AuthorM.S Lovegrove Storm Heralds Reading List: Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget, Finis Fide. Tergum Cultro Chapter 1 965.M41 The noise of the artillery barrage battered her ears, pounding like someone was beating her skull with a mallet. The detonations shook her bones as she clung to the wet mud, pressing her body down into the bottom of the trench as she prayed for survival. Above her head showers of mud and blood fountained high, falling upon her in a cloying mix of substances that clung to her shoulders. The smell was incredible, a mix of wet earth, entrails and voided bowels that described the deaths of her men. She knew she should be leading her troopers forward but it was impossible, Lieutenant Marisa was pinned by the artillery barrage and could not even see her platoon, let alone lead them into battle. Marisa didn’t know how long she lay in the filthy mud, all she knew was the world shaking as death tried to take her. Yet eventually the thunder of explosions moved on, raining down on another section of the trenches and she was able to drag herself to her knees. What arose from the filth was a middle-aged woman, with a muscled frame made hard by years in the Imperial Guard. Her face was broad, her nose wide and she was missing several front teeth. Perhaps once she may have been attractive, in a rough fashion, but those years were behind her, leaving a hardened warrior more suited to bellowing at green recruits than anything else. Her uniform was caked in filth but she brushed off the worse, revealing the patch of the 011th Caminus Hussars on her padded flak jacket and the brass bars of a Lieutenant on her shoulders.
Marisa’s head was ringing as she looked down the trench but she spied none of her men nearby. She did spot her peaked cap laying upside down and put it on without thought, only to grimace as wet mud poured over her head. She took it off and knocked the mud out before replacing it, then checked her las-pistol and sabre were in her belt. They weren’t fancy weapons like those her Colonel liked to show off, merely crude and brutal instruments of war. They weren’t intended to impress courtiers at grand ballroom dances and victory feast but to end lives as efficiently as possible. The notches on her sabre attested that she had done plenty of that in her time. Marisa was growing more aware that she was engaging in distraction activity, refusing to accept reality and needed to get her head straight. She forced herself to stand up and glanced over the parapet, wary of enemy fighters nearby. What she was beheld was the detritus of war, a series of trenches dug into the ground outside the slums of a city, one she knew all too well. Under a shimmering void shield lay the city of Arun, capital of the planet Caminus. It was the heart of this drab mining world, boasting the Governor’s Palace the Ecclesiarchal temple, the noble’s mansions and of course the Adeptus Mechanicus’ forge-fanes, so many that they nearly overran the city itself. The city boasted a high defensive wall, impervious to anything short of Macro-weaponry but it did not protect the whole urban centre. The wall had been built around the heart of the city to protect what had then been its perimeter, but centuries of growth had seen the slums outside grow to epic proportions. The nobles hadn’t cared if the filthy masses had been left unprotected by the Inner Wall, so long as their homes were safe. This then was Arun, the only real settlement of note on Caminus other than the endless mine workings. It had been Marisa’s home once, before she sailed off to the stars, but now the flags of rebellion flew high over its ramparts. The people of Caminus had broken faith with rulers of Mankind, sick and tired of sending their mineral wealth to the hungry manufactorums of the Mechanicus and their young to the armies of Terra. Imperial authorities weren’t about to allow that, they had sent a reprisal force to put down this rebellion. Unfortunately the attack hadn’t gone well; the Imperial Guard were stuck in outer trenches and being slaughtered. What should have been a straightforward assault into the heart of the enemy had been caught in miles of razorwire, vicious crossfires from exceedingly well-placed dugouts and hull-down tanks, making the Guard pay in blood for every metre. Marisa’s regiment hadn’t reached the wall; they hadn’t even reached the slums. Then just as she thought it couldn’t get any worse an artillery barrage more powerful than the wrath of Rogal Dorn had come out of nowhere. Marisa realised she was distracting herself again, thinking of anything but the carnage erupting around her. She shook off her daydreaming and forced her boots to move, placing her feet one in front of the other. Slowly she walked down the trench, hearing the battle rage on. She stepped over bodies of dead soldiers and she cursed to know her own people had done this, she couldn’t understand what had driven her people to this madness, what brand of ignorance or corruption had wormed its way into their hearts. Explosions and screams rang through the smoky air, mixed with the howling of distant guns and the grinding of tanks. Her path took her past a burnt-out Leman Russ tank which was nose down in the trench, Imperial or rebel it was impossible to tell so blackened was it. She climbed over its metal bulk, still hot from the fierce battle and beyond it she found a gaggle of men, about a score huddling in the trench. Marisa pulled up as lasrifles pointed at her but they fell away as the men recognised her and voices called out in relief. They were grey-faced and filthy but under their helmets were faces she knew like the back of her hand. Marisa breathed out as she realised her platoon hadn’t wandered too far and said, “There you are.” A trooper name Berh answered, “We got separated in the barrage. We thought you’d bought a one way ticket to the Golden Throne.” "Obviously not," Marisa retorted, "So you've been hiding here, instead of seeking new orders. Where's Cendric?” A man at the back with a bulky vox-set on his back called out, “Here Lieutenant!” Marisa snapped, “Don’t just stand there, get a channel to Headquarters and tell them we’re pinned here. Request new orders.” Cendric pulled a bulky headset to his ear and began fiddling with dials attached to his belt. Meanwhile Marisa directed the rest of the platoon into some form of order, facing outwards with lasrifles poking over the lintel of the trench. She wasn’t happy with their lack of heavy firepower but it was all they had. She stepped past Berh and the trooper asked, “Lieutenant, we weren’t expecting serious resistance. Why didn’t recon warn us?” Marisa sighed, “They may not have known, this is a popular uprising, the civilians weren’t supposed to have any fight in them. I reckon they raided the Cogboy’s Forge-fanes for guns, but someone trained them how to use ‘em.” Berh hissed, “Damned the Brass hats and their fancy braiding. Someone frakked up and we get dropped in this Dung-storm.” “Careful with that talk,” Marisa warned him, “Criticising the Lord Generals will get you shot by a Commissar.” Berh didn’t seem to care and from further down the line Trooper Kalle spat, “Bloody rebels, I can’t believe our own people turned on the Imperium. What could make a planet betray the Emperor?” “We haven’t,” Marisa snapped irately, “We are the true Caminus, not that rebel scum. We remain loyal and we’ll make this right. Caminus won’t turn so long as one brave heart of the Hussars fights on!” It was a nice speech and it put some steel back into the spines of the troopers but barely has she said it when Behr yelled, “Movement!” Marisa’s head snapped about and she saw a line of men in thick long coats and pot helms advancing across the ground between the parallel trenches. They moved with sure confidence and bore lasrifles like they knew how to use them. Rebels, coming to reclaim their trenches. Marisa realised the artillery barrage had been cover for a counter-attack; an infantry advance had been hot on its heels and was headed the loyalists' way. “Open fire!” Marisa yelled and the distinctive snap-hiss of las-shots rang out. Troopers stood to the parapet and discharged their weapons in sprays of lasfire, scything into the oncoming rebels. A halfdozen rebels went down to the first volley but they reacted with crisp discipline, diving into cover and returning fire. Las-shots peppered the lintel, spraying flecks of wood and mud into the faces of the defenders. A vicious crossfire sprang up, both sides trading fire in the muddy hell of the trenches. “Pick your targets!” Marisa yelled as she put a las-pistol shot into the heart of a burly man. Return volleys overwhelmed her position, forcing her to duck lest her brains be blown out. The defenders had the advantage of position and cover, using the trench to their advantage, but the rebels outnumbered them many times over and they laid down covering fire for their comrades to advance in pairs. Marisa knew the defence was about to be overwhelmed, the rebels would breach her line in minutes and then roll up the trench with ease. She turned to Cendric, intending to shout orders but suddenly the vox-operator jerked back from the lintel, a smoking hole where his face had been. Instantly she was in motion, diving to his side and ripping the headset off. Thankfully the vox-set was undamaged and ignoring the corpse of her trooper she clamped the set to her ear and yelled, “Come in! Can anybody hear me?!” A crisp and rim voice replied, “Who is this?” Marisa bit down on a curse and stated, “Lieutenant Marisa, Platoon nineteen requesting reinforcements in grid sector six-three.” The voice replied, “Lieutenant, you are behind schedule. Your force should be in sector two-one by now.” Marisa’s jaw dropped and as the lasfire flew overhead she snarled, “Don’t you know what happening out here?! it’s a Frakking counter-attack, we’re being overrun!” The officer at the other end didn’t seem to understand as he replied, “Lord General Ferandin has labelled any talk of a counter-attack an attempt to subvert to morale. Cease such talk immediately and advance to your designated coordinates or be reported to the Commissariat for insubordination.” Marisa pressed the headset to her ear as torrents of lasfire nearly deafened her and cursed, “Listen, you worthless Grox-fondler. If we don’t get reinforcements immediately the whole grid sector will fall. We’re dying out here you mother-loving idiot! ” Whatever the officer’s response would have been was cut off as waves of static washed through the vox. Marisa winced as the noise scraped over her ears and made her teeth clench. Yet she refused to pull the set away as she cried, “Come in. We need assistance. Can anybody hear me? Is there anybody there?” Suddenly the static cut out and a deep voice, sonorous and growling as she had never heard before rumbled, “To all Imperial units, hold fast and prepare for reinforcements. Stand your ground soldiers of the Divine-Emperor, For He has heard your prayers and sent His angels to aid you. The Adeptus Astartes shall deliver death unto the rebel scum.” Marisa couldn’t believe her ears and lifted her eyes to the grey sky, seeing the ashen clouds above swirl and part. From their billowing mists shot forth a volley of tiny projectiles, travelling earthward at fantastic speed. Drop-pods: orbital drop pods trailing the fires of re-entry in their wake as they fell into the midst of the battlefield. Marisa’s heart surged with joy as she cried, “Fight on men, fight on! The Space Marines are with us, the Angels of Death have come!” Tergum Cultro Chapter 2 The mad buffeting of re-entry faded, leaving behind the strange weightless serenity of free fall. It was an odd sensation for one accustomed to the mass of Ceramite armour and Genhanced bones, rarely experienced even for one could live for centuries. Void warfare was its own bizarre experience but free-fall was something else entirely. The howling of the wind, the spinning countdown of the readouts and the dark gloom of the Drop-pod culminated in a strange world unto itself and Sergeant Toran drank in the moment, knowing it would be over all too soon. Clamped upright in his restraint bars Toran cut a towering silhouette. His armour was blue in hue, with grey pauldrons and the spiral in a starburst icon of the Storm Heralds. His plate bore the signs of battle yet every nick had been lovingly restored and its colours shone with polish while various campaign badges adorned the edge of his armour. At his belt was a Chainsword and a bolt pistol, each a treasured relic of the Chapter and his helm concealed the burning glow of an Augmetic implant buried in the ruin of his right eyesocket. Toran was the embodiment of a proud Space Marine, heir to a legacy of five thousand years of service and burning with the righteous authority of the Emperor's mandate. The numbers in his helm’s vision blurred as they counted down and Toran cast his gaze over his squad. Locked into their restraint bars the Brothers of IXth squad tended to their gear with solemn reverence. In addition to Toran there was Furion, Persion, Novak, Daite, Ophelian Jediah and Halis Paur. Their heads were low as they intoned blessings to the spirits of their weapons, utterly unconcerned that they were hurtling for the ground at terminal velocity. It was a dignified and hallowed moment, the warriors seeking to hone their zeal to its sharpest edge and summon the fires of anger in a manner practised since the dawn of the Imperium. Sadly that reverent air was broken as Brother Novak called out, “Daite, Daite! Got any visions for us?” Everybody groaned as the impudent warrior shattered the moment and Toran snapped, “Novak, can’t you act with a shred of dignity for once?” “Not if I can help it,” Novak quipped. Brother Ophelian muttered snidely, “If he put half as much effort into fighting as he did joking he’d be the Champion of Ninth Company already.” Brother Persion spoke up, “Don’t put ideas in his head, it’s so big it barely fits in his helm.” “Good idea,” Daite added, “We can use his fat head for cover.” Novak didn’t seem abashed by the teasing as he said, “Daite, you didn’t answer my question.” “No,” Daite snapped testily, “I have had no visions about today.” Toran sighed under his helm for that was IXth squad. They had been his comrades through fire and war, brave and stalwart souls to a man, yet also a bunch of misfits and reprobates who were always earning some reprimand or another. Yet when the Storm Heralds Chapter needed something demolished there were no finer demolition experts, a fact that had earned them five precious combi-bolters, rare and treasured relics begrudgingly trusted to them by the Forgemaster. Levity aside Toran was certain that when the bullets started flying the squad would prove deadly. Suddenly a chime rang out and stern Brother Furion called, “Thirty seconds to landing, everybody make ready and Novak shut up.” Toran saw alerts flashing red in his helm’s displays and he announced, “We will land in the centre of the battlefield, into the heart of war. Gird your souls for battle and make Ninth Company proud. For Terra and the memory of Roboute Guilliman!” A moment later the Drop pod’s machine spirit sensed the ground surging upwards and it triggered the retro rockets. The sensation of weightlessness vanished as an almighty kick slammed into him, jarring his reinforced bones. Toran snarled as the foot of a god pressed down on him, insane deceleration causing his body to groan and his blood to flow torpidly in his veins. Only his genhanced frame allowed him to survive a force that would have shattered the bones of a mortal man. No one save a Space Marine could survive such a violent landing for only the Adeptus Astartes deserved the title Angel of Death. Then the pod slammed into the ground and Toran forgot the gentleness of a moment earlier as a force like being kicked by a Titan war machine smashed him into his restraints. For an instant blackness threatened to overwhelm him as his body fought to retain consciousness and all he could hear was the screeching of the pod’s frame as it screamed like it was coming apart at the seams. The trauma lasted for a single moment, then Toran was in motion. He sprang out of his restraints and dove for the door shouting, "Out, out, out!" The explosive bolts around the doors blew and the hatches fell away, opening the pod, like the petals of a flower. Toran’s chainsword and bolt pistol were already in his hands as he charged forth and he was the first to set foot upon the surface of Caminus. What awaited him was a vision of hell, a smoking charred battlefield filled with fire and death. Around a grey city ranged defensive earthworks, trenches, barricades and redoubts filled with battling mortals. Explosions walked up the zigzagging lines and blood flowed freely as men fell in gory heaps. Tanks rumbled through the smoke, firing at unseen targets, only to be blown apart by return volleys. The noise was deafening and the sight of shredded bodies was gut-wrenching but to Toran it was his natural state of being, as comforting to a Space Marine as a man coming home. As IXth squad piled out Toran declared, “It seems the Heretics started without us.” "How rude," Novak retorted as he drew a thin rapier blade, "Let us express our displeasure in person." Toran scoured the area and he spied their objective, a battery of Earthshaker artillery platforms, surrounded by smoke. Plumes of flame burped out of the long barrels in sequence, sending heavy shells flying to the distance where they would bring death and destruction to the Imperial Guard army assaulting the city. His squad were at the rear of the trench works, at the edge of the urban slum of the city which shimmered under the umbrella of a void shield. Yet the Drop pod had deposited the squad almost on top of the artillery and they were but a short distance away. Toran led his Marines into a fast sprint, covering the ground in moments as he closed on the artillery, knowing that every second counted. Even now other drop pods would be slamming into the ground, unleashing dozens of Storm Heralds onto the battlefield. Toran had to silence that artillery before the rebels saw the threat and directed overwhelming firepower onto them. There was no more quipping or levity in the squad, now they were focussed and deadly. Smoke enveloped them as they approached and Toran grinned under his helm, the rebels were only human, they would be blinded by smoke and deafened by the thunder of their own guns, left unaware of the threat closing upon them. Toran’s autosenses were not so impeded and he made out the first rebel silhouette with ease. It was a man in a long coat, with a pot helm and he was struggling to shift shells up a short firing step, completely oblivious to the transhuman giant closing upon him. Toran’s arm swept about the Chainsword roared as its metal teeth blurred into life. Spinning razorblades made contact with flesh and chewed it apart with ease, spraying showers of blood and viscera over the area, splattering Toran’s noble plate with flecks of unworthy Heretic blood. The rebel never saw what killed him, he died with his spinal column ripped out, falling to the ground nearly cleaved in twain as he let loose a brief scream. The other rebel’s finally noticed something when the shrill scream cut through the din of battle but before they could organise any form of response the Storm Heralds were upon them. Novak leapt into the ranks of the rebels, rapier a smear of light as he tore out throats and disembowelled stunned soldiers. He danced through the bewildered foes like a beautiful storm, leaving a trail of bleeding foes in his wake. Furion was in his wake, his thick Mark III armour lending strength to his knife arm. His blows were functional but direct and his sheer strength meant anyone he hit was dead before they hit the ground. The others piled in, knives flashing as they tore the rebels apart, the feeble mortals barely able to touch the shining giants striding among them. Nothing could stay the Space Marine’s retribution, they had speed, strength and skill and with the element of surprise on their side they made swift work of the killing. Toran spied a lone man trying to pounce on Persion from above but the Sergeant casually lifted his bolt pistol and shot the man from his perch, then the fight was over. The Sergeant wasted not a moment to cry, “Quickly Novak, Jediah and Halis guard the perimeter. Furion, Ophelian, Persion and Daite spike the guns!” The squad split up as the designated Brothers drew melta bombs and began fixing them to the towering barrels of the Earthshakers. Toran left them to it, stepping away to watch the approaches and making sure they weren’t surprised in turn. The smoke was clearing now the guns were silent and Toran could see the battlefield opening up. The trenches were bathed in blood and viscera, the bodies of men and women strewn freely in all directions. Yet without the suppressing fire of the artillery the rebel’s resistance was wilting. Platoons of pot-helmed men were retreating from the trenches and gun-nests, fleeing waves of vengeful Guardsmen. The rebels were racing towards the sheltering confines of the city, and its looming Inner Wall but before they could reach the first hab block they were intercepted by blue giants. From the swirling bedlam of battle the Storm Heralds strode forth, marching proudly into the fray with bolters booming. Toran watched as Tactical Squads of Sixth and Seventh Companies laid down complicated crossfires, catching frantic men in Codex prescribed fire patterns. The centre of the rebel mass was blown apart by a merciless onslaught and they broke around that bulwark like waves upon a promontory. Yet as they fled for the flanks two Devastator squads of Ninth Company brought Heavy Bolters to bear, their hammering fusillades scything down troopers and grenadiers by the hundred. Reversing tanks were torn asunder by dashing missiles and heavy weapons teams were reduced to clouds of red mist. The proud heroes of mankind stood firm and blazed away with aloof disdain, tearing the pathetic Heretic army to shreds. “It is glorious,” Toran breathed in wonder as he saw the Chapter at work. But then Novak added, “The day isn’t done yet, look, it is First Captain Athead.” Toran focused his vision and saw it was indeed the First Captain himself, the finest warrior of the finest Company. There was not a Storm Herald alive who did not admire Athead, the living legend who defeated the last great Psybrid incursion, threw back Waaagh Rokfist and denied the birth of the Daemon Plaguechild at Veltri. Athead was without peer among the heroes of the First and he was the right hand of the Chapter Master. Toran watched in awe as the First Captain strode into the midst of the retreating rebels, his magnificent Tartaros pattern Terminator plate carrying him over the uneven ground with a sure stride. In hands was a magnificent Electro-magnetic longsword, the legendary Sword of Thiel and he wielded it with consummate skill, destroying all in his path. At his sides marched squads of the Terminator elite, their Indomitus Pattern armours more cumbersome than his but no less potent. Storm bolters flared, power fists crackled and Assault cannons roared and the mass of rebels came apart like wheat under a threshing machine. “Such peerless wrath, such admirable slaughter,” Toran uttered in awe as the eleven warriors decimated hundreds of rebels in moments, “It is a privilege to watch them fight.” Led by the First Captain the slaughter was brief and the field soon belonged to the Storm Heralds. The Squads reformed and hastily pressed on, disappearing into the outskirts of the city. In their wake the Imperial Guard reformed, chasing their saviours into the thick of war. With the battlefield secured the sky filled with bulky shadows, orbital transporters starting the laborious process of dragging down a forward base from their Strike Cruiser in orbit. Toran realised he was being left behind and yelled, “Make haste Brothers, the battle moves on while we linger here. Blow those guns and move out, we must grind these rebels into the dust!” Tergum Cultro Chapter 3 The thunder of guns had ceased and the battlefield rang only with the screams of the dead and dying. Injured men lay in piles, clutching their wounds and calling out for medicaes. Field Chirugeons rushed to respond, helping those who could be helped and administering the Emperor's Peace to those who were beyond help. For the Heretic survivors there was no such mercy, no matter that many were ignorant or deluded, these soldiers had taken up arms against the Golden Throne and for that there was no forgiveness other than a swift knife to the throat. The Imperial Guard had advanced from the outer earthworks into the slums of the city, pressing forward in a meatgrinder assault against rebel reserves scattered throughout the city. Far behind them the battlefield grew cold and gloomy, cast over by the shadow of death and the fear of the Adeptus Astartes. On the very edge of the earthworks a forward base had been established. It had been dropped from orbit and erected in under an hour, creating a secure bastion upon the enemy's very doorstep. It was ringed by razorwire and gun-servitor emplacements, with eldritich Auspex arrays and vox-masts dotted throughout. There was a looming Stronghold, plasma generators, landing pads, Chapel-Barracks, Machine Cult shrines, armouries, Apothecarions and a gold-encrusted reliquary-templum. Within that templum Sergeant Toran knelt before an altar with his helm doffed. It was a low stone block, carved from obsidian and without markings and upon it his weapons lay before an open book. The walls of the small templum were covered in frescos and incense braziers hung on brass chains which wafted scented fragrances. A wizened cleric stood silently in the shadows, interrupting not as visitors came to his shrine. The roof bore a depiction of Him on Terra as the warlord who led the Space Marine Legions to conquer the galaxy ten thousand years earlier. Toran had bowed deeply to this icon, though he did not cleave to the teachings that the Emperor was a divine being the Sergeant’s reverence for His works and teachings were second to none. Almost as high in his esteem was his adoration for his own Gene-sire, Roboute Guilliman, one of the twenty Primarch sons of the Emperor and wellspring of the vaunted Ultramarines. The Storm Heralds claimed descent from that noble lineage and for half the life of the Imperium they had fought according to the teachings of his Codex Astartes. A copy of that venerable tome lay on the altar before Toran and it was to this he was paying his respects. This particular copy was a priceless relic, a tome gifted to the Chapter on its Founding day. Normally it was held in the Chapter's Librarian's tower, under stern watch by the warrior-psykers of the Librarius, but for this mission it had been bestowed upon the expedition to inspire the Initiates to greatness. Toran has studied lesser copies of this book all his life but the chance to behold so direct a connection to his Gene-sire was irresistible and he had grasped a fleeting moment to gaze upon it. This respect for his genetic legacy was as close to religious fervour Toran permitted himself to drift. The solemn moment passed as the wizened cleric stepped up and said, “Do you seek a benediction?” Toran nodded solemnly as he replied, “Yes, let this moment be commemorated with the hymn of righteous zeal.” The Cleric drew forth from his robe a script of parchment and read aloud, “Hone your righteous hatred. Let your blade reap the alien and the Heretic without doubt or hesitation. Lay low the Traitor and bring an end to his vile works with the sure and certain knowledge that you serve the will of Him on Terra.” Toran recited by rote, “Every life I take I dedicate to you, my Emperor.” The cleric drew forth an auto-sealer and fixed the script to Toran’s shoulder with a blob of red wax; he then flipped the device over and pressed a glowing rune into the soft material, flash-baking it in moments and leaving an imprint of an Aquila. This bordered on superstitious dogma but Toran preferred to think of it as a promise he made in the moment, an oath as serious as any he had ever sworn. The Purity seal having been applied the cleric bowed and withdrew as Toran stood up. The Sergeant reached out to claim his weapons but paused for a moment. Before him lay his chainsword, a stalwart example of its kind. Its chainteeth were razor-sharp and it functioned perfectly, thanks to countless hours of loving maintenance across the centuries. Toran wasn’t the first Brother to wield this sword, across nine hundred years fourteen Brothers had held this blade. Toran knew all their names and fates, some had been promoted and trusted with superior gear, others had specialised in different roles and the rest had died with this sword in hand. Most notably Assault Marine Utupa, who had fallen to an Eldar corsair seven centuries earlier, but with his dying breath he had plunged this very sword into the conniving Xeno’s belly, ending a threat that had bedevilled helpless Pilgrim convoys for years. Toran could still see the kill markings etched into the casing after the fact, a memorial so every soul who took up this blade would remember the heroic a sacrifice. Toran was determined to be worthy of such a legacy, he was determined to be the very best Space Marine he could be. His honour demanded no less. Toran picked up the chainsword and his bolt pistol, not nearly so storied a weapon but a trustworthy and reliable companion. Then he turned and marched out of the templum. Outside he found IXth squad loitering, hanging around watching the activity beyond the razorwire. Brother Furion looked at the Sergeant as he descended the three steps from the door to the bare ground and inquired, “Have you completed your devotions?” “Yes,” Toran replied, “Are you certain none of you wish to meditate within?” Heads shook in reply and Furion said, “Templums and I do not see eye to eye.” Toran sensed the hurt in those words, long ago Furion had been booted out of training under the Chaplaincy, deemed unworthy by High Chaplain Samect. Furion attended all the necessary rituals and ceremonies expected of an Astartes but other than that had no time for sermonising. He preferred to let his faith be demonstrated on the battlefield, striding through the carnage with bolter in hand rather than on his knees. An attitude sadly lacking in the majority of Storm Heralds. Toran put this from his mind as he asked, “What are you looking at?” Persion answered, “Look, the Guard are bringing up prisoners.” Toran peered into the distance and his augmetic eye magnified the horizon. Indeed there were gangs of troopers waving men and women and children forward, bringing them out of the edge of the city towards waiting pens of razorwire set up to receive them. They were filthy and malnourished folk, walking with their hands on their heads and faces downcast. Not one bore a weapon and they looked dejected and defeated, not a hint of defiance in any of them. Brother Ophelian spat, “Worthless Heretics, they are lucky to be alive.” “Aye,” Brother Jediah concurred, “Shoot them and be done with it.” Yet Persion commented, “They don’t look like fighters, probably civilians and non-combatants.” “So?” Jediah scoffed, “What difference does that make? Kill them anyway.” Toran frowned for Jediah was a bloodthirsty warrior, who fought for the joy of killing. He was about to speak out but Persion beat him to it, “We don’t kill non-combatants.” Jediah snorted, “Yes we do, how many die when the Chapter drops Magma-bombs on cities? How many do we slaughter to reach one Heretic leader?” Persion’s lilting accent grew dark as he said, “Casualties of war, unavoidable losses, but we don’t kill helpless women and children.” “Keep telling yourself that,” Ophelian snidely muttered. Persion’s jaw clenched as he said, “The Emperor made us to protect Mankind, not slaughter them.” Jediah cocked his head and said, “So you’ve never killed anyone who can’t fight back?” Persion retorted, “I don’t kill the helpless. Unless they’re a Xeno of course, or a Traitor. Or a Heretic, or fighting for a Heretic.” Furion stepped in then and said, “I’ll stop you there, before you trip over your tongue. We Space Marines fight the battles no others can and we must be stern in word and deed. But we never take enjoyment in the deed, we never draw out suffering. When we kill we do so cleanly and swiftly, we do what must be done without pleasure. It is the Storm Herald’s way.” Jediah sniffed, “What about those prisoners then?” Furion declared, “They have lived under the boot heels of Heretics, maybe they can be redeemed or maybe they are corrupted beyond salvation. It is none of our concern, the Inquisition shall determine their fate.” That seemed to settle it but Ophelian muttered, “Kinder just to kill them.” Toran noticed Novak hadn’t said anything, instead peering into the city, his handsome features screwed up in thought. The Sergeant inquired, “Problem Brother?” Novak replied, “The fighting is moving deeper into the city but very slowly. They should be halfway to the Inner Wall by now.” Toran looked and saw he was right, the fighting was advancing slowly, far slower than typical Codex prescriptions demanded. It was farcical to think the Space Marines were bogged down, it was almost like the Storm Heralds were taking it slow on purpose. Toran chewed his lip and mused, “Perhaps they do not want to risk damaging the Tech-Priests shrines, they are why we are here after all.” It was true, the numerous Mechanicus shrines on Caminus were hallowed sites to the Machine worshipping priesthood. Their loss was an affront to Mars and the Tech-priests wanted them back intact. The Storm Heralds had seen the chance laid before them, to rescue those shrines would earn great favour from the Cult, whose influence in the byzantaine politics of the Imperium was weighty indeed. The possibility of strengthening ties between his Chapter and the Adeptus Mechancius has been too tempting to ignore. When word had reached their homeworld, two weeks earlier, First Captain Athead had thrown together a Scratch Company and set sail aboard the Strike Cruiser Million Worlds that very day. Arriving just in the nick of time Toran was pleased to note. ovak frowned as he remarked, “The part that bothers me is why have we been held back from the front. All other squads are engaged, so why was IXth squad ordered to remain here?” Persion commented, “The vox-net is clear, the Captains seem to have everything in hand.” Toran’s one organic eye fixed him with a glare as he said, “Persion, have you been skimming voxchannels without authorisation again?” Persion didn’t seem bothered as he replied, “Only to keep my finger on the pulse, what I don’t know could kill me.” Toran sighed, “Brother you seem to delight in censure, why do you insist on being so cavalier with vox-protocols?” Persion grinned slightly as he replied, “Perfect rules are for perfect situations, it’s just that I’ve yet to meet a perfect situation.” Toran shook his head as he lamented, “If the Chaplains couldn’t beat it out of you then what hope is there for me. Just try not to do something bad enough to get yourself converted into a servitor.” Persion smirked, “Sergeant, I’ve been doing this since before you were born, I know what I’m doing.” Any reply Toran was about to make was cut off as his vox squawked. He listened intently for a moment then straightened up and declared, “It seems we are about to find out what going on. I have been summoned to the Stronghold, to be briefed by the Captains. Stay here while I speak to them and for Throne’s sake try to keep out of trouble.” Tergum Cultro Chapter 4 The interior of the Stronghold was an efficient space, filled with Logic engines and vox-arrays. In the cramped confines Serf operators sat before glowing consoles with large headsets clamped over their ears as they parsed data and relayed orders. From here an entire warzone could be coordinated, forces directed, Scout-team reports collated and high flying skull-probe surveillance processed. Enemy communications were captured by vox-thieves across the theatre and brought here, to be cracked open by chattering servitors and Lex-savants, revealing the most precious secrets of the foe. There was even a direct link to the Strike Cruiser Million Worlds in geo-synchronous orbit, gifting a god's eye view of the surface. The work was hot and claustrophobic, the air left sweaty by the heat of Logic engines and the ripe air of many bodies in proximity. The noise was made no better by the circling Servo-skulls, reciting litanies of diligence and the shouting tech-adepts, labouring to bless the overworked machinery with soothing unguents and prayers unto the Machine God. For the blearyeyed operators less consideration was given, human workers being far easier to push to the limit than temperamental and misunderstood Cogitators. Into that humid air stepped Sergeant Toran. He entered without fanfare or announcement, the work being conducted within far too important to be interrupted. He wouldn't have wanted it regardless, the Codex Astartes stressed the need for real-time intelligence in battle and any distraction at all to the serf's labours could cost Brothers their lives in the field. Toran looked around the familiar space, identical in form to every other Stronghold thanks to its STC origins and spied what he sought. In the middle of the command centre two Space Marines stood before a Hololithic table, which was projecting a three-dimensional image of the city of Arun. Toran quickly stepped to them, placing himself at the edge of their vision but not interrupting their discussion. The taller of the two was the unmistakable form of First Captain Athead and Toran had never stood so close to the officer before. Up close Athead’s proud features were visible above the ring of his high gorget, scarred and grizzled by a lifetime of battle, yet this only made him more fierce and driven. There was an energy to the Marine, an aura of zeal that hung on him like he would much rather be charging into a hail of bullets rather than be debating strategy. The Sergeant took a moment to survey the mighty warrior, admiring his many laurels and campaign badges. His Tartaros pattern plate was a living testament to his many deeds, the victories and slaughters he had orchestrated writ large upon his Terminator armour. He bore the Star of Terra on his left knee, for defiance in the face of overwhelming odds and the Crux Terminatus on his shoulder, the mark said to bring divine favour from the Emperor himself. On his left breast was the Wreath of Extermination, gifted only to those officers who had performed the genocide of an entire alien species that dared sully mankind’s galaxy by existing. He bore both the hanging bolt-round mark of ten thousand foes slain with a ranged weapon and the raised sword of ten thousand more slain in hand to hand combat, many Brothers achieved one or the other, but acquiring both was a remarkable feat. These were worthy markings yet Toran’s eye lingered on the longsword the First Captain carried; the Sword of Thiel. It was the most revered relic of the Chapter, a legacy weapon passed from the hand of warrior to warrior since the dawn of the Imperium. It had been gifted to the Storm Heralds at their founding by Ultramar, and legend had it the blade had been wielded by the great hero Aeonid Thiel, who had received it from Roboute Guilliman himself. Toran felt in awe to be standing so near to a touchstone to his Primarch and humbled to lay eyes upon it. Athead was speaking over the Hololith, “Our forces advance too quickly, signal Chaplain Wrethan to hold that marketplace and await further orders.” The other officer replied, “It is not in Wrethan’s nature to sit and wait.” Athead replied, “It is in mine to be obeyed, tell him this order comes from me directly.” “That should do it,” the other replied. That was Ninth Captain Phalros, commander of Devastators, Maestro of destruction, Master of Relics and Toran’s direct superior. The Captain was a stern and patrician veteran, with cropped grey hair and a hooked nose. He wore glorious artificer armour with a mighty power fist encompassing his right hand and long scripts of parchment inked with Oaths of Moment adorned his golden edged shoulders. His face was scarred, but only lightly, over his high cheekbones and his features remained handsome in an aloof and detached manner. He resembled a cold statue in many ways, stern and demanding in his expectations and Toran had always thought he looked more like a venerable senator than a battlefield commander. "Heretic forces have withdrawn completely under the void shield envelope, there will be no orbital fire-support from this point forward," Phalros commented then he deigned to notice the Sergeant and said, "Ah, Toran good." oran saluted his Captain with a fist over the heart and declared, “Sergeant Toran reporting as ordered Brother-Captain.” First Captain Athead stomped about, his Terminator armour not letting him twist his torso, and growled, “This is the one?” Toran bowed deeply and made the sign of the Aquila as he said, “I am honoured First Captain.” Athead didn’t bother to return the honour as he snorted, “I expected more, is this truly the warrior who slew a Defiler on his first mission? You are far below the standards I expect of an Astartes.” Toran was taken aback by the curt rebuke and had to force his tongue still to avoid blurting out a challenge. Keenly aware that he was addressing a Marine second only to the Chapter Master in rank he carefully chose his words, “Sir, if I have given offence I offer contrition.” Athead snorted, “An apology, is that your best answer? I have heard of you Toran, even in the First. Too clever by half the reports say, yet only half as smart as he thinks he is. An arrogant glory-hog who breaks with the Codex Astartes when it suits him. No wonder you let Vorshaan escape from Sacellum.” oran’s ire rose as he growled, “That scum cost me an eye and rest assured I will have recompense.” Athead continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “And IXth squad, a dumping ground for misfits and rogues. All those who the Chapter can’t figure out what else to do with. Not a soul among them fit for a Battle Company so they are left to grub for scraps of glory in the Reserves.” Now Toran’s anger surged and he growled, “Insult me if you will but no one insults my squadmates to my face. First Captain or no.” Toran expected a fierce rebuke for his outburst but strangely Athead’s lip twitched as he remarked, “Some fire at last, not for himself but for the sake of his Brothers. You were right Phalros, this one will do.” Toran realised then that the First Captain had been goading him to gauge his reaction. Testing his mettle and responses. He realised that fancy speeches would get him nowhere, the First Captain was not the sort to mince words so asked, “You have a mission for me?” Phalros answered, “Yes a critical one, upon which the success of this expedition rests.” Toran was intrigued by that and was waved closer to examine the Hololith. Before him lay Arun city, the streets and districts laid out in exacting detail. Among the outer slums the Imperial army advanced, green icons for the Guard, far fewer gold for the Astartes. Against them red blobs estimated the disposition of enemy forces, guesses as to the Heretic’s locations and numbers. It was a sobering sight, for the enemy was dug-in and prepared for a protracted siege. The Imperium would still win but the cost in blood would be high. Toran examined the image and declared, “A classic meatgrinder, this will be hard going.” Athead growled, “Too hard, far too hard. This is wrong, the last Astropathic distress cry before the Governor’s Palace fell spoke of a civilian uprising against Imperial rule but this is a professional and trained army. Someone has given these wretches the steel to fight back.” Toran considered the issue and asked, “Do we suspect Traitor Legion involvement?” Phalros answered, “No signs of archenemy activity are detected, no Chaos sigils or Daemonic rituals. It is distressingly mundane, yet vexing.” Toran glanced at the smoking ruins of the Governor’s Palace, sitting behind the Inner Wall and pondered, “Perhaps the local Planetary Defence Force was involved?” Athead shook his head, “No, the PDF died to a man, at least they got that right. Some other factor is at work, some element we have missed. It is troubling, especially for the Mechanicus.” Toran glanced up as he asked, “The Tech-Priests are talking to us?” “Yes,” Phalros replied, “They are grateful for our intervention, yet they expected the war to be over already. They sent only a token force of Skitarii to accompany the Guard. They thought they would only have to walk over the dead and reclaim their Forge-fanes, they weren’t expecting a fight.” Athead continued, “Our original plan was to punch through to the Inner Wall and then bring in massed Vindicator siege tanks to break it open. Sadly Scout-teams reports indicate the urban environment is too packed with enemies to risk an armoured assault. Clearing them out will take days, time the Cogboys are not willing to give us.” Toran chewed his lip as he mused, “A problem, that wall is extremely well fortified and defended. It is a formidable obstacle to be overcome. The only recourse seems to be a full-frontal assault on the gates. The cost in Brother’s lives will be high. Unless the Mechanicus is willing to send us a Titan or two.” Phalros disabused him of that notion, “No, there isn’t time and the collateral damage to the Forgefanes would make it pointless. Thankfully the Tech-Priests have another option for us, behold.” The Hololith flicked and a complex internal schematic of the wall appeared in wireframe. Toran peered at it, his Transhuman brains calculating angles of fire and reinforced buttresses. Toran’s mind had been honed to become a strategic cogitator, as all Space Marines were, and he spotted a weak point instantly. “Here” he said, “The foundations are overstressed at this point in the sewer network. Too much weight is bearing down on this subsurface gate, a weakness the designers missed.” "Close," Phalros corrected, "The designers missed nothing, but that wall has stood for thousands of years and the ground has shifted since. Tectonic subsidence and urban expansion may appear slow but over centuries they bring considerable force to bear. A vigilant Governor would never have allowed it but never underestimate the wilful blindness of the stupid. This weak point is one jolt away from bringing down a section of the wall. A single seismic charge would be enough to topple it.” “Which is where IXth squad comes in,” Toran guessed. Athead concurred, “Yes, the Tech-Priests are sending a Magos and some Skitarii to blow that wall open, you are to escort them and see this mission is completed. In twelve hours our Scratch Company will reach that point and I will lead the storming of the breach myself. Timing will be crucial; the Heretics must not be allowed to redeploy to defend the breach before we can storm it. Once past that wall resistance should crumble. I am counting on you to bring that wall down at the right second, or many lives will be lost. The Divine Emperor will be watching you this day.” Toran noted the First Captain’s affirmation of his belief in the Emperor’s divinity, but Phalros was already speaking, “More than lives are resting upon this, the status of the Chapter itself is hanging in the balance. Chapter Master Gorgall desires we improve our relations with Imperial Authorities, the goodwill of the Mechanicus will be a great boon to our cause. Protect this Magos Castabore at all costs, I expect her report of the action to be glowing.” Athead’s lip curled, “I am less concerned with other’s opinions… but the word of Mars is not to be scorned. Dazzle this Magos with our skill and fervour and win an ally for the Storm Heralds and your name will be noted among the Masters.” Toran bowed to his commanders saying, “It shall be done, I shall not fail.” It was a bold statement but Phalros cautioned him, “Be not overconfident, the Heretic’s remain a threat and they would be fools to not be watching the sewers. You may have to fight your way through a horde of foes.” Toran smiled slightly as he said, “I welcome the chance to whet my blade with Heretic blood.” Athead’s face betrayed a mote of approval as he said, “Very good, I shall be in position in twelve hours. Make sure you are in place before then. I want this done right, the way of the Storm Heralds.” Tergum Cultro Chapter 5 The sewer was a long stretch of bare brickwork, tapering off into the distance and punctuated with occasional drains, rusted ladders and access covers. From the drains ran trickles of chemical runoffs, raw human sewage and the decomposing corpses of small scavengers, creating a repulsive stream of waste running down the centre of the space. Diseased vermin scuttled through that mess and fought with hooked legged spiders to gnaw mouldy meat from white bones while reptiles slinked nearer with hungry eyes. Suddenly they were sent fleeing by a sudden stab of light, penetrating the absolute darkness and the sound of movement. The vermin ran before a line of giant figure’s waded through the reeking sewage, their dark blue armour stained with filthy grime up to the kneecaps, IXth squad advancing into the darkness with weapons raised. At the fore Furion advanced, bearing the weight of a Heavy Flamer with ease, keeping its dual nozzles well away from the wet floor as the top of his helm scraped the low roof. The flamer was not typically assigned to IXth squad but Captain Phalros had agreed it was perfect for tunnel fighting. Without needing to be told the rest of the squad was keeping back, even when wearing power armour nobody was foolish enough to get in the way of a Heavy Flamer. The Space Marines filed along through the putrid muck. Sergeant Toran was alert for any threat, but so far their advance had been unopposed and he was pleased by their progress thus far. Behind him came a line of servitors, trudging mindlessly and loaded down with the weight of a Seismic charge. Bringing up the rear came a huddle of red-clad figures, festooned with augmetic implants: the dreaded Skitarii warriors of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The combined party of altered humans proceed cautiously through the darkness, alert for motion detectors, auspex sweeps and tripwires and from the rear Halis Paur waded along, kicking aside floating fragments of human waste as he muttered, "I know I said that we get all the crap assignments but I never meant it this literally." "This is an important duty," called Furion from the front, "Our Brothers are waiting for us to open a breach, so our Brothers can burn out the heart of the rebellion on Caminus." "So the First Captain gets covered in glory and we get covered in excrement," replied Halis cynically. Further back Brother Ophelian piped up, "What I don't understand is why we are putting such effort into prosecuting a simple civilian rebellion. Why does the Mechanicus not simply level this city to the ground and start over?" It was a typical thing for him to say for Ophelian was a ruthless warrior with a chilling disregard for life. In any situation he simply chose the most direct path to victory and would not hesitate to discard someone the instant they ceased to be of use. Toran had tried to impress on him the need to minimise collateral damage but to Ophelian there was the Emperor and the Chapter and everything else was irrelevant. Toran informed him, "The Mechanicus' Forge-fanes date back to the Nova Terra Interregnum, when Saint Karyl led the faithful to first colonise this whole sector. There could be anything in those temples, irreplaceable artefacts and archeotech marvels that are lost to the Imperium. That is why the Tech-Priests want their sacred Forge-Fanes back in pristine condition." "So let the Cogboys handle it," said Ophelian, "Let the Skitarii slaughter the rebels and then ship in new colonists from the Hives of Tectum." Halis let out a grunt of a laugh and called out, "Politics is why, our Chapter's history with the wider Imperium is hardly shining. Chapter Master Gorgall seeks to improve relations with goodwill missions like this." "That is enough from all of you," Sergeant Toran snapped, "The First Captain entrusted this mission to us and we shall see it done with pride, do not shame the Chapter before potential allies." With that they turned to glance behind them where the servitors were trudging forward with Skittari surrounding them. At their head was a figure in red robes, who floated serenely above the sewage seemingly unperturbed by the filth. The body of the Magos was vaguely box-like, with strange protrusions undulating under the robes, yet where legs should have been was only empty space, with a slight breeze hinting at esoteric devices keep it afloat. Toran had met the Magos only a couple of hours earlier and found her a most baffling contradiction. She was overwhelmingly mechanical yet presented a human manner that was at odds with her physical nature. Toran hadn't the slightest notion of how much of the original Magos was left under that robe. Was she a human trapped in a cybernetic shell or a Machine clinging to scraps of humanity? The Magos clearly detected his scrutiny and in a strangely feminine voice for one who was essentially a floating box in a red robe called out, "Astartes 1-9-9-776, is there a malfunction?" Toran called back, "No Magos Castabore, merely checking that you are keeping up." Castabore replied, "That is an unnecessary repetition of effort, my Skittari are fully capable of matching your pace." The Sergeant told her, "Better to be sure, and my name is Toran." Castabore replied with a puzzled tone, "That is an inaccurate means of identification, you are the Primary member of the ninth squad, Ninth Company of Astartes Chapter 776." "That will hardly be quick to say when we are in combat," retorted Toran. "You propose that expediency supersedes accuracy?" Castabore queried then went silent for few seconds as she processed the concept and stated, "Proposal accepted, re-designating Astartes 1-10- 9-776 as Toran." Toran sighed in exasperation and turned his attention turned back to the sewer, seeing the tunnel suddenly opening up into a broad concourse. It was a confluence of sewers that entered from multiple channels before running together into the larger route the party had emerged from. The broad concourse was lit by a handful of flickering lumen orbs that revealed signs of former human habitation. Mounds of detritus and shanties revealing the spoor of vagrants and mutants, the forgotten and uncared for of Imperial society. Once dozens of outcasts from the city above must have congregated here, but now there was only stillness and the quiet trickle of sewage running. Toran's suspicions were roused instantly, for there was no sign of the former inhabitants. There was a remote possibility they had fled when the fighting broke out on the surface, but then if they had anywhere else to be they wouldn't have lived in a sewer. Warily he swept the space with his bolt pistol and did not like the number of blocked angles and concealed positions he saw, all his training and instincts told him this was not right. Without looking around he said, "Magos Castabore keep your Skitarii back and guard the demolitions. IXth squad, Codex pattern epsilon-two: sweep and clear the area." At his order the Space Marines broke formation and began to sweep around the piles of junk, looking for traps. Boxes were kicked over and shanties cleared in moments as they looked for a lurking enemy. As they searched Novak commented on the squad's secure vox link, "Emperor wept, are all cogboys so pedantic?" "Not had many dealings with them before have you," retorted Ophelian as he pointed his Combibolter into a wooden lean-to, "This is them being brusk and snappy." That earned a brief chuckle from the squad as they carried on searching and Toran took the opportunity to make his link to Furion private so he could say, "Something is definitely off with this war, the Heretics are too well equipped and too well trained for a civilian uprising. Someone has been planning this for a long time." Furion replied, "All the better." Toran turned his head fractionally to look at him and Furion made a small gesture towards the Tech Priests party saying, "A real fight will display our skills for the Mechanicus to witness. Our proselytizing ways are driving us into conflict with the wider Imperium and soon Terra will move to make an example of the Storm Heralds. But if we can convince the Tech-priests to withhold their support any Imperial retaliation would be doomed to fail. "Toran saw the wisdom in his words, he was about to ask how to approach Magos Castabore when a flicker of movement caught his eye. Ahead of him was a small formless mass, cunningly hidden in shadow and piles of rubbish. It was the smallest discrepancy and to mortal eyes practically invisible in the gloom but to his helm's autosenses it was blatantly obvious to be the shape of a man hiding under a camo-cloak. Toran drew in a breath and roared, "Ambush!" even as dozens of rebels rose from cover and flung themselves at IXth squad. Tergum Cultro Chapter 6 Black-clad figures burst out of hiding places, throwing off camo cloaks to reveal long knives and autopistols in their hands. From under tarpaulins and the ruins of shacks they came, pouring out of every nook and cranny in their dozens. They fell upon IXth squad in a wave of stabbing frenzy, letting off random shots to chip and score at ceramite armour. The ambush was excellently concealed, well timed and positioned: it was also utterly futile. Mortal men would have been frozen by disbelief and hesitation but the Space Marines reacted with superhuman swiftness and peerless co-ordination. As the rebels surged forwards IXth squad did not wait for their charge: they charged back. The first rebel to reach them didn’t even have time to land a single blow before a roaring chainsword cut across his path. It tore through his chest in a shower of gore leaving him to slump to the ground with an expression of bewilderment on his face. Toran left the corpse at his feet as he swung for another Heretic, cleaving him neck to groin before moving onto the next and the next. He moved through the rebels like a grox charging through long grass, smashing aside bodies with his sheer bulk and brushing off attacks from his impervious armour plates. He lashed out left and right with his Chainsword, carving apart attackers with every blow, leaving ruined bodies bleeding out onto the cold stone floor. As he turned to find more foes he saw Brother Jediah slashing out with his combat blade to open veins and arteries. To a normal man he was lighting quick blur but Toran was accustomed to the superior reflexes of Astartes and could tell Jediah was taking his time. He chose each blow carefully and with contempt, not one Heretic proving strong enough to earn his respect. On the other side of the concourse Novak danced through knots of enemies, his thin rapier slicing and eviscerating with graceful élan and poise. Ophelian however was the complete contrast in styles, breaking necks and caving in chests with crude blows from his fists. He always took the most direct and straightforward means to destroy each threat in turn then moved on. Brother Daite fought with a short combat knife as if he were on the training ground, blocking deflecting and counter striking over and over like a machine. His style was unimaginative but effective and left a trail of dead foes behind him. At his side Persion advanced using the broad edge of his blade like a cleaver, hacking off limbs with great sweeps of his arm. Finally Halis Paur fought a trio of attackers, his knife swift and precise, leaving all three of them falling over with blood fountaining from sliced jugulars and arteries. Then Furion stepped forth and roared in anger as he unleashed his Heavy Flamer. Twin streams of Promethium spurted out of the nozzles out to mix in mid-air and the hypergolic chemical's reaction meant they could do nothing but ignite; creating a searing river of fire that engulfed half dozen attackers at once. Furion panned his weapon about and the flames leapt onward to cover more black-clad bodies in an inferno of vengeance, turning them into flailing candles that screamed hideously as they fell over and died. With one sweep of his weapon Furion tore the heart out of the ambush and only the rebels at the edge of the chamber evaded instant death. Their courage broke before these indomitable giants and they ran as fast as their legs could carry them towards the nearest exit. They did not get far however for bolters raised towards their fleeing backs and the Space Marines vented their fury in a hail of bolt-rounds. Every shell found a target, blowing rebels apart as the rounds detonated in their backs and not one lived to escape. Toran lowered his pistol as the squad swept the chamber and to ensure no enemy was left alive. He turned back to the Mechanicus and found the Skitarii standing in a ring around their Magos. Their Hellguns were held high but so swift and deadly had the Storm Heralds been that not a single one of them had seen a chance to open fire, not a single one. Their implanted facemasks made it impossible to betray expressions but their body language was a testament to an all too human sense of shock and amazement. Toran drew himself up and shook blood from his blade then declared to all, “The Heretics will surely be alerted to our presence. We must complete our objectives swiftly, form up and move out.” With practised ease the squads fell in and raced down the tunnels in a broad front with Halis taking point. The time for stealth was over; speed would have to suffice now. As they raced Magos Castabore drew forward smoothly, a faint humming betraying her anti-grav motors pushing to the edge of their tolerances. Calmly, as if she were discussing matters of Cyber-Theology in a seminarian, she said, “That was a most informative demonstration, your combat proficiency exceeded my strategos-simulacra. I had not calculated so fleshy beings such as you could be so efficient.” It took a moment for Toran to realise that she was saying she was impressed and replied, “We are the Adeptus Astartes, forged by the hand of the Emperor himself to create the ultimate union of flesh and steel. The best of both the weaknesses of neither.” Castabore’s voice was incongruously soft and thoughtful for someone who resembled a floating box as she replied, "There are those in the Martian synod who claim the complete removal of the flesh is not optimal. I had always discounted their work on electro-priests and servitor improvements as misguided, but this new data is intriguing. I shall have to perform experiments to test this hypothesis." Toran noted that the Magos was no more bothered about the slaughter of the Heretics than he was, he had seen mortals reduced to gibbering wrecks by the horror of battle but Castabore seemed as inured to combat trauma as an Astartes. He glanced at her and commented, "The Storm Heralds would be pleased to participate in such an endeavour. We have a talent for destruction." Castabore muttered sullenly, "That is exactly why I am here, to make sure you do not bring down the whole city. Sacred Mechanicus relics are at risk and you Astartes have a reputation for unwarranted destruction." "Destruction yes," stated Toran frankly, “Unwarranted, never.” Their conversation was suddenly cut off as Halis held up a clenched fist and the party froze. Toran instantly recognised that the rough brickwork of the sewer was giving way to polished stone cladding and painted frescos. They must be nearing the foundations of the Inner Wall and whatever defences the Heretics had established to protect the weak point. Remembering his orders to protect Castabore Toran addressed the Magos, “Stay here, we shall scout ahead.” “No need,” replied Castabore briskly, “I have remote probes that will be far less conspicuous than you.” Castabore’s robes bulged with unseen movement then a hand-wrought entirely from metal emerged, bearing a strange device. It superficially resembled a servo skull but it was much smaller than normal and was not fashioned from a human cranium. Instead it appeared to be built around the head of an avian creature with trailing mechandrites that snapped out to form wing shapes and spindly legs. It hopped to and fro on the Magos’ hand, almost like a bird pecking for seeds then Castabore emitted a chirping noise and it leapt into the air. Toran stared at the strange artefact and was surprised to realise that unlike most Mechanicus creations it was aesthetically beautiful as well as functionally practical, a rare treasure indeed. For a long second it hung in the air, mechandrites thrashing like a hummingbird’s wings and then the probe sped off down the tunnel and disappeared into the darkness. Toran waited a full minute then asked, "What can you see?" “It will be more efficient to just show you,” said Castabore as she reached up with a metal hand to shine a series of rapidly blinking lights at Toran's faceplate. For a second his autosenses went blurry and static jumped before his eyes but then it snapped back into sharp focus and Castabore snatched her hand back as if she had touched a hot stove. Toran asked, "Problem Magos?" Castabore actually sounded offended as she shook her hand and said, "I merely tried to establish a noosphere connection to upload the probes' data, your armour not only rejected my authority but tried to send a modulated feedback pulse up the link." Toran thought she looked like someone who had naively reached out to pet a Mastiff only to be he shocked as it tried to bite her hand off. He was slightly amused and rather proud of his armour's belligerent spirit as he said, "Our battleplate is warded against unknown Machine Spirits, perhaps a data slate would be less confrontational." Castabore spat a burst of Binaric code, that Toran was almost certain was the equivalent of a swear word, nevertheless her metal hand dipped into a pocket and pulled out a blunt square of metal upon which flickering images appeared. Toran took it from her hand and gazed at the images displayed then gritted his teeth at what he saw. It seemed the Heretic had expected trouble and were more than prepared. The sewer tunnel ended at least a hundred paces before the foundations and between them was just open space with no cover whatsoever. The foundations were a towering edifice stretching up to a cavernous roof; with rusty pipes protruding from far higher than a man could reach. Filthy effluent ran down the wall, through channels carved by centuries of wear, before pouring into shallow drains that fed into various sewers. The wall was blank and featureless save for a heavily reinforced gate that was sealed against intrusion around which gangs of rebels were dug in, hunkered down behind sandbags so only the tops of their helms and lasguns could be seen. But worst of all was that some absolute Grox-fondler had installed a ferrocrete bunker before the gate, with the muzzle of a Heavy Bolter glinting in the firing slit. Toran took in the information and processed it seeking the best tactical scenarios; sadly the results were less than ideal. The only viable option was a full-frontal charge across the open ground into the face of an embedded enemy with excellent crossfires. It was reckless and foolhardy, the council of a desperate fool or the bravest of heroes. Exactly the kind of fight Space Marines were designed for. Toran turned to his squad and saw they were each ready to fight and die if necessary, yet he knew even Space Marines sometimes needed reminding of the nature of their duty. He was no Chaplain but drew himself up and said, "Ready yourselves Brothers for a charge into the teeth of enemy fire. Today we march through fire and death but we shall not be laid low. The Heretics think they have steeled themselves for war, they think they are ready to die, but there is one thing they cannot have anticipated. For today they face the wrath of the Space Marines!" Tergum Cultro Chapter 7 The darkness was still and quiet, broken only by the noises of rebels griping about their lot, rolling dice and lighting up Iho-sticks. They had been deployed here for hours and were bored of guarding a gate. They had heard warnings of Space Marines from their officers, but not one of them took it seriously. Astartes were myths and legends and not one of them could name someone who had genuinely seen one, if Astartes existed then they were anywhere but here. Thus the rebels were totally unprepared when without warning eight giant figures charged from the darkness of the sewer. They sprinted forward at a pace even the finest athlete could not have matched. Sergeant Toran was in the lead, surveying the sandbagged defences as he ran and silently counting down in his head. They were one hundred paces away, distance enough for the rebels to pour on enough firepower to turn power armour to slag if given the chance. The squad had to cover that distance before the rebels had time to react, they had to get into close combat where their Genic superiority could be employed. At eighty paces the first rebel saw them, glancing over the sandbags drawn by the sudden noise. His eyes went wide in disbelief and he opened his mouth to yell a warning as other faces turned to check the disturbance. Toran redoubled his pace, practically leaping forward with mighty pushes from his power armoured legs. He felt a wisp of desperation in his soul and drew upon that tingle to lend fire to his limbs, channelling all his being into the quest for speed. By the time he had reached sixty paces a hundred faces were peering over the barricades, their numbers still growing every second, yet they did not fire. The rebel's guns were held loosely in their grips and their faces were caricatures of shock, disbelief and horror. One man stood with his jaw working up and down but not able to say a word, his brain unable to process what he was seeing. Toran had experienced this reaction before; the Imperium even had a term for it. Transhuman Dread. A gene-forged warrior, carrying armour more appropriate for a tank, was enough to give any man pause, but to see one in motion was another experience altogether. The human mind was conditioned from birth to certain expectations, one of the most fundamental being that bigger meant slower. The Astartes however did not conform to this prejudice, they were faster and more agile than any beings of their bulk had any right to be and the sight froze the rebels in total denial and disbelief. The Space Marine's speed was ferocious, their mass not hindering them but in fact turning each of them into an oncoming juggernaut of ceramite. Yet worse for the Heretics, worse by far, was the knowledge that they were facing Astartes: the Angels of Death were coming for them all. The rebels just stood dumbfounded, guns held slack as their minds rejected what their eyes were telling them to be true. It could not last long but it might just buy a few precious seconds more for the Astartes to close the distance. At thirty paces a rebel in officers’ braiding began yelling at the men and finally the first las-shot rang out. It sailed past Toran’s helm, dissipating harmlessly behind him but it was swiftly followed by more, dozens more in a overwhelming volley. Toran’s armour rang with impacts and he felt Las-shots burning across his plate. The squad began to weave and dodge, not in an effort to preserve themselves, but in an attempt to draw fire from Furion and his vulnerable Heavy Flamer tanks. The weight of fire was increasing with every second and their armour was ringing with impacts. Toran briefly considered returning fire and trying to suppress the rebels, but there were too many of them. The bolt weapons would have to wait, speed was everything now. he Space Marines put their heads down and raced on, trusting in the spirits of their armour to stand true. At twenty paces the Heavy bolter finally opened up, its shells hurtling into their midst, leaving behind fiery tracers from rocket propellant. Toran was jarred as a bolt careened into his pauldron, its detonation making him stumble. His mark VII plate held true but the force cost him vital speed and a perilous second as he rebuilt his momentum. The fire were falling faster now as the rebels found their range and the squad suffered greatly, but they knew it was better they took the brunt than Furion. One shell detonating against his Flamer tanks could end everything. At ten paces another volley of las fire rang out but not from the front, rather from behind, the Mechanicus Skitarii had finally formed a firing line and let loose suppressive fire. Their Hell guns had far greater penetrating power than regular lasrifles and punched through the sandbags to cut down a dozen rebels. It was not enough to break the foe but it disrupted their volley fire for a critical second and Toran knew the squad had to make the most of it. When he was only five paces away Toran jumped into the air and his boots came up as he leapt the last distance. Powered by fibre motive bundles and with armour heavy enough to crush a man Toran became a flying wrecking ball, effortlessly smashing aside the line of sandbags. Three rebels were smashed into the ground in the first second of his attack, skulls and spines shattered by the sheer force of his impact they died without even having time to scream. Toran regained his feet and instantly lashed out with his Chainsword in a wide circle, clearing a space around him and pieces of bodies were sent flying. The rebels were flung back by his charge but so numerous were they that fresh bodies piled in like a tide. Toran met them head on with savage sweeps of his blade, the spinning chainteeth wrecking carnage in all directions yet the filth kept coming. Toran felt his righteous hatred surge for these degenerate Heretics, who had turned their back on the Emperor and all Mankind and the outraged fury coursed through his limbs like liquid fire, emboldening every strike. Rage burned in his heart, never letting him relent and his contempt for the Heretical foe stoked his determination to see every last one of them dead. “We are the Emperor’s Storm!” he roared as he carved rebels apart. The squad leapt to follow him as they bellowed the traditional battlecry of the Chapter; “We are His wrath!” Brother Persion was the first to land bringing his combi-bolter down heavily to crush a skull with the stock before whipping out his combat blade and setting about the tightly packed rebels. Daite leapt the barricade a second later, barrelling into a knot of rebels and bowling them over with his bulk before crushing their skulls with his boots. Halis cleared the sandbags and landed behind a pair of rebels, his blade slashed once and then twice and two corpses fell to the ground missing their heads. Meanwhile Jediah tackled a rebel and held him firmly down to the ground with one hand as he ever so slowly pushed his knife between the mortal’s ribs. Jediah looked deeply into the man’s eyes as he glided the blade in inch by inch, savouring the moment of life slipping away. Ophelian saw a knot of rebels charging at the distracted Marines’ back, he calculated the most efficient way to dispose of them and then lobbed a Frag Grenade into their midst. A sharp crack heralded shrapnel tearing through thin fabrics and webbing, leaving a half dozen men sprawled groaning on the ground. Ophelian instantly marched over to them and broke their necks one by one with his boot heel. The rebels still held the advantage of numbers but now IXth squad was in close they could not bring their guns to bear and none of them could match a Space Marine in combat. Novak was confronted by a rebel with officers’ braiding, who bore a broad cutlass that shimmered with the energy of a power field and brought it down heavily in an overhead strike. Novak deflected the sparking blade with an elegant parry, angling the rapier just right to avoid it being shattered by the energy field. His next slice tore off the officers’ arm then he finished the man off with a quick thrust through the heart. Three strokes to kill one man: Novak was showing off again. Meanwhile Magos Castabore redirected her Skitarii to fire further along the emplacements, trying not to hit the Space Marines. The soldiers of Mars were met with sprays of fire from the bunker, the Heavy Bolter chugging as it lashed out trails of shells. Three skitarii were caught by the torrent, their armour crumpling and their bodies exploding as the mass reactive rounds detonated. Most men would have been cowed by the fusillade but Skitarii were Neuro-slaved to Castabore's command, their augmented frames would not let them flee and they stood firm, trading shot for shot with the bunker. As the Skitarii drew the rebel's fire Furion slammed his backpack against the ferrocrete of the bunker, keeping the tanks of the Heavy Flamer well away from the line of shells roaring by. He braced as the tongue of fire lashed out inches away from his helm then the fire ceased and there were the frantic sounds of men trying to reload. Furion immediately stepped out and swung the Heavy Flamer around until the nozzles were pointing directly into the firing slit, then he squeezed the trigger. Instantly a tornado of fire swept through the bunker, burning everything inside to ash and pulling the air from rebel lungs. Men screamed as they burned alive, flailing madly and crying for succour but Furion was relentless. Then the ammunition cooked off in a detonation that rang across the battle. The roof of the bunker blew off in a mushroom cloud of red flames, scattering rocks to fall heavily upon friend and foe alike as thunder rolled over the combatants. Toran saw the moment the battle would hinge upon was at hand and he cried, "Let them see the Emperor's Fury Brothers!" The Storm Heralds responded by throwing themselves at the quailing rebels, wrecking a most terrible slaughter. Heretics fell in droves to the blades of the righteous and the battle became a slaughter. The rebels quivered, unmanned at the terrible violence and fiery destruction that had overcome them and for a moment it seemed like their courage would break. But just as the first man turned to flee a mighty squeal filled the air as the great gate ground up, revealing a long tunnel winding away into the depths of the foundations. From that tunnel came three brutish giants covered in thick leather overalls and plasteel plates. Their flesh was interwoven with bulky augmetics and chem injectors and their faces were sculpted by gigantism and they had thick jaws that drooled as they breathed. Their hands had been removed and surgically replaced with snapping claws and siege drills that whirred and snapped eagerly in anticipation of battle. Toran saw them stepping out into the light and yelled a warning, "Ogryn Charonites!" In a heartbeat his enhanced mind processed the situation and found the odds inexorably shifting away from his squad. This could turn the whole battle against them, they had to react swiftly before they lost the advantage. "Magos!" roared Toran, "Redirect your fire, bring down the Ogryns!" But there was no response, even though the calamity of battle the Sergeant could tell the supporting fire from the Skitarii was absent. He glanced about to see if some new disaster had befallen the Mechanicus troops, but all he could see was Magos Castabore and her Skitarii turning their backs on the fight and marching away into the darkness of the tunnel, leaving IXth squad surrounded by foes. Tergum Cultro Chapter 8 The Ogryns came barrelling out of the darkness of the tunnel, shouting in brute rage and ignorant to everything save the urge to smash and destroy. They were crude parodies of the noble Astartes form, with none of the skill or precision but what they lacked in grace they more than made up for in size and power. They charged like oncoming freight trains with plasteel plates and bucket helms making a terrible clatter as they lumbered into battle. Without the supporting fire of the Skittari there was no of stopping them and the mystery of their abandonment would have to wait for another time. For now IXth squad could only try to survive the next few minutes. The Ogryns charged into combat swinging their brutal weapons and Ophelian found himself standing directly in the path of one as it rumbled towards him. He reacted instinctively reaching out to grab a rebel by the front of his black robes and threw him bodily into the spinning siege drills as they descended. The high pitched shrieks were mercifully short lived as the blades tore through the heretic and sprayed blood and bone everywhere. The red mist obscured the Ogryn’s vision for a moment and while it rubbed its eyes with a hairy elbow Ophelian dived out of its path. Halis let rip with his bolter at an Ogryn’s head but the bolts deflected off its thick bucket helmet, doing little more than stunning the beast. It roared in primitive anger and tried to grab the marine with a clanking pincer but Halis dropped and dived between its legs to roll free behind it. Meanwhile Furion was letting loose with great blasts from his Heavy Flamer, creating wide swathes of fire. The crowds of rebels were inundated in flames, burning them away. The few survivors fell beating at flames on their coats, their skin charring and hair aflame. Few lived more than a moment and the rest were crippled by pain and burns, unable to intervene. At the very least IXth squad wouldn't have to worry about them, unfortunately the Ogyrns were among them and the respite was brief. Persion blasted away at one of the beast's knees, trying to make it fall over, but his bolts ricocheted off a plasteel plate drilled into its shin bones. It came about and lashed out with a pair of gigantic shears where its hands should have been and caught the Marine by the pauldron. Persion struggled and kicked out but could not break free, the Ogryn increased the pressure inexorably as the shoulder pad crumpled in its grip and the ceramite cracked. With a terrible shriek the pauldron tore free and Persion fell back missing the entire shoulder pad, he had escaped death but the affront to his armour's spirit was grievous indeed. The Ogryn was left grasping the shorn plate stupidly looking about for the rest of its prize as Persion dodged behind it. Meanwhile Jediah ran straight at another Ogryn and stabbed his combat blade into its thigh. Blood ran freely but the great beast's thick muscles were like tree trunks and it did not fall. Its rudimentary brain finally registered pain and it looked down at him, then it swung a siege drill right into his chest. Jediah's armour was ripped and gouged by the spinning blades, sending razor sharp shrapnel flying everywhere as the breastplate was carved to pieces. Jediah flung himself backwards to escape the tearing frenzy and fell heavily to the ground. His armour had saved his life but the chestplate was a shredded mess of jagged splinters and ruptured power conduits. The Ogryn stepped forwards heavily and loomed over the fallen marine, aiming to finish him off but Toran saw his Brother's distress and leapt to his defence. As it reached out he slapped down with his chainsword catching the Ogryn on the arm, the spinning teeth ripped aside the leather and cut into the flesh below. A red swathe of torn skin and muscle was gashed into the arm but so thick was the bone beneath that the limb remained intact. The Ogryn screamed as its primitive mind registered fresh pain, reflexively swinging around in a backhanded slap that caught the Sergeant across the chest. Toran was lifted off his feet by the force of the impact and thrown away to hit a pile of sandbags and ruptured them with his weight, spraying fine grit into the crowds of rebels beyond the flames. He lay for a heartbeat, stunned by the impact. He had fought Orks and Traitors before but never had he been so effortlessly overpowered, never had he fought a foe who shrugged off his blows like they were nothing. Toran realised then that the battle was turning against the Space Marines, they simply could not bring enough damage to bear against the Ogryns before they would be shredded. Toran’s mind frantically reviewed passages from the Codex but could find no orthodox doctrine that could change this outcome. So he resorted to unorthodox ones. Toran yelled, “Furion: Decimation protocol! Squad engage void seals!” Instantly the whole squad sealed their respirators and set pressure seals to maximum, turning their armour into vacuum proof spacesuits. Furion heard the order and twisted the control of his Heavy Flamer, setting it to maximum spread. A squeeze of the trigger and the Promethium came out not as a finely controlled plume but a blazing sheet of flames. A wave of fire washed out from Furion's position as he swung the end to and fro, dousing the area in an inferno of crackling flames. The surviving rebels were drowned in liquid fire, their lives ended in a vision of hell. The Astartes too were doused in fire and Toran heard his armour scream as the flames washed over him. His skin cooked within his plate as fantastic heat built up, trying to slide through the gaps in his ceramite where only fibre bundle sheaths protected him. He felt like he was being cooked alive, his body basting in the fires and in the corner of his eye he saw his purity flash to ashes under the kiss of the inferno. The pain was staggering but his sealed his armour was designed to withstand the temperatures of the void and the flames had no way to reach the Marine inside. Proof against the scorching heat of stars and the absolute cold of space the power armour stood firm, leaving him a burning statue amidst a scene of hell. The Space Marines endured the inferno but the Ogryns fared far worse, swathed in fire that burned their leathers and melted the plasteel of their armour to their skin. They roared in agony and beat at their own flesh, trying to put the flames out but now their implants worked against them. Long shears and siege drills were no use against fire and they tore and rent their own flesh as they sought to beat the flames into submission. One of them tripped over a burning corpse and fell headlong to the ground, sprawling helplessly in the scalding dust as it thrashed about. Novak leapt from the ground and landed with his boots spread across its shoulders, he raised his rapier with a flourish then drove the tip between the brute’s vertebrae and severed its spine. Another Ogryn was blundering about, flailing its fists at anything that moved. It caught a blazing rebel with one siege drill and in a heartbeat decapitated the Heretics with the spinning heads. Persion ran straight at the beast and ducked underneath a wildly swing fist as he brought up his Combi-melta. A twitch of the finger and the underslung melta fired, punching a beam of sub-fusion energy into its guts. A blast meant to punch through tank armour met flesh and bone and vaporised it instantly, boring through the Ogyrn and leaving a hole large enough to push a hand through. The Ogryn collapsed with a soft sigh, its life ended before its head touched the ground. The last Ogryn was running in little circles, trying to see a way out, but Toran charged at it from behind and swept his weapon low. His chainsword ripping at the back of its legs, tearing out a hamstring as thick as a steel cable. The brute fell to the ground without the use of its leg and Toran swung his blade high before bringing it down hard on the apex of the neck. The roaring chainteeth diced through the skin and muscle, then caught on bone. Toran's weapon was nearly torn from his grip but he held on and pushed harder, cheweing through the thick appendage until he at last beheaded the last Ogryn. Finally silence fell, save for the crackling of smouldering fabrics and the fatty sizzle of roasting bodies. In the flaming wasteland of the battlefield IXth squad came together, J ediah limping from his wounds as they surveyed their pyrrhic victory. Nobody felt like cheering as they took in the carnage, the victory too hard won for them to feel jubilant about. Their plate was scorched and blemished, the colours of the Chapter marred by soot. Toran switched to external air and breathed in the victorious ashes and fumes of roasted flesh, normally a cause for celebration but this day it felt like a defeat. Toran was keenly aware of how close they had come to failure, a possibility no Astartes could ever accept. Only quick thinking and reckless bravado had carried them through and a willingness to blatantly ignore the teachings of the Codex. Daite seemed to be thinking the same thing for he looked sidelong at Toran and remarked, "Sergeant, the Codex Astartes is most definitive about Decimation protocols. Specifically that they are never to be used when Brothers are standing in the middle of the target zone." Toran breathed in a gasp of smoky air through his respirator and said, "Sometimes one must violate the letter of the Codex to be true to its spirit." Persion’s scepticism was obvious in his voice as he commented, "That is an unorthodox way of thinking." "The Codex’s doctrines are perfect but this situation is not," replied Toran, “It is up to us to find ways to make the doctrines fit." "As much as I enjoy a philosophical debate I have to ask: why did the Skitarii abandoned us?" Novak commented. oran replied wearily, "That I do not know, but we still have a mission to complete. Persion check on the Servitors and tell me if Castabore at least left us the Seismic charge.” Persion jogged over to the sewer entrance and called, “They are still here, all the charges are untouched.” “Good,” said Toran as he checked a chronometer, “Get it over here and see to the placement of the seismic charges. We have less than ten minutes until the First Captain starts his assault and I want to be far from here when that wall comes down.” Toran stood guard with Halis as Furion drew a fresh flamer tank from the Servitor train and the rest of the squad placed the demolition device in the tunnel beyond the gate. IXth squad were the foremost demolition experts in the Chapter and the deed did not take long, after only a few minutes the Marines ran out and together they headed towards the sewer exit. Toran led the way but Daite was the first to ask, “Sergeant, where are we going?” Toran was stunned by the thought, his mission objectives were complete and he had no standing orders mandating any action. For the first time since his ascension to being a Space Marine he was free to choose his own course. It was a strange sensation, dizzying and even a little heady, he was struck by a vision of a life without the prescription of orders, commands and endless tradition: a life of Freedom. Toran stamped down on the heretical thought with a surge of self-loathing, to question one's place in the Emperor's design was the beginning of heresy. It was the first step on the road to Chaos, the same path the hated Traitor Legions had walked and Toran would never allow the yearning for freedom to contaminate the purity of his mind. He may have no orders but he still had his duty and only in death does duty end. Toran snarled, “There are mysteries here that need solving, form up, we are going to wring some answers out of Magos Castabore.” Tergum Cultro Chapter 9 Through the dank sewers IXth squad ran, racing barely ahead of a crescendo of noise and tremours as their demolitions brought down the Inner Wall. Behind them was destruction but before them lay the hunt, chasing the signs of the Skitarii’s retreat through the sewers. They moved swiftly and quietly, seeking out the scuffs and disturbed rubbish left as the Mechanicus troops passed through. The spoor showed they had moved in great haste and there was no telling how far ahead they had gotten while the Space Marines fought. Soon they had backtracked to the shadowy concourse where they had fought off the first ambush. The signs of their fight were still fresh, with blood spatters still drying on the rough figurines carved into the walls. The shacks and debris were disturbed by the passage of many feet, showing the Skitarii had travelled through, but which exit they had taken was not so obvious. Toran paused and said “Spread out and check each tunnel, see if there is any trail to follow.” The squad broke up and fanned out, looking carefully in the dim light of flickering Lumen orbs for any indication where their prey had gone then suddenly Daite stood up straight holding out an Auspex scanner and called out, “Unknown presences detected, closing fast.” “The Skitarii?” probed Toran. “Possibly, but the motion signature is too large,” replied Daite, “Either they have prisoners or they linked up with reinforcements.” “Assume ambush positions,” Toran commanded instantly, “Fire only on my command.” With practiced ease the Storm Heralds spread out in a wide perimeter, creating a deadly kill zone in the centre of the concourse. They settled into concealed positions and reduced their armour’s energy output to minimum, becoming indistinguishable from the worn and tarnished figurines carved into the walls. They waited patiently, not giving away so much as a twitch to betray their presence as the long seconds crept by. Then from one of the adjacent tunnels two dozen figures came creeping out, each wearing the bulky backpack of a Hellgun. They were swift and disciplined forces, skilfully covering the angles and covering each other with precision yet to Toran’s surprise they were not Skitarii. The newcomers wore matt black fatigues and dulled carapace armour, their heads covered in all-enclosing helms with night vision googles built in: Imperial Stormtroopers. Toran was shocked by their arrival and wondered what a platoon of Stormtroopers were doing in the sewers as they spread out into the concourse. Their tactics were good, their movements crisp and professional, but they were no match for Astartes. When they had reached the centre of the kill box the Astartes suddenly came to life, powering up their armour and stepping forwards with Bolters raised. Most common soldiers would have opened fire immediately in a panic but the Stormtroopers were experienced and highly disciplined soldiers. They saw the perfection of the ambush around them but also that the Astartes had not yet opened fire, so they gripped their hellguns tight but did not start shooting. Toran stepped forwards and barked, “In the Emperor’s name identify yourselves!” From the back of the group came a stern and prim voice saying, “What gives you the right to make such a demand in the Emperor’s name?” The speaker stepped to the fore and was exposed to the pale light of the lumens, revealing upon her bodice and pauldrons the silver ‘I’ of the Inquisition. The woman wore form fitting black power armour and had a face with thin, pursed lips that seemed to be permanent set in a scowl. Her silver hair was set in a tight bun and her skin had the subtle tells of juvenant work that meant she could be anywhere from fifty to two hundred years old. She was armed with an energised blade and a laspistol, while across her belt were scrolls, purity seals and a variety of grenades including that rarest of weapons: a Psyk-out grenade. She was a sight to set the heart of Heretics cowering in fear and contrition, a vision of the Emperor’s judgement. Unfortunately she was also sight Toran was all too familiar with. Toran drew in a slow breath and growled, “Inquisitor Canesh, this is unexpected.” “Sergeant Toran, I see you are still dragging your Marines through the filth,” Canesh snapped, seemingly as displeased to see them as they were her. Indeed IXth squad had been involved in a mission with the Inquisitor some ten years earlier and they all had bitter memories of the entire affair. The mission had been completed but he cost had been high, IXth squad had come away shamed by the deeds she had demanded and had tried to put the whole incident behind them. Toran had been unable to discern the woman’s character, at times she seemed petty and shallow at others ruthless, detached and judgemental. To this day he still wasn’t sure who the real Canesh was, all he was certain of was that she had an unwavering determination and would not hesitate to pay any price to achieve her goals. “What are you doing down here?” asked Toran. She replied primly, “I might ask you the same thing.” “We asked you first,” commented Halis Paur, "And we have Bolters." Canesh gave them a superior glower that spoke volumes of what she thought of that comment and Marines in general. Toran decided not to play her petty games and declared, “This world has rebelled against the rightful and just rule of the Emperor, we are here to bring his wrath down upon the heretics.” Canesh paused thoughtfully then reluctantly replied, “I too do the Emperor’s work, rebellions such as this do not simply happen. There are always masterminds and sponsors hiding the shadows. The Inquisition will not let such Traitors evade his sight.” Toran put up his bolt pistol and the rest of the gathered warriors lowered their aim, not quite stowing their weapons but at least not pointing them at each other anymore. Toran declared, “We too have noted the unusual skill and determination of these rebels, we suspect a deeper Heresy is at play. I believe we may have found just such a Heretic: in the midst of battle we were abandoned and betrayed by a Mechanicus Magos named Castabore.” “Castabore?” asked Canesh sharply, “This explains much: Castabore is a known Heretic and deviant, long have I sought proof of his perfidy. This timing is too convenient: I suspect he may well have started this whole rebellion to cover her thefts.” “Thefts?” asked Toran intrigued, “What exactly is here that would make a Magos turn against the Imperium?” Canesh narrowed her eyes but a twitch of a Bolter from Halis convinced her to tell them, “Caminus is an old world, with shrines that date back to the Nova Terra Interregnum. There are secrets deeply buried here, Archeotech caches from antiquity.” Halis sounded suspicious as he said, “And exactly what is in this cache that is so valuable?” Canesh merely glared at him, clearly not wanting to reveal all her secrets but Toran stated, “Inquisitor, while we debate this matter the Heretic flees ever further away. If you wish us to work together to catch Castabore then we need operational data. Without knowing Castabore’s goal we cannot predict the Magos’ actions.” Canesh’s face was a mask of stone but eventually she admitted, “The Inquisition has long suspected that there may be an archive of STC designs on Caminus.” That shut Toran up, the sheer magnitude of her words changing everything and silence fell as the gravity sank in. The solemnity of the moment was ruined however as Novak asked, “What is an STC?” Furion sighed in exasperation and answered him, “If you paid attention to anything other than your bladework you would know that a Standard Template Construct is the original technology supplied to human colonists during the Dark Age of Technology. They contained designs for everything you can imagine, from farming crawlers to starship weapons and warp-energy taps.” “So they are valuable?” asked Novak Canesh replied impatiently, “It is a prize beyond the dreams of avarice, even a single page of STC output would be worth killing for. The Inquisition cannot allow such a treasure to fall into the hands of a Traitor, imagine the damage that could be wrought with the power of an STC. It must be denied to the Archenemy.” Halis was eyeing her suspiciously and said, “No its more than that… you didn’t just happen to be down here the moment a Heretic chose to strike. You want the Cache for yourself, don’t you?” The look Canesh gave Halis could have soured milk for clearly she had no intention of revealing that. Through gritted teeth she admitted, “The Inquisition is dedicated to the survival of the Emperor’s rule, yet Mechanicus has had these designs for thousands of years and simply buried them. The Inquisition would see these designs put to good use, not hoard them like misers. There are those in the Inquisition who hold that it is the Mechanicus who is holding humanity back, that it is the Tech- Priests who are preventing innovation and advancement. Their blind devotion to dogma has robbed mankind of the tools necessary for survival.” “That is an unusual thing for an Inquisitor to say,” Toran stated suspiciously. Canesh begrudgingly admitted, “We are sworn to defend the Imperium but our eyes are not shut, we can see it is a stagnant and rotten thing. To survive we must tear down this rusty and ancient cage that we have built for ourselves and replace it with a tower that can once more touch the stars. Your own Chapter, for all its flaws, sees this to be true, your quest to revitalise the Imperium might be flawed but ultimately even you see that we need change.” Toran was deeply disturbed by these words, true he disagreed with his Chapters’ habit of proselytising, but he had seen enough to know the Imperium was corrupt to its very core. The idea of changing things for the better was a potent thought but he was nought save a humble Space Marine, the politics of rulership were well beyond him. All he could do was focus on the step before him and fight the enemy he confronted that day. Toran finally said, “If this data is truly what you claim it to be then we cannot allow it to fall into the hands of one who has betrayed the Emperor. If what you say is correct she may well have sponsored this rebellion in the first place, such a crime must be punished. We shall join your quest as allies and bring the wrath of Terra down upon the Heretic Castabore.” Canesh did not seem pleased by this pronouncement but begrudgingly said, “If you insist on accompanying me then it seems I have little choice. There is an ancient shrine not far from here, I suspect that will be Castabore’s destination. If we act fast we may still be in time to stop a disaster.” “Very well,” replied Toran, “Lead on Inquisitor, together we will bring this traitor to justice.” Tergum Cultro Chapter 10 From the outside the Mechanicus shrine resembled a large gate way built into solid rock, soaring high above and engraved with the bifurcated skull symbol of Mars. It was easily large enough for a pair of Dreadnoughts to pass through unimpeded yet to approach it would be deadly. The archway was festooned with defensive multi-lasers, plasma cavaliers and servitors bearing Grav-cannons. Sadly, this elaborate defence was now useless, they jerked randomly in their firing slits seeking targets that they could not find. The Cavaliers sparked uselessly as they powered up and down repeatedly while the Servitors wandered aimlessly about finding nothing. The gate itself was sitting wide open, split down the middle of the great icon to form two separate images, one of flesh the other of steel. "What happened here?" asked Toran surveying the crippled armaments. "Some form of scrapcode infestation," replied Canesh, "It must have infected the Machine Spirits with data-djinns and trickster engrams." "Then Castabore is already here," exclaimed Toran, "Quickly we may still catch her!" IXth squad bounded forwards, weapons raised as they swept for enemies but Canesh paused and said to her Stormtroopers, "Stay here and form a perimeter, we will scout ahead." The Stormtroopers saluted and turned their Hellguns outwards as the Inquisitor followed the Space Marines inside. The Imperials progressed swiftly under the shadow of the defences, alert for the slightest sign that they were being targeted but nothing happened and they passed under the archway into the shrine itself. Beyond the gate the fane was carved deep into the bed rock of the planet, stretching away in a long nave. The space was bare save for devotional icons to the glory of the Omnissiah and large vox casters that blared binaric hymns on a continuous loop. More gun servitors wandered aimlessly around in the interior but their weapons were pointed at the ground and their targeting scanners were blind to the world. At the far end of the nave were the smoking remains of a rood screen before a smashed altar. Behind that were a pair of smaller doors which were ajar and hanging off their frames. Toran took in the shattered remains of the shrine and snarled, "Warp Hells, the Heretic has been and gone, she must already have the archive!" Inquisitor Canesh stepped forwards and said, "Take your Space Marines and secure the inner sanctum, we must know what has been stolen. I will sweep this area and try to discern if there is any trail to follow." Toran bristled at her assumption of authority and said, "Inquisitor we are not under your command, you do not give us orders." Canesh raised a prim eyebrow and said, "Do you want to waste time arguing about jurisdiction or do you want to catch a Traitor?" Toran wanted to argue further but knew her words made sense so he waved the squad forwards and reluctantly said, "Very well, I will take your suggestions under advisement, for now." Leaving Canesh behind they approached the end of the nave. The interior doors had been blown wide open, leaving a gaping hole into the sanctum. Beyond those doors they found an octagonal chamber some fifty paces wide, clad in marble tiles cut to microscopically exact measurements. The roof was beautiful dome with reinforced flying buttresses, leading into a central Keystone the length of a Space Marine. Short plinths were placed with geometric precision around the sanctum, each bearing strange ornaments and shimmering with the light of stasis fields. On the far wall was a curious emblem, brazenly out of place, for it was a large white circle banded with an iron chain. Emblazoned on the circle was large black avian creature with wings widespread and claws gripping the chain. Novak pointed at the emblem and said, "That is the seal of the Raven Guard, what is it doing here?" He stepped between the plinths for a closer look but pulled up short as Furion yelled, "Stop!" Novak froze with one foot still in mid air and held his breath as Furion slowly crept closer. He set down his Heavy Flamer and inched forwards to gingerly probe at a loose flagstone right under where Novak was about to put his boot. He lifted it a hairsbreadth and peered underneath declaring, "Seismic mine, similar to the one that brought down the gate. One more step and you would have brought this whole place down on our heads." Novak pulled his boot back and took a large step away as he asked, "Can you disarm it?" Furion snorted in derision, "Give me time and I can disarm anything." He pulled a pack of tools from his belt and removed a series of micro thin wires along with a device that sprouted curling Mechandrites. He slid a tiny probe under the flagstone and began disarming the mine with all the care of a master watchmaker. Meanwhile IXth squad spread out and began examining the rest of the shrine, checking for more traps and hidden secrets. Toran walked around the perimeter, careful of his steps as he examined the various plinths laid out before him. Many bore strange devices whose purpose he could not begin to guess and some he suspected may have been heretically Xeno in origin. Others supported single sheets of vellum parchment covered with text from dead and forgotten languages, while one plinth merely shone a rotating hololithic image of some esoteric formula in mid air. Another bore a strange mask of a young boy wrought from gold, crowned with a strange cobra like headdress. Yet the most important plinth of all was not demarked by its content but rather by it's absence. It was short and otherwise indistinguishable, save for a knife that had been rammed into the mechanism to disrupt its stasis field. Toran stared at the inert block and felt the dreadful implications arising from the bare slab, that must once have held the precious STC data. Castabore had taken the archive and Toran knew not where she had fled. He paced away snarling under his breath and inspected the progress of the rest of the squad. Toran felt frustration and bile building within him, but then he saw another of his brothers acting oddly. It was Persion and he was standing by the entrance way, staring at the doors silently and unmoving. Toran gently walked up to Persion and saw he was carefully examining the door jamb, looking over every inch from top to bottom. Toran came to stand beside Persion and asked, "Found something brother?" Persion replied, "This door is all wrong." "It has been blown open," Toran pointed out, "Of course there is something wrong." "No," Persion demurred, "These doors are wrecked, smashed asunder." "Why is that important?" Toran asked not seeing the point. Persion answered, "The doors have been demolished with Melta bombs but this is a Mechanicus shrine, why would the Magos risk damaging the relics inside?" Toran finally grasped what Persion was driving at and he reasoned out loud, "Yes, the Magos wouldn't have risked damaging the relics because she surely had the authority to just open the seals herself. This was sloppy and reckless work, not at all like a Tech-Priest." Persion nodded as his Sergeant caught up and said, "Something is very wrong." Toran tried to understand what had occurred but he knew not enough about Tech-priest thinking so he called out, "Inquisitor I need your opinion, come look at this..." He was met by silence. A slight frown creased his brow as turned calling out, "Inquisitor?" but Canesh was not where she had been. While everybody was distracted she had silently withdrawn beyond the outer doors of the shrine and was now standing outside with her Stormtroopers. Every weapon raised to point straight inside: right at IXth squad. Shock and outrage stole over Toran and without conscious thought he began to run forwards, but time seemed to dilate and his feet appeared to move with glacial slowness. Barely had he managed to put one foot before another when Canesh held up a long silver cylinder in one hand. Then she smiled with smug superiority and contempt as her thumb hit the trigger rune. The ground lurched beneath the Space Marines' feet as her remote detonator set off the seismic mine in an ultrasonic shriek of disruptive noise. Toran was thrown to the side as the arcane device projected overpowering sonic waves through the bedrock, the vibrations travelling instantly through the stonework to hurl everybody off their feet. Ultrasonic waves battered at Toran making his bones rattle and his teeth ache in his skull and the ground danced under his feet. The disruption was stomach-churning for anyone in range but utterly catastrophic for the shrine itself. Thick rock shook like a reed in the wind and massive cracks ran through the pillars and buttress as their integrity was shattered. Stone splinters flew like bullets and a terrible groaning filled the chamber as hundreds of tons of stone shifted on skittering foundations. With a final burst of energy the seismic mine created a crescendo of ultrasonic waves that turned the air itself blurry and indistinct then it died away. For a single moment silence reigned and all was still, then with an earth shattering rumble the entire ceiling caved in on their heads. Toran looked up in horror as the massive Keystone broke free and dropped right on Furion's position, the rest of the roof following it down, creating an avalanche of broken masonry and rough rocks. Toran threw up his arms over his head but could not hold back the deluge. A huge boulder smashed into his helm and knocked him into unconsciousness as the Storm Heralds were buried alive. Tergum Cultro Chapter 11 Toran awoke to absolute darkness; he could not see anything but he was alive and he was awake. His autosenses could not register anything in the pitch black but he could feel his armour was covered by loose debris. He slowly brushed it off with one hand then tried to stand up but was brought up short when his helm impacted a stone barrier at just over waist height. Frustrated by his inability to see Toran ripped off his helm revealing the augmetic eye embedded in his skull, the slightest mental impulse was enough to cause it to glow and illuminate the darkness. Toran could barely see the hand before his face but it was enough to take in the situation, he appeared to be in a small cavity between two horizontal slabs of rock. The way the ceiling caved in must have piled the stonework together, leaving a tiny space between the floor and the roof. Toran flopped onto his belly and crawled forwards, ruining what was left of his proud colours as he dragged his armour over sharp stones. He pulled himself hand over hand as he tried to find any other survivors but was stopped short as he collided with a pair of pillars in the middle of the space. Toran was puzzled for he did not recall any pillars in the sanctum and did not understand where they had come from. He looked up and gasped at what he saw looming over him. Standing in the middle of the space was Furion; he was bent over with his backpack pressed right against the central keystone of the roof. The flying buttresses seemed to have snagged just above the keystone and were supporting the weight of the entire roof on their arches. No, Toran realised in startled wonder, the buttresses were not supporting the roof: it was Furion. He was holding it aloft. Furion’s arms were widely spread to brace the immense weight and his boots were cracking the bedrock of the floor as they drove into the surface. His Mark III plate was buzzing angrily at the strain and the fibre bundle muscles of the suit was bulging to absolute breaking point. Toran realised that Furion had done the impossible, he had caught the keystone as it fell upon him and now he was the only thing keeping tons upon tons of rock from crashing down and grinding everybody to paste. Toran looked up in amazement and said, “Brother… how are you doing that?” Furion’s only response was to growl, “Gunnnngh…. unnngh…” Toran realised Furion was pushed to the absolute limit by the weight pressing down on him, his concentration must have been total and all consuming. His brother had already surpassed everything Toran thought he knew about an Astartes' limits but he could not last long. The lifetime of any survivors was now measured by Furion’s endurance, the second he wavered everybody died. Toran decided not to distract Furion again and pulled himself around seeing another body half buried in the rubble. He pushed aside the discarded Heavy Flamer to find Novak lying on his back, buried up to the chest in what was now the wall. Toran crawled over and slapped his helm hard until his head moved. Novak looked up and said with an unhealthy gurgle, ”Sergeant…” Toran asked “Are you hale?” Novak replied, “I regret to report…” “Brother?” said Toran in concern. Novak breathed in and said, “I regret to report… my blade is broken,” as he held up his shattered rapier. Toran could not help but let out a short bark of laughter at the ridiculous answer, the sheer scope of their situation overcoming his stoicism for a second. He was interrupted by a snarl over the vox as another voice cut in. “I am alive too, if anyone cares” came the voice of Halis. “Where are you?” asked Toran. “No idea,” said Halis, “I appear to be buried, my armour is intact but I cannot move an inch.” “Stay still,” said Toran, “We will dig our way out of here.” “We?” said Halis, “Who else is left?” “Novak is pinned” said Toran “And Furion is here too but he is busy holding back the avalanche.” “Hes doing WHAT?!” exclaimed Halis in disbelief. “Just believe me,” said Toran, “Is there anyone else?” Another voice cut in saying “Sergeant this is Persion: I alive, I am in some form of cavity in the wall. Ophelian is with me, he is alive but unconscious. I don’t know if he is in a Sus-an-membrane coma or just stunned.” Then another voice on the vox, “Daite reporting, I am pinned under a plinth. I am buried but can move slightly, I will try to dig my way to you.” Toran sighed in relief but realised one squad member was unaccounted for, he barked “Jediah, Jediah report damn you!” There was a cough then a voice said, “Here Sergeant.” “Are you injured brother?” asked Toran. Jediah replied, “There is nothing wrong with me that will not be better once I get my hands on that bitch Canesh. I am going to peel her skin off and dice her limbs into little chunks slice by slice, then I am going to make her watch me feed them to vermin.” “Jediah must be concussed,” said Halis, “His wits are addled.” "Really?" Novak said, "He doesn't sound any different from normal to me." While they were talking Toran turned about and dragged himself over to where he thought the entrance way had been. He blessed the Emperor for ensuring it was impossible to disorientate a Space Marine, otherwise he might well have been facing the wrong way. He had no tools but used his gauntlets to start digging his way up, pulling aside loose detritus and debris to create a hole. As he dug he heard Novak saying, “We were chasing Castabore and then Canesh tries to kill us, do you think they are working together?” Persion answered on the Vox, “If they knew the STC was here then they could have concocted this whole scheme, set up this trap to eliminate us and take the archeotech for themselves.” Halis interrupted to say, “No, you are getting it all backwards. The doors were blown long before we arrived, Castabore was never here. Canesh wants the STC all for herself but she knew the TechPriests would come running the second the shrine was violated. This trap was meant to catch any Tech-Priests on her trail while she made her escape.” Persion continued the narrative, “So Canesh gets her hands on the archeotech and then she has the sheer bad luck to run into us on the way out. She could not leave any witnesses behind but couldn’t hope to beat us in a straight fight either. So she decides to double back and steer us into her own trap.” Daite commented, “Knifed in the back not once but twice, by two different Heretics.” While the others had been talking Toran had been furiously digging but suddenly there was a groan and the whole structure shifted. Tons of loose rock were disturbed by his excavations and slid over each other. Dust and debris poured into the cavity, filling it with a choking miasma and the groan of rock shifting echoed through the tiny space. Furion screamed “Garrrgh!” as his knees buckled, dropping the keystone downwards. He caught himself after a couple of inches and braced the roof again, now lower than ever. He was holding the avalanche back but his position growing worse. That he had persevered this long was a miracle, but his endurance was faltering, now only his sheer bloody minded refusal to quit stood between everybody and a crushing death. “Sergeant,” said Persion on the vox, “We could really use some of that unorthodox thinking right about now.” Toran looked about but saw nothing that would help their situation, nothing except the Heavy Flamer at Furion’s feet. He swallowed then dragged himself forwards saying, “I have an idea.” Novak craned his neck around to see where the Sergeant was going and said, “You cannot be serious.” “What’s he doing?” asked Halis on the Vox. “He is going to try to make a bomb out of the flamer’s tanks and blow a hole back into the nave,” said Novak watching the sergeant drag the tanks over to the hole he had dug. “No, no, no, no, no… that is a really, really bad idea,” Halis excalimed, “If there is anything but loose debris between the sanctum and the nave the force of the blast will directed inwards and blow us all the way to the Golden Throne.” “We don’t have any other choice,” said Toran wedging the tanks into the hole he had dug. “Sergeant…” said Halis but he was cut off as Furion groaned again and slipped down another inch. Dust and rock chips cascaded into the space and a terrible creaking noise made everybody freeze. “Everybody brace!” yelled Toran as he levered the biggest piece of rock he could find up against the tanks, creating a primitive barrier. He placed his backpack hard against the rock then took a Krak grenade from his belt and leaned forward to bring the rock out a few degrees. He threw the grenade over his shoulder and flung himself backwards, pressing hard against the rock to create a hard seal around the tanks. He dug his heels into the ground, carving short grooves into the stonework and bellowed, “Fire in the Hole!” Then the Krak grenade exploded and the world turned white. Tergum Cultro Chapter 12 The nave of the shrine was finally silent, the vox casters had broken off the walls and the toppled servitors twitched as their rudimentary logic engines struggled to grasp the concept of standing up. The stillness was absolute and the weak lumen orbs only filled the space with a velvety twilight. At one end were piles of stones, spilling out of the entrance to the sanctum in jagged heaps. The serenity of the nave was broken by a sudden eruption of flame and thunder as the piles of rocks exploded upwards. Boulders were hurled with startling force to smash into the walls, cracking their facades. One boulder arced upward then inevitably downwards to impact upon a twitching servitor, splattering blood and engine oils in a disgusting circle around the site. A thick wave of dust rolled across the nave, cutting the thin light into distinct beams that shimmered like water over a large crater blown into the heap of rubble. Glimpses of movement could be seen in the depths of the crater and then came a form, crawling hand over hand out of a hole at the bottom. Sergeant Toran pulled his body up into the light and the thick dust covering his face making him look like a wraith, especially with his augmetic eye glowing a ferocious red. He dragged himself out of the hole with his armour spewing streams of grit from the exhaust vents on his backpack. Finally he rolled over and lay sucking in air, feeling something floating inside his chest where nothing should be. All he wanted to do was lay still and feel the hot burn as his gene-forged body pieced itself back together, but he forced himself to his feet and gathered his strength. His brothers were still in jeopardy and what was mere pain compared to that. Wearily he threw himself at the heaps of stonework to begin digging furiously towards his brothers. He lifted great slabs of rock and threw them heedlessly over his shoulder, not caring where they came down. On and on he went like an industrial digger, but it was frustrating work, he had to move debris from the top of the pile first lest he destabilise the entire mass and crush everyone yet buried. On and on he persisted knowing every stone he lifted was one less pressing down on the squad. After a few minutes digging he heard a faint knocking sound, he moved towards it and pulled aside a slab to reveal a small cavity containing the shape of Daite. "Give me your hand!" shouted Toran as he reached down into the hole as they grasped wrist to wrist then heaved him up into the light. Daite slapped Toran's pauldron with his palm in gratitude but wasted no more time before diving in and assisting Toran to dig. They ploughed into the debris and their armour's artificial fibre bundles whirred as they lifted stones the size of grown men and hurled them away. A few minutes later they unearthed Halis who shook ash from his eye lenses as they dug out his arms and legs. Swiftly he was freed and without a word joined the excavation, pulling aside drifts of rubble with his gauntlets. A minute later Persion and Ophelian were found wedged between two rocks, they pulled the brothers free one at time and laid them out. Persion was quickly back on his feet whereas Ophelian was breathing but not responsive. Toran ordered "Daite check him out, Persion take his place on the line." Soon after that they had found Jediah who came out of the ground in a squeal of ceramite on rocks. His ruptured breastplate had been sharpened by the passage of protruding rocks and now his chest more resembled a collection of knife points than a plate of armour. Lastly, they uncovered Novak who was still clinging to his broken rapier, they pulled him free and found his armour was surprisingly intact underneath a thick layer of ash. Novak knocked ash from helm and asked, "Is that everyone?" "No," replied Toran eyeing the hefty keystone, "Furion is still under there." Together they approached the Keystone and it was even bigger than Toran had thought. He was amazed that Furion had been able to hold it, let alone the weight pressing down on it from above. While everybody else cleared the debris from the top Toran knelt down at the bottom and cried out, "Furion! Furion hold on, we are coming for you!" Halis stated with concern, "Sergeant, we need to move this quickly." Toran joined the squad standing around the edge of the key stone and said "As one... Heave!" With five Space Marines lifting the stone came away easily, revealing the broken and incoherent form of Furion underneath. His battleplate was a wreck, the thick reinforced plates smashed, the helm was buckled and around his limbs the ceramite had splintered. Yet despite all that it had held, the nigh mythical Mark III 'Iron armour' withstanding forces that would have pulverised any lesser model of plate. Daite ran over and knelt down to plug his auspex scanner into an armour interface, he was no apothecary but he was the best they had. Toran looked on worriedly as Daite assessed readouts from the spirits of Furion's armour while the rest of the squad tried to distract themselves by inspecting their weapons and clearing the debris from their bolters. After a minute Daite sat back up and said, "Furion is alive, don't ask me how but he is alive." "He is just too stubborn to die," Toran breathed full of relief and pride, for there could be no doubt that Furion had saved them all with his epic feat. "Stubborn or not he is in no condition to be moved and neither is Ophelian," said Daite, "They need the ministrations of an Apothecary, sooner rather than later." "Then you stay here with them until help comes," said Toran, "Persion head to the surface, contact the Chapter and get an Apothecary down here straight away." "You are ordering me to run?" snarled Persion, "I want to be there when you gut that bitch Canesh." Toran replied, "Brother you are the only one with a Vox array capable of reaching the surface, think of your squad mate's lives before your need for vengeance." Persion was not happy but could not defy an order so snarled, "Very well but when you catch her make sure to give Canesh a bad death: make it slow and painful." Toran was concerned by the relish in his brother voice and replied, "I thought you did not hold with cruelty." "For her i'll make an exception," Persion snarled, "She deserves to suffer for what she has done!" Despite everything they had been through Toran was disquieted by the eager tone in Persion's voice. He normally did not advocate such bloodlust and the thought put Toran on edge. He sternly stated, "We are Storm Heralds, when we strike we do so cleanly, we do not sully ourselves with torture and sadism." Behind them Halis snorted, "Nobody ever criticises Jediah for enjoying his work." "Jediah is not the Sergeant," replied Toran, "I am and I will not dishonour a proud legacy stretching back to the Age of Apostacy. If you disagree ask yourself this: What would Furion say?" Persion glowered but begrudgingly admitted, "He would say Duty must always come first..." Toran nodded approvingly and said "Good, then get to it and one more thing, do not mention the Inquisitor or the Magos to anybody." Persion cocked his head quizzically and said, "Why shouldn't I?" Toran answered, "Do you really think it is a good idea to accuse an Inquisitor of Heresy without irrefutable proof?" "Well when you put it like that I see your point," replied Persion, "As you order so shall it be. Just make sure Canesh is dead." Then he turned and jogged into the darkness beyond the shrine. Toran watched him go then checked his weapons and said, "Novak, Jediah, Halis you are coming with me, we have the Emperor's Justice to dispense." Tergum Cultro Chapter 13 Deep underground there was a large Atrium, with broad concourses, graceful pillars and bold statues of imperial heroes. Its existence so far underground had once been a testament to previous Governor's hubris but now its only purpose was that of a battlefield and it rang with the screams of dying men. Across the space figures in black and figures in red ran and blasted at each other. Hellguns tore through armour with ease and over a dozen men had already fallen, the rest lurked in cover blasting away blindly. From behind one statue appeared a floating red box, inching out to hold up an astonishingly rare Volkite Serpenta and firing off streaming blasts of energy. One lucky shot caught a man full on and incinerated him in a heartbeat, spraying hot ashes all over his comrades yet they held firm and continued firing. Into this space charged four Space Marines, their armour was greyed, scored and rent but they were ready for battle. Yet the second they emerged from the tunnels half the weapons on the field swung towards them and inundated them with Hellgun fire. Coherent light punched into their ruined armour and seared their flesh. Instantly they dived into cover as the beams soared overhead in a strobing storm of lasfire. It was galling for a Space Marine to seek cover but their armour was a wreck and the weight of fire was remarkable. Sergeant Toran assessed the situation in his mind, calculating the angles with Transhuman speed and he did not like the results. The hard fact was that the four of them could not beat this many opponents in a three-way fight. That they might die was barely a blip in the equation but that one of the Traitors could escape was unacceptable. Toran risked a glance over the rubble and his head was nearly taken off by a well placed blast, he ducked down and gritted his teeth. They were trapped, pinned between two foes and with no way to change the odds he could see. Toran couldn't see his enemies but he could hear them and called, "Canesh! How could you do this?!" From behind a fallen pillar Canesh yelled, "I make no apologies, you are too indoctrinated to see the truth. I will not be bound by dogma and short-sightedness, I will do whatever is necessary to pull mankind out of the squalor." From the other side of the atrium Castabore's boxy form emerged from behind the statue and spat, "Sergeant do not discourse with this Heretek, she has stolen precious STC designs and attacked the Omnissiah's faithful. You must help us defeat her!" Toran was startled to hear such an appeal and snarled, “You expect us to help you? You who started this rebellion. You betrayed us, you betrayed the Emperor!” Castabore was incapable of facial expressions but her voice resounded with confusion as she replied, “That statement is a fallacy, this rebellion has endangered irreplaceable Mechanicus relics. I informed you that my mission is to protect those relics, I would never do something so counterproductive!” “Then why did you abandon us in mid-battle?” yelled Toran. Castabore's answer sounded almost matter of fact as she called, “I received an alarm that a Mechanicus shrine had been penetrated and the seals were being violated. I calculated an eightyseven percent probability that your combat prowess could overcome the odds with only minimal attrition of life. The relics were a higher priority, so I acted.” Despite everything Toran inexplicably found himself believing her, the Magos truly did not care about anything other than the relics. He had heard enough of the Tech-priests to know that to them honour and brotherhood were a distant second to efficiency and logic. Yet this only deepened the mystery, what was truly going on here? Then something nagged at Toran, some tiny detail he had missed before now floated up the surface of his mind and made him replay his first conversation with Canesh over in his eidetic memory. Then suddenly everything snapped into sharp focus as the truth hit him. He turned back to Canesh and shouted, “You called the Magos a man at first, because you had never even heard of her until we told you about her! The Magos wouldn't need a rebellion to cover her tracks, the only person here who would need to start a rebellion... is you!" He roared, "Tell me Canesh: did Castabore betray the Emperor or did you?!” “Kill them!” screamed Canesh as the Strom troopers intensified their fire. Toran was forced to duck lower as Hellgun blasts chipped away at his cover and yelled, "Magos, we must work together!" Castabore processed the change in variables in an instant and ordered, "Suppressing Fire!" Instantly the Skitarii rose up and unleashed a relentless volley. The beams smashed into the Stormtrooper's cover and created a storm of lightning. The Inquisitorial troopers were good, professional soldiers but they were still only men and could not help flinching for moment. In that instant the Space Marines were up and running. They charged across the distance at a sprint and before any man could react they dove in amongst the Stormtroopers. Lashing out with fists and bolter stocks to break bones and crush chests. Novak leapt over a fallen pillar, using boots and fists to shatter all resistance, he was swift and deadly with his bare hands but somehow looked incomplete without a blade. At the same time a pair of Stormtroopers broke cover and ran screaming at Halis with bayonets fixed. He saw them coming and then he took two steps to the right, watching as they were riddled with Hellgun fire from the Skitarii. Meanwhile Jediah grabbed a Stormtrooper and pulled him into a bear hug, the razor sharp remains of his jagged breastplate puncturing the carapace armour of the man. They stood there like old friends as the man was impaled on a dozen knife edges and blood ran freely down his legs to drip onto the cold ground. While his brothers were dealing with the mortals Toran was charging straight towards Canesh with his Chainsword roaring. She rose up and whipped out her energised sword to meet him blade to blade. Toran brought up his chainsword expecting to overpower the slight woman but he had not reckoned upon the master crafted lethality of her power sword. The lighting wreathed edge of the blade met the spinning chainsword and in one smooth movement cut straight through it with barely any resistance at all. A sword that had served faithfully for nine centuries was broken and Toran was left holding half a blade as the motor spluttered and died. He almost lost his life in that moment as Canesh followed through and tried to disembowel him. Only his genhanced reflexes kept him alive as without conscious thought he twisted awkwardly to avoid the blow. He had no time to counter before Canesh struck again, launching a series of strikes, any one of which should have ended him. She was good: precise, skilled and fast enough to hint at subtle augmetic enhancements under her armour. Toran had seen her in combat before but never so ruthlessly and focussed, never fighting with such skill and fervour. Toran was forced to fall back, stepping between blows and deflecting with the blade's killing edge with his vambraces, every impact making his ceramite hiss and smoke. In theory Toran should have easily bested her, he had reach, strength and bulk enough to crush her. Yet her energised blade could cut through ceramite effortlessly and she knew exactly how to use it. A lucky strike caught Toran's arm with the edge of the blade and carved a deep furrow into the surface, a few degrees more and he would have lost his hand. He almost fell over backwards, his guard dropping and that was when Canesh made her first mistake. She pulled back with her sword and thrust point first to ram her blade up the hilt in Toran's abdomen. A mortal man would have fallen in screaming agony but he was a Space Marine and the pain of the blow meant nothing to him. He felt his inside burning but fast as lighting his hand flew out and clamped onto Canesh's wrist, locking her in place. The Inquisitors' eyes opened wide in shock but before she could react Toran's other hand whipped out and smashed across her face, sending teeth flying in bloody showers of shattered enamel. Canesh staggered drunkenly from the hit and in that vulnerable moment Toran grabbed her around the throat. With a heave he lifted her bodily off the ground and Canesh let go of her blade to thrash at Toran's arms and kick at the air but it was useless, she was in Toran's grasp and nothing could make him let go. Slowly Toran wrapped both his hands around Canesh's neck and felt the hatred burning in his heart. This woman had betrayed every bond and oath she had taken for the sake of power. He looked into her eyes and saw the arrogance and contempt seething within and realised how rotten her soul had become. Her veneer of loyalty was a sham, Toran realised, she only served her own ambition, it was all she had ever served. Toran saw her mortal fear and dread at the knowledge her soul had forsaken the light of the Emperor. He could practically taste the terror oozing out of her sweat and it was heady indeed. For a moment Toran understood his brothers' urgings to make her suffer, to take joy in the moment of the kill. This woman deserved every agony and torment he could inflict and Toran realised deep down there was a tiny corner of his heart that wanted to watch this woman suffer. No, it was fouler than that, he wanted to make her suffer with his own two hands. Some part of him knew just how good it would feel to close his grip millimetre by millimetre and laugh at her futile struggles as he choked her slowly and painfully. He wanted to taste her fear and savour the light fading in her eyes. In that moment he saw a new future stretching out before him, one stripped of honour but full of bloodlust and slaughter. A future where he cared for nothing save the spilling of blood and the ending of life. He would become a butcher lord, pretending to fight in the Emperor's name but in truth serving only his own pleasure and amusement. He saw his future reflected in Canesh eyes, a future where he did not serve others but carved his own path to glory and at the end of that path waited a Throne of Skulls and a roaring red god. Toran snapped back to reality and was filled with horror and disgust at himself. To abandon his honour and duty would betray more than the Emperor and the teachings of his Primarch: it would be to betray the nobility within himself. Such a future would take him from honour, making him not the best Marine he could be but the worst. He was ashamed that such potential existed within his soul and swore to himself that he would eternally remain a servant of the Emperor and a son of Roboute Guilliman. Toran vowed that he would always and forever choose death before life without honour. He gathered himself up and looked the Inquisitor, still feebly beating on his arms, then in one swift movement he jerked his fists and snapped her neck. The death was quick and painless, filling the demands of duty and honour without undue suffering. Canesh was dead but it was done the right way, the honourable way. The way of the Storm Heralds. Tergum Cultro Chapter 14 In the ruins of the atrium silence finally fell as the last of the Stormtroopers lay bleeding out and voiding their bowels in death and the victors took stock. The Skitarii and the Space Marines stood apart eyeing each other warily, their temporary alliance was ended and no one knew what would happen next. Standing alone Toran dropped the corpse of Inquisitor Canesh to the ground and let it lay as it fell, then he reached down to pull the energised blade from his abdomen. His Larraman cells flooded the wound and sealed the damage but he knew he would need the attention of an Apothecary once he returned to the Chapter. The battle had been hard fought and victory was theirs but the true cost of the prize had yet to be revealed. Toran knelt down and searched Canesh's body, finding a hololithic device the size of his palm. It flickered mysterious images above the projector that were undoubtedly the lost archive of STC secrets. Toran looked at the device and could not help but wonder if it was worth the death and betrayal wrought in its name. For a second he wanted to smash the damned thing but then he lowered his arm knowing it was pointless, he could not undo the crimes of Canesh so easily. He sighed and went to stand up but paused and almost as an afterthought he took the Psyk-out grenade too and clipped it to his belt. Toran straightened and examined his spoils of war; lifting his arm to look at the power sword in his grip. It was clearly a masterpiece of craftsmanship, tested and honed and it shimmered along its edge as his blood burned off. The grip was a little narrow for his hand and the blade somewhat short for his reach but the Chapter’s Techmarines could rectify that. Toran briefly considered keeping the sword for himself but the vows of privation he had taken upon ascension forbade such hubris. Tradition demanded that the blade would be presented to the Masters of the Chapter, who would reconsecrate it and present it to some worthy hero in due course. While the Sergeant was lost in thought Castabore had floated up from behind her cover and drifted forwards over the cooling bodies. She looked at Toran standing over Canesh's corps and made a 'tsk tsk' noise before declaring, "You have deleted an Imperial Inquisitor, this is most perturbing, I must file a full report as soon as possible." There was a sharp cough and the pair of them turned to look at Halis who had approached quietly. He reached up to pull off his helm revealing a hairless scalp and a clean shaven jaw. He glanced at the corpse of the Inquisitor and said, "Magos you seem to have forgotten that our armour has visual recording systems too and that we now have detailed footage of you personally killing Inquisitorial personnel.” His mouth twisted in a sly smirk as he said, “It would be most unfortunate if this footage were to fall into the hands of the rest of the Inquisition." Castabore tensed under her robe and floated higher in indignation as she spat, “Statement: That is Blackmail!” Toran could see exactly what his cunning brother was attempting to do and grasped the Chapters’ need for such an act. Yet it sat ill with him, he had just recommitted himself to the path of honour and he did not want this affair to become base and sordid. He stepped between them, hands raised as he tried to reconcile the conflicting obligations, “I prefer to think of it as a long-term working arrangement, you have proof of our involvement and we have proof of yours. It will keep everyone trustworthy.” Castabore processed the concept for a moment and there was the faint noise of her cogitators whirring as she ran the variables, then she asked in a suspicious tone of voice, “You are proposing a course of action?" Toran replied, “We all know that the high Lords plan to make an example of the Storm Heralds, you will use whatever influence you have to withhold Mechanicus backing for such an endeavour. Without the Tech-Priest’s blessing such a motion could never pass through the Imperialis Senatorum, in fact without the Mechancius no Imperial expedition could even leave port.” Castabore sank low on her grav-repulsors and said, “I cannot defy orders from the Fabricator General.” Toran responded, “Then be creative in interpreting your orders, remind your masters that the Storm Heralds can be most valuable allies.” “And the STC archive?” queried Castabore with an undisguised hint of avarice in her voice. “Keep it as a gift,” replied Toran tossing her the Hololith, “It shall remain our secret and none shall know you possess it.” Castabore practically quivered with delight: the knowledge and power he had just handed to her would change her life entirely. She waved a probe over it and the flickering images sped up before her eyes. She crooned over it, drinking in the data then declared, “This bounty from the Omnissiah will revolutionise my technical designs and the information I choose to release could direct Mechcanicus research for centuries to come." Halis leaned in with a glint in his eye and said, “Do not forget the prestige that will come with it, your star will be in the ascendant among the Tech-Priests. Play your cards right and you could well be master of your own Forge-World one day.” Castabore’s head snapped up and flickering lights under her hood showed her mind encompassing this new concept, then she said, “Such a high-ranking Magos would be well advised to have alliances beyond the Skitarii. A Magos who could count upon the support of the Adeptus Astartes could rise high indeed. “ Toran nodded and said, “Then we have an accord?” Castabore floated closer and looked him in the eye as she said “Your proposal is acceptable.” Toran did not smile for such an affectation would be wasted on the Magos so he said, "Before we make grandiose plans let us first dispose of these bodies." "I suggest you let me handle that," said Castabore holding up her Volkite Serpentia, "It would be best if you departed." "Very well," replied Toran eyeing the exotic weapon, "I look forward to a long and fruitful partnership between us." He made the sign of the Aquilla and she returned the symbol of the cog. Then he and his Brothers turned and marched away, leaving the Mechanicus troops behind to gather up all evidence that they were ever there. As they walked away Novak glanced back and said, "I am confused, what did we just do?" “What had to be done,” Toran replied grimly, “We have just secured a new future for the Chapter." Tergum Cultro Chapter 15 The forward base was a hive of activity, serfs and servitors’ rushing between buildings to support their Transhuman Master’s every need. Munition trucks and fuel bowsers raced to and fro as victuallers and quarter masters tried to get supplies packed up. From the templum hymns were projected via loud hailers but were completely drowned out as a Thunderhawk transporter began lifting supplies back into orbit. Through the bedlam a single Marine walked calmly, wearing pale blue robes and unhurriedly taking everything in with one organic and one augmetic eye. Sergeant Toran and he had just spent two days in the Apothecarion, his gene-implants may have kept him alive during the mission but he had still needed intensive surgery afterwards. Still he had come off relatively lightly; Furion’s injuries were so severe that would be laid out for another week, a troublingly long recovery period for an Astartes. Toran was on his way to report to his Captain but his route took him near the sentry guns and razorwire of the camp’s perimeter. As he walked he could see beyond the marked kill zones to where crowds of humans were gathered in tight knots. These were not the Heretic army, who had been decimated while Toran recovered, but civilian men and women whose only sin had been to survive amongst the heretics. At the heart of each gathering was a towering Space Marine in full armour, they were reading aloud from prayer tracts or making wild gestures as they preached to the masses. This was the Storm Heralds’ typical practice following victory, but here the need had been dire: this entire world had been led astray by Heresy and the chastisement would be severe. Toran could see the mortals were listening in rapt attention, but their faces betrayed no sign of religious devotion or adoration. Each and every face was etched with dread and apprehension, anxious that their efforts would be deemed insufficient and the Space Marines would punish them. This was not faith but fear at work. In one spot a Space Marine supervised gangs of men working around a bonfire made from burning books. They threw any text that did not laud the Divinity of the Emperor onto the blaze and watched it burn. Toran saw a gang of men dragging a gagged and bound woman over to the pyre, she kicked and struggled but could not stop what was coming. The gang dragged her up to the bonfire then heaved her into the flames. A terrible shrieking issued forth, but the sickening part was that she was obviously no Heretic, she had merely been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. The men however were not looking at her, instead they were glancing at the armoured Space Marine towering over them, wondering if they had earned his approval or censure. Sternly he stared at them as they hurried away to find more people to sacrifice. Toran knew that across the city this scene would be repeating itself as the populous desperately tried to appease the Emperor’s Angels. Toran turned away in disgust and marched away, these dishonourable practices revolted him but he knew he was not in a position to change things, not yet. Soon he approached an officers’ billet marked with the insignia of Ninth Company. He walked up to the hatch and was met by a serf equerry who must have been expecting him and waved him in without introduction. Inside the billet was bare and functional, merely containing an armour stand supporting a glorious suit of artificer plate; there was also a weapons rack, a small reliquary and a cot. Most of the space was taken up with a luxurious Nalwood desk, one of the privileges of rank; it bore numerous data slates and one long thin box. and sitting behind it was Captain Phalros. The Captain glanced up from a data- slate in his hands and waved Toran to sit down without formality. Toran sat in a high backed chair and waited patiently as Phalros finished his reading. Eventually he set down his data-slate and then said "So Sergeant it seems your mission made quite an impression, Magos Castabore's report is almost gushing. She is even offering to allow our specialists to partake in select experiments on Forge World Crux Lapis. This is quite a coup for you, the Masters are extremely impressed." Toran sat ramrod straight and stated, "The Magos and I formed a good working relationship Brother Captain." Phalros gave him a penetrating stare and said, “Yet your own report is somewhat bare, the injuries you sustained and the relics you brought back are not consistent with the mission profile.” Toran tried not to fidget or look nervous; there was much that had happened underground that he had been obliged to withhold from his report. It sat ill with him to withhold information from his superiors but the arrangement he had made with Castabore forced him to be economical with the truth. Above all the Chapter could not afford to be implicated in the death of an Inquisitor. Phalros' face was filled with suspicion as he said, "There is more going on here I am sure." Toran neutrally replied, “As I reported a Mechanicus shrine was threatened, as per your orders to assist the Magos we diverted to provide assistance. The Magos was adamant that sacred Mechanicus secrets were not disclosed, we were obliged to swear a vow of silence on the matter.” It was true; it was just not the whole truth. Phalros leaned forwards and said, “I note that none of IXth squad have yet preached to the masses.” Toran felt he was on more secure ground with this and replied, “We sustained severe injuries and are not yet fit to engage in such duties.” Phalros rubbed his chin and said, “Somehow IXth squad is always conveniently occupied when the time comes to spread the faith. There is always some false alarm or an anomaly to investigate or a penance to be undertaken, once you even spent three days marching back to base rather than call in a Thunderhawk. Yet the oddest thing is the Chaplains don’t seem concerned by this trend, Wrethan in particular seems to view you as his protégé.” He leaned back and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he said, “Someday you must tell me how you managed that.” “Sir?” asked Toran quite confused by this statement. Phalros replied, "Come now, did not Furion tell you that our cause reaches the highest levels of the Chapter.” It took a long moment for Toran to understand what his Captain was trying to say, then his eyes widened in disbelief as he said "You mean to say you too oppose the proselytising?” Phalros nodded, “Yes indeed, we have been watching you closely and are pleased by your progress.” “We?” asked Toran. Phalros said, “I did say the highest levels, the very highest.” Toran’s jaw dropped as he asked, “Chapter Master Gorgall believes as we do?" "Indeed" said Phalros, "Long has he worked to restore the Storm Heralds to our true duty." Toran was confused by this revelation and said, "But he is the Chapter Master, why does he not just command an end to the proselytizing?" Phalros replied bitterly, "Because if Gorgall defies the will of the Chaplains and the Apothecaries he will not remain Chapter Master for long." Toran was shocked to hear this; he had always assumed the Space Marines were bands of brothers united in purpose. True the lower ranks had been bickering but to hear that the flaws extended all the way to the greatest of them was a shattering truth. His delusions of the Chapter's unity were breaking and he gasped, "Surely First Captain Athead would not allow such a thing to pass." Phalros snorted, "Athead would be first in line to supplant Gorgall, he has never forgiven the Chapter Master for being voted to the rank instead of him." Phalros laced his fingers together and said "Understand some hold that Gorgall is the source of the problem, that his willingness to cooperate with Imperial Adepts is a sign of weakness. Even some of the Captains are saying we need a leader who will break us free of the confining rule of the High Lords." "That is madness" retorted Toran, "Who could possibly doubt Gorgall's wisdom?" Phalros grimaced as he replied, "Chief Apothecary Lessall." "Oh," said Toran understanding the scale of the problem, he sat for a moment as the implications set in. Master Lessall was by far the oldest and perhaps most respected member of the Chapter save those heroes interred in Dreadnought armour. Even the most venerable Master could not remember a time when his stern gaze was not watching over them. When Lessall was but a young Apothecary he served in the Inquisitorial Deathwatch and after many years he had returned battered and scarred. Of the dark deeds he undertook in those times he would not speak, but his eyes were yet haunted by the horrors he witnessed and he retained a bitter hatred for all agents of the Imperium. Toran swallowed to cover his thoughts then said, “Are there many Captains who would support Lessall?” “More than would back Gorgall,” said Phalros looking grim, “Understand right now only the absolute authority of the Chapter Master’s office holds back the dissenters. A storm is brewing and it cannot be averted forever: we need supporters in the highest levels.” Phalros placed his hands flat on the desk and said, “Which is why your name has been presented to First Company for consideration.” Toran was shocked to hear that. He was yet young as Space Marines measured such things and had yet to earn glories enough to warrant such a promotion. First Captain Athead himself had seemed far from impressed and this would place Toran directly under his command. Toran realised then that this was purely a political appointment and that completely tarnished the honour. He looked up and said diplomatically, “I am honoured to be considered for such glory but feel I am not worthy.” Phalros replied with brutal honesty, “No, you are not yet ready but the eyes of the Masters are upon you and if you continue to excel then you will someday ascend. The day will come when we need you to be our man in the First but in the meantime we have decided to present you with this.” Phalros opened the box on his desk and from it brought forth a shining blade. Toran peered intently for it was Canesh’s sword but worked and reforged for a Space Marines’ hand. It shimmered in the light calling to him with its radiance and purity. Phalros presented to him saying, “It was quite a challenge to reforge, the blade was inlaid with thrice-blessed silver and hexagrammatic wards of surpassing complexity. I suspect there is quite a tale behind its capture but that will have to wait, for now bear it with pride and know you serve the Emperor when you draw it.” Toran took the blade with reverence and said, “Thank you Captain I am humbled indeed… yet I must make one request.” “A bold request, what is it?” asked Phalros. “That an inscription be placed upon the blade,” said Toran, “Honour above all.” Phalros raised an eyebrow and said, “Does this have some special meaning beyond the obvious?” “Merely a reminder” said Toran, “That life without honour is meaningless.” The Storm Heralds shall return in Omni Honore
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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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