AuthorM.S. Lovegrove Storm Heralds Reading List Book 1: Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget, Finis Fide, Tergum Cultro. Omni Honore Chapter 1 975.M41 Through the empty wastes of deep space a hundred tiny lights moved. Twinkling comets drifting on the gravity currents between warp-jump points, trailing plasma wakes behind them. These were a motley collection of worn out and dilapidated scows, repurposed to serve as cargo ships, bulk haulers and tankers but by far the vast majority were Pilgrim Ships. Within their holds tens of thousands of faithful souls prayed for the chance to lay eyes upon their destination, each one of them giving away all their worldly possessions to lay eyes upon the spires of Sacred Terra. The convoy moved slowly between Warp Translation points, just another hop through real space before plunging back into the haunted depths of the Immaterium. At the head of the convoy coasted a ship that was the complete opposite to the scows in every way imaginable. She was a bloated leviathan, eight kilometres long and clad in armour thicker than the average hab-building. Her vast flanks were festooned with line after line of guns, vast weapon batteries that pointed out to the stars set besides a pair of towering Lance arrays. Her prow was a reinforced buttress of Adamantium, poked by six torpedoes tubes. Even by human standards she was not a graceful or elegant ship, she was a killer through and through. A pugilist of the void, built to withstand anything a foe could throw at her and give back twice as much in return. She was an Imperial ship of the line: a Lunar-class cruiser and her name was "Averof".
Within the Averof's bilges and weapon decks tens of thousands of naval ratings laboured and died, never once seeing the stars outside their walls. Junior officers, midshipmen and Petty officers marched to and fro among them, encouraging them to tend to their duties with bellowed insults and cracking whips. Elsewhere chapels set throughout the ship were filled with psalms to the distant God-Emperor, seeking His favour. In the Enginarium Tech-Priests communed with the ship's belligerent spirit, soothing its rancour with binaric chants and the laying on of blessed unguents. Servitors chattered endlessly as they mindlessly performed the same tasks over and over while Commissars hunted rogue gangs of escaped ratings through the bilges. It was a perfect picture of life in the Imperial Navy. Yet on the topmost deck beings of a quite different order were meeting. In a spinal access corridor, lined with soaring armourglass viewports, three figures were conversing. The passing ratings and officers gave them a wide berth as they stared nervously at the inhuman beings, fearful of drawing their attention. The first was a giant in black armour, festooned with skulls and bearing a sacred Crozius mace that glimmered with red power and a holy Rosarius on a chain around his neck. His name was Wrethan and he was the Chaplain of the Ninth Company, Storm Heralds Chapter. The second being could not have been more different. A bulky and almost square figure in a Red robe marked with the precepts of Mars, the planet of the Tech-Priests. The silhouette was missing any legs and instead floated with a faint hum of anti-grav repulsors. Her name was Magos Castabore, of the Adeptus Mechanicus and her voice was curiously feminine, for one who was essentially a floating box. The third was of similar build to Wrethan but wearing blue armour instead of black and his pauldrons were storm cloud grey and stamped with a spiral in a starburst. He bore an elegant power sword and also a most curious device on his waist: a Psyk-out grenade. His helm was doffed to reveal the augmetic eye implanted in his face, which glowed a fearsome red as he talked. He was Sergeant Toran of IXth squad of the Ninth Company, and he was caught in an awkward position between his two rival allies, who were engaged in an argument Castabore was saying shrilly, “The security detail around my quarters is inadequate!” Wrethan didn't seem moved in the slightest as he barked, "You shall get what you get and be grateful." Toran hastily tried to avert an incident by saying, “Magos I assure you, your personage and artefacts are safe. No less than three of our Brothers stand guard inside your chambers at all times. The rest of IXth squad patrol the ship vigilantly, nothing shall endanger your property.” Castabore wasn't placated as she snapped, “It had better not. I have invested a great deal of trust in your abilities and if you wish our alliance to continue then I expect a successful completion to our journey. You had better not fail me.” Wrethan seemed insulted by the slur and growled, “We are Space Marines, we do not fail our missions. Unlike the wretches of Forgeworld Crux Lapis.” Toran winced at the insult and interjected, “ Magos Castabore, Chapter Master Gorgall holds the friendship of the Mechanicus in the highest esteem. We will spend our lifeblood to protect you.” Castabore made a snorting noise under her breath, which Toran suspected was a blurt of Binaric exasperation. Then with typical Mechanicus briskness turned a floated away without saying another word. Chaplain Wrethan watched her go and muttered, “Arrogant wench thinks she can command the Divine Emperor’s Angels.” Toran replied politely, “Arrogant or not the Chapter needs her support and that of the Adeptus Mechanicus. We cannot risk making an enemy of the Tech-Priests, given Chapter's dour relations with the Imperial Adepta.” Wrethan allowed, "Always thinking of the broader strategic picture Toran. Sometimes I think your skills are wasted as a Sergeant.” Toran accepted the compliment graciously as Wrethan continued, “I find it most peculiar Castabore specifically requested your squad as an escort and on a naval warship no less. Surely a Magos of her rank could have commanded a Mechanicus vessel and Skitarii guards.” Toran knew exactly why Castabore did not want to let other Tech-Priests near her artefacts, but was sworn to secrecy on the matter. Instead he said, “We fought together during the liberation of Caminus ten years ago and we formed a mutual understanding. Tech-Priests are notoriously jealous of their discoveries and covetous of their peer's secrets, no doubt she worries some rival will steal her designs. She knows we seek to curry her favour and trusts our desperation over the word of her fickle contemporaries. ” Wrethan seemed satisfied with the response and said, “Yes, that Caminus was quite a coup for the Storm Heralds and for you personally. There is talk you will be elevated to First Company before long.” Toran was surprised to hear that and demurred, “I am content with the role laid out for me.” Wrethan's head turned to stare at him as the Chaplain uttered, “You have exceeded expectations with your service. You took that gaggle of misfits in IXth squad and forged them into an effective fighting force. Furion in particular has been performing well… I trust you are keeping a close watch on his spirit?” That query made Toran uncomfortable. Wrethan was proud and bombastic individual, exactly the kind of qualities a Chaplain needed and none who had seen him on the battlefield could doubt his ardour or zeal. Unfortunately Wrethan was also part of a movement within the Chapter that sought to break the Storm Heralds free from the rule of the High Lords of Terra. Like many Chapters the Storm Heralds practiced their unique brand of the Imperial Creed but unfortunately they had strayed from mere to devotion to outright proselytising. Many among the Chapter actively sought to impose their own beliefs of the Imperial faith upon the masses. They thought they could break free of the stifling rule of the High Lords and chart their own course. Toran and his squad were vehemently opposed to such an agenda in every particular and had been quietly working to subvert those goals. It was most fortunate that Wrethan had come to believe that Toran was firmly on his side, an impression the Sergeant was determined to maintain. Toran was in a difficult position, Wrethan’s agenda and his did not match at all but he could not let on that he was anything but a loyal follower. Diplomatically he said, “Not word passes in my squad that I do not know about.” It was true; it was just not the whole truth. “Excellent,” Wrethan declared then he turned to stare out the armourglass window at the drifting convoy ships, “Look at them. Fools and dreamers all, sailing half-way across the galaxy for a hopeless dream of touching divinity.” Toran replied cautiously, “They do sing the Emperor’s praises, their faith is beyond reproach.” Wrethan growled, “Only in that petty sham peddled by the Ecclesiarchy. Bowing and scraping to golden icons, kneeling before fat decrepit priests. True faith should be a call to action not subservience. Once the Chapter is free of Terra we will show them what true belief means.” Toran looked about and said, “A word of caution Father Wrethan, this is not a Storm Herald ship. Such talk is dangerous where we do not know who may be listening.” “Wise words,” Wrethan allowed, “Come, let us walk and discuss other matters.” The pair of them walked along the spinal accessway towards the Averof’s bridge. Toran looked out the viewportals at the convoy, wallowing through the void and he said, “Tell me, once we have delivered the Magos to Mars will there be an opportunity to make pilgrimage to Terra?” Wrethan snorted, “You wish to gaze upon the Divine Emperor's abode? I applaud your fervour, but no Storm Herald has set upon Terra since our glorious founding five thousand years ago.” Toran frowned as he mused, “Strange, our homeworld sits at the heart of the Pilgrim Trail between Terra and Ophellia VII and for millennia we have protected this vital warp route. One would have thought our duties would have called us to the heart of the Imperium at some point.” Wrethan shook his head and explained, “The great Sebastian Thor declared the 22nd Founding, along with the formation of the Adepta Sororitas and Ordo Hereticus, to safeguard the Imperium following the Age of Apostasy. Our duties are to fight the Emperor’s foes, not go indulge in pointless pilgrimages.” Toran found that statement rather hypocritical, given Wrethan's goal of spreading worship, but kept silent. As they walked they approached a gaggle of naval officers in their starched uniforms and gold braiding. The men saw them coming and scattered before them, almost as if they were afraid of being stepped upon. Wrethan eyed them as they strode past and then snarled, “Look at them, fearful and weak. It is a tragedy how the High Lords have allowed the Imperium to decay since Thor’s reforms.” Toran warily probed, “Did not the Emperor forge the Astartes to fight for mankind for that very reason? The Codex Astartes teaches that we are to lead the way for humanity by our noble example.” Wrethan replied, “Lead yes, but mankind should have the strength to follow. Look at this convoy, there must be over a hundred ships. Once such large flotilla would have warranted a fleet of capital ships, swarms of escorts and relays of Defence Monitors. But what have the Admiralty sent? One lone Cruiser and pair of Escort Carriers. It is pathetic how far the High Lords have allowed the Imperium to fall.” Toran was about to reply when suddenly a piercing alarm began to ring through the corridor and the officers and crew about them began running to and fro. The pair of them turned to stare at the viewportals as thick blast shields began to roll over them and Wrethan snarled, “That is the call to action stations!” Toran wasted no time opening the squad’s vox-channel to shout, “IXth squad this is Sergeant Toran. I am declaring a war footing. Brothers Daite, Halis and Ophelian, Magos Castabore is en-route to her quarters, once she arrives seal yourselves inside and guard that door at all costs. Brothers Furion, Novak, Persion and Jediah, rendezvous with me on the bridge. Move fast Brothers, we are under attack!” Omni Honore Chapter 2 Through the bowels of the Averof three Space Marines strode. They marched with a brisk clip, bolters held in an alert position, ready to be used at a moment’s notice. The fact that they had been marching for hours did not diminish their alertness, nor the fact that they had been performing patrols like this for weeks, they were Space Marines and readiness was forged into their souls. They would not be caught unawares. In a line they marched, passing awed crewmen and indifferent servitors. Tech-priests made way before them and many a rating clutched devotional tokens at their passing, sent into religious awe by the passing of the God-Emperor’s Angels. Naval officers were another matter, they did their best to ignore the marching Astartes, turning up their noses in disgust. The Imperial Naval was a proud institution and there had been many clashes between the two branches of the Imperium's armed forces. Particularly for the Storm Heralds Chapter, a Brotherhood whose relations with the monolithic organs of government was fraught at the best of times. Among the trio Brother Daite sighed at the sight, lamenting the dire state of affairs. He was young by Space Marine terms, barely over fifty Terran years old. His armour bore few laurels or marks of note save a few treasured campaign badges. His face under his helm bore few scars, and a stern expression. He was in almost every way an unremarkable line Brother, one among a thousand others, yet in one way he stood out. Daite was a visionary, prone to extraordinary feats of intuition and seductive reasoning. The product of a flaw in the Storm Heralds gene-seed, one he could well do without. Ahead of him Brother Ophelian scattered a gaggle of ratings, striding through their crowd without pausing. The mortals had to jump aside lest they be crushed by Transhuman boots. The sight made Daite grimace and he voxed on a closed channel, “Watch your tread, you nearly killed them.” “So?” Ophelian sent back. "So we're supposed to be guarding this ship, not killing its crew," Daite snapped. Behind him Brother Halis Paur sniffed, "Our orders were to protect the Magos and her property, the ship and crew are expendable." Daite rolled his eyes and retorted, "Sergeant Toran told us we were to conduct ourselves respectfully. We have a chance to rebuild our Chapter's relations with the Imperium." "The galaxy doesn't revolve around Toran," Ophelian grumbled, "Besides, the Navy will never forgive us for what High Chaplain Charael did to them." "What did he do?" Halis asked. "You don't know?" Daite started, "Were you not paying attention in Scout-Training?" "I was more interested in strategy and weapon's drill," Halis scoffed, "Not dusty lectures on ancient lore." Daite sighed as he thought why couldn't he have been assigned to patrol with someone else, anyone else. Among the squad it was hard to imagine a more disagreeable pair than Ophelian and Halis, one snide and dismissive, the other guileful and sly. IXth squad was an oddity in the Chapter but these two were something else. Daite drew in a breath and said, "Charael was the first High Chaplain of the Storm Heralds and some three centuries after our founding he uncovered a Heresy in the Navy. The Admirals were fostering a series of rebellions in a bid to secede from the Imperium. The Storm Heralds burned out the treason root and branch, an act the Admiralty have never forgotten." Halis sounded thoughtful as he mused, "Charael, he was a Visionary. The first documented instance of the flaw." Ophelian laughed snidely, "He must be your hero!" "Hardly" Daite growled, "I never asked for this, I would get rid of it were I able." "Why?" Halis asked in curiosity, "Aren't they useful?" "Sometimes," Daite sighed, "But I can't stand the looks I get. Half the Chapter expects me to produce Intel out of thin air on command. The rest pity me, acting like I need sheltering in battle. I cannot abide to be pitied." "You can't control the visions?" Halis asked, "They don't tell you things you want to know?" "No," Daite spat, "And I don't appreciate the way everybody assumes that's all there is to me. I have the same skills as any Storm Herald, I passed the same training and gene-forging. I have ambitions and goals of my own." "Such as?" Halis asked. "Promise you won't laugh," Daite sighed. "Depends," Ophelian muttered as he turned a corner and strode up the next passage. Reluctantly Daite confessed, "I want to join the Deathwatch." "Deathwatch?!" Ophelian laughed, "The Inquisition's pet alien hunters?!" Daite grinded his teeth in frustration but Halis asked, "Why them?" Daite snorted, "Because they won’t treat me differently, I'd be just one more Space Marine. Not a prized asset or object of scorn. One Brother, among many." "Brotherhood," Halis sighed, "Yes, I understand that calling." But Ophelian snorted, "You haven't a chance. The Inquisition hates us more than the Navy, no Storm Herald has been called to serve in decades." Daite wanted to retort but they were pulled up short as they reached a slab-sided door, heavily reinforced and banded by girders. It was flanked by gun-servitors and many auspexs and bio-scanners. The trio came to halt and Ophelian punched a code into a small runepad and then green sweeps inundated them, checking their bio-signs and confirming their identities.. Moments later locks began to unwind and the beams retracted, letting the door swing open. Beyond was revealed a sterile white room, Magos Castabore's personal quarters, and three more Space Marines: Brothers Novak, Persion and Furion. Daite spoke first, "Hail Brothers, how was the watch?" "Dull," Novak quipped, "The Magos turned up a few minutes ago but other than that I had nothing to look at save Persion's ugly face!" "Better ugly and competent than handsome and inept," Persion snapped, "Someone has to fight the Emperor's wars while you put on your make-up." Novak laughed, "You're just jealous because I will soon win my swordsman laurel." "Good job you're handy with a blade," Persion snapped, "Makes up for being a lousy shot." "Emperor save me," Furion groaned, "These two have been at it non-stop for nineteen hours." Daite nodded as he said, "Stand relieved Brother, we shall take the watch." The trio strode off and Novak laughed, "Let's go stretch our legs!" Daite shook his head as they stepped within, the heavy door slamming closed behind them. Ophelian and Halis removed their helms, breathing easily. Halis' head was bald and he had brilliant green eyes, Ophelian's cheek was scarred and his hair was cropped short and burned away in places, making him look like a mastiff that had lost a lot of fur in a fight. The locks slammed into position and Halis asked, "Should we..." Daite didn't hear him, for his guts were suddenly sinking. His head swam and the deck was swaying under his feet as his arms began to tremble. A vision, coming unbidden and unwanted. He tried to deny it but couldn't stop himself blurting out, "Danger, danger comes on wings of shadow!" "He's having a vision!" Ophelian barked. "What do you see?" Halis pressed. Daite had no idea where the words came from, somewhere deep in his soul a truth emerged. It wasn't psyker power at work, the Chapter had made certain of that, but somehow the information was born within him. His lips moved of their own accord and he cried, "A Traitor is at our backs, he comes to sink the knife in. One of the hated and damned Astartes is here!" With that the vision faded and Daite was left shivering. He sank into himself and tried to recover but there was no respite. The air cracked with the distant ringing of sirens and the sound of a ship preparing for war. Halis lifted his voice to utter, "Traitors, the ship is under attack by Traitor Marines." Ophelian racked his bolter as he snarled, "Good, I was hoping to reap some Traitors this day." Daite could only hold his arms and shiver as he muttered, "We'd better trust they don't reach us, else the Sergeant and everybody else will be dead first." Omni Honore Chapter 3 On the bridge of the Averof organised bedlam reined, officers and crewmen shouting and waving at each other as the situation unfolded around them. Servitors chattered in the long pews of the nave, mindlessly continuing the task for which their lobotomised brains had been retasked. Junior officers bustled in the transepts and pulpits, demanding action from lower decks or hurling abuse at whining subordinates. The Sensorium was the scene of a scrum, men shouting over each other as they processed incoming signals. Meanwhile on a high balcony choirboys sang traditional hymnals to attract divine favour, adding the notes of their prayers to the clamour as was traditional in Battlefleet Karyl. To the uninitiated it would have appeared anarchy and discord, yet from the madness order arose, the fluid command of an Imperial ship at war. This was what an Imperial cruiser looked like when it prepared for action. Into that commotion Sergeant Toran and Chaplain Wrethan charged. The bridge armsmen moved to stop them but immediately decided against it when they saw two Space Marines bearing down on them. As they rushed in they saw the frenzy and the turmoil but also that in the centre of the madness stood a single man on the command dais. He alone was calm and unruffled, issuing orders that set whirls of activity in motion around him. He was the ship’s captain, but unusually for an Imperial officer he was not weighed down with gold braiding and jangling medals. A simple white shirt and black trousers within a plain gold sash around his waist sufficed for him. He bore a broad naval cutlass on his hip, chipped and blood stained from frequent use. His name was Captain Georgios Mandas and that alone spoke volumes about the man. Toran had learned that this man had no blood ties to Lord Admiral Dousmanis and he could not call upon the power of an ancient name like Ravensburg, Kisher or Kountouriotis. He shared no ties with the wealthy Von Heinsburg family or even the misbegotten Damianos line. No Captain Mandas’ olive complexion declared he had been born into an unremarkable family then raised in the naval academies of Tectum, just like a million other junior officers. But where those men had been destined for mediocre lives of obscurity Georgios Mandas seemed fated only to rise and rise. The Imperial Navy was renowned for its nepotism and class prejudices, so it would have been impressive for such a man to command a mere escort frigate but Mandas had done that and so much more. For a man without powerful relatives there were only two routes to such dizzying heights, the first was to toady oneself to an established political personage and ride their ascent with lavish flattery and sycophancy. The other route was to possess ferocious determination, remarkable skill and an insane amount of luck: Georgios Mandas had all three in excess. His stunning victories in the Heraculan Deeps and the Serrati Stellas had earnt him a begrudging respect but it had been his audacious attack run during the battle of Sacellum that had set his star in the ascendant. Leading nothing but a squadron of Cobra class destroyers he had run a gauntlet of fire and unleashed a point blank torpedo salvo that had finished off the Chaos cruiser Dusk Queen, Flagship of the pirate prince Vorshaan. Mandas' insane charge had saved Admiral Mikolas himself, saved an Imperial fleet from total defeat and sent the Night Lords running. Subsequent Imperial propaganda had made him a household name and the hide bound Admiralty had reluctantly granted him command of a ship of the line. Toran had yet to see the man in action but he was impressed by his manner and bearing, the fact the sergeant had also been fighting at Sacellum played no little part in it either. Georgios Mandas saw the Space Marines coming and said "Ah our honoured guests, you are just in time”, glossing over their breach in decorum by entering the bridge without the captain’s permission. The Storm Heralds approached the command dais but stood below the rail, even Space Marines would not step onto a Captain’s stage without invitation. Mandas waited until they were were below him then he waved at the Hololith and said, "We have hostile contacts at the edge of auspex range." Toran could read a Hololith as well as any naval officer, but this was Mandas' bridge and if he wanted to waste his breath then that was his prerogative. A nondescript bridge officer approached holding a dataslate; even Toran who was considered a reasonable Marine found them all indistinguishable and hadn't bothered to learn any of their names. The bland faced officer held out his report and said, "Logic engines have a match, three infidel class raiders and one Slaughter Class cruiser: the ‘Ixion'. She was last seen under the flag of the Night Lord Traitors. Captain Mandas glanced at the report then turned to his guests and said, "A fair match, they have speed and manoeuvrability but the Averof is one ornery bitch in a scrap. We will give them a bloody nose before this day is out.” Wrethan did not seem convinced and asked "These are no rabble of pirates but full blooded traitors. Do you really think you can take them?" Mandas grinned as he quipped, "The followers of the arch enemy are savage but rash, if we keep our wits about us and the God-Emperor sees fit to grant us a little luck, we can beat them. Plus we have two escort carriers, the Phylarch and the Choregos might just tip the odds in our favour." Captain Mandas turned to face the length of the bridge and waiting rows of officers and servitors as he called, “Prepare for battle. Void shields to maximum, open all gunports and refresh Hololith every five seconds. All stations report combat status." Random officers from around the bridge started shouting back, “Helm responding.” “Astrogation: ready.” “Sensorium standing by and Hololith has been blessed by both Tech-Priests and ship’s clergy.” “Enginarium: plasma reactors running smoothly.” “Void Shields at full strength.” “Weapons batteries locked and loaded! We have Macrocannons, turbolasers, missiles, grav-projectors and plasma annihilators at your discretion.” “Prow torpedoes armed Captain.” “Lances charged; just give us one clear shot!” Mandas nodded in satisfaction then declared to the whole bridge, “Our mission is clear: we have been ordered to get this convoy to safety and we shall do so. Communications, signal the flotilla to maintain formation and make for the Warp translation point. Then hail the Phylarch and the Choregos and order them to stand by but keep out of weapon range. Helm, bring the Averof about and put us between the flotilla and the enemy, we will take them head on." With a rumble throughout the decks the great ship swung about and pulled away from the convoy, her mighty guns promising swift death to anything that lay before them. The Averof was a mighty veteran of war, ready for battle but sadly the same could not be said of the convoy ships wallowing behind her. As the Cruiser moved off the scows began to break formation, each captain fleeing in whatever direction he deemed best. On the bridge of the Averof an officer Toran didn’t recognise leapt up from the Sensorium and yelled "Captain the convoy ships are panicking, they are drifting out of formation!” "Damn those yellow bellied cowards!" shouted Mandas, 'Transmit a message in the clear: all ships Commissars are hereby ordered to shoot any Captain who does not immediately return to formation!" In the Hololith the drifting icons slowly stopped scattering then haphazardly drifted into something resembling a formation, it was loose and sloppy but it would have to do. Watching from below the dais Wrethan commented to Toran, “Perhaps this man does have some fire in his belly after all.” Toran whispered, "We shall see Chaplain." Suddenly another nondescript officer cried out, "New contact, new contacts! Infidels are launching I say again we have torpedoes hot and in the void!" Mandas stared into the Hololith and declared, "Too rash, too rash by half. They launched from too far away and lost the element of surprise." He sternly gave his commands, "Signal Escort Carriers, I want a squadron of fighters launched immediately to intercept those torpedoes." The communication officers bent to their stations but after less than a minute one of them turned ashen faced and cried, "Captain, Phylarch and Choregos regret to report they were fitting for a bomber launch. Fighters will not be ready in time." Concern and apprehension swept the bridge, men fretting as the torpedo icons drifted closer and closer, but the Commissars loomed over the stations and naval discipline held. High above the choir's hymns changed tone, becoming desperate pleas for salvation that rang loudly in the ears of men who clutched at devotional tokens. While this was happening Mandas grabbed a small cogitator and began running navigation vectors through it. Standing below him Wrethan snarled, "Damn that scum, those carrier officers should be given punishment duty for incompetence." Toran dryly commented, "I believe in the Imperial Navy few duties are more considered more humiliating than escort carrier duty." Wrethan growled, “Then they should be flogged!" Suddenly Mandas threw down his cogitator and yelled, "Helm bring us to starboard, steer course 015' by 002' degrees, three quarters thrust!" Wrethan stared into the Hololith and questioned in disbelief, "What in the Divine Emperor's name is he doing?" Toran replied in amazement, "He is steering the Averof into the torpedoes’ path. He's going to take the hit, so the convoy will not." Wrethan sounded surprised as he remarked, “Unexpectedly brave for a mortal.” "I appreciate the compliment but I do not intend to die today," quipped Mandas overhearing them, "Ordnance crews: open prow tube doors and fire torpedoes! The crew ran to obey and a minute later a deep rumble ran through the length of the entire ship as six gigantic cylinders leapt from the reinforced prow, leaving trails of plasma wake behind them. Each one was larger than a Thunderhawk gunship and they shot through the void with stunning acceleration, internal servitor brains sweeping space with auspex arrays, seeking a target. Wrethan stared into the Hololith and watched the icons inch slowly across space as they tracked the Torpedoes flight and he muttered under his breath, “Has the man gone mad?” Toran was equally baffled and replied, "The line between madness and genius is measured only by success." All they could do was stand and watch as the minutes crawled past. Toran was not accustomed to standing about and watching someone else fight for him but this was not a Space Marines vessel. This was a naval warship and he was a guest, he would have to shut up and let the Captain do his job. So he stood silently, watching the torpedoes move through the Hololith. Both Imperial and Traitor ordnance was travelling at fantastic speeds but space was truly vast and naval battles were commonly fought at distances of tens of thousands of kilometres. A shot once fired could take several minutes to reach its target. The torpedo salvoes flew through the void, drawing inexorably closer together, but when they finally intercepted their primitive machine spirits awoke and began firing manoeuvring thrusters. The torpedoes' course began to curve as they tracked around and their counterparts in the oncoming salvo also responded and began to turn too. In flash they passed by each other but instead of soaring onwards they spun about on their axis and tried to turn around. Toran's jaw dropped as the ordnance abandoned their previous course and began seeking each other, spinning through the void on trails of plasma. The vastness of space made the chances of even two of them impacting inconceivably small but they swirled around each other in a strange pirouette. The circling dance sweeping them out into deep space and they drifted off into the void, locked into an eternal spin. On the bridge of the Averof the crew erupted into cheers of jubilation, men shouting huzzahs to the ceiling as the choir lifted their voices in thanksgiving. Toran found it a little slack compared to his Chapter’s own discipline but could not fault their enthusiasm. Meanwhile Captain Mandas leaned over the command rail and casually explained, "It is a little known fact that a torpedo’s auspex can be easily confused. If they encounter another auspex sweeping on the same frequency they mistake it for a ship’s energy output and waste themselves trying to lock onto something that is not there." He returned to his post as Wrethan muttered, "Is he saying he just shot the torpedoes out of the void?" “It would seem so,” replied Toran rather impressed by the performance. The noise continued but through it Captain Mandas was shouted new orders, "Now it is our turn to teach the foe a lesson! Signal Phylarch and Choregos to launch those bomber waves. Target the enemy escort frigates, let us even the odds." Omni Honore Chapter 4 Through the void deadly killers flew free, each a tiny pocket of life for their crews amidst the cold emptiness of space. From their bulky hulls multiple barrels of defence turrets protruded and upon their stubby wings missile racks held rows upon rows of plasma warheads. They flew in a loose V-formation, cruising towards their targets like soaring birds. They were Starhawk bombers and they were on the hunt. Behind them the Phylarch and the Choregos were dwindling into tiny specks, the escort carriers beating a swift retreat because with their strike wings launched they were now practically helpless. In one of the rearmost Starhawks a young woman sat strapped into the pilot's throne. Her skull was fitted with neural jacks and her flight suit pumped life support fluids through her system. Her name was Flight-Lieutenant Cynthia Syma and she was the ranking officer aboard Starhawk Delta 7. Syma gripped the control column tightly as the plasma engines flared brightly at the edges of her cockpit windows. Her nervousness was not solely for the looming prospect of death, this was her first flight as a bomber captain and she was determined it prove a success. True, she had flown dozens of strikes as a co-pilot and hundreds of simulations since, yet the simulacra-devices never quite captured that heady sense of danger and power that came with every mission. Around her the cockpit was a confusing jungle of readouts, controls and drive throttles alongside the cog-icon of Mechanicus certification and numerous purity seals, each one a testament to a ritual blessing with sacred unguents. It was comforting to know the Machine Spirits were properly placated, yet she lifted one hand from the column to tap the bulkhead by her helmet where a pict-image was pinned down. Her father and brothers, beaming proudly as she received her official wing badge. Her family had a long naval tradition and she had much to live up to, true her father may have lived long enough to merit a desk job but every one of her uncles and cousins had died in the cockpit and her brothers looked likely to go the way. Syma swore she would not fail her family's legacy this day and would return home, having made her father proud. She was ready and Delta 7 was running smoothly, her pilot's spirit eager and ready for the fight or so Syma told herself. She glanced over to her side and saw her new co-pilot sweating. He looked so young and green, strange to think he was only three years her junior. Kyros was novice pilot on his first run, fresh out of the flight schools of Greater Tectum and it did not speak well of his final scores that he had been assigned to Escort Carrier duties. In Battlefleet Karyl few duties were more humiliating that Escort Carrier service. Syma wondered what it said of her prospects that she too had been given the same deployment. Syma reached out and punched Kyros in the arm of his flightsuit saying, "Are you ready rookie?" "Ready," he replied but looked like he was going to throw up into his domed helmet. Syma frowned and asked, "Did you go to the pilot’s brothel like I told you to?" He shook his head muttering, "There was no time." Inwardly Syma cursed, brothels were technically prohibited on ships but the Imperial Navy gave its pilots a lot of latitude. Given their life expectancy nobody objected to them grabbing life and squeezing out everything they could. Ancient superstition held it was bad luck to fly with a crewman who had not lost his virginity and now she was stuck with his bad luck. For moment she wondered if she should have just dragged him into a bunk herself, while she'd had the chance, but shook off the thought: he was her junior pilot and that was a recipe for trouble. Syma shook off her worries and concentrated on her flying, focussed on holding her place in the formation. Her first battle lay ahead and she needed to be alert. Suddenly from the back of the cockpit her logistics officer, Jannes called, "Signal from the Flight control: Alpha, Beta and Gamma squadrons will target one frigate apiece. Delta squadron are to reduce thrust and hold in reserve, to pick off stranglers." Syma cursed silently to herself, she had wanted her first flight as commander to end with a confirmed kill but orders were orders. She reached out and grabbed the throttles and pulled them back a fraction. It was a tiny reduction but enough to let them drop back, then she said, "Signal our compliance." Around her Delta Squadron fell back as the bright contrails of the other squadrons pulled ahead and soon they had shrunk into tiny points of light themselves. From the nose cone, Bombardier Barh spoke up, he was a grizzled veteran with more experience than all of them put together. Yet he was a man living on borrowed time and everybody knew it. A man of forty Terran years had no business being in a strike craft, for he was believed to have used up his allotment of luck and then some. To the superstitious naval crews that was a serious worry. A virgin and a fossil on the same craft, one more ill-omen and many would whisper this bomber was cursed. Barh called, “We're not going to see any action this time are we?” Syma replied smoothly, “Patience everybody, our turn will come.” "When?" asked Kyros with a quiver in his voice. "Relax," Syma reassured him, "Don't get overexcited or you might pop your cherry early, before we can get you to a brothel." Over the vox the rest of the crew chuckled at the lewd joke and she saw Kyros scowl at the teasing, but he least he was distracted from the coming battle. Then suddenly Jannes called, "First wave commencing attack run." Ahead she could see flickering lights in the blackness and knew that men and women were fighting for their lives out there. She could picture it in her mind's eye, the lashes of tracer fire, the contrails of missiles, the crushing G-forces of pilots evading and the bright flares of explosions as they failed and died. Suddenly there was a magnesium flare in the darkness as a massive explosion ignited ahead, Kyros shouted, "They got one!" Then there was a second flare and Barh shouted, "Two! That’s two!" Syma gripped her column tightly and growled, "Two, but not three." Behind her Jannes called, "Signal from Flight control, two Infidels destroyed but Beta Squadron have taking a mauling and are falling back. Delta squadron is ordered to finish the job." Syma felt her heart flutter as she said, “Take heart lads, this is our chance, today we show everybody what we can do!” Relentlessly Delta squadron ploughed on, closing on their target and around her Syma could hear the familiar sounds of her bomber preparing for the attack run. In the engine compartment the Enginseer was blessing the drive coils while the gunnery servitors crackled in their turret sockets, seeking threats. The consoles chirped and bleeped as she unlocked the arming toggles and flipped the ten switches beneath, awakening the Machine Spirits of the warheads and readying them for war. Then from behind her Jannes called, "Signal from squadron commander: We are in position, commence attack run." Syma grinned as she opened up the throttles and Delta Seven leapt forwards, powering towards its target like and avenging angel. G-forces pushed her back into her seat and her eyes watered but she held firm and steadily increased their acceleration. Before them the target Frigate was a tiny glowing dot in the black, but from it came the first flickers of tracer fire. It was a light rain at first, barely noticeable, but then they crossed an invisible line and everything changed. As the squadron approached the Infidel unleashed everything it had, firing off defence turrets, las canons, flak rounds and missiles all at once. Space seemed to fill with exploding ordnance creating a deadly maelstrom of fire and light in the Starhawks' path. Syma wrenched the control column randomly left and right, up and down, in a crazed evasion pattern, desperately seeking a clear path. She flew instinctively in a way no machine could ever emulate, keeping her movements random and unpredictable. This was pure anticipation for there was no time to respond, if she saw something headed their way it would be too late to avoid it. From the corner of her eye Syma saw a sparkling light beside her and knew one of her fellow crews had just been swatted out of the void by a lucky hit. Another and another flared in the dark, each twinkling light signifying the death of brave pilots and good crew in a moment of pain and terror. “Permission to launch?” called Barh from the nose cone. “Wait till we are closer,” called Syma knowing she could not fail her family during her first command. She did not just want the kill, she needed the kill. On and on through the maelstrom Delta squadron flew, daring the gauntlet of fire then at the right moment the other survivors unleashed their missiles. Fiery contrails soared away as the Starhawks desperately pulled up and instantly the tracers switched targets to cross space before them, tiny pinpricks of light showing missile after missile being picked off as the turret fire annihilated them. Baruch yelled “Permission…” “Denied!” roared Syma clinging on fiercely, she could see the target filling her cockpit window and could taste the kill on her tongue. Closer and closer the enemy loomed until the Infidel became a mountain before them, appearing massive and invincible, in space terms they were at absolute point blank range. "We're too close!" screamed Kyros in panic, "We're too close!" Syma waited a heartbeat longer then shouted, “Launch!” With a clank that resounded through the bomber ten plasma missiles detached and roared away, becoming ten bright stars in the cockpit window. Syma hauled back on the controls and pushed the engines to maximum trying to break free. Ferocious G-forces pressed her back into her seat but she still kept one eye on the rear view-screen. Behind them streams of tracer fire turned space into a tapestry of light but the tiny warheads slipped through. They had launched from point blank range and the frigate had no time to respond. Ten missiles dived through the web of defensive fire to strike the ship and ten massive balls of plasma were born within the escort's hull. Explosion engulfed the frigate, making its form disappear in a sea of broiling plasma. Thick armour melted in an instant as fuel, ordnance and crew were incinerated in the star hot inferno. One second the Infidel sat proud and strong in the void, the next it became a massive ball of fire expanding through space and throwing waves of metal and plasma all around it. The explosions filled space itself, creating a tiny star and Syma gasped as she saw it white out the rear view screen. She opened up the throttles beyond the red lines and gritted her teeth as she pushed the Starhawk to limit in her desperation to escape the oncoming tidal wave. But it was futile, they had flown too close to the sun and now would pay the price. The plasma wave swept through space and enveloped the tiny bomber without even slowing down. Syma had time for one last scream as her Starhawk and her entire crew were incinerated around her and reduced to a cloud of floating atoms in the vacuum. Her last thought being she really should have dragged Kyros to a bunk, before her life winked out. Omni Honore Chapter 5 On the bridge of the Averof an uncommon quiet reigned, officers standing in rapt attention as they stared at the swirling images in the Hololith. Within the three-dimensional projection icons swirled and looped, representing the flight of bomber squadrons as they set upon the enemy frigates. Every time one of the small images turned red and faded there was the sharp sound of men wincing under their breaths. Time and time again the icons vanished leaving the enemy untouched. It seemed the attack had failed, but then suddenly one of the enemy symbols winked red and vanished, then another, but the bridge crew did not cheer, not yet. They watched the final drama play out, as the last frigate fought on, but then suddenly it too vanished leaving victorious bomber icons behind. The bridge crew cheered as officers punched the air and the ship's clergy directed the choir to begin a hymn of thanksgiving from the rafters. Servitors chattered and the Captain punched the rail running around his Dais in elation. Even Toran felt the elation wash over him, the kills a fine testament to the bravery and skill of the Imperial bomber crews. He stood stoically but said nothing, letting the crew have their moment of triumph. They would need the morale boost for the grim fighting yet to come. Into that commotion strode four more Space Marines, Novak, Furion, Jediah and Persion. They looked grim and foreboding with their helmssd on, Furion especially with his angular-fronted Mark III helm. They blew past the naval armsmen, leaving them impotently in their wake. They looked about and saw their Sergeant and Chaplain standing by the command Dais then marched over and made the sign of the Aquila. "What have we missed?" asked Persion after a moment. Toran explained, "The navy bombers just took out the enemy escorts but suffered severe casualties, less than half of them will be coming back. Now it’s just the Averof and the Ixion: one against one." The squad gazed into the Hololith and young Novak said, "We are out of position, the Averof has drifted too far to starboard." "No," Furion corrected him, "You have neglected the unique nature of naval gunnery, it is far easier to hit a ship that is closing than one moving abeam. Captain Mandas has perfectly positioned the Averof to swing about to port and cut across the Ixion's bow. He's going to 'Cross the T' and give them a close ranged broadside. "Right in the face," Jediah muttered, "Just how I like it." Indeed Captain Mandas was already calling out, "Helm you may make your turn, bring the bow around hard to port." Around the bridge gaggles of officers rushed to obey and stars wheeled in the Hololith as the great ship turned ponderously about. Novak was looking at the Hololith in puzzlement and remarked, "Am I the only one who finds it odd the Ixion isn't trying to come about? Her broadside lances could give us a mauling at long range but she is just rushing forwards." Yet Furion replied, "Never underestimate your foe's intelligence, they don't want the Averof, they want the convoy. They will run the gauntlet and try to break past us, once in among the cattle their lances will tear those scows apart." Novak wouldn't let it go though and said, "That means the Ixion will rake us with her forward weapon batteries, before our broadsides have an angle." Captain Mandas had clearly been listening in for he gripped the rail and proclaimed, "There is no victory without risk. We shall pass through the shadow of death and live to see the light on the other side. Trust me, I know what my ship can take." For long minutes they stood watching the icons move together on the Hololith and Toran found himself counting down the ranges in his head. Their courses were set and it was too late to turn back, they were committed to the deed and all they could do was endure. Then suddenly a voice called out from the sensorium, "Energy surge detected the Ixion is preparing to open fire!" Mandas declared loudly for all to hear, "Stand firm men, hold your nerve and we will ride this out. Cycle the void shields and close the louvers over the viewportal." As thick armour louvers closed over the viewportal Toran couldn't resist asking , "With respect, shouldn't you brace for impact?" Mandas replied firmly, "No, we will need the power for our return salvo. Have faith in the Emperor and trust in the Averof: she's too ornery to die." Far ahead the prow of the Ixion lit up as her weapon batteries unleashed their fury, hurling shells, missiles and las blasts in a wave. The barrage raced through space and engulfed the Averof in a cloud of destruction causing, Electro static energy to wreathe the ship. The void shields crackled they as shunted vast amounts of energy harmless away, making the Averof look like an inverted snowglobe against the black of night. The arcane protection rebuffed the onslaught but feedback caused internal systems to convulse. Servitors screamed as their minds were scrambled, devices wailed in protest at the strain and the artificial gravity bucked like a boat on an ocean swell, causing the crew to stagger as the deck heaved under their feet. On the bridge violent tremors and static discharges danced everywhere, a terrible stink filling the air as servitors were electrocuted by feedback and finally allowed to die. On and on the barrage came, pushing the Averof to the limit and men were thrown from their feet as the ship experienced violent bucking motions. Lights blew out and emergency lumens cut in, turning the bridge into a dim smoky cavern, rocked by violent thunder and lightning. While through it all the choirs sang for salvation from the wrath of the foe. Then the moment passed and silence fell as the deluge trickled off and the Averof sailed through untouched: the shields had held true. "You proud beauty!" Mandas yelled slapping the Averof's rail in triumph, "Now transfer all power to the weapon systems. I want a double barrage as we cross the Ixion's bow. Gunnery officers: Lock On target!" The crew rushed to obey and in the gunnery pews row after row consoles turned green in readiness. Mandas waited for a long minute until the vectors were just right then shouted, "Wait until we're right across their bow.... Now open fire!" With a roar to mechanical fury the Averof unleashed her power, the starboard flank erupting with such force the entire ship was shunted sideways. Macrocannons thundered, missile arced away, Turbolasers spat beams of power, grav-projectors discharged and Plasma annihilators flashed, rows upon rows of them flinging destruction into the void. A waterfall of firepower hurtled away from the ship in a ceaseless torrent hitting the Ixion upon its prow. A crescendo of explosions broke over the Ixion's shields like a great wave, spilling up its flanks to cover the entire length of the ship in blue lighting. Energy arced and danced over the void shields making them seem to shrink inwards towards the hull but though they bent they did not break and the Ixion ploughed on unharmed. On the Averof's Captain Mandas was roaring, "Reload you Grox-fondlers, hit them again!" But the gunnery consoles were flashing red lights everywhere and a frantic officer turned about to shout, "Captain, gunnery crews report the weapon batteries are running too hot, they need more time to reload." Mandas merely commanded, "Pipe me through ship wide!" He gazed into the distance and his words rang out through every deck of the ship, “Men of the Averof, the whole Imperium knows that you are stout of heart and true to the Throne. And as loyal men each of you knows the day shall come when your soul stands before the Golden Throne and the Emperor shall ask; what you have done to earn your place by His side, " Mandas practically shouted the next words, “And you shall say: I Was There! I was there the day the Averof punished the Ixion for its treachery! Now put your Frakking backs into it and load those damned guns!” The bridge crew cheered at his rousing speech and Toran watched on as a single console changed from red to green. Then another and another, faster and faster, until every pew was wreathed in jade light. Then a jubilant officer stood up and declared, “Weapon batteries loaded, we are Locked On!” Mandas pounded his fist upon the command rail and yelled, “Well done my brave lads, now hit them again!” A second storm erupted from the side of the Averof and engulfed the Ixion at point blank range. A tsunami of las, plasma and shells impacting her forward bow, engulfing her shields and making them turn opaque. Giant arcs of lightning spilled into space and the enemy ship writhed in the torrent of destruction. Then with an electromagnetic flare the shields collapsed leaving the Ixion defenceless. On the bridge Captain Mandas seized the moment and yelled, “Fire Lances!” From the Averof erupted columns of coherent light, each one metres thick and miles long. They speared out at the speed of light and plunged into the Ixion’s defenceless hull. One of them hit low, cutting through compartment after compartment, incinerating barracks, blowing out magazines and severing power conduits as it melted through. The other hit high on the spinal array, amputating auspex towers and communication arrays. It cut through tower after tower until it reached a defiled cathedral halfway up the ship, it melted through the outer facing and stabbed inwards interrupting a debauched celebration of the Prince of Excess. The lance beam incinerated all within and ended an orgy that had lasted eight hundred years in less than one second. On the Averof the bridge erupted in cheers as the officers and crewmen cried out at their success. Even the Space Marines were not immune and young Novak bellowed, “A hit! A most palatable hit!” Captain Mandas was roaring at the sight of the enemy's wounds and cried, "Double rations of Grog tonight you void-dogs!" The atmosphere was heady indeed but amid the joy and huzzahs one man stood firm and resolute, not celebrating at all but glowering at the Hololith. Toran turned to him and said, "Chaplain Wrethan is something amiss?" Wrethan growled, "These fools are blind. The enemy is wounded but not crippled, yet they have not returned fire. They have a clear shot at our stern so why do they not respond in kind?" Toran glanced at the Hololith and saw what only Wrethan had realised. The Averof had moved forwards and the Ixion had crossed its stern but it was not firing. As he watched he saw the icons begin to shift and he realised the Ixion was swinging to starboard and accelerating. The gap between the two cruisers was closing fast and with a rush of horror he realised the truth and saw the deadly danger they had just walked into. He shouted over the noise, "Captain Mandas, you must come about, come about now!" Captain Mandas looked at Toran and said, "Do not panic, we can weather the storm of their broadsides. We need to get clear before we can turn and set up for another pass." But Toran practically shouted up at the Captain, "You don't understand there will be no broadside. We all made a mistake when we assumed they were after the convoy but their target was always this ship: they want the Averof!" Mandas frowned in confusion and asked, "What are you talking about?" Toran roared, "Look at the Hololith, the Ixion is closing and matching velocities. The Traitors are closing for a boarding action!" Omni Honore Chapter 6 In the midnight sky two leviathans moved in tandem, each one eight kilometres of armour, guns and engines. They drifted together like slow moving dancers but their partnership was marred by violence. From one ship streams of boarding pods, grappling claws and armoured shuttles dived to deliver a deadly cargo. The other spat turret fire into the void, seeking to destroy as many of the invaders as possible. Pods exploded, claws were severed and shuttles blew into flaming debris but it did not matter, for every intruder destroyed five more would take its place. On and on they came, then suddenly boarding pods were punching deeply into the ships’ guts and shuttles dove to latch on. All over the Averof’s spine thousands of filthy men, disgusting mutants and bizarre spawn spilled forth, setting upon any crewmen they found in a wave of stabbing madness. On every deck men threw down tools and grabbed weapons in a desperate attempt to fight back even as the foe set upon them. High on the spinal access corridor a wave of shuttles cut through the hull to disgorge waves of invaders right outside the sealed doors of the bridge. They were met by teams of naval armsmen and embedded gun servitors and blood flowed freely but their deadliest warriors had yet to be unleashed. From among the multitude strode five giants in midnight-hued plate, embossed with lightning and grizzly trophies. The armsmen unleashed shotguns and stubber fire but the invaders waded through the incoming fire effortlessly, rounds pinging harmlessly off ceramite plate. Contempt was written in their every movement, from their easy strides to the bulky weapons in their fists that blew men apart with every bolt fired. In moments they had crushed all resistance and the invaders surged on until they met the thickly armoured doors of the bridge itself. There the Chaos Marines pulled back to let one of their number forwards, he bore a daemon-mouthed Meltagun in his hands and immediately set to cutting an opening in the hatch. Beyond that hatch Captain Mandas was standing by small reliquary while he strapped on his carapace armour and a plain helmet. Around him the bridge crew were grabbing shotguns and bayonets while IXth squad directed the establishment of barricades and cross fires. Mandas drew his signature cutlass and a blunt las-pistol from the reliquary but he was frowning as he was addressed by Chaplain Wrethan, “Captain I must protest, you are too valuable to stand on the front line. At the very least you should be behind your junior officers, let them die first." Mandas pulled on a vambrace and replied, "This is my ship and I will not ask my men to fight any foe I would not face myself." Wrethan’s annoyance was evident in the voice emanating from his skull helm as he said "You cannot expect us to stand by and watch you get yourself killed.” "Then get off my ship!" Mandas snarled, "The day I will not fight with my men is the day after I am dead!" The crewmen were roused by the Captain’s defiant words but were hushed as Sergeant Toran said, "Captain do not underestimate this foe. These are not normal men you face, Chaos Marines are coming through that door." Those words dropped an awful pawl on every one, the prospect of facing Chaos Marines creating a shocked silence and crushed their morale. Mandas said, “Oh, that changes things." He reluctantly put his laspistol back in the reliquary, then his hand moved to another compartment and drew forth a bulky Plasma pistol. He held it aloft for all to see and proclaimed, "Now I am ready!" He turned to face the assembled crew and declared, "Men, the Averof may be a cantankerous bitch but she is OUR cantankerous bitch and we will not let her fall without one hell of a fight!" The bridge crew cheered briefly but Toran knew their morale was indeed bolstered by their Captain's declaration and they gritted their teeth for the fight to come. They took shelter behind raised plates torn from the decking and there they waited. For long minutes the trail of Melta-fire described a wide archway in the bulkheads but all too soon it was complete and the doors fell inwards. From the smoking ruins a crowd of baying mutants charged, screaming in rage. They were met by a wall of shotgun and bolter fire that tore them to shreds. Twisted bodies and rusty weapons fell to the decks in oozing heaps of gore, but this was just the chaff sent to soak up the deluge. Behind them followed a far greater threat, over muscled brutes mixed with the nightmarish silhouettes of Chaos Marines. The foe raced through the oncoming fire and soaked it up like the lightest rain, tearing forward to grapple with the defenders hand to hand. Filthy claws met honest steel and trashing forms fell as men and mutants grappled, killing and dying in a frenzy of carnage. In that madness the Traitor Marines’ reigned supreme, their armour proof against the strength of mere men and their every gesture a killing stroke. Bolters reduced brave men to clouds of stinking offal, knives ripped out hearts and fists crushed heads as they waded into the fray. The Imperial crew fought back as best they could but the Traitors had expected resistance, they had expected carnage, but they had not expected IXth squad. With a roar Toran led the charge, his hatred burning hot within him. He had fought countless foes of mankind but nothing provoked such instant searing wroth as the sight of Chaos Marines. He hated them for their betrayal, he hated them for their vile debasement, but most of all he hated them for their refusal to simply lay down and die. The Chaos Marines saw them coming and reacted with transhuman speed, the one armed with the Meltagun levelling it at Chaplain Wrethan and firing a long burst. The heat ray caught him in the chest but the instant it made contact there was a flare of holy light. Around Wrethan's form the shimmering nimbus of a Conversion field blazed, as his Rosarius dissipated the deadly energy. Contemptuously he stepped through the blaze and brought his Crozius down hard to pulp the Heretic’s skull in one blow as he roared, “His vengeance has found you!” Elsewhere Furion was grappling with a giant of a Marine. They wrestled together for dominance, seeking the advantage but they were too evenly matched and neither could best the other. Whichever would have proved stronger turned out to be irrelevant for Jediah stepped up and plunged his knife into the back of the Traitor's neck, severing his spinal cord. Hardly honourable but then this was no formal duel, this was war. Meanwhile Novak duelled a Heretic who fought with an obscenely pulsating whip. His flashing rapier darted and stabbed but he could not break through the writhing hypnotic dance of the evil lash. Novak fell back step by step as the Traitor snapped and darted the tip of his lash before his face, forcing him onto the defensive. The Heretic hissed in anticipation of victory but realised too late that he had fallen into a trap. Novak suddenly dropped to the deck revealing the form of Persion standing behind him with a loaded bolter. He squeezed the trigger and with a roar of fury unloaded the entire magazine. The Traitor’s breastplate actually held back the first seven bolts but the twenty-three that followed blew through and ripped him apart in a hail of mass-reactives. In the heart of the battle a frothing berserker swung a black axe covered in accursed runes at Toran. He screamed "Blood for the Blood God!" but Toran deflected the blow in silence, for he had nothing to say to such filth. He could feel his hatred burning and it fired him to swing his power sword in vicious counter. The filth raised his cursed axe to shatter the weapon but the Sergeant’s blade had once belonged to an Inquisitor and mysterious hexagrammatic runes flared brightly as they met the warped metal. The two of them stood there, transhuman strength pitted against transhuman strength, warp taint against shining purity. The contest seemed to last an eternity but then Wrethan intervened, sending a single bolt round to clip the hellforged axe. The Chaos Marine's grip slipped a hairsbreadth, yet that was enough for Toran to lunge forwards and scythe his sword right through the debased breastplate, carving out both the Heretic’s hearts. The Traitors had fought well and had been the equal of the Storm Heralds in almost every way, but they had been lacking in brotherhood and that critical weakness had been enough to turn the tide. Yet there was one heretic still unaccounted for. Toran spun and saw Captain Mandas being confronted by a diseased giant, who dripped fat globules of rancid ooze from the joints of his armour. He wielded a rusty cleaver without regard for friend or foe and everyone so much as grazed fell screaming to the deck as their flesh rotted off their bones. The Chaos Marine towered over the Captain and swung wide in a horizontal slash, seeking to smash through his defence with brutal strength and infect his flesh. Mandas however had seen the blade's warped power and knew he could not overcome it, so instead he dropped low and let it pass over his head. He rose up with his plasma pistol shining in his hand and yelled his defiance as he unleashed it right into the Traitor’s face. Plasma met warped Ceramite and burned through it like gossamer, turning the skin and bone beneath into atoms. The Traitor stood still for moment, with steam rising from the stump where his head had once been, then he keeled over and hit the deck with a resounding clang. The horde of mutants gasped to see their supposedly invincible lords fall and turned to run for their lives. Yet even as they turned their cowardly backs they were overwhelmed by shotgun blasts and not one lived to escape. Then silence fell at last. The remaining bridge crew left in shocked amazement at their unexpected survival, lost in the come down from the fight. Men stood shaking and throwing up from the adrenaline wearing off as IXth squad checked the bodies, making sure to dig out the Chaos Marines progenoids and crush them underfoot. A brief moment of victory was theirs but they had failed to realise the worst was yet to come. Many decks below their feet a spark of light flared in an empty sump, then a suddenly a slash of red light tore reality apart, spilling out accursed vapours that stained the decks with the foulest stench. Through the split in reality stepped two transhuman giants, the first wore long robes over his turquoise armour, embellished with writhing serpents. His helm had four twisted horns upon it and he carried a staff crested with a three headed snake. The second was clad in midnight blue plate, etched with jagged lightning, his helm was fanged with small unobtrusive wings on the sides and he had a pair of scarred and ragged wings folded up behind his backpack. He wielded a large polearm as long as a grown man with a serrated knife on one end and a growling chainblade on the other, the infamous weapon of the Night Lords: a Chain glaive. As the rent in reality closed behind them the first turned to the second and said, “We achieved entry unopposed my Lord, I told you I could do it.” The second drew himself up and said, “Don’t get snide with me Beta. Signal the Ixion to fall back and wait outside weapons range. Then prepare a summoning ritual: let the dross keep the Imperial dogs occupied while we call forth true reinforcements.” Beta bowed and replied odiously, “It will be as you command, Lord Vorshaan.” Omni Honore Chapter 7 In a deserted and dank hold of the Averof a crime against reality was being committed. Beta the Sorcerer was conducting a ritual designed to tear the fabric of the Materium apart. An ornate circle had been engraved into the decking, decorated with glyphs that seemed to move and change when one was not looking at them. In the cardinal points of the circle stood eight mutated priests in blood stained robes, chanting over the sacrificed bodies of captured crewmen. The ritual was reaching its culmination in a frenzy of ecstasy as their words seemed to make the shadows curl and reach out with dark fingers. Vorshaan however was not listening, he was idly pacing around the edge of the chamber tossing his chainglaive up in the air and spinning it as he caught it. The Dusk Prince had lived so long and done so much that he had become jaded even to such horrors and was finding the whole proceeding predictable and repetitive. So many wars, so many kills and so many betrayals wrought upon him and by him, that this little ritual barely registered on his awareness. He spun his chainglaive over and over in his hands, practicing his lunges and ripostes with elegant grace. He finished off with a dazzling flourish then snapped into parade attention before breaking his drill. With a bored sigh he wandered over to stand next to Beta, who was observing the final stages of the rite. Vorshaan looked on and sniffed, “Are you not done yet?” Beta replied with the tiniest hint of condescension in his voice, “The tides of the Warp are unpredictable my Lord. It will take as long as it takes.” Vorshaan blew out a bored breath and said, “This is pathetic, so tame and so bland. How you hope to attract a horde of Daemons with this paltry offering is beyond me. Istvaan V, now there was a slaughter to be proud of, did I ever tell you I was present at the Drop Site Massacre?” Beta’s voice was a study in carefully concealed exasperation as he replied, “A fascinating story, my Prince.” Vorshaan either did not notice the disdain or did not care as he continued, “Three Legions against seven, a glorious feast of horror and terror. The Primarchs themselves waging war, your serpent of a Primarch was there too… I think.” Beta was fortunate his helm meant the Dusk Prince could not see him roll his eyes as the Chaos Lord waxed on, “I was part of the orbital assault, assigned by the Warmaster himself to capture the Shadow of the Emperor, the Raven Guard’s Flagship. I slaughtered my way through those weak crows and I was within an inch of taking the bridge when that arrogant cur Typhus blundered in with the Terminus Est.” Beta replied dismissively, “What a shame.” Anger touched Vorshaan’s voice, “The prize was within my grasp but that bloated slime burned it out from under me! The Warmaster was most displeased, he had wanted to add another Glorianna class battleship to the war effort but instead it burned down to a hulk. My own Legion laughed in my face, they deemed themselves the Lords of Night but said I merely deserved the evening: a Prince of the Dusk they labelled me.” Then Vorshaan laughed contemptuously and said, “Now they are all dead and yet here I am, still breathing while they rot in their graves!” The Dusk Prince’s reverie was interrupted by a sudden scream from the ritual circle as the priests realised something was wrong. Their flesh hissed and bubbled as they tried to run but their feet had melted into the decking and they could not move. Vorshaan sighed wearily as they begged and wept for aid: even the traditional betrayal of his followers was becoming a tired cliché. Still, if they were stupid enough to stand within a summoning circle then they deserved everything they got. The air quivered and shook and for a single moment the outline of gateway seemed to sketch itself in the middle of the circle, then it disappeared leaving behind veins of shimmering multi-hued smoke. The eight priests snapped straight so fast their bones cracked, throwing back their heads to open their mouths and into each poured a single thread of smoke. Vorshaan's attention was truly caught for this was not typical; this was eerily different and unexpected. Suddenly one of the priests screamed as his body began to shed mass, growing thinner and metallic while his head began to flatten out, becoming a broad double bladed axe shape. In seconds his body had turned into a massive black axe that continuously dripped blood but still with his living face embossed into the blade as he screamed in silence forever. Next to him another priest was expanding, his body swelling with red muscles and his skin turning into brass armour while his skull began to elongate and became a dog’s snout. The new-born creature reached out and snatched up the axe and growled “I am the Executioner of Khorne.” Across the circle two priests were overcome with passion and turn to leap into each other’s embrace, perversely grappling with each other. Their frantic clawing began drawing blood and ripping at flesh as they thrashed in agony and ecstasy. Skin parted and blood merged as their bodies ran together like water and they screamed in despair and joy as they dissolved into each other. From the gloop rose a willowy creature with gossamer skin and curving hips. Its lips were ruby red and its features eerily delicate yet it had a large horn arising out the side of its head, “I am the Temptress of Slaanesh,” it whispered huskily. The next priest seemed to be piling on fat in seconds becoming heavier and heavier until he had to squat like some large toad as rot, pustules and sores erupted across his mottled skin. Next to him a priest was coming apart, flying into a million pieces as his mass was converted into a cloud of flies, they swarmed over the toad and the man’s last sight was of his flesh becoming a cloak of insects. The toad reached up into the dense cloud with still human hands and picked out a fat book and a feathery quill before croaking, “I am the Tallyman of Nurgle.” On the fourth cardinal point the priest was grinning, his torso and limbs seemingly unchanged yet from his back rose large multi-coloured wings. He blinked and when his eyes opened they were no longer human, but bottomless pits within which stars were born and died. His smile widened and from his mouth came multiple overlapping voices of men and women all saying as one, “I am Harbinger, the Cupbearer of Tzeentch.” The eighth priest was shrinking, becoming smaller and harder. His skin mottled and flowed becoming a strange mask shape, one half black and the other half white. It hung in the air for heartbeat then fell to the ground and rattled emptily before settling into stillness. Vorshaan looked over the summoned beings taking in their unexpected arrival and said, “Beta, I see four Daemons before me, hardly the horde of Neverborn I command you to summon.” Beta’s voice was the equivalent of a shrug, “The Warp is fickle and when one calls upon it you get what you are given.” “Show respect little worm,” growled the Executioner, “You stand in the presence of Heralds to the great powers.” Vorshaan sneered, “I called forth an army, instead I get pets.” The Executioner snarled ferociously at the insult and leapt forwards but rebounded away from the edge of the circle as if it had slammed into a wall. Vorshaan didn’t move except to tap his chainglaive on the edge of the circle and said, “Needless to say, we took precautions.” The Tallyman chuckled at the sight of its rival cast low and said, “What do you want of us?” Vorshaan replied, “What my kind always want: death and destruction, carnage and suffering.” “And what do you offer in exchange for this boon?” asked the Temptress licking its lips in anticipation. “I already told you,” Vorshaan stated impatiently, “Death and destruction, carnage and suffering. Do not pretend your kind needs more motivation than that.” “Do not presume to lecture the Neverborn,” snarled the Executioner as it kneaded the haft of its axe. “Perhaps it was a mistake to call upon the Blood God,” mused Vorshaan, “Perhaps a stronger God would be more effective.” The Executioner roared at the insult and brandished its axe but Vorshaan merely said, “Everyone knows Nurgle’s armies are the greatest.” His words caused Harbinger to grin widely and say, “You seek to play upon our rivalries to get us to do your bidding.” Vorshaan cocked his head to one side and asked, “Is it working?” Harbinger’s smile widened as it said, “It does not matter, we know all about your schemes and plots. These Storm Heralds have no idea that you have already sown the seeds of their destruction: we have been delighted to watch them blunder about in ignorance.” “Then you will assist in this part of the plan?” asked Vorshaan casually. The Tallyman burped loudly then declared, “Watching the complete annihilation of one of the Anathema’s lapdog Chapters will be payment enough.” Vorshaan said, “Then we have a bargain, the bindings on the circle will fade once we leave, then do as you will. Take the ships’ crew for your amusement, all I ask is you enjoy yourselves.” Then he and Beta turned and strode towards the hold’s entrance but before they could leave the Temptress purred, “And if we meet your loyalist cousins?” Vorshaan paused at the door and said, “Corrupt them to your cause or kill them and stick their heads on poles as trophies. I do not care either way.” Then he strode out as the ritual circle began to evaporate into nothingness, freeing Daemons into the heart of the Averof. Omni Honore Chapter 8 Through the bowels of the Averof raced a large party of warriors. IXth Squad, Armsmen and naval officers, all armed to the teeth and had already drawn blood. Alongside them Captain Mandas ran with his weapons drawn, auxiliary crews had been called up to staff the bridge but with the enemy cruiser moving off he had insisted on accompanying the flying reserve. Several times they had raced to crisis points, where the ship’s crew were being overrun and had turned the tide, now they moved to the lower decks. As they ran Persion was listening into the ship’s vox net, his transhuman mind able to multitask in a way no mortal man could, to fight and scan thousands of reports in moments and directing the party to where they were needed most. Persion declared, “Enginarium reports that they were attacked, but it has been dealt with.” Toran was keeping a sharp eye out for foes but asked, “How many more Chaos Marines were there?” Persion replied, “None, only mutants.” “None?” asked Toran in surprise, “That is not right, there should be far more. Perhaps the Ixion was undermanned.” Chaplain Wrethan growled, “Never underestimate your foe. They are up to something. The Traitors always have an agenda, it is usually insane but it is always there.” Toran’s reply was cut off as Persion suddenly grabbed at the side of his helm and shook his head as if trying to dislodge a burr; Toran looked around in alarm and said, "What happened?" Persion shook off the disorientation and replied, "Massive distortion on the vox-net, something is wrong with the ship’s spirit. Reports of whole compartments going silent and the Astropaths are screaming of turbulence in the Warp: a tear in reality. There's something on the vox... Screams, screams like nothing I've ever heard before." Wrethan suddenly spun about and barked, "Order those compartments sealed. Seal them off now!" Captain Mandas interrupted and said, "This is my ship, you do not give orders here." Wrethan fixed him his the glare of his skull-helm and snapped, "Do not question me. This is no ordinary foe, the enemy has summoned the denizens of the Warp. The Averof has been violated by Daemon incursion." Mandas' face fell for every void sailor lived in mortal dread of the horrors that dwelt within the multi-dimensional depths of the Immaterium, a terror that haunted every Warp jump. To face them in realspace was a nightmare no man would ever speak of. He gulped and said, "I shall order all affected compartments evacuated and sealed. Full Warp breach protocols." Wrethan shook his head slowly and growled, "You do not have enough time, seal them this instant or lose your ship." Mandas looked up with the fire returning to his eyes and said, "I have hundreds of men trapped in those compartments." Toran intervened with regret in his voice , "No, you do not, not anymore. They are already dead... or worse." Mandas turned ashen-faced he realised the truth of the situation but he gritted his teeth and gave the orders to seal the contaminated areas, effectively killing anyone inside. Toran turned to Persion and questioned, “How many compartments are contaminated?” Persion listened to the vox for moment then said, “Four and the nearest is only seven decks below our position.” Toran addressed the group saying, “We are the only force on board with any chance of halting this incursion, it is up to us to act.” The Marines raised their bolters but the armsmen looked terrified at the thought of the battle to come, still they had little choice but to follow as their Captain led them forwards. Within a short span they had descended to the contaminated section and found themselves confronted by a thick blast door. The barrier was designed to withstand the inferno of combat and the cold of space, yet it was still emanating an unearthly heat. “Make ready” said Toran, “Whatever is beyond those doors cannot be tolerated to endure. Persion, signal the bridge to open this hatch then seal it behind us.” Meanwhile Captain Mandas turned to look at his men and saw the dread and the terror hanging over them, the prospect of facing whatever was beyond those doors made even hardened veterans look like scared children. The Captain saw the state of their morale and knew they were useless if he did not stoke their courage. He raised his plasma pistol as he declared, “Men, today we will march through the enemy or die trying! Stand tall, stand firm, stand proud, for you are the best the Imperial Navy has to offer. If we should die then the God-Emperor shall see we fell not in cowardly position but in courageous stance and with our wounds to the fore!" The armsmen gripped their weapons tightly at the Captain’s words and tried to swallow their fear as the great hatch swung open. Beyond was a scene from the deranged nightmares of psychopaths, a vision of hell writ large. The corridor beyond was swelteringly hot and covered in piles of gore and offal, the shredded remains of ratings and midshipmen dripping off every bulkhead and frame. It stank like an abattoir and the air itself seemed infected with something ancient and truly foul. Standing amid the carnage was single figure in brazen armour with a dog snout for a face. It carried a black axe within which moved a human face, eternally screaming. The Executioner of Khorne raised its axe and growled, “Who shall be first?” Toran's hearts beat faster at the sight, a rush of sacred loathing and revulsion filling his mind. His hypno-indoctrination recognised this vile foe as the worst threat to humanity, a nightmare made flesh and sent out to torment the waking world. His mind was filled with instant hate and the urge to destroy this foe utterly, to plunge his sword into its heart and unmake it. Yet his tactical mind worked as steadily as a cogitator and judged it was better to engage at range, so his lips moved to yell, “Open fire!” The Daemon was inundated with a hail of bolter, shotgun and plasma fire, punching holes into its impossible skin, but it did not fall. The absorbed the power of the shots and the Daemon laughed, seeming to swell with power as it shrugged off the barrage. There was something infectious in its aura, a terror that went beyond the sheer horror of its physical presence to stir the darkest and most primal fears of men. Even the Space Marines were not totally immune, feeling its loathsome presence clawing at their mental conditioning, seeking a chink in the armour of their souls. The courage of the armsmen broke, their weapons were useless and they faced a nightmare from the dawn of humanity. Weeping in terror they all turned to run, all save one. Captain Mandas stood amongst the retreating tide and shouted, "Stand you craven whoresons!" but the men did not heed him and ran to the hatch, beating upon it with their fists as they tried to escape. They wept and they pleaded for their lives but the hatch was sealed and they could not escape. The Executioner screamed, "Khorne despises cowards!" as it raised a clench fist and every man who had fled suddenly started coughing and spitting up a red froth. They clawed at their necks as a wave of blood vomited up from their mouths and they fell to deck choking on rivers of blood. Choking on their own blood, the armsmen died, Chaos' scorn for cowards killing them. Wrethan barked, "Guns are no use here, Daemons are only vulnerable to hand-to-hand combat!" Toran yelled to the remaining squad "Stay back, you are no match for this foe!" as he and Wrethan charged into the attack. The pair of them lashed out with their weapons but the Executioner met them with the haft of its axe and blocked the attacks. Wrethan swung repeatedly with his Crozius and concussive blasts of energy were released with every strike but the Daemon seemed unaffected. It swung out with its axe and caught the Chaplain a vicious blow in the chest. His Rosarius flared to dissipate its cursed energy but the sheer kinetic force drove him to one knee. Instantly the Daemon lashed out with a kick that propelled him backwards lifting him and throwing him far down the corridor. Wrethan hit the deck with a clatter of Ceramite on plasteel and rolled over, struggling to recover. Toran was left to face the Daemon alone and the rest of the squad looked on in horror. They tried to find an angle to fire but could not risk shooting as they watched their Sergeant duel the Warp filth. They traded blows at lighting speed and Toran felt his anger rising, a tide of red wrath unlike anything he had felt before. He realised the Daemon’s aura was driving his own rage to unheard of heights, stoking his anger but he could not concentrate on fending off the mental assault while fighting for his life. The axe and sword flashed and clashed, one dripping blood and dark glyphs, the other shining with thrice blessed silver and hexagrammatic runes. Then Toran thrust out at the same instant as the Daemon and the weapons locked together, leaving their wielders grappling like two wrestlers from the antediluvian past. The Executioner looked into Toran’s eyepieces and growled, "I see you little thing, you have stood on the brink before, you already walk the crimson path and Khorne calls for you. Break your chains, give free reign to your bloodlust and you shall walk the Eightfold path." The words clawed at Toran's mind, stoking his fury and rage and his mental defences were useless for the ire came from his own soul. He could see nothing but red before his eyes as the madness swelled within him, consuming his thoughts as the Daemon amplified his anger with the power of Khorne. His thoughts were falling apart in the red tide, his carefully instilled strategies and rationality washing away leaving only the desire to rend and tear and maim with his own two hands. He was drowning in rage like a man fighting a swift current, his own anger dragging him under to a dark and murky place in the depths of his own soul. But then the raging current slammed into a sea wall, the foundation stone of an idea that formed the very core of Toran's self-identity: Duty. At the very core of his soul Toran's sense of duty informed his identity, his duty to his Chapter, his Emperor and to the principles of the Storm Heralds. It was a wall that could not be broken, an anvil upon which his soul had been hammered into the sternest of blades. He looked at the Daemon and saw that to yield would be the death of his very self, the death of all that gave his life meaning. Toran arose from his fury like a drowning man breaking the surface as he cried, "We are the Emperor's Storm!" It was not a cry of rage but of purity, the focussing of his being down to a single aspect of his nature. Toran took his anger and his fury and hammered them on the anvil of his duty, honing them into the sharp edge. He channelled all that he was into one thought, every aspect of his being pushing him into the most furious of mindsets. His mind was made up of but one thought now, a truth so simple and pure that the Daemon had no hold on it: "We are his Wrath!" The Executioner blinked as it lost its grip on Toran's soul and that was enough for the Sergeant to move. He twisted his blade, knocking the screaming axe aside as he lunged forward to drive his sword point right at the Daemon's torso, just below the gorget. The shining blade encountered brass hell-forged armour and as it did so the Hexagrammatic runes flared brightly, thrice blessed silver cutting through plate like it was parchment. Then with one mighty heave Toran wrenched the blade sideways and ripped off the Executioner's dog-like head. He stood there breathing hard and all was silent for an instant, then the corpse fell backward to the deck. Instantly the foul aura cleared and the compulsion to rend and tear faded, leaving only hollow emptiness in its wake. Toran gasped for air, even his genhanced physique struggling with the oxygen debt. He looked upon the body of his foe and saw it was collapsing into a pile of gore and there was an ethereal sense that something foul had slunk back into the Warp. Despite the abattoir stench and cooling piles of offal the compartment somehow felt so very clean. “Is it gone?” asked Furion lowering his bolter. Toran nodded wearily and then drew himself up and said, “Captain Mandas, it was a mistake to bring you. This is not a foe for mortal men to face. You must return to the bridge and order this compartment welded shut, do not open it until you have returned to dock and can have the site exorcized by the Ecclessiarchy and Inquisition.” For once Mandas did not argue, truly shaken by the horror of the Warp as he nodded his compliance. Then Toran faced his squad and said, “We move on, there are yet more of these filth to destroy. With me Brothers, the Emperor's work is not yet done!” Omni Honore Chapter 9 The decks of the Averof were awash with blood and the sounds of heavy fighting, men and mutants grappling together in a swirl of combat. Intermittent power failures caused the lighting to flash, creating a sickening strobe effect and many thought they had already died and gone to hell. Amid the carnage six giants in ceramite pushed onwards, not pausing to engage the foe though their intervention could surely turn the tide. They focussed on a single objective, a danger far greater than anything else on the ship. Persion was feeding back reports of the situation but Toran interrupted, "Just tell me the Magos is secure." Persion answered, "Confirmed, Daite reports that Castabore is sealed within her quarters .There has been no signs of intruders yet." "Excellent, tell them to keep their guard up," said Toran, "How far to the next contaminated area?" "Two more junctions," informed Persion as the squad pressed onwards. Swiftly they approached the great hatch and paused before it. Toran inspected the metal but could find nothing untoward. He checked his weapons and then said, "Signal the bridge and tell them open the hatch, gird your souls my brothers, there is no telling what corruption awaits within." A moment later the hatch clanked into the ceiling and the squad dove in, weapons raised in anticipation of an imminent threat. However all they found was a blank and featureless corridor, entirely missing the mutating touch of the Warp they were expecting. IXth squad advanced down the echoing passageway as the hatch ground shut with a solemn clang, sealing them inside. They swept the space in silence, alert for the slightest trace of a foe and it was not long before they found the first signs of life. From a large hold ahead were the sounds of many people breathing, as clear to an Astartes’ ear as the ringing of many boots. Toran led the way and Wrethan, Furion, Novak, Persion and Jediah quickly took position around the hatch. Toran risked a quick glimpse inside then pulled back, his genhanced senses imprinting a perfect image in his enhanced mind. In large concentric rings hundreds upon hundreds of ratings, midshipmen, petty officers and junior officers were kneeling in rapt adoration of something. They were alive but unmoving, completely unmoving, so much so their eyes were weeping and red from not blinking. Almost as if they could not bear to miss a single instant of whatever they were looking at. In the centre of the hold was something indistinct and vague, that Toran was having trouble bringing to clarity in his mind’s eye. This was troubling for a Space Marine’s recall was sculpted to perfection. Yet the image refused to settle in his mind, almost as if his hypno-indoctrination was rejecting the memory to preserve his own sanity. Before Toran could make sense of it a melodic voice called, "Don't stand out there in the cold. I've been waiting for you; come in." The voice was eerily compelling and without realising it the squad stepped out with weapons held loosely in their grips. They didn’t choose to do this, the voice spoke and their limbs obeyed without their brains being involved in any way. There was no response from the masses in the hold, the rings of drooling people didn’t even look to see who entered, so enraptured were they. Instinct made the Space Marines advance in a wide spread formation yet no danger presented itself. So they marched to the centre of the hold, eyes unable to focus as their bodies moved automatically. Toran felt like his brain was packed full of soft cotton, a foggy miasma clouding his mind. He tried to form a coherent thought but his brain wouldn’t comply, forced into stupefaction by an outside power. His eyes fell upon the being sitting at the centre of the room, a willowy, feminine creature lounged on a pile of boxes like it was the softest of cushions yet incongruously it had a large horn arising from the side of its head. Toran could recognise the being was aesthetically pleasing but there his descriptions ran out. When Toran looked at the thing before him his mind went blank. The barriers instilled by his hypno-indoctrination blocking off a portion of his brain, shutting down his ability to comprehend anything other than targeting data in a desperate attempt at self-defence from the entity's presence. All he could see were blurring forms of limbs and a shapely torso, other than that the features shimmered and ran like water, constantly changing as it tried to prise open his perceptions. Toran’s subconscious refused to comply, keeping up defensive walls in his mind as an alarm wailed somewhere in the depths of his soul. A part of Toran's brain was screaming at him to pull the trigger on his bolt pistol but for some reason he couldn't quite remember why. He knew he had come in here looking for some sort of dangerous thing but could not make the mental link between that concept and the image of the odd personage lounging casually before him. "Who are you?" the words were dragged out of his mouth without his violation. "Me?" The strange creature purred, "I am merely a thought, an idea of temptation forced into reality but questions of identity are so boring. The real issue before us is, what do you want?" The sound of the being's voice made Toran's trigger finger itch but instead he asked, "Why do you care?" The being pouted and said, "I want to make your dreams come true, to help you live to your fullest potential. Do you want glory, I can give you glory. Do you want worship, I can give you legions of worshippers. Do you want to be the most perfect warrior who ever lived, I can make it happen." Toran's mind was so sluggish now it was hard to think but behind him the voice of Furion croaked , "Do not listen to it." His voice sounded so coarse and unrefined in comparison and yet a part of Toran's mind was screaming at him to heed his brother's words. The entity scowled at the interruption and said, "Silence you, the Anathema's hypocritical zealotry has no place here." Yet Furion was growling, forcing each and every word out between his teeth, as he uttered, "I. Name. Thee... Daemon!" The utterance snapped Toran and the squad back to reality, their indoctrination triggering a conditioned response to the key word. The glamour laid on them shattered like a dropped mirror and they saw the Warp abomination truly for the first time. A vile travesty against reality trying to ensnare their souls, a Daemon, a Temptress of Slaanesh. Toran didn't need to give any orders for the whole squad was instantly firing, bolters blazing away. Yet the Daemon was faster, from a prone position it did an impossible backflip that threw it into the air and carried it well beyond the crowds of kneeling figures. Then the Temptress shrieked, "Kill them my sweets, they want to take me away from you!" The kneeling masses rose as one, screaming in outrage and flung themselves at the Space Marines in a tide of human bodies. Toran met the first pair with a wide sweep of his sword that carved them apart but a wall of flesh jumped upon him and bowled him over. He trashed his arms and kicked to shatter legs and ribcages but more and more people kept piling upon him. He felt hands grasping at his armour clasps and someone scrambling at his belt, trying to take his precious Psyk-out grenade. He brought up his knee and cracked open the offender's skull but he was drowning in bodies and could not break free. Meanwhile Wrethan smashed the first man to approach him with his Crozius and the concussive blast of red forced the rest back. For an instant it looked as if he could clear some space but then the people rallied once more. Showing less sense of self-preservation than an Ork the fanatics piled upon him, bearing him down with their weight. Though he crushed many with his bulk as he toppled they were able to wrest the Crozius from his grasp and hurl it away. Elsewhere Novak's rapier was dazzling whirlwind of steel, yet it was a duelling blade and had not the heft to cut through the tide rushing towards him and he disappeared in a mound of heaving flesh. Persion made the mistake of trying to blast his way free and his bolter did explode half a dozen bodies, but with his guard dropped a wave of figures rushed him from behind. Jediah was swinging his combat blade in wide strokes, severing hands and opening arteries but was pushed over by the tide of insanity. Someone levered his knife out of his grip and started stabbing down over and over, penetrating his armour at the joints to let Transhuman blood flow. Of them all only Furion was able to keep his feet under him, his hefty Mark III armour giving him the traction to plough through the crowd like a bull through rushes. Yet he dare not stop moving to assist his brothers lest he be overwhelmed, all he could do was run. It was often said that a Space Marine was the match of a hundred men but never had Toran seen it put to the test so literally. He could see the odds against them were insurmountable and on this playing field they could not win, so he changed the field. "Persion!" Toran shouted above the noise of the masses clawing at his armour, "Raise the bridge, order them to engage fire suppression protocols, vent the whole compartment into space! For long moments nothing happened but then vents opened overhead exposing the room to the vacuum of space. A hurricane blew out of nowhere and human bodies were sucked away by its force. The machine spirits of the Astartes' plate recognised the sudden drop in pressure and sealed their suits closed, switching to internal life support whilst mortal men gasped like fish and clawed at their necks. They trashed and writhed with bulging eyes as they tried to breathe but there was no air to be found, in less than a minute they fell limp and still, turning blue with hypoxia in death. The air vanished, leaving behind only silence and stillness as Toran felt the weight of the dead pressing down upon him, yet he had survived. All was quiet for heartbeat but then the Temptress purred and its voice carried impossibly through the vacuum to scream, "You are supposed to die, how dare you spoil my fun!" Toran pushed off the corpses piled on him and made to stand up, intending to finish this once and for all but he was not quick enough today. As he rose there was a flash of light and body of the Temptress was thrown away by the blast of energy, sprawling on the floor. Beyond was the towering figure of Furion, standing over the prone body of the Temptress with his thick Mark III plate scored and scratched. In both hands he held Wrethan's Crozius Redeeming-flame and he brandished the golden sceptre aloft in judgement. The Daemon held out one dainty hand and cried as if it were some innocent maid about to be ravaged by an unthinking brute. The scene gave Toran pause, the thought of destroying something so delicate and beautiful seeming wrong but Furion shook off the glamour and lifted the Crozius high. Furion roared, "For Terra!" and brought Redeeming-flame down in a mighty sweep that obliterated the Daemon's host body in a blaze of light. There was simultaneous shriek of outrage and laughter as the Temptress was banished and silence fell at last as the Daemon was banished. Lurid vapours arose from the corpse as it began to dissolve, the Daemon’s essence returning to the Warp, leaving its host body to rot. IXth squad stood up, all but one, for Jediah lay bleeding out on the deck. Persion raced over to check his vitals then straightened up and voxed, "He is alive but his armour is compromised. His implants put him in a sus-an-membrane coma to survive the decompression; we will not be able to revive him until he can be tended to by an Apothecary." Toran nodded in relief as he turned to Furion and said, “My thanks Brother, you saved us.” “It was nothing,” Furion demurred as he held out the Crozius to Wrethan and said, "I shall undertake penance for my presumption." Wrethan took back the symbol of his office with a glare and said, "Never touch my sacred Crozius again. Yet you are not alone, for we shall all undertake penance soon. We have laid eyes upon the unholy, the rituals of cleansing and purification shall be long and arduous indeed." Toran collected his weapons and said, "Do not make plans just yet, we are now a marine down and we still have two more compartments to clear. Drag Jediah out of here then prepare yourselves, we have more of the Emperor's work to do this day." Omni Honore Chapter 10 The compartment was dank and humid, covered in fungal growths and dripping algae that hung from the roof. Lice and maggots crawled through the carpet of mulch and decomposing bodies, birthing, growing and dying in an endless cycle of life and death. The air was hot and close, the kind of wet moisture that left sweat clinging to the back of the neck and the feeling that one would never be clean again. Into that putrid mire IXth squad marched, weapons raised as they swept the compartment. They were wary because only a few hours ago this hall had been bare metal, but now it resembled a diseased tropical swampland. The touch of Chaos was omnipresent and they were marching into its jaws. Suddenly Persion held up a clenched fist and battle signed 'enemy sighted'. IXth squad spread out and inched forwards, bolters locked onto a billowing shadow ahead of them. It was a whirling darkness comprised of countless fat bodied flies that swirled like a black cloud and obscured in it was a single form. The shape was bloated and toad like, covered in festering sores, yet it bore a book and quill in human hands. The clouds of flies circled around it in constant motion, obscuring its outline and making it next to impossible to target at range. Toran felt his gore rising at the sight, a physical revulsion more primal than anything he had ever experienced before. The squad stalked forwards in silence but before they could draw a bead a voice echoed forth calling out to them. "So you have come," said the Tallyman, "Nurgle thanks you for your gift of flesh." "Silence abomination!" shouted Chaplain Wrethan trying to draw a bead through the clouds of flies, "We have nothing to offer you save destruction." The Tallyman chuckled heartily as if amused by the defiance and said, "All flesh ultimately belongs to Nurgle. When your bodies lie decaying and rotten the gifts of the Grandfather will manifest and that time is now." With a wave of its quill the Daemon sent the clouds of flies racing forwards to engulf the Space Marines, Toran swung his blade to meet them and its sparking energy field incinerated dozens of insects but thousands upon thousands more followed. No matter how many he cut down more pressed in, drowning him in tiny bodies. Each individual fly was nothing to the thick ceramite of the Astartes plate but their numbers were staggering. Thick clouds of flies flooding the squad's respirators and blocking thermal exhausts. IXth squad thrashed and crashed about trying to dislodge the flies but it was futile, they simply could not destroy enough at once to make a difference. Furion and Persion lashed wildly but could do little more than splat a handful of flies at a time and they were swiftly covered head to toe like the ancient kings of Gyptus. Only Wrethan seemed to be having any success, his Crozius releasing blasts of energy that incinerated swathes of flies with each stroke. Yet he was only delaying the inevitable and could not last much longer. Trying to seize the initiative Novak leapt at the Tallymen, seeking to cut out the heart of the infestation. His rapier was in his hand and he sliced downwards to cut Warp flesh. The thin blade carved a suppurating gash its flank yet the Daemon barely seemed to notice, the wound filling with pus and ooze to become just one more canker sore in its mottled hide. In return the Tallyman's hand flashed out, wielding its quill like a dagger to catch Novak in the chest. Ceramite armour parted like wet parchment and the quill dug deeply into the young swordsman, spraying blood into the air to be gobbled up by eager flies. Novak screamed as no Space Marine should scream, crying out in pain at the very touch of the Daemon's weapon and his genhanced blood followed freely, not clotting as it should be. He tumbled to the deck in a helpless sprawl and lay there unmoving as teeming swarms of black insects descended upon him. Toran saw his brother fall and tried to move to intervene but as he did so he felt a great weight dragging on his limbs, as if he was entombed inside his own armour. Flashing warnings began to blink in his helm's vision and with a start of horror he realised the flies were somehow draining power from his plate, infecting the Machine Spirit with the power of entropy and decay. Toran fell to his knees as his suit failed around him and his sword dropped from his grasp. He moved sluggishly as he tried to stand up but had little energy to animate his limbs. In desperation he began pawing at the clasps of his armour and saw his squad mates trying to do the same, he managed to unlock his gauntlets and pull them free but then fresh horror swept through him. He held his bare hands up before his face and saw they were pale and clammy, veined through with green-tinged blood. The flesh was swollen badly and beneath the skin he could see writhing movement as if maggots squirmed within. He saw Persion and Furion had managed to pull their helms free but exactly the same phenomenon covered their faces, the diseased mottling of their skin spreading and intensifying before his gaze. Toran realised the flies had contaminated more than their armour; they had infected their blood and bones with the plagues of Nurgle. The Tallyman chuckled loudly as it proclaimed, "You see it now, the inevitability of rot, the permanence of decay and rebirth. No matter how long or how hard you fight your death is certain. You spend your life fighting monsters in the dark yet in as little as a hundred years will one person remember you for it?" The Daemon's words resounded in Toran's ears, as it hissed, "Even the Imperium you fight for is a rotten and decaying thing, feeding the cycle of death with its endless ignorance and brutality. Entropy is the true nature of universe. Why fight against it when you could embrace the Grandfather and become part of it." The words gouged a great pit of despair in Toran for the Forty-First Millennium was drawing to a close and it seemed that humanity would not survive the next. A funeral shroud was being drawn over mankind and the very best he could hope to achieve with his life was to delay it by few scant days. The bright shining future the Emperor had once envisioned was dead, the loyalist Primarchs were gone and in his heart he knew that they would never return. If such mighty figures could not hold back the rot what hope did he have? He would fight and die in a forgotten thankless war, his name nothing more than a scratch on a roll of honour and there was nothing he could ever do to change that. A terrible thought welled up within him, the rot was already in his flesh so why not embrace it, why not join Chaos and live forever. Toran despaired at the futility of fighting on and his eyes dropped to the deck in defeat but as they did so they chanced upon his fallen blade. The shining silver was yet gleaming and untouched, revealing a short inscription worked into the metal itself: "Honour Above All." Toran took in the words and the sight of them stirred a memory deep within him, of another place and a fight that had taught him the true meaning of Honour. In a flash he realised the corruption of his flesh was irrelevant as was the inevitability of his death for he had long accepted that he would die in battle. The only thing that mattered was that the Emperor had forged to the Astartes to be the champions and defenders of humanity and it was his honour to be counted amongst them. Toran forced his head up and growled out, "Never filth, you will never understand that death is not to be feared. A life without honour, without purpose, that is all Chaos offers and it is a hollow prize for it is ultimately meaningless. From honour comes purpose and if a life is lived with purpose then death has no sting. It is not important that anyone remembers me, the only thing that matters is that we here chose to fight you and did not yield." As he had been speaking Toran's palsied hand was straying to his belt and removed the thick canister that was bound there. In one jerky move he pulled the catch then threw the Psyk-out grenade up into the air. With a sharp pop the device detonated to spray black psychically inert particles everywhere. The Tallyman screamed as the entire area was blanketed in a null-field, effectively severing the Warp from Realspace. The clouds of flies exploded away, driven back by the blanket of psychic static and the Space Marines suddenly found themselves able to move again. Strength and vitality surged through Toran's limbs as the Daemon's curse on his flesh was exorcised, his armour too suddenly swelled with power restoring his mobility. The Sergeant grabbed his sword up from the ground and leapt to his feet then bounded towards the Daemon. The Tallyman was shrieking in terror, the sheer nothingness created by the null particles was like being set on fire to a Daemon. It had been drawn to realspace by the banquet of sensation and suffering but now this sudden absence was a pain all its own. It was the only thing the Neverborn could not tolerate. It writhed and thrashed as Toran raced up to it and with one swing of his sword decapitated the Daemon's host, destroying its hold on realspace. The Tallyman fled back to the depths of the Warp with an agonised shriek and left real space altogether. Silence fell upon the scene for moment and then there was the tiniest thuds of dead flies dropping to the mulch as the power of the Warp left them. Toran sucked air into his quivering lungs then turned around and saw his squadmates standing up, their flesh already returning to normal. The Sergeant held up his own hands and saw the skin flushing pink and the green veins disappearing as his health was restored. He could feel his body burning hot as his Oolitc kidney flushed the toxins from his blood and his implants flooded his cells with strengthening hormones. IXth squad had triumphed once again and they gathered together to celebrate, yet there was one who did not join them, for Novak was yet laying upon the floor, completely still and unmoving. Alarm filled Toran and he ran over shouting, "Novak! Novak answer me!" Furion and Persion joined him, pulling free his helm and shredded breastplate only to curse at what they saw. Novak’s unconscious flesh was pale and clammy, his face puffy and his skin sprouted dozens of clustered lesions in threes. Persion said, "Look at him, the infection burns in him and his flesh swells with putrefaction!" Toran frantically checked his belt's medical supplies but found nothing that could help as he gasped, "Why are his implants not restoring his equilibrium?" Furion answered, "I do not know, I have never seen anything like this before." "I have," came a booming voice, they were all startled as Wrethan walked up with his Crozius in hand, he stood over Novak's body and said, "Stand aside so I can grant him the Emperor's Peace." They all stared at the Chaplain in disbelief at his pitiless words but Wrethan only looked back sternly as he growled, "Our brother has been infected with Nurgle's Rot. We must kill him before the infection pollutes his soul." Omni Honore Chapter 11 In the dank and mouldy corridor a stand-off was occurring. Chaplain Wrethan looming over the bloated and disease ridden form of Novak, whose flesh was turning from bloated to putrefied. The young duellist moaned in delirium for the disease was well progressed, but Wrethan was determined to end its progress before it ran its course. Toran however placed himself between the Chaplain and his fallen brother as he protested, “Father Wrethan, have you gone mad?!” “Do not stand between a Chaplain and his duty,” growled Wrethan, “The Rot is in him, nothing can stop it.” “You will kill him without even trying to find a cure," barked Toran, “He has fought well and loyally, this is not honourable.” Wrethan stared grimly at the Sergeant then did something most unexpected; he reached up and lifted his helm off. The face beneath was grim and scarred yet there was no hate or anger in him, only a sorrowful determination. This was not the face of a berserk madman or a callow murder, this was the face of a man confronted by a most sorrowful duty, one that he must fulfil no matter the cost. Sadly Wrethan said, “This is the worst of Nurgle’s plagues, the infection cannot be stopped and is always fatal but that is not the worst of it. The disease corrupts the soul. If allowed to run its course it turns the victim into a Plaguebearer, a Daemon of Nurgle. Would you wish such a fate upon Novak?” Toran reached up to wrench off his own helm, wincing at the horrific stench of decay in the air and sorrow was writ over his face as he pleaded, “He is my brother.” Wrethan ' eyes were pained but he whispered, “He is a brother to all of us and we have a duty to him in return. We cannot condemn him to an eternity of torment, not when there is still time to send his soul to the Divine Emperor.” “Is there no chance for him?” asked Toran forlornly. Suddenly Furion interjected, “You can end his suffering. Say your goodbyes while you can." Toran wanted to protest he wanted to rage and shout but he knew the truth of Wrethan’s words. Novak was beyond saving and hating the Chaplain for performing his solemn duty was a selfish indulgence. Wrethan stepped back and Toran turned to kneel beside his infected brother, he looked into Novak’s face and saw him lost in delirium and fever dreams. Toran placed his hand on Novak’s pauldron and drew in a slow breath to say, “Farewell brother, your swift blade will be sorely missed, as will your exuberance. No one felt the joy of victory more fiercely than you; our missions will be dour indeed without your boisterous spirit.” Furion came and knelt beside them as he whispered, “Brother you have fought honourably and well, your name shall be entered in the Scrolls of Honour. You showed us that duty need not be a wearisome burden.” Persion joined them and signed a tribal icon from his savage homeworld and intoned, “You die as you lived: Gloriously.” Wrethan made the sign of the Aquila and took a ceremonial knife from his belt but Toran held out his hand said, “Allow me Father, it is the least I can I do for him.” Wrethan bowed solemnly then handed over the knife with respect. Toran leaned over Novak with knife in hand, intending to end his life with one quick thrust. He opened his mouth to say the traditional words of the Emperor’s Peace but the words died on his lips as he saw something curious. The corridor around them still bore its dank covering of mould and lice over the bare metal yet where the black particles from the Psyk-Out grenade had fallen an odd thing was happening. The ash had gathered in thick clumps and wherever it touched the ground the mould was disappearing. It was not just dying, the dank mould was physically retreating, like a time lapsed vid-pict in reverse. The lice and maggots were also fleeing in droves, leaving patches of bare metal around each cluster of sooty ash. Slowly Toran picked up a handful of clingy black particles, feeling their inert mass which went beyond their flaky appearance. Wrethan hissed, “What are you doing?” Toran replied, “I am not sure." Acting totally on instinct he rubbed the flakes onto Novak face, smearing them across his bloated skin. The effect was instantaneous; wherever the psychically null particles came into contact the putrefaction retreated like an animal from fire. Lesions shrank before Toran’s eyes and the puffiness subsided impossibly fast. It was almost like the disease itself was terrified of the null effect and was retreating deeper within its host. Everyone was astonished at the result and Toran yelled, “Quickly, gather more, we can still save Novak!” With haste the rest of the squad began scooping up the black ash, gathering great clumps of it in their gauntlets. They tore at Novak’s armour clasps, practically ripping off the Ceramite plates and under weave to reveal his naked form. Novak’s body was disgustingly swollen with fluids, his skin mottled and covered with trinary lesions and threaded through with green veins. Yet the squad wasted not a moment, smearing the clingy ash all over his limbs and torso and wherever it touched the foul disease retreated in panic. Furion rolled his brother over and they began pasting his back in the sooty flakes, even Wrethan was helping. They smeared Novak head to toe in the black substance until he more resembled a son of Vulkan than a descendent of Guilliman. Meanwhile Toran tore out a water ration bottle from his armour supply cache and ripped it open, he then grabbed handfuls of particles and poured them in. He slammed his hand over the top and shook vigorously until the water resembled a turgid sludge but he had never seen such a beautiful sight. He lifted up his brother's ash covered head and said, “Drink Novak, you must drink.” Novak lips parted slightly and Toran poured the black sludge down his throat. The young marine coughed and retched but the Sergeant was relentless and poured it all down, filling his insides with the Null particles. Suddenly Novak’s blood shot eyes snapped open and he screamed in high pitched agony. His back arched to lift him off the floor and the rest of the squad were forced to hold him down. Novak thrashed wildly then suddenly he spewed green vomit all over his front. The squad turned him on his side and watched as he regurgitated a stream of green bile, evacuating a torrent of disease from his system. The resulting puddle was not still but spread and moved almost like some intelligent thing or a single celled organism moving through the ocean. Toran watched in disgust as it oozed away from them, trying to escape the psychic nothingness filling its host. Yet the cruel touch of air was burning it away and as Toran looked on it began to evaporate and disappear. Quickly the diseased filth turned to steam and finally was destroyed taking the Warp taint with it. He looked back at Novak and saw beneath his coat of ash he was breathing clearly, his flesh was subsiding and the skin was beginning to lose his mottled appearance. Before their eyes the young marine was being restored to normal, becoming once more the vibrant duellist they knew and cherished. Impossibly Novak had survived Nurgle’s Rot: the first man in history to do so. The squad leaned back and Furion said in wonder, “I do not believe what I just saw, no one survives the Rot but you just cured him. Nobody has ever done such a thing.” Persion muttered, "I doubt anybody has tried swallowing a psyk-out grenade before." Toran had a guarded tone to his voice, as if he dared not trust what he saw as he said, “He is not recovered yet, his health will take much time to be restored. We cannot risk leave him alone, someone must stay here with him.” Abruptly Chaplain Wrethan declared, “I will stay with him, I will monitor him closely, in case of relapses.” Toran frowned in annoyance and hissed, “Did you not just witness the same thing we did?” Wrethan looked solemn as he said, “I appeared to witness the Divine Emperor grant us a miracle, but the wiles of the enemy are cunning indeed. This may only be a trick to lull us into infecting the rest of the ship: we must have certainty.” He saw the look on Toran’s face and assured him, “Do not worry, I will not act rashly, I want our brother to survive as much as you do. I will be his guardian until we return to the Chapter and the Librarians can screen his soul for taint. Until then you must press onwards, the battle is not done yet and you have yet to face the sternest trial.” Toran nodded in understanding and stated, “The Emperor Protects.” Wrethan replied, “I suspect you will be more in need of His benevolence before this day is out. We have faced champions of three of the Ruinous powers, only the Changer of Ways remains unaccounted for. Guard your soul and remember the Daemon is a lie made manifest, trust nothing you see or hear.” Toran made the sign of the Aquila then he stood and clamped his helm back on leaving the Chaplain watching over Novak. Then he led Furion and Persion onwards to face the final Daemon. Omni Honore Chapter 12 Into the bare compartment swept three Space Marines, Toran, Furion and Persion each with weapons raised. The section was bare and unadorned, with no signs of mutation or corruption upon the walls. The sight made Toran's trigger finger itch, all the other tainted sections had been awash with the corruption of Chaos, this was eerily banal, which was disturbing. He would have preferred a horde of madmen or writhing tentacles growing from the walls, something he could fight. Yet the compartment was strangely quiet, of the crew there was no trace: they were simply gone. Toran proceeded with his power sword raised while Furion was training his bolter into every corner. Persion too was ready but was simultaneously listening to reports from all over the Averof. As they walked he reported, “Fighting continues throughout the ship, the bridge and enginarium are secure but the gun decks are overrun with mutants, it is unclear who has the upper hand.” “And the rest of IXth Squad?” asked Toran. Persion answered, “Halis, Ophelian and Daite report that Castabore is sealed within her quarters and there have been no signs of intruders yet." “Very well,” said Toran, “Tell them to stay alert.” Suddenly Furion whispered, “Contact.” The squad snapped their weapons up, seeing an entrance to an empty bilge before them, it was deserted save for a single figure standing alone. Cautiously they entered the bilge and found a man in plain clothes that were non-descript and unremarkable. He could have passed for a crewman save for the large multi-hued wings growing from his back and his eyes, which glittered like stars. He stood passively, hands folded in front of him to present no threat and he had a slight smile on his lips. Toran edged inside, bolt pistol trained upon the figure and his guts churned at the brazen display of warp filth. Yet the Daemon did not react to their presence, save to address them warmly. “Welcome,” said Harbinger as they stepped into the bilge, “I have been expecting you.” The fight to come looked easy but Toran was wary for traps, the Daemon was cunning by nature and he knew it would not be so simple. None of the fights so far had come without hardship and pain and he refused to believe this would be any different. A Daemon was a most puissant foe, the bane of mankind and the woe of worlds. Whole Companies of Space Marines had laid down their lives to halt an incursion and he could bring himself to believe this would be any easier. Harbinger's smile faded somewhat as it said, “Nothing to say to me, how rude.” Furion snapped, “Silence filth, we have no patience for the lies of the Warp.” Harbinger replied smoothly, “But I haven’t even had a chance to say any yet. I was so looking forward to meeting you. And you can stop looking into the corners, you will not find a horde of mutants lurking there to ambush you.” Toran's suspicions flared and he doubled his scanning of the room. There was some trap here but he could not see it. He gripped his sword and bolt pistol tighter in readiness but did not engage, the Daemon would be expecting that and attacking would play straight into its hands. Instead he snapped, “Why aren’t you fighting us?” "Me?" replied Harbinger with a note of surprise, "I have no intention of fighting you. My kin have already tested you in soul, in mind and in body. What more could I possibly offer that would test you?" “Be wary,” hissed Furion gripping his bolter tightly, “This is some form of trick.” Harbinger’s smile returned as it said, “Always so concerned for your brother’s well-being Furion, always the pillar of strength. Yet that moral fortitude did not aid you the day High Chaplain Sammect threw you out of the Chaplaincy. Remember how heartbroken you were when you stood before the Hall of Tempests and were told you would not be permitted to take the test. If only you had embraced Anathema Worship your life would have changed in so many ways.” “Do not act like you know us,” snarled Persion angrily. “Oh but I do know you,” said Harbinger slyly, “I have been watching you all for a long time. I have seen you all, witnessed your lives as they played out and weighed the possible futures that were left unexplored. I have seen you Persion, hiding your impudence behind a veneer of civility, as if that will make you more acceptable to your superiors. You will never win your master's respect, they laugh at you for being Trux-born. So you break comms-protocols and skirt rules, acting out like a little child denied a sweet.” Toran snarled, “Do not question our fealty! My brothers are true and loyal, we do not seek self-aggrandisement.” Yet Harbinger only laughed, “You are most amusing! You have such potential, you can think beyond conventional doctrine, but you bind down yourself down with chains of duty and honour. You have a working brain between those ears but the more you see the less you know; it is so amusing to watch you blunder about in ignorance.” “Silence Filth!” roared Furion, “You will not speak of my Brothers.” “Oh but I shall, for I have seen all of your pasts and all your possible futures,” said Harbinger full of mirth “Novak little more than a walking blade, doomed to eternal darkness. Jediah, who would have become your world’s most notorious serial killer had he not been scooped up by your chapter, his death lies so far in the future even I struggle to see it. Wrethan, so convinced he is doing the right thing while leading you all astray and little knowing he will get everything he desires, only to realise he was on the wrong side all along. Then there is Bylan with his dogged devotion to you, devotion that will see him killed.” Toran was confused by the Daemon's assertion and could not resist saying, “Bylan the Scout-Novice?” A moment of bewilderment crossed the Harbinger’s face then it said, “Oh has he not arrived yet? Well time can be confusing even to my kind, that must still be in the future.” It shook off the moment and continued, “I have watched you talk with Halis Paur, who knows far more than you realise and Ophelian who secretly holds you all in contempt. Then there is Daite, your brother with his feeble visions but they will come too late in the end. Poor Daite, how you will howl when you witness his fate. And you Toran, I see your death, I see you falling into fire with your hands locked around the throat of your equal and opposite.” “Enough!” barked Toran, "Cease these mind games. If you are not here to fight, why are you here?" "I merely wanted to meet you, I wanted to see you in your youth," crooned Harbinger, "I wanted to savour the innocence in your eyes before Vorshaan crushes it out of you." "Vorshaan?!" shouted Toran, "What does that Traitor have to do with any of this?" The Harbinger's smile became a leer as it said, "Who do you think ordered this attack, who sent the dross of his troops to occupy you, who did you think summoned me?" Toran's outrage was palpable as he yelled, "The Dusk Prince is on board?!" "Oh yes," Harbinger chuckled, "He is here to make his preparations, this little prelude is but the setting of the stage for the coming drama." Toran levelled his blade at the Daemon’s throat as he said, "You will tell me what he is planning or I will make your banishment a tale to scare even the Filth of the Warp." Harbinger threw back its head and laughed loudly, "Blind fool! It is not what he is going to do, it is what he has already done and is what he is doing right now. Vorshaan plans the annihilation of your pathetic Storm Heralds Chapter and the best part is you are helping him do it." Furion snarled, "You lie!" Harbinger scoffed, "Usually yes, what else would one expect from a servant of the Changer of Ways? Yet this time the truth is so much more delightfully painful, your Chapter’s destruction looms and you have no idea it is even in motion. Watching you flounder about in ignorance has been delectable and I cannot wait to taste your agony when he unveils his schemes." “And is this the part where you offer to help us change that?” snarled Toran “Offer to save our Chapter if we only swear ourselves to your service.” Harbinger snorted, “As amusing as that would be it is but a morsel compared to the feast of calamity Vorshaan is preparing. You see, that what separates my siblings from our kin under the other Gods of Chaos, we understand the concept of delayed gratification.” “Then begone foul one,” growled Toran, “There is no victory for you here.” Harbinger began to fade from sight, its skin and muscles becoming translucent around its host’s bones as it sank back into the Warp but it was grinning the whole time as it said, "Victory? That depends entirely upon your definition of victory. Allow me to hasten your pedantic reasoning to its predictable conclusion and say that all Vorshaan wanted from my kind was a distraction." Toran’s organic eye widened in surprise and his augmetic one flared as Harbinger finally disappeared with a cryptic epithet, "I look forward to tasting your despair the day you finally figure out what he has done." Then it was gone leaving only behind a clatter of flensed bones dropping to the deck as it abandoned its host and dived into the Warp. Persion swept for threats with his bolter but the foe was completely gone, then he said "What was that supposed to mean?" Furion replied, “It means nothing. Daemons delight only in spreading lies, mistrust and confusion; put it from your mind." But Toran was thinking about Vorshaan and his tactics, his love of misdirection and toying with his victims. He thought of the last time they had seen Vorshaan and what it had cost both IXth squad and him personally. Above all he remembered how the Dusk Prince lured them away to leave his true goal vulnerable and exposed. Then Toran realised that he had overlooked something. Suddenly he turned and began sprinting out of the bilge. The others followed him in confusion calling, "What is it?" Toran yelled back over his shoulder, "Persion, raise the others on the vox, confirm their status now!" Persion went quiet for a moment then declared, "Halis, Ophelian and Daite report that Castabore is sealed within her quarters and there have been no signs of intruders yet." It was the right words but something nagged at the Sergeant’s mind, suspiciously he ordered, "Compare that to their last transmission, is there anything off?" Persion called up the messages from his armour’s logs and listened for a moment then swore loudly and yelled, "Warp Hells, it's a word for word repetition; we've been listening to a recording!" Toran doubled his pace, cursing himself for falling for the same trick twice, as he yelled, “Make haste our kin are in grave danger. Vorshaan’s been playing us, his goal was always Magos Castabore!" Omni Honore Chapter13 The Magos' suite of chambers were blank and featureless, merely a space for the storage of artefacts and her portable equipment. Entrance to the chamber complex could only be achieved through a single large door, thickly reinforced and double barred against intrusion. Behind that door three Space Marines waited, Halis, Ophelian and Daite. They had been standing for hours with weapons trained and they had not wavered in all that time. Halis, Daite and Ophelian were Astartes and their attention did not waver or their readiness lessen through boredom and as if wasn’t enough outside the doors were a pair of Tarantula sentry guns. The chamber was mostly bare save for a single artefact, the rest of the Magos' devices had been secured deeper within the suite along with Castabore herself, but this had been too large to fit. It was a large cube twelve foot to a side, clad in white ceramite tiles but in the gaps could be seen arcane mechanisms and eldritch circuitry engraved onto obsidian components. On the front were a series of interface ports arranged in a circle around an analogue dial which was divided into coloured segments. The Astartes had wanted to use the device for cover, but the Magos' reaction to the idea had been quite spectacular and ultimately it was her authority they had to respect. Then they had suggested abandoning it, so they could adopt better positions, but she had insisted they remain here to guard her precious device and the mission protocol gave them no options but to obey. So here they had stood for hours yet despite that their eyes had not waver from the door, it did not mean they could not talk while they did it. Daite sighed, "Are we seriously going to lay down our lives defending a box? Halis commented dryly, "Are you talking about the device or the Magos herself?" Daite groaned at his Brother's cynical black humour and said, "She built this blasted thing once, if it gets wrecked could she not just build another one?" Halis snorted, "Please let me be there to watch when you say that to an ordained potentate of the Adeptus Mechanicus." Ophelian interjected, "We should have just knocked her out and thrown her back into her quarters." Yet Halis muttered, "First you would have to figure out whether she still has a skull to crack, under all those augmetics." Daite spared half a second to glance at the cubic device and asked, "What do you think it does?" Halis answered briskly "So far, all it has done is cause problems." "Do you think she found the plans on Caminus?" asked Daite. "We do not talk about Caminus,” snapped Ophelian. "But..." replied Daite. "We do NOT talk about Caminus," Ophelian growled fiercely. Daite was about to reply when suddenly a light started flashing in their visors, an external perimeter alarm, indicating intruders outside the door. A few seconds later the Tarantula guns opened fire spraying Heavy Bolter rounds liberally at the unauthorised presences. Daite knew it could only mean the enemy had found them and if they could get this far a door wouldn’t stop him. His alertness sharpened and his senses magnified as his subconscious prepared for combat, the vital rush of energy that only battle could bring forth. They stood listening to the thunder as the guns tore through ammunition at a furious rate but far too quickly there was a series of sharp bangs then silence fell. The three of them gripped their weapons tighter aware that the guns had fallen worrying fast, whoever had taken them out was skilled: inhumanly skilled. The only logical conclusion was that Chaos Space Marines were coming through that door. With practiced ease they swiftly re-positioned to the edges of the room, so as not to be caught in the inevitable Melta bomb explosion that was to come. They did not need to discuss this for it was exactly how they would have come through that door themselves. Patiently they waited, alert and ready until suddenly the attack began. Like a time lapse vid-pict the great doors glowed dull red then furnace hot, then brilliant white before erupting inwards in a blaze of liquid hot metal. Spurts of molten metal sprayed into the room as the doors swung open revealing the darkness outside, filled with looming shapes. Ophelian yelled "Open Fire" as the squad unleashed hell, firing ceaselessly in a torrent of flames. The first wave of mutants through the door disintegrated, mass reactive shells blowing them apart to create a red mist of gore. Yet behind those piled in more and more mutants in a ceaseless wave but the defenders fired relentlessly and obliterated anything they saw. Bodies fell under the onslaught, exploding torsos showering blood far and wide. For an instant it seemed they might hold the tide but then their bolters ran dry. They paused to reload and in that moment the Chaos Marines advanced. Five towering brutes in midnight ceramite barrelled through the door, each bearing vicious flensing knives and archaic bolters. They charged through the hail of fire as their armour amplified their war cry into howling screams, "We have come for you!" Halis unleashed his bolter at a pair of charging foes but the brutes twisted their pauldrons around and deflected the blasts off the thick armour. The traitors leapt at Halis and tackled him round the waist, taking them all down in a scrum of beating fists and desperate grappling. Ophelian blazed away with his reloaded Bolter, the stream of shells catching a traitor in the chest. Rounds blasted through the Heretic’s armour and he collapsed with a hole the size of a man's head blown through him. Unfortunately right behind him stood another Chaos Marine who had cunningly used his brother as a shield. Before Ophelian could fire again the heretic slashed at him with a vicious knife. Ophelian swung his weapon about as a club but it was poor choice for a melee weapon and he was forced to fall back. Meanwhile Daite was attacked by a traitor with a leering skull for a faceplate, who tried to bury a jagged short sword in his guts. As the blow came Daite twisted around and allowed the sword to scrape across his belly armour, leaving a deep gouge, then he put his own shoulder into the heretic’s back and added his momentum to the charge. Forced off balance the traitor was momentarily vulnerable and Daite raised his bolter to blast the enemy apart, but then a new foe entered the fight. A sudden glimpse of midnight plate and wide spread wings heralded the entrance of Vorshaan himself. His speed was phenomenal and his attack a deadly display of elegant skill. Before Daite could even defend himself a blurring chainglaive swept down and landed upon his forearms. A scream of ruptured ceramite issued forth and in one swift move the Dusk Prince cut off both Daite's arms at the elbow. Pain flared through his body as his limbs were shorn from his body and he roared in frustrated rage as his loss. His mind filled with searing torment but his rage was the greater, he wanted to throw himself at Vorshaan but he had no way to hurt the Traitor and no options save to retreat. Daite fell back in agony as his Larraman cells flooded the wounds to form thick clumps over the stumps and while he was dazed a swift boot knocked him to the deck. Vorshaan spun around and caught Ophelian with the other end of his weapon, the long knife stabbing deeply into his back. Vorshaan twisted the blade and Ophelian howled as his insides were torn apart. The momentary weakness was enough for the other Chaos Marines to gain the advantage and beat him to the ground where he collapsed. Vorshaan pirouetted, but did not need to intervene again for Halis had been overpowered by the pair of Chaos Marines and was now flat on the deck, held down by the brutes. Vorshaan took in the scene as the defenders were dragged into a rough row, all kneeling before the Dusk Prince. The other traitors stood behind them with bolters trained on the back their heads. The Storm Heralds had fought well but the Chaos Marines had been their equals and Vorshaan himself had simply been beyond them. The Dusk Prince took in their status and seemed pleased by their humiliation, then he turned back to the door where another figure in turquoise plate and bearing a long staff was entering. Vorshaan faced the newcomer and said, "Beta go get the Tech-Priest, leave everything else but bring her to me alive, then find some more slaves and drag my prize out of here. If it suffers so much as a scratch I will flay you alive." "Yes my lord," said Beta as he directed the milling mutants to surround the cubic device and search the chambers. Vorshaan turned back to inspect his prisoners and waved a pair of Chaos Marines forward to rip off their helms. With bolters trained on their skulls the Storm Heralds could not resist and sat patiently waiting for a moment to strike back. "By the Warp what do we have here?" asked Vorshaan with a gloating tone to his voice as the first helm came free, "Here is a face I have not seen since Sacellum. What was it you called yourself... oh yes Halis. That was it Halis Paur." “Vorshaan, you have no idea how much I want to punch you in your smug face,” Halis snarled but a growl from the traitor behind him reminded him of his situation and he sank back. "Oh dear" gloated Vorshaan with a contemptuous laugh, "Are you not happy to see me old friend?" The prisoners merely glared back at him in silence and Daite felt utter hatred fill his hearts, the urge to end this Traitor nearly overwhelming him. Yet Vorshaan strutted over them saying, "You loyalist lapdogs have been a thorn in my side for too long, your pathetic Chapter always racing to spoil my day. Too many times have we tussled over my conquests, too many times have our fleets jousted in the void, well no more. Today I start the annihilation of all you hold dear. I must thank you for providing me with the means though; you have no idea how many centuries I have scoured the galaxy looking for the secrets of this artefact." He turned to watch as the slaved dragged the cubic device out of the chamber with a squeal of metal on metal. It was swiftly followed by Magos Castabore who had been wrapped in chains and was being pulled along like some grotesque balloon. Vorshaan pulled in breath and mused, "It must be some jest of the Ruinous Powers that you idiots stumble across the very technology I have been seeking for so long. You were even kind enough to provide a Magos to operate it for me; I suppose I am in your debt." Vorshaan looked at his three prisoners and quipped, "That's why I shall only kill one of you... the other two I shall just torture." He looked at them each in turn, Halis with anger burning in his eyes, Ophelian with a savage snarl on his lips and Daite, stunned but still defiant. Daite knew the Dusk prince wanted them to respond, to beg to be the one killed so their Brothers would survive. Yet he refused to speak, to acknowledge Vorshaan’s intent would be to give him the satisfaction of seeing Storm Heralds grovel and that was something they would never do. Even if they all died no loyal Space Marine would give a Traitor so much as a word, not when it would only feed his ego. Daite was willing to die in silence rather than give Vorshaan what he wanted. Vorshaan strutted up and down, enjoying the moment and the power he held over his victims, he looked at Daite and sighed, “No sport here.” Then Vorshaan looked at Ophelian but shook his head saying, “Too dull.” Then he stood before Halis and said, “You... I enjoy seeing the pain in your eyes.” Daite swallowed, knowing he was about to watch a Brother die, but he refused to let loose a denial. Vorshaan would get nothing from any of them. Meanwhile Halis glared back in defiance and Vorshaan gloated at his victim’s impotence, then his chainglaive blurred and in one stroke decapitated Ophelian. Halis and Daite roared in denial and anger as their brother’s corpse fell to the deck. Daite had not meant to cry out but the yell escaped his lips regardless. Ophelian was dead, his Brother so bitter and cantankerous yet firm and unyielding in the line of duty was gone. It was an outrage to mar the soul itself, a wound that would never heal. So Daite yelled in denial, promising himself that Vorshaan would pay for this, no matter how long it took or how much blood it cost. Unfortunately Vorshaan laughed at the anguish writ large on their faces. The Dusk Prince declared “Oh yes, that is pain, that is suffering. I shall cherish the thought of this moment replaying in your memories during the long watches of the night. How you will stew on your impotence and failure, your fear that you could have done more.” Then Vorshaan turned to a pair of his Chaos marines, he waved at Daite and said, “This one is yours to torture, enjoy yourselves but make sure he is still alive at the end to tell the tale." The Chaos Marines dragged Daite's bleeding form out of the chamber into the darkness beyond as Vorshaan spun his chainglaive over and over in his hands. The last thing Daite saw was Vorshaan looming over Halis as he gloated, "So... where do you want to begin?" Omni Honore Chapter 14 Through the smoking wreckage of the doors ran IXth squad, Toran, Furion and Persion sprinting in but pulling up short when they saw the scene before them. Laid out on the floor were three transhuman bodies, all stripped of their armour and laid bare to reveal gaping wounds. Concern swept over Toran but he could not ignore potential threats so he ordered, “Furion guard the doors, Persion sweep the rest of the suite, I will tend to our brothers.” He raced to where his fallen brothers lay and pulled free his helm, his augmetic eye flaring red in response to his anger. Ophelian’s corpse looked like it had been mauled by a wild animal, with great gouges torn from the headless body. The wounds had clearly been made post-mortem, the heretics taking pleasure in defiling the carcass and denying him dignity in death. Toran swore under his breath but knew there was nothing more to be done for his squadmate and moved on to the next. Alongside him lay Daite and the sergeant grimaced in distress as he saw the truncated stumps where his forearms had once been. Daite's face and torso had been cut, slashed over and over again, but they were shallow wounds meant to inflict pain rather than kill. His black carapace had been cracked and sharp needles driven into the interface ports where his armour should connect to the nervous system. Someone had sliced into his face with delicate skill creating a web of scars that he would bear for the rest of his life and as a trophy had snipped off one ear lobe. Toran swiftly removed the needles impaling his brother then placed his hand upon Daite’s chest but felt no movement there. He remained there for almost a full minute, waiting with baited breath. Despite knowing he should not heed a Daemon’s words he could not help but remember the Harbinger’s prophecy and wonder if this could be Daite’s fate? But then he felt the distinct double thud of an Astartes’ hearts beating just once. Toran sighed in relief, for Daite was in a sus-an-membrane coma, his implants keeping him alive in suspended animation. Toran had no skill or medicine that could help Daite now so he went to check the last of his brothers. Halis looked like he had been beaten within an inch of his life, his face was a massive purple bruise and one eye was fused shut with blood. It was obvious from how he was laying that the reinforced bones in his legs had been broken and healed askew, he would be walking nowhere. Also his left arm had been wrenched from its socket, a feat only someone with detailed knowledge of Astartes physiology could achieve. Toran reached out to check his vitals but as he leaned over Halis’ one good eye snapped open and gazed about in bloodshot confusion. His gaze settled on Toran and he sucked in a ragged wet gasp through swollen lips. "Sergeant," he said in slurred mumble. Toran looked upon his wounded brother and urged, “Halis, what happened?” "It was Vorshaan," wheezed Halis, “He overwhelmed us and took the Magos and one of her devices.” Toran shook his head in confusion, “How could he know we were here, how could he know about the artefact?” Halis sucked in a bloody breath and said, “He must have a spy on board, it is the only answer.” Their musings were interrupted by the re-emergence of Persion who looked over at the Sergeant and shook his head to indicate that Magos Castabore was indeed gone. Toran felt outrage building his in guts but held it in check, all his training demanded such anger be held until the right moment when it could properly focussed. Toran declared, “Vorshaan cannot be allowed to escape, we must pursue him at once. Halis you are the only one conscious, can you guard Daite and Ophelian’s body until we can return.” “Not with my shoulder like this,” replied Halis grimly. Toran nodded and reached to his belt to remove a pain tab but paused as Halis said, “No, I need to be sharp and clear-headed,” Toran gritted his teeth and out to grasp the dislocated arm. Halis grimaced but did not look away as the Sergeant pulled the arm out then with a wrenching pop snapped into back into the joint. Halis’ face barely twitched at the agonising pain but it swiftly passed and he flexed the arm stiffly. Persion walked over and pressed a spare Bolt Pistol into Halis’ grasp as he wondered, “How will we find the Traitor?” Furion called from the door, “No problem there, they left a trail an aspirant could follow.” Toran nodded and went to stand up but Halis hand grasped his wrist and he said, "Ophelian... they took his gene-seed." Toran looked again at his fallen brother in surprise and saw that Halis was right; under the mutilation the body bore the tell-tale signs of the Progenoids being surgically removed post mortem. Toran thought his hatred for Vorshaan could get no deeper but this was an insult beyond the pale. The gene-seed was a Space Marine's inheritance from the Primarch and his legacy to the next generation. It was their past, present and future: without it there would be no newborn Astartes and the Chapter would die. Toran swore to himself that Vorshaan would not steal Ophelian's legacy as well as his life. The Sergeant snarled "Vorshaan will not escape again. I will kill him myself at any cost, anything else is irrelevant." He stood up and marched to the door but Furion barred his way saying, “Sergeant, what of the Magos?” Toran looked back at him and said, “What of her?” Furion sternly stood before him and said, “Our mission was to safeguard Castabore, if you think only of killing Vorshaan we risk her life.” Toran wanted to punch Furion and make him stand aside but he knew Furion was right. His heart warred between the twin impulses of duty and vengeance. In that moment he could not say which was the greater and he settled for saying, “We will cross that bridge when we come to it, but we can afford no more wasting time. We will find these Traitors and make them regret ever coming here.” Omni Honore Chapter 15 Toran, Furion and Persion followed the trail down the long corridors and across empty junctions. Everywhere they ran piles of dead crew and decomposing mutants announced the fighting still raging throughout the ship. They pushed it out of their minds as they swiftly pursued the author of this carnage, determined to find Vorshaan and stop him once and for all. Soon they approached a dank bilge from which they could hear a monotonous chanting, they slowed down and crept to the hatch. Toran glanced around the edge and took in the scene, in the centre of the room a large ritual circle had been marked out, edged with runes drawn in blood. Inside that circle a dozen mutant priests stood with arms raised as they chanted some arcane spell. Directing them was an armoured sorcerer with four horns on his helm and bearing a staff crested with a three headed serpent. Alongside him there were four Chaos Marines who were clad in midnight plate, they guarded a large cube, which was twelve foot to a side and covered in ceramite plates. Almost as an afterthought Magos Castabore floated silently besides it, she was subdued as if she had been stunned and was chained to the ground like a tethered blimp. Yet what stole Toran’s attention was the winged form of a Night Lord with a fanged helm and a long chainglaive, it was Vorshaan and he was in their grasp at last. Toran felt his bile rising at the sight of the Traitor, the arrogance and superiority oozing off him but worst of all was the fact he had a canopic jar hanging around his neck. Ophelian’s gene-seed was in the hands of the enemy. Toran leaned back and whispered, “Furion with me, Persion go left, no matter what happens we must complete the mission and if I should fall you know what to do.” His brothers nodded at his words and as one the Marines charged into the bilge, weapons raised and already firing as they emerged. The bolt shells soared across the space before the heretics could react, yet it seemed that they had taken precautions. As the shells reached the edge of the circle they impacted on a shimmering energy field and detonated harmlessly in mid-air leaving the heretic unharmed. Vorshaan spun in surprise and as the bolts exploded before him roared, “Kill them!” The four Chaos Marines drew flensing knives and bolt pistols then charged out of the circle to engage the intruders, passing through the energy field unscathed. Toran and Furion levelled their bolt weapons and Persion went wide to create a deadly crossfire. They instinctively concentrated their fire on the largest Chaos Marine and tore him apart with a devastating salvo. The Traitor fell with ragged holes blown through his armour but then the other three were upon them. Persion was confronted by a Marine with a pair of flensing knives that he twirled in his grip. The Storm Herald met him with his own blade drawn and they fell upon each other in a frenzy of stabbing and hacking. While so engaged Furion’s opponent fired his bolt pistol as he approached ,but the bolts ricocheted off his thick Mark III plate and he leapt through the salvo to land a punch to the helm that sent the heretic reeling. Meanwhile Toran was confronted by a pair midnight clad Traitor one whose notched blade was smeared with blood the other with a winged helm. Toran shifted his aim and unloaded his bolt pistol at the one with the helm, emptying the magazine in a furious onslaught. Ceramite was cratered and scarred by the barrage, cracking across the midnight plates, then a fortuitous round hit an eye-lens and punched through, blowing the Traitor's brains out. One Heretic fell but the other threw himself at Toran, serrated knife darkened with blood. The sergeant saw it was transhuman in origin and realised this monster must have been one of those who tortured Daite. Toran felt righteous anger rush through him and it lent power to his blow as he met the scum with a scything stroke of his sword. Too late the Traitor saw the power field sparking around the edge of the blade and before he could react the sword carved through his guard and on into his armour. Ceramite and bone parted under the blow and Toran's ire surged as his arm bore on, tearing straight through the Heretic in one great sweep. In a blaze of lightning and sparks Toran cut the traitor in two, leaving him to collapse in a pile of steaming gore. Toran spun about to engage the Dusk Prince but Vorshaan saw his minion fall and sighed “If you someone killed right… kill them yourself.” He flared out his wings above him and swept them downwards to propel himself through the shimmering field. He soared straight at Toran with his Chainglaive extended and the sergeant barely had time to meet the roaring weapon with the edge of his own sword. As soon as they touched his sword's power field exploded in blaze of light and it smashed the spinning blades into splinters. Vorshaan however didn’t seem fazed; he landed gracefully and swept the Adamantium haft about to bring up the serrated dagger on the other end. He followed this up with a thrust for the groin and then a kick that sent Toran staggering back. With eye watering speed Vorshaan launched a series of blistering attacks that Toran barely fended off as he was forced backwards step by step. Left and right, high and low Vorshaan attacked and his mirth was evident in every exhalation from his helm, a leering mockery of laughter and scorn that stoked Toran's anger to heights undreamt. Toran could feel the anger building in him, his hatred and fury empowering his limbs, driving him to fight harder and never letting him relent. He could see in his mind’s eye the torments heaped upon his squadmates, the good naval men who died this day and his own physical disfigurement at the hands of this cur the last time they had met. He deflected a vicious thrust for his heart and launched a counter attack, angling to rip off Vorshaan’s head. The Dusk Prince was forced backwards and actually seemed surprised by the strength and power of his opponent’s aggression as he parried. Toran snarled in triumph and redoubled his efforts, channelling his hatred into a flurry of blows that actually gave the Dusk Prince pause. Filled with righteous zeal Toran could not stop himself yelling, “You will pay for your crimes filth!” Vorshaan actually laughed and cried aloud, “My, my it is that little Sergeant again, this is turning out to be quite a day for reunions… How is the eye working out for you?” Toran snarled in outrage and threw himself into his attack, the need for vengeance burning fiercely within him. In the long hours of his watch he had fought this duel a thousand times and he had replayed their last confrontation over and over during his battle drills. He had sparred with his Chapter’s champion duellists and honed his skills for countless hours in the training cages, all to be ready when he faced Vorshaan once more. His skills were sharper than ever, his hate lent him speed and power and the need for vengeance made him deadlier than he had ever been. Yet despite all that he could still barely match his foe. The Dusk Prince was fighting with a skill and grace honed over ten thousand years of combat. His elegant moves made Toran look brutish and crude in comparison and he was always in the best position to avoid blows, always poised to turn a parry into a counter strike. Vorshaan’s advantage was his phenomenal speed and the reach of his Chainglaive. Toran’s only real counter was the lethality of his power sword. The Dusk Prince dared not block directly and was forced to deflect and dodge, falling back where he could have struck instead yet always dodging the fatal blow. Toran pressed hard but despite his fury could not land a killing blow and the duel was a stalemate. Out of the corner of his eye Toran saw Furion had wrapped his arms around his opponent’s neck and was slowly throttling him to death while Persion had rammed his knife up under the helm of his own foe. The microsecond of distraction almost cost him dear as Vorshaan launched a deadly thrust for his face that the sergeant barely deflected. Toran fell back in desperation as the chainglaive came at him twice as fast as before. Vorshaan's speed was blurring, his skill astounding and no he wasn't holding back, he was going for the kill. It was then that Toran realised he could not match the Dusk Prince’s skill, so he changed his strategy. Toran dropped his guard and roared “We are the Emperor’s Storm!” as he brought down his sword in an overhead sweep, channelling all his strength, fury and zeal into one overpowering blow. It was a fool's move, exposing him for a quick thrust to the hearts yet Vorshaan was not expecting so reckless an attack and was forced to hold out his chainglaive laterally to block. As the two weapons met the power sword’s energy field flared and in a blaze of lightning the sword cut straight through the Adamantium haft. Vorshaan was forced to throw himself backwards to avoid being disembowelled by the follow through, making him stumble away and losing his poise for an instant. Toran wasted no time in following up his strike; he raised his sword for a final killing stroke and shouted, “We are…” He never got to finish the cry for as he lunged forward the Sorcerer intervened, making an arcane gesture that spawned blazing tendrils of green energy. The tendrils writhed and twisted around each other as they hurtled forwards to catch Toran full on in the chest. The force of the impact threw Toran from his feet, sending him sailing backwards to land on the deck in a clatter of ceramite as the breath was knocked out of him. The warp blast coursed through his armour transmitting energy directly into his nervous system and the sergeant could not stop trashing in agony as he convulsed helplessly and a scream escaped his lips. Vorshaan regained his balance was about to leap forwards to finished Toran, holding the broken ends of his Chainglaive like two short swords but at the last second broke off. While they had been duelling Furion had finished off his opponent and was now charging forwards to tackle Vorshaan. Vorshaan looked at his foes, judging how long it would take to kill them all but at that moment the chanting behind him reached a crescendo and he realised he was out of time. The Dusk Prince spread his ragged wings behind him and laughed, “Too little too late,” then in one great sweep propelled himself backwards to land inside the circle. On the floor Toran’s trashing was subsiding as the energy faded away. His strength was returning but he could see the opportunity for vengeance slipping away. Yet in his heart he knew that there was a far more important cause at stake: his mission and his duty. With what little breath he had left he yelled, “Persion now!” From the side-lines Persion sprinted towards the ritual circle and nosedived over the edge. The shimmering field had deflected bolt rounds but could not stop his mass. Like a wrecking ball he barrelled through the field and pounced upon those inside. Vorshaan spun about and raised his weapons to meet him but had misjudged Persion’s intent. As he flew through the air Persion collided with the chained form of Magos Castabore, her weight was cancelled out by her anti-gravs and his inertia easily slammed them both to off one side. The chains holding her down snapped like wet strings and together they tumbled out of the circle, rolling over and over in a heap of metal and ceramite. Vorshaan roared in fury at losing one of his prizes, he tensed to leap out of the circle but pulled up when he saw Toran getting back to his feet. He looked around and saw his troops had been bested and he was outnumbered by foes. Vorshaan sneered and held up the canopic jar containing Ophelian’s gene-seed as he scoffed, “Well... two out of three isn’t bad.” Then Beta slammed his staff down on the centre of the ritual circle and in a flash of Warp light, the Traitors, their priests and the cubic artefact teleported away. Toran was left behind to roar in denial as the Dusk Prince escaped justice once again. Omni Honore Chapter 16 The bridge of the Averof had descended into panic. Junior officers were running to and fro and shouting conflicting orders at one another while Commissars bellowed threats and insults but they were not nearly enough to quell the confusion. Captain Mandas was standing on his command dais bellowing commands as he tried to instil some order into the madness but his senior officers were dead and without them bedlam reigned. The junior officers replacing them were barely old enough to shave and lacked the force of will and decades of experience necessary to enact his orders, they were boys playing at being men. Any Imperial starship operated on a delicate balance of time honoured procedures and a ritualised order of movement, in that environment discipline and morale were everything. Sadly the Averof's crew had seen both shattered and one man, even a Captain, could not restore it without an experienced and highly professional command crew. High above in the galleries the ship's clergy directed the choir to sing songs of blessing and praise to Him on Terra, but their caterwauling only added to the noise and confusion. It was hopeless madness and restoring order would take precious time, moments they did not have. Into that bedlam the survivors of IXth squad ran. They came to the bridge in the desperate hope catching their foe, yet they were pulled up short by the sight that awaited them. Toran was aghast to see the panic and confusion but it was Persion who cried, "Karyl's Hairy Arse! What the Frak is happening?" Mandas saw them coming and shouted in reply, "The Ixion is coming back on an attack run. I am trying to keep her off our stern but she has those damned Scartix engine coils, we cannot outrun her!" "You are running?" exclaimed Furion sounding shocked, "You should turn and engage!" "If I could do so I would have already," growled Mandas, "We still have boarding parties fighting across ship; we struggle to manoeuvre, let alone return fire." "What can we do?" yelled Toran in an attempt to help. "You can get off my bridge!" replied Mandas. "The colours of the Emperor's own do not run," said Toran determinedly, “Just tell us what we can do to help." Mandas glared at them for a moment then relented and said grimly, “The senior officers are dead and their juniors are struggling to cope. If you can take over their posts we might be able to salvage something from this disaster.” Toran waved the squad forwards saying, “Persion get the Sensorium officers back into order and Furion lean on the helmsmen, while I beat some sense into the gunnery ratings.” The squad moved to their posts and quickly asserted their authority. The boy officers leapt to obey when an angry Space Marine shouted at them and in a minute some semblance of order returned. Toran scanned the various reports from the gun decks. His genhanced mind swiftly calculated the time it would take to clear the decks and get the guns operational again but found it was just too long, the ship would be destroyed long before they could return fire. However his keen eye noticed a single console display that had gone unnoticed in the confusion, one single ray of hope. He addressed the command dais, "Mandas, the guns are unrecoverable but we have six torpedoes loaded in the forward tubes and they are armed." "Then we have yet have a chance" Mandas hissed, "Enginarium transfer all power to the manoeuvring thrusters. Helm on my mark, come to a new heading." The crew rushed to obey but before they had a chance to enact the order, Persion called from the Sensorium, "Energy spike, the Ixion is firing!" All eyes snapped to the Hololith which blazed to indicate the oncoming broadside as it hurtled towards them. Toran could only watch helplessly as the barrage crossed the distance, covering thousands of kilometres in moments. Closer and closer it came and then it struck. The Averof lurched in space as a torrent of shells, las and plasma inundated her rear shields, lightning engulfing them as they struggled to maintain integrity. The great ship wailed in torment, systems overloading and feedback cooking servitors alive in their connection sockets and Toran heard the ship's spirit wail in distress. On and on the deluge came turning the shields white then with an electromagnetic shockwave they collapsed, leaving the Averof exposed and vulnerable. The Ixion wasted no time and from its flank two lances shot forth, connecting the two ships with a tether of devastating energy. The lances caught the Averof right on her plasma engines and cut deeply within, severing power feeds and exploding containment vessels. Metal parted, compartments were breached and plasma spilled everywhere as the lances scythed ever deeper. What began as a savage thrust became a catastrophic explosion as star hot plasma spilled out and ran rampant throughout the engine decks. A catastrophic explosions tore through the main drives, crippling the Averof and leaving her adrift in space. On the bridge crew were hurled from their stations by the force of the explosion, the lights failed and plunged them into darkness which was filled with the confused shouting of panicked boys. Choristers fell screaming from the high galleries and made sickening thuds as they hit the unforgiving metal, snapping bones and breaking necks and Toran gritted his teeth in frustrated ire. After a long moment the emergency lighting snapped on, revealing strewn bodies and scattered boys helplessly groaning and throwing up. Only the Space Marines and the Captain had retained their balance and Mandas was shouting, "Damage report, somebody give me a Throne-damned damage report!" Persion and Toran assessed their stations and found minimal damage but the truly dire news was reserved for Furion who cried, "Critical hit to the manoeuvring systems. Main drive is offline and the helm is not responding, I say again we have lost all manoeuvring capability." Mandas seemed to sag in on himself and he sorrowfully said, "Then that's it, we have lost, the Ixion can pick us apart at her leisure." Toran protested in disbelief, "Surely not, there must be something we can do." Mandas shook his head and replied, "Not in the time we have left." Then he drew himself up with grim resignation and declared, "Anyone who wishes to abandon ship has the Captain's permission to do so. The saviour pods will buy you a few weeks but under no circumstances allow the Traitors to take you alive. It will be far cleaner death to shoot yourselves first." The crew looked at each other in shocked disbelief at their boisterous captain's dire pronouncement but a few of them stood up and began to file past the unmoving Space Marines in silence. Then a few more and then more, the trickle becoming a flood of desperate, fearful boys. Yet just as the mass exodus was about to pour out of the doors Persion unexpectedly shouted, “New contacts detected! We have unidentified strike craft on approach!” Toran glared at the flickering Hololith and saw he was right. A score of new icons had appeared out of nowhere, perilously close and on an attack vector. He snarled, “How the hell did we not see them earlier?!” Mandas replied flatly, “Their approach was ballistic, they powered down and drifted into position on sheer inertia.” “What can we do?” asked Toran in dismay. “Nothing, it’s already too late,” intoned Mandas grimly, his normal flamboyance fading as he said, "The pods won’t make it clear in time. I’m sorry my brave boys but you must prepare yourselves to meet the God-Emperor in person. You can tell him from me that it has been a privilege serving with you and I would not trade...” He did not get to finish the epithet as Persion shouted over him, “Wait! We have a positive identification... they are not Chaos craft!” “What?!” roared Toran in shock, “Who the hell are they?” Persion pointed at the Hololith where the icons were one by one turning green and shouted joyfully, “They are ours!” Toran stared as the realisation hit him and he cried, “The Phylarch and the Choregos, they come to our aid!" The boys huddled round the doors gasped and ran back in to crowd around the Hololith as Persion declared, “Alpha leader is signalling, they request permission to commence their attack run!” Mandas practically roared in elation, “Permission granted: Give them hell lads!” The huddled crew held their breath as they watched the bombers pouncing upon the Ixion, braving the rain of turret fire as they dived down on its massive hull. A storm of fire rose to meet them and the crew winced and gasped every time an icon blinked out, signifying the death of brave pilots even as they pressed their attack. Each loss struck Toran's hearts like a knife, knowing brave souls had met their end but he could only look on in admiration as the bomber pressed on, courting total annihilation in their headlong charge into the teeth of the enemy fire. Down and down the icons dived as their comrades burned and exploded around them, but then they crossed some invisible threshold and the bombers unleashed their missiles in flurry of contrails. The Ixion desperately redoubled its fire but it was too late, the missiles all weaved through the defensive web and hit the hull simultaneously. A series of massive plasma explosions erupted across the turncoat ship's spine, blowing off ramparts and fusing gun batteries into charred slag. Internal compartments were opened to space spilling mutated bodies into the void as fuel and munitions detonated around them. Explosion wracked her end to end, causing terrible wounds to open along the Ixion's mass and the chaos cruiser buckled like a wound colt as the devastation washed over her. Then the bombers broke off and soared away leaving the Chaos cruiser wallowing in flames as they retreated back to their carrier ships. On the bridge Persion was shouting, "Diminished power outputs and fires detected... the Ixion is crippled!" The assembled crew fell silent for once, every eye fixed upon the Hololith as they waited to see what happened next and as the seconds crawled by Toran muttered under his breath, "Your move." Toran knew Vorshaan had to be on board but how much was he willing to risk to see the death of the Averof. What was more important to him, his prize or the death of IXth squad? The Ixion was crippled so too was the Averof, mutual destruction was still likely. It all depended on how suicidal the Dusk Prince felt this day. Then a blip in the Hololith declared the Ixion was making its move. Persion bent over a surveyor screen and read out, "Aspect change, aspect change, Ixion is altering course... Logic engines are calculating new heading." Long seconds passed as everyone held their breath then Persion yelled in delight, "The Ixion is breaking off and headed for deep space: she is disengaging!" There was a ragged cheer as the massed crew felt their tension evaporate and Toran let out a breath he had not known he was holding. The young men raised their arms in joy or sat down and held their heads in their hands as they tried to process that they would live another day. One of the surviving clergy began a sermon of thanksgiving and even the Commissars allowed a grim smile to crack their stony facades. The relief was palpable as the simple fact of survival settled into every heart, even the Space Marines found they breathed a little easier. Captain Mandas allowed his crew a single minute of reflection then began issuing fresh orders, "All right you dogs enough of that dammed whining, get back to your posts. We still have fighting across many decks and we have a hell of a lot of work to do before the helm is functional. We need to fix our ship before we can declare this a victory." Under their Captain watchful eye the crew returned to their posts. Meanwhile Toran and the other survivors of IXth squad came together to take stock, their losses were heavy and the foe had escaped. Persion looked about and said, "I cannot tell, did we win or lose?" Furion replied, "We are still alive and prevented the kidnapping of the Magos... let that be victory enough." Toran nodded and said, "Vorshaan escaped but we have his measure now, whatever he stole will not aid him in the long run. The next time we meet I swear he will die by my hand." Persion sighed, "I suppose we'd better help get the ship back into working order." Toran concurred, "Yes, let us see what aid we can lend. We still have a lot of work to do this day." And with that they broke up and went to help get the Averof back under control. Omni Honore Chapter 17 Daite lay in the Apothecarion and stared at the ceiling. The white walls giving him nothing to do save brood. He lay upon a med-slab counting the hours until his release and itching to be up and about. He was in a sorry state, his form battered and bruised and both his arms ending in truncated stumps and he was missing half his vat-grown teeth. Still he was alive and that was more than he expected. In the sterile white room there were only three med-slabs and the bare white walls. Chirugeons came and went occasionally to check upon the occupants but they were only mortal, they did not understand Astartes biology and so were largely reduced to checking the Brothers were still breathing and making tutting noises. Removing their armour alone had nearly stumped the mortals and Daite was eager to check they had not broken seals or offended his plate’s spirit with their fumbling hands. He lay upon his slab and began lifting his head a fraction, then thumping it on the hard metal in a repeated pattern. It wasn’t painful but he was so bored he persisted anyway, desperate for something to do. He began making a game of it, thirty thumps, one for each bolt-round he was going to put into Vorshaan’s face. Thirty more for the slices he was going to make as he cut out the fiend’s hearts. Thirty more for the layers of skin he was going to peel off the vile cur’s hide. He was just getting to the things he was going to do to Vorshaan’s eyeballs when Halis Paur snapped, “Would you stop that!” Daite rolled his head about and saw Halis sitting crossed legged on his med-slab with his eyes closed. Halis was badly bruised by his battering but he was recovering quickly, Astartes physiology was built to repair any damage that didn’t kill them outright. Halis was fit and healthy, eager to be out of here but the Chirugeons wouldn’t let him depart. A frustrating experience indeed. Daite let his head flop back as he breathed, “Just imagining the things I am going to do to Vorshaan when I get my hands on him.” “What hands?” Halis replied snidely. “Don’t be glib, I will be fitted for new augmetics when we get back to Lujan II. I intend to use them to choke the life out of that filth.” “Get in line,” Halis scoffed, “There’s a long list of people who want to kill him.” “Kill him, no I intend to make him suffer for what he’s done. His death will be slow and painful and drawn out.” Halis cocked an eyebrow as he remarked, “It’s not like you to be so vehement.” “He killed Ophelian!” Daite spat, “How can you be so calm?!” Halis frowned as he explained, “I don’t waste energy on useless invectives. When we meet Vorshaan again there will be a reckoning, on that you can count. Until then I focus my wrath upon my current actions.” Daite looked at his Brother and asked, “You believe we will meet him again?” “I am sure of it,” Halis replied, “That arrogant blowhard will return to trouble the Storm Heralds again. For centuries have we danced across the stars. Storm Herald ships have chased him across two Segmentums, he raids our protectorates and we break his armies in turn. This had gone beyond war, this is a blood-feud. The Chapter’s destruction is his goal; he craves the fall of Lujan II like a drunkard does rotgut. He shall be back, it is certain.” “Good,” Daite snapped, “I yearn to kill him.” “Be careful what you wish for,” Halis cautioned, “The day he returns may well be your last.” “Then I shall die bravely, weapon in hand and bringing the Emperor’s vengeance upon him. My death would be a worthy price if it led to the end of the Dusk Prince!” Halis sighed, “Jediah would approve of such talk.” Daite turned his head to the third occupant of the room. Jediah lay in a coma on his med-slab, his sus-an-membrane sending him into a healing trance. He appeared dead and the mortals had tried to proclaim him so but the Astartes had carefully explained with the proper chem-treatments he would rise again. They hadn’t believed them but the Space Marines were in no mood to argue so sent them away. Daite knew they would have to wait to return to a Chapter Apothecarion to awaken Jediah but for now was content to know his Brother would fight again. Daite sniffed, “Jediah would relish that fight.” “Jediah would die swiftly,” Halis snorted, “Vorshaan’s better than any of us in a fight.” Daite’s head spun about as he snapped, “You give the cur praise!” Halis shrugged, “I do not underestimate our foe. Vorshaan has endured ten millennia of battle because he’s good with a blade. He’s better than me or you or Persion or Furion. Novak might give him a challenge but only a brief one.” “And Sergeant Toran?” Daite asked. “Toran’s learning fast,” Halis sniffed, “He’s better with a sword than most give him credit for, his problem is his feet.” “His feet?” Daite asked in confusion. “Aye he plods from foe to foe like an automaton,” Halis explained, “He has no grace to his style, no élan. He thinks his feet are only there to move him from foe to foe, he will never excel until he realises that.” “You’ve studied his style?” Daite asked warily, “You’ve studied all of us?” “You haven’t?” Halis scoffed, “How else am I going to excel if I don’t learn everything there is to learn. Astartes are the best of the best, there is no better way to learn than to study them.” Daite frowned as he pressed, “Maybe you could give me some pointers.” “Maybe,” Halis demurred, “You could certainly use some.” Daite sank back as he said, “I need to improve, I need to be ready. Vorshaan will come back and on that day I intend to win. I promise you this, blood will be spilled that day. The next time we meet the Dusk Prince will be the last.” “On that I agree,” Halis said, “Events are coming to head and the final reckoning is long overdue.” Omni Honore Chapter 18 The Averof was a hive of activity, crewmen rushing to and fro making repairs and restoring functionality. The decks resounded with the hiss of welding and the pounding of jackhammers interspersed with the chanting of Tech-Priests. They paced the decks as they swung censers of blessed incense and sang placating hymns to appease the wounded spirit of the ship. Damaged components were removed with due reverence and carried away on velvet cushions to be interred with solemn grief, meanwhile they stepped over the corpses of dead crewmen with little concern, deeming organic components to be easier to replace than the holy mechanisms. Hustle and bustle was everywhere, yet high on the spinal access corridor a meeting was taking place. The crew gave a wide berth to three figures conversing by the armourglass windows, no one wanting to interfere with their master’s deliberations. One was the ship's captain, the other was Sergeant Toran standing with his face exposed and the third was the floating form of Magos Castabore. Castabore was speaking, "This is unacceptable, I demand we continue our journey to Mars." Mandas replied firmly, "Magos we have sustained crippling damage and must return to the docks of Tectum. The convoy has been handed over to Battlefleet Bentus and we have new orders." "Unacceptable," repeated Castabore irately, “I was guaranteed safe passage to Mars." Toran stepped in and said, "Magos this attack was intended solely to capture you and your artefacts, clearly the archenemy have identified you as a personage of great importance. We must return you to a secure location before they try again." Techpriests were supposed to be above vanity but the appeal to her ego seemed to mollify her somewhat. Yet still she said, "Then I will not be able to present my discoveries to the Fabricator General." Toran replied smoothly, "You are alive and free to make more discoveries, sometimes one must take what victories one can and move on." Castabore snorted, "Many more 'victories' like this and I will have to re-evaluate our relationship." Then she spun about and drifted off with a faint hum of anti-gravs. The pair watched her depart and Mandas remarked, "What an odd creature, even for a Techpriest. Tell me did you ever pry out of her what it was Vorshaan stole?" “She remains silent on the matter,” sighed Toran, “I have been unable to get her to release that information.” “Is that not dangerous?” asked Mandas, “We have no idea what the Traitors intend to do with the device.” Toran replied, “I cannot force her to tell us and if there is nothing to be done then there is no point wasting effort worrying about it. But tell me what comes next for you and your ship.” "We are returning to the Fleet Headquarters at Tectum," explained Mandas, "The Averof requires a full refit and the crew must be… taken care of." Toran raised an eyebrow in puzzlement and Mandas continued sadly, "I have received an Astropathic communique from Lord Admiral Dousmanis himself, he says we must prepare to receive an Inquisitorial delegation before we are allowed to berth. They are coming to inspect the ship and crew." "Ah," said Toran understanding perfectly. The Averof had felt the touch of the Daemonic and was tainted inside and out. Every deck would have to be ritually cleansed but the mortals aboard would face far sterner judgement. Captain Mandas probably had the rank to survive the coming ‘inspection’ but anyone else who had seen even a glimpse of the unholy would be mercilessly purged. A great many of those who had seen nothing would be purged as well just to be sure. Toran guessed barely half of the crew would survive the coming of the Inquisition and most those would be the essential crew with valuable skills. He wished he could protest the callous policy but could not. He and Mandas both knew that one corrupted soul could spread the taint to others. Whole stellar systems had been lost due to a single moment of weak pity. Better a thousand die than one Heretic escape to spread his sedition, this was the way of the Imperium and the Emperor’s command. Quietly the pair of them began strolling the corridor, passing rushing crewmen and Mandas asked, "What of your Marines?" Toran said regretfully, "I lost a proud brother to the foe and have three more in the Medicae suite, Jediah will be remaining in a comas until we return to our Fortress Monastery. Daite and Halis however are climbing the walls; if they don't discharge them soon they will tear that place apart." "Some good news then," said Mandas, "And what of your other man?” "Novak?" replied Toran, "Physically he has made a full recovery but he is isolated in a quarantine chamber. Chaplain Wrethan stands guard night and day; he has sworn to continue to do so until our Librarians can screen Novak’s soul and declare him sound." Mandas muttered darkly, “The Inquisition is not so lenient with my crew.” “Space Marines are valuable assets, not to be squandered lightly,” Toran stated grimly. It was a brutal dismissal of human life but it was also true and they both knew it. "Well I cannot fault your Chaplain's dedication," sighed Mandas, “I have to say the Imperial Navy does not have a particularly high regard of your Chapter, we have a turbulent history, but you and your squad have been exceptional.” “The Emperor made us to excel,” replied Toran trying to sound humble, “Your crew also performed well, for mortals.” Mandas shook his head and grumbled, “The auxiliary bridge crew fell apart; I must schedule more strenuous drills from now on.” Toran was surprised by the frank assessment and offered, “My squad would happily volunteer our services while on board.” Mandas actually laughed at that and said, “No offence, but if I go about letting Astartes run my bridge I would be hung, drawn and quartered by the Admiralty. No you will remain my honoured guests until we pass by your homeworld and you can return to your Chapter.” The words made Toran pause and he turned to gaze out at the distant stars; Mandas came to stand by him and asked, “Is there something else?” “It’s just that I had hoped to see Terra, just once before I die." Mandas snorted, "Sergeant I have seen Terra, trust me you are not missing anything." "You have seen Terra?" Toran asked in astonishment. "Yes," replied Mandas, "And you will never find a greater cesspit of liars and backstabbers in your life." Toran was taken aback and retorted, "And yet we are sworn to serve the High Lords and the Emperor." Mandas waved away the concern and said, "Let them worry about politics and power, all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer by." Toran found it hard to argue with the sentiment and fell into thoughtful silence. So they stood together, gazing out of the viewportal and watching the distant stars glide by. The Storm Heralds shall return in Carpe Posterum Somewhere, Somewhen *Presenting a teaser for an upcoming story: Noctem Oritur* In the depths of deep space there was an asteroid. It floated in the endless gulfs between stellar systems, its surface cold and dark, never having felt the touch of a sun. It was ugly and unremarkable, but it was far from lifeless. Buried deep under its surface was a defiled Forge-Fane, its vaulted arches and long naves twisted and distorted by insane mathematical geometries that should not exist. Devices that looked half mechanical and half organic whispered insanities to themselves, eyes and mouths opening randomly over their casings as hands pressed out from under the skin like surface. Horrible and twisted things lurked in the shadows and Vox horns blared scrapcode over the gathering of priests. They wore dark robes that bulged in loathsome ways, hinting at blasphemies to the Omnissiah and all the tenets of Mars. For these were the accursed and despised parodies of the Tech-Priests: the Dark Mechancium. The Hereteks swayed and fell into paroxysm of agony in a ritualistic circle around a single artefact which was large cube, twelve feet to a side and covered in white Ceramite plates. In between the gaps could be seen obsidian mechanisms and circuits so delicate that they were barely ever seen in the brutish forty-first millennium. Disgusting fleshmetal cables had been driven into its interface ports, which led away to throbbing and oozing cogitators placed in unholy configurations around the room. Between the logic engines were strange lumpy things, disgusting fusions of flesh and metal. They might have been devices or they may have been assistants, it was impossible to tell. It was a vile parody of the Holy work of the Mechanicus and any true son of Mars would have laid waste to the scene with righteous fire. Yet they were not here so the work continued. Overseeing everything was Vorshaan, standing raptly to attention as the ritual reached its culmination. His helm was doffed, to better see every detail, but he ignored the screaming and thrashing Magi to stare solely at the device. On the front of it was a large analogue dial which was slowly creeping out of the green segment into the yellow. As the power increased a sly grin crept over Vorshaan's pallid face, revealing sharpened teeth with black gums and a savage glint in his eye. He gloried as the next step towards his goal neared and the device came to life, but then it was swiftly wiped out. There was sudden bang and an explosion of sparks as the device flared blue light from within and sent devastating feedback through the interfaces. Dark Priests wailed pitifully and thrashed at the devices but could not stop the various cogitators around the room bursting into black flame. Desperate entreaties to the Dark gods were ignored and fire retardants were evaporated in moments as the flames spread. Several acolytes were caught in the blazing stacks and fell thrashing to the floor as daemonic faces leapt and danced in the fires consuming them. Vorshaan growled in disgust and looked contemptuously upon a black-clad adept who was grovelling before him, snarling, "What went wrong this time?" The adept cowered and said in a mushy voice that did not sound quite human, "It is not our fault; the artefact is highly counter-intuitive and resists our attempts to break its will. Its function is to enhance and invert a universally accepted process, creating a stable reaction is challenging." Vorshaan was not appeased and growled, "Tell me, how many of your predecessors have I killed so far for failing to complete this simple task?" The Adept replied matter of factly, "Six point seven six three." Vorshaan actually cocked an eyebrow at that and remarked, "Point seven six three?" The adept replied in all seriousness, "You ordered your torturers to keep the fourth Adept alive and in agony for as long as possible, at the current rate it will take another four point nine years for him to die." Vorshaan hissed, "Indeed, and I seem to recall saying afterwards I would kill one of you for every further failure." The adept shrunk back and wailed, "My lord it is not our fault, without understanding the theoretical principles the device operates upon we are reduced to brute trial and error; no better than those blinkered idiots of Mars. I assure you though we are making progress, the device will be made operational." Vorshaan leaned forward and his terrifying visage made the acolyte quiver in terror as he said, "Well… you had best get back to work then, for your own sake there had better be no more setbacks." The Adept looked like it was about to piss itself in fear and then turned back to the ritual circle, shouting at its subordinates and trying to appear busy. Vorshaan leaned back and enjoyed the scent of fear in the air but was distracted by the arrival of two more armoured figures into the fane. The first was his Sorcerer Beta who was carrying his staff, with long jade robes swirling around him as he moved. The other was a giant, even for a Space Marine, bearing a double bladed axe that he gripped in shovel-like hands. His armour was turquoise and decorated with writhing serpents and chained 'A' symbols, yet there was a brutality and directness to his gait that belied the sly nature of the XXth Legion. The pair approached the Dusk Prince and Beta bowed low, yet there was hint of condescension in his voice as he said, "I see you have had another setback my lord... How many did Priests did you kill this time?" "None", Vorshaan replied. “Truly? I am surprised.” Vorshaan sniffed, "It pays to never be too predictable, but do not concern yourself with my work, you should be more worried about your own.” Beta smugly gestured to the warrior standing beside him and said, "I present the fruit of our labours, the offspring of your trophy." Vorshaan looked the giant up and down and said, "Only one?" Beta's voice was the equivalent of a shrug as he said, "As we suspected the stolen Storm Herald’s gene-seed was weak. All the recruits died during training, all but this one. He has surpassed every trial and test we could devise, he will be a worthy addition to your forces." Vorshaan did not seem convinced and said, "Are you sure, he is genetically whelped from foe, will he fight his own blood kin?" Beta replied, "I assure you his psycho-indoctrination was rigorous indeed, no one thirsts more for the destruction of the Storm Heralds than this warrior." “I had hoped for a squad,” Vorshaan sighed and said, "But he will have to do." He addressed the brutish warrior for the first time, "So what do we call you… No, wait let me guess. You are Alpharius." The brute shook his head and growled, "My name is Gamma and I serve the Legion in all things."
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AboutTales from within the sector written by me (Turbidious) or other contributors. These are based on games we have had of BFG and 40k Archives
March 2021
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