direction, not thinking to surf the lapping waves and check the beach. They were overconfident, or bored. Either was fine – he would repay the insults heaped upon the Chapter, and in so doing, maybe prevent a strike on the Imperium.

 

“Sergeant. We distract the Dark kin. Move,” the Aeldari Pathfinder said.

 

Biting down the natural urge to retort, cooling wisdom replaced it. The Astartes would never have a better opportunity, and so he coaxed his warriors into battle speed, and they erupted from the opalescent wash, beaching onto the mainland.

 

The ruins of the fortress monastery loomed in the distance, but the rolling hills and boulder formations gave them cover as they wended their way in a purple dusk. The twin suns rolled above as Ogrys tilted, and painted the stars and moons of the world instead. Gideon looked up, momentarily rapt. It was beautiful here, and anger seethed. This was every Invader’s birthright. It would become so again, his last breath upon it!

 

An hour’s steady march straining his senses, Gideon’s ears pricked and needled for every whisper of the gravitic motors, ready for the fight. Dannax stopped them at the perimeter of the blasted fort, and they took shelter in one of the old outer fortifications, overgrown with weeds, the broken plascrete slowly being re-absorbed by the planet. The rusted hulks and hardpoints of gun carriages and swivels dwelled here, with a remnant of a ground-animal nest. Bolter casings were corroded fast to the ground, and the dark stains he imagined to be the lifeblood of whoever defended this place long ago.

 

Now Idharae came to help them. He could not trust the Aeldari, but for now, he had no choice if he wanted to succeed – and he did. A retinal flicker brought up this segment of the map. He remembered the rest from memory, his brain burning with a dozen avenues of attack, but he looked up and saw a slender figure on the main tower, leaning over the battlements, before looking into the sky. A second joined it, female.

 

“Look well, and weep at your stolen realm, oh Lexandros. For no more will be conquered.”

 

“Sergeant?” Dannax’s helm canted in confusion at the utterance over the vox.

 

“Nothing, an old rhyme. Now, we divide our attack.” He sent copies of the marked angles to his remaining Marines. “Khordel, where do you go?”

 

“Straight through the bloody front door, lad,” the Templar replied.

 

“I thought you might. We move.”

 

***

 

A ruin was not a bastion. Solid cover, perhaps, but not good enough to stop the Marines closing, and on Gideon’s signal a grenade blooped into the middle of the courtyard, where some of the thin xenos were collected. A brilliant yellow flash lit up the facade of the old keep, tossing three of the Drukhari interlopers into the air, before they painfully crashed back down.

 

Vox at maximum, and his men distributed in a pale circlet of single warriors, Gideon let his enhanced, distorted voice rip across the flag and cobblestones of the square.

“Invaders! Attack! Kill them all!”

 

Bolt rifles erupted from all directions, some snapping at the Dark Eldar languishing on the parapet. Dannax, probably. As Gideon lurched into a run, chainsword filling his hand, he stowed the rifle and switched to his heavy bolt pistol, the enemy blurring fast, but he could see them, predict them, his superhuman reflexes making a mockery of their agility.

 

His pistol barked a triplet of shells, and the bolts smashed the xenos to pieces, blasting through banded segments of armour to find the flesh beneath. Blood and limbs ripped into the darkness. As he met another warrior, he barged her aside, crunching her into the ruined wall, torso crunching under his weight. A shower of crystalline shards struck Gideon on his left pauldron, some spiking into the ceramite, others splintering off it. He rolled his body into the attack, shielding his neck joint, but even so, shots from a different angle vexed his faceplate. Augury told him of the deadly toxins in the glittering ammunition, but he swept his bolt pistol on target.

 

“Die, alien!” he demanded. They did, in tight bursts of Cawl’s fury.

 

Together, he and Khordel shot and stabbed their way through the courtyard, the Templar a swirl of steel and cloak around him, defying the wicked bayonets and cruel daggers of the foe, whilst Gideon shot anything outside the measure of the Templar steel. The pair secured the arched gatehouse, and without preamble, Khordel’s boot went in, parting the heavy plasteel doors in a single, solid kick.

 

“The Sons of Dorn return!” the Swordbrother bellowed, charging in.

 

Behind, a squad of the purplish-clad insects, positioned loosely about the narthex, and Gideon had a moment to throw himself on top of Khordel, driving him to the ground, as a withering volley erupted, snagging in the flowing cloak as both Astartes hit the hard flagstones. “Unhand me, lad!”

 

Rolling to his knees, Gideon freed the man to murder. He shot one of the Dark Eldar in the head, the heavy weapon he carried clattering to the floor in that odd, plastek-metallic of wraithbone composite the Drukhari used. Incensed at the ambush, the Templar charged the line, a flurry of crystals finding him, acknowledged only by a grunt of pain.

 

In the swirling melee, Gideon chopped down, carving arcs of alien blood onto the walls and ceiling. Slivers of foreign metal punctured his flexsteel joints and in the gaps between the abutting plates of his Tacticus. One lodged down behind his poleyn flange. He cursed, then rammed his knee straight, and snapped the blade off. The Drukhari gasped, right before Gideon put his fist into its face, and heard the neck break with a sickening crunch. The body flopped a few moments and was still.

Suddenly, they were through, and racing down the castle’s throat. Beyond, Gideon could see his squad making progress, although one of the triangles marking his brothers had winked into amber. He could spare no-one immediately; they had to keep up the pressure. A heartbeat later, the Marine vanished from the screen, becoming a small string of data.

 

The sigh became a shout, one which never seemed to end, roaring down the halls of the old keep, as they met Drukhari raiders, torn asunder by bolt rounds, hacked apart by chainsword and lightning infused steel. Grim shadows danced on the wall as actinic flares painted fleeing souls against the hard stone, and hot blood spilled in the Invader’s ancient home.

 

All roads led to the inner sanctum, and there Gideon burst into the alien strategium, finding a gaudy officer and his bodyguard.

 

“Wait!” one of them, the leader spoke in Gothic.

 

“Heed not the alien blasphemer!” Khordel snarled, before he charged.

 

The officer drew a sabre, and defended against the Templar, but by that time, there were four Marines in the small room, and the Drukhari guards died quickly, albeit weapons in hand. Khordel took seventeen strokes to wound, and then finish the officer, who lay sprawled across the holotable, chest rent open. Dannax pulled the body off in contempt.

 

“I am reading an Imperial transponder below us,” the marksman said, pulling an auspex from his belt. He tapped the holotable controls and manipulated them. Alterations had been made in the structure, several rooms, including the armoury, were expanded.

 

“Identify,” Gideon said.

 

“It is the cryocasket.”

 

“Functional?”

 

“Aye, Sergeant.”

 

“To the armoury, then, Brothers.”

 

***

 

My Ravagers have been led on a merry dance by a diversionary force. Thinking they were harrying the humans, they followed into the foothills. The enemy commander has courage, sacrificing his force like that, in order to strike here, but he also has luck, because my warriors were too eager for the kill.

 

There is nothing worse than a bored Drukhari.

 

Answering my summons, Druxhila keeps close, along with a hand-picked coven of murderers. They are not Incubi, regrettably, but they are survivors of the pits, therefore vicious and determined. We can hear the fighting above, and the link with Baenval has gone silent, which means they are in the primitive war room. Our portable webway gate is still powering up, and it is this we defend, down here in the armoury with the frozen corpse. My Kabalites infest the halls and rooms in this old heap of stones, haunting the bones of a dead carcass. They will slow and bleed the humans dry until they get here for the beheading.

 

I roll my shoulders and flex my neck, flourishing my agony gauntlet. Perhaps there will be more worthy prizes to take back to Comorragh. If not, it will be irrelevant. Once the webway gate opens, reinforcements will come, and I will take them on to victory.

 

***

 

The bastards were everywhere, Gideon cursed. For each one Khordel chopped into meat, another two sprang out to ambush the Invaders. The tight quarters suited the Astartes, bulky armour and quick reflexes making the encounters a grim parody of the shooting galleries aboard the Stellum Novis. Even so, the few remaining Space Marines lost another two of their number – but the deaths were avenged threefold.

 

Gideon didn’t want to die trying. He wanted the Dark Eldar to try dying.

 

This thought spurred his chainsword through alien guts, savagely ripping the churning blade free in a tumble of pink viscera.

 

“On, on!” Khordel demanded, in between exhortation from the Book of Rhetoricus.

 

By the time the Astartes reached the armoury, Gideon’s sensorial was reporting all the contaminants in the air, the acrid stink of fyceline propellant, offset by wretched offal and cloying wetness. Only he, Dannax and Khordel remained to face the closed doors. The Swordbrother had borne the brunt of the close combat, and his lifesigns were outside parameters, no doubt he too was awash with the venom enamoured of their foe. He could feel the tingling, burning sensation as his own body fought the contaminants within. To conserve their strength, they would use their heads.

 

“Grenades,” Gideon instructed.

 

Khordel grunted in disappointment, but drew out a gilded orb, twice the size of a krak grenade. His grimace carried through the vox. “Now they will burn in holy fire.”

Gideon knew only the tales of this bomb: a masterwork of the artificer Antioch, to be used only in the direst of circumstances. The Templar was in bad shape, and wanted to win fast. “You had enough, old man?”

 

“No lad, not yet.”

 

“Dannax, rig the door, then we stand back.”

 

The Marines worked quickly, and as the sharpshooter triggered the explosive, a hail of EMP and Plasma grenades pounded through, hurled by the occupants on the other side. The Drukhari had gambled on taking them without risk. Gideon grinned, the Marines safely cloistered behind solid buttresses – and they could throw further than the paltry muscles of skinny aliens. “Now kill them all!”

 

A blur of bomblets erupted from the Invaders, every grenade on their belts went into the chamber beyond, filling it with shrieking shrapnel, and pounding concussive force. They used everything, and then ran forward into the choking smoke and dust, knives and pistols drawn, the Crusading Templar at the fore, sword in one hand, Orb in the other.

 

Gideon could not miss the religious connotation of a battle cleric.

The Dark Eldar were reeling, but the furthest came at them in acrobatic menace, blades and limbs flickering, given the space and time to do so. The closest were pulverised into jellied chunks, making the footing dangerous, and Gideon slipped.

 

It saved his life.

 

A wickedly curved, yet elegantly forged power sword caressed the face of his helm, the disruptive energy field sizzling against his face as the sliver parted the front of his casque. The helmet split, but stubbornly clung to his head, before he smashed it free with his fist, to let it careen across the floor. His autosenses took a moment to adjust, with a spike of neuro-feedback at the transgression to the machine spirit, but he could see, smell and hear everything, and the raw senses fired his response.

 

He duelled with the female Dark Eldar, the power sword meeting his chainsword twice, crackling hiss drowning the revving teeth once, twice, then an explosion of ceramite and plasteel as the energy blade hewed through it. Gideon didn’t hesitate, gripping the Drukhari warrior, crushing her to his bosom with his powerful muscles and pulverising her face flat with a head butt. Skull caved in, he let the ragdoll drop, and shot one of the others out of the air, moving forward, drawing his combat knife.

 

Khordel stood on a small dais which likely once served as an inspection ramp. He engaged the ornately armoured form of the enemy leader, a glowing gauntlet flicking at the longsword seeking his heart. Another powered blade sang to make riposte, but the Templar fought on, using his body and cloak as a weapon as before. Here, the chains proved a hindrance, as the alien gripped them, cruel laughter spilling from the angular helmet as the slender killer weaved left and right, hanging onto Khordel, and pulling his strokes from true.

 

With a curse, the Templar savaged the chains with a deft cut, unbalancing his adversary, but the Drukhari recovered with breathtaking grace, and swept the cloak over Khordel’s head, somersaulting, to drive his powered sabre into the Crusader’s back. The Templar groaned, falling forward in slow motion.

The enemy leader tumbled away with an acrobatic cartwheel, just as the arched portal behind him began to swell and open, the nose of a Ravager poking through the swirling black mirror. The alien continued to laugh, springing up onto it, leaning from it in a grimly animated bowsprit, before launching across the room.

Gideon rolled forward, grasping the fallen orb, and even though the alien landed behind him, he primed the weapon, and threw it at the emerging vehicle. Agony seared his back, ripped up his spine and out into his arms and extremities, but the damage was done – the orb sailed straight and true, to connect with the target. It engulfed the room with white-hot heat, melting and sloughing the Ravager and the gate bearing it through the webway.

 

The ferocious heat smelted the portal and attack vessel both, running to glowing slurry, even as Gideon’s own nerves and bones smoked and sloughed, until the torrent of pain bled away and the relief was so powerful he fell forward onto hands and knees, retching. When he looked up, a pair of slender, but dust-beaten boots met his eyes. He tried to strike out, but strong arms took him and propped him up against the dais.

 

Recovering his breath, he looked up at shimmering ghosts, which resolved into the Pathfinders. Dannax was dead behind them, heaped about with Drukhari bodies.

 

“We meet again, Invader. As our forebears did before.”

 

Gideon’s senses swirled as the Aeldari woman knelt before him. He tried to speak, couldn’t. He noticed his blood stained their gloves.

 

“We know what it is like to face extinction,” she said, drawing a long, pale sword. “But for both of us, stubborn survival is our lot.” She rammed the blade down into a crawling Dark Eldar, the commander of the forces here. The body went still, transfixed by the blade. “The Dark Kin will come here no longer, and our colony is safe.”

 

“Ghondal?” he managed.

 

“No.” She smiled. “A ruse. Yet you are forgiven in my heart. There will come a time of great war, Invader. When the hour is darkest, Idharae will come. For you.”

 

They shimmered into nothing, leaving him alone, and wondering exactly what she meant. He looked over to the casket and slowly pulled himself up to stare in through the glass. He promised the dead man a burial, before he slumped down to rest.

 

The last Invader to fall on Ogrys.

***

END.

Edited January 25, 2023 by Mazer Rackham