AuthorM.S Lovegrove Maledicti Venator 905.M41 The dank jungle was close and humid, thick with hanging vines and the buzz of insects, everywhere small animals went about their daily lives. The air was still and hushed, pregnant with tension as the feeling of a million, million eyes watching from the dark. In a small clearing brittle branches shook in strange ways that had nothing to do with the slight breeze, and the thick leaf mould stirred with the creep of beetles. Abruptly the insects swirled and scattered as the sound of a large form crashing through the branches approached. Among the vines and branches were flashes of blue and grey growing larger and larger as the intruder charged forwards and then exploded into the clearing. It was a hulking figure well over two metres tall, wrapped head to toe in thick ceramite plates and fibre motive bundles. His armour was shaded deep sea blue across his body but the pauldrons were the grey of an oncoming storm chased with gold finish.
His plate was fresh and clean-cut, uncluttered by honours or laurels. The giant looked like he could charge across a minefield and take on a horde of foes single-handed. Just a glance at him inspired awe and terror, involuntary feelings of veneration and dread, for he was that most legendary of warriors: a Space Marine. The Space Marine thundered across the clearing then turned back to face the jungle, bolter raised before him. From the treeline came more crashing and deep booming roars of anger, then the canopy exploded outwards as a massive shape tore its way through the unresisting trunks. It was a nightmarish fusion of machine and living flesh, with six hydraulic legs supporting a boxy hull, welded shut and bound with icon-carved chains. From its body spewed a profusion of barrels and whip-like tendrils that lashed at the air and constantly churned almost as if hungry to grasp something warm and living in its cruel embrace. Towering over all rose a horned head with an animalistic face that gnashed and snarled at the air in a lifelike manner that mere metal had no right to emulate. There was a stench around it that went beyond the mere physical, an otherworldly presence that hung over it. For it was an abomination in every sense of the word, an entity from the nightmare dimension of Warp space bound in physical form: a Chaos Defiler. The Defiler surveyed the clearing and saw the lone Space Marine standing proudly at the far end of the clearing, brandishing his bolter in a futile gesture of defiance. For a long second the two foes eyed each other, then with a whir of pistons the Defiler elevated its barrels up and away. Instead of obliterating the lone Astartes with a shot from its battle cannon it flexed its whips and took a step forward, clearing wanting the pleasure of the kill to be close and personal. The Astartes stood firm against the approach of the daemon-machine, bolter seeking out weak joints and pistons, despite the minuscule chance of actually inflicting harm. One step closer the Defiler came then another and another in quick succession but then the game changed. Almost as if it had crossed an invisible trip line several things happened at once; the ground gave way beneath it dropping it several feet, a wave of dirt and debris was thrown up into the air by concussive blasts of fire and seismic booms along with a burst of light and energy. Confused and blinded by the trap sprung around it the Defiler entirely missed the emergence of new warriors into the fight. From under piles of dirt and debris, they arose in a circle around the monster, each a ceramite giant matching the first Astartes in every way, save that in their hands they carried the bulky forms of ancient relic weapons: Combi-Meltas. It took three seconds to free themselves from concealment and two more to train their weapons, then in a searing burst of heat and radiation they fired their weapons. Plasteel and ceramite liquefied in the furnace of Melta fire, layers of armour melting away like liquid to reveal pulsing black organs where only gears and pistons had any right to be. The Defiler screamed in pain as its internal organs broiled, then something vital gave way and the monster fell to the dirt convulsing and spewing foul ichors into the air. The circle of Astartes stood vigil until the monster had finally grown still but their wariness did not lessen, they kept their weapons trained for long minutes until they were convinced that it would stir no more. Finally one with the markings of a sergeant held up his fist and the squad fell into a Codex-pattern overwatch formation. Then he turned and called out, “Toran, attend me.” The first marine turned and ran across the clearing, pulling free his helm to reveal a youthful unscarred visage before falling to one knee in deference to his sergeant. The Sergeant sighed, “Toran, how many times must I tell you not to do that. You are not a scout-novice anymore but an Initiate-Brother of the Storm Heralds Ninth Company, stand tall and proud as an equal.” Young Toran stood sheepishly, if that was possible in full battle plate, “Sorry Sergeant Deparas, old habits die hard. I was merely paying respects to you for saving my life… again.” Sergeant Deparas looked him up and down then growled, “Do not give obeisance to those who merely perform their duty to Terra. The only being worthy of worship in this galaxy is the Divine Emperor on Terra.” As a flush of embarrassment spread across Toran’s face the sergeant suddenly grunted with a hint of amusement that let him know he was being teased. “Come on,” the sergeant chuckled from under his helm, “Walk with me and perhaps you can know your squad better.” +++ In the dark jungle, something was given pause, a mind that was not mind beheld a most unexpected scene: one of its kin laid low. There was no thought but some primal instinct held it back, cunning and stealth would win where rage and fury had failed. It just needed to find its moment. Maledicti Venator Chapter 2 As Sergeant Deparas turned away Toran had a chance to examine him and it was a strange sight indeed. Unlike the youth's armour the sergeant's was covered in purity seals and scriptures praising Him on Terra. One shoulder pad was festooned with honours won in combat and the other bore a facsimile Crux Terminatus, reserved only for those who had won great renown in the First Company. From his belt hung a vicious chainsword and a glorious bolt pistol, engraved with images of the Divine-Emperor bringing down judgement upon the masses. Deparas was the embodiment of everything it took to be a Chapter veteran, revered and respected for his valour, the only slight blemish on this was the fact that the sergeant was fully six inches shorter than any of his kin. Space Marines were genetically enhanced by ancient sciences to be taller and stronger than mortal men but some quirk of the gene-seed meant Deparas had never grown quite as tall as other Astartes. Yet his litany of achievements was a thing of awe, his sheer vitality and energy in combat was almost a physical presence in itself and it was with some shame that Toran recalled the disparaging nicknames that had circled among the junior Scout-Novices. Having seen Deparas in action Toran now realised those quips were born from the callowness and ignorance of foolish youth, now he would follow this man to hell and back. "So your first assignment comes to its close," said Deparas “How do you rate your time with IXth Squad?” “Its… not entirely what I expected” stammered Toran with embarrassment. “Hah, let me guess” chuckled Deparas, “You thought Ninth Company was all about carting Lascannons around, blowing up tanks and smashing down fortress walls.” “Well… I did think we’d be doing more shooting and less running,” replied Toran “I expected we would be gunning down masses of heretics for the Divine Emperor.” "That will come young one," said Deparas, “But the Holy Codex as written by the revered Primarch Roboute Guilliman, teaches us that Ninth Company are the reserves, specialists even. Our duty is to support the Battle-companies wherever and however they need us to and right now we are needed to hunt the last remnants of the vile foe’s war machines. That vile traitor Vorshaan, pirate prince of the Night Lords Legion, came to this world with a host of abominations and many survived the battles that saw him driven off. If we don't catch every last one that escaped the wrath of the Storm Heralds then this Divine Emperor fearing world will suffer." Toran reflected on this for a moment and dwelled on his actions over the last few months, in a short time he had learnt more about demolitions and explosives than he ever thought possible. Indeed IXth squad had a reputation, whenever the Storm Herald Chapter needed something demolished or shattered they sent for these specialists. So famous had their actions become that the Masters had honoured them with the incredibly rare and revered combi-bolter-melta weapons. Such honours were usually preserved for the glorious veterans of the First Company or individuals of great renown but IXth squad was unusual in every sense of the word. Of course, as a newcomer, Toran was not ranked high enough to hold one let alone wield it in battle but he felt sure his day would come. While they had been walking they had approached the corpse of the Defiler and there met another of the squad, bent over its wreck. He straightened at their approach and turned to meet them, his armour was superficially similar to theirs but his belt hung with odd tools and his shoulders were marked deep red. His plate was marked with the skull and cog-wheel that announced he was an apprentice to the Techmarines, a student of the arcance mysteries of science and logic and and a lay-acolyte of the Cult Mechanicus. “Hail Sergeant” he called in a deep rich baritone. “Hail Hevostan” replied Deparas, “Report on the status of the kill.” "The filth of the Warp has tainted this shell," said Hevostan “I must perform the final rites, consecrate it with holy unguents and cripple the drive train or it may yet rise again. It should take twenty minutes.” “You have ten before we have to move out,” replied Deparas sternly. “Well if I cut out the burning of the incense and the chanting I could do that, just don’t tell the Master of the Forge,” quipped Hevostan. “Not one word,” chuckled Deparas and then the pair of them turned away from each other. As they walked on to the perimeter of the clearing Toran turned to the sergeant asking, "Is it true? Is Hevostan to undertake his pilgrimage to Mars and learn the deeper mysteries upon completion of this campaign?” Deparas looked down sadly and replied, “Yes it’s true, he is to become a full Techmarine. IXth squad will be poorer without his insight and lore but how did you hear about… oh never mind, I've just figured it out.” As they approached the perimeter they saw a pair of Initiates standing guard, gesturing and shaking their head in an argument over a closed vox-link. The Sergeant marched right up to them and barked “Attention!” The pair shot into position, legs braced and weapons held rigidly before them, their armour was festooned with kill tallies and trophies and upon their helms were the laurels of expert marksmanship. “Just what could be so fascinating that you two forget that you’re supposed to be guarding our perimeter?” barked Deparas. The first of the two shifted slightly, “Sergeant I was just reminding Mylos here about how he lost our bet” he said. “Don’t listen to Pylos, sir I didn’t lose anything” the other retorted. “Yes you did, you bet that the young rabbit here would get squished luring in the catch,” exclaimed the first. "And you said he'd only lose a limb or two, they cancel each other out." replied the second. "Enough!" barked the sergeant, "How you two ever made it to full battle brothers is an enigma that plagues my mediations. I can only conclude the master of the Scout Company was feeling particularly sadistic that day to inflict you two upon me". "Sorry sir," said Mylos, "We won't let you down sir," said Pylos. Although the words were contrite the pair didn’t seem very abashed by the drubbing down, only saluting by folding their hands over their chests in the sign of the Aquila and turning back to guarding the perimeter. The sergeant turned and marched away, Toran following behind. “Don’t run so fast next time rabbit, I’ll make it worth your while!” called one of the pair as they walked away. +++ THE PREY WAS DISTRACTED AND FLUSHED WITH VICTORY: SOON THE MOMENT WOULD BE PERFECT +++ "Sir I don't understand what just happened," said Toran “I’ve never seen any other brother treat their sergeant with such disrespect.” Deparas sighed “How much do you know about those two?” "I know they’re brothers, biological brothers, as in twins inducted into the Chapter together," Toran said. “Yes twins indeed, the rarest of bonds among the Astartes," mused Deparas, “There was talk of splitting the pair up while they were in the Scout Company but when I saw them in action I fought tooth and nail to get them both into my squad. They have a bond that transcends mere training; they fight as one soul in two bodies, the battles we’ve won on their marksmanship alone justifies a little back talk. They dream of glory in a battle company or even the First but they are too impertinent and blasphemous to be accepted by a battle Captain. IXth Squad is their place as long as they remain together and they could never bear to be separated, it would destroy the very thing that makes them special.” Toran mused on this as they approached the next brother, a towering brute of a warrior bearing empty flaps of heavy muslin sacks around his belt. The silhouette of this marine was totally unlike his Brothers, whereas theirs was the crisp and clean lines of Mark VII plate his was jagged and heavy, for he wore the nigh-mythical Mark III iron armour. He turned and addressed the pair and even Toran had to crane his neck to look up at him. "Hail sergeant," said the towering brute. “Hail Furion," said Deparas, “Situation report.” “Grim,” replied Furion, “Five weeks in the field and we’ve expended all our flash-bangs, anti-armour and personnel mines, auspex baffles, plystic explosive, demolition charges, haywires, seismic, sonics, phosphorous, trip-mines and the meltas are running on fumes.” “Grenades?” asked Deparas “No plasma, no melta, three frag, one Krak grenade and the bolters are down to two clips per man. The Codex states squads should withdraw to resupply at seventy percent depletion and we passed that point days ago.” “After my rank now Furion?” jested Deparas, “No Sergeant,” replied Furion ramrod straight, “It’s not for the likes of me, too much paperwork.” “Relax” chuckled Deparas, “I happen to agree with you, let me vox Ninth Captain Phalros before falling back to resupply.” "Understood," said Furion with a salute punctured by the whine of ancient servos and returned to his guard. Deparas swiftly turned and marched on and Toran had to quicken his pace to keep up, he didn’t have a chance to ask any questions before they reached the final man in their squad, easily identifiable by the Vox gear incorporated into his backpack. His name was Persion and was a study in contrasts, whereas the rest of the squad had the swarthy features and tanned skin common to the natives of the ocean world Lujan II his features were pale and angular. He hailed from the secondary recruiting world of Trux, a planet of vicious predators and savage tribes, of little value to the wider Imperium save the ferociousness of its inhabitants. The Storm Heralds made sure a handful of recruits were added to each generation to utilise that ferocity. It seemed odd to make such a man the squad’s communication specialist, but Persion had a rather cavalier attitude to petty things like communication protocols that made him an expert signal cracker. It was this that had unsettled the Captains of the battle companies, but their loss was IXth squads’ gain, for there was no other man one would want at their side in battle. “Persion, any word?” called Deparas. “Aye sir” came the reply in a rich, lilting accent that almost seemed too fair for the Transhuman warrior, “Vox message relayed from the Strike Cruiser Legacy of Glory, Captain Phalros has declared the area clear, all squads are to return immediately.” "Excellent," proclaimed Deparas, “Signal command that we receive and will fall back at once to…” +++NOW+++ He never got to end the sentence, for suddenly the jungle exploded outward in a hurricane of debris and shrapnel. A bulky roaring creature of flesh and steel ripped its way through the foliage, tearing up tree trunks like kindling. It towered over the clearing, spraying vile fluids and gnashing its teeth in rage. Its very presence was an abomination and sight to loosen the bowels of mortal men, for it was the vilest of creations and the worst possible sight. A second Defiler. Maledicti Venator Chapter 3 The Defiler tore into the clearing bellowing in animalistic fury, it loomed over the squad like vermin cast into the shadow of a great predator. For mortal troops the surprise and horror would have cost precious seconds but these were Space Marines, before it had even cleared the tree line they were moving and Sergeant Deparas was shouting orders, “Evasion pattern Sigma! Distract and confuse, single shots only, conserve ammo and stay away from the trees, speed is our only chance!" IXth Squad split up and ran circular paths around the clearing, they crossed and weaved at random intervals never letting the Defiler draw a clear line at any individual Marine. It tried to target one only for it to be distracted by another moving laterally across its vision then another and another. It’s simple mind was overwhelmed by targets, like a lumbering Grox hounded by a pack of Mastiffs, it could crush any one of them in a heartbeat but every time it lunged at one another would dart in and blast it. The squad could not hope keep it confused for long, but in the heat of combat a handful of seconds could make all the difference. It stamped forwards trying to grab one of them in its claws but the Astartes expertly evaded its clumsy strike and as they did so they let off single rounds from their bolters, doing no harm but keeping it distracted and bewildered. As he ran Toran could make out distinct patterns in its shape, unlike its kin this one was disturbingly organic, armour riveted onto limbs that resembled pestilent flesh and tendons. Its legs were wide and crab-like and its upper body was swollen like a maggots’ abdomen from which protruded the wide barrel of a Battlecanon, along with autocannons and a long snapping whip for arms. Toran saw Mylos and Pylos dancing before it, this was the first time he was seeing them in close combat and it was a breath taking sight, they moved as one, perfectly complementing each other. When one went high the other went low, when one drew the monster’s attention away the other would snap off a bolt round. Their bolts pranged off the Daemonic faceplate and though they could not penetrate they made it roar in frustration and anger. The beast belched a blast of smoke from its exhaust stacks and tried to track the twins with its battlecannon but they moved too fast for the slow ordnance, so instead it brought up its autocannons and swept it across their path. A tongue of fire surged into being and lashed out as it tracked around, hurling shells into the treeline that cut trunks in half and decimated anything it touched, but the twins were unharmed. Moving with a grace and elegance that should be impossible for the heft of Astartes they bounded through the hail of shells. Impacts scored their armour causing ceramite shrapnel to fly free but they managed to avoid a fatal blow. While this was occurring Toran approached from the rear, clutching his bolter and scanned for a target. He glimpsed a trailing fuel line under an armour plate, exposed every time the Daemon-engine took a step and he saw his chance. Though he ran full pace he held his bolter absolutely steady, breathing as calmly as if he were on the firing range. Thousands of hours of practice made the bolter an extension of his arm and he waited for the perfect moment. Just as the monster began to move he gently squeezed the trigger and the bolter kicked hard into his shoulder, a sensation as familiar to him as breathing, then a single mass-reactive shell left the barrel trailing a line of fire from its propellant. It sailed infinitely slowly across the intervening distance and intercepted the joint just as the leg lifted, pulling the plate up, and so it severed the Defiler’s fuel line. The howl of pain and rage that the Defiler unleashed should have come from a wild beast, not a machine and it lurched around on its six legs to crush the impudent speck that had stung it. The distraction was to cost it dear, as it turned its attention away from the twins they leapt forwards, weaving and spinning around each other to close to point blank range. Mylos raised his bolter high to cover but it was Pylos who levelled his combi-melta and unleashed a blast of heat and radiation directly into the beast’s engine block. The melta let out a beam of fusion energy that cut through armour as easily as a chainsword through a heretic. Solid metal flowed like ice before a blowtorch, muscle and sinews parting and unnatural organic fluids boiling away. Fleshy organs popped and sizzled as the Defiler screamed in agony. For an instant, it seemed a killing blow had been dealt but then with a sound to elicit heart wrenching horror the melta coughed dryly and the beam died: completely out of fuel. The Astartes were stunned by the failed blow, even Space Marines needing a moment to grasp the calamity of their situation. It cost them a single seconds' pause in their evasion, an instant that the Defiler seized upon to fire its battlecannon. The squad were saved by Furion, centuries of training and experience made him move without conscious thought, reaching into his sack and grabbing a Frag Grenade. Pure muscle memory caused him to snap his arm out and hurl the explosive at the Defilers' faceplate, shrapnel blasting before its eyes, doing no damage but throwing off its aim. The Ordnance shell hurtled over the squad’s heads and smashed into the jungle beyond, blasting ancient boughs apart and turning a wide swathe of vegetation into a blizzard of wooden splinters. With their best chance of defeating the foe gone the Marines resumed evading and weaving but they knew it was just a delaying tactic and poor one at that. Toran's spirit was lost in that moment, his mind flashing through his training routines and snippets of the Codex but he could not envision any way the squad could survive the next minute let alone defeat this foe. He felt a bleak pit of despair opening in his chest, threatening to consume him but he resisted it. All the gene-crafting, their advanced equipment, even their ancient legacy were but tools in their employ, the true power of any Astartes lay in his spirit. This was what truly separated a Space Marine from a mortal man, the ability to take despair and grief, fear, rage and sorrow and turn it all into the fuel for his zeal. It was this that gave them the fervour to carry on when other men would lay down and die, to wrest victory from the jaws of certain defeat. Toran snapped back to attention and heard Hevostan yelling without pausing in his stride, “We cannot hurt it! We have to fall back and regroup!” Persion dove and weaved but still bellowed, “No we can’t outrun this, we have to take it down!” “Without the Meltas we have less than a seven percent probability of defeating it,” shouted Hevostan, “We need reinforcements!” “No, we still have one chance left!” barked Deparas, “Draw it into the centre of the clearing!” The squad weaved closer snapping off bolts at point blank range then falling back, always in the same direction. The Defiler saw their pattern and unleashed a salvo from its autocannons but their armour deflected the blows, leaving deep scores on their plate. It snapped its massive claws open and closed then took a step forward in pursuit, then another knowing that the end to this farce was upon them. As it reached the centre of the clearing Pylos reversed his direction, spinning on his heels to snap off a lone bolt. The single shell spun in the air, sparkling in the light, as it sailed perfectly through the narrow eye slit in the faceplate and exploded in the Defiler’s eyesocket spraying blood and engine oil across its body. The Defiler screamed in agony and the battlecanon boomed, creating an explosion that tore the clearing apart, Pylos and Mylos relocated at the last possible moment, riding the shockwave like leaves on the wind. Hevostan was not so graceful, the debris caught him in his side and made him lurch and stumble off balance. The Defiler blinked its surviving eye in pain but still lowered its autocannons, unleashing a stream of heavy rounds at the vulnerable Marine. A heartbeat before the slugs could tear Hevostan apart he was tackled by Toran, their combined inertia throwing them aside out of harm’s way, they hit the ground and rolled, coming swiftly to their feet bolters raised and ready. Meanwhile Deparas was running straight towards the beast, calling to Furion as he did so. Without hesitation Furion reached into his kitbags and drew forth a single charge, the last Krak Grenade, hurling it towards his Sergeant. Deparas snatched the Krak grenade in one hand as he sprinted forward and leapt onto the Defilers' rear claw, the beast shook and howled its rage but Deparas rode the convulsing limb as easily as if he did this every day. He clung on to the thrashing limb for long seconds then painfully slowly began dragging himself up its leg inch by inch. The Defiler stamped around the clearing, shaking with every step in an effort to dislodge him but it could not prevent the Sergeant crawling ever higher. When he reached the joint of the leg with the body he raised his fist high and primed the grenade, then with a cry of “For the Divine Emperor!” he shoved the explosive deep within its fleshy mechanisms. Deparas dropped to the ground rolling over and over to clear the blast, heartbeats before the grenade went off. A deafening bang flew across the clearing and the Daemon engine howled in agony as mechanisms and components blew out from its undercarriage. Steam, oil and filthy organic fluids cascaded from its belly, rotting the very soil underneath it, then it juddered and shook as it fell to the ground. IXth squad raised their voices to cheer and held fists high in the air but their jubilation was short-lived, impossibly the Defiler was still moving, dragging its feet under it and heaving its bulk back into the air. Organic metals reknit themselves and the corrupted light of the Warp shone through every joint and seam as the Daemon restored its vessel, weaving metal and sinew back together in seconds. Before anyone could react the Defiler was on the move again, stamping forward, churning the ground to mud under its weight. The squad lifted their weapons and let loose but their bolts could not stop the monster. The Daemon Engine charged towards where Sergeant Deparas was climbing back to his feet, barely had he stood up when the sheer bulk of it crashed into him. The momentum of the impact hurled him backwards and he hit the ground hard carving a long furrow into the earth. The Defiler was on him in flash and with bolt rounds pinging off its armour plates it lifted one iron-shod leg and stamped down hard, crushing the Sergeant into the ground. There was the sharp crack of Ceramite shattering and the nightmarish noise of bone and flesh being pulverised, leaving IXth squad standing stunned, shocked by the terrible truth. Toran was aghast as he realised that there could be no doubt: Deparas was dead. Maledicti Venator Chapter4 IXth squad ran hard through the jungle, bounding leaps of power armoured legs hurling them forward at a relentless pace. Leaves and vines slapped across their plate as they ran, leaving long green trails of sap across blue plates, smearing their honoured colours, but this was no moment for vanity. In any other force, the words retreat and rout would have been appropriate but these were Space Marines and they fell back in good order covering each other in staggered waves. The Codex Astartes had much to say on matters of meaningless heroics and useless vainglory. Roboute Guilliman had never believed in prideful last stands without purpose and had written that if a position presented no strategic or tactical advantage then it should be abandoned for better ones. So IXth squad scanned the jungle as they fell back, looking for any feature of terrain that would give them the smallest advantage, sadly there were none. Behind them came the crashing roars and booming noises of the Defiler chasing after them, uprooting trees and crushing vegetation with every step. Small animals and birds ran before it, fleeing its Warp tainted stench as much as its noise and mass. IXth squad fell back in waves, keeping one step ahead of it but the terrain worked against them and the Defiler could simply crush and smash what they need to negotiate around. They dodged around boulders and hacked through dense vegetation with their combat blades, keeping just ahead of the Daemon Engine but unable to lose it. Unable to get them in its massive claws the monstrosity bellowed its rage and rocked back on its claws, elevating its battlecanon ready to fire. In that moment Toran snagged his foot on an ancient gnarled root, it was one of those moments of misfortune that could only occur in the insanity of combat and it caused him to stumble off balance. Seeing his distress Pylos diverted to help him, catching his young comrade under the arm before he fell. Pylos shoved Toran before him and thus was standing directly between the youth and the Defiler when it fired its battlecanon. One second Pylos was running and the next there was a colossal explosion, the ground erupting in a fountain of dirt and fire as a shell hit right under his heels. Even shielded from the worst of the blast Toran was blown forwards, his autosenses unable to dampen the power of the explosion. He crashed head over heels into the ground and lay there dazed, the world blurring and spinning around his head. In seconds his enhanced physiology went to work restoring his equilibrium and the trees came back into sharp focus. He sat up and found himself covered in pieces of armour and gore; desperately he grabbed at his legs and was relieved to find them still attached to his body as were his arms and shoulders. It took a long second for the truth to penetrate but slowly he understood that if these pieces of armour weren’t his then they must be someone else’s. He picked out a shard from his side and then he realised the sickening truth: Pylos was just gone. There was the pounding of armoured feet approaching and Mylos leapt towards him shouting, "What happened?! Where is Pylos!". Desperately he cast his gaze around trying to hold back the awful moment of realisation, then he saw the pieces of bloody ceramite laying everywhere and something snapped within him. "He can’t be dead!" the bereft twin shouted, "He just can’t be!" For a mortal man the grief and denial would have frozen him into immobility but Mylos was a Space Marine and his psyche had been resculpted and honed to guarantee only one reaction: fury. Mylos hurled himself at the closest target which was Toran, armoured gauntlets grabbing at pauldrons, shaking hard as he yelled, "This is your fault he was only there because of your clumsiness! Toran was shocked by this loss of control but knew they had no time to waste on such matters, the Defiler was almost upon them. He drew back his fist and hit Mylos hard in the faceplate, rocking him back, they stood there for an instant then Toran yelled "Get back into formation Marine! Move, move move!” Decades of ingrained training and hypno-indoctrination kicked in and without conscious thought Mylos began running. His movements had none of their former grace or power, more resembling a novice on an assault course, but at least he was moving. Toran ran in front of him, crushing a path through the vegetation for his comrade, trying to keep up with the rest of the squad. Suddenly he felt the ground giving way beneath his feet and pulled up sharply before he fell, he looked down and saw a narrow plant filled gorge dropping away before him. Beneath his boots was a steep crumbling slope of loose gravel, far too unstable for a Rhino APC or a bike… or a Defiler. “To me!” Toran shouted loudly, “This way, down here!” IXth squad redirection instantly, charging past Toran one by one to drop into the gorge, skidding and sliding down its perilous slopes as they kicked loose stones and soil. Toran was the last to go, watching Mylos tumble and roll down the slope in a cloud of dislodged shale, then he too dropped over the edge. His last sight was the trees being uprooted as the Defiler chased after them but then he fell into the valley and lost sight of it. At the bottom the squad gathered themselves together and took stock, they could hear the Daemon Engine above them roaring in frustration at their escape. Yet it could not descend the crumbling scree or depress its canons enough to target the bottom. It was left impotently behind as its prey escaped. Eventually the sounds faded as it turned and stamped away in vexation. The squad gathered together, brushing off dirt and gravel from their plate and taking stock of their situation, Furion was the first to speak asking, “Can we raise Captain Phalros or Ninth Company?” Persion shook his head and stated, “Vox signals are being blocked, perhaps by the environment perhaps by Daemonic interference.” Hevostan said, “We are lost, cut off from the Chapter and practically unarmed… What now?” "We can't just wait here for it to find a way into the gorge," said Toran, “We have to move.” “You are not in command runt!” growled Mylos, “Pylos is dead because of you.” Toran turned to face him saying “I never asked him to intervene.” Mylos ripped off his helm revealing a face torn between grief, sorrow and rage as he snarled, “I will not dishonour by twin by fighting alongside the cur who got him killed!” Furion stepped between them hold his hands up in an attempt to diffuse the situation as he calmly said, "Pylos accepted he would die in battle when he joined the Chapter, we all did. If it were anyone other than your twin who died you would know this to be true. You have seen friends and comrades die before, as have I, this is not how Space Marines revere their dead." “Do not talk to me of acceptance and reverence” growled Mylos, “Pylos deserved better than that, we swore we would die together in glory not be swatted like bugs!” “We do not have time to argue!” exclaimed Furion, “Your brother died in service to the Emperor, his name will be entered in the scrolls of honour, it is you who dishonour his memory with this outburst.” Hevostan stepped in and said, “There is only one way out of this gorge and the enemy probably knows it, if we don’t move now it will cut us off and delete us with ease.” Everybody looked at each other knowing this argument was far from over then Persion put one boot in front of the other and took point. Mylos followed him but as he pushed past Toran he whispered, “This isn’t over runt”. The others followed on, Toran falling into the rearguard, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. Maledicti Venator: Chapter 5 IXth squad proceeded at a fast march down the rubble-strewn gorge, Toran taking up the rearguard position where he was soon joined by Furion. "Are you functional?" asked the veteran. “I can't stop thinking about Pylos, how he could just be gone,” replied Toran, "Sergeant Deparas died in battle, fists raised in defiance as the Chaplains taught us, if only we all could know such glory. But Pylos died a meaningless death, how could the Divine Emperor allow such a thing?” Furion reached up and removed his helm revealing a face lined and scarred by a lifetime of war as he said, “You should prepare yourself young one, such a fate could befall any of us at any time. A miserable death is a possibility for any man, even a Space Marine.” “Surely not” protested Toran, “The Emperor Protects.” “Does he?” asked Furion, “Tell me if he is divine will he reach down from the skies and pluck bolt rounds from the air? Will he destroy your foes with blasts of divine lightning?” Toran was surprised by the questions he was hearing, from a Chapter Veteran no less and blurted out, “How can you say such things?” Furion shook his head sadly, "The Storm Heralds have come to embrace the divinity of the Emperor so few will admit this but in the oldest legends of the Chapter there are hidden truths. The Emperor never wanted to be worshipped as a God; in fact he expressly forbade worship of any form, the Astartes were forged for battle, not adulation. I tell you this not to test your faith but because I see you have a working mind in your head. You can see beyond dogma and scripture to understand why we fight, you have the makings of leadership in your veins." Toran looked over to make sure none the rest of the squad were paying attention then said, “I have heard rumours that there are only a few Space Marine Chapters who openly worship the Emperor, the Black Templars are such a force.” Furion shook his head, “The Black Templars express their devotion on the battlefield and are praised for it, our Chapter is not so blessed. Our conduct off the battlefield has grown to become a matter of contention with the Imperium. Our habits of building temples, proselytising to the masses, rooting out and burning of heretics. There are those inside the Chapter who believe that we are forcing conflict with the very Imperium we exist to serve." Toran mused upon what the Veteran was telling him and slowly said “I confess I am surprised by this and yet not shocked, I have always sung the hymns and chanted the prayers as expected but really it has never consumed my thoughts. I have bene told I am too free-thinking, that I tend to innovate, and I thought this was a symptom of that. At first I worried the Chaplains would declare me impious but somehow training and combat have always taken precedence. Know that I would die for my Emperor yet I must ask if we abandon our faith how can we claim to be any different from those Traitors who fell to the corruption of the Warp?” Furion smiled at this, “You have not understood the deeper meanings of the Codex Astartes, Roboute Guilliman wrote often of the need for the Theoretical and the Practical. Theory: We do not lack faith, we have faith in excess. Faith that our mission is Holy, not a man, not even the greatest man who ever lived. Practical: let the sound of your bolter be your hymn, the roar of a chainsword be your prayer and the blood of the Heretic be your sacrifice on the Altar of War.” “This is all fine and good,” replied Toran, “but why does it matter now?” Furion drew in a breath to say, ”You must come to understand our Chapter is diving onto the rocks of conflict with the wider Imperium and there are some among us who hunger for it. Many on Terra scheme to curb the autonomy of the Astartes and our own zealots are determined to break free. The restriction imposed upon the Adeptus Astartes by the High Lords of Terra and the Lex Imperialis are too confining for some, even as we speak war rages in the Badab Sector caused by this very issue. Unless something changes soon the Storm Heralds will be made an example of, only Chapter Master Gorgall's wisdom has steered us through the troubled waters so far." Toran looked askance at his squad mates, “Are there many in the Chapter who are aware of this?” Furion looked straight at him, “We are few and we grow rarer with every year, but those of us who do know have risen to high rank in the Chapter: High indeed. We are quietly committed to returning the Chapter to its true mission and we have seen in you the potential to play a great part in that.” “What of the Chaplains?” asked Toran warily. “Great men,” replied Furion, “Do not doubt their wisdom for a moment and they shall inspire glorious victories but while blind zeal is welcome in a Chaplain an officer must see the wider picture. You must realise victory is not granted by divine providence but hammered out with courage and intelligence. Speak the Prayers, repeat the Scriptures and keep the truth close to your heart as you rise through the ranks and one day you will be in a position to influence the Chapters’ course. I was once training to join the Chaplaincy but I could not keep my mouth shut, I refused to countenance the Emperor’s divinity. High Chaplain Samect informed me that I was unfit and that Ninth Company was a better use of my skills.” “Worry not,” replied Toran glibly, “When I am a Captain I will see you get a Sergeant’s rank and together we will see the path set straight.” Furion gave him the smile old men make when confronted by the boundless optimism of youth but merely replied, “I long ago gave up any such hope lad, but you will rise far once you understand not every battle is fought with bolter and blade.” He looked up and saw the other members of IXth squad had halted as the gorge opened up onto a plateau and engaged in a fierce argument, “Speaking of which, it looks like we might have an opportunity to demonstrate that truth right now.” As they approached the rest of the squad who were shouting back and forth, they had all removed their helms and were engaged in a heated debate. "We have to regroup with Ninth Company," Hevostan was saying, "That monster will rampage through every village it finds unless we can raise the alarm.” “You would have us retreat?” barked Persion angrily, “Did you learn nothing from Sergeant Deparas, he would never have fled before the foe!” “Deparas is gone and the facts are irrefutable,” stated Hevostan, “We are totally outclassed by that Defiler and we have had no contact with the Chapter. We can accomplish nothing by facing it again: we must withdraw.” "I will not retreat" shouted Mylos, "That beast has shed the blood of Storm Heralds and I will have vengeance!" "If you seek out that Daemon Engine you will die a pointless death," declared Hevostan, "We have nothing left that can harm it and not one of the Meltas have enough fuel left for a sustained burst." "Our learned brother is right" stated Furion stepping into the argument, "To die here would satisfy only hollow pride, the mission must always take priority over personal glory. Our objective is to re-establish contact with Ninth Company and alert them to the threat." "Pylos is dead!" shouted Mylos furiously, "Deparas is dead, you would see them left unavenged, to retreat now would be to dishonour their memories!" "I agree with Mylos," declared Persion, "I want a piece of that fiend." “You will die," said Hevostan, "Pointlessly and without honour." "I am not afraid to die," said Persion with a morbid smile. Suddenly Toran yelled, "Cowards! Blasphemers!" shocking the others who had forgotten the youth was there. "Are we not Astartes?" he continued, "Have you forgotten that we have a duty to the Emperor, not only to stand against his foes but to defeat them! You would have us choose between shameful retreat or futile death but the Emperor created us to be the bulwark against the terror, the unbreakable shield, the force that on the day of certain defeat knows only victory. I choose to stand here and now and I intend not only to fight this foe but to win!" The squad was humbled by his words then Furion spoke up and said, "To think that it takes the words of a youth to remind a Space Marine of his duty, we are shamed and must pay penance for our doubts once we return to the Fortress-Monastery." Persion slowly looked the young Space Marine up and down then a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he said, "You sound like you have a plan lad.” "Hevostan", said Toran turning to face him directly, "You said there was not enough fuel in any of the Combi-Meltas for another burst." "Yes I did" replied Hevostan unsure where this was heading. "But what if you drained the remaining fuel from all of them and pooled everything into one gun?" said Toran. Hevostan seemed stunned by the idea, he slowly mulled over the concept then hesitantly said "It is... possible. Regrettably I have none of the Sacred Vestments here for such a ritual, the weapon's spirits would be grossly offended by such disrespect and we would lose a great deal of fuel in the process." "But we would gain enough for one full shot?" asked Toran to which Hevostan reluctantly nodded, "Then we will perform whatever rites of contrition the Machine Spirits demand... after we return to the Chapter." Furion raised an eyebrow quizzically and said, “What’s the plan?” Toran turned to the waiting squad and explained, "We have literally one shot to end this; here is how we make it count..." Maledicti Venator Chapter 6 High up the sides of the rubble-strewn gorge IXth squad hunkered down, half burying themselves in the debris until only the muzzles of bolters protruded, each man had but a single clip but they were prepared to fight regardless. They had buried themselves in loose scree, only helms and bolter protruding. They awaited the arrival of the Defiler, gambling that the monstrous beast had their scent and would seek to catch them in the mouth of the gorge. The plan was simple; IXth squad was positioned just where the gorge petered out back into the teeming jungle and had laid a trap where it began to narrow. In the crumbling slopes they had laid down the last two Frag grenades, set for remote detonation. The explosives were small but Hevostan had exactly calculated the precise positions needed to produce a landslide that would bury the Defiler in the rubble. Once immobilised the squad would rain down fire and draw its attention so Furion, who was carefully concealed below, could close to point-blank range and unleash the Combi-Melta. Mylos had tried to claim the honour of the kill but the squad had rebuffed him, his discipline was in tatters and could not be trusted with such an important role. Toran looked over to where Mylos was bunkered down, it had been a tense discussion for he was determined to avenge his twins' death and it had taken all of them united to convince the bereft marine that Furion should take the shot. Toran was worried about Mylos, he had attempted to speak to his battle brother, to put the bad blood between them to rest, but the older Astartes had refused. Toran was young but knew if nothing was done to alleviate the discord it would fester and sour his soul, sadly Mylos did not see things the same way and thought only vengeance could ease his pain. Toran was snapped out of his musing by a closing series impacts and the crashing of trees heralding the arrival of the Daemon engine. With skittering spider-like movements it came up out of the treeline and approached the entrance to the gorge, but there it stopped. If anything it was even more repulsive than at their last encounter, dripping vile fluids from its fleshy limbs and its stench was so rancid even flies were driven away. Toran clutched his bolter tight and muttered under his breath, "Come on, come on, you piece of Frak," but it just sat there panning its upper body left and right, almost like a predator taking a scent. The squad was cunningly concealed from every known form of visual and auspex detection but Toran realised this beast was not whole of the material plane; somehow its ethereal senses were detecting a trap. Before he could do anything about it the Defiler rocked back and a belch of fire signalled the firing of the battlecanon. The shell sailed up high above the squad and impacted the slope, sending out a tremor that shook pebbles free to slide down over and around them. Toran held his nerve, clutching his bolter as it fired again and again but on the third shot something changed. The fierce vibrations shook the ground and triggered the Frag grenades prematurely in a blaze of light, noise and spraying shards. The explosives set off a landslide as expected but combined with the disturbance created by the shells the result was far larger than predicted and off course, heading straight for Furion's position. In a flash Furion broke cover, desperately sprinting as he tried to get out of the way of the way of the tons of stone and rock unexpectedly hurtling towards him. Toran yelled, "Covering Fire!" The squad rose up from the dirt, unleashing their bolters at the foe but they were at extreme range and the bolts could not even irritate it. Furion veered towards the Defiler, still trying to fulfil his mission even though it meant certain death. The beast regarded him contemptuously, with one shot from its cannon it could obliterate the lone marine but it just sat watching him approach. At its heart was imprisoned a denizen of the Warp and it would never be satisfied with a clean kill when it could instead make its prey suffer. Furion charged straight at the Defiler, one space marine versus a Daemon engine, it was a truly heroic charge worthy of being engraved on the Chapters' Rock of Heroes. He almost made it. Just before Furion could reach Melta range he was engulfed by a mountain of shale and rubble, sweeping him along as it battered at his thick plate. Had he been caught in the full path of the rockslide he would have been crushed but his sprint had taken him right to the edge and he ended up merely buried under the detritus. Leaving only his helm and his right arm exposed as he tried to hold the Combi-Melta above the debris. With a roar of fury, Mylos abandoned his cover, running down the slope straight at the Daemon Engine with his bolter spraying full auto. Bolts ricocheted off the thick armour plate, the hail carved deep scores and cracked Icons of the Dark Gods until with a final clunk the Bolter ran dry. Mylos didn’t hesitate, dropping his bolter to draw his combat blade as if he would stab the war machine in the heart. The Defiler sneered down at the approaching Marine then levelled its autocannons and unleashed a full barrage. Ceramite cracked and splintered under the hail of shells and Mylos was hurled backwards by the force of the blows, landing in the dirt in a cloud of dust. One shell strayed low and smashed through his thigh plating, bone and sinew blew out and Mylos yelled, not in agony but in anger as his leg was left hanging by a tangle of veins and arteries. The Defiler stomped forwards snapping its massive claws, clearly wanting the pleasure of the kill up close. It loomed over Mylos, savouring the moment as it prepared to crush him like an egg but then just as it reached out to scoop him up it spied another shape moving. While the beast was humiliating his brethren Toran was up and running, not at the monster but instead headed straight for Furion and his Combi-Melta. Autocannon rounds chased him across the slope, shards of stone and splinters of rock nipping at his heels from the near misses; he only redoubled his pace pushing his transhuman body to its limits until his vision blurred and went red at the edges. Furion saw him coming and with his one free arm raised the cumbersome weapon and threw it awkwardly to Toran who snatched it from the air with both hands. Toran veered off, heading straight at the monster, which roared its defiance as it suddenly realised the true threat. The time for games was over and it levelled its battlecanon ready to obliterate its foe with one shot. Toran was exposed without cover and at such short range it could not miss, he ran on regardless and looked his enemy straight in the eye as he readied his soul for death. It was at that moment that Mylos drew back his arm and reversed his grip on his combat blade, he cried "We are the Emperors Storm!" then threw his knife point first at the Defiler's faceplate. The angle was poor, the target obscured and his positioning was all wrong: it did not matter, for the silver knife spun in the air like a bullet from a gun to sail majestically through the narrow slit into the monsters' one remaining eye. The beast roared in true pain and lurched upwards, exposing its underbelly for a heartbeat. Toran threw himself headlong under the massive claws, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck twitch as they slammed shut above his head. He rolled onto his back and brought the Melta up, he saw a large scar in the metalwork and realised it was the damage wrought by Deparas’ last grenade. He angled the weapon to point right at the weakened armour and then snarled "We are His Wrath!" as he unleashed the Melta’s fury. A ray of fusion energy shot forth, searing through the metal with ease, cutting and cauterising flesh like a laser scalpel. Gears melted and blood boiled as the heat ray bored through the monster like a worm through a rotten apple. Toran was engulfed in burning heat backwash and drops of molten metal fell onto his chest, the paint of his armour bubbled and cracked in the inferno. He was near blinded by the furnace right in front of his face but he held steady and shoved the blazing Melta further into the gaping wound. The Defiler lurched upwards, flames leaping from every chink in its armour and around every rivet as the internal organs cooked and sizzled like fat on the fire. The flesh seared from the bones and drive chains snapped, then the heat punched through into the ammunition magazine. The stack of battlecanon shells erupted all at once and with a final scream of agony the Defiler blew apart at the seams, fountaining black bile and fleshy gears up into the air. A revolting spray of blood and engine oil was showered over the area and razor-sharp splinters of metal flew over the gorge impacting into the ground faster than stubber rounds from a gun. The whole Daemon Engine shook and convulsed, then there was a flash of sickening unlight created by an inverted bolt of pure darkness leaping up into the heavens. Everybody present heard a bestial laugh not in their ears but rather in their minds. There was a sense of dissipation, like a rain after a heatwave, as something truly foul left its metal prison and sank once more into the otherness of the Warp. Light returned and there was a blessed sense of cleanness to the world. The heavy mass of inert metal that was once a Defiler sat dead and impotent, billowing smoke and hissing as it cooled. Then with inhuman swiftness the fleshy components withered and rotted, contracting into themselves, curling the legs back under its body like a dead spider. The machine teetered under its own weight as its support disappeared, then it collapsed to the ground with an almighty crash. The squad could only look in dismay as it crushed young Toran under its bulk. Maledicti Venator 7 Peace settled over the battlefield and as the cloud of dust settled Hevostan and Persion descended the slopes, bolters trained on the wreckage lest this prove some final deceit. As they approached they could see it was clearly dead and without speaking they split up to help their fallen comrades, Persion went to attend to Mylos' wounds and Hevostan began digging Furion out of the rubble. The aged veteran was wedged tight and it took several minutes of effort to free him. Finally he emerged covered in grey detritus and turned to face the wreck which covered young Toran's grave. Hevostan saw where he was looking and said, "A remarkable feat, the statistical probabilities against his success were nigh infinite" Furion removed his helmet, revealing a grizzled face marked with sorrow and said, "Taking down a Defiler with one shot, an astounding feat for a First Company Veteran but to be done by a youth barely out of the Scout Company." "Indeed, his life may have been short but it was well spent," replied Hevostan a hint of sad pride creeping into his voice. "He shall not be forgotten" declared Hevostan, "We shall speak to the High Chaplain and petition that his name shall be carved into the Rock of Heroes. His story shall live on to inspire future generations..." He didn't get to finish the sentence because a sharp knocking noise suddenly began to emanate from under the wreck, it was a simple repetitive bang but it was still a sign of life. The pair of brothers were already in motion before the banging faded, crowding around the jagged panels and piles of pistons peering underneath. Revealed below it was apparent that the Defiler's curling legs had tipped it ever so slightly to one side creating a tiny triangle of space under one knee joint and crammed into that space was Toran. He must have rolled there milliseconds before the machine collapsed but he was jammed between the pistons and the bulk of the undercarriage. His arms were crushed into his sides and he could not move, while his helmet was cracked wide open revealing a face covered in ash. The pressure must have been intense for his breastplate was buckling, pressing down onto his chest making it nearly impossible to breathe. It was obvious that the only way he could have made the noise was to repeatedly slam his cracked helmet's faceplate into an armour panel. Hevostan pulled a microplasma cutter from his belt and used the pencil-thin beam to start cutting away portions of debris enlarging the space as Furion bent down and yelled, "Hold on lad! Just keep breathing, we're going to get you out of there!" It was painstakingly delicate work, if Hevostan cut one wrong piece of metal the whole wreck would come crashing down and instantly kill Toran. Eventually Hevostan cleared as much debris as he possibly dared and they reached under to grab Toran’s pauldrons but something further in must have snagged him for they could not pull him free. They heaved again but the young Marine was truly stuck, Hevostan turned his head and said forlornly “It is no good, we cannot save him”. “No!” Furion shouted “I won’t leave him!” as he leapt up and grabbed the wreckage with both hands. He pushed for all he was worth to lift the incredible weight, muscles burned and armour servos creaked with the strain but it would not shift. It was an impossible task, if they had ten Space Marines they could lift the tons of debris with ease, with five they could maybe still budge it but he was just one Marine all alone. Furion let out a roar of denial as he redoubled his efforts pushing his ancient Mark III armour to the absolute limit, servos shrieked in protest and fibre-bundle muscles bulged to breaking point but he would not relent. Furion poured everything he had into the effort and cried, “Gnnaaarrgh!” then slowly, impossibly, one end of the wreck lifted a single inch. A moment later it lifted another inch then on the third Hevostan pulled hard and dragged Toran free, a second before Furion collapsed in exhaustion, dropping the debris with an almighty crash. Toran lay there choking as Hevostan pulled off his shattered helm. He saw the youth's grey pallor and struggle to breathe then set to work unclasping the armour locks. He released the buckled chestplate’s seals one by one in a doctrinal manner, chanting sacred litanies to the Machine, but then he looked at the youth’s ashen complexion and muttered a curse under his breath before simply grabbing the armour with both hands and ripping the offending plate free. Toran’s back arched as he desperately gasped in a deep breath then he began coughing out all the dust and sludge that his Multi-lung had kept from choking him to death. He lay on his side, throwing up black ooze from his chest and sucking in sweet air. His implanted Oolitic kidney and Multi-lung went to work restoring his system but it still was almost a full minute before the Space Marine was able to sit up and stop coughing. He looked up at his comrades and nodded saying weakly, "My thanks, brothers." Furion held out a hand to help him up saying, "It is we who should be thanking you, not only did you display true courage and selflessness you reminded us of our duty to the Emperor. You have demonstrated what it means to be an Astartes." Toran looked slightly embarrassed at the high praise and thumped Furion on the pauldron in a brotherly manner, then they turned to look at the wreckage as the older Marine said, “You did an incredible thing here I am not sure even Captain Phalros will believe it.” “Do not worry on that count” claimed Hevostan collecting his tools, “I have detailed recordings in my armour logs.” Toran and Furion both looked at him then a laugh began to build in their chests, it emerged first as a chuckle then as a deep booming roar. Hevostan looked at the pair oddly, it really wasn’t that funny but all the stress and adrenaline of their fight had to find a release so they laughed until tears formed in their eyes. They laughed honestly and well as humble brothers until they had exhausted their stress then they shook themselves back to normalcy. There was the sound of booted feet approaching and their other brothers joined them. Persion was propping up Mylos under one shoulder, for his entire right leg was missing. Thick Larramaran cells covered the stump and his combat blade was scarlet where he had clearly used it to hack off his own useless limb. Toran held out his hand and said: "I owe you my thanks too brother, your fine aim saved my life." Mylos regarded the outstretched palm for a long second then knocked it away with the back of one hand snarling, "That was for Pylos, not for you", before limping off with Persion. They watched the pair depart but saw behind his back Persion lifted one thumb as a gesture of respect. Furion turned to Toran and said, ”Don't take it personally lad, his anger is at himself for not dying." Toran watched them depart and said, "I don't think Mylos sees it that way." Furion replied, "Don't fret lad, the Chaplains will attend to Mylos' spiritual wounds just as soon as the Apothecaries fit him with a new leg." Hevostan bent and picked up the battered breastplate saying, “We better move out before Ninth Company sends out search parties.” The others fell in behind him, instinctively following his lead and Furion put one hand on Toran’s shoulder saying in a friendly tone, “You better prepare yourself for when we return lad, your name will be echoing throughout the Chapter for this deed. The eyes of the Masters will be upon you and you may rise high in the Emperor’s service.” Then he cuffed him playfully around the back of the head and declared, "Just don't let it go to your head." The End
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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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