AuthorM.S Lovegrove Storm Heralds Reading List Book1 Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget Finis Fide Chapter 1 The woods may have been dark but they were far from silent. The forest was filled with the chirp of insects, the swaying of the pine trees in the midnight gloom and the busy life of small animals. Through that tapestry of noise moved a dozen shadowy figures, creeping along with innate woodcraft. They were wrapped in blackened cloaks, broken only by the protruding barrel of antique las-locks with their bulky slide-recharge mechanisms. They advanced in a huddle of grey shapes, keeping close together for protection and watching the shadows for enemies. Eventually they came to a small clearing and spread out to check every nook and cranny for danger. After a few minutes one of them straightened and shrugged off his cloak. Beneath the drab fabric he wore tanned leathers with webbing filled with rations, kit, tool and ammo, and around his neck hung a small stone on a piece of string. His face was worn, with a greying beard and tired eyes. On one arm were stitched the stripes of a PDF sergeant, whereas the other bore the double-headed eagle. He looked around and said in a lyrical accent, "That's enough, this is as good a place as any for camp. Break out the tarpaulins and find a comfy spot. Make sure to get something to eat, rations packs only, no fires"
This pronouncement was met with a wide chorus of groans but the man chided them, "Don't give me the long faces, it is better than drawing every Kern for leagues around down on our heads. You know the drill, team Una you're on first watch tonight, team Dua grab a bite then four hours sleep before second watch, team Tra you lucky gits get to sleep tonight." Tiredly the men broke up, many grumbling under their breath as they sought rest. The sentries heading out with their Laslocks clutched tight, heading into the forest to stand guard. The Sergeant threw himself down on the cold ground and unwrapped a linen-packed ration bar, gurning as they chewed on the chalky substance. Two more men sat down alongside the sergeant, one a young man, the other old and grey. The first turned to him and in the warble of breaking youth said, "Sergeant Kalos, are we ever going to see any action?" The other newcomer snorted, he was older than the rest of the patrol and wore a necklace of beads and avian bones, making him seem a shamanic tramp. This one said, "Don't be daft Zander, the Kerns have not been this deep into the forest for years. Besides if a Kern saw you then the Psybrids wouldn't be too far behind, what would you do then? They would crush you before you could wet yourself." Young Zander went pink at being insulted so and yelled, "Watch your mouth Phelps, I am not afraid! I signed up to rid our world of those foul Xenos and their slaves. I swore on my dad's deathbed I would see them driven off Odiosis and bring back the Sky Emperor!" The older man shook his head and snorted, "Spare me the religious doggerel, there is no Sky Emperor amongst the stars. You are too young to remember the Imperium, but the truth is those snooty lords never cared about Odiosis. Apart from the clerics and preachers all we ever saw were the annual tithe ships, sucking up all our resources and young blood. Face the truth whelp, the Imperium abandoned us to rot." Zander spluttered in indignation, "Don't blaspheme! The Sky Emperor is real, my da told me so. Just you wait and see, he will send his Astartes to save our world!" Phelps threw back his head and laughed "Don't be an idiot! The Astartes don't exist, they were made up by the preachers to make us behave like good little boys and girls." "Will you two knock it off!" cut in Sergeant Kalos testily, "You're making enough noise to wake the dead. I don't know if the Imperium will ever return but for now I will settle for a quiet patrol and a warm bunk back home." "But Sarge," said Zander in the self-absorbed whine of youth. "But nothing," Kalos snapped, "I have been wandering these woods since before you were born, dodging Psybrids and picking off Kerns. I've never seen any star striding army come to Odiosis before and I don't expect any to come tonight. All we can count on is ourselves, you should..." He never got to finish his sentence because in the next moment they all felt the shift in the atmosphere, a sudden chill making every man jerk upright. A chill down the spine made them all leap to their feet as the woods filled with a pregnant tension. Las-locks were in hand and charged before the first retort of a shot rang out. Kalos swung his weapon about and shouted, "They've found us, take cover!" Men threw themselves into the dirt, huddling behind lumps in the ground or fallen logs and pointed their guns towards the source of the noise. A series of bright flashes from the sentries heralded the approach of danger and the patrol levelled their Las-locks at the shadows between trees. There were a series of flashes and bangs from the sentries, followed by a sibilant hiss and then a handful of men ran into the clearing. They threw themselves among the dug-in defenders and yapped, "They're coming!" Eyes fixed on the trees Kalos wiggled close to Zander and said, "Hold steady, aim and fire just like we practiced. Remember to watch your friend’s backs, for they will be watching yours." The boy nodded but his face looked pale, like he was about to be sick, as he clutched his las-lock. A rushing noise heralded a line of wasted, emaciated figures running out of the treeline, they were of human stock yet their limbs were stick thin and their ribcages protruded. They looked to be in the grip of famine but they moved with feral intent. They ran bent over like hunchbacks, emaciated fingers hooked like claws but worst of all were their faces, vacant and slack, with no hint of emotion showing from their blanked minds. Kalos swallowed his revulsion at the sight and shouted, "Kerns, Open Fire!". He raised his Las-lock and a blast of energy speared out, burning into a Kern's chest, killing it instantly. He worked the charging bolt-action mechanism of his archaic weapon and fired again and again, roaring, "Ave Imperator! Ave bloody Imperator!" The first line of Kern's went down but behind them were crowds of bodies, charging forwards heedless of losses or of injury. Flesh wounds were shrugged off like rain and only a killing blast could put them down. Kalos had no idea how many of them were out there, all he could think was to aim, fire and recharge over and over, stopping only to replace exhausted battery packs. His men did the same and Kerns dropped like flies, but more kept coming. It was a test of disciplined courage against feral savagery, the number of savages against the steady rate of fire. Wave after wave of mindless slaves charged out but the patrol's discipline held and the Kerns were cut down relentlessly. Slowly their numbers thinned, growing scarcer by the second as the defenders concentrated their fire. Finally, the last one fell leaving silence behind and the men cheered in relief, for it looked like they would live to fight another day. But before they could even rise to their feet a looming metallic shape pushed out of the treeline, bending gnarled boughs over like rushes. It was ten-feet tall, standing on back jointed legs with splayed duck like metal feet and Heavy Bolters fixed to either side of its body. Framed around its cockpit were transparent armourglass windows through which could be seen a green mist, swirling and billowing with eerie purpose and a long equine face, barely visible as it leered out at them. "Abaddon's Balls," Kalos swore then shouted loudly "Psybrid! it’s a Psybrid Mech!" The lurching machine clomped into the clearing, ponderously swaying from side to side as it raised its arms and the loud sound of autoloaders rang forth. Kalos and his men threw their heads into the dirt but two men were too slow as the heavy bolters opened fire, blowing them into clouds of gore. Kalos wiped mist of blood from his face then raised his Las-lock to return fire, despite the miniscule chance of inflicting harm on the machine. His las-lock flared but the discharge barely scorched the Mech's armour and it took another ponderous step forward, tracking its heavy bolters around to finish the fight. Just as it was about to open fire a small shape flew out of the tree line from behind and impacted on its rear. It was the size of man's fist and it was perfectly judged to impact just as it exploded. An explosion bloomed out and tore off one of the Psybrids heavy bolters, leaving it staggering like a drunk. Kalos realised the object had been a Krak grenade and looked about in surprise to see who threw it but was stunned by what he saw next. Advancing out of the treeline were eight towering monsters, each a giant of reinforced metalwork and buzzing power plants, bearing double barrelled canons so weighty no man should be able to lift them. They stomped forwards in mechanical unison, flashes of starlight glinting off the edges of their polished armour and with eyes glowing like flints of coal. The Psybrid Mech swung about to face them but the giants raised their canons and opened fire. Streams of fusion energy shot forth and the Psybrid Mech wilted like a candle left in an oven. Reinforced plates boiled away under the kiss of Melta-weaponry, revealing pistons that in turn melted and glopped into slag. The Xeno in the cockpit screamed inhumanly as its capsule became its coffin. The gases within boiled, cooking it alive even as molten armourglass dripped onto its form, trapping it forever like a fly in amber. Three seconds passed and then the Mech collapsed and lay still, steaming and popping as its metalwork cooled. Kalos was lost in wonder, never had he seen a Psybrid Mech taken down so swiftly and surely. These intruders had done something he wouldn't have tried without a score more men by his side. He was astounded by the display of might but a quiet voice in his mind warned him to be wary, for what sort of monster did it take to best monsters? Who were they and why were they fighting the Psybrids, Kalos asked himself, could Odiosis could have been invaded by a second Xeno race? His men were getting to their feet, clutching their las-locks fearfully as they stared at the new invaders but they were too slow. In the time it had taken them to stand the giants had brought their canons around to point at them. Gun barrels the size of fists loomed and Kalos realised that the slightest twitch of a digit could end them all in heartbeat. Very slowly Kalos got up and stood to the front of his patrol, he straightened his jacket, for a distraction if nothing else, but as he did so his Imperial eagle was revealed. One giant was armed differently, with a smaller pistol-canon and a long serrated blade hanging on its waist; it glanced at his symbol and then lowered its canon. It stepped forwards from the line of giants and the patrol cowered at the intimidating sight, but then the massive monster did something totally unexpected. It crossed its hands over its barrel chest and said in an impossibly deep and sonorous voice, "Ave Imperator". Kalos could not have been more shocked and he froze absolutely still, unable to grasp what they were hearing. Then the giant reached up and twisted at its head. It came free, revealing skin and bone beneath and Kalos was stunned to realise that it was a nothing but a helmet, yet gigantic and shaped for an inhuman scale. Kalos looked up and saw the head revealed had eyes, a nose and mouth: it was human but impossibly large. He took in the grizzled features of what he now realised was a man and saw lifetime’s worth of scars, set around a large monocle that was buried into the right eye socket. The giant man fixed his helmet to his waist, then he surveyed the patrol and declared, "Hail soldiers of the Emperor. I am Sergeant Toran of IXth squad, of the Storm Herald's Ninth Company." The patrol lowered their guns and glanced at each other in wonder but his next words shook their world to its core, "Know no fear for the Emperor smiles upon your world: the Astartes have come." Finis fide Chapter 2 Two different breeds of men marched in the midnight woods, the smaller men grumbling and muttering, the Space Marines towering over them but walking in disciplined silence. The native patrol had not wanted to come with the Storm Heralds but Toran had thought their local knowledge would prove useful and had insisted. The locals had quickly acquiesced when the alternative was arguing with an angry Space Marine. Sergeant Toran walked in the middle of that group, his armour a black hole in the midnight gloom. He was somewhat young for his rank but his face betrayed a keen intellect and a determined drive to excel. He was a rising star in Ninth Company, held to be on a path to high rank, though many whispered behind his back he needed another century of seasoning. At his belt he wore a chainsword and a bolt pistol and his face was embedded with a glowing augmetic eye, the loss of his original eyeball a parting gift from a Chaos Warlord. Sergeant Toran watched his new allies as they walked and was surprised by how clumsy and inept they were for supposedly born woodsmen. They tripped over roots and walked too close together, occasionally bumping into each other. Toran opened a closed link to his squadmate Halis Paur and subvocalized with twitches of his larynx, so the men would not hear, as he said, "I thought these natives would be useful as guides, but look at them." Halis’ helm glanced over as he commented, "It is dark." Toran was puzzled by this and said, "What's that got to do with anything?" Halis replied with an amused tone, "It is the middle of the night and the stars are obscured by trees. Human eyes are only mortal, they literally cannot see the hands in front of their faces." Toran was surprised for he had forgotten how weak and frail mortal men were. For too long he had been accustomed to the superior perceptions of the Astartes, even without his helm on he could see as if it was broad daylight and that was without his augmetic right eye. "Perhaps we should have left them behind, they will likely die before this is over,” he mused. Halis could not shrug in power armour but his sentiment was clear from his tone of voice as he said, "If they get us where we need to go then what does it matter if they die?" Toran half-expected the response, for Halis had been rendered bitter and cynical by loss, even other Astartes found him callous and cold. Yet he had a sharp insight and a chillingly pragmatic bent, his mind was like a corkscrew and he oft noticed things others missed. Toran looked around and took in the rest of his squad seeing how easily they moved through the darkness, wise Furion, impudent Novak, savage Jediah and snide Ophelian all in perfect formation. Further out was Persion the cavalier comm-specialist and with him was Daite, who was odd even for a squad of the Reserve Companies. Daite was a quiet one which made many underestimate his skills yet it was his gene-seed that truly set him apart. It was not a fact the Storm Heralds announced widely but their gene-seed hid a small defect, namely a defective Catalepsean Node. When overtaxed it could occasionally induce visions or hallucinations and these visions often came true with a disturbing frequency. This was not true prophecy, like a psyker could perform, but rather intuitive insights, profound revelations and incredible leaps of deduction. It was a subtle difference but enough to keep the Inquisition at bay as no hint of Warp taint had ever been associated with it. Most brothers would go a lifetime perhaps being unlucky enough to experience one vision at most but Daite had been beset by them since his induction. The genetic mutation was a mystery but still the visions made Toran uncomfortable, yet the Masters of the Chapter held the visions in high regard, so there was nothing he could do except put up with it. At least it helped that Daite held the squads’ auspex, which gave him a plausible rational for his insights, a small excuse but enough. This then was IXth squad of Ninth Company. Held by some to be the Storm Heralds premier demolition experts and by others to be a gaggle of misfits and oddballs, best kept in the Reserves. They got the strange and inglorious assignments, supporting roles and missions that did not justify a Battle Company. Basically any task the Line Captains thought to be beneath them, like coming to this Xenos occupied backwater world. Toran decided enough was enough and voxed, "Daite, any threats nearby?" "Nothing for leagues and leagues" came the response. "Very good,” said Toran then announced, "In that case stab-lights on.” Instantly eight beams of light sprang out from nowhere making the mortals blink and rub their watering eyes in the sudden illumination. With the way lit the group picked up speed and the men moved with much more confidence. Now the natives could see their new companions clearly and they kept stealing glances at them in disbelief. The youngest one drifted closer to Toran until he had to crane his neck to look up. Zander cleared his throat and asked "Is it true you are Astartes?" Toran had no wish to engage in conversation so replied briskly, “Yes." “My Da told me you would come but we have not seen any Imperials since before I was born,” said Zander, “Why didn’t you come sooner?” Toran replied with the blunt truth, “The Imperium is beset on all sides by terrible foes, Ork Waaghs, Traitor assaults and ancient Xeno races, yet despite that we have never forgotten the Osirian Psybrids. They are a foe of antiquity, whom challenged the Legions of the Great Crusade and were eventually declared extinct by our glorious Primarch Roboute Guilliman. A declaration that has proved somewhat premature. That is why we Storm Heralds will never forget: their continued existence is an insult to his legacy.” “It’s been so long since we saw any sign of the Emperor’s warriors,” said Zander glancing at the oldest member of the party, “Some of us have begun to loose faith.” Toran tried to reassure the native boy with a smile, but the child looked at him in blank incomprehension. Toran realised the mortal had no experience in dealing with transhuman expressions, what would be blatant to another Space Marine was subtle and obscure to a mortal. He thought perhaps that was the origin of the myth that Space Marines had all their emotions cut out of them, a woefully misguided distortion of the truth. Toran said, “Rest assured, we have come to reclaim this world in the Emperor’s name.” Zander nodded eagerly as if hearing divine revelation and said, “Well I can’t see you lot being stopped by mere Kerns.” "Kerns?" asked Toran with a frown. "Oh… the mindless,” Zander replied then made a weak grin, "Like Kern seeds, they come in these fat pods, what you do is scoop out the edible parts and what you are left with are these perfect husks, but all hollowed out inside. I guess the name started as somebody’s morbid joke." Toran looked at him blankly, the child was obviously making some attempt at humour but it baffled him why anyone would do this. He sub-vocalised a link to Halis and asked, "What is he saying?" Halis replied on a closed link, "Humans often need to diminish a threat by making humorous remarks about it." "Foolish," replied Toran, "To mock threats is to underestimate them and that hands the enemy an advantage." "They are only mortal," scoffed Halis, "We are Astartes, what more is there to say?" Toran realised the conversation had lapsed and the native boy was staring at him. He tried to encourage the child to reveal more information by asking, "What are those stones you all wear?" Zander looked surprised and picked up the stone hanging around his neck on a cord, "These? These are Ward stones, we all have them; they keep the Psybrids from taking over our minds." There was a snort from the other side of the marching line and Phelps called out "Don't toy with it too much, you will go blind!” “Why do you always have to sneer at everything?” Snapped Zander in frustration, “I told you the Astartes would come, they will drive the Psybrids off Odiosis!” Phelps grimaced and said, “We don’t need them, we can do it ourselves. There are only eight of them, all they will do is get a lot of us killed and where will they be when the Psybrids come for revenge, not here for certain.” "You are wrong," barked Zander, "The Sky-Emperor has sent his Astartes to save our world." "Don't give me that" Phelps spat, "Where was he when our world was invaded? Where was he when we struggled for decades alone? The Emperor doesn't care about us." There was as sudden blur of movement and Toran blinked at how Phelps suddenly found himself held aloft by one giant hand, pinning him hard against a tree truck. Brother Furion was holding his neck in the cage of a spread hand, fingers passing by his throat to plunge knuckle deep into the pine tree behind him, splintering bark with the pressure. Phelps kicked and gasped for air as he clawed at the ceramite gauntlet but was helpless as a babe in the merciless grip. Toran watched as Furion leaned in closer and as Phelp’s face turn scarlet for lack of air he growled, "I am making allowances for your long fight against the Xenos, but my patience is limited. Take the Emperor’s name in vain again and I will rip out your throat for Heresy, there will be no more warnings." Then he ripped his hand away leaving Phelps to fall limply and flop on the ground, clawing at his throat as he sucked down air. The natives stood dumbfounded, shocked by the display of force. Toran gave them a sharp glance and they hurried to form up and get back on the march. Even Zander scurried away, not wanting to risk saying anything to upset the Transhumans further. There was no more backtalk from the natives and IXth squad kept their thoughts to themselves as they paced onwards. So the party marched away, disappearing into the night. Finis Fide chapter 3 Morning twilight spread across the sky, a band of warm golden haze driving back the blackness of night. The stars were fading as the sun-washed them out, overpowering them with its basking glow. Birds began their morning chorus, filling the air with sweet songs as dew dripped off leaves. The moss underfoot teemed with small insects, scurrying about their business and the smell of moist underbrush filled the air. It promised to be a brilliant day, the kind of day men would shed their coats and work in short sleeves, grumbling about the mounting heat. In a clearing of the woods the party had halted. The local militia had dropped to the ground and gone to sleep, sure of their safety in the presence of the Space Marines. Indeed two of them were guarding the perimeter, better watchmen than a score of mortals. Yet the rest of the Storm Heralds were kneeling in the underbrush, helms doffed so they could gaze upon the dawn with their own eyes. This was a sacred ritual of their Chapter, born from the ancient history of their homeworld Lujan II, whose slow rotation meant sunlight had special significance unto them. Sergeant Toran stared upwards, trying to ignore the slight monochrome fuzzing in his vision from his augmetic eye. His left eye was yet organic and it drank in the rich colours of the dawn, basking in the growing light. This was more than mere illumination to the Storm Heralds, it was a metaphor for the Emperor. The way His power drove the perils of night, evil and chaos from the galaxy and it was the Storm Herald’s duty to be the instrument of that power. Toran stared unblinking into the sky until the growing light pained his one eye then he spoke the words of an ancient ritual, “For what will you give your lives?” Beside him Furion, Novak, Jediah, Halis Paur and Ophelian responded as tradition dictated, “We give our lives for honour.” Again Toran uttered, “What is your honour?” “Our honour is our duty,” came the reply. “What is your duty?” the litany continued. “To serve the Emperor’s will,” they intoned. “What is the Emperor’s will?” the ancient words rang out. “That we be the champions and defenders of mankind,” they uttered. “How will you defend mankind?” Toran barked. “With our lives!” the squad roared. “Thus the circle is complete, as inevitable as the setting and rising of the sun,” Toran proclaimed, “For Him on Terra.” The ritual was complete and the Space Marines stood up, brushing off leaves from their kneepads. They made a customary check of their weapons, inspecting their gear and belt pouches. Their power armour had enough supplies and power cells to function for months, but not everything could fit into the pharmacopoeia built into its backpack. Ceramite-clad hands patted down their pouches in moments and Toran was confident all would be in order. It was then that Halis Paur muttered, “I thought we were trying to put a stop to this ritualistic behaviour.” Toran rolled his eye, knowing Halis was bitter and resentful by nature, and said, “One battle at a time Brother.” Halis shook his head and muttered, “The Chapter would be better off discarding such nonsense and focusing on battle.” Toran scowled as he snapped, "Now you go too far, the Chapter's traditions are not in question. It is the need to spread the worship of the God-Emperor that brings us into disrepute. Sometimes I wonder if you ever partook of our Rites in the Scout-Barracks.” Halis sighed at that, “It irks me, the steps we have to go to. Dealing with the Inquisition is never straightforward.” Toran let it go as he agreed, “I don’t like it either, but orders are orders. We are to rendezvous with Inquisitor Canesh and assist her liberation of this world. The Chapter needs this, our relations with the wider Imperium are in dire straits, the goodwill of an Inquisitor would be a valuable asset.” Halis snorted, “We’d be fools to trust an inquisitor, they always have some nefarious agenda in play. I’ll be keeping a close eye on her.” “That’s what I keep you around for,” Toran jested, “Keep an eye on the mortals, I’ll go check the perimeter guard.” Toran left them behind as he walked over to the perimeter, passing the slumbering mortals. The locals were sleeping peaceful, sure that the Astartes would safeguard them. Yet Toran noted one exception, the man called Phelps, who had spoken out earlier, was faking sleep. His breathing pattern indicated he was alert, despite the fact that his eyes were almost fully closed. Toran silently approved, he knew all too well rest periods were the most vulnerable time when in the field, the locals would be fools to leave themselves without some form of guard. Thankfully Space Marines were above such concerns, well almost all of them. Toran spied his two Brothers ahead, their dark blue armour settling well into the shadows of the great trees under which they stood. Brothers Persion and Daite, holding their bolters ready as their autosenses probed the darkness around them. Toran marched briskly up to them, sure that their situational awareness would remain sharp even if he was having a conversation with them, another benefit of the Astartes’ genhanced bodies. Toran pulled up beside them and said, “See anything?” Persion answered for them both, “Nothing, we’re the only ones for miles in every direction.” “Good,” Toran said, “We don’t want to tip our hand. Daite, any sign of our contact?” Daite replied, “Auspex scanner isn’t picking up anything at all.” “And are there any other indications?” Daite’s head turned a fraction of a degree as he spat, “You mean am I having a vision? No, I am not.” That was a thorny issue, the Storm Herald’s gene-flaw was strong in Daite, granting him visions at the most random of moments. Toran didn’t trust them entirely, but they had been vexingly useful at times, telling him where enemies were coming from, if an objective had been vacated by a foe or when to duck. Once he had even foreseen an airstrike incoming, saving IXth from a most unpleasant bombardment. Yet just as often they were vague and cryptic, odd pronouncements that made no sense until long after the moment had passed. Toran sighed, “Well let me know if you do and make sure to get some sleep when your watch is ended.” Now Daite did turn his head properly as he spat, “Don’t coddle me!” Toran’s eye narrowed at the outburst as he said, “Watch your tone, Initiate. I am your Sergeant, Chaplain Wrethan would have you flogged for rebuking a superior.” Daite sagged as he said, “I offer apologies Sergeant. I merely meant I am not tired, sleep is not required.” Toran lifted an eyebrow as he said, “Are you certain, you know the overuse of the Catalapsean Node triggers more frequent visions.” Daite replied through gritted teeth, “I am aware of my condition, I can manage it. I am a Space Marine, I will not suffer to be treated as less than my kin.” Persion sounded bemused as he said, “You sound like you resent your gifts.” “Gift?” Daite snorted, “The Masters call them that, messages from the Divine Emperor High Chaplain Samect told us. I call them a curse, always being on tenterhooks waiting for unbidden visions to come. Always being watched by my Brothers in case I fall behind… they see me as weak.” Toran was surprised to hear him speak so and said, “Surely you do not think IXth Squad treats you as an invalid. I’ve seen you rip an Ork’s arm off and beat it to death with it.” Daite sighed, “No, you try to include me, but I know you watch me. It was the same in the scout-novices, everybody treating me like a grenade with its pin pulled. Wondering if I will freeze up in battle, I thank the throne it has never happened but all know it could.” Persion sniffed, “Same the visions are so useful, else the Chapter would have sought to eradicate them from our gene-stocks long ago.” Toran concurred, “Was not our First High Chaplain Charael a Visionary, the first one documented in our order. His visions led to the unmasking of a great Heresy in Battlefleet Karyl.” Daite muttered, “I sometimes wish he had not, such history I could well do without. Maybe I wouldn’t have to suffer such visions without that.” Toran eyed him and said, “Don’t you start talking like Halis, I can’t have two of you in the squad.” Lightly Persion quipped, “Halis loves being a misery, it’s his favourite pastime. Sometimes I think he and Novak are competing to see who can have the loosest tongue. They are in more trouble with the Chaplains than anyone.” Daite retorted, “You can’t talk, how many times has Chaplain Wrethan slapped you down for probing vox-feeds you shouldn’t? I've never seen a communication specialist with such a lax attitude to comms protocols.” Persion lifted a hand from his bolter’s stock and waved it dismissively as he said, “What I don’t know could kill me, so I make sure to know everything. I know what I’m doing, I never do anything warranting more than a slap on the wrist.” “You mean you don’t get caught,” Toran snorted, “With an attitude like that you’ll never make it out of the Reserve Companies, let alone earn a Sergeant’s rank.” Persion’s tone fell as he spat, “I’m a Trux-born, I’ll never make high-rank. The Chapter thinks only native Lujanites are fit for command.” Toran was surprised at the unfamiliar tone of rancour in his voice and was about to press him further but at that moment Daite’s auspex chimed. All eyes turned to it as the warrior lifted the tiny device and pointed it upwards, waving it back and forth. The chimes grew louder and faster as the second passed then Daite held it still and proclaimed, “Incoming gunship, coming right at us on an orbital descent track. It will be here in two minutes.” Toran felt a sharp surge of excitement as he turned and yelled, "Alert Brothers, stand ready and awaken the mortals. Look lively, an Inquisitor is coming." Finis Fide Chapter 4 In the forest the Storm Heralds stood looking up into the sky, searching for the first sign of their contact. The morning sun had risen above the clearing and was growing brighter by the second, yet Toran's eyes were troubled not. His organic eye was able to filter such intensity and his Augmetic one was scanning frequencies beyond normal human vision. He was certain they would see the craft before it got much closer and he eagerly anticipated the coming encounter. There was a stir from behind them and he heard the mortals waking up but he ignored them, this meeting was essential for his Chapter's future and the mortals were irrelevant. Suddenly Novak announced, "There it is." Sure enough a tiny mote had appeared in the sky, an angular shape that was closing rapidly. Toran focused upon it and saw a black box of a hull, still glowing with the heat of re-entry. It was bracketed by a pair of down swept wings with vector thrusters set along the edges and behind was a long tail while on top was a boxy turret. The craft was covered in glimmering psychic wards and stealth baffles, making undetectable by auspex or psionic probes. Toran blinked in surprise as he recognised a Stormraven gunship, a smaller and more agile cousin to the venerable Thunderhawk. The design was radically new in the Imperium, rediscovered only a thousand years earlier and was slowly making its way into the armouries of the Imperial most elite forces. The Storm Heralds themselves could only field a handful of such craft, deeming the few hundred years of field testing they had done too short a period for proper certification. The Stormraven dropped like a stone, diving for the planet's surface before it could be noticed by hostile parties. Lower it came until it seemed it must surely crash but at the last second it pulled up, flaring down drafting arresting its momentum to non-lethal levels. The wash of heat smacked Toran in the face, singeing his cheeks with hot exhaust but he didn't even sway in the blast. Such manoeuvres were timid by his standards, the Stormraven was straining at no more than three or four gravities deceleration, a sure sign the inhabitants were only mortal. By comparison the Storm Herald's Transhuman pilots typically thought nothing of pulling ten or twelve G's on a routine manoeuvre. As the pilot cadre was fond of saying, if their throttles weren't jammed firmly into the red notches there wasn't any point in taking off. The howling wind filled the clearing as the Stormraven touched down, then abruptly cut out as its engines died. Toran stood firmly as the leaves fell on him like rain and he noted that the gunship had a servitor pilot and gunner. Hardly a surprise for the cybernetic slaves of the Imperium were universal, forged out of condemned criminals and vat-grown flesh they were used by every Imperial Adepta. The lobotomised cyborg-slaves could handle routine manoeuvres but he wouldn't like to fly with one in combat. From behind came a startled yelp as the mortals were rudely awoken and Kalos cried, “What’s going on?!” Toran didn’t turn as he barked, “Stay back and stay silent, this does not concern you. We are handling this.” Toran returned his attention to the steaming craft, waiting for Canesh to emerge but as they waited Novak muttered over the vox, "This is the first time I have met an Inquisitor, I'd wager she'll be a mighty warrior. Marching down that ramp in mighty Terminator plate, with arcane weapons held in her hands." Persion snorted back, "Terminator? You dream fool. No mortal can wear Tactical Dreadnought plate." Yet Daite retorted, "Actually they can, it just requires extensive cybernetic enhancement." Ophelian butted in, "You are all wrong, I say she will be a wizened crone, kept alive by profane arts and black magic. What about you Halis?" Halis hissed, "I think her appearance won't matter, she will be a cunning viper, treacherous and deceitful. She will test us, probing for Heresy at every juncture, trying to provoke us into incriminating ourselves." Novak gasped, "You think she suspects us of Heresy?!" Halis snorted, "Inquisitors suspect everybody of Heresy, it is their nature. The Storm Heralds are already in dangerous waters, so watch every word you say." Finally Furion stepped in to say, "Cease your idle chatter, here she comes." The vox fell silent as Inquisitor Canesh appeared and Toran was surprised at how normal she looked. Canesh appeared to be no more than a mortal woman, of indeterminate age and origin. Her face was pale and sallow, signs of repeated rejuvenant treatments betraying that her ageing body had required her youth be replenished. Her hair was grey and bound up in a tight bun and her eyes were cold and calculating. She wore a suit of grey power armour, appearing thin and narrow in comparison to the Space Marine's broad plate. Her hip bore a magnificent long-sword with odd hexgrammatic runes on the blade and at her belt were strange artefacts, yellowing scrolls sealed with red wax and three nondescript grenades of a type Toran didn't recognise. The only flash of colour on her person was a red rosette of office, an Inquisitorial 'I' fixed with a red skull in the centre. Canesh trooped down the ramp and faced them and Toran realised she was waiting for him to speak first. The Sergeant stepped forward and made the sign of the Aquila, always a safe practice when one was uncertain of protocol and uttered, "Hail Inquisitor, I am Sergeant Toran of IXth squad and I..." Canesh interrupted him to bark, "One squad... that's it?" Toran was irked by her prim and condescending tone and he replied sternly, "One squad is more than enough for this mission." Canesh merely snorted, "Typical Astartes arrogance, I am not impressed by such behaviour. If you think such displays will turn aside the Inquisition's ire from your misbegotten Chapter you are sadly mistaken." Toran realised she was testing him and so did not react to the goading, instead saying, "Chapter Master Gorgall has ordered us to support your mission, we are prepared to serve the Emperor's cause." Ophelian snorted over a closed link and whispered, "Frakking politics: Gorgall thinks he can patch up diplomatic relations with goodwill mission like this and she only needs us because the Deathwatch are too busy fighting Genestealers." Canesh's eyes darted to Ophelian, it was the slightest movement, not visible to mortal eyes but Toran saw it and realised the Inquisitor had penetrated their Machine Spirit's comms protocols. It was the smallest tell, but Toran was surprised an Inquisitor would give even that away... then he wondered if maybe she wanted them to know the Inquisition was watching them. Games within games, every word a needle exploring their psyche. He had only just met this woman and already his head hurt trying to follow her intrigues. Toran drew in a breath and said, "We arrived via covert drop pod insertion fifteen days ago and began stealth reconnaissance. The Psybrid menace is as pervasive as we anticipated, they own the cities and the logging communities. Only the deepest forests are outside their control. A full-scale invasion will be required to drive them from this world. Is the liberation force ready?" Canesh stared at them for long moments then conceded, "Ten Guard regiments, support ships and two Navy Cruisers are in position and awaiting our signal. The fleet is holding beyond this planet's moons, they await safe passage to the ground. They will not proceed until we have neutralised the enemy's primary defence. It would be suicide to attack the Psybrids until that danger has been eliminated." Toran nodded in agreement, "The Storm Heralds are ready for the battle and towards that end we have secured local guides" Canesh raised a prim eyebrow and queried, "Native survivors, living under the miasma of the Psybrid Xenos? That is... unexpected." Toran nodded to show agreement, "Our orbital scans are incomplete and our last charts are decades out of date. These men can lead us to their base camp and once there we can update our maps, before planning how to reach our objective." Canesh drew herself up to her full height, but still barely came up to Toran's chest, she pronounced, "I am in command of this mission, Sergeant, I shall meet these natives and judge them for myself before we go anywhere." Finis Fide Chapter 5 The sun was a blazing orb in a cloudless sky but under the treetop canopy it was cool and shadowy. Through that twilight world a group of men marched. Taking point were the native guides led by Kalos and behind came IXth squad and Inquisitor Canesh. It had taken three days of marching to reach the native’s camp, a distance the Space Marines could have covered in a few hours but their companions were only mortal. The natives scanned for dangers as they walked, as did Canesh, but their efforts were redundant, the Space Marines would sense any threats long before the mortals could hope to detect it. Toran had kept a sharp eye on the Inquisitor but learned little of her. She had been quiet and withdrawn, saying little but watching everything in turn. Toran would have been content to focus solely upon the mission but this woman was not only here to liberate an occupied planet, she was also judging the Storm Heralds. Toran couldn’t tell if her silence boded for good or ill, but he suspected she was leaning towards the latter. For hours a change had been coming over them as they walked. Through gaps in the canopy could be seen a line of grey cliff faces, rising from the forest like an iceberg. The guides were growing more animated, talking among themselves and from their conversation they were nearing their goal. Suddenly Daite held up a clenched fist, the squad paused and raised their combi-meltas as Daite examined his auspex and said, "Intruders ahead, multiple life-forms, coming straight towards us." Kalos turned his back and called "Don’t worry we were expecting this, it is just Nattius' patrol coming to meet us." Inquisitor Canesh gave him a stern look and said, "You have had no opportunity to transmit our arrival and they certainly did not signal you... How did you know who is coming?" Kalos shrugged dismissively, "We grew up in these woods, you develop a knack for these things." Toran scanned ahead and his augemtic eye easily picked out a half dozen figures creeping closer, trying to be stealthy. He held still, making no aggressive movements until they were close enough to see the party. Kalos stepped forwards and met a dishevelled man at the head of the new group and they shook hands with broad grins. The newcomers eyed the giant Space Marines with a mix of awe and suspicion. They engaged in a swift conversation in their lyrical dialect, some form of pigeon low-Gothic, pointing and gesturing while they talked. No doubt they thought their local tongue would be impenetrable to outsiders but Toran's enhanced mind effortlessly deconstructed their language and within only a few sentences understood every word they said. Nothing he heard concerned him, just arguments about protocol and whether they should let outsiders into the camp but in a few minutes they relented and waved the group past. Toran scanned the woods and soon saw a line of wooden pillars stuck into the ground, a rough palisade set against the base of the cliff. It was enough to deter animals, but would offer no resistance to a determined and well-armed enemy. In his first glance he identified a dozen weak spots and obstructed lines of sight in the defence and his estimation of the locals fell at their sloppy defence. He estimated the Storm Heralds wouldn't even need to use their weapons to breach this palisade; their gauntlets alone could tear it apart. The party walked through a gate unopposed and Toran saw rows of timber shanties, covered in lichen and ivy that must have taken years to grow up. People wandered to and fro seemingly oblivious to the newcomers and the sound of children playing rang out at random. The smells of cooking mixed with washing and rudimentary forges while rough clothing dripped on washing lines. Knots of people stood around talking and gossiping and there was the scent of alcohol fermenting on the wind. The town had a busy energy to it that spoke of a simple life lived to the fullest and a people who weren’t afraid of the danger that loomed all around. Was it confidence or naivety, Toran couldn’t tell. One side of the camp was pressed up against the bare cliff face, into which were sunk old mine shafts, cordoned off and clearly long out of use. Kalos looked around the little township and said, "Here it is, base camp. All that’s left of Odiosis, one old mining town that dug for Radium." Toran frowned as he asked, "Radium?" Kalos nodded and said "I’m not surprised you have never heard of it, it’s really rare stuff. As far as I know this is the only mine in the Sector, the Tech-Priests were once willing to pay a Governor's ransom for an ounce of the stuff. Sky-Emperor alone knows what they wanted it for." Daite butted in to say, "The Auspex is detecting low level energy traces, the machine Spirit is troubled. Are you aware this ore is leaking Rad-energy?" Kalos scratched his neck as he said, "We know it’s pretty nasty stuff. The first generation of miners lived short painful lives, they said every year in the mines took five off a man's life. Still the credits were just too damned good; many thought a couple of years down below was worth it for a comfortable retirement. Thank the Sky-Emperor after a few generations the people of the town above built up a tolerance, now we barely notice it: in fact it was our salvation." Canesh gave him a sharp look of judgement but Kalos held up his hands and said, "All I meant was it messes up the Psybrids' mind-control, that’s why we all carry pieces of it with us to ward them off. Double bonus, it also blocks scans so they haven't just levelled the town from the air." "And from here you strike back?" asked Toran. "Well… that's what we tell ourselves," said Kalos sadly, "Truth be told we have never manged to do more than harass a few convoys and raid isolated outposts for supplies. We’ve never really been more than a nuisance to the Xenos, I suspect that's why they've never launched a mass ground offensive to wipe us out." As they walked they saw a gaggle of elderly figures heading their way, Kalos swallowed and said, "Oh this look bad... perhaps you better wait here and I will sort this out." The party ground to a halt while Kalos ran ahead and intercepted the coming delegation. A fierce debate quickly sprang up with lots of raised voices on all sides and furious gesturing. Toran effortlessly followed the back and forth as arguments were put forth and objections were raised, meanwhile passing people were pausing in their routines to look at the gigantic Space Marines. Grown men either stood slack jawed or clenched their fists at the sight, while a gang of young boys huddled together, daring each other to try and touch the Astartes’ sacred armour. A low-growl from Jediah was enough to break their courage and send them running crying for their mothers as he muttered, “Pathetic weaklings, I could take this town apart single-handed.” “Stay your wrath,” Furion countered, “Save your righteous anger for the Xenos.” Ignoring the crowds Toran remarked, "Strange, that delegation formed fast, it is almost like they knew we were coming." "Indeed," growled Canesh glaring at the gathering crowds who were completely ignoring her Inquisitorial emblems to gawp at the Astartes, a situation she was not accustomed to at all. After a few minutes Kalos walked back to them with a grim face and said, "Well it’s not good news but not bad either, the community is divided on whether to help you or not." Canesh replied scornfully, "I shall speak to your commanding officer; he must provide me with your full force of fighting men." Yet Kalos snorted, "It doesn't work like that, we are a community, not an army. There’s no commander here, only folk, our patrols and raids form from volunteers. Give me a couple of hours to talk to people and we will see if we can bring folk around." Canesh drew herself up archly and said "I am a holy agent of the Ordo Xenos, I have the right and authority to command your obedience." Behind her Phelps snorted and said, "I would like to see you try." Kalos gave him a stern glare that shut him up and replied, "I never said we’d refuse to help you, but we have been isolated for a long time, the Inquisition and the Imperium are just names to us now. We all want Odiosis liberated, but impressive as you fellows are there's only eight of you, many here don't think you can do it." Toran knew he would treasure the memory of the expression on Canesh's face at her skills being dismissed so, as Kalos continued, "Trust is in short supply with us, we just need a little time is all." Canesh expression grew furious but before she could say anything damning Toran cut in and said, "Trust is earned. What is needed is a practical demonstration of our power, to prove our worth." IXth squad hefted their weapons as Toran declared, "Select a target and you shall see the power of the Emperors Finest for yourselves." Finis Fide Chapter 6 The target was a logging camp at the very edge of the forest, surrounded by crowds of emancipated, mindless slaves. The masses worked at the forest, felling trees and stripping them with crude tools. Old and young, some in sack cloths, some in the rags of former riches but their slack faces held no more resentment or bitterness than a servitor’s would. In the centre of the activity sat a small logging station, blunt and blocky as only Imperial architecture could be with a metal tower supporting its vox antenna. The station buzzed with noise as the slaves dragged fallen boughs into its gaping hanger and processed the material for their Xeno overseers. This was not sustainable logging, this was the most brutal and ruthless strip mining of the world’s resources, taking every last morsel of worth and leaving only barren wasteland behind. It was almost Imperial in its efficiency. From the forest Sergeant Toran observed the lines of drudging slaves, watching their movements and noting patterns and weaknesses. Alongside him stood Halis who held one of the precious Combi-Meltas and Daite who had his bolter ready. With them stood Jediah who was obsessively sharpening his combat blade over and over. On the far side of the station, Furion, Persion, Ophelian, and Novak were ready to attack and accompanying them was Canesh, who was a most unwelcome addition. Toran would have preferred to make the strike force entirely out of his own squad but Canesh had decided to come and one does not turn an Inquisitor aside from their path once chosen. The plan was taken from the Codex Astartes and was elegant in its simplicity; a few platoons of the natives were preparing to launch a diversionary assault from the north, to create as big a distraction as possible. Their Las-locks and crude mortars would easily dispatch the slaves but the Psybrids were a different matter. Once the Xenos emerged from the logging station to deal with the attack the natives would fall back and withdraw, drawing the aliens out. The instant the Psybrids were exposed IXth squad would attack, Toran's group engaging them directly while the other combat squad demolished the vox tower to cut the station off from reinforcements. Satisfied all was ready Toran turned about but forgot what he was about to say as his eyes landed upon Daite The Marines’ hands were shaking and his head twitched. Toran could not see his eyes under his helm but knew they would be rolled back showing only white, for he was having a vision. Toran gritted his teeth for this was a liability they could ill afford right now. He stepped up and held Daite still whilst cursing the dogma that tolerated such aberrations in the Chapter. It was only a blessing that such visions never occurred during combat, in which case losing Daite to the enemy was probably the best possible outcome. He could only hope Daite would produce something useful this time, instead of cryptic puzzles. For ten long seconds Daite quivered then fell still, breathing hard and finally his head slumped. Toran waited a few seconds for his squadmate to recover then asked "What did you see?" "Betrayal," whispered Daite, "Betrayal in the ruins and ashes." Halis snorted, "That's hardly a revelation, there is an Inquisitor with us... It would be more shocking if she wasn't planning a betrayal." Daite shook his head as his voice became firmer and said "The betrayal will not be hers but ours." Experience told Toran that he would get nothing else useful from Daite but at least the Initiates’ mind was clear now and he said, "Daite once this attack is over I want you to sleep, a full cycle of four hours rest." Daite sharply looked up but before he could protest an explosion rang out across the fields, it was a series of mortar bombs going off, throwing slaves aside in ragged heaps. Smoke and fire spread liberally, covering the fields in billowing ash then from the north came a gaggle of native warriors, advancing in staggered pairs with their las-locks blazing. The mindless slaves reacted instantly, dropping their tools and surging forwards in a wave of hissing bodies. The natives held firm, laying down waves of las fire as mortar bombs sailed overhead mowing the foes down in droves. The natives' fire was relentless but there were hundreds of mindless slaves closing upon them, charging heedless of loss or danger and seeking to drown the militia in bodies. The natives met them with hacks and stabs from their bayonets but could not keep the masses at bay and were forced back step by step. They disappeared into the treeline followed by hordes of hissing, clawing slaves. The fields quickly cleared of bodies but these were just the first wave, a large hanger door opened in the station and from it came a cloud of billowing green mist. Amongst the fogs were strange inhuman figures, the Psybrids had come at last, confident of victory. From the treeline Toran watched their advance but he held firm, waiting for the signal to attack. When the Xeno were about half way to the battlesite a booming roar rang over the station and a ball of fire rose from the far side. With majestic slowness the vox tower began to topple over, its inevitable fall declaring Toran’s brothers had succeeded. Toran raised his chainsword and shouted, “For Terra: Charge!” Instantly they ran forwards, angling to intercept the Psybrids before they could realise they were under attack. Toran aimed his bolt pistol and let off a volley but the rounds disappeared into the thick mist and he could not tell if he had hit anything so he raised his chainsword instead and dived into the fog. The world shrank into a luminous green bowl and even his autosenses struggled to see more than a few feet. All was dimness and vague swirling lights, then from the fog came a Psybrid with claws raised. Toran laid eyes upon the Xenos for the first time and saw it was a hairless humanoid with large eyes and a toothless lamprey mouth, yet its arms were multiple whipping tendrils with metallic claws for hands. The mists billowed about its body but did not emanate from it but rather seemed to be a part of its anatomy, almost like the mist was the Xeno and the body just a frame for it to cling to. Toran greeted it with a swipe of his chainsword but he felt a curious dragging sensation. His chainsword dragged through the mists like a stick through mud and even his genhanced strength made little difference. While he was slowed long shimmering claws swiped at his face but he battered them aside with one fist, he gripped his Chainsword tighter gunning the motor. Roaring chainteeth chewed through the preternatural mist and where brute strength had failed the sawing blades cut through. Finally he contacted Xenos flesh and Toran roared and pulled his sword free in a shower of green gore, leaving the two halves of the Psybrid to fall to the ground. Immediately he launched himself at a blurry knot of Psybrids, relying on his roaring Chainsword to cut through both macabre mist and Xeno bodies. Whipping claws tore at his plate, leaving deep furrows in its sacred colours but Toran was not daunted. He hacked and slashed at the creatures, smiting Xenos down with every blow, he felt rage and loathing flow through him setting a fire in his limbs and empowering his blows. Toran roared “The Xenos are but flesh and blood, kill them all, no mercy for the alien!” His brothers heard his battlecry and redoubled their efforts, smashing the Psybrids down as they shouted, “No mercy!” Toran saw Jediah tackle a thrashing body to the ground, he had lost his helm somewhere in the fray and as he slid his combat blade up through an elongated jaw his eyes lit up. Those moments when the blade slid home were moments the savage warrior lived for and his enjoyment of the kill was evident. Meanwhile Halis sidestepping a Psybrids' attack then kicked out and knocked it back with sheer force. With a moment of respite he brought up his combi-melta and unleashed a stream of fusion fire. The foul mist sizzled as it was boiled away but it could not drown out the inhuman screams of the Xeno as its flesh liquefied into a disgusting pile of offal. Elsewhere Daite was parrying a frenzied Psybrid with his combat blade, falling back step by step before the onslaught of whipping tendrils. He was overmatched by the multiple claws whipping before his face but Toran saw his distress and stepped up to bring his chainsword down hard on its back. The blades cut through its pallid flesh and tore it open letting its entrails drop to the ground and with that the area was clear. With the last Psybrid dead the mist began to dissipate letting Toran take stock, the field was clear of threats but from beyond the complex he could still hear the sounds of more fighting. Immediately he waved his combat squad forwards and they raced around the station and dove into more mists. As they rounded a corner of the blocky station they found their brothers locked in combat with more whipping and lashing Xenos. Without pause they leapt into the fray but Toran saw Inquisitor Canesh beset by three Psybrids, fending them off with her energised blade. She was fighting well for a mortal, using her longsword with great skill and elan but she was outnumbered and clearly could not last much longer. Toran charged forwards to intervene but before he could strike Canesh grabbed one of the strange devices from her belt and threw it at the ground. The canister burst, releasing a choking cloud of black particles that shimmered and drifted in ways that had nothing to do with the wind or the light. Toran felt absolutely nothing from the black dust but the mist rolled back like a feral animal from fire and the effect on the Psybrids could not have been more extreme. The Xenos wailed and screamed at the merest touch of the black particles, tearing at their own heads and cutting into the pallid flesh as they frothed and fell to the ground. They lay there, frothing at the mouth and shrieking like they had been set on fire while the humans were totally unimpeded. Before Toran could grasp what was happening Inquisitor Canesh stepped forwards and with three sure strokes she beheaded them one by one. Toran reached her side and looked about in confusion as he inquired "What was that?" Canesh gestured to her belt where two more canisters were attached and replied, "Psyk-out grenade, very powerful and beyond rare." Toran had never heard of such a thing, but then the Inquisition had access to all manner of strange lore and forbidden artefacts. He turned away and saw the rest of IXth squad cutting down the last Xenos, the Marines were covered in green blood and their armour was scored but none of them had fallen. The station fell silent at last, the day was theirs. IXth squad took two minutes to sweep the station looking for stragglers but they found nothing, the alien fiends had been eliminated. Confident of their victory they headed back to the militia, who were re-emerging from the treeline. The mortal men looked in wonder at the piles of dead Xenos corpses and whispered among themselves in amazement, never had they seen the Psybrids bested so completely. The natives gathered round the approaching Space Marines, cheering at their first major victory. Toran paused among the cheering mortals and declared, “The day is ours, the liberation of Odiosis has begun!” From the crowd Kalos stepped forwards and said “We’ve never seen a fight like that, the Psybrids never stood a chance.” Toran bowed his head as he said, “This was but the first step, much more hard work awaits us.” Kalos did not seem dismayed as he replied confidently, “After this you can have whatever help you want. Tell us what you need, we are with you now.” Finis Fide Chapter 7 In the native’s camp large crowds gathered in the largest hut to hear the Imperials plan. It was a dilapidated shack with flickering lumen orbs but it was the only space big enough to fit all the community leaders. Toran stood at the front, his presence dominating a room filled with dozens of men. At the back of the room stood Halis Paur with his arms crossed, he was not saying anything but Toran knew that his cynical and cunning mind would pick up subtle clues he himself would miss. The men sat on crude stools listening to the briefing but Toran was not giving it, that honour fell to Inquisitor Canesh who was laying out the plan to assault the Capital City on a flickering two-dimensional schematic projected on the wall by a groaning pict-caster. The lack of a working three-dimensional Hololith spoke volumes as to the primitive nature of their abode and the lack of shrines, votive candles and chanting was profoundly wrong. Toran had been most disturbed by the way the locals had merely switched the device on without offering Catechism of appeasement or anointing it with sacred unguents. He was certain his Chapter’s Techmarines would be horrified by such lack of respect for the Machine Spirts, technology was a dark dangerous path to follow and it was not for men to understand the ways of the Machine God. Respect and adoration were fundamental to any interaction with Imperial technology, after all a breastplate lovingly tended to and maintained may well reward such devotion by saving its bearer’s life. Canesh continued laying out the strategy, the plan was Toran's but the Inquisitor had been insistent that she present it. That seemed a banal and petty point to the Space Marine, but Chapter Master Gorgall had impressed upon him the need to build good relations within the Inquisition. His Chapter was suffering the ire of the Inquisition for their proselyting ways and with the Badab War still in living memory the Imperium had little patience for wayward Astartes, so Halis had advised to let Canesh have her moment. Meticulously Canesh laid out various districts in the Capital city, highlighting important targets for the native militia to assault as she said, "These targets are individually important, but the larger goal is to create confusion and misdirection. The Xenos must believe this is the main assault and commit their forces into the city." From the back of the room a voice rang out, it was Phelps and he sounded scornful as he scoffed, "And while we are bleeding in the city where will you be?" Canesh put an armoured finger on a great bastion right in the heart of the city and said, "The old Governors Palace, the centre of the Xeno infestation. It is the key to the whole operation. As we speak an Imperial liberation force is waiting to launch their offensive, but they cannot approach this planet as long as the orbital defences remain operational. So while you draw the Xenos out the Space Marines and I will take a small team of your best men to infiltrate the Palace to destroy their control of the defences." There was much consternation to this announcement, men grumbling and anxious at the thought of more off-worlders coming but Kalos raised his voice and cut through it all saying, "Why don't they just land beyond the range of the guns and march on the city?" Toran answered, "A drawn out ground campaign is exactly what we are trying to avoid. The whole point of our mission is to ensure the Guard can land in the very heart of the infestation and burn them out swiftly. We shall liberate Odoisis in a single day." Many men looked reassured by this but few still scowled fiercely and Phelps spoke for them all, "More Off-worlders? We don't need their sort, we can do this ourselves." Kalos however turned around and spat, "This is the day we been waiting decades for, now you cowards protest?" Phelps grumbled, "If they save Odoisis this will be their world not ours. We won’t be any better off." Toran bristled at that but Kalos rebuked, "This is an Imperial World and we have faith in the Sky-Emperor and his warriors. Anyone who disagrees can explain that to me outside." The protest died for Kalos was a well-known and respected leader in the community and his words settled the men down. Meanwhile Canesh had been watching the whole exchange with keen interest and Toran had no doubt that she had marked out every single man who had grumbled. She cleared her throat and turned back to the map saying, "The orbital guns are governed by Primary and Secondary Logic Engines here and here, they are on different levels and must be eliminated simultaneously to cripple the defences." "Why not just blow up the main genatorium?" asked Kalos. Canesh glared disapprovingly and hissed, "Our objective is to recapture the Capital City, not level the whole place." Phelps scoffed, "And how exactly will you get in?" "The Palace has a strategic weakness," replied Canesh, "It was built too far from a water source, so they installed an Aquifer. It runs underground right into the heart of the Palace, by using that accessway we can catch them unawares." That statement provoked a lot of shocked whispering in the crowd but it was Kalos who leapt to his feet and said, "That is not going to work! Right after the invasion we had an engineer here who had once worked in the Palace and he had the same idea. We sent fifty men up that Aquifer, but the Psybrids were expecting them. They staked the bodies on the walls to send us a message... we never tried to attack the Capital again after that." Toran was vexed by that revelation but Canesh did not seemed disturbed and merely said, "Well what would you suggest?" Kalos looked around and several men gave him encouraging nods so he slowly said, "Well... there was one other idea we had, but never dared to try. You see the Palace's sewer network was deliberately isolated from the city's but to cut costs they never bothered to reinforce the walls. There’s a couple of places where the two systems come within six paces of each other. You lads could break through that with ease and enter the Palace from underneath." Canesh mused, "I will take that under advisement. Now, when we do breach the Space Marines will assault the Logic engines while I and my strike team head for the Highest Levels." Kalos looked confused by that and queried, “Is there another objective that we are unaware of?" Canesh betrayed a thin smile and said, "You have spent decades lurking on the fringes so I am not surprised that you are unaware that the Psybrids operate under the leadership of a single creature: A Gestalt being. It is the lynchpin of their mind-control abilities and as long as it exists we cannot dare land more troops, they would be instantly turned to the enemy's cause. It is a dire threat to the minds of every human in the fleet, few indeed are immune to its effects." From the back of the crowd Halis snorted, “It doesn’t seem to be affecting you." Canesh didn't even bother to look at him as she said, "I am an Inquisitor, my mind is proof against such witchery. That is why I came alone." Toran wasn’t satisfied with this plan and protested, "My Chapter has fought the Psybrids on other worlds and our records describe the Gestalt as a most ferocious enemy. One such beast took the life of Chapter Master Turgo seven centuries ago and it fell to his Honour Guards to avenge him. Only Astartes can expect to face this beast and triumph: you will need our aid to finish it." "No Sergeant," said Canesh firmly, "Your Chapter's misguided efforts have cost the Imperium before, I have doubts whether your will is strong enough to fend off its power at such proximity." "Yet you will trust these mortals in our place?" asked Halis pointedly. Canesh looked at the men around her and said, "I have my reasons..." Toran tried to say more but Canesh cut him off saying, "The decision is mine and I have given my orders. I don’t need your help." Toran wanted to protest but before he could speak Halis cut in over a closed Vox and said "She is goading you, this entire performance is purely to test how you react.” Toran realised he was right and that the Inquisitor's pettiness was all a performance. Games within games, plots within plots, this Inquisitor had a mind of wheels and traps. For a split second Toran wondered if Canesh had ever shown him her true face, but he gave no hint of this as he made the sign of the Aquila to show his compliance. Canesh smiled slyly and Toran realised she was telling him that she had heard every word, then she turned back to the crowd and began laying out the specifics of their targets. Toran was left to fret, deeply worried that this plan would see the mission fail. Finis Fide Chapter 8 The base camp was filled with an eager air of excitement, evident on every face and in every gesture. Men ran to and fro, collecting weapons and gear, Las-locks were primed and mortars prepared in great numbers. Women bustled about, delivering food and parcels of medical herbs. Many of them knew their sons, brothers and husbands would not be coming back but the fierce pride they felt stopped their lips from protesting. Children ran underfoot, trying to sneak into the preparations but they were frilly shooed away. The people of Odosis were simple folk; they expected the menfolk to give battle and their families to nurse whatever parts of them came back from the fighting. Still the natives were not cowed by the chance of death for never had they known such hope before, never had they seen the prospect of their salvation become so close to reality. One soul among the crowd was not so elated, one man who leaned against a wall and glowered at the preparations. He was Phelps and he was not happy. He looked upon the happy faces of his kin and took them for fools, rash impetuous fools who would not be coming back from this attack. Phelps was old by the local’s reckoning, having long since said goodbye to the last colour in his hair and beard. He had survived this long by being cunning, avoiding danger where possible while younger and more stupid fools had charged into the fray and been blown to bits. Phelps only volunteered for the occasional patrol or minor raid because it was expected of him, in this community a man who couldn’t pull his weight couldn’t expect any help when the cold nights of winter rolled in. The bonds of the community were tighter, tighter than any outsider could know and a man who put himself outside them was as good as dead. Phelps sulking was interrupted as he sensed the young boy Zander, who breathlessly ran up to him and exclaimed, “Phelps, you have to come and see this. The big Space Marine, he’s showing us how to make bombs. All that old mining gear we’ve had lying around, he says we can make weapons out of it.” Phelps sneered at that, “What’s the point?” Zander frowned in confusion as he said, “You’re gloomier than ever. What’s wrong with you?” Phelps waved a hand over the crowd and growled, “These idiots think they’re marching towards the liberation of Odoisis, but they don’t know what horrors are waiting for them.” Zander shook his head and said, “Surely not, we’re going to win. Don’t you think so?” Phelps sucked in a phlegmy breath and then spat a gobbet onto the ground as he sneered, “What I think is that we’ve survived this long by not stirring up too much trouble. The Psybrids leave us alone out here because we’re nothing to them, too much effort to exterminate. But if we attack them directly they’ll not be content to sit back anymore, they’ll wipe us out for good.” Zander looked dismayed by the proclamation and retorted, “It won’t be like that, the Space Marine will drive them off. You’ll see, we’re going to win!” Phelps snorted, “And if we do… What then? The Imperium comes back and we go back to the days of tithes, recruitment drafts and priests barking at us night and day. You’re too young to remember life under them but I do, at least we’re free in this little corner of our world. That will be gone when this war is over.” Zander took a step back and his face screwed up as he cried, “You’re just an old fool, you don’t know anything. You’ll see, the Space Marines will save us and the Sky-Emperor will look upon this world with love.” Phelps rolled his eyes as he muttered, “Go on then, run to your saviours and see if they remember you after the shooting dies down.” Zander turned and dashed away, indignation oozing off him. Phelps could sense his youthful denial but he closed his heart to it. The idiot would learn soon enough that the galaxy only helped those who help themselves. To survive took cleverness and the willingness to look out for number one, and Phelps was determined to survive. He chewed his lip for a second then made a fateful decision. His eyes travelled the camp, checking to see if he was being watched and was relieved to see nothing out of place. He picked himself up and slowly he strolled towards the gate, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. No one stopped him, why would they, as he mooched out the camp and wandered off into the woods. Once under the shadowy canopy his manner changed, he darted behind a tree and dashed away. He scurried from cover to cover, keeping to the shadows with a skill born from a lifetime of forest scouting. Many times he froze up against a tree, convinced he could hear shuffling leaves or the distinct hum Space Marine’s armour made but each time he would find nothing behind him. For nearly an hour he did this, moving further away from the camp, deep into the glades where none would observe him. Finally he found a thick copse of trees, so tightly packed it was almost black underneath and he darted within, anxious that he remain unobserved. He was breathing hard in anxiety but he wasted no time to move to a patch of disturbed earth and dig into it with his hands. Soft loam moved aside to reveal a wooden box, which he pulled free with a shower of topsoil. He glanced about nervously then hastily flipped it open and reached inside to pull out a strange greenish device, that pulsed and throbbed like it was alive. He put his lips near to the device and whispered “It’s me, the Imperials come, you gotta be ready.” The device pulsed for a few moments then a tangled snarl leaked out it, a mangled churn of syllables that could come from no human mouth. Phelps screwed up his face as he sorted the noise in his head then answered, “No listen to me, they bring Space Marines. You hear me, Space Marine. They will attack the Governors Palace through the old sewer network. Did you get that the sewers, you gotta guard the sewers.” A tangled snarl leaked from the device but Phelps, spat, “Don’t give me that, I’ve given you good intel over the years. I’m too valuable too let go. Take out the Space Marines and drive back the attack, but let those who run flee to safety. That’s the deal right, I keep you in the loop if anything big comes and you let us get away with a few small raids. We’re no danger to you, it’s the Imperials you want.” The device hissed once, then went dim and inert. Phelps reached out for the box but at the last second he changed his mind. He grabbed the device with both hands and shoved it under his cloak, then he looked about guiltily. He turned on his heel and ran off muttering to himself, “Nobody understands, I’m the one whose kept everyone safe for years. All those fools running about stirring up trouble, where would they be without me. The aliens promised to leave us alone if we just kept an eye out for them. Imperials, they're just as bad as the Xenos, we won’t be slaves to anyone ever again.” Phelps disappeared, leaving behind silence and darkness. The copse was deserted and nothing disturbed the stillness, nothing mortal at least. With infinite care a shape moved out of the shadow of a tree, so still it had passed inspection in the twilight gloom. Arms and legs became visible and a persistent humming built up as power cells fed energy to awakening fibre motive bundles. Very slowly Halis Paur turned his head and watched the distant shape of Phelps retreating as he whispered, “I knew it.” A heartbeat later a second silhouette emerged, Brother Jediah who growled, “You were right about him, a weak link if ever I saw one.” Halis confirmed, “I knew there was more to this camp than meets the eye. The Xenos could have wiped this place out any time they liked, so why haven’t they?” “A spy, looking to draw out Imperial forces,” Jediah growled, “I’m going to kill him and eat his brains.” “No,” Halis replied firmly, “Let him go, I’ve got a better idea.” Finis Fide Chapter 9 The Capital city was burning, filled with the roars of explosions and the screams of men locked in ferocious combat. Hollowed out shops were filled with flames and the cavernous husks of factories rang with shooting. Homes were turned into pillboxes and street corners into battlefields. Derelict ground-cabs were used as cover and fallen billboards as barricades. One old chapel was consumed by violence, its crumbling stonework collapsing with the shock of nearby explosions. Its spire teetered over like a felled tree and its great brass bell rung one last time as it smashed to the ground, a single peal of mourning for a dead city. Teams of native warriors plunged through the dilapidated streets in staggered pairs, covering each other with their las-locks. They were met by hordes of hissing mindless slaves, running straight at them. The fighting was intense but with disciplined fire and the confidence of victory the natives pushed towards their objectives, blowing up bridges and key buildings with crude explosives. Here there gaseous mists announced the presence of Psybrids, the foul Xenos hunting for prey in the ruins and debris. The natives fell back before these, their Las-locks had always been ineffective against the aliens but now the status quo had changed. Brother Furion had applied his talent’s for demolition to the native’s armoury and come up with solutions so simple the men were embarrassed they had not thought of it themselves. Aged blasting caps for mining had been wrapped up in rags packed with nails, glass and metal shavings. A simple twist of the timer and good arm were all it took to land the improvised grenades in the Xeno’s midst. Other men carried humble clay bottles, filled with triple-distilled alcohol that spilled burning fuel everywhere, not needing to be aimed they reaped a terrible toll on the Xenos. Torn by shrapnel and their macabre mists burning in the cleansing purity of fire the Psybrids were helpless and for the first time in decades they were the ones dying. The militiamen cheered at their great victories, flushed with triumph but little did they realise that their war was nothing but a side-show. Far beneath their feet waited thousands more Psybrids, overwhelmingly greater in number than the paltry dozens they had slain. The Xeno horde waited silently in the sewer network, their lamprey mouths and lashing tendrils eager for the flesh of Space Marines. They lurked with inhuman patience, awaiting the first glimpse of their prey. They should have been looking higher instead. Many levels above their heads something strange was occurring. Deep within the Governor's Palace, that towering bastion that loomed over the city, something odd happened. In an otherwise plain and functional corridor a single section of wall was sliding back to create a six foot door in the featureless ferrocrete. Beyond that door was only darkness leading into the distance but from that blackness a massive shape was emerging. Marching into the light Sergeant Toran emerged with his bolt pistol and Chainsword raised. He looked up and down the corridor checking for threats but found none. He stepped aside and another armoured form stepped out then another and another until all of IXth squad had emerged. Following them came the native warriors. Amongst their number were Kalos and Zander, both looking nervous and behind them came Inquisitor Canesh. She marched a little too fast in her power armour and blinded by the light ran straight into Kalos, nearly knocking him over with her bulk. Of Phelps there was no sign. When Halis had told Toran of the treachery of Phelps the Sergeant’s first instinct had been to rip off the betrayer’s head. Yet Halis had talked sense into Toran and told him that by allowing the Psybrids to think they knew the attack plan it in fact created weaknesses elsewhere. An opening they could exploit. Getting Canesh to confess to knowing another route in had been problematic, but in the end she had disclosed that there was in fact a secret escape tunnel running straight into the heart of the Palace. She had been reluctant to part with the information but Toran for once had been stubborn and refused to press the attack until she revealed the data. Toran was not in the least bit surprised that the Inquisition had detailed schematics of the late Governor’s personal, private escape route. He had already determined that upon their return to their Fortress-Monastery he would beseech his Captain and the Masters of the Chapter to completely replace all their security protocols. If the Inquisition could get in here then they could get in anywhere. When everybody had emerged Toran addressed the assembled warriors saying, “Form up and move out, swift and deadly, let nothing stand between you and your targets.” The men formed ranks behind the Space Marines and marched through the deserted corridors not meeting a soul. Soon they found their first objective, a servant’s stairwell that ran through the heart of the Palace. Toran said “Furion, Jediah, Ophelian, Novak head downwards take out the first Logic Engine, Daite, Halis and Persion with me: we are going up”. He gave Canesh an encouraging nod but she only returned a stern frown, then she and the natives headed in another direction entirely, steering for a concourse that would take them straight to the governor’s old residences. Leaving them behind Toran and his combat squad ascended the stairs, coming out ten levels above into another deserted servants’ corridor. Toran was relieved to encounter no obstacles and waved them onwards and they raced through the passages. The sounds of distant battle penetrated the thick walls, the explosions and screams easily discerned even after carrying through the high towers and narrow gunports of the Palace. Toran wished he was out there fighting, but this was the real objective, the Storm Heralds were exactly where they needed to be. They were making good progress and had yet to be opposed but Halis could not resist saying, “This is too easy.” A moment later they rounded a corridor and found themselves at one end of a long bare corridor leading to a junction. Facing away from them at the junction was a pair of bulky machines, standing on bipedal legs, Psybrid Mechs standing right in their way. Persion groaned and said, “You should have kept your mouth shut.” The corridor ahead was bare and featureless and there was no way to divert around and Toran realised there were clever tactics or strategies to change the odds here, no way to outwit this foe. The Codex Astartes was cold and brutal in its assessment of this situation, there was but one way past and that was straight through. Toran raised his chainsword and shouted, “Charge Brothers! For Terra and for the memory of Roboute Guilliman!” The combat squad leapt into motion and ran straight at the Mechs, they made it half dozen paces before the Xeno pilots saw them coming and began dragging their weapons around to bear. Toran gritted his teeth and pushed himself to the limit, skill and cunning were meaningless, speed and strength were their only chance. With the strange time dilation experienced only in the rush of combat Toran could see the machines clearly; they looked like Imperial Sentinel walkers, defiled with foul Xeno technology. Their cockpits had been expanded to fit an armourglass bubble, within which macabre mists swirled around Psybrid pilots. One Mech had been fitted with a pair of Heavy bolters under the cockpit but the other held a Lascannon, a far more dangerous prospect. Toran sprinted for all he was worth, but could see the Mechs inexorably turning to meet them. The one with Heavy Bolters was tracking round fast, pointing the looming barrels directly at him. Toran twisted his shoulder around, bringing his thick pauldron up and tucking his helm into his gorget. Then the heavy bolters opened up with paired tongues of fire, hurling shells at the Space Marines at a furious rate. Toran was stopped in his tracks by the force of the impacts, large craters being blown into his pauldron but he held firm in the torrent, trusting his in ancient armour’s spirit to guard his life. He gritted his teeth, forcing one boot forwards against the power of the impacts then another and another has he inched closer. From the corner of his eye he saw the other Mech coming about to bring its Lascannon to bear and he knew a single hit from the tank-busting weapon would end his life. Still under sustained fire from the Heavy Bolters he could not evade and knew death had come for him at last, yet he knew no fear for this was a good death in the Emperor’s service. An instant before the Lascanon could fire Daite reached down to his belt and grabbed a Frag grenade, hurling it underhanded to impact against the Mech’s cockpit. The anti-personnel device could not penetrate its armourglass canopy but the shrapnel and smoke obscured its vision at the critical moment and threw off its aim. The energy blast sailed over Toran’s head and carved a pencil thin hole into the ferrocrete wall behind him, a hole that went fifty metres deep. With a cry of vengeance the Space Marines charged forth, at last coming underneath the arcs of the Heavy Weapons. The Mechs reared back trying to kick them away but now the Astartes held all the advantages. Persion drove his blade into the knee joint of the Lascannon bearing mech while Halis brought up his combi-melta. A searing blast of fusion energy bored into the metal, plasteel running like ice under a blowtorch, until the stream penetrated the cockpit and cooked the Psybrid alive. Pilotless the Mech crashed over like a toppled tree and at last lay still. Meanwhile Toran swung his chainsword and slammed it into the other Mech’s leg. Metal shrieked and razor sharp splinters flew to embed themselves in the Space Marines' ceramite plates. Toran screamed in rage and channelled his righteous hatred into the blow as the roaring Chainsword chewed through plasteel supports and metal joints. Then with a cry of triumph he tore his weapon straight through the limb and out the other side. The Mech lurched comically, looking pathetic as it tried to balance on one leg, then it inevitably toppled to the side and hit the floor hard, cracking the ferrocrete. Without hesitation Daite leapt forward pulling a Krak grenade from his belt, the Psybrid inside the machine thrashed and screamed inhumanly but was helpless to stop him as he shoved the explosive into the mechanisms. The squad jumped away as a ferocious blossom of fire rose out of the machine, showering them with debris and an inhuman shriek tore out of the Psybrid as it went to whatever hell awaits such filth. Toran hastily took stock reviewing their situation, they were battered and scored but alive. His armour was the worst hit with deep craters blasted into the ceramite, but it had held true once more and he recited the Litany of Gratitude for its honourable service. With time set against them the squad formed up and pressed onwards, the way to the Logic Engine was finally clear and they had mere minutes to reach their goal. Finis Fide Chapter 10 Through the burning and rubble strewn streets a man ran, dashing from doorway to doorway, a rag clasped to his face trying to keep the smoke at bay. He flinched at every distant explosion and sounds of shots ringing out, punctuated by inhuman shrieks as Psybrids were cut down. He was wearing muddied fatigues, splattered with blood and he had dropped his weapon long ago, abandoning anything that slowed his cowardly bid to escape. Fire lapped at his heels as he ran over the piled bodies of men, some in fatigues others in filthy rags, all locked together in death. The man paused in a blackened doorway and doubled over as he struggled for breath; then he pulled his rag away for a moment revealing the face of Phelps. Phleps looked around, barely able to grasp what he was seeing. The battle was going all wrong, it was supposed be a swift defeat but the tide had unexpectedly turned. The natives were sweeping aside all resistance and undoing decades of occupation in a day, yet of the Psybrids barely a handful had been seen. He had seen their overwhelming hordes before but today the vast majority of them were absent and without their power he knew the Kerns had no chance of victory. Yet the worst moment of all was when the rumour had gone round that the Space Marines had made into the Governor's Palace unopposed. That wasn’t right, they were supposed to have been ambushed in the sewers so Phelps had instantly realised that his treachery must have had been exposed and knew he had to make out of the city before anyone came looking for him. He knew that if he could just make it to the forests then he could disappear, living off the land until this all died down and everybody forgot about him. Ahead he saw his kin beset by mobs of hissing Kerns. These were men he had known for decades, he had eaten and fought besides them, but they were not his friends, no never friends. So he just stood and watched as they fought off wave after wave of Kerns, the emancipated bodies falling to their disciplined waves of fire from Las-locks. He saw a tight knot of mindless slaves running straight towards them, with numbers too great to whittle down but then he saw one man holding a flame to the wick of a clay bottle. The jar was thrown into the knot just before they reached the line and it smashed, dousing them in burning alcohol. Thrashing bodies went down as the flames spread over their wasted frames and the Kerns finally lay blessedly still, death freeing them from their nightmarish enslavement. One group had been defeated yet the fight was far from over, for Phelps heard the pounding clangs of a Psybrid Mech stamping nearer. The militia scattered but before they could reach safety Heavy Bolters fire came down the street and two men were blown apart as mass-reactive shells detonated inside them. The natives were blooded but not beaten, and Phelps saw from their lines three men charging forwards, roaring in defiance. The heavy bolters barked again, unleashing their power and Phelps flinched as another man was disintegrated before he could reach the machine. The noise and violence were shocking but the other two dived underneath the mech’s bulk and in their hands they held large woollen socks. Socks Phelps knew were packed with sticks of mining explosives and dipped in congealing engine grease. They paused as they slapped the sticky bombs onto the hull of the mech and then ran onwards, barely making it out of blast range before the timers went off. The mech leapt upwards on column of fire as the bombs exploded, smashing it apart and ripping the machine to shreds. One of the runners was caught by the flaming debris and fell shrieking to the ground as fires burned on his fatigues. His friend dived upon him and rolled him over and over in the dirt and mud trying to smother the flames as the wailed in agony. Watching from afar Phelps turned his back on the fight and dashed down an almost intact alleyway mumbling to himself “It’s not my fault, it’s not my fault”, as if that would make it true. He walked into the darkness between the walls muttering, “Sure I had to give up the occasional patrol, but we had to keep people from getting suspicious… Better to lose a few than be wiped out totally… I only ever gave them the fools, those who wouldn’t listen or share their beer with me… It’s those damn Imperials’ fault. Yeah they messed it up, coming here and upsetting everything… I said we didn’t need them but nobody would listen… everybody’d still be alive if they had just listened to me.” So intent was Phelps on convincing himself he was blameless that he failed to notice the gloom in the alleyway was not just darkness it was mist: green Mist. Suddenly out of the gloom rushed a sinuous figure, with enlarged eyes and a lamprey mouth. Its hairless head was pallid and clammy and instead of arms it had whipping tendrils with metal claws at the tips. Phelps yelped at the sight of the Psybrid coming straight at him and backed away rapidly before its advance. Phelps frantically beat at his fatigues, then pulled out a strange green device that pulsed and throbbed like a living thing. He held it up between himself and the alien stammering “Look… look, it’s me. I am on your side.” The Xeno looked down at the device in his hand then up again at his face. It regarded him for long seconds then its tendrils blurred. Phelps screamed in pain as its claws slashed through his guts, tearing and ripping at his insides. He fell to the ground in a pool of blood, hands grasped to his belly as he tried to keep his entrails from spilling out. He looked up in horror and disbelief as he tried to understand what had happened but the Psybrid loomed over him, jerking from side to side like a bird of prey over wounded vermin. Phelps glanced about but there was no one else present to intervene on his behalf. He looked back up at the Xeno, eyes wide with shock and spluttered, “But… but I helped you.” The Psybrid merely looked down at his slumped body, its enlarged eyes giving away no hint as to its alien thoughts. Then it opened its lamprey mouth wide and Phelps howled in horror as it pounced upon him and began to feed. Finis Fide Chapter 11 High in the Palace there was a large chamber, draughty and echoing with stained glass windows depicting the Emperor in his aspect as Omnissiah, the Martian Machine God. The marble floors were inscribed with digital formulas and in stone alcoves were holographic projections of binary psalms and the nine precepts of the Adeptus Mechanicus. This was the site of the primary Logic engine and it was soon to be the site of battle. High in the rafters above lurked four Space Marines, they clung to the plasteel beams with a grace such massive forms should not be capable of. Toran was stretched along the length of one beam; he moved his head fractionally over the side for a heartbeat then snapped back, his genhanced mind capturing every detail perfectly. He processed what he had seen for a single moment and evaluated his attack plan. The room below was dominated by a massive machine that was covered in rumbling pipes and clunky valves. It hissed steam from brass gargoyles and squealed mechanically as the machine reconfigured itself to an unknowable schedule. The Logic engine was surrounded by men in tattered red robes, they circled the device, droning sacred litanies in a monotone voice and sprinkling it with blessed unguents and reapplying faded purity seals. They were former lay-artisans of the Adeptus Mechanicus, too menial to have received many augmetics and now pressed into service by the Psybrids. Their lives had been turned into a parody of their once sacred duties. But the worst all was that on their faces were expressions of horror and despair: the Psybrids had left just enough of their minds intact to maintain the arcane Logic Engine and grasp the nightmare of their enslavement. The real threat however came from four pallid beings that encircled the room, filling the chamber with thin wisps of mist. Psybrid overseers, ensuring that the Logic Engine remained functional at all times. Toran evaluated the scenario and determined that they could take the forces below; the true danger was they might raise an alarm and summon overwhelming reinforcements. Toran looked at his squad and checked everybody was in position, then using only hand signals communicated, “Are team two ready?” Persion cocked his head to the side, listening to his expanded vox set then signed, "In position." Toran nodded then waved, "On my mark... Now!" Daite plucked a pair of frag grenades from his belt and tossed them over the side, watching them tumble to the ground below. They exploded in bursts of light and noise that would disorientate anyone within range. Yet before they had even detonated the Space Marines were in motion, dropping from the rafters and falling into battle like meteors from the heavens. Halis fell upon one Psybrid before it even knew he was there, crushing it with his weight and bulk in a heartbeat. Persion however hit the ground hard, shattering marble flagstones and irrevocably altering the digital formulas engraved upon them. A shrieking Psybrid ran towards him, tendrils whipping about its body. The Space Marine didn’t bother drawing his blade instead thundering his fist forwards with the power of a wrecking ball. The savage blow caught the Xeno in the head and driven by genhanced muscle and powered armour the force of the blow crushed its face inwards and turned its skull to jelly. Meanwhile a pair of Psybrids charged at Toran, hissing their outrage at this intrusion. The Sergeant met the first with a downwards sweep of his chainsword that bisected the first Xeno diagonally into two pieces. Unfortunately second Psybrid took the opportunity to rush forward, its tendrils whipping and thrashing, Toran turned to meet it but the Xeno moved too fast and stabbed out with a razor sharp claw. The tendril sank into one of the craters blown into his armour and punched through the weakened ceramite to cut him deeply in the side. Toran snarled not in pain but in anger as he felt the burning sensation of his genhanced physiology pouring Larraman cells into the wound, forming a clot in seconds. Enraged his free hand clasped onto the tendril penetrating his side, the Psybrid tried to pull away but could not match his strength. Toran pulled hard, dragging the Xeno towards him as he brought his chainsword up horizontally to chop off its head with one stroke. The corpse fell to the ground and gave off a noxious fume as death claimed it and its perfidious existence came to an end. The Space Marines whirled about expecting the next wave of the attack but there was nothing, the slaves simply standing about watching them without the slightest reaction to their presence. Toran watched them for a long moment, unable to grasp why they were not attacking but in the end he determined they were no threat either way. As one they turned to regard the towering bulk of the Logic Engine, its baroque mass filled with arcane devices, flickering displays and byzantine knots of gears. Halis peered into its whirring complexity and arcane mechanisms asking, "So… how exactly were you planning to disable this?" Toran snorted as he raised his bolt pistol and unloaded the full clip into the Logic Engine. The shells penetrated pipes and blew apart valves as they exploded within the baroque machinery. Antique gears ground to halt and stream erupted from the interior as a frightful shriek of broken machinery filled the room. Then something critical failed in the workings and the Logic Engine screamed to a halt, turning into a mere pile of scrap that clinked as it cooled. Halis stood bemused and remarked, "Oh… that was easy." Toran reloaded his pistol as he muttered, "That part may have been, but this part shall not." While they had been talking the slaves had just stood still, staring at the Space Marines but then together they slowly shuffled forwards, hands open and unthreatening. When the first of them reached the Marines it fell to its knees and bowed forwards, exposing the back of its neck and it was followed by the next and the next. “What are they doing?” asked Persion in confusion. Toran growled in disgust, “The Psybrids left just enough of their minds intact to understand their nightmare, they cannot speak but they recognise the release of death when they see it.” Daite said uncertainly, “We are warriors not butchers; there is no honour in this.” Persion replied, “The aliens have sullied the genic purity of the human form, degrading the manifest superiority of Mankind. Such a perversion cannot stand, death is the kindest fate for such as these.” "But the Emperor created us to defend humanity, how can this be in accordance with His will?" asked Daite uncertainly. Toran hardened his heart and said resolutely, “The Emperor has mercy for all his people, but sometimes it is the mercy of a truly sharp blade and a sure swing.” Toran raised his chainsword high, certain in his conviction and the slave did not react as he swung downwards, ending its torment in one swift blow. The squad followed his example and in moments all the slaves had been gifted the Emperor's Mercy. Daite paused and reached up to twist off his helm, then spat upon a Psybrid corpse, the acid in his spittle burning into the dead flesh, releasing a stinking odour. Angrily he snarled, “Countless times I have fought the Xenos, but never before has the battle seemed so just and so righteous. Chaplain Wrethan speaks truly when he preaches that the alien’s very existence is an offense to the dignity of Man.” Toran agreed as he stated, “Hold onto that hate, we will need it soon. Persion, any word from the Inquisitor’s force?” Persion shook his head and the short antenna attachment swayed as he replied, “Nothing but silence. That’s not a good sign.” Toran hefted his chainsword and declared, “Canesh has bitten off more than she can chew. Prepare yourselves brothers: the greatest battle is yet to come. As we always knew it must, the Gestalt shall die by our hands.” Finis Fide Chapter 12 The governor's residence in the Palace was a tableau of faded grandeur, every surface covered in chipped gold, tarnished silver and frayed tapestries. The soaring windows were covered in grime that cast a dirty, jaded light upon flagstones made of imported granite and the gilded double-doors were but smoking debris, leaving a gaping hole in the proud walls. In the welcoming atrium a score of people were fighting a nightmarish beast forged from the darkest nightmares. It was a long slug-like creature, the length of three land Raiders and half again as wide. It pulsed and writhed with obscene contortions and along its length were hundreds of tendrils that whipped and snapped with a disgusting independence. It had a bulbous head on one end, with a gaping black mouth, while its skin was stitched and patched together from dozens of Xenos. This was the Psybrids' leadership creature, the conjoining of many of their kind into one: the Gestalt. Around its bulk men ran and ducked as they fired las-locks, but they achieved little more than scorching its heaving flesh. In return the tendrils slashed and stabbed, gouging and eviscerating them one by one. Many had already fallen to its wrath and it seemed their numbers were too few to make a difference. One tendril scythed low and caught Sergeant Kalos in the stomach, guts spilled out and he cried in pain as he was thrown back to slump against a wall. The next to die was the young boy Zander, a dozen tendrils whipping around him and binding him in a suffocating cocoon. The tendrils tightened inexorably, squeezing the lad in their embrace. The bound form struggled and wiggled in helpless desperation but could not beak free. Then there was a sickening cracking sound and the form bent in places no man should bend, before falling limp. Zander’s young life was over, his dreams of a brighter future dashed to nothing. In the heart of the battle Inquisitor Canesh was a swirling whirlwind of flashing steel, her energised longsword loping off tendrils left and right as she bellowed Imperial hymns. The Inquisitor was the only one hurting the Gestalt, her faith and fury seeing her slash scores of tendrils apart but they were many and she had but one blade. A single tendril penetrated her guard and wrapped around her waist, she tried to lop it off but another caught her wrist and another her other arm, paralysing her. The Gestalt squeezed and pulled, trying to rip her arms off but it could not break her power armour shell. Frustrated the beast heaved upwards and whipped her off her feet, leaving her dangling helplessly in the air as she watched the last of her escort cut down. The day seemed lost, but then with a roar of hatred IXth squad burst through the wide double doors, charging into the fight without hesitation. They had reunited en-route and now eight Space marines approached like the vengeance of Holy Terra itself. They raced into the chamber and took in the situation, processing the danger in a heartbeat. Toran raised his bolt pistol and yelled, "Open fire! and eight bolt weapons unleashed their fury in a crescendo of violence. A horizontal rain of shells tore through the air to smash into the pulsing flesh of the Gestalt, burrowing deeply before detonating. The beast reared back in agony as huge oozing craters were carved into its flank and tendrils were blown clean off, black tar like blood running from the wounds turning the floor into an oil slick. IXth squad held their ground, pouring on fire relentlessly, sending bolt after bolt to inflict carnage. They were merciless and unforgiving avatars of mankind's fury, they were the Emperors wrath made manifest, but then their magazines ran dry. With smooth practiced actions they ejected their clips and reached for fresh magazines but even with genhanced reflexes they were too slow. A blizzard of tendrils hurtled at them, engulfing their forms in layers of wriggling fleshy ropes. Toran hacked off the first tendril that came at him with his chainsword but was overwhelmed by a dozen more that wrapped around his limbs and torso. He was bound tightly with his sword arm pinned against his side, only his left arm was left free to wave an empty bolt pistol. A sudden tugging sensation yanked at him and he was dragged forwards, ceramite boots carving long grooves into the granite floor as he snarled his rage and beat the tendrils with the butt of his pistol but to no avail. From the corner of his eye he saw his brothers similarly ensnared each fighting his own battle. Persion was stabbing with his combat blade, hacking and cutting relentlessly but for every tendril he bisected two more would take its place and snake around his limbs. Halis had managed to keep his Combi-melta free and unleashed a searing blast at the Gestalt's body but lashing whips of flesh obscured his shot and dissipated its power even as they burnt to ash. Brother Jediah fought barehanded, gripping knots of tendrils in his hands and squeezing them until black ooze ran from between his fists. Toran saw in his actions a way to strike back and shouted, "Fight on brothers, use your hands and your teeth if you must but do not relent!" Leading by example Toran dropped his bolt pistol, accepting the penance that would come for such an act as he grabbed at the tendrils enveloping him. He dug his armoured digits into the grey flesh until they penetrated, then with a yell he pulled for all he worth. One whole tendril ripped away in his hands before he threw its dripping end straight at the Gestalt's face, in an act of futile defiance. The Gestalt let out hissing roar of contempt as its own appendage rolled off its face. It leered at him and constricted its tendrils against his armour squeezing tightly in a vice like grip as it tried to crush him to death. Toran heard the ceramite of his armour creaking under the strain but he had faith in its venerable spirit to hold true and fought on. Annoyed at the continued defiance of its prey the Gestalt roared and flung him to one side then to the other in an attempt to shake him apart. The frenzied whiplash motion hurled Toran from side to side, then up and down in a bone rattling whirlwind of nausea and vertigo. A mortal man would have had his spine snapped, his ribs turned to kindling and his neck broken but Toran was a Space Marine and his bones had been reinforced by ancient forgotten science. He endured the dizzying ride and tried to fight back but he had no leverage, no traction to exert force on the situation, all he could do was grit his teeth as he was hurled about like a rag doll. As he was whipped about he spied Inquisitor Canesh hanging off to one side, still fighting on despite the futility of her circumstances and as he saw her armoured form a plan was conceived in his mind. Toran pulled his form inwards, hunching over slightly in the tendrils' grip then as they began to move vertically he heaved outwards, propelling himself upwards. Then as the tendrils carried him to the very apex of their swing he pulled in. The combined momentum overwhelmed the Gestalt's control and he dropped heavily, until he felt his boots make contact with the floor. Instantly Toran shifted his weight and pushed off the ground to sail sideways. Though wrapping him tightly the tendrils had no leverage to stop him and inertia swept him along until he smashed into Inquisitor Canesh. They slammed together, creating a resounding clang of ceramite on ceramite and several tendrils were crushed in the process, but not enough to release either of them. The impact sent them sailing off each other, swinging widely as the Gestalt tried to regain control of the situation. Exasperated it heaved Toran up high and reared back its puffy head to open its jaws wide. Clearly it intended to swallow this irritating morsel whole, but at the last moment it realised it had made a deadly mistake. The Sergeant snarled in hatred and raised his one free hand high to reveal the object he had snatched off Canesh’s belt: a Psyk-out grenade. Toran roared “We are the Emperor’s Storm!” as he flipped off the catch with his thumb and threw the cylinder into its gaping mouth, right down its gullet. With a sharp pop the Psyk-out grenade detonated, black particles racing down into the Gestalt’s guts and spraying back up out of its mouth in dirty black cloud. The Xeno screamed terribly, its voice filling the residence with unearthly shrieks as it undulated and thrashed in searing agony. It was a psychically powerful beast and so it could not bear the sheer nothingness the grenade produced, its sorrow akin to a man having his eyes, ears, hands and tongue removed all at once. The entire mass of the beast reared upwards in a frenzied attempt to escape from its torment, but the Psychically Null particles coated its insides, coursing through its very blood and bone. The creature vomited a torrent of black bile that ate through the flagstones like acid and black blood streamed from its eyes. It shook like a stuck pig and wailed in agony but nothing could halt its suffering. Finally it fell forwards slumped in a daze and instantly all the tendrils fell limp dropping the power armoured figures heavily to the ground. Toran hit the ground and bent his knees to absorb the impact as he finally ripped his chainsword free and laid about him. In seconds he had cleared all the tendrils ensnaring him had carved a path to the Gestalt's thrashing bulk. With fell determination Toran advanced step by step up to the convulsing beast and as it opened its mouth to scream he roared, “We are His wrath!” With the battlecry of the Storm Heralds on his lips he plunged his roaring chainsword straight into the beast's gaping maw. The sword chewed up blubbery flesh and ripped apart bone with ease, shredding the beast’s innards. The Gestalt convulsed violently, rolling its bulk about as it crushed the corpses of men into the flagstones. A spray of noxious stinking bile vomited out of its mouth and covered Toran's arm. He grimaced under his helm as he saw the acidic fluid dissolving his proud colours but nevertheless he held firm, pushing his chainsword further and further into the wound. The Gestalt gave one last quiver then its black eyes glazed over and it finally fell silent as it dropped limply to the ground: at last losing its obscene grip on life. Toran waited a moment more to be certain, then tore his arm out of its mouth and shook off the bile eating away at his armour. He gazed upon the putrid mound of dead flesh as IXth Squad yelled in triumph and he raised his weapon high in a salute to the Emperor as his Marines cried out, "Victory!" Finis Fide Chapter 13 The reeking corpse of the Gestalt filled the residence with its vile bulk but that could do nothing to dampen the elation of victory. The creature was dead, the Psybrids had lost their greatest weapon and leadership in one stroke and surely the Imperial triumph would follow soon. It was a heady moment yet the Space Marines remained disciplined and focussed at all times, even at the height of triumph they remained on guard and swept the room for threats. The piles of dead tendrils shifted as Inquisitor Canesh emerged, her face was pale and nauseous yet her will remained strong. Meanwhile Toran was kneeling to search the corpses of the natives one by one, searching for survivors. As he reached out to move Sergeant Kalos the man groaned and his head rolled groggily to one side. Toran twisted off his helm to reveal his augmetic eye and called, “This one yet lives.” Inquisitor Canesh paced up to him in her power armour, her composure coming back to her as she said “Can your medicines aid him?” Toran didn’t look away as replied, “Our elixirs are meant for genhanced physiologies, they are as likely to kill him as to save him.” Canesh’s face could have been carved from stone as she commanded, “Try anyway.” Toran frowned at the callous response but turned to assess what could be done. The wounds were severe, Kalos’ abdomen was torn open and the blood loss would send him into shock before he could awaken. Toran was no Apothecary but every Astartes was required to have a working knowledge of his own supply of medical drugs. Toran reached around to his backpack and by touch opened a seal to reveal a compartment filled with thumb-sized vials. He disconnected one from his armours' internal injectors, then from another compartment pulled out a syringe, which he filled before jabbing it into Kalos’ arm. For Canesh’s benefit he explained, “This is a cocktail of drugs that promotes cellular regeneration and prevents infection. The mysteries of its operation are held secret by our Apothecaries, but it should have some benefit on a mortal man.” Then he reached back and pulled free another vial, he filled the syringe again then pressed it into Kalos’ shredded abdomen and injected the contents into the wound, where it fizzed and expanded to form a thick foamy tar. As he did so he said, “Coagulant designed for Marines who suffer blood loss beyond even the ability of Larraman’s cells to manage.” They watched Kalos for a minute and saw the gushing blood slow to a trickle. Toran nodded and said, “That should stabilise him temporarily but he will not survive without proper medical attention.” “That is not enough” said Canesh, “I need to question him, give him a stimulant.” “I am no Apothecary,” Toran snapped, “I might well kill him if I try anything else.” “I need him to talk” Canesh stated with no hint of compromise in her voice. Toran stared at her and found neither anger nor pettiness, only determination and judgement. He wondered if at last he was seeing the real Canesh or if this was yet one more mind game but he had no time to speculate. Resignedly he reached for a canister of hyper-adrenaline, which he slotted it into the syringe. He had no idea what effect it would have on a mortal but the chances of him surviving this must surely be low, so he emptied half the contents out, then half again to be safe. He leaned forwards but then he paused in a moment of dilemma, this man was loyal to the Golden Throne and had fought valiantly for the Emperor’s cause, Kalos had fought beside IXth squad with honour, he deserved better than this. Toran found himself loathing Canesh in that moment, but duty was duty and orders were orders. Canesh was in command of this mission so he had no choice but to obey. Unenthusiastically Toran jabbed the syringe forward and plunged it into Kalos’ chest, probably killing the man in the process. Toran removed a tiny tab of pain balm from his armour and pressed it into Kalos’ leg. The man would still die but the Inquisitor never said anything about him suffering more pain, Toran owed him that at least. The Sergeant stood up and said with brutal honesty, “He will awaken in a minute, be lucid for a few more after that then he will die.” Then he turned away not, wanting to look at Canesh anymore, he turned instead to Persion and said, “Situation report.” Persion put one hand to his helm and spent a long minute listening to reports of the natives and then declared, “The Psybrids are falling back across the whole city, they are headed for the spaceport and its shuttles. Should we move to cut them off?” Toran replied, “No let them run.” “Sergeant?” asked Persion in confusion. “Codex Astartes Volume III, Chapter II, Verse XVIII: 'Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake'. Those shuttles are unarmed and helpless, signal the Navy flotilla and tell them their fighter wings will soon have ripe targets to pick off.” There was a groan from the floor and Kalos stirred, feebly shaking his head as the adrenaline coursed through his system. He slowly raised his head and saw the Imperials standing over him. Kalos tried to speak but only coughed; he gasped in air with the sound of fluid rattling in his lungs then whispered, “Did we win?” Toran returned to him and knelt beside the brave warrior saying, “Yes, the Gestalt is dead and this world has been liberated.” Kalos nodded and his head almost didn’t come back up but he recovered and said “My people are happy to hear that.” Canesh leaned in and interrupted, “Your kinsmen are in the city, what are they doing now?” Kalos frowned in confusion and answered weakly, “They are happy… they are celebrating their victory.” “Specifics!” barked Canesh sternly. “They… they are dancing in the plaza of First Landing,” replied Kalos in confusion, “Some of them have broken into an old winery and are passing out bottles like there is no tomorrow.” Canesh pressed forwards until their faces were only an inch apart and hissed, “And exactly how do you know that?” Kalos’ eyes darted to Toran but there was no greater understanding there, so he looked back and said, “It is… it is a hunch… Yes, yes it is just a hunch.” Canesh sat up so she blocked out the light in his eyes, leaving her a silhouette of Imperial judgement as she growled, “Now the most important question of all: How did your people resist the Psybrid’s mind control for so long?” A worried look crept onto Kalos’ face and he said, “We told you… the Ward stones”. He weakly tried to grasp at his neck but was horrified to find nothing there. He cast his eyes about trying to see if his charm had been lost in the fight. Yet it was Canesh who held up an armoured gauntlet and from it dangled a crude piece of stone on a string. The Inquisitor uttered coldly, “I lifted this off you the moment we first set foot in the Palace. Since that moment you have had no protection, yet the mind control did not overpower you. You know why.” Kalos gurgled as a horrified realisation crept onto his face, “I don’t… the ward stones… they protect us.” Canesh shook her head and said, “No, not in the way you think. Radium has no properties that could block psychic intrusions, but it could force a mutation in your gene-line. The population of Odiosis are Psykers; each and every one of you is a latent Telepath. That was how you could resist the Psybrids’ mind control all these years, your own power fended it off.” Toran gasped as understanding dawned but Kalos’s eyes struggled with the revelation, “All those knacks… the hunches.” Canesh was grim as she uttered, “Manifestations of your power, you were communicating with each subconsciously. The Imperium never suspected there were unsanctioned psykers on Odoisis but now we know of you there is but one course of action.” Kalos looked up in desperation, he tried to sit up but his wounds flared and he fell back in agony. He gritted his teeth and said, “The Black Ships, no, not that. Please… we can go deeper into the woods, disappear entirely… you will never hear from us again. We won’t trouble you.” Yet Canesh replied icily, “Even one unsanctioned psyker can be gateway for hordes for the filth of the Warp. That you endured this long without attracting the ruinous powers is remarkable, but the risk is too great to ignore. Worlds beyond count have burnt in the past for the sake of a single moment of compassion.” “But we have children…” gurgled Kalos fearfully. There was no pity or remorse in Canesh’s eyes as she said, “No exceptions: thus spoke the God-Emperor.” A bloody drop formed at the edge of Kalos mouth as he wheezed his last words, “But we trusted you… we had faith…” then he breathed no more. Toran reached down gently and closed Kalos’ eyes as he whispered, “Such concerns shall no longer trouble you.” He stood up and glared accusingly at Inquisitor Canesh, but found no sympathy in her expression. He looked around the blood soaked chamber and saw the piles of men who had died for the Imperial promise of salvation. Toran knew the Emperor’s law regarding Psykers but never had duty weighed so heavily upon him and he spat, “How long did you know?” “I suspected from the start but I was not certain until we reached the Gestalt,” Canesh replied sternly, “You understand what has to happen now.” Toran nodded forlornly and turned to Persion once more knowing his next words would have dire consequences. He thought of the aid the natives had given to them and their service to the Imperium. He thought about the simple town he had visited, the children playing and the humble lives they lived. They were blameless in this but then he remembered his duty as laid out by the Emperor at the foundation of the Imperium and of the threats that lurked in the Warp, ever eager to pour out and infest realspace. He could not imperil billions of lives on other worlds for the sake of a few here, duty demanded he put compassion aside. There was no other choice. Eyes fixed upon Canesh’s stony face he drew a breath and said, “Persion, signal the Fleet that their Astropathic choir must immediately send a high-priority message to the nearest Inquisitorial outpost. Message as follows: For the attention of any and all Inquisitors, we have discovered numerous unsanctioned psykers on Odoisis. The presence of a Black Ship is required urgently. All surviving natives confirmed to be mutated. The capture and processing of the entire planetary population is mandated by the Emperor’s Law… without exception.” Canesh looked the Space Marine up and down then declared, “Congratulations, that was more or less adequate. Perhaps your Chapter is not quite as weak-willed as I thought. I will be preparing a report for the eyes of the Lord Inquisitors, it will not be as… negative as I originally intended.” Toran bit down hard on his response, knowing if he said anything the conversation could only end with him putting his fist through Canesh’s face. Instead he turned on his heel and marched stiffly away as the Inquisitor watched him depart with an icy look on her face, neither approving nor disapproving but always watchful. Toran refused to look back as he stamped away; he felt the glorious taste of victory turning to ash in his mouth and knew he would bear this shame for the remainder of his days. He walked straight up to Daite and said, “You were right: Betrayals in the ruins and it was not the Inquisitor’s you saw or even Phelps. It was ours.” The adventure continues when the Storm Heralds return in: In Tergum Cultro.
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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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