Flesh Crypt.

By Lord Lucan

Chapter One.

The void stretched forever, for eternity. The inky blackness was like a physical presence, interrupted
occasionally by dim guttering stars. One star moved. Its motion was steady, as it traced a linear path
across the infinite expanse. The star grew in size, until it resolved itself as the Patricius. The exploratory
vessel was small, barely more than six hundred metres long, and its rust hued hull shuddered slightly, as
powerful engines thrust it along at a steady crawl

The ship was running, its pace quickening with every thousand metres or so.

Captain Mulfarious, bloated and mechanical, swivelled in his vast command couch. “Are they still in
pursuit?” the decadent blob of a man rasped. His first officer, an unusually wiry gentleman, strained his
eyes on the rear sensor outputs.

“I’d say negative at the moment. We may have lost them,” he muttered. He then hesitated, before
sweeping over to another terminal, across the marble floor of the mechanicus vessel. He shouldered the
adept sat there aside, and sat upon the small stool, pressing his eye into the thin lens piece.
“Wait. There’s an anomaly. They could be following us. Yes! It’s them!” he gasped, falling back from the
array.

“Prepare for boarding!” Mulfarious gargled down the general vox, his voice carrying to every section of
the small vessel. Red lights screamed all around, bathing the bridge in an eerie crimson glow.

“How far are they?”

“Less than one hundred thousand kilometres and closing!”

Mulfarious sighed. He had been fleeing from the Destroyer for several weeks now, but they were just too
good. He was old, and just could not evade them. All he could do now was fight them. Mulfarious would
be damned before he let these pirates steal his cargo. Nothing should have Mulfarious’ cargo. The
captain himself didn’t want the thing. When you looked at it, even for a moment, you felt…

“Captain! They’re pulling up alongside. They mean to board us!”

His first officer’s shrill shouts roused Mulfarious from his reverie. “Of course they do! But I mean to deny
them! Summon the skitarii. Now! Repel them!” Mulfarious boomed, trying to rise from his chair, to
gesture to the door. The first officer nodded, and exited through the ship’s small blast door.

First Officer Gelamus staggered down the red lit corridor, as violent vibrations rocked the vessel. They
were too late. Skitarii bustled past him, faces covered by heavy rebreathers. Gelamus was running, he
didn’t know where, or why. All order was lost, lost to this madness. A dull boom rocked the ship, and he
was flung against the side of the wall violently. He felt his head split.

He was in the cargo hold, somehow. Gelamus crawled, hand over foot, across the deck, which somehow
felt heated, despite the cold air around him. Dimly, Gelamus was aware of shouted orders, and the whip
crack of hell guns blazing at mysterious enemies. Other, more exotic weapons, overlaid themselves on
this constant lasgun beat. There was the high pitched whine of plasma weapons, and the fizz of meltas.
Gelamus raised his head, and caught sight of a skitarii calmly falling back, screeching machine code, as
he blazed with his hell gun. There was a boom. The skitarii suddenly wasn’t there anymore, as something
slammed through his body, and burst the man like a ruptured zeppelin, spraying guts and gore in all
directions.

Gelamus rolled, trying to get to a covered position. He shivered, even though he was covered in the
warm guts of the slain Skitarii. Suddenly, something hard slammed down upon Gelamus’s shoulder.
There was a brief crunch, as bone splintered. Gelamus whimpered in pain, and gazed at the heavy boot
on his shoulder. It belonged to a man, that seemed to tower over Gelamus. The man wore heavy armour
(ever the adept, even in his current state, Gelamus considered that in may in fact be power armour). The
armour shimmered a golden hue, in the reflected light of dozens of fires. It was heavily gilded, with
beautiful images of the Emperor and various saints. The man’s enamoured head gazed down cruelly, a
wry smile on his scarred yet handsome face. His almond shaped eyes were cold as the void, yet his face
showed a deceptive warmth, as he pointed his hefty looking bolt pistol at Gelamus’s face.

“Not your lucky day laddy, is it?” the man mocked, with his highly accented voice. Before Gelamus could
wheeze a response, the man’s wrist vox hissed.

“Yes? You wanted tae speak with me?” he grumbled, raising his vox to his face, slightly annoyed by the
distraction.

++Of course I do Borus. Have you gained access to the vessel?++

“Of course. It was hard work. Those Cogboy’s put up quite a fight. You’ve got to hand it to them. We’ve
brought them down now though.”
++Good. Is the artefact secured? Please tell me you’ve not got carried away playing soldiers. Remember
you’re place rogue trader.++

“I can’t have fun now? No fair! Anyway, I’ve secured you’re damn artefact. My lads are good.”

++This is definitely good news. I’ll send my agents to retrieve it.++

Borus snarled at this. “Oh no. I’ll take it. We’ll store it somewhere safe, I assure you. It won’t ruin any
plans, my lord.”

There was a pause. ++Very well, but Tyrianus and I are not happy. Also, make sure there are no survivors.
I don’t want this traced back to me.++

“Of course,” Borus completed, before shutting off his vox, and looking down. Gelamus had managed to
almost wriggled out from under the powered boot of Borus.

“Did you hear any of that?” Borus asked quizzically. Gelamus nodded slowly.

“Things just get worse and worse for you, don’t they?” Borus laughed, before he fired into Gelamus’s
face, splattering ichors all over the dusty marble, as well as his wrinkled face.

One of his mercenaries padded over, bedecked in alien crystal armour, and wielding a long barrelled
needle rifle between meaty paws. Borus looked up from his dispatched foe, and turned to the man
before him. “Problem?”

“No Captain. We’ve got the artefact thing stored on the ship, and we’ve set the charges as instructed.
We have to go now sir.”

Borus shrugged, and stepped off the headless corpse, before striding confidently towards the exit.
In the void of space outside, the light cruiser broke away silently, from the doomed mechanicus vessel. A
moment later, the ship seemed to blossom with fire, blazing a vivid purple fire for the briefest of
instants, before in simply crumpled to nothing.

The Rogue Trader Vessel wheeled around slowly, before powering its engines and sliding away, until it
was just another bright speck amongst the countless stars.

###

The hall was unfathomably vast, and the darkness of the hall merely shrouded the unbelievable majesty
of the grand senate hall, which stretched for hundreds of metres skywards. The vast stain glass windows,
depicting the myriad victories of the Emperor of Mankind.

Rising majestically from the glass floor of the chamber, were twelve vast podiums, each seemed like a
shrine to the person upon them. Each podium glowed with there own illumination, bathing their
honoured occupants in an azure glow.

“Are we in agreement?” one deafening voice buzzed across the chamber, from one of the Lords, a
shimmering hologram of a being more machine than man, writhing with metallic tentacles, while his
face remained hidden beneath a crimson hood.

“We face a danger that is direct to ourselves. Surely we can send the guard, to crush him utterly?”
another voice countered, his voice stern and orderly, rumbling from the throat of another lord, sitting
upon his silver throne, countless medals covering his bulbous form, eyes fierce despite his slight paunch.

“Nay, Lord Commander Militant. Of course, normally this would suffice, but a direct strike against one as
influential as he, may spark a civil war. One which we are not prepared to injure. We need a subtle strike.
It must be the assassin’s blade. The Shadowfall project must finally be used,” an authoritative female’s
voice echoed across the hall. The woman looked thin and stretched, yet almost young in the face,
despite the overuse of white powder on her face. A metal bodice gave her a haunty, superior stance,
matched perfectly to her arrogant tone.

“I agree. The shadow fall project.”

This voice was a rasping whisper. Despite this utter quite, his voice carried to every member of the
council. The voice of the Master of the Assassinatorium was the only thing discernable of his form, yet it
was more than enough.

“We vote,” The fabricator General’s hologram buzzed again. After a few moments, the podiums began to
change colour, as the High Lords voted. Nine of the podiums shimmered, and became blue, while the
other three turned a dull vermillion.

“The vote is passed,” the Fabricator began, “Master of the Assassinatorium. Send in your agent. Let us
cut out his heresy at the root.”

There was a murmur of approval, which barely filled the expansive hall.

It had begun.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:24 PM

Chapter Two.

Four Years Later.

The patch of space stretched for seven light years, in all directions. No stars punctuated the void of
darkness. Not a darkness of shadow, but simply of absence. Perhaps nothing alive had ever passed
through the lonely section of space, perhaps there had once been a cataclysmic battle, between gods
and monsters, fought here. It mattered little, as nothing remained. The patch of void may have stayed
insignificant forever, never seen by mortal or immortal eyes. That was until the Tiberian Crusade broke
warp there.

A great fire suddenly seemed to blaze silently in space, before the Luthor’s Spear slid through the fiery
breach. The vast Retribution Class Battleship emerged from the hell dimension in a blaze of multi-hued
light, arced lightening playing majestically across the battleship’s many crenulations and chapels.

This was followed, a few hours later, by two more bursts of unreality, as two lunar class cruisers re
entered the materium, moving silently to flank the vast colossus that was the Spear. They stayed at a
steady distance of a thousand kilometres, keeping close to the Battleship, as if huddling together for
warmth from the cold void.

Following them, another cruiser burst into reality within a few minutes. It took a moment before this
vessel was truly free of the last cloying remnants of the warp, which clung to it briefly, like an inky
shadow in a tumbler of water.

What happened to the fourth cruiser of the fleet, no one ever mentioned.

After what seemed like days, the troop transporters broke warp. First came the Cadian vessel Tostig,
which sluggishly turned about, falling into step behind the uniform warships. Following that came the
Garron, resplendent in gold and purple, the hulking vessel surged out of the warp like an avenging god.
This transported the Vostroyans and Mordians respectfully.

Finally, like an ashamed child, shunned by others in its schola, the Alhaim skulked out of the warp,
keeping at least seven thousand miles from the rest of the fleet. It was as if its cargo was too repulsive to
even be near. Perhaps this was correct.

Over the next two days, various support vessels slid from the realm of madness, amid the near-endless
chattering of garbled vox messages, received and given by various vessels, to other vessels nearby. Fuel
transports bobbed between the great troop ships, like minnow between leviathans. Destroyers of
various classifications darted between the main warships, keeping a constant blabber of inane vox noise
between them and their parent vessels, constantly watching for potential threats.
After the first day, a dozen of the frigates moved off, traversing a vast twelve million mile circuit around
the fleet, scouting out for any potential enemies.

Eventually, after two days of confused chatter and angry orders, the fleet was reassembled. Of course,
this was only a mere stop off point in the crusade, a pause, as the navigators of the various vessels
communicated with one another, on their own secret channels. This was to discuss the next route, for
the next jump which would take them directly to the Galahar system.

Amid the chaotic manoeuvring of the many vessels of the fleet, a single shuttle detached itself from the
Spear’s side, like a skin cell flaking from the hide of a beast. The shuttle drifted for a moment, until it
flickering thrusters guided it forth. The vessel buzzed between the idling behemoths that were the ships
of the line, and darted between the unimaginable vast transporters. Eventually, the puny craft found its
quarry, and twisted about, seeming to hover about the Alhaim like a mosquito around a dying ass.

Xandean was only twelve, what did he know about the Imperial Guard’s inner workings? He hadn’t even
completed his courses in the Administratum guilds on Severinth. These thoughts played around his mind,
as he nervously fiddled with his notes, while sitting upon the cold harsh grating that served as a bench in
this cramped shuttle. Through the portholes, Xandean could make out the individual ships of the fleet.
They must be close together, thought the young boy. Most documents on gun ranges put point blank
range at at least seven million miles. Xandean wondered why they were so close, but decided it was
futile. He would never be told anyway.

The boy shivered involuntarily.

“Problem boy?” the harsh voice of the Armsman sat next to him questioned.

Xandean looked up, at the mirrored visor of the Armsman. “N-No, I-I-I just… it’s my first placement.”

The man slapped him on the back. “I see! Starting your glorious career in the Emperor’s name eh? Tell
me though, who did you piz off, to get sent to this lot?”
Xandean frowned. This lot?

“Um.. Mister, what do you mean by ’this lot’? If you don’t mind my asking,” Xandean asked politely, as he
had been instructed. The Armsman, however, was looking forward again, evidently losing interest in the
small boy.

After a couple of minutes of awkward silence, the shuttle shuddered violently, dumping Xandean onto
the floor harshly. A cruel chuckle followed this fall.

“Is this your stop, my lad?” the Armsman scoffed. Xandean tried his very best not to cry, or scowl at the
cruel man, but instead got up, and gathered his papers to his chest, and ran towards the airlock. His exit
was followed by the mocking laugh of the Armsman, which echoed in Xandean’s mind.

The lock slid open with a dull hiss, as small gouts of steam sprayed around the hatch. Xandean stepped
gingerly into the small chamber between vessels, waiting patiently as the door behind him sealed once
more. Ahead, the second portal opened. The first thing that hit him was the smell. It was like a physical
force, slapping him in the face.

Xandean stumbled into the ship, and the airlock sealed behind him. The stench of rotting carcases and
dried blood clung to every surface, and suffused the air with an inescapable musk of death. Xandean’s
eyes streamed as he looked around himself. The walls of the chamber were lined with racks of meat. The
meat dripped ichors slowly, creating a hideous rhythm on the warm metal grates beneath his feet.

Everything of the corridor Xandean traversed reminded him of somewhere. After a moment he
remembered. It seemed just like old Merid’s butcher shop, on Severinth. However, unlike Merid’s, this
charnel house seemed to stretch on forever, down every corridor. Xandean could not recognise any of
the corridor’s his map instructed him to go down. All the corridor’s seemed the same, and all the
corridor numbers stencilled onto the walls, were covered in animal guts. At least, Xandean hoped they
were animal guts…

So far, the boy had seen no members of the crew, or the mysterious Guardsmen within. By the looks of
the walls, he didn’t want to either. The sound of bellows, and deep resonant growls, caught Xandean’s
ears at once. Creeping onwards, the adept moved his eye towards the heavy iron door, from which the
noises emerged from.

He pressed his eye close to the crack in the door, which was partially open. Within, there was a circle of
men, bedecked in primitive furs and drenched in blood and viscera. They all bellowed, through matted
beards and metal fangs, a continuous beat.

“Blood for the Emperor! Skulls for his Golden Throne! Blood for the Emperor! Skulls for his Golden
Throne!”

The chant continued, and other men burst into the rhythm with occasionally shouts of “Salvation in
slaughter!”

Eventually the rhythm decended, until in was naught but a bestial roar, of rage and joy. The circle,
Xandean then realised, was not empty. Within the mass of bodies, two men fought, with fists and legs,
and thrashing vicious head butts. One of the combatants threw a heavy hook blow, only to be evaded by
his opponent, who brought a knee up into the man’s midriff. The man hissed in brief pain, before
sweeping his leg under his opponents. The other man tumbled onto his back, and the first man lunged
onto his chest, slamming a dozen punches into his enemy’s face, before he was flicked off by the other
man.

One of them slammed a boot down wards, but the other rolled aside, before flinging his fist upwards,
into the other’s palette. The man stood for a moment, his face bloodied and swollen, before he simply
crumpled. The victor drew a long curved blade from a chest belt, smiling wickedly. Before he could finish
the enemy, a huge hand seized the man’s wrist. This vast taloned hand, belonged to a giant.

It was more than a giant, the man was a behemoth, a tower of bloodied slabs of flesh, held together by
the harsh bloodshot eyes lodged, like hot coals, in the deep pits of his bald head. If anything, he was
even more ragged and bestial than the other men around him, bedecked in brazen patches of metal, and
intricate lengths of chain mail hung from him. Chains coiled around him, as if trying to contain the beast
within the man. His mouth was a humourless bear trap of a mouth, drooling with greasy fluids. He held
the man’s wrist for several long moments.
“This is training. None shall be tasted. Not yet.”

The voice was a titanic rumble, which reverberated throughout Xandean’s very bones. It was a voice that
hinted at a depth of threatening violence beyond anything Xandean could stomach.

“Huregar of Keshak’s band is victorious, and Buress of Vash’s clan, my clan, is defeated. Who next will
test themselves, and become blooded in the way of the Lychen? Who!”

The constant chanting seemed to take on a different urgency to Xandean now, and had subtly altered it’s
words, until in became two words, chanted over and over:

“Vash! Keshak! Vash! Keshak! Vash! Keshak! Vash! Keshak!”

With a lopsided smile, Vash raised his vast hands into the air. “Very well, my brethren! We shall show you
how combat is supposed to be fought! Keshak!”

The crowd parted, and someone stepped into the makeshift arena. This man was tall, almost as tall as
the towering slab of muscle that challenged him. Keshak’s shaggy mane swept behind him, accompanied
by an equally shaggy beard, which seemed coated in old blood. He wore furs and belts and chains, ike all
the rest, but seemed to wear scraps of carapace across his body. Some around the shoulder, other bits
around his chest. On his back, and arbitrator’s shield was slung. How could he have one of those? Did he
steal it? Or worse? Xandean could not tell, and knew he would never have the courage to ask.

Keshak passed his shield to one of his Lychen, and swung his shoulders playfully, loosening his muscles in
readiness. The two combatants squared up, and pressed their foreheads together, smiling at each other.

“Blood for the Emperor,” Keshak muttered.

“Skulls for his Golden Throne,” muttered Vash right back, before the two moved backwards, ready for the
fight. The two men’s eyes met for a brief instant. Suddenly, Keshak charged forwards. Vash swung at him,
but he ducked and rolled behind Vash, slamming an sly elbow into Vash’s spine. Vash grunted, as he spun
around, backhanding Keshak across the face. Keshak rode the blow, robbing it of momentum. The strike
still sent him skidding across the floor, until his righted himself instantly. This time Vash was on the
attack, and surged forwards, flinging his leg forwards. This struck Keshak, who staggered back. As he fell,
he struck out with both feet, catching Vash in the throat. Both men clattered to the floor.

Keshak rolled, as a heavy boot slammed down, buckling the grate below his foot. Keshak rolled to his
knees, and ducked inside Vash’s reach, kicking the giant behind the knee. Vash stumbled onto one knee,
and Keshak clambered onto Vash’s shoulders, and began to pound his skull with double hand hammer
blows.

The crowd cheered, the roars becoming deafening. Vash stood up, unbalancing Keshak. As the man fell
from his shoulders, Vash caught a handful of his hair. Vash swung his fellow Lychen by the hair, until he
slammed him into the ground. Before the dazed Keshak could recover, Vash landed his boot upon his
throat. Keshak wheezed, and struggled under the pressure on his windpipe.

Eventually, Vash released him, and shot out a hand, which Keshak took gladly.

“I keep telling you to cut your hair,” Vash chided.

Keshak scowled in mock indignation, until he could take it no more, and the two friends laughed.

“Who are you! Speak!”

The voice caught Xandean off guard, and he fell onto his behind in shock. A huge Lychen loomed over
him, snarling, while clutching a blood coated billhook meaningfully.

“I-I-I-I a-a-a-am-m-m the… em …,” Xandean whimpered. At the man’s side, a vast hairy beast growled,
drooling onto the deck grate. The huge hound backed the terrified boy into a corner, as it opened its
mouth. From its hideous muzzle, various buzz saws and cutting implements folded out, squealing with
vicious intent. It was mere inches from his face, held back only by the barbed chain that the lychen held
tightly.

“Speak plain unblooded boy!” the Lychen bellowed again, loosening the chain slightly.

“Please! I’m just the aide, you can’t!”

The hound suddenly pulled forward, snatching the chain from the man’s hands, and lunged towards
Xandean murderously.

Moments before it reached him, a fist flew before his eyes, and connected sharply with the hound’s
muzzle. In seemingly slow motion, the hound yelped, and careened through the air, before slamming
into the wall opposite. The beast shook its head slowly, and lunged again. Xandean’s saviour stepped in
front of the beast, and caught it mid-air.

Blocked by the man’s bulk, the boy could not see the outcome of the battle. It ended when the hound’s
snarl abruptly ceased, curtailing to a startled whimper, before a dull thud signalled the beast was dead.

“Snarvock, you idiot! I told you to expect the boy unblooded, yet you use a damn weresbhik to patrol the
corridors! If he is damaged, the Blade Enforcer will not be pleased!” Vash’s voice boomed, before he
moved to allow Xandean to crawl to retrieve his papers.

Vash lunged forwards, and bit Snarvock’s throat. Vash released him then, and let the wounded Lychen
slink off.

“You’re lucky I didn’t send you to the Blade Enforcer!” Vash bellowed after the man, before turning to
Xandean.
Vash grasped him by the wrist, and easily pulled Xandean to his feet. “Apologies, young sir. I trust you
internals are fully operational?”

Taken aback by Vash’s sudden eloquence, it took a moment for Xandean to nod.

“Excellent. The Blade Enforcer has been expecting you.”

Xandean shivered again, even though the ship was stiflingly hot. This blade enforcer must truly be a
force to be feared, as it cowed even these monsters. Why had Xandean been picked for this assignment?
He just wanted to go back to Severinth. At least everything made sense at severinth.

Vash left him outside the heavy doors of the Blade Enforcer’s lair, with images of brutal punishments
(involving knives) etched onto it in brass. Xandean swallowed hard, before knocking once.

Silence.

He knocked a second time.

This time, the light by the side of the door turned green, and the boy could make out the sounds of gears
grinding painfully, unlocking the door. With a dull rasp, the seal on the door was released.

Tentatively, he stepped into the chamber. The room was cool, and scented with mint and faintly of lho
smoke, mixed with incense. The walls were covered in beautiful, intricate oaken carvings, and was
illuminated by several glow globes, which made the room seem a million times brighter than the charnel
pit outside.

“Ah, you must be the new aide, did you find your way well enough?” a soft voice suddenly sounded.
Startled, Xandean turned to face the location of the voice.
The woman was utterly bewildering to Xandean. He had barely seen a girl in over five years, let alone a
woman. Her beauty took him aback. Her face was smooth and pale, her complexion only marred by the
faint parallel lines, that ran down her face and neck, that ran all the way down her body, disappearing
down her tight collar. Suddenly realising her was staring, he snapped his eyes back up, to look into her
cold blue eyes, which seemed even more pale, compared with the rest of her eye sockets, which were
darkened with oils and charcoals.

“The standard response is yes, or, alternatively, no,” the woman reminded him sternly, her eyes scowling.

“Oh of course! I mean y-yes,” he blustered, embarrassed.

“Quite. Now, I have read your file, and it is rather impressive. It would seem, according to psychic testing,
that you have a certain knack for… anticipating instructions, and obeying accordingly. Is this correct.”

“Yes, madame Commissar.”

The woman smiled, a dilute smile. “You will address me was either Blade Enforcer, or as Emeline. I have
no time for formalities. Now, I told you to bring me something I would need in my duties. Have you
brought something?”

Xandean nodded eagerly, fumbling through his papers. “Yes yes, mad- Emeline. I have brought full flora
and fauna analysis’s of both Galahar and Talahaim, a list of all the main guard contingents expected to be
with the fleet by the time of leaving Galahar. Also, an excerpt from Cardinal Torrier’s sermon on the evils
of Ymgarl.”

Emeline looked bemused. “Very good, all quite useful. Except, why the sermon?”

Xandean hesitated. “Erm… I’m not sure.”

“Ah well, you never know what I’ll need eventually. Hand them here,” she muttered, and he passed her
the crumpled sheets, across her desk.

“Apologies for the bloodstains Blade Enforcer,” he explained meekly.

“No need. I’ve been on this ship for a year now. I’m aware bloodstains are unavoidable,” she smiled
easily, slightly more relaxed now. “Any questions?”

“About anything to do with you and the regiment?”

“Precisely.”

Xandean cleared his throat. “Right, erm… why is this chamber so… nice.”

Emeline raised an eyebrow, while unconsciously flicking a dyed-red strand of hair from her face. “Can
you speculate?”

This was another test, Xandean knew now. “Well, I would have thought, since the lychen prefer blood
and mutilation and things, then this room would be uncomfortable for them… so, it would aid you in
discipline?”

“Very good,” Emeline beamed. “You’re partially right, but you missed the obvious.”

“Did I? Erm… what is that, if I may be as bold?”

Emeline gestured him forwards, and leaned closer to him, across the desk. “It’s an oasis from the horror.
I’m not quite as far gone as the Lychen. They have lived like this for their whole lives, but I’m only just
realising the potential of their path. I still cling to my little pleasures. A weakness perhaps.”
“Weaknesses are what make us human,” Xandean said without thinking. Emeline frowned, thinking.

“Mmm… you have a point,” Emeline sighed, looking off out of her portside window, as if lost in thought
for a moment. Xandean stood for a moment, in the second awkward silence of the day. He quietly
coughed. Emeline suddenly seemed to regain composure.

“Apologies… sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”

“Xandean, maam. I mean Blade Enforcer,” he mumbled.

“Good. Xandean, you start today. Keshak will show you to your quarters later. Right now, I want you to-”
Emeline began, before she was distracted, by something bursting into real space.

It was a vessel, long and thin, with a beautiful ivory and gold prow, which contrasted with the deep
burgundy of the rest of the antiquated vessel. It looked like a heavily modified Dauntless Class, but
Emeline couldn’t be sure. Eventually, Xandean followed her gaze.

“Right, Xandean, I want you to-”

“Determine the class, origin, name and captain of this new vessel?”

Emeline scowled, “Yes, but don’t interrupt me again. It’s irritating.”

“Yes Emeline,” Xandean muttered, turning to go.

“Wait, also-”
“Yes Blade Enforcer?”

“I’d appreciate some recaff, when you are finished.”

“Yes Emeline,” Xandean muttered, before exiting swiftly. Emeline smiled as he left. He’d do just fine.

Then again, anyone could be better than her last aide. Sparrod, it chilled her blood to think of him.
Someone so young, so full of hate. Emeline was glad that fierce, evil intellect had perished in the fires of
Saris. Shaking the dark thoughts away, Emeline turned back to the port viewing window. This new ship
was unexpected.

Unexpected, in Emeline’s experience, only meant bad.

###

Emeline was not the only person to gaze upon the newcomer with suspicion and interest. Another being
watched, as the Rogue Trader Cruiser, the Molvius, glided between the fleet easily, coming to a heading,
just off the starboard side of the Luthor’s Spear.

The chapel was quite vast, and its stone walls and floors drained the air of warmth, and lengthened
voices into epic echoes. A lone figure stood, arm’s clasped behind his back, staring out of the vast glass
window, out into the endless void.

Pale robes covered his body from head to foot, and a hood hung loosely over his head. He stood, silent,
for many long minutes, until the shuddering sound of the chapel door opening reverberated all around,
disturbing the priest, who turned to find out who had entered.
“What is it Jerex?” he asked, his voice calm and collected.

“Sorry to disturb you Sparrod-”

“Father Sparrod,” he corrected him. Jerex nodded.

“Father Sparrod then.”

“What is it, my dear Balhaun.”

Jerex gestured him for silence, and ran over to Sparrod. “You can’t just say that! They’ll find out.”

Sparrod smiled easily. “For a traitor PDF’s man, you certainly have a faith in the Imperium’s abilities.
Perhaps you could be a real priest.”

“That’s what I’ve come to discuss, Father,” Jerex whispered, forcing the word ‘father’ from his lips.

“Oh? Is there a problem?”

“Yes, Sparrod. We can’t be priests. We have no knowledge of the scriptures, and Kalan is starting to go
mad with boredom.”

“Kalan will get over it. You don’t need to know the Imperium’s scriptures anyway. I’ve written some for
you and Kalan to recite.”

“Recite? What have you planned Sparrod? Tell me,” Jerex hissed, irritated by Sparrod’s enigmatic
responses.
“All in good time, my dear Jerex.”

Jerex sneered. “Time. So we wait here, until when? I hate this waiting. Why can’t we come up with a
new plan?”

Sparrod’s smile faded. “I am not going to come up with a new plan, as my plan is working perfectly. Who
got you off Saris? Me! Who saved you from punishment? Me! You’ll wait, because I tell you to! Are you
so ignorant, that you don’t see? This is the most vital position on the entire vessel. We have the entire
ship by the souls Jerex! The one thing the Imperium’s military might cannot protect.

That is why we wait, that is why I have written your sermons, and that is why you and your grox-brained
friend are going to recite them, to everyone that goes to sermons, despite how bored you are! I am the
facilitator, and you will do as I say. Understand?” Sparrod hissed, his words quiet, yet extremely forceful.
Jerex nodded dumbly, and left the chapel.

Once he had left, Sparrod turned back to the great window. As he took in the gathering fleet, Sparrod
smiled.

The fleet would falter and fall, and Emeline would finally die, like the murderous frakker she was.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:25 PM

Chapter Three.

The Lord General Gravean sat at the vast circular table, rapping his fingers against the warm oak beneath
his hand. The Inquisitor, in all his apparent wisdom, had decreed that the great and grand Tiberian
Crusade would not be continuing its purging of the Calamarn Sub Sector, despite the resent victory at
the hive world of Saris. Instead, the entire fleet would redeploy to some backwater. Talahaim. Gravean
had never heard of the place.
The sheer audacity of the man, Gravean fumed. The Inquisitor hadn’t even informed Gravean at all of
these changes of plan. He looked around the display room, at the vast hololith generator at the centre of
the vast circular summit table. In order to prepare the fleet, Gravean had had to call for this great
meeting of the military commanders of the crusade, to appraise them of the situation. What was even
worse was, they were late.

At Gravean’s elbow, Commissar Hawke stood, his young face pale and merciless. At least Gravean could
rely on his commissar turning up, no matter how much he didn’t want the political officer there. Gravean
ran his hands slowly over his shaven ebony head, in a vain attempt to relieve his stress.

Finally, as Gravean began to think none of his so-called loyal leaders would show, the vast arched doors
on either side of the cavernous room creaked open slowly.

From the eastern door, the baroque and ceremonial form of Colonel Bazofzeck strode into the room
confidently. Several retainers followed the officer in, one carrying the man’s great bearskin headpiece,
another two clutching at the back of the man’s overly long ermine trimmed cloak. He was flanked by two
of his Vostroyan’s, who held their las rifles to their sides, eyes dour and professional. As well as them, the
foreboding form of his commissar slinked into the room also, his dull navy blue greatcoat almost
becoming lost in the gold and red of the other Vostroyans. The soldiers remained standing, while the
Colonel allowed himself to sit upon one of the ostentatious thrones lining the round table, as the
Commissar perched on the small chair to the Colonel‘s right.

Again, from the Eastern arch, another Colonel marched into the display room. This man was as straight-
backed as the Commissar marching with him. Colonel Monro, of the Mordians, had no other followers,
and sat down at his allotted chair with no comment, his harsh granite cliff face scanning everyone in the
room carefully, his bright white uniform lessening his obvious menace in no way.

The next Colonel to arrive was Colonel Henrick, of the Cadian 102nd, who walked into the chamber with
an uneasy gate. The colonel was evidently nervous around Gravean, who’s job he had replaced when
Gravean had been field promoted. In a way, Gravean envied the Colonel, who was spared the general
politics and strife of being the Lord General. Still, Henricks dark eyes darted around the room, as he took
a seat, followed closely by Commisssar Gray, and six masked Karskin. Their rebreathers made them seem
inhuman, which was reinforced by the machine-like rigidity of their formation, which carefully formed a
semi-circle around the Colonel. Gravean noticed a flicker of a smile on Monro’s lips. The man
appreciated order.
From the right arch, the final Guard leaders emerged. Heralded by the charnel stench of blood and meat,
the Lychen leaders entered the room. The giant Vash, stomped in first, with the shorter Keshak in tow.
Betwixt the two Corporals, Commissar Emeline, her red great coat trailing behind her majestically.
Trailing behind her was a young body, in the dull grey overalls of an Administratum adept (though
Gravean noted the various bloodstains upon it). He seemed to be constantly scribbling down notes, on a
series of ledgers he clutched close to him. Gravean noted that the Lychen still had not promoted Vash to
the rank of Colonel, which caused Gravean to sneer. That foolish woman Emeline had neglected yet
another duty to the Emperor. He would have to get Hawke to say something to her.

The Lychen took there seats, however, with surprising decorum, and without comment. For several long
moments, the chamber remained silent, and the generals looked to one another. Eventually, Gravean
stood, raising his arms.

“My friends in the guard. This conclave shall commend, when the representatives of the rest of the
crusade arrive. Please be patient,” Gravean smiled, grinding his teeth. This Darvius seemed determined
to ruin his day.

After yet more waiting, the doors behind Gravean flew open. Inquisitor Darvius walked down the flight
of steps, descending into the chamber as if from a higher state of being. His callous, cruel eyes blazed
intently, as sharp as his features, and his trimmed beard. Wearing a jade trench coat, the Inquisitor
looked almost like a common guilder on some hive world. Only the large flowery rosette of the
Inquisition dispelled this fleeting image. He was the most powerful man on the vessel, and it did
everyone good to remember that.

A few steps behind him, a tall dark coated man walked carefully, lingering like a shadow behind Darvius.
His face was hidden behind the faceless mask of a rebreather. The lens were cold and dead. This man,
who some called Jaxx, emanated an inherent wrongness that Gravean could not understand. The lord
General shivered involuntarily.

To the Inquisitor’s right hand, a pale, fair skinned woman walked lightly. She seemed to shimmer in the
room’s slight illumination, her glass armour reflecting the light into ever direction. She was not as see
seemed either, Gravean told himself. None of these people were.

Along with the Inquisitor and his staff, several other men strode in, some known, others a mystery to
even Gravean.

Lord Admiral James Raventium was one, bedecked in a cloak of regal raven’s feathers, and wearing his
traditional gladius at his side. He was flanked by his two guards, bulky men wielding great swords and
wearing heavy helm’s, which his their faces from view, making them appear statuesque an ancient.

As well as the Admiral, Cardinal Blithe Trotted down the stairs, chrubs fluttering after him, like expectant
children. He was the instigator of the crusade, and the bellicose voice of the Emperor in thie crusade.

The newcomer was the Captain of the Rogue Trader cruiser, and was wearing his highly embellished
power armour even at this meeting, despite it’s sombre and formal mood. The bald man swaggered
nonchalantly, and flopped down onto his allotted seat before even the Inquisitor had had chance.

After what seemed like forever, the Inquisitor finally spoke.

“Brothers and sisters of the Emperor, I thank you for attending this most short-noticed of assemblies.
Ordinarily, I would have called this meeting once we had arrived at Galahar, but I feel there is an
important matter to discuss. According to our previous plans, following the success at Saris,, we were to
continue on the path to Hundin Majoris, and hence cut off the head of the series of rebellions in this
sector.”

“And to take the head of the heathen devil Gromil the Enslaver, who has corrupted too many of the
Emperor’s sacred realms!” Blithe interjected, his beard quivering in rage. Darvius scowled at him, and
the Cardinal became instantly silent.

“Quite. Anyway, this plan must change now. My friend Borus, of the Molvius, has brought news to me, of
a terrible tragedy befalling the planet of Talaheim. A shadow has descended upon this world, and
blocked much astropathic communication. I, and my associates, believe this to be caused by a Ymgarl
gene stealer infestation. This could only mean the entire world is engulfed in traitors activity. We must
aid the beleaguered defenders, and exorcise this cancer,” Darvius explained, tapping something into the
console at his chair. This caused a great shimmering image to appear in the centre of the room, a
flickering visage of a planet, wreathed in a whitewash of blizzards. This was salaam.
The hall was silent for a moment.

“My lord, why not let another crusade deal with this world? It is rather far from our current route,”
Bazofzeck uttered into an amplifier.

“Yes, and leave us to kill that monster Gromil!” Blithe bellowed in agreement

Darvius waited until they were finished, before continuing. “We are the closest crusade! We can not sit
here while a loyal planet falls to the gene stealer menace. It is of vital importance.”

Emeline coughed in disagreement, but her voice was lost in the mumble of Colonels discussing this new
information. Vash noticed her being ignored, and slammed his fist onto the desk, hard. This caused the
planet to flicker once more, and snapped the other leaders to attention .

Darvius turned to her, a false smile plastered onto his lips. “Yes Commissar. You have an issue?”

“Yes, my lord, if that is alright?”

“Please continue.”

Emeline nodded and waited, as her aide whispered into her ear. “Why are we choosing to save this
particular world, over Hundin? I mean, Hundin is a forge world, or at least was. Hence, it would seem
more vital than this world, which I have been told, is nothing but a ball of ice, with only a single city upon
its surface. Administratum reports indicate it has more ships entered its system, than exports leaving the
system. The Navy doesn’t even pressgang from the world. It is, for all intents and purposes… Worthless.”

There was a hushed silence, and all witnessing Emeline’s tirade looked towards Darvius. The Inquisitor
stood with his hands propped up on the desk. His nails were dug into the oak, and his face barely
repressed a fierce snarl.

“Oh dear, Emeline. Are you confused as to why you must do this? I can understand that. Duty has never
been your strong point. I am the Emperor’s will on this vessel, in this Crusade, just as Blithe is its voice!
Hence, you will go to this world, and you will die for your Emperor, because He wills it! Are we clear, or
did you think this was a committee? This was simply a place to inform you all of what will happen! There
is no discussion! Understand?” Darvius roared, his voice quivering with anger, as spittle flecked from his
lips.

Emeline nodded dumbly, and sat back down.

“Now, the fleet will dock at Galahar, for supplies, and a single night’s shore leave for the guard. Then,
members of the Chapter of the Mailed Fist shall link up with us there. Then, my fellow servants of the
Emperor, we make war upon Talahaim. Dismissed,” Darvius spat, before storming out of the chamber,
followed swiftly by Jaxx and Layla.

“I can’t believe him,” Emeline muttered. Vash nodded.

“I know. The men don’t need shore leave, they need battle,” the Lychen rumbled, slamming his fist upon
the desk. Keshak roared in agreement, slashing his arm with a thin knife he had been carrying, before
licking the wound like a hound.

Emeline turned from Vash. It never ceased to amaze Emeline, the depth of Vash’s bloodlust. He seemed
blind to Darvius’s cunning. He had something planned. What it was, Emeline had no clue, but it must
have something to do with the Rogue Trader.

Besides, Vash would have to wait, Emeline considered, a little relieved, as they had shore leave. If she
could walk in fresh air, in safety, for a even one day, it was a blessing from the Emperor in her view.

###
Deriss downed another glass of the fiery black liquid, before slamming the glass back down, onto the
wooden counter.

“Another Hanque,” Deriss slurred, already in a drunken stupor. Only two hours into the night. A personal
best, the grizzled man considered bitterly. The barman frowned, as he brought a bottle of the Black
Grosh out from behind its cabinet behind the Amasec rack.

“There are cheaper ways to kill yourself ‘riss,” the portly barman muttered, as he poured the viscous
fluid into Deriss’ glass once more. The drunk tossed two more credit bars at Hanque, and snatched the
glass from his hand, before downing the whole glass.

“I know. But none are as fun.”

The Barman held up his hands. “Hey, I’m not complaining. You’re my best customer. It’s just that to
remain my best customer, you have to remain… alive.”

Deriss smirked, his unshaven face cracking a dirty smile. “Aww, Hanque. Didn’t know you cared!” the
man mocked, drawing his long brown coat around himself, before slumping his head onto the surface of
the bar.

Hanque shrugged. Deriss had only recently began coming to the Grosh Hole, Hanque’s establishment.
Perhaps it was the seclusion of the small bar, far from the main docks around Galahar. Maybe it was due
to shame. He suspected Deriss didn’t want to be seen slowly killing himself.

The man’s bedraggled head rose once more, and muttered something, gesturing towards the Amasec.
Hanque passed down a bottle carefully, before the drunk snatched the bottle, and began to drink it
down in hurried, messy gulps. The red alcohol splashed down his neck and cheeks like some kind of
watery blood. With his other hand, Deriss tossed more credits at him. Where had this drunk fether got
so many credits from? Hanque turned from Deriss, who had fallen into another semi-conscious dose.
Something must have happened to Deriss. Something awful. Nothing got better in this Universe, Hanque
pondered, only more messed up. Just a century more though, Hanque told himself, just a century, maybe
two. Then, the Emperor would all save them from this nightmare world. Or… maybe not, he concluded
bitterly.

“Something on ya mind Hanky?” a playful, feminine voice called out.

“Don’t call me hanky,” Hanque scowled, putting on a face of false anger, as he turned around to greet
Merla. The woman stood at the bar, her eyes shimmering with intensity. She was still wearing the golden
body paint of the Vice Pit, but her body was more modestly covered this time, in a thick fur coat that
manqué was not convinced was her’s.

“What can I get you?”

Merla patted her cheek thoughtfully. “What you got?”

Hanque gestured behind him. “Rightio. We have Grosh, with extra brine, or Amasec. Oh, and we’re out
of Grosh,” Hanque announced grandly, spreading his hands wide, as if boasting about it. Merla smiled,
while absent mindedly flicking a strand of her dyed purple hair from her face.

Theatrically, she rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “In that case, I’ll have… what were the choices again?”

The two laughed together at this, shattering the little charade finally. Once they had composed
themselves, Merla stopped smiling briefly.

“Where’s the Grosh gone Hanque? Not the gangers again. I keep telling you to-”

“Not the gangers. Him,” Hanque gestured, prodding Deriss awake. The bedraggled man roused, bleary
eyed.
“What? Amasec Hanque! Credits!” he spluttered, tossing several credit bars at manqué once more.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Merla joked, prodding Deriss with her sandaled foot. “You’re in here again?
You’ve been in here every day for a week! Not drunk enough yet?” she chided.

Deriss turned his head slowly. “Not by a long stretch…miss. Anyway, you’re always in here too,” Deriss
protested, before snatching another bottle from Hanque’s hand.

“I’m Hanque’s friend. We go way back.”

“I’m his friend too.”

“Prove it. What’s his last name?”

Deriss paused, as if in though, his face twisting in confusion. “It’s Hanque…. Hanque. Yeah, something
like that anyway,” Deriss slurred, drooling slightly.

“Hanque Hanque? You’re an idiot,” she spat, disgusted by Deriss.

“A drunken idiot,” Deriss corrected her, before stumbling to his feet.

Merla looked to her chronometer, and suddenly yelped. “Feth! I’m late. Sorry Hanque, but the vice pit
awaits for no one. Goodbye,” she called to Hanque, who was serving another customer. She kissed him
on the cheek, before running out of the bar hurriedly.

Hanque watched Deriss slowly rise to his feet, swaying slightly. The drunk then tossed a couple more
credits onto the bar.
“What are these for? I’m not giving you anymore.”

Deriss smiled, picking up his glass carefully. “No no no no no no, Hanque, my good fellow. Those are for
the damages,” Deriss garbled. Hanque frowned.

“Damages?”

“Oh yes, meant to tell you. I’m going to get into a fight now,” Deriss stated, matter-of-factly, before
throwing his glass behind him. The glass smashed onto the head of one of the hulking gangers,
congregating in the corner.

Amid the sudden bellows, Hanque made out Deriss laughing manically, even as the first fist slammed
into his nose, flattening him.

The shadows were lengthening in Galahar, bathing the tall spires in deep shaow, and casting the alleys in
between in an impenetrable gloom. Merla had to get back to the Vice Pit. She would miss her shift. All
the girls must be there tonight. A whole merchant vessel full of crewmen would be docking in two hours,
and would pay excellent money for ‘entertainment’.

She steeled across the icy cold streets, which seemed to channel the frozen air down through them, to
batter her with angry howls, and chill talons. The cold cut into her unprotected face like a scalpel, but
Merla didn’t stop. To stop out in the streets was dangerous, lethal in some cases. The gangers roamed
the streets, they said. Sometimes not even gangs, but worse. The Navy. They took you in the night,
always in the night. Off to the stars.

These dark thoughts left Merla, as she neared Vice Pit, and the warm glow of the main hub of Galahar
Secundus. As she stepped into the orange glimmer of the street luminators, a shadow detached from a
building she passed. This living shadow was wreathed in darkness, worn like a cloak. Merla glanced back
once, twice. It was real, this cloaked figure. And, she realised, it was following.

Merla increased her pace, until she could no longer see it behind her. Something warm slid between her
ribs, followed by a trickle of her own blood. She turned, gasping, to see her attacker. Her eyes grew wide,
as she looked into the hood of her killer.

“Who are you?” she hissed, as she sagged to her knees. She could do little else, as the blade had
instantly cut her spine, as it had impaled her.

“Who are you?” the thing mimicked, its voice exactly like Merla’s. The creature pulled back its hood, to
reveal its face. Merla stared into the eyes of her own face. It wore her face, as if it were her, as if…

She could barely concentrate, as the doppelganger twisted the blade slowly, drawing it out of her.

The murderer stared coldly. “I am Merla Valain, prostitute frequenting the brothel, the Vice Pit.”

With that, Merla died. As she lay there, eyes as cold and dead as her assassin, her killer hacked at her
face, until bloody chunks flecked away from the butchered carcase. The corpse was no longer Merla, but
simply another murder victim of the slum habs.

The new Merla placed the corpse’s garments upon herself, until she looked exactly like the corpse’s
former self. Of course, this assassin could never truly be Merla, no more than it could be anyone else. It
had no name it remembered, only a single name, of dread and fear.
She was the Shadowfall.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:26 PM

Chapter Four.

The dull blue orb hung in the utter darkness of space, white and grey clouds swirling around its surface,
giving the planet a shifting, ethereal quality. Lights sparkled on the planet, amid the occasional bruise on
the surface, signalling another city of Galahar.

The chamber was domed, and the glass surrounding it gave an unobstructed view of the void and the
planet outside. So close did the void seem, Xandean reckoned he could touch its consuming blackness
with his hand. Such idle thoughts were driven from his mind, as he observed Emeline and the giant,
Vash, engaged in an intense argument. Vash stood in the centre of the chamber, holding a chain, that
secured a scrabbling, half-naked man to the chamber floor.

“My men do not require shore leave! They are hunters of flesh, not suitable for the more restricted
people of Galahar. Butchery is a fine art, which those savages on Galahar don‘t appreciate!”

“Your men? Do not presume to order me, Corporal. It is above your station!” Emeline hissed,
emphasising ‘Corporal’, with venom.

Xandean cowered back to the furthest corners of the psyker’s chamber. This debate could quickly
become messy, Xandean feared. The staggering colossus of bloodstained flesh, that was Vash, towered
over the slim Commissar. Nevertheless, she stood defiant in her vivid red robes, her head tilted, to glare
into Vash’s deep brooding eyes, which seemed to smoulder with barely suppressed rage. As the two
argued, Vash’s grip on the barbed chain tightened, and the Mewling form of Grazer, the regiment’s
sanctioned psyker, moaned in slight pain.

The two were silent for a moment, as were the group of Lychen that accompanied them.
“I am leader of this regiment, Blade Enforcer. I know what is best for my own brethren!” Vash’s resonant
rumble seemed to shudder through every person’s bones. The voice was tinged with idle threat,
Xandean could tell.

Emeline stepped closer. “Why are you arguing? Obey, or Keshak will replace you. That is… unless you
finally take on the role of Colonel. So, what is it going to be?” Emeline staed flatly, her voice low, and
threatening in a more subtle and horrifying way to Vash’s blatant aggression.

Vash glared down upon her. She knew nothing of what had gone before. No one wanted another Colonel
Harst. Even Vash admitted that that Lychen was a monster. Masking his discomfort, Vash smiled, his
metal jaw creaking uneasily through the effort.

The man slammed his hand against Emeline’s arm, in a playful and fatherly manner. Despite this, Emeline
was still nearly toppled by the forceful blow.

“You’re getting better Emeline. Almost had me scared.. But remember, a Lychen always backs up a threat
with violence,” Vash informed her, his voice becoming noticeably softer. Xandean almost could see the
man beneath Vash’s barbaric exterior, and he relaxed a little.

“So, will you contact the fleet?” Emeline muttered, keeping the sneering expression on her face, even
though her words no longer matched the false visage of hate.

Vash nodded, before yanking on his chain. Grazer yelped, and toppled over, to land, sprawled, at Vaash’s
great iron shod boots.

“Witch. Send a message to the Alhaim’s astropath. Tell her, we, the lychen, request leave to go now to
the planet and… socialise,” Vash dictated to the twisted mess of Grazer. The man nodded his shrivelled
shaven head once, before he scuttled off.

“Another thing Vash,” Emeline called to Vash, as he moved to leave the chamber.
“Yes, Blade Enforcer?”

Emeline surged forwards, and plunged a thin dagger deep into the meat of Vash’s thigh. With inhuman
speed, Vash seized her in one meaty talon, and dragged her by her throat, up to his eye level.

“You said, back up threats with violence. How was that?” Emeline wheezed through her constricted
windpipe. Vash’s fury faded from his eyes as suddenly as it had appeared, and he began to laugh, his
hideous laugh like the sound of the death rattle of a slaughtered grox. Casually, he cast the commissar
back onto the ground.

“You’re learning Emeline. You’re learning,” Vash rumbled, as he yanked the dagger from his thigh, licking
the blade clean, before tossing it back to Emeline with a flick. Vash’s horrible laugh echoed down the
corridor for several minutes after the brute had limped off.

Xandean rushed over to his mistress’s side, helping her up onto her knees.

“Are you alright?” Xandean spluttered, shocked by the sudden turn of events.

“Fine, fine,” Emeline wheezed, shooing her young aide away with a gesture, before she struggled to her
feet.

“Are the lychen crazy Emeline?” Xandean muttered carefully, not looking Emeline in the eye.

“Only as crazy as the galaxy.”

Xandean rushed to gather up his papers, which he had dropped for the fifth time since he had arrived,
and nodded to Emeline.

“I imagine you want me to organise the required papers to allow the lychen to enter Galaharian airspace,
and get you a cup of recaff.”

Emeline nodded, rubbing her bruised throat testily. “Oh yes, and get me-”

“The addresses of all the major butcher’s shops and abattoirs on Galahar?” Xandean interjected.

Emeline scowled. “Yes. It helps to know where my regiment will be during their stay on this backwater.
Now, stop doing that. I told you before.”

Xandean nodded mutely, and scuttled from the room. He was glad that he now had work to do, to take
his mind off the obvious question that rattled through his mind ever since he had seen Vash. One simple
question.

What happened to the Colonel?

###

Vash swung the blade around into the unprotected neck of the heretic. The man squealed, as the
whirring blades of the eviserator scythed through the tendons, causing a gory fountain to erupt all
around. Vash bellowed, yanking the weapon around, batting aside another raised lasgun. The second
heretic drew his pistol, but it was too late. Vash lunged forwards, and bit downwards, tearing away the
man’s face, before he kicked the man between the legs sharply. Their was a uelp, but it was swiftly stifled
by Vash, as he plunged a rusting meat hook into the man’s back.

“Lychen, we shall have victory this day!” Vash roared out in savage joy, kicking the corpse from the top of
the vast pile of corpses that he had ascended. The pile of bodies rose many metres into the sky, and Vash
could gaze around himself freely. The Lychen were surging around Vash’s corpse mountain, like flood
water around a bulwark. They were a tide of righteous death, and bellowed and hissed insanely.

The enemy battle lines, in all their colourful finery, were nought but a flimsy defense against the
haemovores. Forever chanting and roaring, the Lychen vaulted the barricades of the enemy, hooks and
daggers drawn. Blood flowed freely in the streets, and the beautiful screams echoed all around.

The heretics of Fornoust II were faltering. One man raised a las rifle, only for a lychen to set upon him
like a beast, tearing great bloody chunks from his flanks. Hounds vaulted between the murderous melees
all around, snapping at heals, or gutting the unwary, with whirring fangs and saws.

Blood was in the very air, turning in a violent red, as the fair mist of gore exploded from the dying, in a
mist similar to an ocean’s swell crashing against rock. Vash snarled. He could not miss this. He looked
around his feet, eventually finding the fallen Lychen standard. Snatching it from the dead hands of
Sergeant Lorech, Vash surged down the hill of death. Banner in one hand, eviserator in the other, Vash
ran screaming into combat.

Sporadic fire erupted from the crowd, scoring burning gashes along Vash’s arms and legs. The man
mountain cared not, even as the wounds bled and poured crimson streams in a trail behind him. Vash
savoured the brief wide-eyed look of terror, in the first heretic, even as he cast the standard into his
chest, like a javelin. As the man toppled, Vash chopped at him, hacking off an arm, and tearing a further
chunk of flesh from the man’s flank, savouring the iron tang of the blood in his throat.

All the while, he was bellowing the Lychen war hymn. As he did so, the Lychen priests added to his
horrific chorus, until the chant descended into an incoherent bellow.

“Human Flesh and Human blood is the bedrock of the Imperium.

The Emperor is the soul and Protector of the Imperium.

The Emperor is Imperium.

The Emperor is, then, humanity.

The Emperor is human flesh and human blood

To receive benediction, we must be like unto him

We take sacrament, and we partake of the Emperor

We partake of Human flesh and human blood

We are the Haemovores

Salvation in slaughter!

We fight for blood, we fight for flesh

Let none deny our holy task

We face no horror we cannot surpass, so go forth, brethren of blood,

Smash skulls,

Split muscle,

Suck marrow from the bone

Cry prayers to Him, and Feast!”

The chant got stronger and stronger, the more the lychen hacked and butchered and maimed. One
lychen was still blubbering the war chant, even as he fell over, his chest ruptured by a fat las bolt.

Vash spat curses, swinging his eviserator about him like a madman. He felt a bayonet pierce his side.
Yelling incoherently, Vash slammed an elbow into the man’s face. There was a crunch, and the bayonet
slid free of Vash.

The chaotic melee seemed to part, and Vash could see the leader of the horde, in robes of purple and
white, and a great headdress of vast feathers.

“Now you die!” Vash boomed, shoving the heretics that barred his path. Bones broke, spleen’s were
ruptured, and Vash would not stop.

The leader, suddenly aware of his vulnerability, spun his staff around his head, and fired a scorching blast
of energy from the weapon. Vash only just managed to fling himself to the ground, as the multi-hued fire
passed over his head. The agonised screams of those caught in the blast echoed all around. Vash leapt to
his feet, swinging his chain blade at the despotic leader. The man spun his staff, disarming Vash easily,
before slamming the weapon into Vash’s face. As he staggered backwards, the man pointed his staff at
the Lychen Corporal once more.

Vash was quicker. His hell pistol was in his hand in seconds, and fired twice. The first shot rebounded
from the staff’s energy field, while the other passed through the man’s mind. The frail old man fell slowly
to the ground, his face still wearing his startled expression.

Not long after that point, the heretics finally crumbled, and were soon lost a tide of bladed fury. The
Lychen had finally defeated the heretics of Fornoust II. And not a single creature survived their
onslaught.

Vash snatched the vox from his voxman. The Colonel was calling him, and Vash would never turn down
the orders of the greatest Lychen amongst them.

++Corporal Vashan. This is your Colonel. I would desire you to come to the rear command post, to toast
your great victories. I trust many skulls have been taken for the golden throne?++

++Of course my lord. I would be honoured.++, Vash rumbled.

Vash knew something was wrong. The command post never smelled of this much blood at the command
post. They other Colonels of the other regiment’s were against the glorious act of bloodletting.

The thin metal door to the chamber opened with a slight push, with a whining screech. It was a
bloodbath. Guts and entrails plastered the once colourful tapestries and white-washed walls. Bodies
littered the tiled floors in torn piles, faces still twisted in agony. The heads of the colonels lay all around,
lifeless and grey, drained of blood.
Amid all this carnage, Harst stood, his body utterly drenched in crimson gore. His twin scimitars dripped
with the bodily fluids of those slaughtered.

“Hello Vashan,” the man grinned, his fangs glinting in the half-light of the command post.

“Colonel. What have you done?” Vash muttered, gazing around at the unnecessary murders. Vash saw
nothing wrong in slaughter in general, but this was senseless, unjust. Madness.

“Vash. I have seen. Can’t you see it? This,” he gestured around at the deaths, “ is a blessed thing. We are
doing his work.”

Vash backed away slightly, reaching for his serrated knife at his belt. “The Emperor would not want this.
This is…is heresy,” Vash growled.

He was so fast. Vash hadn’t realised the Colonel had moved, until the bloodied man had lunged forward,
flinging Vash backwards bodily. Vash felt the wall behind him crunch under the impact.

“Heresy! You would call me heretic? I am the herald, herald for the blood god emperor. These fools
dismissed Him as a monster, as they dismiss all our kind,” Harst roared, his voice rising into an inhuman
bellow. Vash flung himself forwards, slashing his blade at the turncoat’s throat. He swept his scimitar’s to
intercept the blow, flinging Vash aside again. This lunatic was more interested in turning Vash, rather
than butchering him.

“They gave it another name. They called it the Doombr-” Harst began, before Vash spun around, slashing
the Colonel’s legs with his blade. The Colonel ignored him, grabbing the Corporal by the throat. The
Colonel’s feline eyes glowed a deep yellow, and his mouth was stretching, elongating.

“I am His herald. You shall worship him in slaughter. I am your Colonel. Obey me.”
Vash muttered something.

“What?”

“I said, in the absence of a commissar, I will have to inform you, you are relieved of command, you
heretic scum!” Vash roared, drawing his pistol. Harst dropped his scimitar, and grabbed Vash’s wrist in his
vast fists. When had the Colonel grown to such heretical proportions? Vash had no idea. Vash couldn’t
move, his mind filled with the deafening laugh of something beyond rage, and terrible beyond reckoning.
Vash struggled in the man’s grip, screaming silently.

“I am your Colonel. I am your master. I am the herald of the coming tide of blood. It will be beautiful.
Simply submit to your Colonel,” Harst soothed, his mouth drooling blood constantly. Suddenly, the man’s
spine exploded in a series of gory explosions.

“Blood… for.. The .. Blood g-” Harst wheezed, before he fell heavily, dropping Vash in the process. Vash
gazed up blearily, at the Lychen that stood in the doorway, lasguns raised.

“We have no Colonel,” Keshak spat, lowering his smoking shotgun. Vash stared into Keshak’s eyes, and
Keshak stared right back. They knew that this must never be discussed again.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:28 PM

Chapter Five.

Talaheim: One Month, sixteen days before invasion:

Talaheim turned, much like it always had, grindingly slow. It turned as surely as winter would give way to
deep winter, on the snow blasted hell of a world. Snow flowed like a white river, coiling horizontally on
powerful wind currents, whipping across the planet‘s barren surface. Through the stifling blizzard, a city
squatted, sprawled like a vast bloated spider, clinging to the vertical cliff face precariously.
The city was Azgoth. Azgoth, city of the glittering ice. Azgoth of the damned blizzard, Thracis considered
bitterly. His armoured state car rattled along on the metal rail that ran through Azgoth like a pulsing vein,
until the car grounded to a shuddering halt. The grand brazen gates of Count Vehun loomed before him,
foreboding and solid.

The count had spread his influence over the populous in such a rapid space of time, it was unbelievable.
The Vehun family had minions on every street corner, every shop, every ore mine. However, Thracis was
governor, and he was the only one that would rule the backwater mining colony of Talaheim. Thracis
promised himself he would ensure Vehun was punished. The governor, in all his embroidered finery,
marched out of his armoured state car, flanked by his personal crimson armoured guards. Behind them,
a multitude of Arbitrators marched, shotguns, bolters and batons raised in readiness. Thracis would end
this rebellion before it started.

Several shots rang out in the courtyard, and the gates blew open. Thracis and his men thundered into
the snowy square, flanked on all sides by imposing buildings, which seemed to overhang and leer at the
figures that marched inside. The governor was slightly apprehensive, as he pushed the inner gate open
with his fist. It was all too easy.

He had brought with him all the men he could muster, which was most of the arbitrators. This was far to
few, Thracis considered, under the circumstances. The PDF wasn’t responding to his summons, and the
mechanicus of Talaheim had retreated even deeper into the underground catacombs of Azgoth. Reports
had flooded in on Thracis’ personal command channel that their was rioting on the streets, and the
Mechanicus were screaming insane tech speak chants down all vox channels.

Some analyst’s of Thracis’ claimed they were chanting, “Defend the Crypt! Defend the knowledge of
future promise!”

Thracis had paid little heed to the speculations of his minions, as they rarely yielded accurate
translations.

Nevertheless, Vehun seemed the key to it all. The key to bringing Talaheim under his dominion once
more. The galleries of Vehun’s manor were dark, cold, and utterly void of life. The only source of heat the
governor’s men could sense on auspex was coming solely from a single room, somewhere on the first
floor. The floors creaked under the heavy running feet of the arbitrators and gunmen, all eager to end
Vehun’s attempted revolt.

Thracis ordered Harald, his brutal lead bodyguard, to break the door down. The thin blond haired man
nodded mutely, his eyes nevertheless eager. With a single boot, the man slammed the thin oaken door
from its hinges. Two men in formal dinner jackets turned to the door, drawing auto pistols, but Harald
was already in the room. He swung his power maul downwards, batting one of the men’s pistols from
their grip, before slamming his club, backhanded, across the man’s face. He toppled back, blood
streaming from his face.

The second man flew backwards, as an arbitrator fired his shotgun. As it barked, the man’s chest seemed
to burst in a gory spray, before he was flung bodily backwards, and died, dribbling away his life in a gory
drool. Harald swept his maul around again, striking his opponent in the throat, killing the jacketed man,
who crumpled to the floor, gargling thick blood.

The governor’s men paused for a moment, as they looked to the far side of the room. A man faced away
from the armed assailants of his manor, and merely stood, gazing into the fireplace, watching the
flickering flames intently.

“I expected you’d come Governor. I also knew you’d be wisely cautious, and bring soldiers with you,” the
man muttered, not turning round. “Hence, you will find no more of my agents here. They are quite well
hidden.”

“We shall find them all the same. You are Vehun, yes?” Thracis hissed, drawing his hand up into an
accusing pale claw, “I will suffer your heresies no longer!”

Vehun laughed then, long and bitter, before he turned to face them, sitting at his desk, while a dozen
men aimed guns at his head. The grey kindly face, was creased by disappointment.

“Do you not see? I am not the heretic! It is the cult growing out there that dooms us all,” he muttered,
gesturing outside, “it is they I am against. I have used my influence to infiltrate this cult. It has
penetrated so far into government, had to warn you.”
“Why warn us? You are a criminal, a crook, a thief and murderer. A dealer in substances. You have hated
the government with a passion for many years, and the Arbites all the more. Why help us now?”

“I am a criminal, not an idiot. I know that this cult would destroy Talaheim and Azgoth. I don’t want this,”
the old criminal count sneered, taking off his tall top hat, and setting it down, to reveal a sparse, bald
head beneath.

The governor stepped forwards, and placed his pistol upon the table. “Vehun, there is no cult. It is just
your heresy causing this!” he spat, grabbing Vehun’s collar, and dragging him to his feet.

Vehun smiled. “I wish it were so my dear Thracis. So, you come here to destroy me, even though I am
trying to save this Imperium outpost?”

Thracis smiled then, his smile wide, and filled with razor sharp fangs. “Imperium? I’m not here to save
the Imperium, I’m here to save our true god, one worthy of worship.”

Vehun’s eyes were wide with shock and a sudden anger. “So, they got to you too Governor… or should I
call you Magus?” he snarled, drawing a concealed knife. From beneath Thracis’ robe, another limb shot
out, snapping Vehun’s wrist easily. Vehun yelped as the alien limb twisted his wrist to breaking point.

“Hybrid scum!” the count hissed, spitting in Thracis’ face. The entire group of armed cultists, still in the
stolen arbitrator uniforms, cackled, echoing Thracis, as he gurgled with delight.

“The Sky mother will endure. Always.”

Vehun then gazed into the hybrid’s eyes, his own eyes boiling with hatred. “The bitch won’t survive long,
my dear Thracis.”

Thracis’ smile faded, and he grew concerned. “What did you do, human?”
Vehun merely laughed defiantly. The hybrid governor slammed him into the table, twisting his arm out of
its socket, with a crunch. Vehun squealed in utter agony.

“I ask again, dear Vehun. What did you do?”

“The Imperium… Tiberius crusade. I called them… game over Thracis,” whimpered Vehun, before Thracis
snapped his neck, before casually stretching out his own four arms in victory. He could finally cast of the
pretence of being a servant of the carrion lord. He was more, part of a greater whole. The over mind saw
all. Soon, it would send the sky mother, and scour the Imperials of life, break them down, and remake
them as angels. Blessed angels.

The governor looked to Harald.

Find the rest of the Vehun family. Eliminate them.

Thracis’ psychic message was clear, and Harald nodded mutely, as did all the other cultists, before they
marched out in unison. All of their eyes glinted a reflective black

The Imperium was coming, already? Would the sky mother come in time? The Patriarch would be most
displeased at this development. Thracis shuddered, and for once, it was not due to the climate of
Azgoth.

###

The Tiberian fleet circled Galahar like feasting vultures. Sporadically, pinpricks of light trailed through the
void, descending through Galahar’s dense atmosphere, glowing like orange firecrackers as they did. Each
pinpoint was a vessel. Each ferried a thousand guardsmen a time, and they kept coming.
From street level, the skies were filled with the fiery contrails of landers of a million different sizes and
shapes and designations. The people on the streets cheered, and waved colourful banners, and rushed
to desperately open their shops, and merchant vendors rushed to load their outlets with all their most
expensive wares. The Imperial guard had come to Galahar. They had come… to spend. And the people
below loved them for it.

As soon as the first vessels landed in the main town square, the chaos began. Frenzied traders ran
towards them, yelling competing prices, jabbering like turkeys.

The guardsmen of the Cadian were first on the world, and they scrambled through the crowds, looking
for shops to buy trinkets and exotic alcohols. The dropships continued to descend, in various fields and
open spaces across all of Galahar‘s primary city. Anywhere they would fit, the landers thudded to the
ground. Vostroyans marched from their transports, and rushed to watch the various Galaharian bear
fights, and watch the pit fighters scrambling in the dust for their entertainment.

As the sun began to set, the ships had not stopped. Mordian transports blazed, as they landed heavily in
the fields just outside of the city. Villagers from outlying settlements met their arrival with cheers, and
swift embraces, even as the stern Mordians shrugged them off. Eventually, the mordians were persuaded
to play scrumball with several of the village teams. The sounds of happy shouting, and friendly orders,
barked in a staunch and encumbered voice, could be heard for miles.

By the time the darkness had descended fully, the last dropships came down. Emeline was amongst the
last to disembark, onto the solid new dirt of Galahar. Despite the unwashed odour of the streets,
Emeline considered the city, with its bright lights and friendly, bawdy faces, to be perfect.

The noise was terribly loud, and seemed to have a rhythm all its own. The streets were filled with
laughing and joking soldiers, cradling ale mugs, or with lho sticks sagging between their slack lips. They
all laughed and joked loudly, staggering into each other occasionally, spilling cheap liquor onto each
other‘s fatigues with abandon. Emeline weaved between the bustling crowds and shabby coloured
banners, with Xandean scuttling after her, his eyes filled with unease.

Emeline had determined to go ahead of the lychen, and secure a place for them. It took the pair several
hours of searching and ducking between drunken arguments, to find the perfect place. The abattoir was
old, certainly, and was caked in ancient blood, but it would do, Emeline decided.
A fat man stood against the butchering sheds, with his back propped up against the wall.

“How much to rent this place?” Emeline asked. The man looked up, uncaring. Or possibly
uncomprehending.

“How much?” Emeline said, a little louder. Still the same response, before the man suddenly barked a
series of foreign words to her.

Emeline turned to her aide. “Any ideas?”

Xandean stared at the man for a moment. “I think he said fifteen hundred credits,” Xandean said,
unsure.

Emeline frowned at him, “how’d you know that? Speak much regional Galaharian Xandean?” she
questioned, incredulous.

“A little,” Xandean lied, looking away.

Emeline shrugged. She wouldn’t follow him up on this issue. She had little time. Eventually, through a
process of hand gestures and shouting, Emeline excepted the fat man’s offer, and handed over the
credits readily. A greasy yellow smile squirmed across the man’s face, and he eagerly handed over the
keys.

“I want it full of.. Meat and things. Understood?” Emeline asked, gesturing for effect.

The man nodded again, rushing off to find something.

Emeline raised something to her full, blood red lips. “Keshak. I’ve found a place. It’s called Kabli’s meat-
yard. Got it?” she yelled into her vox, to be heard over the bustling crowds.

++Yes mistress. I’m afraid Vash will not accompany us. He feels it is too uncivilised down there.++

“What do you think Corporal?”

++Is their flesh and fornication?++

Emeline stifled a snigger, “Most likely Keshak, you lecher!” Emeline chided him.

++Ha ha! We’ll be there. Salvation in slaughter!++

“Salvation in slaughter! Emeline out,” Emeline concluded, before she set off walking into the darker
areas of the city. Xandean stumbled after her.

“Emeline! Emeline! Are we not waiting for the others?”

“No Xandean. You will soon learn, Lychen feasts are not something to enjoy. Plus, it’s far too noisy back
there,” Emeline stated jovially, jogging down the poorly lit streets, the noise of the bustling streets fading
with each passing step.

“But Emeline. It might not be safe here,” Xandean muttered, evidently flustered by Emeline’s flippant
mood.

“Don’t worry boy. I’ll protect you.”

###

Hanque cleaned the last glass in the bar, and set it with the others, forming a rough pyramid of
glassware. He smiled faintly, and turned back, to gaze over the bar counter, into the lounge before him.
Empty. Those damn Imperials. Everyone was flocking to gawk at the space borne. They were sucking him
dry.

His sour mood was compounded by two very different reasons, unrelated to this new attraction in the
upper city. Firstly, Deriss was still there. The grizzled drunk hadn’t left in three days now, and just sat,
head down on the bar. He hadn’t even gone to the medicae after the fight a few days back. Deriss did
seem to be slower recently. Perhaps he was more hurt than he let on.

Secondly, Hanque had heard no word from Merla. Not even a single letter had been dispatched to him.
Something was wrong, Hanque knew it in his (albeit considerable) gut. If those rowdy guardsmen had
done anything to her, Hanque didn’t know how he would react. Realising he was grimacing, the barman
put on his best friendly smile, before jabbing Deriss.

“Good! Considered going home yet? You look like a dung heap.”

The ragged mess of Deriss shifted slightly, before he raised his filthy face, and smiled with oddly perfect
teeth. “I resent that remark hanky,” the man slurred in a mocking tone.

Hanque grabbed him by the collar, dragging the scrawny man up to his eye level. “Now look here, you
worthless piece of-” Hanque snarled, before instantly dropping Deriss. The bell at the top of the door
chimed twice, as two people strolled into the bar. Customers.

His anger forgotten in the face of custom, Hanque plastered his phoney smile across his face once more.
The first customer was a woman, tall and imposing. A tough red greatcoat swung from her shoulders
sinuously, almost organic in its smoothness. Faint tattoos ran down each cheek on her harsh pale face,
partially hidden behind long hair, dyed a brilliant crimson. Trotting at her heels, a young boy in grey
trousers and a thin red coat walked, carrying her bag in his reedy arms. Though both were off-worlder
types, Hanque concentrated on the imposing woman, for obvious reasons.
“Hello barkeep. Do you have anything good to drink?” the woman asked politely, at odds with the
barbaric attire under her beautiful coat. Hanque was momentarily at a loss for words.

“Trust me, he hasn’t,” Deriss muttered with a gurgle, as he downed another Black Grosh greedily,
gasping at its greasy, spicy taste. Emeline was stunned to realise this native new low gothic. None of the
other’s seemed to bother.

Emeline turned away from the drunk with distain, and a little suprise, before smiling at Hanque.
“Whatever you think is best,” she muttered. Hanque nodded, regaining his composure. While
undoubtedly attractive, this woman had none of the charms of Merla. The angular eyes, the tanned skin.
The full lips…

“Uh, of course miss. It is miss, isn’t it?” he muttered finally, breaking from his reverie.

“Yes. No time for family in the guard. Especially not in the Lychen guard…” she sighed, “by the way, who
taught you low gothic?”

“Everyone at school learns it. I choose to speak it. This is… was a classy place. Anyway, enough about me.
Who are the Lychen guard anyway?”

“Ah, no one,” she finished. “So, what have you got for us to drink?”

Hanque beamed at them warmly, “Well, I’ve got amasec, Black Grosh smooth, Black Grosh grained, or
White Grosh,” he informed her. “However, I must tell you, we only have one kind of grosh anyway.”

Emeline frowned, “Why did you tell us all the other options then?” Emeline hissed, slight anger edging
her voice.
“Got to keep up appearances my lady. This is a respectable establishment here!” Hanque bawled, with
mock grandeur. Emeline smiled. Emeline knew all about keeping up appearances. She did it everyday on
the Alhaim.

“I’ll have a Black Grosh then thank you.. What’s your name?”

“Hanque.”

“Ah Hanque. Yes.”

“What will he have?” Hanque muttered, gesturing at Xandean, who stared up at the bar, accentuating his
small height.

“I’ll have a Grosh. No, I’ll have a-a-a e-e-erm. I’ll have-” he flustered for a moment.

“He’ll have some water. Chilled please,” Emeline interjected. Xandean smiled in gratitude. Hanque
brought the drinks. Emeline downed the hideous liquid with obvious distain, but hid it as best she could.
Xandea, meanwhile, took tentative sips of the cold water.

“Careful now, young blood, you’d better pace yourself. Don’t want to get too intoxicated,” Deriss mocked,
his sarcastic tone accompanying his usual slurred syllables and spittle.

Emeline turned around to face him, and lunged. She grabbed him by the collar, and stared into his bleary
eyes. “We haven’t asked you. We don’t need your opinions, understand? Do you comprehend, you
drunkard. Let us see your witty banter, when I have bitten out you tongue, and felt the metallic taste on
my lips! Or is that not what you want?” Emeline hissed, her eyes like twin shards of ice, boring into the
soul. Her silver fangs glinted.

Deriss’ face was impassive and uncaring, staring her down with half-closed eyes. “Do what you must,
miss Imperial. They breed your kind brutal, don’t they?”
Emeline’s face was a mask of contempt, and her hand reached for her sidearm, and grasped… nothing.
She remembered, she had been disarmed before setting foot on Galahar. The guard were not permitted
their weapons on shore leave, mostly to keep the locals safe. The guard were generally unconcerned
anyway, as Galahar was a black powder world, all steam and gunpowder. They were backward. They
weren’t a real threat.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Hanque yammered, raising his hands in surrender.

Emeline turned to him. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to start anything-”

“He wasn’t talking to you,” Deriss murmured, pointing over her shoulder. Emeline looked behind her, at
the three armed men, who raised flintlock pistols and rifles to their shoulders. The masked men wore a
tattoo of a flaming eagle.

“Frakk!” Emeline yelped, rolling over the bar, to slump onto Hanque’s side. Suddenly, the bar was filled
with the sounds of guns discharging, smoke billowing, and sporadic flashes, as the armed gangers fired
wildly into the small bar. Hanque ducked, as a bullet whipped past his head, shattering an amasec bottle
into shards.

“Xandean, come to me!” Emeline screamed out, crawling out from the bar, clutching a shard of glass like
a dagger. She would kill these upstarts, in one of the hideous ways Vash had taught her.

A startled yelp sounded out, followed by the sound of bodies tussling, then a dull thump. “I bagged
one!” a grating voice whined in the gloom. Emeline could just make out the men fumbling with a sack of
net. Someone struggled inside. Emeline charged, makeshift knife raised. Disorientated by the gun smoke,
she didn’t see the gun butt coming, and it slammed squarely into her jaw, and darkness took her.

Some time later, Emeline’s eyes focussed once more, the blurred image before her resolved, into a
perfect image of the Grosh Hole’s ceiling. Soon, a concerned face appeared in her vision.

“You alright?” Hanque asked, his face strained with worry. Emeline nodded, and allowed him to help her
to her feet slowly.

“Are you ok?” Emeline returned the gesture, more out of custom than out of concern. She was trained to
look out for people, even if most of the time, looking out for a soldier meant shoot the soldier if he bolts.
The bitter, but necessary role of the Emperor’s Commissariat.

“I’m fine miss, but your lad’s not.”

Emeline stared at Hanque desperately. “Where is he?”

“Don’t know, the fire eagle’s took him. He could be anywhere by now, it has been an hour,” Hanque told
her calmly.

“I’m alright by the way, if anyone’s interested,” Deriss grumbled, dusting himself off as he rose from the
floor, before lifting a lho stick to his lips.

“I have to get him back. I got him down here, and said I’d protect him. I’m not going to start lying. I’m
going to keep my promise, and get him back,” Emeline determined, shrugging off Hanque’s hand on her
shoulder.

“You can’t. You haven’t got guns or anything. He might be dead already!” Hanque gesticulated, trying to
get Emeline to change her mind.

Deriss swayed a little, clutching his left ear, which bled profusely. “They shot me in the ear!” he giggled,
looking at the crimson fluid on his dry hands.
“Who shoots someone in the ear? It’s just so rude!” Deriss muttered manically, but the other two
continued to ignore him.

“Do you have any weapons Hanque? Pistols or handguns or anything?”

“Not really. Guns are forbidden really. Only PDF and the gangers have guns, and there only black powder.
The arbitrators have Imperial guns, but I don’t think-”

Emeline grabbed him by the arm, and gazed into Hanque’s eyes pleadingly. “Hanque, if you know anyone
who could get me a gun, I’d be most obliged.”

Hanque’s expression of incredulity seemed to lessen, and his face grew softer.

“I’ve got a gun. Well, several,” Deriss interjected. The other two looked at him, and he smiled, opening
his coat. Two flintlocks were stuffed down his dirty trousers, and another two down each of his hight
naval boots. Naval boots a normal Galaharian citizen didn’t wear.

“I’ve got some more in my bag,” he muttered, kicking his old rucksack casually. “I’ve also got plenty of
lead balls. I’d need some more powder though.”

Hanque shrugged, “I’ve probably got some around the back. Useful for rat killing,” Hanque said, nodding
outside.

“Good, good, this is good. I’ll bring the guns back as soon as I can Deriss. Or, the crusade will reimburse
you for their loss,” Emeline promised, turning to find the powder. Deriss put out an arm to halt her.

“Pardon? I’m not leaving my guns, you damn off-worlder! You lot will just steal them. I’m coming too,”
Deriss yelled, flicking flecks of spittle in all directions staggering a little, as he was still slightly faint from
all the alcohol and blood loss he was suffering.
Emeline sighed, “Fine. Why do you want to come?”

Deriss smiled. “It seems like a suicide mission. I can’t wait!” he muttered jovially.

Hanque looked at the two people before him, his only customers. They were both insane, he concluded
with dread.

They both turned to him. “What about you?”

Hanque shrugged, looking around at his ruined bar. “I guess I should go with you. Won’t get any business
now,” he said, dejected. His livelihood was ruined, everything was gone from him. He had nothing left,
other than to go with these maniacs. As he sighed, they hurriedly planned.

As they did, Hanque wandered around his bar, taking in the destruction caused by the barrage of musket
discharge. As an after thought, he flipped the sign in the door to closed.

Of course, at the time, this gesture was casual. Little could Hanque know that his bar would never open
again. Not after what happened…

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:31 PM

Chapter Six.

Merla gazed at her reflection in the perfect silver mirror, that dominated one wall of her chambers
within the Vice Pit. Outside, the raucous shouts of off-duty soldiers, and the fawning titters of the
pleasure girls echoed throughout the winding halls of the brothel.

Of course, the reflection in the mirror was not hers, but of the murdered girl Merla. The Shadowfall,
however, found pleasure in being someone else, even for the brief periods of time she could. AS a
Callidus, she could be anybody in the entire galaxy, thanks to her polymorph-fuelled shape shifting
abilities. She imagined the history this young girl had had. All the boys she had kissed, what she had
wanted to be in the future. Who she loved.

Shadowfall could not dwell upon these thoughts, as they invariably made her sad. Despite her
conditioning, there was some fragment, some flickering ember, of her former self within her empty
existence. This fragment felt disgusted and saddened by every loyal Imperial citizen she had claimed in
her time as an Imperial Assassin. She stroked the soft contours of this face, with its deep almond eyes,
and lustrous golden skin. What had she been? Before she had been taken, taken for the Shadowfall
project. Had she been pretty? Had she been loved? Had she a father?

“Hey! What’s taking you so long? I’ve paid good money for your services!” a petulant, arrogant voice
sounded out, in her room. She had work to do now.

The impostor Merla walked slowly into her bedchamber, naked except for the long, intricate tattoo of a
vast serpent, which coiled around every contour of her body, which shone with the glint of the golden
body paint she wore.

The young man on her couch seemed speechless, and merely sat, staring, as she came closer. All
petulance in the lad seemed to evaporate instantly as he saw her. Eventually, she planted herself upon
his lap casually, entwining her arms around his neck, in a seductive embrace.

“Are you a lieutenant?” she whispered into his ear tenderly.

“Yeah, of course,” he gulped, gesturing to his uniform, which lay folded and neatly upon the bed
opposite. Merla made a seemingly excited moan, giving the impression she was suitably impressed.
Merla noticed the man was sweating. Nervous.

Merla stroked the man’s head and neck carefully, taking long, languishing gestures. This seemed to
placate the excited youth somewhat. With a glance, she noticed his excitement, physically. Glancing
down, she realised he was aroused.
“Not just a lieutenant of any ship, though. Lieutenant commander onboard the Luthor’s Spear herself,”
he gasped, trying to impress her even more. Merla did indeed seem interested. The naked woman
pushed him playfully onto his back, and sat upon his chest.

“What is your name?”

“Does it matter? I’ll only be here a few hours-”

“Name… please,” Merla pleaded, her voice dripping with a honeyed innocence the man couldn’t resist.

“Daylo. Lt Shia Daylo,” he gasped, as she caressed him once more.

“Shia Daylo. Shia Daylo,” the Shadowfall mused to herself, taking in the name. Learning it. Assimilating it.

“W-What’s going on?” he gasped again, infuriated at being denied intercourse for another moment.

Merla looked down upon him, regret and cold efficiency playing across her beautiful features.

“Lay still, Lieutenant Shia Daylo. This is going to hurt.”

Amid the joviality of the raucous crowd outside in the corridor, the noise of a single man screaming was
lost amid the tumult.

###
The room was a cavernous octahedral shape, poorly illuminated by flickering candles. The dull hum of
the Luthor’s Spear’s engines reverberated throughout the cold stone walls and floors. A circle was
etched carefully into gleaming black marble of the chamber, almost invisible to the naked eye.

Within this central circle, Borus stood, proud and unafraid, his gilded power armour untarnished and
resplendent. He ran a hand casually across his shaven head, before checking his bolt pistol was fixed to
his belt correctly.

In the intense, stifling gloom, he could just make out the grey ghosts of eight figures, each one chained
to a pillar in each corner of the vast chamber. Each one of them wore a metal dome over their heads,
and all of them stood silently.

The cold air and utter silence eventually got to Borus.

“Darvius! Darvuis! I will not be toyed with my lad! What do you want of me?” Borus barked out, face
twisted into a sneer.

“What I want? No, it is not about what I want, but about what you have done,” Darvius’ ominous voice
echoed around the chamber eerily. Borus jumped, as he hadn’t realised the Inquisitor had been inside
the room the entire time. Once Darvius had started talking, Borus finally could determine where the
Inquisitor was. Darvius was pacing around Borus in wide circles, followed by Jaxx, who walked exactly in
step with the angry Inquisitor.

“Blank screen, up!” Darvius snarled, gesturing with a disdainful, bejewelled hand. At this command, the
domes over each man’s head was lifted on thin chains. The now freed Pariahs began to wail quietly, and
Borus felt their oppressive presence in his head. Borus knew they were a necessary precaution, but it
didn’t mean he had to like these anti-psykers.

“I had no choice Darvius. Our ship had become damaged on route to the rendezvous with my Lord
Tyrianus. We had to store the artifact somewhere!”
“Yes Borus, you fool, but did you not have the sense to store it on a world less likely to be invaded by an
alien enemy? Talaheim has a genestealer infestation. The only way we can get to it now, is by using this
crusade to break through and retrieve it. This is also assuming we raise no suspicion amongst my
colleagues! You have inconvenienced me greatly Rogue Trader!” Darvius hissed, bringing his face nose to
nose with Borus’. The Trader stared back passively.

“Apologies Darvius.”

“Apologies don’t work Borus! Not now! You are lucky Tyrianus hasn’t heard of this setback! Now, you are
going to retrieve the artefact, and bring it back here, to be stored until I know what to do with it.
Understand?”

“But Darvius! We would be operating during the battle for Azgoth itself! How can my men remain covert
under those circumstances? Someone will see!”

Darvius halted, and scowled at Borus. “Then you will eliminate them. Understood?”

“Yes Darvius.”

“And show some respect to your betters. It’s Inquisitor to you,” Darvius dismissed. Borus nodded, before
exiting the chamber quietly.

Irritably, Darvius gestured, and the domes slid back onto the heads of the wailing blanks. Darvius
breathed a sigh of relief, slumping into a carefully positioned chair. Jaxx came to his side silently.

“Is it wise to utilise the Rogue Trader for this mission. He has failed once. Perhaps a less defective agent
should be used?” Jaxx suggested in his usual monotone.

“No, no. I consider it his punishment. Besides, he can make sure the Lychen don’t survive this coming
conflict. If the gene stealers don’t get them, he will,” Darvius mused to himself.
###

Vash couldn’t reach her. He ran, barefoot, across the plain of snapped bones, but Vella was always out of
reach. The red skies around him coiled into horrific serpents, that mocked him, and spat acidic viscera
across his face and body. The agony was intolerable, but Vash would not be detered from his quarry.

“Father! Help!” she continually yelped. Vash got more and more angry with each step, swinging his arms
in wild motions. He would not lose his daughter again. Never again.

With one final lung, he leapt forward, in a desperate bid to grab her. Instead, he felt himself falling.
Falling uncontrollably. Suddenly, a vast arm grabbed him. The arm was made of riveted brass, and hissed
as red steam pumped from between gaps in the deathly armour.

Fool. Do not reject my offers. I am the blood, the salvation! The Imperium stole everything! Everything
from you, and you serve them still. Serve only the Emperor! Serve only the Blood God-Emperor. Skulls
for his golden throne. Blood, endless blood. Hate! Do you hate?

The voice of the vast beast was deafening to Vash, and he couldn’t struggled free. The fist tightened
around Vash, causing him to scream silently. Blood frothed from his mouth in a sickly torrent, as he felt
bones crushing.

Speak my name, little slave.

The beast snarled, its voice drooling with unconcealed malice, the heat of it’s muzzle scorching Vash’s
face. “You are filth!” he gasped, spitting crimson fluid at the beast. This blood fizzed as it struck the
beast’s brazen armour, and the monster laughed, it’s laugh a rumbling, horrific thing .

Nay, weakling slave! I am the Doombreed! The ancient enemy. I am the rage an bile of human existence.
I have fed upon your hatred and murder, ever since you first stepped out into the galaxy. It observed, as
your kind brought war to every single world. You are our slaves. You have always been, and I. I-

Vash interrupted, by screaming the chant of the lychen, over and over in his head, and pounded his fists
upon the daemon’s vast forearm. The Doombreed cast him downwards in disgust. Vash was falling once
more. This time there was nothing but blackness below, and the fading voice of the daemon in his ear.

“You will thank me, and my lord, one day. Remember, filthy slave, do not let the goge rise. Anger is your
fuel, as well as ours. Use it! All is betrayal, in the bleeding hearts of Tyrants! Beware!”

Then, their was nothing.

“Vella!” Vash roared, as he woke from his dream. A cold sweat, and a thin sheen of dried blood, coated
the vast bulk of the man. He gazed around himself. He was in his bed chamber on the Alhaim, just as
before.

The room was quiet, Vash noted as he rose from his bed, and dragged his thick wolf pelt around his bare
shoulders. Without his brethren, the Alhaim did not feel the same. The stench of blood remained, but it
was a stale, rotten smell now. Not the iron tang of fresh blood Vash usually enjoyed. Only the growls of
stalking hunting hounds punctuated the bleak silence that seemed to stifle Vash, as he marched down
the corridors purposefully, despite the fact he had not decided where to go from his room.

He travelled down the corpse-strewn corridors aimlessly for a few minutes, until he arrived at the
armoury. Great glass caskets held hundreds of different axes, billhooks, spears, shotguns and all manner
of different weapons. There was only one suit of armour, however, that Vash had any interested in.
The armour hung from a series of hooks and chains, suspended inside its own glass casket. The great
enclosed helm was shaped as a great adamantine skull face, grinning through metal tusks. Holes
replaced the eyes, and real rams horns twisted from mountings to either side of the temple, sharpened
and edged with metal strips. The great armoured torso piece was solid adamantine, but covered in thin
strips of ceramite dipped in brass. This torso plate was formed into the imitation of a bare chest of some
sort of giant. The left shoulder was dominated by a vast pauldron, and leaf-mail arm guards. The right
arm was similar, but lacked the vast pauldron.

Even the cloak behind the armour seemed devilish, and stretched backwards from the armour, as if it
were folded daemon wings. Vash stared in awe and dread at this armour. This was the armour of the
Colonel. Harst was the last to wear the dread suit, and Vash was reluctant to be the next. Could Vash
become Colonel? He feared one thing above all else: corruption.

If he became leader of the Lychen, fully and undoubtedly, he would be popular, but would he be the safe
choice? The Lychen were loyal, Vash knew this. He knew they would gladly storm the eye of terror itself,
and drag the daemon lords out by their slavering hides out, if only they were able. Vash also knew they
we so close to heresy, they didn’t even know. Vash had looked into the heart of anger, and what he saw
scared even him. It showed what he had the potential to be. If Vash could not be trusted to remain loyal
to the Emperor’s goals, could he be sure his Lychen would not be corrupted by him?

Then again, he could not let Emeline rule the Lychen. They were his brethren, his outcasts brought back
into the fold. He would rule them. Vash knew the only way to sway her, would be to become.. This.

He stood for a long time, staring at the armour, which seemed to leer over him mockingly. For the first
time in many years, Vash was unsure of his next step.

“You are not Harst, my lord,” a weak voice mewled. Vash turned sharply, snarling.

“Who speaks! Answer!” he rumbled menacingly. From the corner of the dim room, Grazer emerged,
twisted body almost slithering towards Vash.
“Witch’s lies!” Vash dismissed with a growl, turning back towards the casket irritably.

“Nay, my lord. You do not see it, but I do. You’re a beast,” Grazer muttered. Vash roared, and pinned the
squirming psyker to the wall.

“Explain yourself. I trust you have a good explanation?”

Grazer nodded, and Vash let him drop to the floor. After a few moments, the psyker regained his breath.

“Harst was a fanatic, he believed that slaughter was its own goal. He believed it. He caused misery to us.
You, on the other hand, are our saviour. Your purpose is war. You are our warrior, unconcerned with
personal recognition. You sacrifice for the Lychen, and even for us witches.”

“But I loathe you?” Vash rumbled, confused.

“Yes, but have you ever killed one of us? Tried to destroy our gifts?”

“No.”

“You see, my lord vash, you are not Harst. Harst was a weakling slave. You are a beast. Our beast. The
Emperor gave you a chance, that day Harst was slain. You denied the chance to guide the Lychen to
blessed slaughter, in His name. Don’t do it again, my liege,” Grazer hissed humbly, backing away into the
shadows. Soon, he was vanished from sight.

The corporal turned towards the armour once more. “You wish to see slaughter in the name of your dark
god, Harst? Is that it? If so, I must disappoint. I am Vashan, and I shall not bend my knee to your master! I
will slaughter, and I will maim! I will destroy, but not in that thing’s name! He shall know me, as I know
him. I am Vash, and my brethren and I, my Lychen, we will storm the very throne of your master, and cast
him into the pit!” Vash roared, his voice throbbing with power and dark intent, sounding like a heavy
stone dragged across powdered bones.
His voice became a animalistic bellow. “Salvation in Slaughter! Salvation from your kind!” he finally
yelled, as he slammed his bionic arm through the glass casket, which splintered apart as if it was nothing
but paper. With great effort, Vash ripped the armour free of its chains. Drawing a knife from his belt,
Vash gouged a pattern into his chest, screaming prayers to the Emperor as he did so.

The blood flowed freely, as he carved a vast Imperial aquila across his bare chest, before casting his knife
aside. The crimson gore dripped openly upon the Colonel’s battle armour.

Now, he was the Colonel, Vash determined, lifting the helm to his head. Vash had found a new goal now.
He would find salvation, and he would find his little blood daughter. He vowed this, and he vowed also,
that he would tear the still warm flesh from all who opposed him, and he would feast like the
Haemavore kings on old Lychen. The galaxy would shudder as his bloodletting.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:33 PM

Chapter Seven.

The city’s lights seemed to be consumed worryingly quickly, as the three figures descended into the
under-layers of Galahar. These levels got progressively dirtier and more damp, sodden stenches clutching
tightly to all three of the figure‘s nostrils. The people around them, the inhabitants of this pit, seemed to
become more twisted, more ugly as they went down. It was as if the weight of the city above them was
crushing these dregs into ever more vile forms.

Emeline strode confidently through the streets, he distain unbidden and obvious. The robust form of
Hanque followed slowly, much less confident, clutching a long-muzzled black powder rifle in his meaty
hands. Decent people didn’t go down into the under-layers. Sane people didn’t go down here to fight the
Fire Eagles gang on their home turf. Hanque truly believed his companions were that insane.

The third member of their little band, Deriss, wobbled slightly as he stumbled after them, struggling to
light his lho stick one-handed, cursing each time as it burned his hand. His other hand held one of his
four flintlock pistols, clicked to its active position. Loaded and ready.
“Which way?” Emeline snapped back to Deriss formally, her eyes forward. She didn’t want anyone to
believe she was lost. Not down here.

“Left,” Deriss mumbled, smiling as he finally lit his lho stick. Emeline nodded once, turning left. The other
two followed.

“How many enemy will we be facing Deriss?” Emeline asked flatly again, adjusting the strap of her black
powder rifle uneasily.

“A dozen or so. If we go in there fast, and guns blazing, we should do it.”

“Should do it?” Hanque asked, clearly worried. He was evidently not used to this situation.

“Well yeah,” Deriss answered cheerfully, blowing a smoky ring into the stagnant air. “You’see, we’ll be ok
if we get a shot from each of these guns, and each shot kills or incapacitates its target. Otherwise, we’re
frakked.”

Emeline nodded in acceptance, while Hanque looked even more ill at ease. He had only ever shot rats
before with any sort of gun. A moving, angry gangster was another matter.

The trio entered another area of the under-layer, some kind of bridge over a brown sludge lake. Emeline
did not dwell upon the sight of the lake of effluence, turning her nose in disgust.

“We’re close dear companions,” Deriss muttered, tossing his lho stick into the sludge casually, before
taking a small sip from his hip flask of grosh.

All three of the companions clicked their weapons to their active settings. Deriss drew his two flintlocks,
and primed the smaller pistols in his boots. He just had to remember not to stamp too hard, otherwise
he’s shoot his own feet off. Emeline clicked her rifle, and yanked it from her shoulder, silently
remembering the other two pistols in her carapace corset. Hanque slowly loaded his own stubby rifle,
stuffing a multitude of lead balls down the splayed end of the weapon.

They were ready.

###

The darkness was stifling, terrifying. Xandean could literally hear or see nothing. He felt in his heart and
head, however, that he was being carried by two vastly strong men, bare-chested and stinking of a
violent testosterone Xandean dared not question. He was being carried down, he could tell. The stench
grew immensely, and did the stifling heat.

For how long he was dragged, down into the city’s guts, he could not tell. Terror made him loose focus.
He could die down here. Alone, a cowering little lump of flesh in the darkness. His only hope was his
mistress, Emeline. She was just insane enough to attempt rescue, Xandean considered hopefully.

Eventually, he was dumped upon something hard. Flagstones. The dirty laughs of his captors made his
blood chill in utter fear. His body shuddered, but not from the cold. It was too humid and dank to be
cold. His blindfold was snatched away, and Xandean squinted in anticipation of glare. There was none.
The only light in the sallow chamber was seven flickering candles.

Ten burly men towered all around Xandean, either grinning or snarling at him malevolently. One prodded
him with a length of pipe, covered in barbed wire, which thankfully didn’t touch flesh.

“This void-born’s all scrawn and grissle. Halacks, what you reckon to ‘im?” one of the broken-toothed
savages mumbled to another, Halacks. The other fat gangster laughed loudly, fat wobbling in mirth.

“He’s a weak-un, no mistake. Boss wanted one like this though Bork,” Halacks explained. The gangsters
nodded, before grabbing Xandean by his collar. He gasped, as he was dragged to the far side of the room,
before being dumped to the ground once more.
Shuddering, Xandean gazed up, at the large barrel, that seemed to be tipped on its end, used as a
makeshift desk of some kind. Over the barrel, a vast face leered. The giant of a man was bloated and
grey skinned, his flesh slack and thin. His eyes were piercing blue shard of flint, that bored into Xandean’s
skull. The bulbous man was wreathed in a great coat of Nocturne Lynx, all dark shades of red and green.
From amid the mane of furs, his hard face protruded. He smiled sickly.

“Good evening lad! I am Boss Grothh. And you are?” he asked firmly, his voice less tinged with local
scum-drawl.

“I-I-I’m Xandean, aide to Commisssar-”

“Xandean eh? You look more a patsy boy! What you reckon lads?” Grothh chuckled, echoed by his
mindless thugs.

Xandean was silent. There was no safe response to such a statement.

“Now my lad. We’re not going to hurt you, unless you try anything… heroic, you understand?”

Xandean nodded humbly.

Grothh leaned back in his chair, arms behind his blubbery head. “Now, we can wait for the terms,” he
muttered proudly to himself, as his gang moved to sit at various tables and chairs, their interest already
lost.

“They won’t pay you any bounty,” Xandean muttered hopelessly, his head in his small hands.

Grothh leaned forwards, anger across his face. “What?” he hissed.

“You want me to stay here, and then they will come and give you some money to get me back. They
won’t. The Imperium doesn’t care enough,” Xandean explained, shocked by his own audacity. Perhaps it
was because he truly believed he would die now either way.

Grothh shrugged,” They’ll come. They’ll come for you,” he asserted.

Xandean nodded. “Oh yes, they’ll come. But not to regain me. It’s the principle of the thing. No one
steals from the Imperium of Man. They’ll come back, and take me. Or, they’ll kill all of us out of spite.”

Grothh snarled. “Let ‘em try!” he bellowed, drawing his heavy pistol.

Xandean shook his head sadly. He was dead. They were all dead.

###

Emeline peered around the wall carefully, taking a brief glance at the guards at the door, before swinging
back around to her allies. “Two on the door. Unknown number inside.”

“What are we waiting for?” Deriss laughed, lunging around the corner. His pistols fired in unison, blasting
the guards from their feet in a spray of smoke and a splash of gore from each man. Emeline and manqué
surged forwards after him, as Deriss lunged headfirst through the rotten wooden door, yelling
incoherently.

As he did, he snatched up one of the fallen guard’s muskets, and fired, even as the sudden movement of
air blew out all the candles in one gust. The room was plunged into utter darkness, as Hanque and
Emeline blundered in.

Shouts echoed all around, as the flashes of gunfire lit up the pitch blackness with strobe flashes of fire.
Guards yelled, firing wildly in surprise. The flashes of gunfire allowed brief snatches of vision. One flash.
A guard flew over a tables, spewing his guts as his gun discharged into the roof. Another flash. Manqué
stumbled, his blunderbuss discharging into a group of guards. The flashes continued for several
moments more, as more people fell at random. Yet another flash, a fat man fired his weapon, as he
toppled over, bleeding from the throat.

“Help!” yelped Hanque, as a crash sounded in the dark.

“Borks!” another gruff voice bellowed. There was the sound of metal striking skull, before a final flash,
revealing Deriss falling forward, firing his smaller pistol into the belly of the thug Bork behind him, who
toppled backwards awkwardly. Then darkness descended once more.

###

The shooting had started, and Xandean had been plunged into blackness once more, to be swiftly
replaced with screams and strobe flashes. He swayed uneasily, trying to avoid being hit. Amid the mad
shots exchanged, Xandean could see Grothh leaning over the desk-barrel, aiming his heavy pistol.
Xandean stabbed blindly at the man, plunging his imperial pendant into the fat boss’s throat. Grothh
seemed to stumble in the dark, and discharged his weapon inaccurately. Hanque yelped as a shot tore
from somewhere, hitting his skull, and sending him spinning to the floor.

Grothh stumbled backwards, over the back of his chair. The sound of men fumbling angrily in the dark
continued for a second more, before another flash signalled Bork’s demise, followed by a heavy thud.

There was silence for a moment, before Emeline turned on her torch, and set it down. It’s weak glow
seemed blinding compared with the utter black a few moments before. At last, Xandean looked upon his
saviours. Emeline’s pale flesh was covered with gore and gun smoke, reinforcing her barbaric uniform.
Another, wiry man stumbled forwards, and sat at the last standing chair in the room, clutching his
shoulder.

“Emperor damn it! That thug had a swing on him!” Deriss mumbled painfully. “I swear it’s broken,” he
complained, gesturing to his shoulder.

Emeline ignored him, and instead helped Hanque to his feet, propping him up against the wall. Blood
gushed from the glancing wound upon his head, dribbling down his face wetly, as his eyes rolled.
Emeline calmly drew out her medi kit, and set to work.

“You alright Xandean?” Emeline asked casually, as she applied a bandage to Hanque’s punished skull. She
didn’t even turn around.

“Um… yes Emeline. I’m fine thank you,” Xandean muttered, shaken by the last few seconds of extreme
violence.

“We should probably get home now my dears,” Deriss muttered cheerfully, as he reset his shoulder into
its socket with a dull crunch.

“Xandean looked to him. “Why?”

Deriss stared back, smiling his feral smile. “One, my dear. I’m out of Grosh. How can I kill myself without
Grosh I ask you? Also, number two…” the drunk began, before gesturing to the trail of blood leading
outside, streaking from Grothh’s chair to the exit hatch.

“Emeline looked up, and followed Deriss’s gesture. “Lets move. Now!” she barked, gesturing for Xandean
to help her with the prone form of Hanque, while Deriss moved to the front, to lead the way out of the
hellish filth of the under-layer.

The ragtag group had made it only a few streets from the putrid gangster’s den, before the echoes of
yelling and furious Fire Eagles travelled up from the lower layers behind the group of four. The rest of the
gang were coming, and Emeline doubted they could reach anywhere near the Guardsman area in time.
Unless…
“Take a right here,” Emeline yelled to Deriss, who turned around, incredulous.

“When did you learn the layout of this city little miss genocide?” Deriss grumbled. Emeline looked him in
the eyes, her blue eyes as cold as ever.

“Trust me. Go right. I have friends down there,” she stated confidently. Deriss shrugged.

“You’re the boss…Apparently,” he muttered, before smiling sweetly, and stumbling to the right, Emeline,
Xandean and the stunned Hanque in tow.

They were almost running now, yet the sounds of shouting were increasing in volume, and seemed to be
made up of greater and greater numbers of angry men and women, clattering sharp sounding weapons
together noisily. No matter how much pace Emeline picked up, the gang seemed to be closer and closer
every minute.

Eventually the four could run no more, and stopped, panting in exhaustion. Deriss turned to face the
darkness behind him, drawing his knife. His weapon was less than an inch long, and Deriss held it
uneasily between his hands.

“If you kill anyone with that, I’ll by you a grosh myself,” Hanque mumbled, regaining consciousness
briefly.

“You’re on! Deriss laughed, his eyes manic with the light of madness, his drunken grin spread ear to ear.
Emerline left Hanque lying in the middle of the dimly lit street, and picked up a loose cobblestone in one
of her hands. She was ready.
Finally, the gang slicked out of the darkness, swinging chains and picks ominously. Some had machetes,
others had hammers. All seemed ready for violence.

Their violent chants and offensive gestures were interrupted by a growl. This growl seemed inhuman,
and came from everywhere at once, echoing around the dull street. From the shadows, ragged shadows
moved. Clad in rags and scraps of armour, the taloned men snarled like wild dogs. Their fur pelts were
matted with blood, and their talons dripped gore onto the cobbles as they walked forth into the light.
The men monsters’ fangs glinted silver in the sparse evening light, ready to be stained red. They all
began to unhook vicious barbs and daggers and meat hooks from their belts and pouches, as they
formed up around Emeline’s group.

The largest one of the warriors moved to Emeline’s side. Keshak grinned evilly. “Thank you Emperor, for
what we are about to receive. Salvation in slaughter!”

“Salvation in slaughter!” his men echoed as one, raising weapons. The Fire Eagles raised their weapons
too, though we less sure of themselves.

Emeline smiled, and gestured towards the Fire Eagles.

“Keshak. Enjoy,” she said simply.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:35 PM

Chapter Eight.

The walls of the bustling chapel were smeared with filth and grim, which drooled down the walls in foul
tributaries. The muttering noise was deafening, as hundreds of gun crew and random ratings crammed
into the tight confines of the church. The entire battleship was talking about him: the new priest, the
herald of the Emperor’s truth. Sparrod the Pious.

Eventually, the excited mutterings died down, as a figure made his way onto the gilded podium before
the crowd. Flanked by his messengers Father Jerex and Father Kalan, Sparrod the pious stood before
them, regal in a cloak made of purity seals and devotional scriptures. The three were followed onto the
stage by several dozen large men, presumably loaders from the lower levels. They were bedecked in
improvised armour, made of scraps on metal and ragged cloth. Nevertheless, they seemed to have a
holiness all their own. They were the honour guard of Sparrod, and they carried themselves with honour,
clubs and picks held at their sides menacingly.

The crowds excitement grew too much, and they began to mutter and cheer at Sparrod’s presence.
Sparrod raised his hands for calm, smiling warmly. Silence descended once more.

“My dear friends. It warms my heart to see such numbers of the faithful. Truly, the Luthor’s Spear is a
vessel blessed by Him on Terra,” Sparrod mused, a ripple of applause following easily.

“May the Emperor, in his wisdom, bless all of you in turn. Whether gunner, loader or rating, all are one in
the Emperor’s sight. In turn, be thankful to He on Terra, for the gifts he gives you. Thank him for your
strength, so that you may resist the sin of despair and doubt. Thank him for faith. Without this we are
nothing. But most of all, bless him for doubt. This is the greatest gift He may bless you with. Doubt, my
children. The devils within the hell dimension are everywhere. They could be anyone,” Sparrod warned,
waving his long black locks from his face, staring earnestly into everyone’s nervous eyes. They was a
murmur of mild gasps and fear. Perfect, thought Sparrod.

“Fear not, my fellows. You are members of the pious, but not all are as blessed as thee. Trust nothing,
and only have belief in the emperor and I. Can you do this for me?” Sparrod asked. The crowd bellowed
an affirmative.

“Good. Do you truly detest the malign?” he hissed to them. They bellowed another affirmative, clapping
riotously.

Sparrod smiled, “Do you believe in me? No matter what?”

“Yes Father!” they roared.

“Even unto death?”

“Yes!”

“Then salvation is yours! All of you! Remember this day! This day, the crew comes together as one. In
unity, we shall be unbeatable! Incorruptible and eternal!” Sparrod shouted at the top of his lungs,
followed by the deafening roars of agreement from the crowd.

“Now go forth! I shall meet with you this time next cycle. I pray you can attend,” Sparrod asked humbly.
The crowd cheered him once more, before reluctantly leaving. It took several moments before the
chapel doors closed once more.

“You travel a dangerous path Sparrod. What if we are uncovered?” Jerex complained at Sparrod’s ear.

“You concerns are noted,” Sparrod responded dismissively, clapping for his guards to wait outside,
before he turned to gaze out of his window, at the landing vessels, as they gradually returned from the
shore leave on the dull planet below.

“Have no fear Jerex. We keep moving, from one deck to the next, each time spreading my rhetoric of
doubt. The Imperial fools can’t trace us. The more we sway to our cause, the greater the anarchy when
they finally… snap,” Sparrod calmly explained to Jerex, who still scowled behind Sparrod’s back.

Reluctantly, Jerex turned to go, but then stopped, and turned back to Sparrod, “Before I forget. You
operative has returned our messages. He says ‘The successor to the harst-beast is risen’, whatever that
means…” Jerex mumbled.

Sparrod turned around, eyes aflame with glee. “Whatever that means? That, my dear Jerex, means we
are succeeding. All is falling into place!”

###
Falx crawled forward, legs battered and bloody. He tasted filth and gore in his throat, and he gagged as
he dragged himself painfully over the cobbles. Bodies lay twisted and butchered all around. Some were
hung from lampposts, others retaining shocked expressions, even though their bellies had been opened
and devoured. The sound of the monsters behind him drove him on. The sound of them chewing and
tearing at the carcases of his fellow Fire Eagles repulsed him. Suddenly, he felt a heavy boot land on his
back. The air was driven from his lungs, as he felt the boot break ribs.

Numbly, Falx felt himself being flipped upon his back, and lay immobilised, staring up fearfully at the
ragged beast standing above him. Covered in a film of crimson innards, Keshak was smiling manically,
silver fangs glinting in the moonlight. The hook in his right hands oozed blood onto the cobbles
ominously.

“W-What are you!” Falx gasped. Keshak leaned forward then, so Falx could see the mad, bloodshot eyes
of the man.

“The stuff of nightmares. The fear the Emperor instills in all. We are the imperium’s pet monsters, and
we have come for you!” Keshak laughed, before embedding his meat hook deep into the skull of Falx.
Mercifully, Falx was dead before the hook was pulled backwards, tearing away the gangster’s face in a
shower of bubbling gore.

“Enough Keshak!” a voice in the dark called out. Emeline stood before him, hands across her chest in a
gesture of power. “Slaughter has been achieved. We must go now. We have done enough,” Emeline
stated as neutrally as she was able. In fact, she thought, they had gone too far. Far too far.

Keshak nodded reluctantly, before licking his bloody hook clean, with a delighted grin.

The street was choked with death, corpses draped over every surface. The Fire eagles were all dead, with
minimal Lychen casualties. Eventually, the Lychen began to leave the scene, after picking through the
bodies and cutting away trophies. Emeline took longer to leave, as she stepped through the charnel
scene. She was searching. After a moment, she found him.
Xandean was sat underneath a ground car, clutching at his knees and swaying back and forth. The
haunted look on his eyes told Emeline all she needed to know. This was his first experience of the Lychen
at war. It a lot of getting use to, Emeline thought. Especially to one as young and untested as Xandean.
Gently, she reached out to Xandean.

“Come here boy. It’s alright. It’s over now,” she soothed, offering him her bloodstained hand. Xandean
merely looked at her, eyes wild and watery.

“The Lychen… they’re mad! They killed. They killed all those men!” Xandean gasped, still rocking on his
knees. Emeline reached in and took his hand.

“They will not harm you. I am their Blade Enforcer, and I will protect you. The loyal have nothing to fear
from them. They are my beasts,” Emeline stated, her voice powerful and sure. Xandean nodded, and
reluctantly crawled out from under the ground car.

At the other end of the street, Deriss sat, drenched in blood, clutching his puny knife gingerly. Hanque
sat at his side, propped up against a lamppost.

“I can’t believe you!” Hanque laughed, flipping several gold coins at Deriss. He had won the wager.

“Hey, what can I say?” Deriss grinned, before pulling out his hipflask and taking a swig of black grosh
from it, the fluid dribbling down his chin messily.

“Hey! Where’d you get that?” Hanque growled painfully, his wound still giving him irritation.

“I… found it?” Deriss answered unconvincingly.

“You stole it! You thief! Right under my nose!” Hanque roared.

Deriss shrugged. “Ah well. You weren’t using it,” he mumbled, taking another swig.

Emeline and the lychen began to leave, followed by Xandean uneasily. Deriss stood up then, face
indignant.

“Hey! Emeline! Where are you going?”

Emeline turned casually. “Shore leave is over. We leave,” Emeline stated, turning to leave.

“Excellent!” Deriss smiled, rising from his sitting position, and striding past Emeline. Emeline snarled,
grabbing his arm.

“What do you think? You can’t join the Lychen! You’re staying here my good man,” Emeline hissed. Deriss
shrugged her off, facing her calmly.

“I wouldn’t think of joining the Lychen. I need to make a report to my colleagues, and I can hardly do it
here!” Deriss smiled.

“What do you mean? Colleagues?” she muttered. Deriss rolled his eyes, before pulling something from
his coat. The device shone brightly. A rosette. An Inquisitorial Rosette.

“Lord Inquisitor Manikor Deriss is my correct title Commissar. I was investigating reports of the Fire
Eagles, a group of people smugglers. It was quite fortunate that you came along really. I probably would
never had had enough evidence to reveal them. You Lychen have performed admirably. Darvius must be
mistaken about you lot. Anyway, let’s be off, shall we? I’d like some proper alcohol now,” Deriss informed
them all, his drunken drawl instantly lost, as if his months of alcoholism was lost.
Emeline’s face was drained of colour, and she seemed to shudder slightly.

“What’s wrong with you? Don’t worry. If I were after you, you’d never have known. Now, my dear
Emeline, lead on!” Deriss asked, gesturing forwards. The Lychen moved off en mass, merging with the
shadows all around the street, eventually followed by Emeline, who held Xandean my the hand gently.

All that remained in corpse-strewn street was Deriss and Hanque, who sat up, shocked to his very core.
Hanque knew there was something wrong with the Alcoholic. How did he afford so much alcohol, with
no job? How did he obtain such fine clothes, yet lived in such a filthy area of the city? All the fragments
fell into place like a shattered mirror reforming.

“You… lied-” Hanque gasped.

“Yes, yes my good man. Sorry about that.”

Hanque staggered to his feet uneasily. “But… my lord. What will happen to me? My business is
destroyed. My only customer is leaving. I’ll be dead in a month!” Hanque desperately yammered,
gripping Deriss’ coat. Deriss brushed him off easily.

“Oh calm down to old fool! Do you think I picked your establishment at random? I’ve had my eye upon
you for a while. You’re hired,”

“Pardon?”

“Hired. Employed. You are on my staff now. Now, come along, and we’ll see if we can requisition
ourselves some clean clothes!” Deriss laughed, before he swept off into the gloom.
Hanque stood there for a second. “What?” he mumbled, to no one in particular. It took him several
seconds to realise what was going on. Finally, he sprinted off after Deriss, and he too disappeared into
the darkness that blanketed the dimly lit street.

###

The great queues upon the embarkation deck stretched for a hundred metres. Lieutenant Shia Daylo
stood uneasily upon the deck, anxious to return to serving his Emperor. At least, that is how the
Shadowfall imagined the lieutenant would have felt, were he not a headless corpse back down on the
planet’s surface.

She waited, and the queue eventually shortened, as she approached the buzzing security grid at the far
end of the embarkation deck. The buzzing gate was guarded by two burly-looking Naval Provosts,
wielding heavy shotgun’s slung over their dark armoured shoulders.

“Name and papers!” barked one of the men, his mirrored visor removing any humanity inherent in his
movements.

“I am Shia Daylo, Lieutenant Commander!” Shadowfall stated formally, saluting smartly, before handing
over Shia’s papers. The man took them, and passed them under a red light. There was a bleep, and the
provost waved her on. She passed through the gate, and the papers were returned immediately, before
she moved off once more.

Efficient, Shadowfall thought, impressed. Soon, she would be near her target. She would wait however,
for the perfect moment to strike. And strike she would.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:36 PM

Chapter Nine:
Brother Captain Menton was displeased, and paced angrily back and forth across the beautifully carved
flagstones of the bridge. His strike cruiser, Infinite Pain, had been travelling in the warp for two days
straight, and still they were no closer. Damn! The vast form of the marine snarled, and flipped a table
end over end. The Serf Bridge staff flinched involuntarily at his rage.

“Curses! I promised Inquisitor Darvius I would be in the Galaharian system four days ago! Must the
infernal warp delay me at every turn!” he bellowed, his voice a sonorous boom, which reverberated
through everyone’s ribs.

Menton knew he wouldn’t make it. His navigator had gotten steadily worse over the past few weeks. He
had begun blabbering about a wall of eternity, blocking his path. First chance he got, Menton
determined he would replace the mad mutant. He had sent an osteopathic message to the
Novamarines, instructing them to meet Darvius at Talaheim. If the Mailed Fist could not arrive and fight
in the Emperor’s name, then they would ensure someone would!

It was unusual for Menton to be so agitated. Maybe it was the warp, but he knew this couldn’t be it. The
bridge was heavily shielded from chaotic interference, so it was unlikely to be daemons fueling his rage.
He shook away such blasphemies at once.

“My Lord. We have an issue,” a serf muttered.

“What is it?” Menton growled.

“It’s the navigator my Lord. He refuses to take us out of warp space!”

“Patch him through to me, thrice damn him!”

There was a moment of buzzing, before the cracked voice of Hondos, the navigator, hissed out.

+++ It’s coming! Eyes within eyes! Tearing at my waking eyes!+++

“Hondos, this is Menton. I demand you release us from this realm of blasphemy! Now!”

+++I cannot. Can’t you see it! The vast wall, the choking fog. It clouds everything! It is not emotion, I can
fight emotion. It is deeper. A desire beyond reason! It is… it is-+++

The com cut out at the last moment, as the sound of gargling overwhelmed the vox link.

“What’s happening!” Menton roared, drawing his power axe and activating it in one fluid motion. The
bridge crew did likewise.

“It’s something to do with the warp!” a serf wailed over the din of the warning sirens, which had
suddenly activated.

“Can you get us out?” Menton shouted, as he leapt down from his command section.

“From here, maybe.”

“Do it.”

The entire vessel shuddered with deafening quiet, before a noise of tearing sounded throughout the
vessel. The serfs bucked in their seats, and fought with their controls. Colours passed before Menton’s
mind. Red, green, lust, black, fear. All the colours, real and imagined. With a final guttural thud, they
were out.
Menton breathed a sigh of relief, and sank to his knees, as he gazed upon black void before his view
screen. Blessed blackness.

He sat there for a moment, before he resumed his position as captain.

“Status.”

Silence greeted him.

“I said status!” he roared. The serf manning the forward sensors eventually responded.

“We are intact sir, with minimal damage, but…” he mumbled.

“But what?”

The serf merely pointed a shaking finger towards the vast crystalline view screen. All the serfs seemed
enthralled by the sight. Menton himself looked up to see what the problem was.

Something vast spread before their sensors. So close, so massive. So hungry.

“Emperor deliver us,” Menton muttered, as the ship shuddered, and the lights sparked, and went dim. In
the darkness, the sound of the hull tearing was deafening.

Menton should be doing something, he cursed himself. He was an Astartes for Throne’s sake! He had
faced every horror of the Universe. Except this.

###
The fleet burst into real space, much the same as over Galahar. Each vessel emerged, with a piercing
shriek, from the hell dimension. Each time, the colossal void-born cathedrals of Imperial piety seemed to
pulse briefly, as if shaking off the last vestiges of pure evil.

The Luthor’s Spear was the first out of the warp, followed within mere hours by its three Luna Class
Cruisers. The sleek form of the Molvius sliced through into realspacel ike a dagger, and glided to within a
thousand kilometres of the Luthor’s spear, practically hugging the vast Capital ship.

Over another day, the other vessels of the fleet dragged themselves forward out of the sea of souls, like
struggling divers scrabbling for air. As soon as the fleet emerged, fully formed out of the warp, the vox
chatter began. Requests for foodstuffs shipped between vessels, the times for prayers, the appointed
times for day and nightshift between vessels. All this an more was exchanged within an hour, and space,
for that brief instant, seemed very noisy for those aboard the ships of the Tiberian crusade.

At last, after many weeks of travelling, the grand Tiberian fleet had reached its destination: The Talaheim
System.

###

The view from the vast crystal display was panoramic and expansive. All the void opened before the
Inquisitor, and he breathed in with anticipation. Finally, he could implement Tyrianus’ scheme, and he
would finally have his desires. Brief doubt passed over Darvius’ mind as he considered the risks. What if
the cultists below had discovered the artefact upon their world? What if the damned Lychen found it
before Borus’ men? Darvius shook his head to dispel such defeatist thoughts. He was an Inquisitor, and
thus was enthused with a healthy arrogance and distain for all, and a calm knowledge that nothing was
beyond his grasp. He looked into the dark heart of men. He was the judge, the watcher. He had no peer
to threaten him.

“My Lord,” a soft, yet powerful voice cut into Darvius, and he turned around, surprised.

“Yes?”
Layla, his Interrogator, stood before him calmly, soft features small and almost unreadable. She was
improving, Darvius had to admit, but he still saw through her expression. She was concerned.

“My Lord. I have been running checks on the armoury, and personnel files, and I have noticed
discrepancies,” Layla informed him. Darvius smiled. He knew how to read people.

“Yes. And?”

“Well, several items of weaponry have been logged out of the armoury, under the codes for boarding
actions. However, the Luthor’s Spear has never had any boarders for six hundred years. I tried to trace
who authorised this withdrawal of weaponry, and I found that it was the mechanicus. I checked with the
mechanicus logic engine, but got referred to administratum. They informed me that they were
researching surplus weapons in the armoury, and-”

“The point, Layla dearest,” Darvius interjected. Layla visibly bristled, and her metallic arm whirred, as if
in irritation.

“The point, my Lord, is that someone has stolen a large quantity of weapons from the armoury, and has
defiled a logic engine in order to hide their actions. I suspect heresy,” Layla spoke low, but with an edge
to her voice. She was on the scent of something, and Darvius didn’t want to interfere in her hunt.

“I see. Layla, I suggest you investigate this yourself. Take Jaxx with you if you must. Find these heretics,
and bring them to justice.”

Layla nodded grimly, and exited the darkened chamber, before Darvius turned back towards the yawning
gulf of the void before him. It would seem there were many more factions at work here than expected,
mused Darvius. No matter, he dismissed. To the winner the spoils.

###
The fleet slid through the blackness of space, silent but inexorable. The single pinprick of white light that
was Talaheim began to grow before them, until it was a looming swirling sphere of whites and greys,
interrupted occasionally by a flash of lightning from below its thick atmosphere. They were nearing their
target.

Then something unexpected happened.

###

“Mister Nilus. Track them. Have you got a solid confirmation on what they are? Threat levels?”

Nilus looked up from his sensory bay, to gaze up at Admiral Raventium’s command pulpit. “We are still
confirming, but early sweeps suggest either merchant men or system defence ships.”

The Admiral’s stern, pale face seemed somehow to grow even sterner at this.

“Monitor them. Anything on vox?” his strained voice called out to his Comms woman.

“Nothing yet. They’re still out of range sire,” she barked back, not even looking around to the Admiral.
That was what he liked to see. Proffessionalism.

The three dull specks of light continued to slowly pulse across the vast heliolithic projection, that filled
the central space of the cavernous bridge of the Luthor’s Spear.

Raventium stared hard at the flickering image, leaning forwards on the small railing in front of his
command couch.
“Anything? Vox?”

“Aye sire! We have confirmation! They are telling us… yes, they say they are merchantmen. They request
aid. They say they barely escaped the orbital defences alive. The cult’s routed deep sire!” the woman
yelped, pleased with her actions.

Raventium merely stared.

“Arm forwards torpedoes, tubes secundus and primus.”

“But sir, they have the correct codes!” one helmsman interjected. That helmsman’s head suddenly
detonated, spraying gore across the other crew, who watched the headless corpse tumble to the floor.
Bolter smoking, Commisar Festus returned to the shadows behind the Admiral’s throne.

“Do not question! Do it!” Raventium yelled, slamming his fist into the railing.

He was running out of time. Talaheim had no orbital defences, as there was nothing of value on the
surface of the world. These ‘Merchantmen’ were lying.

###

The prayer chants began, low and sonorous. The hymns continued, even as the vast structure was pulled
upwards on great pulleys. A hundred men gasped and strained on vast chains, as they hauled the tower
sized torpedo upwards. This toil was punctuated with the low groaning chants of the mechanicus, as
they clambered over the vast torpedo, swinging censors and blowing incense across its engraved hull.

With a thunderous boom, the torpedo thudded into place.

“Ready the charges! Ave Imperator!” bellowed the hoarse gunnery masters, as they barked orders to
subordinates in echoing rhythm. Word spread down the length of the vast torpedo deck, as explosives
were packed behind the vast projectile, by a thousand grubby hands.

A siren wailed, but it was pointless. The gunners were all deaf from years upon the great battleship. Plus,
they knew when to fire anyway.

“FIRE!”

The call went out. Men ran for cover. Priests of all Imperial faiths prayed, and then. The roar, deafening
as a world sundering in two, as a blinding light filled the chamber. With the mighty blast, the torpedo
was gone. For the most brief of instants, the torpedo tube was open to space, sucking a dozen ratings
out into the void with the projectile, until the tube seals slammed shut with a sonorous boom.

It was launched.

###

Two purple lines thundered from the Luthor’s Spear, silent in the void, but no less powerful. There was a
flash after a few minutes, followed by a secondary orange flash. One vessel was damaged. The second
torpedo hit nothing, and eventually disappeared, as it left the range of tracking. It had missed.

The other two vessels became more clear as they approached. They were certainly not Merchantmen.
Each was escort-sized, most likely system defence ships. However, each Imperial ship seemed to have
some sort of cancerous growth spreading across its hull, turning both vessels into grotesque greenish
beasts. They were not slowing, or turning for manoeuvres. These were not the actions of a warship.
These were the actions of a death ship.

One of the lunas fired first, crimson beams strafing across the sides of one of the vessels. Plasma and fire
bled from the vessel like viscera, but to no avail. Still it kept coming onwards. The batteries of the luna
then opened up. The shells and warheads impacted, one after another, again and again. Great chunks of
the vessel came loose, but it mattered little. There was no one aboard.

The Molvius twisted through the void, flanked by several escort vessels. The Rogue Trader vessel
launched salvo after salvo into the other vessel, and its following escorts did likewise, launching their
own torpedoes and lance batteries into the ship. The vessel then simply detonated, becoming a single
vast ball of plasma-fuelled flames. Too big for a normal escort-sized vessel.

###

Damn! Damn, cursed Raventium to himself. He should have seen this sooner. Deathships, laden with
explosives. Crude, but oh so effective. Especially when their enemy expects them to be savages.
Raventium cursed his own arrogance.

“Sir, the Captain of the Molvius is voxing us sire.”

“Patch him through,” the Admiral gasped wearily.

++Hey, bossman! Turns out these enemy make quite a bang went popped. Not very nice at all!++ Borus
laughed over the vox, clearly loving every moment.

“I’m aware Molvius. We’re handling things. Raventium out,” he barked, before shutting off the vox. He
was in no mood for jokes.

He needed to warn the Luna Cruiser. He could see clearly on his hololith, that the escort was on a
collision course with the venerable cruiser, which was known as Vandire’s Bane.

“Get me Captain Vaughn! Comms, get me the Captain of that vessel!” he bellowed. His female officer
merely nodded, and tapped in the codes.
++Admiral?++

“Ah, Vaughn! Have you destroyed that escort yet?” Raventium laughed, forcing joviality for his old friend.

++Not quite Raven! Guess I’m loosing my touch!++ Vaughn was also forcing humour, one could tell.

“Why aren’t you evading Vaughn?”

++Can’t. I’m afraid are steering thrusters took some damage last time, above Armaggedon. You
remember my good man?++

“Yes, yes,” he responded sadly. “Still, just thrust out of there. That’s an order!”

++Afraid they’re too close now Raven! We’ve blasted most of it into rubble, but we’re going to be hit.
Happy hunting My Lord.++ Vaughn then terminated his comms.

“Vaughn! Damn you Vaughn!” Raventium roared, and everyone on deck was suddenly still. They were
transfixed on the image before them.

Vandire’s Bane poured shot after shot into the suicide ship, but to no avail. Blazing shards merely broke
off, and plunged into the cruiser’s void shields, until they spluttered and died. Then, with a sickening
slowness, the deathship plunged through the Vandire’s Bane. Fires rumbled throughout the ship’s
structure. The entire vessel seemed to shudder throughout the entire ship, until pieces began to
tumbled away, blazing, from the dying ship.

###

All around him was fire. The ship crumbled around him, and there was noise. So much noise. Men and
women screamed as they burned.
Vaughn’s clothes were charred, and he stood atop his throne, bare-chested, firing his pistol wildly into
the roof of his bridge.

“Is that all you have! This is one of te Emperor’s own Cruisers! I spit in your face! Ha! Is that the extent of
your powers! Ha!” he was yelling like a madman, even as the bridge began to buckle under the pressure.
Steam spat from every crevice and split along the hull plates, and Vaughn felt the vois coming in.

At least the fires went out, Vaughn briefly considered, moments before he was sucked from the bridge,
into the utter murdering chill of the void, and he knew no more.

###

Outrageous! Cowardly filth! He should have expected this of the Xenos! Vile scum!

Darvius was incensed. He’s see the planet burn for this! No more delays. He would end this, he
determined.

“Jaxx, this is Darvius. Inform the Lord General I want an immediate landing on the surface, as soon as we
come within range. Understand?”

Silence.

“Understand?” Darvius hissed again into his comm bracelet. No signal.

He had never had no signal before. Something was amiss.

“Layla. Minval. Anyone!” he growled into his bracelet. Someone must have sabotaged the internal
comms. The heretics. It must be the heretics.

Darvius swept from the crystal display window, which framed the silent carnage of the Vandire’s Bane,
and walked calmly to the chamber door. It would not open. Curses. This was not good at all.

Darvius heard someone move, in the shadows. Yes, just a single, muffled footfall, but it was enough.
Someone was in here.

The Inquisitor span around, his back now to the door. A shadow moved forwards. A shadow fell
forwards. He saw the thin outline of a Naval Lieutenant. Then, in an instant, the image was gone,
replaced by the slim, dark form of a Callidus assassin.

“Are you Inquisitor Horrmann Darvius?” a cold, hollow voice called out.

For once in his entire life, Darvius had no words. His mouth was dry, and he could do nought but he gaze
at the dull green glowing weapon at the assassin’s side.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:38 PM

Chapter Ten:

The fleet surged forwards, gliding between the drifting, silent blooms that filled the void before
Talaheim, remnants of the sudden explosions of the deathships.

Raventium would not be denied. The Luthor’s Spear led the way, its vast hull plunging through the debris
fields were reckless abandon. Chunks of metal and frozen fuel, bounced and clanged against the vast
white prow of the battleship harmlessly.

To its left, the remaining two luna class cruisers glided silently towards he target world. Curt vox
transmissions informed the Admiral calmly, that their gun ports were open, and their batteries were
primed.

The sleek form of the Molvius darted to the battleship’s right hand side, before surging ahead.

+++The hunt is on Admiral!+++ Borus called to the Admiral cheerfully.

Raventium ignored him, as he gazed at the pale ice world before him, which grew in size and intensity
with every hundred kilometres the Luthor’s Spear edged towards it. He could make out, siloetted against
the white, several green pinpricks of light.

“Sir, I have something in auspex!” his bridge officer exclaimed flatly, not even looking up from her
console.

“How many?” he asked bluntly, as he already knew what they were.

“Sixty at least my Lord! Look to be escort-sized. Exact configurations unknown. They’re making intercept
manoeuvres!” another helmsman quailed.

“Fleet, this is Admiral Raventium here! Engage and destroy all enemy craft! Give the troopships a clear
run to the planet! I want these frakkers punished! Ave imperator!” he growled down the vox channels,
before sitting back down into his command chair, his raven-feather cloak billowing about his shoulders as
he slumped n the chair.

Within moments, dozens of hastily composed affirmatives buzzed from the vox, from each of the ships in
the crusade fleet. They knew their duty. Today, their duty was death-giving.

###

Crimson spears of light stabbed from the lUthor’s Spear, smashing apart two of the green-painted PDF
escort vessels, in a blaze of fire and spinnign debris. Torpedoes surged from cavernous tubes, vanishing
into the void ahead, only to suddenly detonate in a purple bloom of lethal plasma fire, causing ships to
buckle and break, or otherwise seek to evade the titanic flashes.

Hundreds more lance beams lit up the space between the two fleets, as they closed the distance
between each other. The two main cruisers turned drunkenly to one side, as their flanks lit up with the
discharge of hundreds of vast naval batteries. Like millions of puny comets, them unitions streamed
through the void, rumbling against rippling void shields, or pounding ships into molten metal. The enemy
vessels launched munitions and lance strikes oft heir own, scoring the sides of ships, or rebounding
harmlessly from powerful void fields.

Escorts stayed close to the fat-bellied troop transports, like mother dolphins guiding their young from
danger. They interceptd the worst of the enemy fire, as it tumbled towards the troopships under their
protection. Several were knocked to pieces violently, while others maintained their integrity, only just,
their shields whining with the supreme effort of keeping the titanic detonations from touching the
armoured hides of the escort ships.

###

“Are you Inquisitor horrmann Darvius?” the Callidus asked again, stepping forwards in the darkness.

“Are you Inquisitor Horrmann Darvius?” he mimicked, his mind racing.

This caused the assassin to pause momentarily. He took his chance, and raised a finger, bending his
knuckle slightly. A sudden torrent of flame spat from his digit weapon, covering the Callidus in burning
promethium. It stumbled backwards, as the flames rolled across the fire-proof synth skin.

He sprinted to the door, flicking his second digit weapon into activation without a second thought. A ball
of searing plasma surged from his finger, blasting the door from its hinges, in an explosion of fire and
wood. Dazzled by the sudden flare of light, he stumbled into the corridor, slamming his head into the
opposite wall, as he lurched and tumbled forwards.
He rolled to one side drunkenly, as a glittering phase blade swept downwards, cutting throught he floor
and wall contemptuously easily. He pulled his pistol from his belt, but his pistol (and three of his left
hand fingers) has sliced from his hand, eliciting a harsh yelp of pain from him.

He fell backwards, narrowly avoiding another swing of the glimmering blade, which instead sheared a
chunk from his jacket, as it whizzed through the air. The air was then filled with tense shouting and las
bolts, as his Stormtroopers reacted to the commotion created by his hasty exit from his chamber.

The lithe black shape ducked and rolled, avoiding the hastily aimed bursts of las fire. However, several
aimed shots punched through the assassin’s shoulder, as it cart wheeled to avoid another barrage. Naval
security suddenly appeared at the other end of the corridor, shotguns blazing. Several pellets ruptured
the sythn skin, and blood splattered the corridor. Almost through instinct, the assassin loosed dozens of
needles from his pistol, plunging through the eyes and throats of dozens of her attackers.

Darvius scrambled on his knees, desperately trying to reach his own men. Shadowfall swept her blade at
him, hacking off his foot with a single stroke.

Shadowfall hissed in mild frustration, before scouring a circle around herself with her phase blade.
Within seconds, a perfect circle of deck plate was cut through, and she fell through the hole carved, and
down below.

“Kill her!” Darvius wheezed, rapidly losing consciousness.

The golden-armoured Troopers sprinted ot the hole, and peered down. The floor beneath them was the
only sight which greeted them, along with a thin trickle of blood.

Callidus blood.

###
The whole vessel lurched and groaned, as if the metal of the ship itself yearned for battle. The Lychen
were all howling with glee, pounding their chests, cutting into their cheeks and arms with crude blades,
and cackling with battle lust.

Great buckets of gore and animal intestines were poured over any and all people within reach. The
drenched Lychen cheered and whooped with savage joy, bathing in the filth and crimson fluid, chewing
on the wriggling organs hungrily. The crazed men, clad in their wolf pelts and mail, looked like heathen
barbarians, as they pounded their chests and clattered their swords, picks, axes and grim hooked
weapons, thrashing out a sonorous din, amongst the rumblign thunder of their bestial collective growls.

On gantry ways and cat-walks, suspended over the baying Lychen mod, chanting and muttering priests,
covered in fresh blood and animal bones, poured anointed oils, mixed with faeces and blood, onto the
ragged heads of the rabble, as they chanted Lychen battle hymns.

Vash stood before them, pacing and bellowing, as he swung the twin scimitars of his ceremonial
Colonel’s armour, in twisting, florid arcs, flourishing them, and pounding his chest with the flat of the
blades.

“Blood fort he Emperor!” he howled, his voice a deafening gale, even amongst the din of the Lychen
host.

“Skulls for his Golden Throne!” he roared back, as one.

As Vash chanted and called out to his men, they flung bloody carcases, cauldrons of blood, and scraps of
flesh at the Colonel. He hacked the pieces of meat from the air, or caught them in his bear trap-like jaws,
crunching hungrily, letting the warmth flesh slither down his throat.

“Today, my brethren! Battle, carnage, and flesh shall be ours at last!” he roared, punctuating each
syllable with a swing of his bloody blades.

With that, the army cheered noisily, flinging blood and cutting their faces eagerly as they did so.
Vash paced before a vast window, opening out onto the raging space battle outside, the flickering flares
and tiny shapes in the distance, the only signal that there was a battle at all, so far away were the ships
engaging each other. Vash ignored it, and continued to thrash himself with his blades and fists, drawing
thin trickles of blood as he did so.

“We descend, on wings of fire, upon Talaheim! We shall spill the ichors of the xenos, split the marrow of
the freak and the hybrid! Carve their heathen flesh to the bone. Rip the human meat from their alien
souls! They deserve it not! For we are their damnation and salvation! Salvation in slaughter!” Vash
bellowed once more.

“Salvation in slaughter!” they echoed, their hatred and bloodlust being driven to fanatical levels.

Throughoutt he vessel, the rumble and thunder of their chants and bellicose yells resounded, merging
with the deeper rumbles, as munitions from the tumultuous naval engagement beyond the ship, burst
perilously close.

The rumbles and bangs unsettled Emeline‘s cool, clean offic, spilling her quills across her sheaths of
documents, sprawled across her desk. Xandean swiftly plucked them up and set them back in their place,
but Emeline could not be settled so easily. Her nails drummed upon the desk, and she couldn’t help but
bite her lip, before suckling absent-mindedly upon the trickle of blood which was drawn from her full,
red lips.

Xandean watched her carefully, trying to seem calm, despite his bowels turning to water at the sounds of
the Lychen, who cheered mindlessly, even as they plunged into a den of monsters. Xandean was certain
the crazed barbarians would cheer just as vigorously, even if they were barrelling straight into hell.

“What is it Xandean?” Emeline asked, rather more harshly than she desired.

He looked at her, his eyes solemn. “You want to go out there, don’t you? You want to join them, and
blood yourself, and bath in it,” he said sadly.
Emeline opened her mouth to argue, but found she couldn’t. To her shock and surprise, she found that
she did. Instead, she merely sighed, and sat up from her desk, moving to the window.

“I used to hate these monsters. Utterly loathe them,” Emeline began to explain, almost wistfully. “I
would vomit and gag, as they ate the still-wriggling innards of a foe, or poured blood over my shoulders.
I couldn’t fathom what drove them to this, and it scared me. It disgusted me.

It’s sort of like an addition. I can’t properly explain it. The more you look upon this universe, this galaxy,
them ore it… not frustrates… no frustrates would be too weak a word to describe the feeling.”

Emeline seemed ot struggle to explain herself, and clenched her gloved fist tightly.

“Rage. It’s a sort of rage. You see the misery, the pain, the injustice, the heresy. You can do nothing but
scream. Nothing but beat your hands bloody. It isn’t right, it isn’t fair! We shouldn’t have to cower in the
dark, while monsters rend our bones! They should fear us! We should break them, tear them down. It’s
justice!” Emeline growled, hammering her fist three times into the armour-glass of her observation
porthole.

Xandean flinched, and Emeline, noticing this, cooled noticeably. She turned back, and looked upon him
with a tired smile. “I emphasise I guess. I understand now, why they do this. This universe. This frakking
universe, has drove them mad, and they just want to save themselves. If flesh is the way, then they’ll
take it.”

“So, is Vash now the colonel?” he enquired lightly, shuffling and organising Emeline’s reports and
documents as he did so.

“Yes, I suppose. He seemed set on being a Corporal forever, before Galahar. Something’s changed his
mind while up here alone, I guess. The men seem happy either way.”

Xandean looked to his shoes. “I suppose you should go to be with them then?” he muttered sadly.
Emeline frowned. “You’re right, but-”

“But you don’t just want to go. You want me to come too, don’t you? To be blooded?” he answered,
before she could vocalise her thought.

“Do you want to?” she asked, her voice softening slightly. He shook his head slowly.

“I’m not ready.”

Emeline nodded, and moved towards the exit. Before she reached it, she turned to her young aide. “Be
careful with that talent of yours. I don’t want to have to save you from yourself in the future. Have my
weapons ready for deployment tomorrow.”

“Yes Emeline.”

She reached out a hand, and patted his shoulder lightly. “And don’t worry. I’ll try to ensure they don’t
hurt you, during your blooding. I know you are afraid, but it needs to be done. Do you understand?” she
asked directly.

He nodded and with that, she swept from the chambers, sealing the door behind her. Sealing the door
was always a sensible move, especially with the Wresbik patrolling the corridors. Those cybernetic
hounds were even more violent and feral than the Lychen, if that were possible.

As Emeline left, Xandean, alone, began to ponder how long it would be before the woman she was, was
finally overtaken by the beast in her own soul. Then, more worryingly, he wondered how long it would
be before he himself succumbed to the thrill of the Lychen way. The thought sent a shiver through his
bones.
###

The cruiser Molvius was like a darting cobra, evading enemy broadsides, while it’s high powered lances
shredded the innards of its foes with disgusting ease. Torpedoes spiralled from its tubes, impacting upon
the orbital defence platforms of the ice world, detonating the cumbersome structures with blinding
flashes of luminescent doom.

“Boom! Crash! Again! Hit them again! I tell you, it doesn’t get better than this!” Borus howled with
delight, as he paced in front of his command throne, seemingly unable to sit still, such was his
excitement.

If Darvius, the creepy lunatic, wanted him to go and retrieve the artefact, which was almost certainly a
death sentence, then he would have some damn fun before he did it, he laughed to himself.

The complex xenotech hololithic battle display moniter, signalled yet another direct hit, and showed an
infrared representation of the burning ruin, as it came apart in space. Borus howled with laughter,
pumping his fist in the air as he did so. He was certainly enjoying this.

His frail, nervous-looking son stood in the corner of the command bridge, looking over the vox traffic and
atmospheric read-outs quietly.

He gestured with an outstretched palm. “Come here lad! Come and directo ne of the batteries! I’ll have
you kill at least one person in your lifetime, even if it’s by proxy!” Borus bellowed to his son, his thick
ginger mustache rustling as he bawled at his weak son.

“Father,the read-outs. I’ve got to-” Howe began, before being cut off by his bellicose father.

“Dan the read-outs! You’re no servitor lackey. Be a man. Burn some heathens!”

Howe looked at his father pleadingly, but Borus just sneered.

“Frakk you then, you little worm! Watch how it’s done! Come about, and initiate move seventeen!”
Borus bawled to his bridge crew.

The selection of strange, uniquely attired men and women, nodded calmly, enacting his orders with clam
resignation.

The ship barrelled through the void, bringing it’s second broadside to bear on a damaged Monitor ship,
blasting it in half with a volley of macro-cannon shots.

“Tenth kill! Har!” Borus bellowed, to on one in particular.

He was currently out of his fnely crafted ower amrour, and instead wore a fine, ruffled silken shirt, with a
stylised ornithacopter pilot’s jacket draped over his shoulders, as if he was one of those holo-dramas
heroes from the early 930s.

Eventually, as he bounded around the room like an excited child, the doors behind his command throne
hissed pen, and in stepped Punax, the secondi n comand ofhis little band of mercenaries. Clad in a pitch
black body glove, and wearing dense xenotech black crystal carapace-equivalent armour, the man was
certainly imposing. His stripped down, silenced bolter was slung discreetly from a rig across his broad
back, his auto pistol strapped to one thigh, his las pistol on the other, while his short, thick gladius hung
from a scabbard at his hip, Punax looked like he meant business, his sinister appearance only
accentuated by his yellowed, canine-like eyes, and his distinctly wolfish features. He was a Hyanx, a
variety of abhuman ‘beastman’ few within the Imperium would employ. All save Borus of course.

“Master. We are within range for transporter insertion,” Punax explained, his voice low and discreet. A
complete contrast to his employer of course.

“Lighten up Punax! We shall have our moment!Let’s have al ittle fun first, shallwe?” the rogue trader
bawled, his voice full of humour.
“But the inquisitor-”

“He can wait! I have, believe it or not, planned this, by dear dog. We go in, under the cover of the
Imperial Guard assault. We go in, while the Guard and the toothy freaks are having a scrap, take the
artefact, and get back on board. Simple. Now, got tell the lads to get practicing. We‘ll be going down in a
few days,” Borus explained, with all the condescending of the worst kind of schola drill-abbot.

“Very good my Master,” Punax nodded with a bow, before turning on his heels, and leaving the chamber
silently.

Borus watched him leave, before turning back to the holo-screen, and bursting out laughing, as he
watched the frozen bodies of the defenders drift out of a wrecked orbital platform.

“Quick, use backstroke!” he yelled mockingly at the dying corpses, miming the backstroke, as they
suffocated n the void.

No one else n the bridge laughed. Borus frowned.

“You miserable gits! Reload ordnance!”

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:40 PM

Chapter Eleven:

+++Security breach! Security breach! Security breach!+++

The servitor’s flat ovice resounded through the entire vessel, as red lights flashed and blazed, while
klaxons and sirens wailed and howled across the entire battleship. Bells clanged and chimed n the
stoking pits, the filthly serf-workers oblivious to the threat they warned of, as they mindlessly stoked the
titanic boilers and conbustion engines, which poweredt he non-esential systems of the Luthor’s Spear.
Through the upper corridors, the noise of the sirens was deafening, and a crimson light bathed all the
gatryways and narrow confines of the vessel. Grim-featured Naval provosts and other grey-overcalled
security, sporadically sprinted down corridors, seemingly at random, shotguns and pistols clutched ot
their chests in readiness.

The assassin was loose, and she could be anywhere, and be anyone. The ship was in chaos. Not least
because while this security breach raged, the gunners and command staff of the vessel, were engaged in
a chaotic space battle, casting high explosive munitions across the void, and weathering the blistering
return fire.

“Sir! We have reports coming in! The inquisitor’s been attacked!”

“MInor damage in sector seven, rerouting void shield power!”

“Target acquired! Firing solutions?”

All the bridge hands and officers wereb labbering and talking ato nce, as a dozen things occurred, even
as they explained what they were oding a mere moment before. Raventium’s throne shifted and moved
on hydraulic pistons, as he sought to answer all the questions.

“Commissar Festus! Find the Inquisitor’s interrogator, and help them find this heretic attack! All power to
the aft and fore shielding! Damn the broadsides, just give me another lance strike! Now! Engage target!”
he bawled, his voice modulating and subtly changing, as he responded to each problem in turn.

The Admiral was like a man possessed by a dozen ghosts, as his attention drifted from one figure ot
another.

Festus swept out of the room without another word, his black longcoat trailing behind him, as his cadets
stumbled after him. The crew moved from one desk to another, tappign on keys, calmly ordering
sections of the lower ship into action, or programming a servitor for yet another hastily ordered task.

“Message from Lord general Gravean. He’s requesting instructions!” yelled the ocmmsman, and
Raventium swung his throne around to meet his gaze.

“Tell him to engage, as soon as he’s landed his forces. Tell the troopships to go for low-orbit. We haven’t
eliminated the orbital yet!”

The semi-mechanical comms man nodded, swivelling his chair back to the cumbersome vox-machine,
which whirred in the corner ethereally.

###

The robed priest moved carefully and calmly, as he travelled to each candle in the small deck-chapel, and
extinguished them with a small brass cap. Outside the dorr, the crimson light spilled inwards from the
corridor, filling the church with an eerily demonic aura, as the stain-glass windows distorted the light
even further.

Eventually, the priest travelled slowly back up the central aisle, towards the altar, before veering off and
entering one of the priestly chambers located at the far left of the tiny chapel. Within the puny room, all
religious iconography vanished, replaced by a grimly functional room, filled with spent or lit lho sticks,
and plenty of amasec and tanna.

Inside, Kalan and Jerex had shed their priestly robes, and wore neutral fatigues, as they drank the
amasec wines, and tossed dice casually.

“Nice to see we’re keeping the faith,” Sparrod chuckled, and he pulled up a chair, and lit a lho stick.

“We thought ‘screw it! They’ve found us. We might as well live a little, before they string us up.’,” Jerex
grimaced, downing a glass of amasec in one gulp.

“Don’t worry, my dear Balhaun traitors. We are not the quarry for this hunt,” Sparrod smiled thinly,
glittering silver teeth glinting in the dull glow globe light.

“Huh?” Kalan muttered, as he gulped down another mouthful of spiced grox messily.

Sparrod roled his eye. “There’s another faction at work here my dear fellows. Apparently, as some of my
wonderous parishioners say, there’s an assassin on board. A powerful one, who’s been trying to pick off
the high and mighty Darvius himself. Now, we can use this ot our advantage.”

Jerex frowned. “How? Security’s tighter than ever now. We won’t be able to breath without a provost
hearing about it.”

Sparrod smiled again. “Ah, but you see, they will be expecting another attack. Now, what if we give them
one?”

“Why would we do that?”

“Because we need someone eliminated. Security will be tight, but they’ll be expecting the attack to fall
upon the Inquisitor, no?”

The ex-Balhaun traitor guardsmen nodded.

“Our target therefore, won’t have as much protection. Easy pickings.”

Ferex seemed intrigued. “Who’s the target?”

Sparrod flicked his lho stick to the floor, and stubbed it out. “Dear old Cardinal Blithe. You still got your
stolen gear?”

The Balhaun nodded. Together, the conspirators smiled knowingly.

###

The Tostig swept towards the world, missiles and streaking streams of AA fire from the planet’s defences
rebounding from the hull, which glowed a dull orange, as the pilot fought with all his might and skill, to
keep the vessel in low orbit.

The entire Cadian troopship rattled and rumbled, as the friction of the hyper-thin upper atmosphere
scraped along the thick hull of the titanic craft. Lord General Gravean was violently flung from his chair,
as theu nintended turbulance wracked the whole vessel with sudden force. He cursed loudly, as his
ebony scalp bounced off the metal floor of his command office, while his documents and battlemaps
were tossed across the chamber violently. Commissar Hawke was knocked from his feet, along with
dozens of aides, as the entire room lurched ot one side.

“Emperor damn you Captian Frenk! Climb damn it! Climb!” he howled into his wrist vox.

+++I can’t sire! Not yet! The orbitals above us are still active! I we rise, we’re going ot be blasted.+++

“If we stay here, we’re going to crash, damn it all! Henrick!” Gravean hissed through his vox, signalling
the Current colonel of the Cadian 102nd.

+++My Lord?+++ Henrick roared down the vox, the sound of fallign supply crates and tumbling
guardsmen unmistakable. +++We’re having some difficulty down here Sir!+++

“Get to the drop ships! All of you! Right now! Frenk’s going ot open the deployment tubes in five
minutes! Get your men to the ships! Do it!” Gravean roared, deftly dodging a tumbling gargoyle, as he
rolled ot his feet unsteadily.

“Once the drop ships are down, you ARE going to climb Frenk, or I’ll shoot you myself!”
Graveanthreatening, turning to the tumbling view of the white void beyond the view screen at the
centre of the room.

“The other ships? Have they deployed?” he called out, to anyone still conscious in his command
chambers.

“The Alhaim unleashed he lychen at high orbit. I think they’ve avoided the worst of the orbital assault.
The Garron deployed lower, but it’s took heavy damage. I think only half of the mordians were able to
deploy. All the First-Borns got down though,” an attendant aide wheezed, as he dragged himself to the
observation screens.

Gravean nodded. “Ok Frenk! Deploy the drop ships! Any that aren’t full, don’t release them. They can
deploy in the second wave, along with the rest of the Mordians, after we get these damn orbital
platforms destroyed!”

Damn you Raventium! Why aren’t we clear for full deployment, Gravean cursed silently to himself.

###

Talaheim was a glacial wasteland, or rolling white, in all directions. Truly vast ice sheets slid across the
surface like tectonic plates, the rifts between them descending manym iles below, down to the true
surface, eternally shrouded in darkness.

The largest and most permanent glacier jutted from the surfacel ike some vast ice mountain cliff, one
shear glacial cliff face stabbing downwards, to the ground, hundreds of miles beneath it. Impossibly,
clinging to the vertical face of the cliff, was Azgoth, an entire city of almost half a billion people. Giant,
cruiser-sized claws dung into the stone-hard ice of Talaheim, anchoring the odd vertical city in place. The
city was sprawling and layered, a dozen huge slabs of hab-blocks and city blocks, piled horizontally above
one another, like the tiers of some unfathomably gargantuan wedding cake. Each layer was miles in
diameter, and were connected to each other by huge piping, cables, and tiered stairwells and ramps
systems, which spiralled up through each layer of the spider-city.

It was towards this impossibly insane structure, that the hundred dropships of the tiberian crusade
surged, engines blazing with effort, as they battled through the spiralling blizzard, which whistled
through the towering valleys, through which the great vessels darted and flew.

The great defence lasers of Azgoth, angled towards the heavens, spat blinding crimson light high into the
billowing clouds. Luckily for the dropships, their horizontal course made orbital weapons useless against
them. However, the whickering fire of AA flakk tanks, filed the void left by the defence lasers, filling the
air with white hot munitions. Adding to their high rate of fire, the tiny forms of Azgothian PDF basilisks ,
which began to fire sporadically. As burning lines of explosive anti aircraft shells streamed amongst the
dropship formations, bigger, air-bursting basilisk rounds formed burning orange blooms of shrapnel and
fire, which pounded the hulls of several unlucky dropships.

The invading ships hugged the harshly jutting glacial cliffs and valleys, which savedt hem from the worst
of the barrage. However, several Cadian dropships were struck, and spiralled off course, detonating
spectacularly, as they ploughed into cliff faces, or tumbled into the black void beneath them.

A Vostroyan ship crumpled under a direct hit from a lucky basilisk strike, and simply split apart mid-air.
Yet, they continued, ignoring the damage and loss of these few vessels.

As they neared their target, the drop ships themselves, opened up with their own heavy bolters and
lascannon turrets, blasting and smashing great swathes of the city’s outer defence walls.

The Imperium’s justice would not be stayed.

###
Layla checked the charge on her las pistol, and swiftly slid it into her hip holster, as she packed her
auspex, power sword, and other sundry Interrogator items, and entered the main lounge of the
Inquisitorial suite. Claxons were still blaring, but they seemed distant, and Jaxx had managed to return
the lighting of the chamber to normal.

Speaking of Jaxx, the tall, silent figure, stood like a statue, guarding the door into the chamber. Of course,
the door still hung from its shattered hinges, a blzing hole blasted into it by her master’s digit weapon.

The chamber, aside from the door, was perfectly intact. Whoever had attempted to slay the Inquisitor
was good. Very good. Her keen Inquisitorial senses scanned the disturbed areas of the room. Scorch
marks, left by a tumbling, burning person. The fact the floor was barely scorched suggested the assassin
recovered swiftly. Layla knelt down to the scorch mark, running her hands over the sooty residue. At last,
success. Her hands closed around a black piece of material, otherwise camouflaged against the
blackened floor. The thimble-sized patch of material was thick, and almost treacle-like in consistency. She
quickly flicked her auspex over the material, and it confirmed her suspicions:

“Synth skin. Jaxx,” she called over.

The tall, black-coated Acolyte walked over to Layla, his actions unnaturally clunky, no doubt due to his
massive level of augmentation. Layla bit back a pang of misery as she considered this, and focussed back
upon her investigation.

“Where would you say this is from Jaxx?” she asked, tossing him the piece of body glove.

He held it up to his cold blue augmetic eyes, the mechanical lenses swivelling to focus.

“Castiel-class, multi-weave spray-glove body coating. Manufactured at the Iluminan factorium, in seoul
district, Terra,” he buzzed coldly in response, his hollow voice like a gale in a tunnel as his buzzing vox-
voice responded to her query.

“Teran?”
“Correct.”

Layla’s thoughts raced. Terran style, specialist spray on body glove? Very few organisationn used such a
make of body glove. Only one organisation, in particular, could have used it in such a manner as
demonstrated here. Callidus. The implications nearly made her jump.

Was Darvius underi nvestigaiton? Was hei n trouble with his superiors? Did he even have superiors? No,
not superiors. Rivals. Perhaps he has made an enemy amongst his own kind? Layla considered this
possibility carefully. It would bei mpossible ot prove such an accusation, andl ikely would just get herk
illed for her troubles. Then again, maybe the assassination attempt, and the stolen supplies, implies a
link? The assassin could be a rogue, affiliated with possible heretics, subverting the ship from within?
Layla, like nay good Interrogator, knew of multipel case studies where such things had happened before.
There was the beheading, in the early days of the Imperium, the war of vengeance, during the Heresy
itself. Even the Burning Dark, a relatively new chaos cult, with spies and agents across the Imperium. This
could be anything.

She needed morei nformation.

“Interrogator?” a harsh, but far more human voice than Jaxx’s, cut through her train of thought.

“Yes?” she asked, as she got ot her feet, turning to observe the newcomer. Clad in the dark uniform of a
Naval Commissar, the man’s grey complexion accentuated the harsh, stone-like features of the man
standing before her. He was flanked by a dozen smaller men, who looked like pale imitations of the
imposing man at their centre, even with uniforms mimicking his own ominous black trench coat.

“Naval Commissar Festus, of the Luthor’s Spear. We have been sent to assist you.”

###

The doors were sealed, with a twist of the circular handle, and heralded by a brief hiss of steam. The
white-blinding glare of the frozen wastes was sealed off, and only the dull, cicular patches of glow globes
illuminated the torrid, dank darkness.

Adept Hostir shuffled down the narrow, winding caverns, carved deep into the frozen caverns, his bionic
left leg aiding him immeasurably in his task of fleeing from the sealed portal. His heavy blue robes
flapped around his frail, cybernetic frame.

The others, similarly robed, shuffled ahead of him, their faces downcast, covered by heavy hoods. They
knew what was expected. They didn’t comment, as Hostir brushed past them.

The Magos insisted on being informed once every portal and vault door was sealed. Hostir ignored the
drumming thuds, which echoed from outside. The servants of the Eagle god had come, come ot ‘save’
them from the monstrous hybrids. Hostir was secretly glad they had come. However, this didn’t change a
thing. His Order, a sub-division within the Mechanicus Sect upon Talaheim, must keep them secret. The
repositories of ‘truefakt’ must be kept from harm, and above all, kept from corruption. The Crypt must
be sealed. If this meant Hostir and his brethren were to suffocate, in the dark, with the occupants of the
crypt, then so be it.

No one must enter the crypt of Flesh.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:42 PM

Chapter Twelve:

The air was on fire, as the Vostroyan dropships crash landed on the lowest of Azgoth’s hab layers. Plas-
glass splintered, ast he blunt noses of the speeding landers smashed into the whining metal of the deck.
The PDF basilisks arrayed before the edge of the towering bloc were smashed aside by the titanic vessel.
Their crew barely had time to yelp in alarm, let alone flee their vehicles, before the bulky craft ploughed
through the artillery. Fire rippled across the pot-marked hull like a second skin of flames, as the
ferrocrete floor was ripped up like a fallow field, screaming like tortured metal.
Those formations of PDF infantry formed up to face them, fled backwards desperately. The drop ships
could not be halted. A few were caught by the careering machine, becoming red smears within seconds
of being struck. Most managed ot react more swiftly, and leapt for cover in the few buildings that existed
on the end of a hab-layer. All the while, even while it was crashing, the dropship’s heavy auto cannons
and laser batteries were constantly firing in all directions. Walls were pulverised, windows shattered, and
bodies punctured by super-hot rounds.

Eventually, the drop ships ground to a screeching halt. Silence descended, as they stopped firing. Within
moments, the enemy PDF began to open fire. Tripod las cannons pulsed and screamed, scoring across
the hull. Heavy bolters and auto cannons barked and growled, bucking in their harness mounts, as they
rattled off insane amounts of fire at the interlopers’ vehicle. Missiles streaked and stabbed into the
heavy vessel, flames blossoming across the hull.

Finally, the heavy doors on the rear of the drop ship flopped down with a resounding clang. This was
followed by a deafening roar. A mechanical roar.

The first PDF building that was firing upon them, a tower filled with soldiers, suddenly detonated in a
glorious explosion. More and more enemy-held buildings suddenly detonated similarly, as Bazofzeck’s
Armoured companies rumbled from the fat rears of th e landers. Each of the las cannons spewed high
explosive ammunitions across the battle zone within seconds, their heavy cannons destroying hundreds
with every shot. Hull bolters rattled death, ast he heavy tracks of the tanks rumbled onwards, spearing
towards the ramshackle PDF barricades and bunkers to their far right. Las fire flooded back in response,
a veritable tide of crimson energy, as the pDF returned fire with everything they had. The armoured war
machines weathered the storm of red light, their hulls glowing orange as they stormed onwards. Some
fell silent asm issiles sailed into them, but those concealed rocket-men soon regretted their shots, as
other Russ homed in on their locations, hurling fat shells into their positions. Fiery blooms of destruction
flared from these destroyed implacements, along with a fine mist of red, vapourised flesh and bone.

A vanquisher att he forefront of the assault unleashed double the shots of its fellows, destroying
enemies by the thousands. As the enemy infantry began to duck into their hasty hiding holes, the hatch
of this Vanquisher was flung open. Colonel Bazofzeck himself rose from the cupola, brandishing his
whirring chainsword manically.

“Forwards, sons of Vostroya! Let the heathens taste Imperial steel!” he roared over his vox-amplifier.
Even though he couldn’t hear them over the deafening roar of five hundred revving engines, he knew his
men were cheering.

His Leman Russ companies formed up into three vast Vs, creating an armoured zig zagging formation,
which pushed forwards to wards the centre of the armoured hab-block like an armoured tide. In their
wake, many hundreds of lighter vehicles trundled behind them. Chimeras, each holding a squad of
valorous. Chariots, carrying them into the crucible of war.

###

The Cadian dropships struck several hab layers at once. Their vessels swept their landing platforms clear
of opposition before they even considered unleashing the shock troopers.

With a hiss and a growl, the heavy dropship of the Cadian 102nd, led by Colonel Henrick, thudded down
upon the shattered landing platform noisily. As soon as the craft clanged to a stop, the wide sides of the
vehicle folded open like petals on an orchid. With the precision of a thousand practiced troop drops, the
Cadians filed out perfectly. Their las guns snapped off accurate, independent shots, picking off any shell
shocked PDF that stumbled from their cover to engage the foe.

The Cadians thundered nto any and every building within five hundred metres of their dropship. They
rushed through each structure, performing door to door searches. Frag were tossed nto rooms.
Following the flash and splintering detonations, the Cadians flung themselves into the rooms, slaying any
survivors with disciplined bursts of las fire, before they barked ‘clear!’ in clarion tones.

Henrick strode into the smoking building, his nose twitching in distaste. He glanced around at the peeling
walls, and blackened floors. With a steel-toecap, he flipped a slain enemy soldier over onto his back.
With disgusting realisation, he saw their faces were blotchy, purple and squashed. Small fangs protruded
from the dead man’s slack muzzle, broken but unmistakably alien.

“Ach, Hybrids,” he snorted, gesturing to two of his men to drag the body off for burning. If Henrick didn’t
know from experience, he would have thought the twisted hybrid was a chaos cultist or mutant. He had
killed enough as a Whitesield, he mused.
His personal communicator buzzed, and Henrick pulled it to his clean-shaven face. “Henrick here. Is this
Lord general Gravean?” he asked, as he wiped a layer of grime from his grizzled features.

“No such luck Henrick!” barked the terse voice of Commissar Gray. The sound of battle was thundering in
the background obviously, as the sound of his own bolt pistol sidearm barked repeated, as harsh and
loud as Gray’s own voice. “The enemy is regrouping at the border of the secured zone on this level
Colonel. Major Mussing and Corporal Jens are dead. One by the enemy, another through moral failure. I
suggest reinforcements in the northern quadrant!” the Commissar yelled down the line.

“Noted Commissar Gray. I’ll send F Platoon your way. Ave Imperator,” Henrick responded succinctly,
before shutting his comm off angrily. He didn’t appreciate being belittled by Gray, who was only two
years his senior (even if Gray looked much older). Of course, it didn’t do to make those thoughts known
to Gray. Henrick liked his head being intact. With a sigh, he turned back to his command staff, after
glancing through the heavy slits of the enemy bunker, which gave him a wide view of the rest of the
dense city bloc ahead of him..

“This will serve as an adequate command base. Have we got contact with the Lord general?” he asked
his voxman as he entered the wide room.

“Not yet sir. I believe they are still avoiding the orbital stations,” he responded formally, saluting as he did
so.

“What about the other Regimental formations? Have they engaged the foe yet?”

The voxman nodded, while twisting thek nob on the side of his vox device. “The Firstborn are storming
the level below us, so we don’t have to wory about the heretic swine coming up from below us.
Bazofzeck’s armoured formations are giving them one hell of a bloody nose sir. Our fellow Cadians have
invaded and are holding the above two hab blocks. There’s stiff opposition up their sir. There is word of
clawed monsters up there, ripping them apart in close assault. Orders?”

Henrick pondered. “Keep behind the Chimera. Send a hellhound barrage before their advance. Boil the
beasts before they stick them with their bayonets and las rifles. I want those levels secured before we
advance. I don’t want to be advancing into a trap when we go upwards, after we clear our own level
ourselves. What of the Mordians?”

The voxman took several seconds to reach the Mordian channels. “Erm… erm… I’m not sure yet sir.
They’ve definitely landed. I’m getting lots of las fire and human shouting. I can’t make any more out from
it though sir.”

Henrick nodded, pulling a partially ruined chair beneath him, before sitting down. “What of the… Lychen
Guard?” he asked.

The command staff looked at each other, before the vox man started to speak.

###

The dropship had slammed into the hab-layer a mere half hour before, and Sevilis, the Fourth
Generation Major of the sixth tier outer defence force, was already confident of success. His infantry
formations, thousands strong, had encircled the stricken craft, and had begun to bombardment. Heavy
weapons teams from every agle, launched missile and laser strikes against the reinforced hull of the
dropship, scoring surface damageo n the hardened hull, but little else. However, it couldn’t be long now,
before he had punctured the mahcine, and finished off the survivors. His forked tongue flicked across his
fangs, as he contemplated he rewards he would surely gain from the Father.

He glanced at the soldiers around him, and they instantly scuttled forwards, taking up firing positions
around the lander. He didn’t need to speak. All the brethren of Father were linked by the shared mind,
the shared blood of the Sky-Mother’s genetic heritage. They could never fail, for their mother was
already on the way.

His forces crept forwards, tightening their surrounding circles, as they neared the perimeter around the
craft. Servilis drew his power axe carefuly, as a wide, alien grin split his face. The machine was silent. No
weapons had fired as soon as it crashed into the ground with a deafening rumble. He would win a great
victory, without having to fight. Perfect, he hissed to himself.
Then the rhythmn began. The sound was quiet at first, but with every heavy drumbeat, the pattern of
resonant drums grew louder and louder. The beat was relentless, and tinged with a savage brutality that
hinted at the heinous beings within. Then came the chanting. Like a choir of ravening hounds, the tune
was discordant and savage. Some of the more bestial of his hybrid brethren began to arc their backs,
unfurling their claws and hissing… as if they sensed a rival predator.

The bomabrdment had diminished, as the chanting grew in ferocity and fury.

“Blood for the Emperor!Skulls for his golden throne! Blood for the emperor! Skulls for his golden throne!
Blood for the-”

The chanting was incessant and murderous, the words overlapping and distorting, until it became as a
single, monstrous growl.

Suddenly, hatches seemed to split on the side of thel ander, and heavy chunks of metal dropped and
crashed to the floor with a resonant clang. These machines weren’t initially shot as, as the Hybrids
thought them merely pieces of wreckage. Then the things folded opne with greasy whines of grinding
gears and cogs. Before theh ybrids could react, barbs and chains, bound around these machines, began
to coil from the things and spin around them at breakneck speeds. The machines lunged forwards, their
chains lacerating and slashing apart everyone around them. Those that were not cut to pieces, were
dragged into the machines, and bound gorily into the outer layer of the machines. Bound hybrids howled
in furious agony as the chains tightened around them. As more and more wer bound to the machines,
the mechanical monstrosities lay about themselves with whirring chain blades and cutting implements,
cutting down hundreds in their mechanical fury. Servilis’ hybrids opened fire upon the automatons, but
they were already in amongst the closely-knit formations of Hybrids. Shots whipped and snapped all
around, striking machine and fellow hybrid alike with their inaccurate death strokes.

As chaos erupted all around Servilis, he and his men didn’t even realise the frontal ramp of the lander
was folding open…

###
Emeline gripped the handrail desperately, as Vash’s chimera surged from the deployment rank without
even slowing. The scene beyond the lander was anarchy. The kine machines had reaped a bloody toll
amongst he foe, who were already in disarray before the Lychen charged from their transport.

Keshak’s Chimera, and the rest of the Lychen battle force, surged at Vash’s side, howling like feral wolves,
as they swung their blades at any passing foe, as they poured gore and viscera over themselves as they
did so. Their lasguns snapped and hissed, cutting down anyone they could target. Multi-lasers sent ruby-
tinged death across the heads of the foe, striking the heavy weapon squads arranged beyond the main
assault,blasting them apart in great flashes of blue fire.

Vash, clad in his new twisted, devil-faced armour, laughed manically, as he stood atop the front of his
chimera. Wielding twin sabre, he hacked and slashed at those hybrids before him. Blood and torn guts
splashed over his gigantic body like a heavy drizzle. He cackled, running his tongue over his blades and
metallic jaws, gulping down the salty blood like a fine wine.

“Destroy them my brethren. Split marrow, drink deep of their tainted arteries! Gut the filth, and rend
their hateful bodies like cattle!” he half growled, half sang.

Emeline ignored his mania. She was used to the fact Vash was quite clearly a monster, even beyond the
norm of the savage Lychen Guard. She simply held on for dear life, as the chimeras ploughed through the
seao f enemy bodies like a cowcatcher through snow. Her humming lightning claw was currently
deactivated, and she simply fired her capitol at any clawed fiend, that managed to scrabble up the side
of the speeding vehicle.

Suddenly, the world turned end over end. The chimera had struck something, and was flung onto its side
roughly. It skidded for a hudnred yards, crushing and maiming yet more enemy soldiers, before it flipped
again. Being open-topped (as all Lychen vehicles were) Vash and his Commissar, Emeline, were tossed
from the vehicle.

With a crunch, Emeline felt her side rebound from the ferrocrete floor painfully. Wheezing, she barely
managed to roll aside, as a slavering hybrid lunged at her. Drooling and clawed, the thing reminded her,
oddly, of a lychen. It did not stop her, however, from putting a bolt into its face. Head balsted through,
the thing toppled back, and Emeline just managed to pull herself to her feet, activating her lightning claw
as she did so.
Vash had landed on his feet, after rolling for a dozen metres. As he rose, his sabres swept around him. A
PDF-man’s belly was slit open, and intestines tumbled out, as another’s head was parted gorily from its
body. Vash ducked the swing of a lasgun held as a club, hacking the thing’s arms from its body. The foul
thing ignored he wound,a nd lunged for vash’s throat. Vash’s metallic jaws clashed with the alien muzzle
of the monster. Vash’s jaws closed first.

Growling with feral hate, he pulled backwards, ripping the lower jaw of the beast off in a shower of alien
ichors. Spitting the remnants away, he draggedt he body around, blocking the hastily swinging axe-blow
of a hybrid leader. The power weapon buzzed through the body within moments, but moments was all
Vash needed. With ah owl, he plunged one sabre into the thing’s shoulder. The hybrid howled (very
humanly), and toppled to its knees. Taking his sabre in a two handed-stance, Vash beheaded the enemy
with a stroke, blocking another enemy as he tried to fire a pistol at him. The sabre swattd aside the gun,
and Vash reached around, pulling his won hell pistol from its holster. He pulled the trigger without
thought, blowing the throat from the foe, before swinging the pistol into their face over and over and
over again.

Vash looked up from his butcher’s work, surveying the beautiful scene before him. Las bolts stitched a
bloody path through the stunned forces of hybrid filth, that staggered around as they died in droves,
twitching like broken puppets as they fell. Chimera ploughed into them like harvesters, their bladed front
dozers slick with gore. Keshak led the dismount, and the Lychen leapt into direct combat. Each Lychen
was armed and armoured like some heathen barbarian, clad in skins and wielding multiple hooks and
blades.

“Barbed collar!” Vash roared into his personal vox, to all the remaining chimera drivers. Following his
orders, the chimeras broke through the hybrid battle lines, and began to circle behind and around them.
They fired their multi-lasers outwards at any trying to interfere in the combat within, while their bolters
pumped fire into the crazy circle of bloody melee in the centre. Inside this death circle, the hybrids and
Lychen fought ap close and very much personally. Claw fought claw, fangs tore at fangs, and blades
struck clubs and improvised implements. Las bolts and stubber rounds barked and hissed alla round, but
they were poorly aimed and useless in such a close melee.

Keshak swung his barbed riot shield around, smashing a hybrid from his feet, before firing his axe-
shotgun into the beast’s face. He and his men fought back to back, singing cheerful songs of slaughter, as
they swung bloody cleavers and harsh implements.
Vash grinned beneath his devil-helm, dragging his other sabre from the slain leader’s shoulder, and
charged into the fray once more. He hacked and sliced, tore and bit, at anything he could grip or strike.
His fet were drenched in pools of gore, as the slaughter drew towards its bitter, anti-climatic conclusion.

He saw his blade enforcer, Emeline, tumble. Her side was hurt, and she knelt to the ground, wheezing.
Her arms were submerged in pools of gore and sweat, and she gagged as her vision blurred. She barely
even glanced up as a heavy boot struck her ribs, and sent her toppling over once more. The thing was a
hybrid, almost entirely Ymgarl stealer. Heavy jaws opened wide, and talons flexed with eager glee. She
saw it lunge,a nd knew she was dead.

Yet, she wasn’t. With a defiant howl, eshak had leapt to intecept the beast. His shield swung up to block
the foe, but he was battered backwards. His shotgun blasted a chunk from the hunched giant’s side,a nd
it growled in annoyance, grabbing his shotgun with a third limb. Keshak bellowed a curse, and yanked his
shotgun backwards. The bladed attachments of the shotgun sliced through the beast’s fingers, and the
thing reared backwards, flicking his shotgun aside. Keshak did not let up however, and charged the ebast
with his shield. Edge onwards, his shield struck its throat, piercing its larynx messily. Gargling like a stuck
pig, the thing fumbled forwards. Its left hand, a powerful talon, plunged into the riot shield, and was
embedded. The other hand, a human hand, snatched Keshak’s throat in its crushing grip. Keshak spat
wheezing curses, even as his breath was being dragged from him. His free hand pulled a jagged dagger
free from his many belts, and he plunged the brutal wepaon into the thing’s collar.

The beast merely grunted and snarled, but its grip remained strong, and Keshak was hefted onto his tip-
toes. Emeline, on her knees between the legs of the two combatants, saw her chance. Swinging her
lightning claw upwards, between Keshak’s legs (barely missing her saviour‘s own crotch in the process),
she struck the hybrid’s crotch, plunging the energised baldes up to her knuckles.

It screamed in mortal agony, and its grip on Keshak lessened. Keshak bit down upon the thing’s hand,
using his metal fangs to rip the guides from the back of its palm. As he was dropped, Keshak pulled a
heavy hook from his back, and planted the sharp tool into the gut of the fiend, dragging out its bowels
like an accordian. The monster toppled, and Keshak stumbled backwards onto Emeline. The two glanced
at each other briefly, before Emeline pushed Keshak off of her, and fired a shot into the hybrid’s skull.
Just to be sure.
As they rose, the two allies realised the battle was virtually complete. Though dozens of Lychen had been
torn apart by rending claws, the bloodbath within the ‘barbed collar’ was very much in the Lychen’s
favour. Vash led his brethren in a brutal, systematic slaughter.

“Salvation in slaughter! All hail the blood of martyrs! Feast upon the sacrament of flesh my brothers and
sisters! You have earned this!” Vash roared, his voice like thunder in a storm, rumbling and resonant as
tectonic plates grinding.

###

By the time the chimeras had stopped circling, all the enemy were dead within the ring, and were then
being butchered and devoured. Lychen squatted over the hybrids, hacking away the alien pieces of flesh,
and greedily shovelling the human pieces of flesh into their gory fanged maws. Some used knives to cut
out intestines, and wear them like foul amulets of victory. Other Lychen pulled off limbs,a nd gnawed
upon the raggedb ones. Vash didn’t even use knives, simply ripping flesh from theb one with his
powerful, beartrap-like jaws, swallowing the tangy raw flesh without even chewing.

Keshak helped prop Emeline up against a chimera, as a lychen flesh-tailor ran his sharp, clean blades
across her side, opening her flesh, and using a resin device to re-set the bones and seal the cracks.
Bloody spattered her slender face, drooling down her features like foul tears. Keshak felt the urge to
wipe the blood from her face gently. However, she flinched slightly as he raised is hand, and he thought
better than to push it.

“Thank you for your assistance,” she responded formally, not looking Keshak in the eyes.

“This was a good fight. Shame the boy could not be blooded and see it,” Keshak mused, grinning warmly,
blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“He is not ready,” Emeline mumbled in response, her professionalism muted as her thoughts drifted
towards Xandean. Of course it wast he best place for him. She knew that. The battlefield was no place for
an aide. Still, doubts lingered in her mind. She wantedh im here. She did not understand why. Perhaps it
was for his sake, so he would gain experience and learn to survive (as she had) amidst the monstrous
Lychen? However, she secretly knew it was for her sake. She needed someone normal, someone
untainted by Lychen blood. She needed them to understand why she did what she did. Why she ate
human flesh and drank human blood, with the rest of the beasts. Was Xandean a means to allieviate her
guilt?

Keshak ignored her musing, and simply slapped her on the shoulder. “Next time, yes? Next war, he can
come along and learn a thing or two!” Keshak laughed, and walked off.

As he did, the flesh tailor signalled that Emeline’s field surgery was complete. She lloked down att he tiny
scar. It always amazed her how gentle the flesh tailors could be, yet how brutal they also could become.
Selective barbarism it would seem, she smiled to herself, before she walked off to find Vash.

“The foe have retreated like cowards! They have taken their arms and armour with them. The rest of
them will be alerted soon. We must move!” Vash rumbled, as he saw Emeline approaching.

“I agree Colonel. We have to get to them before they can get reinforcements. Any word from the other
regiments?” Emeline asked, placing her Commissarial cap back upon her messy hair, dyed red with gore
and pigment.

Vasg shrugged, gesturing lazily to the vox-operating Lychen behind him, as he absent-mindedly gnawed
upon a femur.

The lychen, wearing a feline skull as a crude helmet, nodded slowly. “The Cadian had secured the lower
levels. Vostroyan armour shatters defences. The Mordians are dying like men!” the Lychen gargled, large
fangs obviously impeding his speech slightly.

Emeline smiled. “Indeed. Let us take note then eh? Let us pursue these vheretical scum?”

Vash turned, and his metal jaws tried to smile, but it merely came across as a vile grimace. He laughed,
like stones being pulverised.

“Blessed girl! She’s learning everyday! Everyday!” Vash chuckled, like a proud father, with his usual
baritone. He grabbed her in a friendly bear hug (which nevertheless made her wince, as her wound was
pressed), hefting her from the ground, utilising his seven foot stature perfectly.

“My Lychen Guard! Take what you can carry or consume only! We are going hunting!”

###

The ruins of the downed dropship smoked and blazed. The mordian pilot had barely managed to land
the craft before expiring. Now the craft burned slowly, chucking out thick clouds of billowing smoke.

Yet, through the cloying smoke, the Mordian marched. Their Majors bellowed and barked clipped orders,
which each soldier followed perfectly. In three tight blocks, the Guardsmen marched from the obscuring
fog. Their bright blue uniforms and polished brass buttons picked them out from them uted greys and
browns of the ruined starport conspicuously. They did not care.

Colonel Monro marched att he side of the lead column. His dress uniform was a gleaming white, only
partially dirtied by the crash. His face, hard and impassive as granite, betrayed no emotion but disdaina
dn righteous hatred.

He raised his magnoculars to his cold blue eyes, and focussedo n the mass ahead of him. The jumbled
mess of the hab city ahead was a tangle of rusting piping and irregular masonry. Though shielded from
the lethal chill of the outer world, the city still ran cold with frost and foul winds. As if growing from the
tangled city ahead, ragged, feral shapes began to become distinct from the twisted buildings they
emerged from. Tattered PDF uniforms hung from mutated, hybrid limbs and hefty alien muscles. Jutting
fangs and serpentine tongues lashed in murderous faces. Crude scavenged or stolen weapons of varying
makes were clutched in their misshapen hands. At the sides of these monsters, greater beasts galloped.
These were pure, monstrous aliens. Clawed and fiendish, these were the infamous Ymgarl gene stealers.
Many believed these beasts were merely an annoyance, but Monro knew differently. His forces had
faced them before. They had also faced those things that came in the wake of the Ymgarl stealers.
Dreadful things… world enders.
Like a dreadful tide, these monsters surged towards the Mordians. Their weapons weren ot in range yet,
but they soon would be, Monro knew this. Once in combat, the claws of the devils would rend them all
to pieces. Monro also knew this.

However, he was also Mordian.

“Form up men! Volley positions! Three rows deep, hotshot volley fire! Overlapping fire! On my mark!”
Monro howled into his vox amplifier, which carried across the enter Mordian line. The grim faced men
formed up into a single, massive line, three deep. Monro raised his right hand, and they all reached and
fixed their bayonets, before taking up their positions in the mighty gunline. Spaces were madei n the
line, as heavy bolters and auto cannons were wheeled up in their ancient mounts, along with their
crews, to aim towards he oncoming foe.

Monro drew his chainsword calmly, while he checked the charge on his las pistol. His eyes then looked
towards the rushing foe, which had begun to fire inaccurate volleys, in their haste to engage.

“The enemy believe a frontal charge is an effective tactic! Let us educate them otherwise! Fire, pattern
volley!” Monro blared.

The first rank fired, each soldier firing his entire magazine in a hot shot round. As soon as they fired, they
fell to their knees and readied their next magazine. Immediately afterwards, the next row fired their hot
shots, and followed their fellows into a kneeling position, allowing the final rank to fire their hot shots.
The process repreated, regularly, over and over. Like a endless tide of laser death, the volley fire
continued, supported y the heavy bolter crews, who pumped continuous explosive fire into the foe, as
auto cannons began to roar as they fired their shells rapidly, over and over.

The first row, then the second, of the charging enemy, detonated under the onslaught, falling to pieces
as weapons fire tore them to shreds. Those behind stumbled over the dying, and slipped in the growing
mess of bunring blood and bodies that stumbled before them. These stricken fools were then pulverised
in turn by the relentless volley of the Mordians.
Yet, still the foul things came. Monro looked upon the foe with the same unreadable expression he
always wore. He would end this skirmish here and now, he decided to himself.

“Advance! Revert to standard, independent fire. Fire at will!” he bawled, thrusting his blade forwards to
illustrate his intent, as if it were needed.

At his word, six thousand Mordians marhed forth, lowering their silvered bayonets like spears. They
suppressed any fear under endless layers of protocol, as they marched forth, firing as they did so.

The enemy was closing now, and one side would break. Monro promised himself it would not be his
Mordians.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:44 PM

Chapter Thirteen.

The Luthor’s Spear was an endless maze of corridors, industrial complexes and gantries, densely packed
within a gigantic five mile structure. Through the countless upper decks, and beneath the whirring field
generator structures and gun decks, light was a rare and fleeting occurance. In the smoking, stinking
depths, grimy men with broken souls toiled in the filth and deafening noise. A hundred thousand
ignorant fools, working and straining in the black tangles of decks, piping and stagnant, dripping water
from the well lit upper decks.

Like the inferno of dante, the lower decks were a purgatory of industrial misery, upon who’s shoulders
thel uxury and security of the bright and civilised higher decks flourished. Every few minutes, one of the
titanic batteries of the gun decks would discharge. Like some surreal form of thunderstorm, brief flashes
of light would illuminate the twisted alcoves and gantry ways of the under decks, followed by
tumultuous rumbles, which would shudder entire decks with their ferocity. This invariably caused dust
and dirt to dislodge in showering cascades of filth and grime. The broken-spirited men of the under
decks, whether timid of ferocious, weathered the tides of grime and noise and pain, with the same
grudging misery with which they tolerated everything.
Then another sound echoed through the deep underworld of the Luthor’s Spear. A keening howl, barely
human as it undulated for a length of time seemingly impossible by a normal human.

Of course, this human was not normal.

The Shadowfall sat propped against a wide pipe, running perpendicular to the hollow gantry she perched
upon. Her back was arching as if in the throws of passion, or a fit of epilepsy. The punctured synth skin
rippled across her lithe, athletic form, as she bucked and screeched. Her jaws, still under the effect of
polymorph, was distended to an impossible degree, as she roared, her voice becoming inhumanly deep,
before her voice swiftly undulated until it was a piercing howl, barely even perceivable, such was its high
pitch.

A great squelching noise shuddered throughout her body, and the deck and piping around her were
suddenly spattered with gore, as her gunshot wounds opened violently. Agonisingly, her las wounds
opened, and the burned flesh flowed out of her wounds in uneven splashes and spurts. Her voice
changed into a low panting, and she threw herself forwards. As she knelt upon the floor, palms pressed
into the metal grating, her shotgun wounds began to open too. Blood drooled from her body, as her
panting became an agonising scream once more. Slowly, one by one, each of the bloody, stubber-round
sized pellets werep ushed from her body, each clinking to the deck as they tumbled free of her. Once the
last of her wounds were cleared, she slowed her breathing, controlling herself and her mind.
Polymorphine was a very useful tool for assassins such as her, but she had to concentrate, lest her form
become fluid and unmouldable.

With a sound like squashed, rotten fruit, her wounds began to slowly seal. The flesh ran fluid, running
into itself like plasticine being pushed back together. With a final crunch, the sealing was complete. The
shadow fall knew she didn’t have the energy to fully heal her internal injuries, but this would have to do.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

She could hear the footfalls many metres away, as if they were the marching boots of a million strong
army. No doubt, the owner of these footfalls believed he (and it was a he, from the spacing of the feet,
she concluded) was being very stealthy, and had the drop on the Callidus assassin. He was wrong.
Shadowfall flung herself directly upwards, twisting in the air as she leapt. Her powerful thighs hooked
themselves around a fibre optic tunnel, running the length of the gantry way overhead. Carefully, she
concealed herself in the shadows above the metal walkway.

The thudding of the man’s feet turned to a resonant clanging, as he reached the walkway, and began to
reach the area. Further footfalls became apparent, as other men approached from the opposite end of
the corridor.

The men were bulky and muscular. Their flesh was pale, but coated in so much soot and excrement, their
flesh seemed almost pitch black. Only their oily yellow vests broke up their uniformly black bodies. The
thudding man clutched a heavy wrench in his meaty paws, while the other two men opposite wielded
more obvious weapons: crude stub-guns and iron-ringed clubs. Over their arms, bands of red indicated
their role as Ratings. This no doubt gave them an inflated sense of their own self worth. They were an
inche away from being the same scum they enforced and ruled over, but they considered themselves on
a par with the upper deck staff. Absurd but endearing, Shadowfall considered briefly, as she dangled
from her pipe, watching and listening intently.

“Ah her’s and in-ruder boss-un! All a’hollerin’ and moan-groaning!” the greasy man with the wrench
mumbled under his heavy lank beard.

“You’s thin ya do, mon-worker man. They’s say a skin-walker done it. Ha we know it wunni you’s doin tha
hollerin and moan-groanin, mon-worker?” the leader of the Ratings growled, cocking his stubber
threateningly.

“Iz no sneak!” protested the worker, dropping his wrench as a sign of his innocence.

One of the Ratings stepped forwards, club gripped firmly in his palm. “Wa’ever your way, you’re a
sneaking around, away from yer posting, ain’t yer?”

The worker’s mouth opened and closed. He was stuck. He had obviously slipped the chain-gangs working
the waste expellers, and had come across the Shadowfall’s moaning. However, he now seemed
incredibly guilty to the Rating bully-boys. Either way, he was in serious trouble.
Shadowfall’s head tilted slightly, as she watched events unfold beneath her. The Rating with the club
suddenly swung at the worker. Raising his arm, the club smashed into the worker, driving him to his
knees. Angry and without thinking, the worker lashed out. His lethally left hand swept around, catching
the Rating on the jaw. This pitchedt he man over the guard-rail, to the metal floor twenty feet beneath.
With a crunching thud he landed, and shadow fall could just make out a splash of blood spreading out
behind him.

The worker was shocked and afraid, and desperately rushed the other rating. The man panicked, and the
stubber went off with a flash and deafening pop. Blood sprayed from the worker’s back, but he still
lunged forwards, fumbling with the Rating and his gun, with bloody fingers. Another shot rang out, and
the worker slumped to the ground. The red arm-banded Rating kicked the worker over, and fired again,
another deafening pop ringing out.

The surviving man rushed to the edge of the railing, and called down.

“Gled! Gled! Ya aright?” he shouted, voice quaking with panic.

Gled, blood spreading from his broken form, managed to moan dully. His ally rushed from the gantry
way, obviously to help his fellow Rating. Meanwhile, blood dripped slowly from the corpse of the dead
worker left to rot.

Like an uncoiling shadow, Shadowfall lowered herself back onto the gantry. She lloked upon the body,
and an idea came to her. She needed chemical energy to fully heal herself.

Needs must, she decided, and her remaining polymorphine twisted her teeth into razor sharp incisors
suddenly, as she advanced upon the corpse.

###

The upper decks were relatively quite. Aside from the bustling mid-decks, and the chaotic command
bridge, the quarters and chambers lining the central area of the Luthor’s Spear was virtually silent. The
roaring of the gun decks was muted by layer upon layer of heavy armoured decks and pressure-seals.
The titanic bellow of the engine room and manoeuvring thrusters was reduced to a dull, almost unheard
hum, which permeated everything. However, other than this, there was near silence.

The central basilica dominated almost a quarter of a deck, such was its extensiveness and holy
formidability. The light was minimal, mostly provided by candles, and the reflected light of these candles
in the ruby stained glass art, lining the high vaulted ceilings. Gargoyles looked down upon the wide
processional passage, leading to the highly arcane chapel complex at its far end.

Guarding these heavy gold-leaf coated gates, were two Adepta Sororitas, their bolters held across their
silver armoured chests in perfect discipline. Ordinarily, the entire squad of Battle Sisters would be
patrolling the wide avenue of statues and arcane arches, but in light of the recent attempt upon the
Inquisitor, they had been requisitioned by the Inquisitor’s people, to guard him, in favour of Blithe. An
Inquisitor is a far greater asset to the crusade than Blithe. Even the fanatically pious Sororitas had to
admit this.

Thus, Sisters Igeln and Hessia were the only Sisters of Battle that remained to guard the good Cardinal’s
person. It was a rare honour either way, Hessia thought to herself, as she glanced briefly at the taller,
broader form of Igeln, who hefted her bolter easily. She was used to wielding a heavy bolter in most
combat situations, and Hessia often thanked he emperor for the strong arm of her sister in arms. Hessia
was the more agile of the two, but held her bolter with marginally less ease. However, in a battle, their
flaws were minimal. None would pass.

Footsteps. Faint at first, they lingered in the auto-senses of the Sororitas power armour like a sibilant
echo. The darkness at the end of the corridor was near complete, and Hessia swiftly switched her Sabbat
helm’s view into the green monotone of night vision. The hall ahead, who’s heavy doors linked the outer
ship to the Basilica, was suddenly brought to life in varying shades of green and black. A forest of high
pillars sprawled outwards, along with numerous coiling or twisting statues. Some depicted saints
wrestling devils, others had famous Eccliesiarchs looking down upon the hall like judgmental parents.
One, the largest, depicted Saint Luthor-Achamus, clutching his holy spear, as he plunges it through the
face of a horned Eldar figure. While beautiful undoubtedly, these countless statues and memorials made
defence needlessly difficult. Hessia would have to bring this up with Sister Superior Jalia, she considered.

A black shape, flitting between the pillars. Hessia thought she saw a figure, but then they were gone. She
looked to Igeln, who nodded to Hessia. She had seen it too.

“Halt! Thous shalt not pass!” Hessia yelled, her helmet carrying her voice easily to every corner of the
room.

No response. Igeln raised her bolter to her shoulder and-

A flash, followed by a deafening crack, resounded throughout the room. Igeln had tried to dodge the
supersonic shot, but it struck her squarely in the helmet, flinging her backwards in a shower of sparks, as
her helmet was crumpled by the powerful shot.

As soon as the enemy had fired, Hessia located the shot, and rushed forwards, taking cover behind a
nearby statue, as she rattled off three bolter shots. A pillar in the distance sprayed chunks of masonry,
ast he high explosive rounds pounded into the pillar. A shape darted from behind it, barely avoiding
another round from Hessia’s weapon.

Suddenly, a hail of las bolts flew from the darkness to her left. She rolled aside, as the statue she
sheltered behind was pulverised by the barrage. Several stinging shots rebounded or were absorbed by
her battle plate, and she soon returned fire towards this new opponent. Her shots were hastily aimed,
and merely blasted apart another statue, sending the glaring figure perched atop the podium sliding to
the ground with a loud rumble. This forced the second opponent’s head down, but little else.

“Sister Superior! This is Sister Hessia! Emergency! Emergency! The Cardinal is under attack by two,
possibly more, assailants. Request reinforcements immediately! Igeln is down. Status unknown at this
time! Send aid swiftly!” she called into her vox.

All she could get was static. Hissing static. These assailants were good, she had to give them that. That
wouldn’t stop her gutting them though, she cursed.

Another deafening sniper round fired, and the stone at her side detonated in a flurry of fractured
obsidian chips. One lodged in Hessia’s armpit joint painfully, and she winced as she leapt for better cover.
Meanwhile, Igeln was slowly regaining consciousness. She could barely see, her visor sparking and
shattered by a high velocity round. But she was alive. That was all that mattered. Near-blind, she simply
raised her bolter, and sprayed ahead of her with explosive munitions. Hopefully, some suppressive fire
would do her sister some good.

The hall was a storm of flying stone fragments and shattered marble floor, as bolter rounds flew all
around. Igeln pumped random shots all around, while Hessia’s more precise shots herded her targets
towards a better kill zone.

Her foes, however, were also busy. Flash grenades were flung, sending spears of dazzling light all around
the chamber. However, they had underestimated a sister’s power armour, evidently. Hessia could see
perfectly well.

More las bolts flew towards her, zipping around her head like wasps. Some thudded into her heavy
armour, but she shrugged them off as she sprinted behind another pillar.

Igeln fumbled at the pressure seals of her helmet. Her current state was useless to her. She had to be
able to see more clearly. Eventually, her helm came free with a hiss, revealing her harsh, angular
features. As soon as she pulled it free, she saw a hell gun’s muzzle, and behind that the body of a large
man, clad in a body glove and rebreather mask. He fired, as she yanked up her bolter in fury. Though the
las bolt passed straight through her eye socket, boiling her brain instantly, she still managed to snap off a
shot to her foe’s belly as she jerked in her death throes. Kalan barely had time to gasp, as his body was
gorily blasted in two. His upper torso was flung backwards, rebounding from a pillar before flopping to
the floor, as his lower body spewed his intestines and ravaged stomach contents across the fine marble
floor, before his legs simply crumpled and dropped to the ground.

Hesia was closing in upon her foe, but his well-aimed shots made her wary, as she paced around the
now-rather silent hall, with the grace and stealth of a panther. She spared a glance to the golden gate,
barring Blithe’s church from the outer hallway. The bodies of Igeln and her assailant lay collapsed upon
the ground, their blood splattered across the fine artwork engraved upon the perfect portal. It was
unlikely the enemy could blast their way through the reinforced plate of the gate’s doors, she decided,
but Blithe still needed to be secured.
“Father Blithe. This is Sister Hessia. If you can hear me, get out of the church now! Use the delta
hatchway, and don’t delay! Hurry!” not she hissed into her helmet vox, before shutting it off.

She had a plan to deal with this final foe, he mused. Ripping a grenade from her belt, she flung the
device as hard as she could, without pulling the pin. The grenade made a rattling noise, as it rebounded
from a pillar. Reacting to the sound, the final would-be assassin opened fire with his rifle, with a
resounding crack. Hessia logged the location, and fired at the relevant statue. Three bolt rounds burst
the statue of Luthor asunder, while a single shot clipped the foe, who let out a yelp. Something clattered
to the ground, and Hesia saw a satisfying spray of crimson.

Silence descended once more, and Hessia could just make out the distant sounds of shouting and yelling,
tinged by the wailing of the emergency siren. Aid was finally coming. However, she had to confirm the
kill first, he told herself as she advanced cautiously towards the broken statue of Luthor.

There was blood, and Hessia noticed the fallen sniper rifle almost immediately. Some form of converted
auto rifle, Hessia paid it no heed, as her helmet scanned the ruins for the-

A blade swept at her, striking her helmet heavily. Unharmed but slightly stunned, she staggered
backwards. Jerex did not let up, but lunged at her once more, hacking at her bolter. This discharged into
the ground, sending slivers of stones flying into bother combatants. Jerex, already heavily wounded in
the side, slumped to his knees, as the chippings drove themselves into his lightly-armoured body. Blood
trickling from his side, and running through the slits in his heavy rebreather, he dumbly drew his las
pistol from his pistol rig. Hessia swatted it aside, and fired into him with her final round. His head was
blasted from his shoulders, and the body-glove clad body simply flopped backwards, dead.

It was only then that Hessia noticed the frag grenade clutched, pin-less, in Jerex’s now-lifeless hand.
Slowly, it rolled from his hand…

###

Blithe awoke to the muffled sounds of gunfire. At first, his sleep-addled mind thought it was merely the
sound of the battleship’s battle with the Talaheim battle fleet. Then the sounds of yelling and exploding
masonry began to shake the entrance to his church.
He flung his purple bed sheets from himself, and pulled his gilded robes around his semi-clothed form.
Wiping nervous sweat from his brow and beard, the portly Cardinal wandered from his personal
chamber, into the cold expanse of his altar room, complete with pews arranged perfectly in front of it. At
the other end of the chamber, the heavy golden gates were sealed shut. Beyond them, the sounds of
gunfire became far more clear, along with the crumple of muffled explosions. Though he had led a
sheltered (and some would say decadent) life, Blithe knew what gunfire sounded like. Every Imperial
citizen did, at some point. The galaxy was a dark place after all.

Without thinking, Blithe plucked his personal comm, fashioned as an arcane ring, and placed it upon his
thick finger. As if responding to this motion, the comm fizzed into life.

+++Father Blithe. This is Sister Hessia. If you can hear me, get out of the church now! Use the delta
hatchway, and don’t delay! Hurry!+++

Though distorted, the owner of the voice was unmistakable. A shudder ran down his spine like cold
water. He had to get away. The assassin had come for him!

Blithe shuffled as fast as he could towards the left wall of his chamber. A series of intricate tapestries
hung from the walls. Blithe ran his hands over each one, feeling for a particular lump. Behind the
tapestry depicting the Emperor ascending to Godhood, he found it. Pulling back the cloth hanging, he
found the heavy steel door of the delta hatchway. He heaved with all his might, as a large explosion
echoed behind the golden doors. Sweat beaded across his brow, and he let out a final gasp, as the door
finally inched open. His fat hands fumbled at the crack, prizing open the door inch by inch. At last, with a
lurching groan, it came free, and Blithe threw himself into the blackness beyond.

He didn’t know how long, or how far he wandered in the darkness. His robes caught on the rough
surfaces of the tight tunnels, and he was forced to crawl on his hands and knees like a serf. His breath
came in ragged gasps, and his eyes were bleary with dust and rust particles. He felt blisters and scratches
lacerate and rend his flesh as he desperately clawed his way down the delta passage. His throat felt dry
and hoarse, and he could barely breath.
Eventually, through the dark, light began to filter back into the passage. He could start to see the rusting
metal of the uneven pipe through which he crawled. The delta passage, a secret escape route devised by
a former ship’s confessor in the event of a heretical mutiny on board the Luthor’s Spear. It had never
been used before. That much was evident, Blithe hissed to himself bitterly, as he clambered downwards.
The tunnel was definitely descending, though how deep and how far he had no clue. It was said the
passage led to another chapel within the ship. From there, Blithe could contact Raventium or the
Inquisitor. Perhaps his sisters could hold the assassin in one place, long enough for him to contact the
Inquisitor, and catch the fiend, before it tried to kill him again? He sincerely hoped so. He also hoped the
assassin was not pursuing him down the delta passage itself.

Eventually, as he scrambled through the winding tunnel system, his hands landed upon another hatch
handle. Wheezing with the effort, Blithe yanked the hatch upwards. With another burst, borne of
desperation, he pushed it completely open with a clang.

The light beyond was comparatively dazzling, and Blithe barely even found the hand holds of the ladder
trailing from the hatch exit. Panting with exhaustion, he toppled over into a nearby chair. When he had
managed to compose himself a little better, he gazed around himself. It was a simple chapel, covered in
candles and torches, which gave the whole church an ethereal, shimmering glow, as light flickered all
around. Eventually a priest, in a simple robe, emerged from his quarters. Seeing blithe, he rushed to his
aide. The man’s swept back black hair, and handsome face, were strained in an expression of concern.

“Father blithe! Holy father! Are you alright? What happened? Can I get you some water?”

The panicked priest asked a flurry of questions, seemingly bewildered by what had happened.

“My child. I need no sustenance this even. I need you to take me to the Inquisitor. Or the Admiral. Hurry
child!” Blithe wheezed, allowing himself to be helped up by the boy.

“Erm, yes, yes erm… ok holy Father. Erm… I think we’d have ot see Commissar Festus first. No one’s
allowed on the bridge during battle-operations, so-” the boy began.

Blithe ignored him, shrugging him off as he rushed towards the exit. “No time! Raventium will
understand!” he blurted out as he ran.
“How are your sisters?” the young priest suddenly asked. His voice was no longer concerned. It was
amused.

Blithe stopped dead in his tracks. How could he…?

Slowly, the Cardinal turned around. The young man pulled a pistol from his robes, and fired. The stubber
was low-powered and quiet, but equally as lethal to an enamoured body. The shot punched a fist sized
hole into the Cardinal’s chest.

Blithe stared at the wound in uncomprehending shock, slumping to his knees, as blood began to pump
from his wound, spreading across his cream robes, rapidly staining them crimson-brown. Eyes glazing in
numbing horror, he looked up at the murderer.

“This was not your lucky day, was it?” the man smiled, flashing his glinting silver fangs happily.

Gently, he placed the stubber pistol upon the altar, and knelt down to Blithe, placing a hand upon his
shoulder.

“You have started something glorious, you understand? Glorious!” Sparrod explained earnestly, as he
moved around behind blithe, hooking his arms behind the dying man’s shoulders, and dragging him into
Sparrod’s own private quarters.

“You were a tough nut to crack, holy father. I nearly chose someone else. Shame to lose my allies, but
hey? I’ll soon have a lot more… thanks to you,” Sparrod giggled, as he hefted Blithe’s nearly-dead body
towards the wide porthole in his chamber. He sat him down upon a stool, overlooking the glittering
space battle being fought in the void as they watched.

Enemy vessels silently burst apart in fire, others spewed return fire at the much larger Imperials, who
shrugged off the barrages, as they detonated miles from their hulls, thanks to glimmering invisible fields.
“You see this? All of this? It is down to ambition and lies. The aliens on that world lied, and they want the
whole human race to be crossbred like cattle. Our Inquisitor friend, he brought us here based on lies, to
hide his own ambition for… well I don‘t know what he wants… yet. But anyway, this whole war is about
power. I don’t want this. All I want is revenge and chaos. Utter, beautiful chaos. You have given me that,
haven’t you? Haven’t you?” Sparrod chuckled, asking Blithe’s now-lifeless face.

When he didn’t get a response, he let go of the corpse and it slumped forwards stiffly.

“Yes Blithe, you did,” Sparrod stately proudly, looking out upon the battle unfolding. “THis is only the
beginning of the madness I’ve got in store. Oh yes.”

Sparod’s eyes were manic with immoral glee, his teeth glittering silver in the star light.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:46 PM

Chapter Fourteen.

A mountain of bones reached into the crimson, storm-wracked skies, that endlessly poured forth
torrents of crimson rain. Blood. Endless downpours of blood. Xandean tried to get away, but he felt his
limbs struggling uselessly, as if the mountain was drawing him upwards, towards the thing at the
summit.

Forking lightning flashed across the rumbling clouds, illuminating the figure with sickly red light. Coiling
armour, the colour of bone and also shimmering golden at the same time, slithered across the tanned,
scarred flesh of the beast. Xandean could not look into the foul face of the devil. It was fury incarnate,
and to look upon it was to go mad. But he could not stop himself. Horns stabbed painfully from the scalp
of the thing, and heavy jaws of brass replaced the fiend’s lower mouth. And the eyes… the eyes! Red and
glimmering with the balefires of hell itself!

A great gauntlet surged forwards, seizing the boy by his throat. Talons dug into his flesh, as he was
hoisted level with the titanic monsters rumbling jaws.

“The Goge must not rise! Blood for the blood God! Blood for the spawn and the son of that singular
rage! What are you, filth? Witch and weakness! Blood and terror, torn asunder! Blood for the Blood God!
Blood for me!”

The thing bellowed deafeningly, and Xandean’s ears were pulverised by the sonic wave. Crimson trails
trickled down his shattered ears, and he screamed in misery.

He could do nothing but watch, as the monster’s jaws opened wide, and his head was plunged forwards
hungrily.

###

Xandean awoke with a start. Cold sweat glistened on his body, as he pushed himself from his simple
bunk, in Emeline’s quarters. It was dark on the Alhaim. Only the emergency lights were still active. There
was no need. The Lychen were all on the surface of Talaheim. Only a few individuals remained upon the
Lychen vessel itself. Xandean, Grazer and his few fellow psykers, and perhaps a dozen bridge crew. The
rest were fighting and bleeding upon the planet beneath their high orbit.

Xandean jumped from his bed, rubbing his face with his hands. Phantom visions of his dream still
flickered behind his eyes, lingering bad memories. Gingerly, he moved to Emeline’s sanitation room.
Splashing refreshingly cool water over his face a few times, eventually the lingering thoughts, morbid
and black as salamander skin, were washed away too. He wanted to watch the battle unfolding outside
now, he decided, since he was now up and unlikely to fall back to sleep in the Emperor-forsaken charnel
house of a vessel.

Tossing his simple aide’s habit over his slender shoulders, he stepped out warily into the wider Lychen
vessel. Even without the Lychen present, the ship still stank of dead flesh, and dried blood. His bare feet
squelched, as sticky substances coated his feet from the grating beneath them. Strange tapestries, drawn
upon tanned hides he was still uncertain was not human, draped the walls, secured by sharp pegs and
daggers. Litanies ot the Emperor were scrawled in blood across the walls, and the ship remained
unbearably hot, compared with Emeline’s clean quarters.
Soon, the boy had reached the wide hall of gathering. Detrius of butchery and murder lay scattered all
around. Dead grox, fallen cleavers, and spattered blood and incense. Yet, what most interested Xandean
was the vast, sixty foot window, which displayed the slowly turning orb of Talaheim in its entirety.
Silhouetted against this pale canvas, the vast, archaic form of the Luthor’s Spear turned lazily. Sparkling
streams of light trickled silently from the sides of the vessel. Other, almost invisible ships, burst apart
under the barrages. Xandean had no clue what was going on, but it certainly seemed like they were
winning.

“Is it the dreams again, young one?” a sibilant voice called out behind him, and Xandean nearly jumped
out of his skin, as the scrawny form of Grazer emerged from behind a support column.

Grazer was seemingly always bent-over, as if permanently coiling, ready to pounce like a viper. His head
was shaved and tattooed extensively. His eyes were wide and unnerving. Xandean couldn’t be sure, but
he thought Grazer’s eyes constantly changed colours as he moved around. A heavy iron collar hung
around his neck, a long chain trailing behind him, a symbol of his status within Lychen society.

“Yes. I think they’re getting worse,” Xandean explained, rubbing his temple absent-mindedly.

Grazer edged closer, perching upon a blood-priest’s lecture, fixing his own multi-coloured gaze upon the
unfolding space battle. Eventually he spoke again.

“I understand. I have the same dreams,” Grazer explained dreamily, eyes fixed upon the battle before
them. “This place is abhorrent and hateful to my kind… to our kind,” Grazer mused.

Before Xandean could protest, he spoke again. “Yes I know, and no I won’t tell. You’re like us Xandean.
You must learn to be… muted. Silent. The water rushing beneath the glacier, as it were. That’s how you’ll
survive. That’s how we survive.”

“Do you hate them? The Lychen I mean.”

Grazer smiled wistfully, running a gnarled finger across his brow once. “No. Not really. They tolerate us,
which is more than others might. However, ask yourself this. What… or rather, who… does the beast on
the bones look like?” Grazer asked quietly.

Xandean thought about responding, but thought better. Grazer already knew the answer. He smiled
sickly, and shuffled off slimily, leaving Xandean in the twilight, alone.

###

It was a mess of fluid features, running together like poorly blended paint. Limbs twisted into mouths,
and tongues coiled around bubbles of furred flesh, which pulsed inside the vile chunk of hideously
mutated flesh. Teeth gnashed, and lips mewled and puckered disgustingly. Festus snorted in distaste,
prodding the vile piece of meat with his heavy boot. This was the seventh such puddle of twisted flesh
they had found melted into the grating of the under-decks.

“What are these things?” he grunted, to the fair featured Interrogator, that crouched over another of the
messes. Behind Festus and the Interrogator, six Provosts, armed with heavy shotguns and carapace
armour, four sickly looking Commissarial Cadets, and a single brooding figure, all in black.

“Rats,” she explained simply, standing up. “Well, they used to be. They must have ingested the blood of
the Callidus.

“That means she was here? Teams, on your guard!” Festus growled to his men.

“Yes. She must have come into this level at some point. Let’s move on.”

The group moved through the noisy, squalid depths like phantoms. The Provosts ghosted ahead, tracing
their weapons around any shadowed corners, while the rest of the Provosts followed the group behind,
ensuring no sneak attacks upon them would go unnoticed.. In the centre, the Cadets, Festus and his
Inquisitorial allies walked carefully and swiftly, scanning the darkness for any possible clues.
A flash, and the entire deck shuddered, as if tectonic plates shifted unsteadily. The gun decks were but a
dozen hundred metres above their heads, and every deafening rumble reminded them of this. Festus
brushed the brownish dust from his jacket casually, ignoring the repeated dust falls as a mere
annoyance.

Lower and lower into the ship’s bowels they travelled, and the darker and lonelier it seemed to grow.
The mutated rat corpses grew more scant, but enough crossed their path to keep them certain of their
route. Eventually, torches had to be employed by the naval security men, in order to simply ensure they
could see in the grimy depths. The noise of whirring machines drowned out even the thunderous
cannons above them, yet still no sign of the assassin.

Occasionally, they passed filthy men in crude armour, cobbled together from scrap. These Ratings almost
doubled over as they bowed to the passing upper-deckers, desperately hoping for some recognition.
Layla gave them none.

Suddenly, as they crossed a gantry way between the thick-ribbed piping that fed the air recirculater
system, Jaxx, Layla’s silent associate, summoned for a halt with his upright fist.

“Pellets. Mark six Helix-pattern Naval shotgun pellets, standard issue,” he buzzed dispassionately,
pointing to the tiny silver specks amidst the fie mesh of the grating.

“She was here,” Layla muttered.

Jaxx suddenly flicked his masked head upwards sharply, before cocking it to one side, almost quizzically.
His cold, bionic eyes swivelled to focus on the pipe above him.

Two bloody handprints, faint in the darkness, but unmistakable. His eyes followed the trail, which grew
ever more faint, as it scuttled forwards, before suddenly, abruptly stopping.

“She crawled along the piping for fifteen metres, before descending directly downwards for-” he began,
before leaning over the edge of the railings to check. “Fifty metres.”
“How do you know?” Festus asked, raising his voice over the noise of the machinery juddering around
him.

Layla looked over the edge, and answered for Jaxx. “Because he ate one of the crew, and dropped his
remains down there.”

###

The found the way down eventually, clambering down several access ladders and through a dozen
shoots. Beneath all the industrial tangle, amazingly, they found what could be called a chapel. A crudely
carved rendition of the Emperor on his throne sat at one corner of the dingy oblong room, perched atop
a stool draped in grimy cloth, obviously a makeshift altar. Poorly written prayers were scrawled on toilet
paper, used and unused, and pinned ot the walls like purity seals. Two crude candles spluttered light all
around. Old vox units spluttered and fizzed in the shady half-light, snatches of sermons and messages
crackling back and forth.

+++And the Orator said we should doubt the perverted ones. None are higher than the Emperor-+++

+++-They are godless, captin man and raven-one…. Death of theh oly follows death of man-most holy.++
+

+++Praise E’pror. The dead card’nal is the first sign. We go from there…. Holy crus-sade…+++

+++Re-take… heath-uns burn in holy-ness. Blithe dead, meens we’go yer?+++

+++Yer…+++

The group didn’t take heed of anything said by the babbling under-deckers, who’s squalid language was
virtually incomprehensible. The Luthor’s Spear no doubt had many thousands of similar shift-chapels,
throughout the vessel. Those crew who had to shelter during the warp jumps, prayed there to save their
souls. A religion of the desperate, Festus coughed derisively.

What interested them most was the corpse. A worker, judging by the vest and filthy physique. His chest
cavity was almost completely gone, torn apart and devoured, splashing gore everywhere.

Layla frowned. She had fed. Either the Callidus was preparing to strike again, or it was moving onto its
next target.

As if in response, Festus’ comm unit hissed. He pulled it to his ear, and his face dropped, his stony
demeanour cracked by sudden shock.

“The Cardinal!” was all he managed, before he turned to leave, gathering his provosts and cadets around
him.

“Another attack?” Layla called after him.

“Yes! She struck again! Damn her, she struck again!” Festus bellowed behind him, as he pulled himself up
the ladder out of the chapel, followed by his men.

Jaxx moved to follow, but Layla placed a hand on his shoulder gently.

“No Jaxx. We will stay here. There is no way this Callidus is quick enough to rise up through fifty decks,
past us, in under a day. She is still down here. We have to find her.”

###

The medicae section was pristine and white, in stark contrast to other levels of the industrial behemoth
that was the Luthor’s Spear. The servitors here were clean and smooth, moving around on well oiled
wheels. Regular medical staff were accompanied by the distinctive forms of Hospitller Sororitas, as they
made their way around the chamber. Though sealed from the other patients by heavy glass and plasteel,
Inquisitor Darvius could watch the medics moving from bed to bed, administering sedatives, adjusting
cots, or holding down the psychotic, while lethal injections could be applied, and relieve them of their
misery.

Tiring of this, he turned back to face forwards. His reattached foot required at least a week of healing,
before the bionic Achilles would be fully integrated with the rest of the decapitated appendage. His
fingers had simply been replaced by bionics, and he flexed them casually. It felt particularly strange, as
he could not feel them moving, even though the mechanical digits were, in fact, flexing carefully. One of
his eyes had needed repairing, as the flash of his plasma weapon had nearly blinded him. Not only this,
several glancing shots from the assassin’s needler had just managed to scratch him in the side. It had
taken several pints of anti-biotic fluid to cleanse the infected area, which bulged painfully around his hip.

Despite all this, he was quite alive, and quite conscious. This assassin would not escape him, he promised
silently to his foe, wherever it was. Layla would find it. The fact an assassin had even been used against
him worried him immensely though, even if he hid it well. The High Lords didn’t know, did they? How
could they? Tyrianus had been meticulous in his planning. Darvius cursed Borus. It must have been him.
He had stored the artefact here, and now Darvius had to, once again, clean up the mess. The diversion of
an entire crusade couldn’t go unnoticed. Not forever anyway.

A plain-robed aide, hunched and silent, entered the cubicle, after being checked for weapons by a
Sororitas, that barred his path, before waving him through. In his trembling hands, the aide carried a
data-slate reverently. Darvius gestured with his good hand, and snatched the slate from him.

“Leave me!” he snorted at the cowering aide, who scuttled away eagerly.

The slate was gene-coded, and Darvius pricked his thumb, before pressing it into the pad at the top right
hand corner of the device. There was a whirring, and words began to shimmer into existence before his
eyes:
You must say nothing. Another Inquisitor suspects deception. Say nothing. Tyrianus must not be
detected.

-Elis

Darvius read the name at the bottom of the message again. Elis, the bride of Tyrianus himself. Contact
via Elis? Tyrianus must be getting paranoid. Then again, he was always paranoid. Plus, what the new
golden age, planned for the Imperium by Tyrianus was so wide reaching, the High Lords must not find
out. Not until it was far too late for them to change anything. But did they already know? That was the
question, Darvius swallowed hard.

“Finally, you’re up. I would say fighting fit, but you’re still a bit of a cripple, aren’t you?” a jovial,
pretentious voice cut into Darvius’ dark thoughts. Without thinking, Darvius wiped the slate’s memory
coil, passing a scrambling device concealed in his shirt sleeve over the machine swiftly.

He was about to reprimand the insolence of the intruder, until he saw the owner of the voice. The man
wore a dyed crimson Kessar-skin coat, finely embroidered with golden thread. His hands were sheathed
in white gloves, and a tight skull cap clung to the man’s gaunt head like a second skull. His eyes were
alive with inquisitive scrutiny, and his facial hair was fashioned into a tri-pronged forking pattern.
However, it was the glowering rosette that Darvius recognised this being with. Manikor Deriss, Inquisitor
Lord of the Ordo Hereticus.

Casually, Deriss plucked at the grapes left for Darvius by Layla, chewing them noisily as he did so. At the
door to Darvius’ cubicle, a broad-bellied man in gilded carapace stood uneasily, staring around himself
with barely contained bewilderment. Obviously a new recruit, Darvius noted without emotion.

“Ah, Lord Deriss. I see you are returned to us from your latest Vagrant-vacation?” Darvius tried to joke.
Deriss nodded and smiled warmly, but his eyes remained cold and searching. Darvius was under no
illusions. This was going to be an interrogation, in all but name. perhaps it would be more casual than
those used on heretics, but it would be almost as thorough.

“Yes, yes Darvius. Every few decades, it pays to practice one’s deep cover techniques. In case you’re
wondering, I came aboard at the last shore stop. I must say, your security is shabby of late.” Deriss
grinned. “But of course, you know that already.”

Darvius’s eyes narrowed as he returned the smarmy smile.

“Quite. Are you just checking I’m still alive, or were you hoping I wasn’t?” Darvius asked bluntly.

Deriss’ fixed smile was like granite. “Depends. Do you know why you had a Callidus on your tail
Horrmann? Are we saying this assassin’s a rogue?”

“We are.”

Deriss shrugged. “One would hope. There have been whispers, amongst our colleagues. They wonder
why you have diverted this crusade. They wonder what is so important about Talaheim? What’s so
valuable?”

Darvius knew Deriss, and he felt tendrils of his mind trawling Darvius’ surface thoughts. They both knew,
deep down, Deriss would find nothing in his mind. Darvius was too good.

Darvius smiled, almost triumphantly, as he spoke. “Is one heretic more important than another? All
heresies need to be cleansed, wherever we find them. Do you really advocate letting these… aliens,
corrupt Imperial citizens with their filthy blood?”

Deriss raised his hands in mock surrender, before plopping another grape into his mouth messily. “No!
Oh course not, old friend,” he chuckled, before leaning close to Darvius’ ear. “But if I find anything.
Anything, linking you to anything untoward, consider yourself banished from this crusade Darvius,
pending peer review by the council. Good day.” Deris hissed n his ear, all humour and good nature
vanished in a flash.

Darvius gave Deriss a hard stare, and the two men parted warily. Darvius didn’t lower his eyes until both
Deriss and his new acolyte were out of the cubicle.

A few hours passed, and eventually Darvius began to relax once more. Then the sirens began to chime
once more. This was not the whining of the gun decks or bridge proximity warning klaxon. This was
another security alert.

Silently, Sister Superior Jalia and her seven Battle Sisters slid into the room, taking up discreet positions
within the medical facility, as squads of naval Provosts thundered down the corridors, yelling and cocking
their assault weapons and naval shotguns as they did so.

“What is happening? Another security breach?”

Jalia turned to Darvius, and fell to one knee. “Cardinal Blithe’s church has been assaulted, my Lord.”

Darvius nodded, his mind racing. This changed everything. Perhaps the assassin was nothing to do with
the High Lords? He hoped so. Still, he would compose a message warning Tyrianus of his concerns, using
the da-

He looked in his lap. The data-slate was gone.

Deriss…

“Damn him!” roared Darvius. The Sororitas flinched slightly, but made no comment on the outburst
(presumably believing his outburst to be righteous outrage at the loss of a priest of the Emperor).
Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:48 PM

Chapter Fifteen.

Resh crawled on his belly for several feet, his taloned hands picking their way through the rubble
delicately. A camo cloak, spotted with blood and grey rubble dust, lay across his slowly moving form, as
he moved silently through the abandoned building. Daggers and blades of various descriptions were
bound to his chest in discreet sheaths. Beneath his cloak, across his back, a slim lasgun was bound also,
his only ranged weapon.

It was all a Blood Huntsman of the Lychen Guard needed.

A light hissing, like the faint rustling of reeds, sounded across the street ahead, signalling the location of
his ally, Fetir. Only Resh could read such a signal, and the two were otherwise completely undetected, as
they scouted far ahead of the Lychen formation. While Vash and the main force were like a vast cleaver,
splitting skulls, Resh and his men were like stiletto daggers, silently despatching threats before the foe
realised they were dead.

The Huntsmen were strange men within the Lychen. They favoured ranged combat, and swift, bloodless
kills. It was not the way of the Death Cults of Lychen. They were further outcast, within Vash’s Regiment
in particular, due to the shame of infiltration. One amongst them, one called Sparrod, had recently,
during the Saris incursion, revealed himself to be an agent for chaos, and a bitter foe of the Lychen (and
in particular the Blade Enforcer for some reason). It was assumed he wast he only infiltrator, but the
huntsmen were not trusted truly since. Resh had to prove himself this time. He had to show his worth.

Slowly, methodically, the two made their way deeper and deeper into the tangled mess of streets,
alleyways and gutter-roads, that criss-crossed the hap-hazard hab level. Though their primary purpose
was to locate the enemy for engagement, their secondary mission was to find the centre of the cult, and
eliminate him. Resh was determined that he would. He always got his man, once they were targeted for
destruction.

The PDF troopers that had fled the initial assault by the Lychen Guard, had swiftly evaporated into the
city, disappearing like ghosts. Not even the notorious scrutiny of the huntsmen could locate them. Resh
was secretly infuriated.

Carefully, he leapt, cat-like, onto the next building, silently forcing open the window’s complex latch with
two of his knives. With a click, the window came open, and he slithered into the next building.

Heavy, wet breathing. Almost a gargle. Resh heard it almost immediately, and flattened himself against
the wall, concealing his form in a deep, shadowy recess along its edge. Quiet as a phantom, he pulled a
thin dagger from his belt.

A hunched, ugly thing limped from the far end of the corridor. It was almost a person, with a similar face,
and at least one human hand. However, it was mostly built with alien genes. One eye was larger than the
other, and was forced shut by his mixed heritage. One limb, withered and useless, dragged behind it,
while one arm ended in a wicked claw. The thing constantly gargled and coughed slimily. Its mouth was
filled with proto-feeder tendrils, that floundered in the gullet of the beast, nearly choking it as it tried to
breath. Offensively, scraps of Imperial uniform were stitched together crudely across its lumpen form, as
if in mockery of real heroes. An autogun was clutched n a frail human hand. Resh saw no others with the
hybrid. He must be a patrolman himself, searching for pursuing Lychen.

Resh ended his life with a single downward thrust, as it slithered past him. Between the vertebrae on the
neck, he plunged his dagger to the hilt, while using his free hand to break the trigger finger of the foe,
ensuring no noisy, accidental discharges. The only sound was a single, brief grunt, as the thing died in his
arms. He lowered it carefully, dragging it off into the shadowy alcove gently, before moving on.

Eventually, the two unseen warriors came to the edge of a wide fronted building. They spotted no one
entering the building, yet, amazingly, hundreds of hybrids were exiting the structure, in small squads.
Some dragged heavy stubbers with them, others carried missile pods between two of them. Most had
lasguns and auto pistols at the least.

They must have some passage within the building, Resh considered, as he peered from his perch, behind
a leering gargoyle on an opposing hab building. Either way, such a large gathering of soldiers suggested
they were preparing for another assault. More disturbingly, the hybrid PDF soldiers were fanning out,
entering dozens of abandoned structures, in a wide arc. They were going to try the destructive street to
street fighting, that most Imperial Commanders dreaded. Resh had to warn of the impending ambush
that his fellow Lychen were sure to be ensnared by, as they blundered onwards into the very heart of the
city level.

Resh pulled his vox unit from his side. For a few moments, he agonised over the need to use it. If he
activated it, he would be detected. If he didn’t, the Lychen would be ambushed.

Hissing in frustration, he thumbed the vox to active, with a hiss of static.

Even as he did this, hybrids below began to look around for the location of the noise, hefting their heavy
weapons to their shoulders in readiness.

+++Huntsman Resh here. Large enemy formation, converging upon your position, co-ordina-+++

He didn’t finish, as a streaking rocket speared from a hoisted launcher, blasting his building into flaming
shards of blazing ferrocrete, and splintered plasteel.

###

Nothing. The Lychen armoured column rumbled through the city level relentlessly. They rolled between
amphitheatres and promethium refineries. Armouries, bunkers, old manor residents: all abandoned and
hollow. There was nothing. No men, no soldiers, no noise (aside from the discontented grumbles of
blood-thirsty Lychen Guardsmen, and the constant growl of revving chimera engines).

Emeline was sitting in the lead vehicle, casually scratching a chunk of gristle from the tread of her boot
with a sharp, hooked knife.

Keshak paced around, a heavy wolf-pelt thrown around his shoulders. He rolled his arms and neck
slowly, clicking his bones with a slight grunt, his breath steaming out like a chimney, in the cold air of
Azgoth.
Vash stood squarely in the central Chimera of the column. His feet were planted like tree roots, and his
left hand absent-mindedly played with the holster of his hell pistol, feeling the brass buckles gently. His
other arm held his devil-face helmet under the crook of his armpit, revealing his scarred, shaven skull,
and his deep eye sockets, with blood-shot, furious eyes. His jaws were completely metal, and were fused
with his skull with painful screws and fused rivets, which pulled at his flesh, making it seem red raw and
ripped, even though his jaws had healed long ago. Dried blood clung to his craggy features, and speckled
his grim metal fangs. Such a twisted face was as effective as any mask at hiding his true expressions,
hidden behind an impenetrable wall of fury and riotous hate.

Yet, Vash was a broken man in many ways. Childhood surgery had twisted his mind into a mess of futile
wrath and near constant aggression. But his neophyte past was not the sole cause of his mind. No, it was
worse. Far worse.

Vash closed his eyes tightly, suppressing the pain of memory. He hated peace, serenity. It gave him time
to think. Time to remember. H didn’t want to. He wouldn’t!

Yet, even as he demanded to forget, remembrance dragged his mind back, into the past.

###

The sun was dim over the skies of Lychen, as dusk began to overtake the day. Yet, across the city,
cheering and the sound of raucous laughter and celebration was underway. Fireworks glittered in the
sky, as grox and other meat-beasts were gutted before baying crowds, as they revolved in great spits,
over blazing bonfires and flaming grill plates. Men, stripped down to the waste and covered in tribal
scars, banged drums and plucked and tendon-string instruments, and the lethal dances of the death cult
priestesses darted through the crowds, red ribbons tied about their wastes, as they rolled and sailed
through the air in mock duels between each other. Daggers and blades flashes, and only shallow cuts
were inflicted on each combatant, spraying the baying crowds with spurts of fresh blood, which made
them cheer all the more.

Yet, the main attraction of the Candlemas festival was, of course, the fighting cages. Great cylinders of
mesh and heavy steel bars, the cages surrounded hard platforms of stone, that jutted upwards on
plinths. The crowds of loyal haemovores gathered around the cages, cheering and jeering as the various
fighters were put within the battle cages.
The cages were a tradition upon Lychen, as old as the revolution, that had toppled the old order, and
installed the Cannibal Cardinal Hatark, Master of the Haemavore Death Cult. All were welcome upon
Lychen. Mutants, dregs, criminal scum: no one was barred from migrating to the world. The only
stipulation was that you entered the fighting cages, and paid fealty to the Emperor in the way of the
Lychen people: through blood and battle.

Vashan smiled, as he rolled the knots out of his shoulders in preparation. His heavily muscled body
rippled under the flickering light of the burning torches all around the cage. He was stripped to the waist,
and his body glistened. The enemy before him was smaller, but had a greater gut. The fatter man
grinned, showing off his broken pegs of enamel, that were once teeth. Vashan just smiled warmly, his
broad features handsome and smooth. As soon as the bell clanged, and the cage doors slammed shut,
the two lunged towards each other. The fat man swung as balled fist towards Vashan, who side-stepped
it, gripping the limb and flinging his foe upon his back. He managed to avoid being stamped on by
Vashan, and ducked between Vashan’s legs, punching upwards, as he rose. Vashan winced, but swung his
elbow backwards as his enemy rose. Face spewing blood, the man staggered backwards. Vashan’s fists
were fast, pounding the fellow’s gut a dozen times before the man could dodge aside.

The fat man managed to kick Vash in the back of the knee, before kneeing the former neophyte in the
face as Vashan fell to a kneeling position. Vashan was unfazed, as he spun around, grabbing the man
bodily, before flinging him as hard as he could against the bars around the edge of the stone arena.

The crowd cheered as they heard bones crunch under the impact. Eventually, them an toppled ot the
ground, unconscious. The bars were buckled outwards under the blow.

Vash raised his arms to his side, as if questioning his audience what to do next. Vashan was hit with the
crowd, and had been the favourite of the entire festival so far. They cheered and hollered at him, and he
grinned, flashing his perfect white teeth to the audience. However, only one figure caught his eye.

Nesker sat perched on the arm of one of the numerous statues filling the central square of the city. She
always clambered above the rest of the crowd, to see ‘Vashan the giant’ (as he was nick-named) fighting
in the cages. Though one was only required to fight once in the cages, Vashan fought several times a
week, pulverising almost anyone sent to face him. All he knew was fighting, and the crowds loved him
for this. Nesker loved him for this.
The two glanced at each other across the mass of people. Nesker was lithe and athletic, one of the
priestesses of the death cult temples. In her festive costume, she was even more aesthetically pleasing
than usual. Crimson ribbons and body wraps wound around her muscular body, accentuating her
physique. Her hair was short, pulled back by dozens of clips. Her eyes were wide and full of expression,
even though she herself spoke rarely.

Vashan wore a red sash, tied around his bicep tightly, a symbol of her favour for him in the cages. He
nodded downwards at the moaning form of the defeated man beneath him, asking her silently whether
to spare or crush him. Leaning forwards like a cat, she languidly raised a hand, tilting it to one side.

Vashan nodded, and yanked he man to his feet.

“He is Lychen!” he bellowed, before shoving the man from the cage door, into the crowd below.

###

Vash’s eyes remained shut, and he squeezed them so tight, bitter moisture began to build around his
eyes.

###

Vella, my little Vella.

He thoughts drifted painfully back once more. Nesker and he had joined, both in the Emperor’s eyes, and
physically. His mind awash with confused passions, he was ever sure how he truly felt about anything.
Was It his thoughts, or those drilled into his scalps by inhuman Astartes surgeons. Surgeons that had
rejected him when he failed their unknowable tests. Yet, upon Lychen, within the brutal yet loving
embrace of his new home, and his lover, he found a kind of peace. As close to peace as one born in such
a time could ever know. It was not the tranquil indulgence craved by many, but it was something.
Something all beings needed at some point.
As his thoughts developed, so too did his faith. The cults of violence and blood-letting were not so
different from some of the trials of the Sons of Malice, and slowly, as his relationship with Nesker
developed, his thoughts turned to the Emperor. The Blood-Emperor, clad in his golden armour. The
whole human race united as one flesh, as Vashan was united to Nesker, and in turn to Vella, the child
that grew in potential in the womb of his Nesker. One flesh, one faith, one soul, spread throughout the
entire human race. The Emperor was the focus and the greatest concentration of this grand soul, but the
Emperor was humanity in total. He was encoded into the flesh.

Vella grew up loved, protected. Unblooded, she remained within the safe walls of Vashan and Nesker’s
secured home. She wouldn’t be harmed on the dangerous streets. Not before she was ready to defend
herself. Vashan had broken the necks of a dozen foolish Lychen, in his furious, manic protection of his
daughter. His Vella. His obsessive, semi-astartes mind had combined in unforeseen ways, with the
genetic bond with his child.

They came in the night. Vashan’s eyes snapped open almost as soon as he heard them shuffling over the
perimeter wall. Nesker heard them too as he threw the skins off of himself and his wife, and rose from
his bed. These men though, were quiet. Vashan had almost not herd them. These were not Lychen
youths, seeking to blood themselves in violent confrontation. These were sneaks and cowards, he
growled, rushing down the spiralling stairs of his home.

Seven men, clad in black. One clutched a large gun in his hands, the others wielding slimmer weapons,
that nevertheless looked dangerously lethal.

Bellowing like a enraged bear, Vashan barrelled into the first one, swatting aside a gun, as he grabbed
their throat in his massive hands, and slammed the masked soldier into the ground mercilessly. Other
turned to fire, but Vashan kneed him in the stomach, and doubled the man up, before he smashed his
hand down in a chopping motion, breaking the intruder’s neck.

The one with the huge gun swung it around, and fired. It seemed as if nothing had happened, and all
that rippled from the weapon seemed to be a shimmering heat-haze that buffered Vashan’s bulky body.
Yet, he felt himself slowing. His breath took longer to drawn, and his feet became fiendishly heavy.

“Vella!”

Vashan had never heard Nesker scream, or even raise her voice. This was different. Painful and drawn
out, the howling scream was terrifying. Though Vashan could not turn his head, he saw Nesker’s
throwing daggers embed into two of the black-clad men, who tumbled backwards spurting gore like
fountains. She leapt into the room, as two of the men moved into another. The remaining man raised is
autogun, but it was kicked aside, and Nesker span on her heel, plunging her slender sword upwards
through the man’s chest. Erupting from his man in a gout of blood, the man toppled. Pulling the blade
free, Nesker seemed to turn unbearably slowly.

Vash knew what would happen, but he willed his former self to rise, to cry out and warn her. But nothing
came, as Vashan struggled for breath, the graviton gun’s effects dreadfully effective. He could only watch
helplessly, as the las bolt sailed through Nesker’s body, splashing out the other side with a fizz. As if
submerged, she turned around slowly, disbelieving, as another shot thudded through her with similar
ease, followed by another, and another. Each blow shattered Vashan’s heart and his mind.

Struggling in the heavy gravity, he raised his thick arm upwards as swiftly as he could, and desperately
wheezed his wife’s name, as she fell to the floor, graceful even in death.

The final two villains emerged. One wielded the smoking lasgun that had just slain his love. The other
dragged a struggling, screaming, biting figure in his arms.

Vella. She was screaming and yelling, tears streaming down her face. Vashan, using all his strength and
power, managed to pull himself onto one knee. His eyes were filled with salty tears, and his mouth
contorted in abject horror.

She reached for him, and he to her, but the distance was too great, and the cruel man in black carried
her off through the open window. Vashan pushed himself, blood thundering in his head like a rushing
river. His vast slabs of muscle worked in over time, sweat glistening down him as he forced himself
forwards. At last, he was free, and he charged forwards, towards he man with the lasgun, as he stood,
covering his assailant’s retreat.
A las bolt cracked as it left the gun, striking Vashan in the face before the sound had even dispersed.
Numbing pain flashed through him, as his jaws utterly shattered. His eyes were blinded by the splash of
gore, and he felt himself falling backwards, rebounding from the tiled floor with a dull thud.

###

“Colonel? Colenel Vash? Are you ill sir?” a gruff voice cut into his thoughts, and Vash opened his eyes,
turning to the owner of the voice, a young Lychen, covered in tribal facial carvings, with ork fangs
stitched into his ears like strange totems.

“Fine, fine,” his voice rumbled, as menacing as ever. “The foe? Have we located them yet? I’m hungry for
the flesh of the unrighteous!” Vash chuckled, patting the Lychen on the back, as he gazed forwards at the
frozen city before him.

“Scouts claim the enemy is gathering ahead. We don’t know where.”

Vash grinned as best he could with his giant bionic jaws, and carefully forced his devil-visored helm back
over his head.

“That is half the fun, my brethren! The chase makes the kill that more satisfying! Onwards!”

###

The grand palace was woven into the main hub of Azgoth itself, like the heart of a circulatory system of
snaking tunnels and passages, some merely two feet across, others wide enough for entire battalions of
Leman Russ to rumble through. They ran throughout the six main had layers of the titanic, city-sized
behemoth that was the Azgoth, which hung like a great industrial spider, clinging onto the side of a rocky
cliff, amidst an endless sea of ice. The tributaries and passages allowed the cultists of the Father, access
to every level, and allowed them movement unrestricted.
We will surround and destroy you, deluded Imperials, Thracis gurgled to himself, as he gazed upon the
many imaging servo skulls, that fluttered upon every level of Azgoth. His throne was unadorned, but it
radiated power, as his faintly reptilian eyes gazed across the pict monitors, and in turn, across the
massive forces that marched and manoeuvred beneath him. His throne chamber was adjacent to the
mustering hall, a three mile wide chamber, within the grand palace itself. It vaulted ceiling created a false
skyline, beneath with, millions upon millions of the Sacorant, his personal army of the most elite of the
Hybrid PDF, formed up into massive blocks, practicing their war-fighting skills, even as millions of their
brethren fought a real war in the embattled city hab levels, above, below, and all around them.

The Magus licked his venomous lips, and grinned vilely. The Imperials thought they had him on the back
foot, did they? He would educate them otherwise.

“WE WILL, YOU MEAN,” a thunderous voice resounded through his pulsing mind. It was not a question.

“Of course, of course, Father-dearest,” he spluttered painfully, as the psychic force shuddered through
him.

Folding his robes down, he swivelled in his throne, to look to the back of the chamber. At the rear of the
chamber, a far larger throne sat. Golden eagles twisted and reared around the perfectly crafted chair.
Upon the chair, and even more precious occupant lounged. Belly thick and distended, the Patriarch,
father-dearest, had his huge talons folded across it. His jaws were huge and lax. No intelligible speech
could ever emerge from such a maw. Luckily, the father never used his mouth to speak. His vast,
throbbing purple cranium merely pulsed gently, as psychic waves of telepathic domination rippled from
him, inspiring fawning devotion in all those hybrids around him. Clustered around the throne, cultists in
deep blue robes cloistered. Their faces were hidden, but long bladed limbs trailed from the long sleeves
of their robes. Their minds were open and constantly chattering to each other, even though they
themselves were utterly silent. This mass of psychic noise meant a minute, localised shadow covered the
Patriarch’s spirit in the immaterial realm. Thracis could not read the mind of Father-dearest, even if he
wished to.

He paid such thoughts no heed, and turned back to the monitors that sprawled before him.
“THE WAR. VICTORY NEAR?” the bellowing psychic hammer-blow that was the Patriarch slammed
through Thracis’ mind.

“The First-Born are gaining ground in the lower level, but we shall soon have armoured formations there
to engage their armour. The Gate-keepers from Cadia are on the three middle levels, but they spread
slowly. The Sacorant should deal with them well. The colourful ones are trapped by blessed fifth-
spawned generation. The pure sons of Sky-Mother will kill them all. The barbarians, they advance at a
pace. But they are a rabble. No threat.”

“HOW CLOSE THEY BE? WHY ‘NO THREAT’?”

Thracis winced at the prolonged psychic connection with the Patriarch. Linking with father-dearest, was
like tying one’s mind to a comet.

“The barbarians are unorganised, chaotic. They blunder from street to street, killing and being killed like
fools. Harald shall undo them,” Thracis promised confidently, and the Patriarch released his mind, like an
eagle tossing a mouse aside.

Though he feared his father-dearest, he was still confident in the abilities of his first, Harald. If brute
strength could not defeat the Lychen, cunning would.

###

The war-torn street was in uproar. Windows burst outwards, as armed men snapped off flurries of
crimson las bolts, before ducking inside again. Grenades were flung from these portals and windows,
cratering the roads ahead of the armoured column, as the Lychen Chimera rumbled through the streets.
The Lychen themselves sheltered behind their open-topped vehicles’ sides as best they could, snapping
off well-aimed bursts in retaliation. A missile streaked from a window, plunging through the deck of a
lead chimera, bursting it apart in a resonant boom.

Lychen dived for cover suddenly, desperately trying to avoid the sudden barrage. Many were stitched
with volleys of crimson energy, growling angrily as they toppled to the ground, dead.

The multi-lasers of the embattled tank column traced lines of explosions along the windows and walls of
the ruins and run-down factories. Burning bodies toppled from their arches, very dead, before thudding
into the ferrocrete many metres beneath them.

Vash cursed loudly, squinting as he fired his hell gun into a fortified building. The shots clipped an enemy,
who slumped to the ground, body broken. He hated such inconsequential gunfights. Building to building,
this grinding gunfight continued. He wanted to get close, to part flesh, to drink marrow. This was…
pathetic, unworthy. Cowardly.

Using his tall shield as cover, Keshak held his shotgun in both hands. He had switched to explosive
rounds, and would shelter behind his shield, pop up, fire a barrage of explosive death, before dropping
back behind his cover. Windows and bodies shattered under such an onslaught, and he reaped a
fearsome toll on the foe.

Vash grinned his distinctive grin, as he watched Emeline proudly. She did not need to take cover, as she
marched up and down the armoured column. She walked across the chimeras as they moved in single
file, hopping from one hull to another. She was bellowing the Lychen war chant, as she flourished her
lightning claw heroically. She stroke confidently, refusing to take cover. Amazingly, she had not been
struck, but simply continued to bellow ‘Salvation in slaughter!’ and ‘Blood for the Emperor!’ over and
over, snapping off shots with her las pistol as she did so.

This would not do, Vash cursed, tossing aside the hell gun, and pulling his eviserator from his belt. With a
resonant howl, he lunged over the side of his Chimera, into the street. His Lychen, seeing their leader
charging from the transport, jumped after him, or otherwise covered his mad dash towards the foe.

The cobbles and paving slabs around Vash shattered into wickering fragments, dozens of lasguns whining
ast hey fired upon his heavy sprinting form.

He raised his chain blade angrily, barrelling into the barred door before him, an entrance into one of the
enemy buildings that surrounded the besieged Lychen force. The whining fangs of his chain sword tore
its way through the plasteel door. Sparks spat from the growing rip in the heavy metal door. As he did, he
plunged his hell pistol into the gap, firing on full automatic into the massed bodies beyond the door.

With a kick, the shattered door was flung from its hinges and Vash blundered into the building. Three
Hybrids charged him, and he swept his blade across them, ripping their chests open gorily, before
lunging past them, and swinging his weapon down upon the head of a stunned foe behind . Someone
raised a lasgun hastily. He ripped it from their grip, clamping down with his heavy jaws. Thrusting
forwards, his head connected with a helmet. His devil-masked visage cracked the PDF helm in two,
pulping the brain in the soldier’s skull. His roaring weapon was already wildly hacking and slashing at
anything he could reach. He vaguely recalled running up some blood-slicked steps, but his vision was
clouded by the endless sprays of gore and viscera. Something struck his pistol hand, and his gun toppled
ot the ground. His fist ended the life of the foe with a dozen furious punches, before pulling his larynx
from their throat.

. A bayonet sank into his belly, but he twisted, wrong-footing the assailant. He finished them with a
double-handed strike with his eviserator blade, noisily grinding through the hybrid, from neck to naval.
Kicking the body away, he reached back, pulling one of Harst’s old sabres from their scabbards on his
new armour’s back plate hooks.

Eviserator in one hand, blade in the other, he lay about all around him, calling out blessings to the
Emperor as he slew. From the feral roars rumbling throughout the structure, he knew other Lychen were
at his heels, hungrily trying to keep up with their leader’s murderous butcher’s tally.

A pistol was raised, and the arm that wielded it was hacked from its owner. He howled n sudden agony,
before Vash’s reverse stroke sent the man’s head skittering away in a flash of gore.

He was in an office of some kind, he reasoned, due to the chairs and desks arrayed around him. Las bolts
flickered past. One caught him in the shoulder. Grunting, he toppled backwards, kicking a desk forwards.
Grinding along the floor noisily, it struck the lasgun-armed foe squarely in the gut. There was a yelp, as
the man and desk were flung backwards, smashing through the wide window behind them. A thud told
Vash he was dead.

As the giant rose, a lasgun wielded as a gun swung down upon his head. He swung his chain blade up,
bisecting the foolish beast, before he stamped on the remains. He looked from the window, and spotted
the armoured column of Chimera rumbled forwards, still taking heavy fire.
“Keshak! Take the column forwards as fast as you can. Find the Arbites! They’ll be besieged! Go! We’ll
clear your path!” Vash roared into his vox, before turning it off contemptuously.

Slowly, he walked up to the edge of the building, looking upon the tall tower block, which jutted from
the ferrocrete floor just ahead of him.

Six metres. Just six metres. He could make it.

Backing up, he ran towards he window frame. As he reached he edge, he launched himself from the
portal. Like a bloody angel, he soared from his current battleground. And, with a splintering of glass, and
the whir of a chain blade, he found his next one.

A heavy stubber-armed PDF man, spraying the chimera before him with hot lead, didn’t know what hit
him, as Vash suddenly plunged through the barred window to his right. The giant man, clad in fiendishly-
decorated enclosing carapace, struck the man like a falling cliff, ripping him from the stubber mount.
With a furious backhand, he pitched the enemy from his perch, through the window.

Already, men were turning from their heavy weapons, and turned towards this new threat. Vash tossed
his sabre into the nearest enemy, who flopped backwards with a gargle, as the blade plunged through his
sternum. As he did, he pulled the heavy stubber up to his waist, and sprayed. The room disintegrated
into a mass of whickering bullets and shrapnel, as the stubber chewed through man and building alike.
Vash cackled like a madman as he fired and fired and fired.

The more he fought, the more the killing, the easier it was to blur the face, that dreadful, terrified face of
Vella from his mind. All his emotions, all his despairing insecurities, were washed away in a tide of blood,
vomit and misery. Murder was the prayer of the righteous, he heard the priests of old Lychen chant, as if
they were in the room with him.

The gun clicked empty, as more soldiers blundered into the room. He charged. There was no noise, and
Vash felt a tranquil state wash over him. It was as if he was watching some other being smashing a
stubber into the face of a whimpering man, until the face was a tangled mass of gristle and blood, and
the stubber was a shattered ruin. It was some other man’s eviserator, that swept around in wide bloody
arcs, hacking into soft flesh with the hungry of a panther. He tore into the throat of an enemy, drinking
deep if the blood and the cartilage, before arcing his head back and howling like some feral heathen.

His boot slammed into a knee, breaking it. As the man fell, his elbow swung down, breaking the spinal
cord. He pulled a punch dagger from his belt, and poked dozens of gushing holes into the broken foe,
splashing the crimson spray upon himself like refreshing water. The joy of death and butchery brought
him closer to Him, he laughed mirthfully. Closer to Him, and further from her, he added bitterly.

Other bestial shapes entered his peripheral vision, and he had ot stop himself forcefully from opening
their bowels up just the same, as he realised they were Lychen. They were cheering and murdering, but
their eyes were filled with the hollow rapture of the fanatic. Vash’s eyes were positively glowering with
genuine, unadulterated, happiness.

###

The three transport craft listed silently, as they accelerated slowly from the weapon-clad world of
Talaheim. Their cargo had been delivered, and now they limped to avoid the vast array of linked orbital
weapon systems.

The Tostig, the transport of the Cadians, was the last to break orbit, retreating to the safety of the
surrounding Imperial fleet. The Luthor’s Spear and its fellow warships had pounded the remaining
defence monitors and escort craft into blazing ruins, that smouldered silently in the suffocating void.

Yet, still the mass of orbital platforms and defence lasers surrounded the world like a visible shroud of
vast machinery and gun batteries, torpedo launchers, and lance emplacements, that constantly fired on
automated trajectories, whenever an enemy craft drifted too close.

“Why does this thrice-damned backwater have so many bloody defence stations? It’s a wasteland for the
Emperor’s sake!” Lord General Gravean snarled, looking out across the slowly turning world from a vast
circular window, which dominated the mustering hall of the Tostig.
He stood, jacket unbuttoned casually, his thick arms tucked behind his back, as he stared hatefully at the
world which denied him access.

Yet again, he had been thwarted in leading his wars effectively. Communications with Henrick and the
other regiments was intermittent at best, and he could do little but watch, as his men fought without
him. It was intolerable!

“Any messages from the surface?” he rumbled angrily.

“None yet sire. We are too far away at the moment,” his master voxman explained solemnly.

“And the Luthor’s Spear? Any word from Raventium?”

The voxman shook his head.

“Oh marvellous,” Gravean hissed sarcastically.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:51 PM

Chapter Sixteen.

The deafening din of firepower and death had significantly reduced, Emeline realised, as the battered
column of armour staggered around yet another corner of the winding, twisting cityscape. Not a single
chimera was free from battle scars. Bullet-racked engines spluttered black smoke noisily, and armour
plates were peppered with thousands of scorch marks and dented impact craters.

The Lychen too had suffered. Hundreds of them lay dead in the backs of the column, while every man
bore some form of scar upon their tough hides. The dead bodies were looted by their surviving allies,
who pulled their pelts and belts from them, rummaging through packs and pocketing the prize knives
and blades. Even their flesh was used up. Lychen absent-mindedly cut long strips of fresh flesh from the
corpses, dipping the meat in oils to preserve it, before folding it into their ration pouches and satchels
for later.

Keshak was breathing heavily, his beard and long mane of hair hiding his face, as he carefully peeled one
of his former allies with a hooked cleaver. Keshak took no joy in this however, and it was with solemnity
that he carefully cut away the flesh of the female lychen, slumped at his knees. Emeline briefly
considered Keshak’s relationship to the girl, but instantly dismissed the question as irrelevant.
Nevertheless, his care and serious demeanour told Emeline that even the Lychen cared about loss. They
were still, in that sense, very human.

She herself was virtually slumped over the pintle-mounted heavy stubber of the lead chimera. She
scanned ahead warily, constantly using the terror sight scope on the machine gun, as dusk began to
settle over the strange metallic city.

The cunning hybrids had ambushed them once, Emeline doubted they wouldn’t try again. Vash and
them ore insane members of the lychen had stormed the ambush site, and bought Emeline and Keshak
time to escape the ambush, but nothing was stopping more foes simply attacking them while weakened.
They had to be alert. Still, she told herself, they had nearly reached the Arbites Precinct. Either the
fortress was gutted by the foe, or the Arbitrators still held firm. Emeline hoped it was the latter.

Slowly, gradually, the armoured column rumbled its way towards the grim basalt tower, the last
remaining Imperial garrison on the entire planet: the Precinct. As they approached, the oppressive
grandeur of the structure made Emeline almost gasp. It needed no adornment. No eagles or litanies.
Only thick dark walls, and overlapping gun turrets and weapon emplacements. It was a stark symbol of
the Imperium as a whole: functional, cold and brutal. And, above all, enduring. Laser bolts scored its
surface, and bolter shells had pot-marked its solid exterior, but this just added to the impenetrable
image of the grand bastion.

The approach up to the precinct was a maze of barbed wire and barren kill zones. No cover, no shelter.
Lethal. Scattered bodies, torn up and mutilated in the wire, or fallen to the ground limply, demonstrated
this perfectly. Closer inspection showed each body seemed to be a hybrid between man and monstrous
Genestealer. The Adeptus Arbites had given them a dreadful bloody nose, Emeline grinned. The other
lychen seemed equally thrilled, pointing out the corpses to each other excitedly.

Suddenly, their column was bathed in blinding white spotlight. Twin searchlights plucked them from the
shadowy depths of evening. Emeline raised her arm over her eyes, in a vain attempt to see who lay
behind the dazzling illumination.

“State your intentions, or be destroyed!” a harsh voice blared out to them, with an unmistakable
authority.

“We are Imperial! The Lychen Guard, of the Crusade fleet of Admiral James Raventium! We have come to
aid you, brave men of the Arbites!” Emeline called back, in a clarion clear tone.

For a few minutes, the searchlights played across the column, searching for any hint of treachery
Emeline suspected. There was another minute of silence, before the grinding of heavy gates opening
echoed across the barren kill zone.

Keshak needed no more encouragement, and gestured forwards to his men, who gunned their engines,
rolling slowly through the wide gate, into the courtyard behind it.

Once the final chimera was secured within the building, the heavy gates ground closed once more.

###

A darting shadow, hopping from one tank to another, or looping between railings and from cranes
silently. Certainly, the nose of the ship’s power gun batteries and engines helped hide any slight whisper
of noise the lithe and incredibly swift being made, but it was not necessary. She was the Shadow fall.
There was no where she could not go.

Eventually she stopped, hooking herself to the underside of a heavy matter thrusters reactor, jutting
from the inside of the cavernous hull of the Luthor’s Spear.
Despite all her training, and practiced combat moves and murder techniques, she had failed in her
assassination attempt upon the Horrmann Darvius. This fact alone grated against her mind painfully, yet
her training suppressed the worst rages. She had a secondary objective. While monitoring Darvius, she
had heard reference to an ‘artefact’, located upon the ice world beneath them.

The artefact must be destroyed, in the event the primary target is unreachable. Her mind reset, and her
new objectives made a home in her sub-conscious. She needed a ship, a vessel. She needed to get off
the ship. Talaheim awaited her.

###

The man that greeted Emeline and her Lychen was tall and bull necked. His face was fat, and acid burns
disfigured one side of his thick features. However, despite this fearsome visage, he spoke with a jovial
twang to his reed dry voice, that made him sound like he breathed sand rather than air. His deep blue
carapace armour was thick and ridged, overlapping plates of hyper-dense fibres and rigid meta-plastics
forming a near-fully enclosing suit of body armour. A heavy shotgun, reminiscent of Keshak’s (minus
Keshak’s brutal modifications), was sheathed in a holster upon his back, and a bolt pistol hung in a hip rig
loosely. Of course, his enclosed ‘Dredd‘ pattern helm, which covered all but his jaw when worn, was
clipped onto his belt casually, allowing his face to be fully revealed to the guests. The other Arbitrators
were similarly attired, but most wore their helms securely over their heads. Some also wielded bolters,
rather than the shotguns traditional for the Imperium’s Enforcer cadre.

The Lychen were led into the central tower of the fortress, while their chimeras were towed off for
repairs, in the vehicle yard of the Precinct. A single robed tech priest shuffled after the machines. Dozens
of Arbitrators flanked the ragged group of Lychen barbarians. The officers and leaders of the Lychen were
led off in one direction, while the rest were given a place within the wide mess hall of the bastion.

The large man in armour led the way, but at his side, a strange thin man in light weight armour also
walked. His man did not speak, even as the other Arbitrators mumbled between themselves. Not only
this, the man’s skin was a deathly albino pale, with his striking white hair matching his pallid complexion.
While the others seemed pleased, this man was a mask of impassive, unreadable neutrality. This
unnerved Emeline slightly.
“Welcome! We have been waiting for you. We thought we’d have to fight this war on our own!” chuckled
the larger man as they reached the upper floor of the secure base, slapping Keshak on the shoulder
lightly as he chuckled. Keshak sniffed, but made no comment, fixing them an with a tense stare.

Emeline was the one to break the silence. “Of course we came. The Imperium never forgets vengeance.
Now, there is much to discuss…?” Emeline said, gesturing for the man to name himself.

“Hobom. Judge Hobom, and yes, we should discuss this. Arbitrators Kellin and Jad can take your military
commanders into the strategy room. However, Commissar is it?”

She nodded.

“Ok, Commissar, there is something I personally must discuss with you, in private. It is a moral issue.”

Emeline considered this for a few moments, before agreeing. Keshak made to protest, but Emeline’s
glare made him bite his tongue (literally, for he was frustrated, and when it bled, he drank down the
crimson fluid to calm his rage).

###

Hobom’s quarters were Spartan and dull, muted greys and deep blues covering the walls. Few personal
effects were retained by the Judge, and each unknowable item was displayed n a single shelf. One item,
a picture of two men smiling, behind a clear blue sky. Another item, a brazen decoration: sort of a coiling
spiral piece of metal, ringed by hoops of silver. The final item, a fragment of parchment, no bigger than a
finger nail, encased in a vacuum-sealed glass container. This item intrigued Emeline, but without the
personal context, it was just as meaningless as the other two items on display.

The rest of the room was taken up by a blank white bed, with no covering or pillows, a grim, blocked up
window, which had once looked out across the city level, and beyond, a flickering lumen globe and a
large desk, sheaths of years-old invoices and arrest warrants spread across it like fallen autumnal leaves.
When the world fell to madness, there was no need for such bureaucracy. Only a strong arm, and the will
to fight the heretical foe was necessary. And Hobom’s quarters certainly demonstrated this too. Three
gun-racks were riveted to the walls. Each was empty, as the Arbites no doubt used them extensively in
their bitter defence against the alien foe.

Only Hobom and the strange pale man accompanied Emeline into the chambers, all the other Arbites
accompanying Keshak and his men, as they planned, re-supplied and refuelled.

“I am only sorry I couldn’t offer your men any more, Commissar. Times are difficult, as you must well
realise,” Hobom chuckled as he sat down at his desk.

“Of course. We are simply glad to see someone Imperial survived this war.”

“Oh, there are more of us certainly. Over the vox, we have heard another precinct, in another hab level.
Not only this, but the Mechanicus…” Hobom began, but trailed off.

“What about them?” Emeline asked, leaning over the table. Hobom looked around before speaking, as if
the Emperor would strike him down if he spoke out of turn.

“Well, we all know they’re here, on Azgoth. Even in peace time, there was uncertainty about how many
Tech priests gathered here. There were a lot more than those few hundred we had maintaining the
machines. They said they had a facility, hidden away, boring into cliffs themselves. I suspect they still
have many forces in hiding from the enemy. we’ve yet to find them, but we will eventually. We will,”
Hobom explained quietly.

Emeline listened intently until he had finished. “I see. Now, you said you had a moral issue to discuss
with me? If indeed you do, is it really necessary for him to be here too? Surely this is a private matter?”
Emeline whispered to Hobom, gesturing to the pallid man, that stood in the corner of the room,
brooding with his pink eyes, filled with an emotion Emeline couldn’t read. It still unnerved her.

“Oh no Mistress Commissar, there’s nothing to worry about there. Harald here is as loyal as they come.
He may be a mute, but he’s a strong arm in a fight, and who better to keep your secrets than a man with
no voice?” Hobom smiled, creasing his scarred face in an unpleasing manner.

Emeline raised an eyebrow, and smiled wryly. “Good point. So, what is the issue? Sympathisers?
Cowardice?”

Hobom paused before continuing. “Do you know what that piece of parchment is, on my mantle?”

The Commissar shook her head.

“That is a corner, a true physical fragment of the Pax Imperialis, the actual founding document of the
entire Adeptus Arbites organisation itself. It symbolises everything we are, everything we should be. Yet,
some have questioned it. A conflict has arisen. Well, not conflict. A musing as it were, as we have been
fighting for these past two years of uncertainty and pain. Whom do we fight for? Whom do we lay our
lives down for? Some say it is the Sky Father, the Emperor. But others have been doubtful. I mean, we all
know that there is only one divine. The Sky-Mother. And she is coming.”

###

Keshak followed the two Arbitrators, as they entered the oval strategy chamber. He and his five highest
ranking Lychen followed him, sniffing the air, and testily gripping their knives warily.

Something didn’t smell right. The Lychen knew blood, and the blood they smelt was… tainted. It was
wrong.

As they entered the room, Kellin span around, hoisting his shotgun to his shoulder, as Jad ran towards
the door on the opposite side of the room, hefting it open easily. Kellin’s blast was hastily aimed, but as
the heavy weapon roared and bucked in his hand, the shot pounded into Gatak, Keshak’s second, flinging
the skull-visaged man sprawling backwards, his back erupting with gore and shattered bone. The other
Lychen pulled their sidearms, firing wildly. Jad’s head was splattered against the wall as he turned, las
bolts boiling his brain in his skull. Kellin ducked behind a chair, but Keshak charged, tipping the chair over
onto the throat of the turncoat. Gargling and wheezing as he struggled for breath, he could do nothing
as Keshak fired his auto pistol at point blank range.

The Corporal rose slowly, quaking with furious anger. Before he could say another word, something huge
surged into the room. Ratar yelled, pulling a knife. The thing ripped him in half with a flick of the wrist,
dodging the startled shots of the other two Lychen at Keshak’s side. The beast pulled one’s head from his
shoulders, as it opened the bowels of the final Lychen with a simple gesture. A bulbous head, with a
bestial, snarling face, turned to Keshak, drooling from a many-fanged maw hungrily. With a piercing
scream of inhuman volume, the alien monster advanced upon its final quarry.

A gene stealer. One of the abominations the Lychen had faced upon Saris. Keshak couldn’t ponder how it
had got to Talaheim, like some strange phantom or nightmare. The gene stealer was already lunging. He
kicked the chair into the thing’s face as it charged. This slowed it slightly, as it tore the wooden thing
apart with its fearsome, twin set of rending claws. The Lychen Corporal took this opportunity and lunged
forwards under the table. The thing leapt forth, twisting to reach him as it toppled from the tabletop,
onto its head. Such was its eagerness to split open the Imperial Guardsman.

He scrabbled forwards, firing behind him with his auto pistol, as he frantically tried to unhook his
shotgun from his back. The gene stealer hopped aside, avoiding the crude bust of projectiles, and
instead leapt up, over the table, landing squarely upon Keshak’s back . The weight slammed Keshak’s
head into the floor, and for an instant his vision blurred. However, luckily, his riot shield was slung over
his back also, and the vile alien had merely sunk its talons into the heavy battle plate of the shield.
Nevertheless, its weight was vast, and kasha knew he could wriggle free.

###

The repair yard detonated n a huge fireball, as hybrids, hidden within the precinct, emerged from their
hiding places, hurling dozens of rockets, missiles and autocannon volleys into the building, destroying
the Chimera in a resounding fireball.

The mess hall was a blood bath. Hundreds of armed cultists, corrupted Arbites, and traitorous hybrid
PDF-men, aiming from the hidden alcoves and balconies all around the room, opened fire upon the
Lychen as they rested. Some Lychen Guardsmen, drenched in the blood of themselves and their allies,
managed to avoid dying straight away, and desperately raised their weapons towards the unseen
attackers, who dutifully put down the defiant foes with bursts of heavy gunfire, blasting them apart in a
gory spray.

From beyond the grey walls of the precinct, the flashing of gunfire lit up the grim, shadowy sky eerily.

###

+++Remember my teachings. Remember my warnings. Doubt is a weapon you must learn to use now.
The upper-born want you to believe they are the masters, that they are the righteous few, who should
rule this vessel by right of their wealth, and influence. Yet, they are wrong. They are deceivers and
heretics themselves!

Yes, my brethren, heretics! I warned of the fall of Blithe, did I not? Did I not warn you all that these false
leaders would slay your faith, to implant their own demagoguery instead? They killed your holy father,
your Cardinal. They are tyrants and impious! They think they are the strong ones, but, again I say they
are wrong! Thousands upon thousands of you, the faithful, are listening to this vox broadcast, as it
spreads from chapel to chapel, throughout this grand and righteous vessel, Luthor’s Spear.

They are few, and they are scared, for they know the Emperor is come to judge them. They would like to
silence me, but they cannot, for I am hidden from their sight by my master’s benevolence. He wishes me
to call you all, child man and woman, to throw away your shackles. Take up your breaking hammer,
chisels and clubs, and smash this foe. Their guns are nothing, and you shall take their guns from their
cold, dead, traitor’s hands! Faith can overturn the universe. Let it overturn these false idols of worship.
Rise up, rise up my loyal worshippers!

Now. Now is your time. This is the Orator, and I shall leave you with these words. You are strong, you are
mighty. Show them! +++

###

The sleek form of the Molvius sailed easily between the simple arcing patterns of the defence orbital.
Though most considered him to be very much insane, there was no denying the skill of Borus as a star
ship Captain. Gracefully, the Rogue Trader vessel would roll between these arcs, drifting and skimming
the edge of the atmosphere lightly as his advanced vessel then powered itself upwards, under their
guard, pulverising an orbital with arcing beams of green energy, and searing volleys of weapon battery
fire. The orbital would then crumple under the barrage, before tumbling, aflame, into the cold white
atmosphere, and out of sight, or otherwise blazed soundlessly in the void around the planet. Borus’
vessel did this several times, before it looped back around into a wider orbit, out of range of the
retaliatory discharges of the automated orbital platforms.

The two remaining Luna Class Cruisers simply circled the planet, flinging their long range munitions
across the void at the orbital platforms, remaining out of range of any return fire. Though safer than
Borus’ tactics, the returns were far less (a fact the bombastic Rogue Trader never failed to remind them
of, over and over on the inter-ship vox system), and only a few orbital gun platforms fell to their highly
explosive munitions.

The troop transports, their cargo delivered, now hung back, breaking orbit. Their protective escorts
trailed after them, like worrying nannies protecting their charges from potential harm.

Again, the fact such a backwater world had such extensive defences was as mind-boggling as it was
bizarre. If the Imperium was nothing else, it was cold and greedy with its resources. The Imperium would
never construct such defences on such a worthless world. The question remained: why did they? This
question was a hot topic of conversation across every ship in the fleet, and it was a question none could
truly answer.

Of the Luthor’s Spear, conflicting reports were spreading across the Imperial crusade. After destroying
the enemy fleet, the guns of the Battleship had fallen quiet, and it now remained in a very wide orbit
around the planet, avoiding any fire from the platforms. Sporadic transmissions from Raventium arrived
at the various other vessels of the fleet, but they were simply reiterations of what the fleet already knew
they had to do, or were reassuring blurts of half-truths and some lies, like:

+++All systems upon the Spear are functioning properly! Enough talk of damage! The Spear is fine. We’re
just having staffing issues.+++

Yet, other transmissions were flying from the vessel. Messages from Orators, strange revolutionary
slogans, and other strange messages, unauthorised by the Admiral.

No one knew for sure, but it was quite obvious, all was not well on the Luthor’s Spear. Captain Adear of
the Truth of Priad, one of the surviving Luna class Cruisers, had tried to use his Astropath to contact
some other Imperial authorities, to inform them of this situation. Yet, despite his best efforts, the
Astropath on Adear’s vessel could not contact anyone. The Captain tried to explain it away as some warp
storm or something similar, ruining trans-warp communications. Yet, his astrological telepath knew
differently. He knew warp storms. What blocked his talent was not a storm.

It was a shadow.

###

Night was finally covering the city that clung, spider-like, to the side of a great cliff, and the temperature
dropped sharply. Despite the blistering cold, Azgoth remained relatively liveable (unlike outside the city).
This was mainly due to the epic conflict, being fought at every level of the ancient machine-city. Flashes
and resounding booms shuddered the lowest layer, as Bazofzeck’s armoured host clashed with the
sudden rumbling battalions of Azgothian armour, that seemed to emerge from within the city itself.

Shells and searing beams of arcing destruction played across each force, as they closed upon their
enemy. Vehicles exploded violently, flipping themselves over in the tumult of firepower, spraying
between the opposed forces. Buildings toppled, people burned, and the tanks rolled ever onwards.
Vostroyan first-born infantry piled from their transports, adding their firepower against the cultist
infantry, that poured fire upon the Leman Russ formations from their high tower perches.

The Cadians engaged the elite formations of Hybrids, that similarly seemed to appear from nowhere,
and proceeded to engage the Cadians with great fury. Though the Cadians are the greatest of Imperial
Guard regiments, Henrick’s forces were sorely stretched, as the cultists unleashed all manner of artillery
and munitions as they advanced. Fire rained in the bitter fighting on their levels. Street to street and
building to building, the battle raged. Bane Wolves prowled the streets, pumping poisonous toxins across
the battlefield, while foul, hunched monsters, purestrain gene stealers, capered through burning streets,
snatching up enemy soldiers, dragging them into the night for unknown purposes. Strange, ancient
hovering vehicles emerged from the fog of war at one point. The blocky, bulky machines bore heavy
cannons and missile launching units, and engaged the cadians fiercely. No one knew how the cultists had
found such technological wonders, but many of the Crusades attendant Mechanicus delegates insisted
the grav tanks were property of the Adeptus Mechanicus, pillaged from vaults within the city itself. This
raised questions, but ones that the Tech Priests refused to answer.

Of the Mordians, no word had come.

Vash growled fiercely, his false jaws glinting in the dull glow of the city, which burned beneath them. He
and his Lychen Guard, however, were trapped upon the sixth and highest level, in a section of the city
seemingly abandoned by the cultists. Did they really think the Lychen Guard were so little a threat, they
could ignore them?

Vash intended to change that. Bitterly, he pulled his cloak around him once more, his Lychen following
suit, as they pulled their pelts and animal skins over their harsh, brutal bodies. Barely one hundred
Lychen accompanied Vash in his mad dash to destroy the foe in close assault, but they were some of his
most vicious and skilled men.

For a second, Vash regretted his charge into the foe. He could have used the illumination of the chimera’s
searchlights, and the night vision of their weapon sights. The Colonel could barely see a thing in the
driving cold, only a dim twilight created by the reflected glow from beneath them. The distant rumble of
war reverberated through the hab level, and Vash winced with anticipation.

With a grunt of triumph, Vash heard the Lychen behind him finally ignite the pile of wood and oil-soaked
scraps, which suddenly threw light outwards, throwing a bright orange glow over everyone present.
Eventually, Vash turned around, and sat with the other Lychen as they ate, plucking at the crudely carved
up bodies that lay scattered around the room.

Two of the Lychen stood out to Vash as being particularly skilled and worthy of his praise. One was a
woman. Her head was covered with a red cowl, which only showed her lower jaws, with their needle-like
fang prosthetics. Leshi, Vash thought her name was. He knew she was skilled with the billhook that lay
across her lap, as she calmly tore at a shank of human meat gorily, laughing with the rest of the raucous
Lychen as blood drooled down her neck and lips. Her thigh held a dozen daggers and hooks, and a heavy
pelt of Harit-Bear was draped over her broad shoulders. The other was Firil, a wiry man, who couldn’t
seem to sit still, as he constantly paced. He wielded a broad axe in battle, which hung around his
shoulders when not in battle. He was a fast and feral fighter, Vash recalled with almost-parental pride.

The lychen began to beat their chests and stamp, calling for Firil to play. After a few moments of this, Firil
raised his hands, cackling like a mad thing.

“Very well, very well. You sound like you want a tune eh? Eh?” he yelled over the noise.

They all bellowed agreement. Even Vash, who’s thunderous voice undercut the others with its low
timbre. Firil nodded, smiling, and gestured to Leshi. The female nodded, and yanked a man-skin drum
from the gasp of one of the other lychen, who protested light-heartedly. Slowly, she began to thump out
a low beat, ominously. As the beat began, the other Lychen quietened down. Firil’s songs were not the
raucous war hymns, or brutally filthy songs of the hacking caravans on Lychen’s northern continent. His
were solemn. Reverent.

Firil slowly pulled his long, harp-like instrument from his satchel. Pulling a special blade from his boot, he
reversed his grip on the blade, running the rough, blade-less edge over the hard tendon-strings of the
device. This teased forth a haunting, lilting tune. No one note could be individually made out, as the
sweeping tune blended all the individual notes into one, graduating sound. This was the song of the
dying and the dead. The Lychen believed the song represented the end of a haemavore’s journey in life.
Imbued with the flesh of all those he had consumed, it was said that, upon death, they would hear this
lilting tune on the wind, the voice of the Emperor, coded into the very body of the death cultist. Body
already bound to the Emperor, so too did their soul bind with Him upon death.

Vash listened closely to the beat and the whining tune, cutting into his flesh with a short bladed knife,
before flicking a globule of blood into the roaring fire before him. The others in the group eventually did
too, each cutting and flicking specks of crimson blood into the fire. To the memory of the fallen. This was
as close to mourning the lychen got.

Eventually, Firil’s tune came to a close, and the Lychen all rose up, cheering and clapping his back.
However, this jovial attitude evaporated, as one of the Lychen scouts entered the room. Quiet descended
as they informed Vash of their findings.
“Colonel, you have to see this.”

###

The group of Lychen had extinguished their fire, and drew their weapons within minutes of receiving
word of approaching men. Vash led the way, uncharacteristically quiet through necessity. They walked
forwards, through the rubbled streets, until they came to the square at the end of the block. The vast
disk of metal, covering some sort of wide drainage hole in the centre of the square, which squatted
amidst the urban jungle of pre-fab buildings and archaic skeletons of factories, was turning slowly, as if
being gradually unlocked, bit by bit.

“It was doing that since I left to tell you of it, sire,” the man explained quietly, a foot-long blade clutched
in his gauntleted palms eagerly. “I’d wager they haven o idea we’re onto them. Shall we bleed them sir?”
the Lychen growled hungrily. Several other murmured in agreement.

“I say we se what they are first. We need to know the meat we take. It would be improper otherwise,”
Leshi suggested, licking her lips beneath her heavy cowl.

Vash silenced them all with a rumbling, barely human growl. The Colonel had a sort of bestial authority
Lychen instantly respected and acknowledge, and duly, they all went silent at his wordless order.

“We wait,” he eventually stated simply. No one dared argue.

The lid to the drain slid free with a grinding, piercing screech, as metal ground against stone. Slowly, men
began to emerge. Long jackets and overcoats, some grey, some black, some brown. All dull and covered
in black dust or grime. Most of the men wore respirator masks, while others merely wore rags soaked in
something Vash could not tell from the distance he was sat watching them from. Some wore hats, while
others didn’t. The weapons they bore were equally as non-uniform. Antique las-rifles, stubby auto guns
with long magazines, pistols of multiple designs, and shotguns of differing lengths and makes. Truly a
ragtag band.
Vash eventually decided to get closer. Calmly, he hopped from behind is rubble barricade, and began to
stride from his vantage point, unhooking his eviserator from it back sheath, as he pulled his hell pistol
from his hip.

The men heard this, and span around, hefting their weapons in threatening stances.

“No shooting? Good sign. You‘re either stupid or cowardly. Let‘s see which, “ he muttered to himself, as
he raised his pistol and fired.

The first man was pitched onto his back, spewing blood as the fizzing bolt struck him. Vash’s stride
became a sprint, as he ducked low to run. His Lychen lunged from their observation points, all around
the square, charging the foe from all angles.

Gunfire whipped from the foe, picking off a couple of Lychen with their panicked bursts of sporadic fire.
However, Lychen were hardened soldiers. Their return fire, even while charging, was farm ore effective.
A dozen men died in the first bolts from the lychen. Vash reached their scattered group. His eviserator
barked bestially, as it chewed through a flinching enemy, hacking them in half without even breaking
sprint. An auto pistol cracked, the shot ringing from his prosthetic jaw painfully. He rode the shot,
spinning on his heel, bisecting his foolish foe in one almighty swing.

“Stop! Blood-Emperor stop!” a voice yelled over the din of war cries and gunshots.

Vash paused, pulling back with his eviserator, and just missing a cowering foe, who had stumbled onto
his backside in numb horror, dropping his sickle-magazined auto rifle in the process. Vash stopped his
rampage, and merely held the whirring eviserator close to the man’s throat. His Lychen paused also,
looking to their fearsome leader for guidance. They simply beat down their foes, batteirng them easily,
before holding blades to them in grim readiness to slaughter them, should their commander demand it.

“Who told me to stop? Answer me!” Vash snarled, wild-eyes searching for the origin of the familiar
voice.
From amidst the crowd of bewildered men in long coats, a slender man emerged. This man bore tribal
tattoos, and his long hair and beard were pulled away from his gaunt, fanged face, that glinted silver.
Though covered in rubble-dust and painful looking, still wet cuts, Vash knew this man.

“Resh?” Vash growled incredulously.

“Yes sir. These men are not our foes. There is little time. Keshak’s force is under threat. We need these
men now,” the huntsman hissed.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:53 PM

Chapter Seventeen:

Emeline saw Hobom reaching for his bolt pistol, even before he had finished his speech. His large hand
descended below the desk, grasping for his hip holster. Without thinking, Emeline lunged forwards,
shoving the desk before her. Hobom’s hand was trapped, as she slammed him back. Struck by the
surging oaken desk, his pistol discharged with a dull boom, and Hobom cried out in pain, as a bolt passed
through his thigh, discharging into the floor below him in an upwards flurry of splintered tiles, which
grievously wounded him inwards.

Even as Emeline stumbled back from the blast, she felt Harald behind her. Something looped over her
head, and desperately she threw up her hand. The strangle wire nevertheless hooked under her chin,
catching and pressing her deactivated claw-hand close to her throat in the process. Harald was fast and
strong, pulling on the wire with all his might. The monofilament killing tool sank into the metal of her
gauntlet, but her hand couldn’t prevent the wire pressing lightly against her throat. A thin trickle of
blood drooled down. She was frantic and desperate, tossing and flinging the albino traitor around her in
a futile attempt to thrash him off.

Hobom, face ashen and grey, slowly raised his face from his desk. Slowly, painfully, he pushed his desk a
little outwards, pulling his pistol up to finish Emeline. She noticed, and yanked herself aside, pulling
Harald along too. Hobom fired with a crack like a thunderclap as the bolter bucked in his hand with the
force of the shot. The Lumen globe exploded behind Emeline, as the shell speared into the fragile glass
orb.
White hot fragments of glass drove themselves violently into Harald’s back, and across his pallid flesh.
The would be assassin released Emeline, flinging her to the floor, as he staggered backwards, stunned
with silent agony.

Hobom’s dying eyes struggled to track Emeline as she fled, but he aimed his pistol once more. Emeline
was the swifter, dragging her las pistol from her holster and firing in one smooth motion. The laser bolts
punched through the desk three times, and three flashing fizzes told her Hobom was struck. With a
gargling yelp, he slumped forwards, across his arrest warrants.

The Commissar swung around, firing at Harald, as the albino (who had neglected to arm himself) fled the
room. He was gone before she could aim properly, and a storm of exploding splinters from the
doorframe was all she got. For a few moments, she sat upon the floor, gulping air hungrily.

What was going on, she cursed, as she began to hear the unmistakable sound of gunfire, echoing down
the corridor.

Face twisting into a bitter mask of anger, she pursued Harald into the wider precinct.

###

Keshak floundered under the oppressive weight of the hulking Genestealer, which stood upon his shield-
slung back. His head barely avoided the swiping claws of the thing, as he reached behind himself, and
flicked his force shield on. Energies sparked and played across the brutal surface of the shield, and the
monster leap back from it, screeching as if stung.

Keshak used this moment of respite wisely, scrabbling towards he open door ahead. He threw himself
through, kicking the door closed, as the alien monster smashed into it. Dozens of rending talon tips
protruded through the door, casually ripping the thin metal portal apart with ease. Still scuttling
backwards on his backside, Keshak yanked his shotgun free of its sheath, and he pumped and fired.
This caused the gene stealer to hop away from the door, as explosive shells blasted the door from its
hinges in a shower of sparks. The Corporal flung himself to his feet, and sprinted down the corridor he
had just come down. A blank visored Arbitrator turned the corner, raising as shotgun to his shoulder.
Keshak pumped and fired without pause. The Arbites burst apart in a shower of red spray, flinging his
shield and weapons in all directions. Keshak staggered through the fine mist, licking his lips and
bedraggled beard, the taste of gore still perfect to his Death Cultist tastes. He had no time to savour it
however, as he felt the alien monster lunge for him once more, as he turned the corner. It missed him
directly, but catch his shield, ripping it free, and flinging Keshak skittering to one side. He struggled to his
feet, almost slipping on the blood-slicked floor. He turned, aiming his shotgun at the alien, which pulled
itself to its feet with frantic fury. He pumped and fired. A click, nothing more.

“Ah feth!” he grumbled, backing away from the charging fiend. He glanced backwards. A stairwell.

Keshak flung himself backwards, over the guard rail barring the stairs down to the main mess hall. The
Genestealer, as fast as thought, was already upon him, and toppled over the railing too. However, Keshak
pulled a hook from his selection of blades, embedding it into the edge of the grating beneath the rail.
The ‘stealer, however, had no such luck, and plunged all the way down, onto the steps at the base of the
stairwell. Their was a crunch.

Amazingly, however, the gene stealer was virtually unharmed, and turned it’s thick, drooling muzzle
upwards, staring at the dangling form of Keshak. Like a starving warhound, the alien leapt upwards,
again and again, trying to reach Keshak, who’s legs struggled and kicked, desperately trying to avoid the
talons of its supernaturally quick foe.

After a while, the gene stealer seemed to lose interest, and slinked off, heading towards he gory sounds
of slaughter occurring in the mess hall before it.

Keshak, meanwhile, wheezing, hoisted himself back to the floor he had just barely managed to remain
attached to via his bloodied hook. He managed to haul himself half way onto the floor, when a sudden
boot struck him in the face several times. He grunted in surprise, as he toppled from his perch, landing
with a bone-crunching clang, on the steps beneath him. He just got a glimpse of a pale face, before he
blacked out.

###
Emeline warily moved through the seemingly-abandoned upper levels of the precinct, her pistol clasped
in her hand in case she encountered any resistance. Like a pale ghost, the traitor Harald constantly
evaded her pursuit. She spotted him rushing down the stairs, and snapped off dozens of fat red las bolts
in his direction. Though they struck little, they forced the albino man to run all the faster.

The female Commissar reached the stair well herself, and noticed Keshak’s shotgun lying at the edge of
the stairs, a Lychen hook blade embedded into the deck by its side. Peering over the stairs with dread,
she saw Keshak. With a sigh, she realised he hadn’t been disembowelled or cut to pieces. He was
obviously hurt, lying prone against the cold metal steps, crumpled like a rag doll. However, his chances of
life were much more likely. She silently thanked the Emperor, as she rushed to his side, and realised
breath still shuddered through his body.

With a groan, the Corporal opened his eyes. “I… I let him get away, the fraker. Am I in trouble Blade
Enforcer?” he wheezed.

She just smiled, as she helped him to his feet.

The two stricken Lychen only managed to stumble into the gallery surrounding the Mess Hall, before
they were forced to dive for cover, dozens of autogun shots rattling noisily through the cramped corridor
like trapped wasps. Keshak dragged a bench in front of them, before shoving Emeline and himself behind
a clump of fallen masonry (dislodged in the explosion in the tank yard earlier). The auto guns chewed
through the wooden bench like grass, but the hybrids’ aim was disrupted by the piece of furniture, and it
gave kasha and Emeline time to prepare their response.

The two pulled their pistols, and fired wildly over the lip of the chunk of stone protecting them, before
ducking back behind the fallen ruin, as sprays of bullets, bolts and pellets pelted the old stone viciously.

“What is this treachery?” Keshak yelled to Emeline.

“I don’t know! Where are the others?”

“They were in there!” Keshak roared over the gunfire, gesturing with his pistol at the mess hall. Emeline
peeked over the edge of the small wall running around the perimeter of the hall. She ducked back,
flurries of shots scouring the lip of the barricade, ripping her hat from her red headed scalp.

She shook her head ominously. “No they aren’t Corporal. No they aren’t.”

###

As one descended further into the noisy, grimy depths of the battleship, the low hum that infuses every
deck becomes a juddering roar, resonating all around permanently. The climate-controls become less
uniform and less stable. Moisture and humid patches of ‘damp fall’ (as the workers called it) fell upon the
already rusting and filthy machinery, which vibrated constantly also. It was like the bowels of some great
alien wyrm, made from the carcases of dying factories, all spun around a central skeleton of decay and
backbreaking labour.

It was within this dank hellscape, that Layla, the blond Interrogator in her glittering glass coat and her
quiet, brooding ally, walked slowly through. Jaxx walked with a stiff, awkward gait. If Layla hadn’t known
Jaxx before his accident during the Ermine mission, she would swear his walk was not that of a human.
Then again, she supposed, so little remained of his human flesh, that he may as well be a servitor. The
bitter though pierced Layla’s heart like a dagger, and she looked away from the man, as he coldly
scanned the surroundings for signs of the skin-walking assassin’s passing.

She had once thought they could have been more than they were, but now, she knew differently. Was he
lost to her forever? She hoped she was wrong, and decided she would persist in trying to teach him to be
human again. But, for now, she couldn’t think of such trivial things. She had a mission.

“Have you found her trail? Where does it lead?” she asked gently, even though she knew Jaxx didn’t care
about how nicely she asked him.

“Target, designated ‘Callidus’, travelled for sixty metres along the piping system parallel to this walkway.
Speculation: to evade leaving footfalls in the ash coating the walkway, 2.4 millimetres thick across 38% of
the walkway’s surface,” he replied, his voice a dull, lifeless buzz. He had once had a rich, jovial voice, that
had made Layla laugh, and an expressive face, filled with warm humanity and joy. Now, all that remained
was a blank respirator mask, and two cold blue glowing circular bionics in place of his loving brown eyes.

“Did she depart from this course?” Layla asked, sighing dejectedly.

“Indeed. Five metres ahead, ‘Callidus’ breaks her pattern, and heads towards the thrusters section to our
left, before taking a sharp detour south. Speculation: Towards the hangar bay?”

Layla’s ears picked up at the mention of the hangar. “Are you certain? How certain are you it is the
hangar she’ll head for?” Layla asked animatedly, gripping Jaxx by the arms.

“88% certain. Her current course takes her further away from Inquisitor Horrmann Darvius. There are no
other routes upwards from her route. Likely, she has a secondary directive, requiring evacuation from
the current vessel.”

“We have to stop her! Can you follow her?”

“Yes.”

“Then-” Layla began, before she was interrupted by a noise. Louder than the juddering of the engines,
this noise was more violent. It was people. Lots of people.

Layla could hear drums, and bitter chanting. Distant gunshots rang out sporadically, in short periods of
extremely rapid weapons fire exchanges. Eventually, each pocket of gunfire resistance would go quiet,
and a great cheer would erupt from the mindless crowd, as the countless zealots and disgruntled slaves
beat their Rating oppressors to death, and took up the weapons of their broken foes.

Suddenly, a group of crudely armoured men with red sashes across their arms, were running blindly,
yelling and cursing incoherently as they fled towards Layla, snapping off random shots behind them as
they barrelled towards the upper decks.

“What’s this?” Layla yelled out, pulling her las pistol from her hip.

“Ut way missus! Ut way!” they blared, raising their weapons to try and force her to move. She wouldn’t.
Before they could shoot, Jaxx sprang forwards. Faster than any human had a right to move, the semi--
human Acolyte swept his wrist blades around in regimented arcs, cutting down the men within seconds.

Soon after, as if materialising from the blackness itself, a ragged mass of hundreds of men and women,
clad in rags and grey overalls, were marching and jeering angrily, wielding banners of poorly drawn
aquila, and brutal improvised weapons, from bits of twisted sharp metal, to giant blow torches and
captured stub-guns.

Over the din of the crowd, and the roar of the engines, an echoing voice rang out metallically.

+++Good evening folks, this is your Orator speaking! Today, this ship’s heathen overlords will be
overthrown! Thank you!+++

Layla realised then that the assassin was the least of their worries.

“I have to get back to Darvius, to help him put down this heretical revolt. Jaxx, I need you to seek and
destroy the assassin. Directive Two!” Layla shouted over the noise, triggering Jaxx’s key words.

He seemed to shudder slightly, as if he felt a chill, as the Directive was processed by his bionic mind.

“Thine will be done,” he buzzed, before he, without warning, leapt over the edge of the gantry way
railing, onto a pipe running beneath the passageway Layla now stood upon alone.

She spared a single glance towards the swiftly disappearing form of Jaxx, before looking ahead at the
onrushing storm of human insanity, and turned on her heels, fleeing with all haste.

The Luthor’s Spear had just gone mad, driven so my some mad man called the Orator. Whoever this
demagogue was, Layla concluded, he was the worst kind of heretic. One that simply didn’t care for his
own existence, or anyone else‘s. Destruction incarnate.

###

Sparrod had shed his priestly garb, as soon as he had given the word. He had pushed the entire ship into
anarchy, with a few simple words. Insinuating himself into almost every church on the lower decks, from
the worker’s chapels to the Fixer’s temples, ‘the Orator’ had spread his message, sowing doubt and
insurrection into the very marrow of the Luthor’s Spear. He had whipped them into a frenzy, until one
singular event could pitch them into the abyss. Blithe, he smiled, was that event. It had been the signal
to revolt, and all had gone perfectly.

The parrot-like wail of the emergency siren was blaring constantly now, subtly altering the nuances of
the emitted sound. It became an undulating tide of anguish, like some sort of strange, melodic dirge.
How appropriate, he mused, as he walked he panicked corridors calmly. Men rushed past, some with
guns, some with specimens and data-files and documents, fleeing to save them from the onrushing
hordes, billowing up from the lower decks like foul spirits of the underworld. Sparrod was now dressed
in a simple clerks tunic, covered with a dark black naval jacket. He had trimmed his hair close to his skull,
in the style of Luthor’s Spear naval officers, and had perched a small pair of glasses upon his nose. The
effect was remarkable, he decided as he caught a glimpse of himself in a shiny bulkhead. He looked
almost completely different. This would be perfect for his intended purpose.

Nobody tracked his progress through the upper decks, or challenged him, to wrapped up in their own
desperate little worlds. Of course, the return of Commissar Festus from the lower decks had stirred up
this unease, as he bombastically began organising investigations into the killings and on punishment for
the culprits. When the revolt finally erupted, spilling through the under decks like stagnant water in a
sewer, he had instantly began organising a brutal defence of the ship, whipping the eager officers in a
frenzy of panic and fury. Certainly a dangerous combination.

Still, Sparrod silently considered as he carefully screwed a muzzle suppressor onto the end of his stubber
pistol under is jacket, it served his purposes. He didn’t really care about this crew, or anything really. He
had realised something as he lived upon the Luthor’s Spear, carefully plucking it apart from the inside
out. He would best serve Malice not by blindly serving Malice’s devils, or praying to the Outcast god like
some sycophantic Imperial fool. No, his sacrament was anarchy, and chaos was its own reward.
Destruction, and the shattering of all structures of governance and security, were the only goals he
required. Of course, he still desired revenge upon Emeline, the hated she-witch of a brood-mother to the
Lychen, who had taken so much from him. But he had a plan for her. He always did.

He reached the required chamber: Comms Room #232. The title was stencilled over the door. Too easy,
he grinned as he knocked upon the metal door three times. He straightened himself up, making sure he
looked official, before the door slowly swung open, revealing a short woman, in a neatly pressed
uniform.

“Comms! What is it?” she asked formally, her voice powerful despite her apparent fragility. Sparrod was
sure she could probably break his neck. He knew what training these people went through. But he didn’t
intend to fight.

“Yes madame Lieutenant. I was told I needed to report here. I’m sure it’s on the rota card. It’s Jenkiel,
sub-Lieutenant Jenkial,” he stated easily.

She frowned suspiciously. “Never heard of you.”

“I’m on the rota card, look,” he insisted, pointing at the papers on her desk. She turned to glance where
he was pointing.

He fired twice, directly in the back of her head. His pistol barely even made a zipping sound, as he pasted
her brains over the far wall. Before she could fall, he surged into the room, dragging her inside, before
kicking the door shut behind him with his heavy boot.

“Sorry about that madam. Next time I’ll shoot you in the face. I promise,” he giggled, sitting her down
carefully in one of the two chairs arranged before a desk, upon which sat a heavy piece of vox
equipment, and two microphones.
Sparrod dropped into the other chair, flicking through the vox, while plucking an lho stick from the breast
pocket of the woman’s jacket, lighting it with a spill stolen from the church he had been living in for the
past few months.

“Good evening folks, this is your Orator speaking! Today, this ship’s heathen overlords will be
overthrown! Thank you!” he shouted cheerfully down the microphone, as he puffed on his lho stick,
relaxed and confident as ever.

This’d be fun, he decided, smiling like a maniac. Which was sensible in his case, because he was a
maniac.

###

The Lychen Corporal had sprinted from his barricade, under the cover fire of Emeline’s las pistol. From
both ends of the corridor, armoured men and hybrid filth poured. The Lychen warrior reached a
supporting column on the opposite side of the corridor, ready for assault. Arbites in riot gear charged in,
trying to drive the two from cover. Keshak obliged, shooting one of the men in the face with his pistol,
before charging.

Keshak lunged at the armoured man, slamming his head into the wall many times, before ripping the
helmet free, and doing it again. He ducked the swing of another Arbitrator, as he swept a power maul at
his head. Another assailant, however, threw a knee into his groin. Keshak grunted, and toppled. An
armoured man raised his maul, and Keshak swiftly drew a jagged dagger, dragging it across his armoured
midriff, spilling guts. Their shields buzzed as they struck him, and their mauls swung into his side
painfully. He howled, as he felt ribs break. Emeline tried to shoot at the enemy, but she couldn’t break
cover, as wave after wave of foe poured their cowardly fire into the passageway.

A hissing las round glanced her shoulder, tearing away the carapace there, and a layer of her skin,
searing it black as it passed. She cried out, tripping backwards. Her head struck a metal column as she
fell backwards, and the world spun around her dizzyingly. She couldn’t hear the Corporal, or see him
struggling. Only the tumult of constant hiss-crack of weapon’s discharge, and the sporadic boom of
shotgun blasts.
She felt a weight on her chest, and her arms were pinned. Someone was sitting on her chest, trapping
her arms painfully beneath their two feet. A white, malicious face grinned at her, revealing a mouth that
opened far too wide to be human, and too filled with alien fangs. That was why Harald never spoke, she
realised dumbly, as the hybrid slowly pulled a knife from his boot. Her life was over, she cursed bitterly,
staring hatefully into the eyes of the monster that straddled her.

Then a hand, a broad, muscular hand, covered in overlapping carapace plates and rivets, grasped the
shoulder of the albino horror, and hoisted him upwards in one motion. Harald arced backwards, mouth
opening freakishly wide, as he sudden howled inhumanly. The sound of revving engines and squelching
meat grew deafening, until finally, a great snarling chain blade erupted spectacularly from Harald’s chest,
splashing crimson across Emeline’s eyes and face. By the time she had wiped her eyes and licked her lips,
Harald was in two ragged halves, tossed aside by the towering behemoth of war that stood before her,
resplendent and terrible as some heathen devil.

Vash reached a hand down to her. She was easily pulled to her feet, where she could appreciate the
sudden slaughter. Lychen, hundreds of them, filledt he room. Their whirring blades and cleavers hacked
and carved a bloody path through the foe. Weapons fire was exchanged hurriedly between the Lychen,
the hybrid filth, and some strange newcomers in trench coats and masks.

Keshak had snatched up an Arbites shotgun in one hand, long bladed machete in the other, and was
wading into combat with those Arbites that still desperately tried to fight their way clear. They swung
their clubs, he hacked away their limbs. They raised shields, he shot them in the legs, before slitting their
throats, or ripping them free with his teeth.

The fight spilled into the wide Mess hall, as the vengeful Lychen fought their hated foe, over the bodies
of their murdered comrades. Resh and Fetir, the two huntsmen, had clambered up onto one of the
higher galleries, looking down upon the mess hall, and began to use their las rifles to pick off hybrids,
one by one.

The newcomers, those non-Lychen aiding the Guardsmen, hung back, taking cover as they fired short
bursts from their diverse weapons. Many of them were poor shots, striking the ground as often as they
pitched cultists onto their backs, or blew the brains of an unwitting PDF-man to ash. Nevertheless, they
fought with the same desperate hunger for vengeance the Lychen did, and it showed.
“Who are they!” Emeline spluttered, gesturing to the strange newcomers, as Vash hefted his blade for
more combat.

“They are bodies to toss to the blessed meat grinder! Who cares who they are? Ask the slinking sneak
Resh if you must! That can come later! Now is for butchery!” Vash cackled manically, as he threw himself
forth once more.

Vash was already in the thick of the fighting, swinging his eviserator gleefully through the foe before him,
his eyes wild with hate and joyous loathing. Vash blocked a power maul with his brazen-toned bionic left
arm, swatting the weapon aside, before thrusting his head forwards. The Arbitrator smashed his shield
into Vash’s head, spinning the giant around. However, the Colonel merely swung around, hacking into
the side of the man with his whirring blade. They screamed in agony, as the teeth ripped open his guts
violently, splattering them across Vash’s grim armour. A hybrid, all fangs and fury, hopped over the falling
Arbites, opening its mouth wide, alien mouth vast and hateful. The Lychen commander stepped back,
throwing the foe off balance, before thrusting his previous opponent’s maul into its mouth with all his
might. Retching and burning internally, it flopped to the ground, spluttering and blazing. Vash drew his
hell pistol and fired twice.

Emeline was at his side, activating her claw as she entered combat. “For our fallen! For our brothers in
Flesh! Murder is mercy! To destroy is to be pious! To maim is just! Kill them all, and eat their flesh!” she
screamed, her female voice carrying all the authority of her grim position. Blood became a red fog, she
sliced and scratched any foe within reach of her claw, the energised blades vaporising the crimson fluid
before it even left the defeated heathens’ bodies.

It was brutal knife-work in the mess hall, and neither side could ever know mercy. Knives were slid into
eye sockets of the wounded and dying, axes split skulls, mauls shattered faces, shotguns blasted swathes
of men to the ground, opening their bellies like burst plastic bags. Bowels were pulled out and stamped
on, and bones were ground to powder in butchered bodies.

Vash howled in triumph, hoisting his eviserator in the air. Suddenly, a huge shape barrelled into him,
smashing him to the ground, and knocking his chain blade from his grasp. The gene stealer. Vash barely
had time to rise to his knee, before the thing surged at him again. He slammed a fist into its face, causing
it to duck back slightly, giving him time to roll aside, as it swung its lethal claws towards him once more.
Three Lychen rushed ot their leader’s aid, but the thing ripped their bodies to bloody rags before they
realised they were dead. The gene stealer turned, hungry to kill the largest prey-beast. Vash met it on
the charge, his twin sabres drawn. The two closed, and Vash was smashed to the ground again, his left
side’s armour torn and bloody. The gene stealer was screeching piercingly though, a sabre embedded in
its shoulder, up to the hilt.

Using his other bloody sword as a crutch, Vash rose to his feet. The alien monster ignored those men
trying to bayonet it, as it leapt at Vash once more. He hacked through a thick limb as it ploughed into
him. He was on his back. His throat was pinned by a grasping, human-like hand, which throttled him with
bone crushing force. His other sabre was now also embedded in the beast, cutting into one talon-tipped
limb deeply. His left arm was pinned by another clawed hand, and the thing’s face pushed closer and
closer to his own. With his free arm, Vash desperately held back the hugely muscular beast’s larynx and
thick throat, which bulged as he pressed it with his elbow. Its jaws were constantly snapping like a
shark’s, as it frenziedly tried to bite off Vash’s mostly-metal features. Vash kicked out with one of his
massive, steel-tipped boots, gouging great bleeding chunks from the fiend’s distended belly. The stink of
ichors and semi-digested meat was a thrill to Vash’s senses, and drove him to an ever greater rage. The
monster screeched, and he roared right back, his jaws wide and spewing curses and barely-human
growls.

Suddenly, a las bolt slapped into the gene stealer’s back, and it arched its back, releasing Vash briefly.
That was all the time he needed. He jumped for the thing, yanking at the sabre one wrist, while he
twisted the other one inside its shoulder. The alien toppled backwards, and Vash drove the shoulder
sabre deeper into the monster, as he pulled the other one free.

“The Emperor is the Imperium!” he bellowed, swinging the freed sabre into its head with a curious
hollow pop.

“The Imperium is mankind!” he chanted, pulling the blade free, and struck again and again and again,
cutting great chunks from the beast.

The rest of the battleground had finished their slaughter, and now watched in mute awe, as Vash stood
over the critically wounded beast.

“The Emperor is the flesh of Mankind. He is the bedrock and protector of humanity!” Vash cursed,
hacking with ever greater hatred and fury, splattering the crowd around him with ichors, as he
relentlessly advanced upon the gene stealer, which was falling backwards, mortally wounded but defiant.
“I am the render of flesh! The devourer of human flesh!” Vash snarled, plunging his second sabre
through the thing’s eye, into its brain. It thrashed wildly, and Vash swayed backwards to avoid the thing’s
talons warily, before he lunged in once more.

“I am the divine instrument of His Will! The conduit for the flesh of the righteous and the fallen! I am
your end!” Vash rumbled, slamming his fists into the dying thing’s body over and over, punching like a
stimm-drugged boxer going mad in the ring. He pulled at the opened belly of the ‘stealer, ripping out
organs with desperate fury.

Finally, the purestrain slumped onto its back, its remaining eye rolling back into its socket as it died.

“I am Vash! And you are nothing!” he hissed through his mangled prosthetics, before spitting upon the
corpse.

He was completely coated in blood, staining everything a light purple-red. His body was bruised and
battered, and his jaws was crooked from combat. His side was freely pouring with gore, through rents in
his armour. Yet, Vash, unbelievably, still stood tall, gazing upon the awed crowds of Lychen eyes that
looked upon his triumphant form. He raised a fist.

“Salvation! In! Slaughter!” he gargled uneasily, before he sank to his knees to catch his breath.

The force around him erupted in deafening cheers. Yet, Vash could not find solace, even in such a mighty
duel as he had fought. His eyes could only look upon all his Lychen that lay, killed while they slept like
cowards. They would pay, these beasts. They would pay dearly, he promised, looking to the huddled
strangers, that looked around themselves nervously, eying up the brutal Lychen, who even now were
striding between their fallen comrades, butchering them like a deer-kill, and looting the bodies of both
sides shamelessly. The newcomers were the key to ending this, Vash decided with lop-sided grimace.

Now was the time for talk.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:54 PM

Chapter Eighteen.

The Commissar walked with purpose and confident contempt, as he stamped down the crimson-tinted
corridor. He ignored the constant alarm, and other naval personnel moved out of his way as if a rosarius
energy field sheathed his grey, stern features. Festus was in no mood to debate or negotiate with any
fool who crossed, he thought bitterly, as his coat billowed behind his striding form. His bolt pistol was
gripped firmly in his hands, and a flock of cadets followed at his back, their clothes in strange imitation of
their master.

Workers revolts, within the Luthor’s Spear? Unthinkable. Festus had rushed to the upper decks with all
haste when he had heard of Blithe’s murder. However, things were far worse by the time he arrived. It
seemed as if the entire ship had gone mad. He had to maintain order. He had swiftly ordered the upper
deck armouries opened, and every provost was called on to prepare for repelling the foe. However, most
had no experience fighting off borders who were already deep within the ship, fighting up and outwards.

This was evident to the old Commissar, as he finally reached his destination of the trans-deck elevation
system. The wide lift was barred with twin metal gates, that hid the crude industrial lift from view from
the outside. However, a hefty dial indicating floor numbers squatted above the closed door, and showed
that the lift was rising. That meant only one thing. Rebels.

Yet, the provosts, in all their grim dark carapace, crouched before this door, their shotguns and cut-down
las carbines drawing beads upon the doorway, while twin heavy stubbers with bipod mounts sat behind
a short barricade. Each was ready for the coming assault. As soon as the doors opened, so would they
unleash hell. Festus was far from impressed.

“Sergeant Nelax, I hope this is some kind of joke!” Festus boomed, and everyone noticeably stiffened at
his harsh tone.

“Negative sir! We’re preparing to assault the foe,” the sergeant called back, hell gun pointed squarely at
the doors to the lift.

“And you thought this was the best way? Come on man! There’s a hundred industrial lifts on this floor
alone! Do you think we can post sentries everywhere?” Festus snorted, before marching up to the door
directly. The rebels had four more floors to pass before they reached them, he noted, as the red light
passed across the dial.

“Someone open this! Now!” he yelled, and two provosts rushed to his side, prying open the lift shaft
doors with a jamming bar, before silently moving back. Ahead was the wire of the lift, slowly dragging
the heavy metal structure up the hollow vertical passage.

Festus calmly raised is bolt pistol and fired. The wire burst apart with a sudden twang, as the cable was
instantly and violently severed. The group heard a rushing sound, followed by a crashing bang,
resounding from the base of the lift shaft.

The Naval Commissar turned to the Provosts. “Now, do this to all the lifts, and I mean all of them. We’ll
force them to use the emergency stairs. There we’ll focus our fire and massacre them. Go!”

Without another word, the corridor emptied rapidly, naval security scuttling to fulfil the Commissar’s
orders. Festus was moving too, while he played with his personal vox, embedded n his coat’s high collar.

“Lord Raventium, come in. Come in Admiral!”

+++Status?+++

“Lift entrances blocked, and the only other access shafts will be made secure too soon sir.”

+++Unacceptable! I need my gun decks back Commissar! I can’t fight my war without them.+++
Raventium was yelling down the vox, the din of alarms obviously effecting even the Bridge crew.

“You mean scour the lower decks? Can’t be done yet sire! Not enough men, and the space is too large.
We’d be isolated and destroyed in no time. I have to secure top decks first, and we can move down
slowly. Unless I have more men, I can’t do anything!” Festus was yelling in his collar, as he reached a stair
well, where another squad of Provosts and field-promoted Ratings gathered, hefting automatic weapons
of varying power and rate of fire.

+++I’ll get you more men Commissar. Just make sure I have my guns soon Festus! Raventium out!+++

Festus was about to argue, but his commander was already gone.

“Are you all ready men? The Emperor is with us, not these godless heathens. Never forget this,” Festus
growled to them, pulling the hammer back on his bolt pistol once more.

+++The Emperor is your guide! Let yourselves be instruments of his vengeance, my children!+++ a
playful, almost zealous voice cut in over the ship-wide intercom system.

The Orator.

“Damn mouthy fool! Ignore the deluded frakker!” a sergeant, with a youthful yet brooding face grunted
to his men, who murmured slightly. Festus smiled for a millisecond, before his mask of contempt
descended once more.

###

The entrance into the tunnel system was as inconspicuous as the one the Lychen had first used to access
the cursed Precinct, and now they made their way back into the grimy, dark tunnel. Unusually, the
Lychen were quiet as they did this, mutely following the directions of the leading Newcomers, who
Emeline had discovered were calling themselves the ‘Last Imperial Azgothics’.
Vash was borne upon a litter, fashioned from two Arbites riot shields lashed together, and was carried by
a dozen silent Lychen, while flesh tailors quietly worked upon the injured Colonel (who insisted on
wearing his armour throughout, in case of combat). It transpired that Vash’s injuries from battling the
inhuman abomination were more severe than he had let on, and Emeline knew it would take a few hours
at least before Vash would be ready for further combat. Though Vash’s endurance bordered on the
miraculous, it was not infinite. He was still a man.

The leader of the rebel group pulled his rebreather from his face, revealing an ugly, almost-squashed
face, with strangely perfect, greased hair, cropped close to the his scalp. The man began speaking almost
as soon as Keshak and Emeline caught up with him, as they began to enter the main tunnel network.

“I am Marcus Vehun, of the trading family Vehun and Vehun,” the man explained solemnly, as they
walked. “These men under me are the very last pockets of Imperial resistance to the fang-men.”

“Vehun? Are they legitimate traders? The reports don’t mention you,” Emeline explained.

Marcus grinned. “Well, you wouldn’t. We were not the most… orthodox of businesses,” he explained.

Keshak nodded, looking to Emeline. Gangsters.

“Say what you like about us, but the Vehun are no heretics. Heresy is bad for business. What those fang-
men have been doing is… awful. Of course, we broke a few heads in our time, but that’s just the way you
do things here. These guys… mass murder, doping up folks and carting them away. Pillage, rape, carnage.
Not our style. So, me and the rest of the family hopped down here, into the old access tube system, and
waited those filthy bug-blokes out!” Marcus explained proudly, clanging his autogun against the metal
tunnel meaningfully.

“Old smuggling routes you see, in the good old days. Only us and the damn blue robes knew ‘bout them.
The brass had nothing on us, eh lads!”
His men murmured muted cheers.

“Where do these… holes, go?” Keshak asked gruffly.

“Everywhere. Nobodies mapped them all. You go too deep, and the blues get ya. But we know most
places. S’all we needed to know anyway,” the mob-boss shrugged, turning sharply at a cross-junction in
the metal tube they walked through, ducking low inside the increasingly cramped tunnel.

“Blues? Who are they?” the female Lychen pondered, as she glanced at the strange, coded messages
carved into the pipe’s walls by the Vehun. No doubt adverts for illicit trade or some such, she decided.

“Most folk say… said, they were cogboys. An old firm of cogboys, forgotten by the rest.”

“That makes sense. There was talk of a Mechanicus facility, somewhere within the city,” a quiet, almost
sibilant voice cut into the conversation, as Resh appeared behind Emeline. The Commissar nearly
jumped out of her skin. Keshak chuckled quietly, patting her on the shoulder.

“Don’t sneak up on me Resh! I know it’s in your nature, but there’s no need here!” she scorned.

Resh nodded. “I suppose. Do the cultists know how far the tunnels go?”

The man shook his head. “Dunno. They don’t know their way round much though. That’s how we’ve
survived so long.”

Keshak sniffed the air. “The tunnels reek of fear. Surely glorious combat is the only end one needs?” the
death cultist grumbled, running a clawed hand across the smooth, curved walls absent-mindedly.

Marcus raised his hands in mock surrender. “I never said we was brave. Just sensible. You hear the
scuttling, you get your head down. Or lose it…”
Silence fell for the next mile of marching. Eventually, they reached another intersection, and turned left.
Marcus (with Keshak’s ample aid) twisted open the rusting access hatch. Beyond the metal portal, a
wider tunnel, built from masonry, permacrete and adamantine ribs of metal, opened out.

“The old system,” Marcus muttered, as they hopped into the wider set of tunnels, which seemed
uncannily like some grand, elaborate sewer to Emeline’s admittedly amateur eyes. She wasn’t a
sanitation clerk (and thankfully so. Just thinking of the ecologies of Hive World Barbatum, her old home
world, made her skin crawl. On Barbatum, that was sometimes literal…), so could only guess at the
strange purpose of the tunnels.

Suddenly, the echoes of gunfire and rattling detonations resounded all around. The Lychen began to
growl like beasts, unhitching las guns readily. Keshak grimaced, pulling his shotgun from his back in
readiness, while yanking a curved machete from his belt in his off hand. Yet, Marcus and his men did not
flinch.

“Calm down guys. The sound carried strangely in these tunnels. High pressure winds or something,” he
shrugged. “Those sounds are much further away than you think. Probably one of the other hab layers, or
even the cult’s den for all we know,” Marcus finished, before gesturing right.

“The cult’s den? You know where it is?” Resh suddenly beamed.

“Course! Wouldn’t do us much good though. It’s suicide to try and storm it,” Marcus explained, rounding
on the Lychen huntsman.

“Oh don’t mention suicide. These guys leap at the chance,” Emeline commented wryly.

“Oh Blade Enforcer. I don’t intend suicide. I intend to murder these beasts. In their beds if necessary,”
Resh grinned, sliding his thin blade from his concealed wrist sheath, barely able to contain his relish.

“I have a plan Enforcer.”

###

The first of the ragged foe charged up the stairs heedlessly, yelling wordlessly and incoherently. Knives
and wrenches were clutched in bloody hands, and they charged like psychopaths, towards the waiting
provosts.

The heavy stubbers roared, as they stitched a bloody ruin amongst the foe from their position, perched
upon bipods at the summit of the stair well. Bodies burst and men stumbled backwards, riddled with
spurting wounds and blazing clothes. Yet, the horde of living, angry flesh surged again, the men many
metres down the stairs heedless and unaware (or unafraid) of the rattling death machines that killed
their fellows. They shoved into the rear of the mass of struggling men and women, forcing the front
ranks forwards whether they wished it or not.

Behind the stubbers, Provosts in dark, faceless armour, opened up with shotguns and las carbines,
adding to the carnage. Men were slaughtered n droves, some bodies pitched over railings, to the floor
below, or crushed in the mass of flesh that spanned the corridor. Festus sneered, as his bolt pistol fired
into the crowd aimlessly. There was no need. Every shot struck home, smashing whole people to paste
with the fiery detonations of his hyper reactive bolts.

“Drive them back!” he howled, gesturing towards the foe angrily.

Fire bombs were tossed by the crowds, but sensible Navy-men had already begun to raise their storm
shields as they crashed down, flames and boiling glass spilling across the energised implements. From
deep within the crowd, gunfire began to sporadically return fire on the foe on the stair well’s summit.
Most ricocheted from the walls, or fizzed as they struck storm shields. One found it’s mark, smashing
through the glass of a provost’s visor. The man went stiff and toppled into the crowd, and was there torn
asunder by the frenzied mob.

“Where have they got firearms from? Hold damn you! Hold!” Festus bellowed, his malevolent presence
keeping the more nervous of the stubber gunners in their place.
Suddenly, a runner burst into the main corridor, breathless and urgent. Festus stopped him with a hand
on the shoulder. “What is it man?”

“Rebels… stormed… stairwell six. Need reinforcements!” the man wheezed.

Festus swore… loudly… and at length.

Tossing the man aside, he snatched at his collar-vox. “All teams not engaged at stair well defence
sections! Converge upon stairwell six! Plug the gap before too many rioters trickle through. I’ll not have
this havoc you understand?”

Their were several buzzing replies, but Festus knew they were affirmatives, so ignored them. He turned
to the Sergeant, who stood in the stairwell, blazing with his multi-barrelled shotgun, eyes aflame with
rage.

“You hold this stairwell. I’ll lead the counterattack. Understood?”

“Yessir!” he blared, cackling loudly as he did so.

“Erm… good,” the grey-skinned man grunted, before sprinting off down the corridor.

He gestured for his cadets to hold, as they seemed to contemplate turning and following their mentor.

They’d fight like true Commissars, Emperor damn them, he cursed to himself as he sprang down the
corridor, howling alarms assailing him as he sped away in his high jackboots.

###
Deriss’s chamber was hastily found for him a few weeks previously, and already dozes of scrolls and data
slates lay strewn around the chamber, read and unread. The Inquisitor sat amidst all these leaves of crisp
parchment, slowly tapping at keys around one particular data slate. Darvius’

Deriss had almost cracked the slate’s many wards and seals. Whatever lay within the device was
damning in the extreme, if Darvius placed so much defences upon the single device. Still Deriss’ skills
were not paltry himself, and his deft fingers slid across the many complex keys like a pianist. Gene locks
were overcome with conflicting, overlapping instructions from the keys, info-deletion orders were
bypassed and scuttled Deriss’ flowing fingers,. Any details uncovered were then scrawled down by the
Inquisitor as soon as he deciphered any codes, before he swiftly inputted all he found into further code-
breaking sequences. He slipped between every etheric and mundane defence the machine had with the
silky precious of a crustacean. Soon he would have that Inquisitor.

Deriss would enjoy punishing Darvius for his dereliction of duty. Everyone knew the slimy Inquisitor was
covering things. Not just the data slate, or the diverted Tiberium crusade either. Imperial and
Mechanicum shipping vanishing without trace, tithes being raised on some worlds, without
administratum knowledge, the surplus profit raised then disappearing. Fleets diverted from sites
deemed ‘unworthy of attention’. The sheer fact the Rogue Trader Borus bestrode the sector like some
arrogant feudal Lord, his backing by Darvius making him untouchable. All these things tightened the
suspicion around Darvius like a noose. Yet, why did Darvius do this? What was his goal? Who did he
serve, and what, most importantly, lay beneath the armoured skin of the Azgoth mining machine city?
Deriss would find out, once the slate was decoded. Even the incessant wailing of the alert sirens couldn’t
dampen his eager joy.

Hanque burst into his sanctum suddenly, panting and sweating, his massive shotgun held across his
chest. It had recently been fired.

“’riss, I mean Sire, there are rioters! They’ve broken the cordon, and are in the upper decks! We’ve got to
stop them, before they overrun this whole place!” Hanque panted, cocking his shotgun.

Deriss frowned, necking the last of a very powerful spirit he was drinking from a decanter, before he rose
slowly from his seat, pulling his twin, long snouted las pistols from his velvet jacket. Carefully, he placed
the data slate within a flak-coated pouch hidden within his long coat. Darvius wouldn’t be spiriting that
away from him, Deriss mused as he rose.

“Fine, let us sort this mess out. You know, I’m far too important for naval security you know. I’ve got
certificates and everything,” Manikor Deriss complained whimsically, as he gestured to the door.

“Shall we go then?”

Almost as soon as they rounded the corner from Deriss’ chamber, a mad-eyed fanatic charged, club
raised hatefully. Deriss, almost dismissively, shot him between the eyes, as he ran forwards towards the
mob. A man clad in little more than painted rags raised a stolen lasgun. Manqué blasted him from his
feet with his shotgun, punching a fist-sized hole into the chest of the rebel.

The two agents of the Inquisition fired left and right, cutting down rebels wherever they raised their
crude weaponry. Hanque would stuff his near-cannon into a mass of foes and fire, maiming dozens,
before swinging into the melee, using his gun as a club. This is not what he envisioned for his life, he
mused, as he crushed the bridge of a woman’s nose beneath the butt of his heavy weapon.

Deriss was virtually dancing between foes, his fine pistols cutting down foes with rehearsed precision,
near impossible to achieve unless learned by rote. Still, a lucky blow with a piece of pipe smashed a
pistol from his hand. As he placed a bolt into the pipe’s owner contemptuously, he pulled his thin sword
from his waist, swinging into the bellies of three men. They stumbled backwards, holding in their innards
as they died. Within moments, the dozen-strong mob of murderers was a fleeing group of two, who fled
back towards the stairwell they had crawled from. One reached he stairs, the other flew sideways, their
head splattering grey matter across the opposite wall. The grim form of Festus emerged from the side
corridor, bolt pistol smoking.

Face like a broken cliff, Festus scowled at the flamboyant Deriss and his rotund assistant. The Inquisitor
bowed theatrically, while manqué merely nodded in embarrassment. Festus sneered, and turned
towards the stairwell, bellowing orders. By the time he had turned back, they were gone.

###
+++All passengers are reminded to fasten their safety belts, due to the massive revolt in progress!
HAHAHAHA!+++

The Orator’s strange tirades were growing stranger, as they reverberated around the entire vessel like a
sound-based plague.

“That guy’s starting to irritate me now. I think it’s time to put him down,” Deriss frowned, checking the
charge on his las pistol before sprinting off to locate the comms room from where the Orator unleashed
his corrosive speech.

Hanque sighed, as he loaded his weapon once more. Following the whims of Inquisitor Deriss was
becoming gruelling he decided. He briefly wondered how many days off an Acolyte got, as he struggled
after the lithe Inquisitor.

###

“Split up? Is this wise? We are already severely depleted in numbers. Your plan will weaken us too far
Resh!” Keshak argued, as he, Emeline, Marcus and the huntsman discussed he matter in hushed tones,
apart slightly from the rest of the camped group of soldiers and rebel fighters.

“I am merely suggesting I and Fenir take perhaps less than a dozen Lychen, and perhaps a single Vehun
guide, and we infiltrate the cultist’s palace. Cut the viper’s head from its body, before the beast realises.
Vash would command most of the soldiers in the other section. Vash and you would strike at the
storehouses of the cultists, cutting them off from them,” Resh finished, his tone hushed.

Emeline glanced over at Vash, who was already starting to recover from his stricken, heavily-medicated
state. He was still lying upon the shields, being attended to by multiple flesh tailors, who’s talons glinted
as they worked furiously on their giant Colonel.

“The Colonel will wish to strike the enemy also, I’d assume. I take it you feel this would be… unwise?”
Emeline said, completely deadpan.

Resh nodded, and Keshak smiled knowingly. “The old butcher is renowned his cautious demeanour,”
Keshak stated sarcastically.

All the Lychen grinned. “Point taken Kes, but I’ll still have to inform the Colonel that you are going to do
this,” Emeline explained.

“I understand. That’s why we have to go now. You let Marcus lead you to the stores. Take Vash with you.
He’s less likely to kick up a fuss while comatose. By the time he‘s at the store halls, he‘ll be combat ready.
Fenir and I shall take a dozen Lychen now, and the Vehun will lead us to the aliens’ black heart.”

They all agreed, and each cut a small groove into their arms with their knives, before swapping knives,
licking the blood from the weapons, before licking their own wounds. A Lychen oath.

Quietly, Resh went amongst the Lychen, who were sitting around talking with dull murmurs, or calmly
carving into their own faces, such was their eagerness to maim. He went to each in turn, whispering
something. Most shook their heads. A few nodded, and followed Resh as he led them from the group.
One masked Vehun conversed with Marcus, who took him by the head, kissing each cheek, before
hugging the masked man, and let him go. The Vehun led the way into the darkness of the eastern tunnel,
and soon the tiny group of warriors were gone, swallowed up by the terrible gloom of the vast stone
tunnels.

A few hours passed. Eventually, Marcus rose. “Its time. You want to take the store rooms, I’ll take you
there, but we aren’t getting involved you understand?” Marcus warned.

Keshak moved to stand in front of Marcus.

“You already are. Not even the Blood Emperor has enough skulls to barter your way out of this battle, my
friend,” Keshak explained not unkindly, grinning, showing his bloodied, silver fangs beneath his thick
matted beard. Marcus did not return the smile.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:57 PM

Chapter Nineteen.

Captain Hevlock, of the Cobra Class destroyer Daelin, gently tapped his fingers against the arm of his
command chair, as he gazed at the hololith display, which flickered and buzzed before his eyes. The
bridge was almost completely deserted. A skeleton crew, he sighed to himself. Nobody really cared about
destroyers on outer patrol duty. Only five other men were in the large hexagonal chamber with him. His
helmsman, his com man, the dull crimson-robed Tech Adept Buil, the female sensor officer, and
ordnance, a man (he had never learned the name of) with a bull neck and a direct link with the mile long
gun decks of Daelin.

Together, they passed the time in silence, barely passing comment. Minute, puny flashes far off in the
inky blackness of the void, was the only clue that they were not in fact, drifting aimlessly in a system-less
void. There was nothing except the endless cloak of stars shrouding them all around. No planets could be
made out with the naked eye, no other vessels. All was quite and dull. Patrols always were. The
kilometre-long warship had been travelling around the very edge of the Talaheim system for almost a
week, and there was nothing. The edge of the system was supposed to be an asteroid field, but as with
anything in the vastness of space, one rarely saw these asteroids. Occasionally, sensors would detect a
dull cluster of rocks and calculated a course avoiding them, but little else occurred.

Hevlock couldn’t even pass the time chatting with his friend Balisar, who captained the Garron trooper
transport. They were too far from them, and they couldn’t use the Luthor’s spear as a relay point,
because all vox traffic seemed to be down. Nobody was talking to anybody else. That was always a very
bad sign in Hevlock’s experience. He and his old girl of a vessel had fought in some of the most brutal
fleet engagements in all the 800s of M41. Never, no matter how dangerous the combat, did his fleets
fight without maintaining constant vox contact. It was standard practice.

When that broke down, ships got lost, and strategies failed. Several times, Hevlock contemplated turning
back towards the vague grey speck of Talaheim, to find out what was going on. But he quelled such
thoughts. He had orders. He had to make sure no enemy vessels had prepared themselves to ambush
the fleet without them realising. He was to report anything strange, and to destroy any foe if it arose.

The hololith depicted a light-minute wide sphere of space, all around them, in a glimmering green vision.
Normally, such as during a naval battle, dozens of flashing icons would be buzzing across it like flies,
depicting fighter wings, ordnance barrages, weapons battery trajectories, and the relative positions of all
ships in the local area.

However, just like yesterday, there was nothing.

Wait. Not nothing.

His interest was prickled, when an amber symbol began to flicker at the edge of the sphere.

“What’s that?” he suddenly asked, sitting up, gesturing with his bionic quill-finger at the anomaly.

“Not sure sir,” the sensor officer responded, flicking a strand of hair from her face as she bent over her
instruments to get a better reading.

“Sensors, get me some feedback from this. Is it armed? Is it a vessel?”

“I’m not picking up and weapon systems sir. It’s possible it’s just another asteroid.”

Hevlock shook his head. “No, look at its movement. It’s slow, but it’s heading inwards, see?” he pointed
out, getting her to zoom in on the hololith.

“Could be an elliptical orbit?” buzzed Buil, swivelling in his chair to see the hologram representation.
Zoomed in, the object was still indistinct, but was more obviously moving in a direct path.

“Anything on vox?”

The com man shook his head. “No transmissions of any wavelength of vox strength, as far as I can tell.
It’s inert.”

“Oh, it isn’t inert. Look at the radiation its chucking out. It’s either very hot, or very massive. And
whatever it is, it’s making a b-line for the naval combat zone. Helm! Plot an intercept course. Our time
has come,” Hevlock blared out proudly, returning to his comfortable chair, absent-mindedly stroking his
grey moustache.

“Aye sir!” helm yelled back formally.

Whatever it was, he’d find out soon enough, Hevlock beamed. Things might be getting interesting.

###

The enemy tank burst apart in a storm of blazing gears and ruptured fuel cells, blossoming in fire
spectacularly. Bazofzeck’s vanquisher continued on its charge, smashing aside the blazing ruin with its
heavy dozer blade as if the enemy tank was nothing. The Colonel himself was bellowing wildly, as he
gripped the heavy stubber of his cupola, strafing disorganised mobs of fleeing cultists with his barking
machine gun. Their bodies danced comically as they are pitched to the ground by the stubber’s shells.

At his back, two more Leman Russes trundled. Their crimson las cannon beams speared from their side
sponsons with deafening whines, each beam carving glowing rents into the side of buildings and tanks
alike. Molten metal ran like rainwater in the burning streets.

The tank squadron rumbled down the alley, ignoring the hurled rocks from the windows of buildings
looming either side of them. Their stub gunners merely swivelled round, cracking off careful bursts of
lethal firepower into the enemy strongholds.

The squad turned another corner in the labyrinthine, stricken hab layer, and were instantly under fire.
Autocannon shells detonated all around in a sudden flurry, flinging ruined road and rubble skywards. The
tanks carefully turned about, their heavy bolter hull weapons spitting a torrent of explosive shells
towards the enemy emplacement ahead. A simple road block; sandbags, tripod-mounted cannons, and
huddled hybrids, that was all. The heavy bolters blasted a gory ruin into the emplacement. Sandbags
were flung around ruptured. Cannons exploded and cascaded back to earth in torrents of fire, and
fleeing bodies were burst apart like balloons filled with spoiled meat.

Behind the blazing barricade, Bazofzeck realised too late, another armoured vehicle rumbled up. A
strange, six-wheeled armoured car, with a heavy battle cannon built into a fearsome turret, turned to
engage them. The left Russ was struck almost instantly, a vast explosive shell slamming directly into the
tank’s frontal armour. Waves of tidal fire washed over its fellows, as it was flung backwards like a toy,
sixteen metres, before smashing into the building behind it. More shells exploded all around Bazofzeck’s
group, filling the air with fire and whickering white hot fragments. He ducked inside his cupola, as a great
spar of metal, propelled by orange fire, struck his stubber , smashing it from its hinges contemptuously.

His Vanquisher reared like some great bear, as it drove over ruined ground-cars and human corpses with
callous disregard. Its massive cannon roared inhumanly, flinging a hyper velocity shell at its foe with the
force of a vengeful god. The penetration shell plunged through the side armour of the armoured car,
before smashing through its back in a horizontal mushroom of blazing debris. The enemy vehicle’s
innards were boiled inside, fire rippling from within.

The Vostroyan commander knew victory was nearing. The Hybrid’s had sent hundreds upon hundreds of
tanks to engage the Colonel’s armoured force. However, quantity was no substitute for his quality. In the
narrow streets and sharp corners of the hab city, their numbers counted for nothing, and the frightening
accuracy of Bazofzeck’s ‘armoured bears’ began to reap a terrible toll. His vanquisher alone had
accounted for seventeen enemy, and from the triumphant vox traffic, he knew his other squadrons were
having similar success. The Vanquisher and right hand Russ waited for a few moments, as the stricken
left hand Russ drove itself from the building it had been roughly blasted into. Its turret cannon was
crumpled comically, and its hull-bolter was now no more than a crater in the front of the Russ. Yet, its las
cannons were still active and humming. It would still be useful.

The squadron reached an open square, near the centre of the city level. It was like a tank’s graveyard.
Hundreds of tanks, some Imperial standard, some local exotic designs, some merely converted ground
cars and armoured trucks with turrets crudely built into them, all lay burning in the square. Through the
stinging smoke and searing flames, Bazofzeck could make out dozens of Vostroyan squadrons, rumbling
into the square from all angles. Victory was near.

At the northern edge of the square, the buildings formed a single, vast façade for a huge gate, which was
open. That must be the entry into the enemy stronghold, the Colonel assumed, brushing his moustache
with the back of his hand.

“Advance! For Vostroya and glory!” he screamed hoarsely.

However, even as the tanks began to form up into formation, further fighting vehicles surged from the
cavern. Fast buggies, with only three crew by the look of it, sped forwards. They were small and light, but
the heavy las cannons mounted on their backs made Bazofzeck take notice suddenly.

“Engage them! Quickly!” he roared, drawing his sabre once more.

Before his tanks could do so, dozens of the buggies opened fire. Their las canons were just as lethal to
Russes as they were to everything else, and two Imperial tanks detonated with a sickening boom, as
several buggies concentrated their fire upon the heavy vehicles. The Russes returned fire, but the
vehicles were nimble. Lucky hits from battle cannons, or sponson las cannons, destroyed multiple enemy
with ease, many more evaded these clumsy blows, raining laser fire upon their enemies with ever
greater vigour.

Behind them, Bazofzeck noticed large columns of Hybrid infantry, and even from his vantage point many
hundreds of yards back, he could make out the tell tale bulky shapes of missile launchers.

The battle was far from over.

###
Resh could hear the tank battle, even though he knew it was many miles away from his position. He
tossed such idle thoughts from his mind, as he silently crawled to the next covered position. Behind him,
a dozen shadows shuffled after him. Though obvious to Resh, he knew the hybrids would see nothing.
His fellow Lychen disliked such secrecy, but their mild grumblings were thankfully hidden by the sounds
of bitter war permeating the dense rat’s nest of a tunnel system.

Fenir was on the opposite side of this widest of tunnels, his shape broken up by his quality camo cloak.
Only when he shuffled forwards slightly, was he visible even slightly. Resh smiled at his colleague’s
professionalism. They’d need all he could muster, if they were to destroy the enemy at their source.

The single Vehun family member who had led them there, now lurked at the back. He was decent at
hiding, but infiltration should be left to the professionals. The entire group froze, as another squad of
hybrids marched from the vast gate at the end of the titan-sized tunnel. They wore faded fatigues and
stitched together rags, which inadequately covered their putrid, abhorrent forms. Extra arms and shifting
purple skin bulged beneath their clothes, giving them a misshapen and overly hunched walking gait,
which made them appear to constantly stagger like drunkards. However, unlike drunks, their reptilian,
yellow eyes were sharp and focussed, as their long tongues ran across their slack, disgusting lips.

For what seemed like an age, they wandered past, sniffing the air and looking to each other silently. Resh
noticed that the hybrid monsters never barked out orders, or joked with one another. He suspected they
didn’t need words to speak to one another. The thought made him shiver with faint disgust. The more he
disembowelled, the better he’d feel, he grinned. Slowly he approached the gate once more.
Unfortunately, before the huntsman could reach the heavy door, it ground shut with a grating rumble.

Resh hissed in mild annoyance. This made things slightly more difficult. Even if they could somehow
force the gate open, Resh had spotted the heavy auto cannon nests and stubber emplacements covering
the gate on the other side. Even if they evaded the heavy steel barrier, the storm of gunfire would shred
his little party as if they were nothing.

Fenir suddenly began his light rustling call, across on the opposite side of the tunnel. Resh could not tell
from looking at the vague, near-invisible lump that it was Fenir, but from the sound of his rustling muted
whistle, it sounded like he had found a way in. Resh gesticulated to the other Lychen, who grumbled
mildly at being forced into subterfuge. Nevertheless, when Resh broke cover and scuttled across in front
of the giant sealed doors, they reluctantly followed. Whereas the huntsman was like a liquid shadow
moving across the rubble-strewn pathway, the other Lychen scuffed and cursed while they shuffled on
their knees. Resh silently prayed to the blood Emperor (biting his lip and swallowing the blood to
complete the prayer) that they’d be more quiet within the enemy structure, but he doubted it.

The vast circular gate, which had seemingly blocked the entire tunnel off, was not entirely sealing the
cavernous cylinder of stone. Fenir had discovered an imperfection in the edge of the stone portal,
surrounding the huge gate. Testing a theory, the huntsman began to chip at it with a chisel-like blade. As
expected, large flakes of weakened stonework began to come away with alarming rapidity.

The stone must have been weakened by some ancient battle or conflict in Azgoth’s long and mysterious
history. Resh didn’t particularly care though, as he stuck his head into the ragged hole bored into the
stone by Fenir. The black air within was suffocating, and he instantly retracted his head. Black air meant
the oxygen in the tunnel’s air must have been oxidised out, in the form of rust or other products. There’d
be no breathing in there, at least until the air from outside began to filter in to them. However, Resh
could still scout ahead for his team, he realised, looking to the single Vehun rebel sitting at the back of
the group. A rebreather was clamped to his face tightly.

That would do nicely, Resh grinned.

###

Gunfire whipped all around, whining las bolts and barking autoguns coming together in a wild cacophony
of deafening warfare. Squads of Cadians moved up the streets, covered by the whickering fire of their
heavy weapon squads. One squad, constantly firing, would sprint from one piece of cover to the next, as
their fellow Cadians rushed to fill their gap in the chain of cover spanning the embattled streets of their
city hab layer.

Fire seemed to come from every angle, the blunt snouts of stubber guns the only sight of their foe inside
the various ruined buildings. Hybrids and monsters in the street were repeatedly put down by
concentrated las gun fire, each Cadian squad reaping a bloody toll amidst the foe. Respirators were fixed
into their helmets carefully, as the lethal gas of their hellhound-variants pumped the streets with lethal
black smog.
Henrick lead the charge. His power sword was sheathed in a scabbard at his hip, and a hell gun was
clutched tightly in his hands. He had once been Kasrkin, and he never truly lost his desire for frontline
duties. In many ways, Lord Gravean, trapped in orbit, watching the battle unfold, was more worthy of
pity than anything else in his opinion.

He was grinning beneath his mask, as he tossed a grenade through one of the traitor’s windows. As soon
as the thunderous boom resounded, followed by a torrent of smoke and fire, he and the Kasrkin he led
burst through the door. The first three enemy PDF men were dropped before they realised they were
killed, toppling over as the elite soldiers shoved past them. Men and half-men burned all around,
screaming and clutching at their broken bodies, broken by the concussive blast. Henrick ignored them,
putting them down as he passed.

Room by room, the Kasrkin swept, their assaults proceeded by grenades and a flurry of crimson fire.
Stunned hybrids staggered as they died, dropping guns limply in shock as they fell. A las gun erupted
with a volley of shots, even as its owner was bisected in two by a thin ruinous line of las bolts, striking
him in rapid succession. It was pure execution, as the Stormtrooper formation cleared the building
within minutes, before blasting the rear doors from the building, and sweeping out into the street
beyond it.

“North quadrant clear! Proceed to eastern-” Henrick began, before his Kasrkin leapt upon him.

Moments later, a wild burst of auto cannon fire flashed overheat, blasting a building behind them into
blazing wreckage. Henrick rose slowly, ears still ringing. To their left, a hulking PDF Russ rumbled from
the pall of smoke it drove through. Smoke which billowed from a dozen shattered bane Wolf chassis.
Their smog-weapons no match for the cursed adamantine of the enemy Russ.

Swiftly, the Kasrkin squad sprinted for cover, snapping off dozens of shots with their hell guns. Though
they couldn’t harm the Leman Russ, their shots were directed at the gunnery periscope of the Imperial
tank, dazzling its operator. This did not last long, and the Russ’ Exterminator auto cannon soon began to
howl, as it unleashed a slew of more explosive shots ahead.

They must be close to the Hybrid’s point of origin, Henrick concluded. The enemy vehicles could only
make it a short distance from their base, due to the impossible terrain of the particular layer of hab
complexes. While the enemy grav tanks did not have this problem, the ground-based enemy armour did.

They were forced to leap for cover, as the exterminator’s guns ripped up their fallen ground car, which
had served as their hasty cover. As if imitating the throaty growl of the main guns, the stubber gunner in
the vehicle’s cupola added the whine of his heavy machine gun to the awful din. One of the Kasrkin was
struck in the leg, as they rushed to shelter in the overhanging doorway of a nearby building. The man fell
silently, legs shredded into red paste by the roving stubber. As he fell, he span around, snapping off a
swift burst of fire. The burst blasted he gunner from his perch in a glorious spray of crimson, silencing the
hateful support gun.

Henrick cursed, as the Russ opened up once more with its cannons. With a kick, the door behind them
swung open, and they fled Inwards blindly, the doorway erupting in a spray of ferrocrete fragments and
sparks.

“Lieutenant Hatur! I want my sector cleared! Understood? Bring the fether down!” he howled into his
vox bead, as he ran through the stinking and abandoned building.

Even as he spoke, the walls closest to the Exterminator exploded inwards behind them, as the tank
calmly swept a spray of lethal auto cannon shells along the length of the corridor. Glass and fire slashed
at their backs as they fled for better cover. Suddenly, an exaltant boom rocked the entire building,
smashing the front from the building entirely. Slowly, the five men emerged from the now- wrecked
dwelling, and looked upon the Exterminator with bleary, dust-covered respirator goggles.

Dozens of missiles had swept into the vehicle from behind. The first had blasted he turret from its
moorings, and the next flurry of projectiles blasted apart the reactor of the sturdy machine. It was now a
turret-less, blazing ruin, riddled with gaping fiery holes. Yet, amazingly, it still rumbled forwards towards
the Kasrkin.

Sergeant Heptar, his half-bionic skull glinting in the flickering firelight that illuminated the city, scowled.

“Let us end this.”

They fired without stopping, advancing upon the burning tank as they did so. Their bolts were like a
constant, blistering rain. Their accurate shots struck at the gaping holes already smashed into the
machine, causing rippling explosions to shudder throughout the tank’s roaring innards. Eventually, listing
to one side, the ruined Leman Russ crashed into the wall of an adjacent factory complex, exploding
spectacularly in it’s dying moments.

Henrick gestured for his Kasrkin to follow, as he ran past the tank, turning a street corner to locate the
way the machine can come from. He soon found it. Looming upwards impossibly high, the main body of
Azgoth looked like some infinitely huge building, surging up towards the hab layer above them, which
looked for all the world like a grim iron sky, shrouding the entire battlefield.

Built into this impossible metal wall, was a vast hexagonal hole, seemingly plunging deep into the
structure of the mega-machine city of Azgoth itself. The façade of a factorium, which had been erected
across the entrance as a disguise, had long been cast down, as the enemy tanks had surged to confront
the Imperial Guard, and now the path ahead lay open, a crumpled false factory-front smashed at the feet
of the great tunnel mouth.

“Forwards Cadians of the 102nd! Converge on my position! Tonight the enemy will fall!” he growled, as
he led the charge into the consuming darkness of the tunnel. He knew the rest of his force would take at
least and hour to fully converge upon his weak vox signal, but Henrick couldn’t wait. He had to end this.
He would not be bested by degenerate half-breeds and mutant filth!

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:58 PM

Chapter Twenty.

Vash had roused somewhat angrily. He had thrown himself from the force shield litter, battering aside
many of his bearers. However, by this time, the army of Lychen was far too deep in the tunnels for Vash
to do anything about their course.
“Curses of blood! Who gave you whelps the orders to go down here? Was it that slime Resh? I’ll have his
heart!” Vash rumbled, making even Keshak flinch backwards, as he advanced upon the rest of his
soldiers, while they marched down into the darkness of the deep-tunnels.

Keshak was about to respond, when Emeline interposed herself between the Lychen, and their blood
drenched berserker of a Colonel. Lightning claw deactivated, she swung it across Vash’s face lightly,
cutting into his flesh in three shallow red grooves, that oozed a thin trickle of blood.

“I gave the order, as is my right as Blade Enforcer. You were incapacitated and in no position to lead.
Now, you will respect my position, Vash. Understand?” Emeline called out defiantly.

Secretly, her bowels were knotting, as Vash loomed over her. A mixture of fury and disbelief was written
across his bloodshot eyes, as his stinking metal maw opened and closed like a rusty drawbridge, dried
blood flaking from the brutal implements. Eventually, his jaws formed what equated to a smile for Vash
and he casually slapped her shoulder.

“I admire your spine Emeline, as ever! Now, tell me of this new mission of ours? I am quite capable of
taking charge once more, as you can see,” he rumbled in a disarmingly cordial tone, raising his arms in a
display of his fitness. The spiralling patterns across his devilish Colonel’s armour seemed to gleam in the
limited light of the deep tunnels. His armour was scratched, but obviously still potent, covering almost all
his titanic form. Carefully, he placed the devil helm over the top of his scarred skull, which clicked closed
with a crunch. He seemed capable alright, Emeline silently queried, as she looked upon the twisted
features of the armour‘s mask.

Capable of anything…

“We are heading towards the store halls, deep within the Cultists’ tunnel system. We’ll then destroy
them,” she replied coolly.

“Aha! Starve them out is it? Good! Good!” Vash bellowed happily, brazenly marching to the front of the
column of soldiers.
Marcus Vehun staggered backwards fearfully, as Vash walked right over to him. “You, slit-purse. I trust
you aren’t deceiving us now?” Vash asked warmly, yet tinged with an oily sense of menace that Vash
portrayed so well. Marcus didn’t reply with words, but simply nodded towards the towering giant, sweat
trickling down his neck in an unconscious nervous reaction.

“Excellent! Lead on!” Vash bellowed expansively, dried blood flying from his adamantine jaws, onto
Marcus’ cheek.

The store houses were a sight to behold. Great arching ribs of steel and stone seemed to reach up and
pierce the cold rocks above the Lychen’s heads, pushing the ceiling many hundreds of feet. This created a
vaunted chamber of unprecedented scale. Within the chamber, towering steel shelves groaned under
the weight of the produce they bore. Giant bushels of fruit sat like grossly pregnant burlap beasts, while
vacuum-sealed grox carcases piled upon one another in bizarre overlapping stacks of flesh. Tinned goods
and food processors jostled for space on the over burdened shelves. The Vehun turned their gazes from
the stacks, when they noticed pieces of human flesh pressed amidst the rest of the food. Emeline noted,
as ever, that the Lychen cared not for this barbarity. Indeed, most of the Lychen were simply disgusted
that the hybrid filth weren’t eating fresh human flesh, as the haemovore scriptures demanded.

“Dirty heathens. there is no soul in dead flesh such as this. It isn’t even bleeding!” Keshak growled like a
wild dog. Vash simply grunted.

The Lychen stalked slowly forwards through the food stacks of the storage halls. One could say they were
being uncharacteristically cautious, but Emeline knew better, as she slowly followed her Colonel, her
pistol clutched firmly in her grasp. The Lychen were hunting like wolves, gradually spreading out as they
moved forwards. The Lychen were no mere berserkers. They had the scent of prey it would seem, and
they were ready for anything. Although she did not like to admit it, Emeline could smell exactly what
they smelt too. Her nostrils had grown accustomed to the Iron tang of fresh blood. Even blood which still
flowed through the veins of the living. The blood she smelt here, however, smelt wrong.

It was hybrid blood.

The grim quiet of the stores was abruptly ended by the screech of a hybrid as he opened fire with a
heavy cannon, which was perched like an expectant eagle a dozen metres up on a store house shelf
stack. The bi-pod cannon roared deafeningly as it racked the side of the Lychen formation. Lychen
grunted and howled as they were ground up by gunfire, but their loose formation saved the full force
from coming undone. The blood-mad butchers spread out, lasguns and stubbers suddenly rattling and
cracking in retalliation to the hybrid assault. The cannon gunner was shredded like a stagnant corpse in
the rain, ripped asunder by las pulses. However, by then he was merely one amongst many hybrids, who
leapt up to engage the Lychen.

It was chaos. Laser beams and stuttering tracer fire illuminated the gloom, sending cross-hatching
patterns across the cold air. Amidst the storm of roaring fire, the growls of revving chainblades
resounded as a counterpoint, while the growling of feral monsters simply added to the din. Emeline
jumped for cover behind a shattered steel shelf, blasting away with her pistol as she sank into shelter
from the battle. Keshak roared defiantly, charging forwards at the head of a squad of his men. His
captured shotgun barked again and again, each barrage of lead pitching a hybrid soldier from his perch in
a spray of crimson justice. Other half-breeds hopped down from their positions, screaming the names of
their Magus and “Father-dearest!”

It made little difference to Keshak, who hacked them down where they stood. His machete chopped
down the first foe without any resistance, his head toppling to the ground wordlessly. The second
jumped down behind Keshak, chainsword whirring as the crazed monster swung it into Keshak’s back.
With uncharacteristic grace, Keshak spun on the spot. His shotgun parried the chain blade, but the
furious teeth of the weapon nevertheless snatched his gun from his clawed grip, smashing it to pieces.
This gave him a moment of respite, which he took advantage of to the full, lunging forwards to rip the
guides from the wrist of his foe, with his now-free hand. The creature howled and punched him
desperately. As the fist connected with his silver fangs, he clamped down. The punch snapped his head
back, but when Keshak regained his momentarily lost senses, he spat the hybrid’s severed fingers from
his bloody maw. The disarmed hybrid was now helpless to resist the Lychen Corporal’s hooked blade,
which split its chest in two with one double-handed blow.

The leader of the hybrids stood amidst the carnage, long robes flapping around his hunched form, which
was covered in barbed armoured plates like some vile armadillo. His ceremonial staff swung around in
his grip, gesturing for his underlings to engage the foes. Firil broke his cover, his wiry form darting
between the sporadic combats raging through the chamber. He screamed an all-too human scream, as
he planted his axe squarely in the chest of the stupefied hybrid leader. The gargling monster retched,
feeder tendrils splattering over Firil’s beard and cheeks slickly. Firil snarled, head-butting the beast
before it could respond. Dragging his blade free, Firil swung his axe around in a final, blistering arc, taking
the foe’s head from its hunched shoulders.
Vash took the fight to the enemy, furiously clambering up one of the many embattled shelf towers,
blood-flecked prayers of murder and glorious slaughter rising to his lipless mouth like bile. Several of the
ambushing hybrids realised the imminent danger they were in, hastily adjusting their aim to pick off the
colossal Lychen Colonel. Vash was too quick. The first foe thrust their rifle towards Vash, only for it to be
instantly snatched by Vash, pitching the unfortunate to the far distant ground. Onwards he climbed, like
a spider up a coiling thorn bush. Las pulses and growling barrages of automatic fire spluttered into the
Lychen formations below. Barely a dozen rounds were spared for Vash, the hybrids concentrating upon
the howling fanatics who were ensnared in their trap.

The Colonel finally reached the summit of the stack, instantly pulling his twin swords from his sheathes
as soon as his iron shod boots clanged upon the metal mesh. A pistol was raised. He hacked away the
gun and its accompanying hand within moments, before sweeping the second blade through the midriff
of another foe, spilling stinking intestines like a shredded morass of putrid mulch. His head connected
with the shrivelled muzzle of a third foe. Face smashed and leaking purple gore, the half human beast
staggered backwards, toppling from the stack to its howling doom. The one handed cultist took this
opportunity to leap upon Vash’s back. Vash felt the whisper of a blade scratching against his carapace
before he even heard the cultist gargle its insane language. Vash span around, his armoured elbow
crunching the pathetic monster’s collar. He slashed the broken soldier from the shoulder to the navel. It
took the startled enemy several seconds to realise it was bisected, falling to the ground in a sodden
mess. Vash took a swift bite of the few remaining human organs in the alien fiend, spitting out the vile
purple corruption which that had tainted the hybrid’s very birth.

These creatures were utterly disgusting to Vash, he considered with grim distain as he pulled his hell
pistol from his hip with a swift yank, before he opened fire upon a cluster of Azgothian killers standing
upon the opposing shelf. Three of the half-men toppled backwards limply, the others returning fire
unenthusiastically as they scuttled into what little cover could be obtained at the peak of the vast storage
shelves that dominated the cavernous chamber.

By now, vengeful Lychen were scrambling up the shelves by the dozen, howling and screaming pious
curses from their blistered lips. Hooked daggers and claws found easy purchase on the mesh surfaces of
the metallic storage structures. Soon, every level of the great cavern was filled with hungry, mindless
carnage. Vash stood atop his shelf stack like some heathen king of Ursh, his sonorous cackling like the
rumble of a struggling canal boat.

Emeline barely spared him a glance, as she organised the fight at the lowest level of the chamber.
Growling in her own gradually learned Lychen battle language, she lashed and kicked at the Lychen on
her level, ordering them into organised fire teams, each team of five reluctantly ducking behind cover. As
another wave of Hybrids thudded through the gloom ahead, the motive for the Lychen’s going to ground
became clear. The few Lychen guard that had the foresight to bring along longer ranged weaponry each
crouched behind cover, as their allies hurriedly hoisted the heavy weapons from their man-hide
harnesses. Within minutes, mortars and gore-drenched autocannons were set up. The arsenal flared into
life just when the lopping half-breeds lurched into view.

The din was tremendous. The cannons roared like metal lions, smoke and spiralling brass shells spinning
from their breeches, as the burning rounds traced gory patterns across the dense mob of cultist filth.
Mortar rounds whistled through the air, before clattering to the ground with hearty booms. Each
detonation sent a silver cloud of white hot metal flechettes in a thousand directions at once, shredding
foes by the score, their ruptured husks leaking viscera as they slumped to the ground. Lychen mortars
were designed to shred and rip, for it was the Lychen way. Blood had to be spilt, and flesh had to be re-
consecrated in glorious butchery, at range or up close with a blunt dagger; it made little difference.
Nevertheless, as soon as the reinforcements for the cultists seemed to break order and flounder, the
Lychen weapon teams wasted no time in charging forwards with their cudgels and their axes to finish the
slaughter in the correct fashion.

Firil and Keshak were in the thick of the fighting. Hands flashed all around, glinting blades taking legs or
limbs away in gory showers. Men and beasts were peeled, pounded and shattered. A Lychen to Keshak’s
left was beaten to the ground, a vile hybrid in rags pushing its facial fronds into every hole in the
Guardsman’s scarred skull. The man screamed a gargling scream, eyes punctured with a dull double pop.
Keshak span around to aid him, but another hybrid threw itself at him, jaws gnashing like a rabid shark.
He fired once, blowing its leg from its body at such close range. The charge of the cultist halted, Keshak
finished him with a backhand swipe of his blade, before hacking into the chest of another foe with the
forwards stroke of his weapon.

Firil swung around at the enemy, but they were everywhere. He felt the press of bodies all around him;
the stench of sweat and the tang of blood and grease clung to his nostrils. His body could barely move,
such was the bone-crushing pressure of the massed combat. He could only slash and maim, ripping flesh
from bone with his teeth, breaking shins with his heavy boots, opening bowels with his knives. It was not
war. It was carnage. It was bliss.

Vash lunged from shelf to shelf, cutting down any foe foolish enough to stand in his way, before tossing
their corpses into the maelstrom of blood and blades that raged beneath. Before long, the foe was little
more than a score of tiny bands of psychotic brawlers, vainly trying to match the out-numbering Lychen
foe’s own unrelenting murder. Vash contemplated leaping from his high perch, to ride the tide of
slaughter as if it were some vast sea stretching beneath him. However, Vash was more than a simple
weapon. He knew why the hybrids defended the storehouse.

“My brothers! Rejoice and kill! This foe is a disgusting perversion of blessed human flesh! They desecrate
even the dead with their sickening displays of freezing the bodies of men! They eat their food cold!
Disgusting fiends!” Vash bellowed to his Regiment, who hooted and jeered in response to Vash’s
prompts.

“Cold flesh? Let us warm it for them! Grenades! Incendries! Target the supplies! Burn it all!” Vash
ordered finally.

Those Lychen not engaged in finishing off the final few straggling hybrids nodded enthusiastically,
unhooking all manner of strange and unique explosives, that clung to their matted pelts and webbing
alongside their countless knives and serrated tools of laceration.

“Salvation in Slaughter! Salvation in Slaughter!” the Lychen seemed to all cry as one monstrous mass, as
they tossed their grenades into the stacked and heaving shelves of food and provisions. Flames raced
across the stores, leaping from shelf to shelf in greedy haste, consuming the grain and meat and tinned
preserves with equal destructive flare. Fire billowed and surged in every direction, white flashes of
phosphorus merging with the grim purple flames of plasma bombs going critical within the stacks. Eerie
orange light played across the roof of the stone cavern, as the Lychen danced between the many vast
pyres they had just created. Emeline looked upon the Lychen in the firelight. They looked all the more
like devils straight from the warp, she considered with a wry grin.

Such was the joviality and fierce, unthinking joy of the Guardsmen, most failed to notice the change in
the air, or the fact their hairs began to stand upon end. The roar of the flames even drowned out the
resonant grumbling hum of a grav engine…

The first shot was like a bolt of pure screaming starlight, flood the chamber with dazzling light. The
blinding sphere of plasma surged across the cavern, scouring a dozen Lychen from existence before it
slammed into a towering shelf stack with a great keening howl, bursting it apart in a spectacular
starburst. Vash, who had been chanting and laughing atop the stack, was cast down as it shattered,
tumbling out of view.

“Scatter! Move! Move!” Emeline shouted into her vox bead. Admirably, the Lychen followed her orders
without another word, darting into what cover they could find, wildly searching for the location of their
newest foe. It did not take long for the antagonist to reveal itself.

An Imperial grav tank. The Lychen were momentarily stunned into inaction as the venerable craft
hovered through the entrance they had travelled through mere hours earlier. Shaped vaguely like some
vast lozenge, bulky grav engines and short fins dominated its rear section, while a dull half-metal skull
and cog symbol was plastered across the tapering prow of the heavy machine. Just forwards of the grav
engines, a great turret swivelled slowly, tracking the scattering Lychen as it tried to find a lock amidst the
flaming rubble. Emeline’s eyes widened as its cannon seemed to glow ever more fiercely. It was
preparing to fire.

Another blinding ball of plasma rolled through the chamber, another vast detonation rocking the entire
cave chamber, flinging a dozen stacks skittering away on fire. Another cluster of fleeing Lychen flashed
out of existence, turned to less than ash within an instant. The Lychen returned fire from their mobile
positions. Countless crimson bolts scattered across the vessel’s thick metal hide harmlessly. Grimly, the
grav tank moved forwards, humming as it closed upon the beleaguered Lychen Guard.

Keshak dived for cover as the tank fired yet again. Ozone stink clung to his nose, and he felt the scorching
downwash burn his cheek and ignite his beard. He staggered and tripped, head rebounding from the
stone flagged floor with a crunch.

The Lychen dragged their heavy weaponry forwards, hurriedly pouring lethal barrages of firepower into
the implacable traitor vehicle.

Emeline sprinted westwards, fleeing to avoid the tank’s attention. She knew cover was useless here, but
she hid herself behind the smouldering ruins of a fallen storage stack. If anything, it might hide her for a
moment. She snatched a glance out of her position. The hovering behemoth had entered the twisted
steel jungle that was once the lower storehouse for the spider city Azgoth. As it entered this denser
environment, smaller turrets seemed to rise from culverts along the circumference of the war machine,
each laser turret spewing arcing beams of fire into the Lychen who fired at it from every direction. The
feral Guardsmen circled it like wary wolves, but nothing could get through its bulky armour.

Azgoth was becoming more and more of a sinister mystery to the Blade Enforcer. This was an outpost
world; a mere mining colony, clinging to a rock face on a frozen hell of a world. Yet, the technology the
alien cultists had managed to plunder from the world was staggering. Advanced defence grids, entire
armoured divisions, Grav tanks (a design of truly ancient and miraculous device). This world shouldn’t
have such technology. It shouldn’t.

No matter how much he repeated this mantra, Emeline could not alter the reality of the situation. Vainly,
she opened fire with her pistol, adding her fire to the mindless barrage of the circling Lychen.

Keshak rose slowly from where he must have fallen. The battle around him seemed dull and tinny. He
glanced around. Lychen screaming silently, their weapons blazing in strobing streams of light and fire.
Chainblades revved without sound, and blades were beating upon chests, the wild savage displays of the
Lychen looking almost comically futile in the silence. Eventually, he looked to where they were firing. The
Grav tank’s prow filled his vision, striking the Corporal square in the chest as he span about on the spot
in sudden shock. His shotgun span from his grip, his breath driven from his body by the relentless tank’s
advance. It burned his fingers to touch, but desperately clung to the thing’s frontal hull regardless. Only
his machete remained in his hand as the tank picked up speed. It seemed the tank’s drivers had noticed
him.

Other Lychen followed their leader’s example, leaping towards the tank, blades raised and lasguns firing.
But the tank was too fast now, and merely ploughed through them like wheat. Still, three more lychen
managed to clamber onto the wildly careering tank, which jinxed and skidded in an attempt to shake its
unwelcome occupants. A secondary turret swivelled to target Keshak, who swung his boot into the
edifice. This action span the turret on its axis, inadvertently sprawling Keshak even further across the
machine’s scorching hull.

One of the climbing Lychen stumbled from his precarious perch, toppling off of the tank with a yelp.
Another charged the war machine’s turret, raising his las gun for a point blank shot. The turret turned,
the lengthy barrel smashing the Lychen sideways, swatting him from the hull in a cascade of broken
bones and ruptured organs. The third ducked low to avoid it, defiantly hacking into the plasma cannon
ineffectually with his chain-bayonet, merely cracking the clear material covering the coils down the
barrel’s length. A secondary turret locked onto the zealous fool, hacking him in twain with a precision
laser strike.

Emeline rushed to the heavy weapon teams of the Lychen, who were hastily reloading their ordnance for
another barrage against the careering hovering menace, which sped around the chamber like a
wildebeest desperately trying to dislodge a lion from its hide. Keshak could just vaguely be seen on its
prow, clinging on for dear life while petulantly rapping against its hull with his gore-slicked machete.

“Target its underside!” Emeline yelled over the deafening noise of combat. A Lychen sergeant, his face a
mess of gory tattoos depicting skinned children, grinned a silver grin, before relaying her instructions to
the other gunners in the group.

Back on the speeding tank, Keshak was weakening. His chest and arms were hideously burned by the
radiating heat of the military vehicle. Ignoring his pain, Keshak howled furiously, relentlessly head
butting the single viable weak point he could locate; a small sliver of armour glass, signifying the driver’s
cockpit presumably. Laser turrets swept over and around the Corporal’s position, the turrets unable to
angle their fire at Keshak’s exact place on the tank’s own hull. As the thing span wildly in various
directions with a wild almost panicked rate.

Then, like the roar of some god of the deep, the Lychen weapons teams opened up with a resonant
series of blasts. Autocannon coughed and barked, missiles screamed like banshee wails, and the las
cannons constantly buzzed as columns of crimson light stabbed from them at regular intervals. This
storm of fire seemed to tracked the careening machine with staggering accuracy, pounding into the
under belly of the hissing humming war machine. With a shriek of sundered metal and a blinding flash of
white, the tank’s right flank engines were blasted from existence. This shunted the entire vehicle directly
to its right, as the left grave engines became its only guiding power.

Like a top cast aside by a bored child, the tank was tossed virtually the length of the chamber, ploughing
into one of the vast shelf stacks that crowded the chamber like silent sentinels. The towering structure
wavered for several agonising moments, yet the shelf did not finally topple.
That is, until the hulking form of Vash clambered up the side of the shelf, bringing it crashing down with
a discordant whine of tortured, buckling supports. Keshak lost his grip as the tank struck, flinging him to
the ground with a careless thud.

Vash rode the collapsing shelf all the way to the ground, howling in triumph as his crimson cape whipped
behind his descending form. The tower crashed with a deafening clang, smashing into the middle of the
grav tank, which crumpled almost bisected by the blazing stack of supplies. Even as the tank’s driver
vainly gunned the engines to escape, the fiendish, blood drenched Colonel clambered onto the hull.
With an enraged snort, Vash reversed the grip on one of his power sabres, before plunging it directly
through the sundered glass visor of the cockpit. He heard something grunt and gargle, as it burned on
the end of his glowing blade. As the driver died in darkness and scorching heat, so did the tank.

The other half of the broken hybrid tank, however, was not dead. The plasma cannon began to power
once more, channelling searing blue energies into its coils as the gunner prepared to vaporise the brute,
that stood atop the sundered vessel, yelling and bellowing in incoherent triumph. It was only then that
the gunner realised that the plasma cannon’s coils were damaged by its Lychen attackers.

Vash would have died then, as the grav tank’s weapon overcooked in a spectacular ball of pure and
nightmarish fusion, if Keshak had not intervened. The Corporal tackled Vash bodily. Impossibly, Keshak’s
forceful lunge actually succeeded in shifting Vash’s bulk, dragging the Colonel away from the expanding
sphere of white.

The two men struggled in the deafening, blinding area around the detonation, bewildered and
spluttering. The very air itself was filled with dust and smoke, which scolded their lungs even as they
attempted to breath. Vash flailed, kicking Keshak aside, unsure whether he was his foe or his saviour.

Plasma rolled from the sphere of energy, striking the bedrock of the chamber’s rear wall as the weapon’s
final discharge charred the stone into formless black ash, which simply crumbled under the punishment.
And, with that, the plasma reactor was spent, leaving nothing but a black hemisphere of molten steel,
and two stood-coated Lychen, who were wrestling with one another thoughtlessly. It was only when the
rolling flames of the explosion subsided that Vash realised the folly of his struggles, and released his
Corporal from his grasp. Vash smiled, his devil-like mask combining with his bionic jaws to make said
expression seem ludicrously sinister.

“My apologies Kesh! You spared me from a blood-less death, and I thank you!” Vash rumbled, as he
helped Keshak to his feet. Keshak responded with an elbow to Vash’s throat, making him temporarily
gag. Both men then laughed grimily.

The great palls of banking smoke eventually rolled aside, as the rest of the Lychen approached, howling
and cheering, blades and growling chain-implements waving in the air as they voiced their delight.
Amongst them, Emeline strode, her crimson hair slicked backwards with wet gore, her claw dripping and
smoking.

“Victory! Remember this day, though the flesh of the foe is denied you! I promise we shall have such a
feast when this day is carried, that we will drown them in the broken bodies of their dead, and strip their
flayed carcases of every morsel of human flesh their alien nature has defiled,” Vash was yelling over the
curses and chants of his men. Only Emeline was not cheering.

This was not due to any inherent disgust on her part (for she was far beyond the point where the Lychen
disgusted her. She had devoured enough men now to make any thoughts of squeamishness seem rather
hypocritical of her). The reason she did not join in her regiment’s bestial joviality, because she focused
her vision upon the ruptured stone of the cliff face. Instead of simply burrowing a crater into the cliff, the
blast had burned directly through it. It had burned through, straight into another chamber beyond. A
chamber which was on no map. A chamber which even the criminal rebellion of Azgoth had no idea
existed. She pointed this out to Vash wordlessly.

The hulking Colonel turned his head slowly toward the wound in the mountainside which had so gripped
his Blade Enforcer’s attention. Rusting drool dripped from his jaws, as they opened and closed with a
metallic groan.

“Now that’s interesting,” Vash mused.

###
++The Flesh Crypt is breached. The Flesh Crypt is breached. Defence protocol seventeen enacted++

The dull servitor drone echoed throughout the deep eternal twilight of the endless caverns. Slowly, a
man clad in deep blue robes turned to glare at the vox speaker screwed into the adamantine cavern wall.
His face was a frail pale thing, which framed a speaker grill that erupted from his face like the muzzle of
some sort of mutt.

The warning system had not sounded in decades, and it took him a moment to realise what it meant.
Silently, serpentine mechandendrites slide from within his heavy robes. Their manipulator mandibles
tapped at the vast array of unbelievably complex consoles and devices.

As he did so, the lumen globes fixed to the ceilings of the coiling corridors of the Crypt began to hum and
glow. As the globes roused themselves, so the countless masses of stationary servitor bodies arrayed
around the central passageway began to writhe and struggle, their augmetic joints forced into life by
their newly-awakened meaty brains. They rose, pulling themselves up like dead men ripping up from
their own graves, sparking and hissing as their servos compelled the machine constructs to shuffle jerkily
towards the location of the breach.

The Crypt must be sealed, at all cost.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 06:59 PM

Chapter Twenty One.

++Gravean! This is a closed channel. I do not want the rest of the fleet getting wind of this you
understand?++

The slightly distorted, yet undeniably forceful, voice of Raventium boomed through the Lord General’s
vox, located within his private chambers on board the Tostig, which was still stuck doing nothing, as the
rest of the fleet (sans the Luthor’s Spear) eliminated each of the lazer orbital defence grid of the world
that span beneath them.
“What do you want from me Admiral? My soldiers are mostly deployed on the planet. There’s not a lot I
can help you with. Unless you just called for a nice chat, in which case this is hardly the time,” Gravean
responded sarcastically.

++Be silent, Guardsman! This is serious. My gundecks... they are in revolt. The whole ship’s gone mad!
My security are doing their best, but they can’t hold off the entire damn serf crew. I need soldiers. I need
you to get my gun decks secure.++

Gravean scratched his ebony scalp testily, looking over his logistical readouts and manifests. “As I said
Admiral. I don’t have enough men to hand. Wait-“ Gravean paused, as he rooted through the various
status reports spilled across his fine oaken desk.

“Yes! The Garron! She still has half of the Mordian regiments on board, who failed to deploy in the first
wave. I’ll send them your way. It’ll only take a few vox messages with the Garron, and I can get you your
soldiers.”

++Perfect!++

“You just make sure the starboard shuttle bays are open, and we’ll see what we can do. Gravean out,”
the General shouted down his vox, before switching channels on the vox.

“Helm! Get me the Captain of the Garron! Now!”

###

“They have broken through the upper deck cordons! The blasted heathens are nearing!” Sister Superior
Jalia exclaimed, her scarred, shaven head strangely at odds were her perfect, beautiful clarion call of a
voice.

Darvius always found her voice rather odd. She always sounded as if she were singing, so smooth and
powerful was her voice. If he wasn’t so cynical, he’d have called her voice inspiring.

“I know what you want to ask my child,” Darvius smiled, affecting a weary, humble smile. “You wish to
take the fight to the enemy, yet you’re stuck guarding this old man,” he continued, putting on his best
‘kindly old patriarch’ impression.

Jalia smiled, her once pretty smile distorted by the five inche scar which split her lip up from her lip to
the top of her right cheek. “You know us so well, honoured Lord,” she replied silkily.

Darvius raised his hand, kissed it, before gesturing to Jalia, who knelt before him to receive his touch. He
gently pressed two of his digits to her non-scarred cheek. She felt warm to the touch, yet unyielding as
stone.

“Go, my child. With the blessing of the Inquisition. I can look after myself, have no fear. Make these
heretical dogs pay! Ave Imperator!”
“Ave Imperator!” the seven Sisters of battle called back as one. Jalia bowed once, before flicking her
helmet upon her head, and led her Sisters out into the battle further down the ship.

Darvius waited until the sisters had disappeared from the chamber before he moved. With a flourish, he
threw his bed sheets aside, and jumped down from his men, almost tripping over. His foot had only
recently been re-attached. It took some getting used to, he begrudgingly admitted, as he limped over to
his locker, ripping his white medical robe from his body. He dressed within moments, throwing his jade
jacket over his shoulders hastily as he fought to put his boot on. Not boots, he realised suddenly. The
frakking assassin had cut his other boot in half, when she had tried to murder him. He grunted in rage,
while sheathing his power knife at his belt.

He had to find Deriss and his chamber. He needed that data slate. All his plans would unravel without it.
As he left the room, he noticed the lifeless humanoid, bound within the wall by cables and wiring. The
figure’s eyes stared at him; one a lifeless white orb shrivelled in its socket, the other a large bionic eyes,
that swivelled to focus upon him. He shot it to pieces without a second thought, a dozen needles from
his pistol shattering the lens with ease.

“Layla! Where are you! I need you here as soon as possible. Forget the assassin. We have bigger
concerns!” Darvius hissed into his wrist vox, as he limped down the corridor, away from the sounds of
gunfire and the echoing screams of the dying.

Static met his call for a moment. Then, the faltering voice of his Interrogator returned to him.

++Affirmative Lord! I’m... I think I’m in one of the stairwells... sixty four I think! Heading towards your
position! Most of the routes are cut off by rioters! Location of Jaxx unconfirmed! ++
“Nevermind Jaxx! Just get back here, and meet me at the chambers of Moniker Deriss,” Darvius growled,
before shutting off his own vox.

###

Sparrod sat upon the chair within the comm. Room, his heavy stolen boots resting upon the bank of
bulky vox machines that crowded the cramped little den, nestled deep within the drifting living city that
was the Luthor’s Spear.

Well, it was the Luthor’s Spear, Sparrod considered with a chuckle, as he took another draw of his lho
stick, blowing faintly purple smoke into the air, creating a hazy atmosphere around his tightly combed
and close-cropped hair. The Luthor’s Spear may have once been a domain of stifling regularity and
mundane boredom. Now it was much more interesting. Sparrod had carefully destabilised the entire
battleship. All it had taken was a few bullets, and a few select words.

He grinned widely, metal fangs glinting in the gloom, gazing at the distorted greyscale monitors that
filled the chamber, depicting various images captured by the numerous servitor cameras placed
throughout the monolithic vessel. It always brought a warm smile to his face, when he considered how
fragile order was, and how easy it was to break. He looked upon Raventium, who was yelling silently in
the wavering pict image, his cloak flailing about his blustered frame, as his bridge staff stumbled around
in organised panic.

“What’s the problem Raventium? Can’t fight a war without guns eh? Poor dear!” Sparrod mumbled, as
he hungrily devoured a celebratory iced bun he had been storing in his stolen officer’s uniform, spraying
crumbs over the screen as he laughed out loud. He soon turned his attention to the other monitors.

Though the servitor monitors only covered the civilised decks, everywhere he looked, the lower deck
scum filled the images. Ragged masses of human flesh, their eyes wild with zeal and mania. Officers
were dragged down under the masses of bodies, beaten into bloody messes by wrenches and pipes, or
ripped apart by madmen with stolen firearms, who emptied shotguns into the bellies and faces of
cowering staff. Tattered banners of crude painted Aquila waved as the people charged in their frenzy. The
irony made Sparrod cackle once more, throwing the remains of his bun at the sealed door behind him.

Yet, not everyone was falling into madness. With a frown, Sparrod noticed several areas where the
progress of his degenerate madmen were thwarted. Around the decks nearest the bridge, Naval
Commissar Festus and his gaggle of grey jacketed Cadets marched down the wide corridors of the upper
levels. Each of the cadets were armed with shotguns and bolters. Everywhere the few zealots managed
to break through the cordons around the stairs and lift shafts, they would shred them with gunfire
mercilessly.

Around the medicae deck, Sparrod noticed the distinctive armoured forms of the Adepta Sororitas under
their Sister Superior Jalia. The seven armoured females all wore their ostentatious , and cradled their
ornate bolters with righteous fury. Jalia bore a flamer pistol, which spat burning fuel at the first
onslaught of men who blundered into its lethal path. Even before the silently shrieking men were dead,
Sparrod watched the sister rip them apart with their chainbaldes and razor sharp sarissa-blades. The
Sisters were moving outwards from the medicae deck. Briefly, Sparrod glanced at the internal servitor
pict image. Nothing but a static flash of formless noise. The Inquisitor was evidently on the move, and
didn’t want to be observed. Fair enough.

“You are a devious fellow Darvius! Yet another element in the chaotic tapestry I cannot control. I love it!”
Sparrod called, dropping his lho stick into his lap, making him leap up from his seat in alarm.

It was then that Sparrod noticed the fop and his overweight henchman on one of the pict monitors,
marching towards the comm. Room, weapons drawn.

“That’s my cue I believe!” Sparrod shook his head, before gingerly picking up the intercom microphone.
Carefully, the cultist broke open the back of the device, adjusting the frequency rituals with a deftness
born of unnatural centuries spent abroad in the galaxy. With a final click, he opened a link with his ally,
located within the Lychen troopship. Sparrod was not the only one to infiltrate the Lychen long ago. He
had minions who were almost as mad as himself. His work on the Luthor’s Spear was reaching its zenith.
He had to take care of his vendetta against Emeline before he could complete his chaotic purpose upon
the vessel.

++Alhaim here, state your... Is that you little Sparrow? Its about time you maniac! I’ve been waiting for so
long! ++

A serpentine voice coiled from the vox.

“Did you do what I asked?”

++ Of course Sparrod. You have no idea how hard I worked to get Vash to wear the armour of Harst. Now,
shall we proceed with the ceremony? ++

“Of course. I’m sure you will do marvellously Grazer,” Sparrod smirked, before dropping the vox and
fleeing the scene.

###
Hanque blasted the hinges from the sealed door, his shotgun booming twice for each armoured hinge.
Once the seals were broken, he and his new Master, Deriss, booted the portal open with a single strike.
Deriss drew his pistol and aimed into the chamber.

The Orator would die for his rhetoric, Deriss decided with the calm clarity only an Inquisitor could
muster. He cursed loudly as he found the chamber completely empty, aside from a single lho stick, which
still smoked upon the floor.

“He was here,” the Inquisitor scowled, holstering his pistol disappointedly.

###

She was a liquid shadow, her body lithe and supple as oil as she easily leapt between the thick piping of
the the industrial heart of the vessel. Occasionally, the routes were too narrow for her to bound
between gantries and walkways, so she instead crawled beneath them, stalking beneath the passages
with panther-like grace. She watched with blank apathy as the blundering, boisterous menials and
ratings shouted and charged through the underworld of the Luthor’s Spear, calling out to the Orator and
the Emperor. She coiled through gaps too small for normal humans, and vaulted passages too far for
mortal men to traverse.
Her augmented eyes could see through darkness as clear as day, and her very soul was turned towards
her new goal, her eery thought turned towards the next objective. Destroy the artefact. In order to do
so, she would have to obtain transportation to the planetoid. Already, her advanced sense of smell could
detect the bitter tang of Starhawk engine fuel, and the sweaty scent of flight deck provosts in their void-
suits. She was close.

Then, as she wriggled through a connecting air vent, she detected another scent, emerging from behind
her, several hundred metres above. It was the scent of incredibly efficient plasma reactors, twinned with
the scent of poorly preserved human meat and offal. The dark figure. The false man who served the
Inquisitor. Evidently it was on her trailer. Come to assassinate the assassin. If the Shadowfall had the
inclination, it may have felt a sense of irony then.

However, she had no time for such things. If this machine sought to impede her mission, it would have to
be eliminated. She only just managed to turn, as something black and vastplunged down towards her.
The machine landed on the pipe with its full weight, denting the pipe until it was a distorted ruin, leaking
steam from a dozen sudden stress tears. Slowly, the giant wraith-like figure rose from his self-made
crater, wreathed in steam like some ethereal mist. Only its terrible glowing blue eyes illuminated the
shadowy machine, as it turned towards the prowling feline assassin. Her fierce goggles glowered at the
machine man, glowing as two green pin pricks of light amidst the stealthy darkness of her own synthskin.

The two beings of shadow passed around each other. They had nothing to say to each other. They both
knew their missions. The Shadowfall leapt, drawing her glittering green phase blade as she corkscrewed
through the air towards her opponent. Sparks flew, molten steel spraying from a dozen gashes slashed
into the piping where the metal man had once been. She rolled to avoid the mechanical repostes of her
foe. Arcs of silvered blades span and carved the ai around the Shadowfall, and she flowed between these
lethal strokes of the tall cold figure. It was so fast. Every blow she attempted to land was battered aside
by the impossibly swift and powerful limbs of the thing. It was easily the strongest opponent, for its size,
she had ever encountered. It mattered not, somehow she would eliminate it. She leapt upwards
suddenly, kicking out with her slender, lethal feet. The head of the mechanoid snapped backwards, and it
tumbled from it platform into blackness. That could only ever be a delaying measure.
Shadowfall sprang away from the tumbling figure, cscrabbling for purchase on a small overhanging
loading crane, using itto propel her down another shute. She barely even made a thud as she landed
upon the smooth deck. It took her a moment to adjust to the new light level of the shuttle bay. The
chamber was incredibly vast and well lit, two rows of vast starcraft, idling in their bays like roosting birds
of prey. Around the craft, hundreds of void-suited men rushed between these behemoths like hungry
mites, their goggles adding to the insectoid appearance.

The Shadowfall slew the first man who turned towards her speeding dark form. She had to be swift. Even
as the man’s head tumbled from his shoulders, she was already stripping his body, her flesh molten as
she sought to emulate his form. The provosts were panicking like a mass of confused cattle, with an
unseen wolf within their midst.

Jaxx entered the chamber scant moments later, his inhumanly powerful limbs ripping through a heavy
mesh barrier barring a deep culvert. His cold blue sensors tracked across the mass of provosts. The
directive to slay the assassin burned in his programming like some vast and hideous brand. Yet, he could
not find the shape-shifter. There were too many variables. Too many menials and provosts were running
across the deck, yelling incoherently as they fled in random directions. The assassin was too well hidden,
even the provosts themselves could not distinguish themselves from the trained murderer. There was
only a single logical method to eliminate the assassin.

With cold machine efficiency, Jaxx charged into the mass of frightened men and women. Slowly and
deliberately, his wrist blades flashed out, hacking down the startled figures one at a time. Blood
fountained across the shuttle bay, as Jaxx calmly massacred everyone within reach. His victims did not
fall easily however. Many turned their improvised weapons upon the mechanical terror, lunging to
engage the swirling maelstrom of bladed death. Jaxx killed them all the same. It was utter anarchy. Yet,
Jaxx’s mind processed this anarchy with practiced precision. Seventy of the provosts were fleeing
towards the exits, thirty were simply cowering upon the floor, masks discarded in their fear. Sixteen
vainly charged Jaxx, cudgels and blades raised in mindless desperation. One was sprinting towards the
nearest Stormhawk, carefully utilising some sort of complex buzzing device to overcome the magnetic
lock upon the rear hatch of the vast star craft.
Jaxx’s head snapped around, focussing upon this anomaly. It took him moments to slay those few
provosts impeding him. Moments was all the assassin needed to break into the hawk, before swiftly
slamming the hatch sealed behind her. The machine’s cold lenses swivelled into points (the closest to
rage Jaxx could ever get). He broke into an ungainly, inhuman sprint towards the giant vessel, wrist
blades drawn.

As a strange twist of fate, just as the assassin entered the hawk, the titanic gates that dominated the
entire far side of the chamber began to rumble open, automated systems activated by Raventium’s
instructions on the bridge, who was preparing to receive the Mordian reinforcements he desperately
sought.

Jaxx was mere feet from the hawk. The Shadowfall reached the crew compartment, her ingrained
genetic training instantly recalling her ability to pilot such stellar vehicles, her sinewy hands roaming over
the controls with ease. The Iron Man reached the hatch, and began to pound upon the solid
adamantium barrier, joints squealing as the android pounded upon the door with ever greater force. His
directive burned ever brighter and hotter in his prosthetic mind, driving him to furiously pummel the
portal over and over.

With an unconcerned expression upon her slightly fluid features, the Shadowfall activated the ship’s
engines. With an almighty roar and blast of unfathomable heat, the thrusters mounted behind the large
sleek craft powered up. Jaxx was buffeted by the blast of the back-wash, which swatted him bodily over a
hundred metres. This colossal unleashing of energies propelled the sizeable craft across the polished
shuttle bay floor, speeding towards the opening gates. Shadowfall twisted in her seat, kicking the landing
gear controls with a perfectly placed heel. The undercarriage folded away, just as she reached the
gateway. The ship only just made it, the turret mounted upon the dorsal zone on the 30 metre craft was
ripped off as she drove the ship through the narrow opening in the bay, and out into the void beyond.
Jaxx, still ablaze, rose from his prone position. He had failed. Directive not complete. The mechanoid
finally lost itself, threw its head back and howled a harsh scream of binary static through its vox grill.

###

In the noiseless dark of the void, the Shadowfall’s craft, a speck of dust compared to the glorious majesty
of the Luthor’s Spear, sped away from its uncaring parent with a contrail of fire. Within minutes, the
vessels was naught but another twinkling light in the great black canopy of space. She had set
coordinates for the besieged world beneath the fleet. Space, of course, is vast, and she anticipated she
would reach her destination in approximately 1.5 solar days, Terran standard. She could wait.

Another lumbering behemoth of metal and machinery, the Garron, turned slowly like a whale towards
the Luthor’s Spear. It was not a swift process, and it took several minutes for the puny manoeuvring
thrusters clustered about the craft’s blunt snout to turn it to face its larger sibling. Like a yawning
monster, prow hangar bays opened, vomiting forth stout, finned craft, which began to blaze from their
aft sections, powering towards the beleaguered battleship.

Though too far apart to see clearly, each of the individual Imperial gods of the void constantly adjusted
themselves in space. The Molvius, Rogue Trader Borus’ sleek and ostentatious warship and trading
vessel, and the majority of the fleet’s escort craft had successfully pounded the powerful defence
batteries of Talaheim into molten slag, which even then was setting into strange spider-like patterns as
the void chilled the metal instantly. Batteries eliminated, the majority of the larger vessels of the fleet
began to close in upon the freezing ice world, entering into closer orbits, confident of their space
superiority now.

Relatively few of the Cruisers and warships spared much effort in investigating the mild special anomaly
at the edge of the system. They did not realise that said anomaly had only came into existence within the
last twenty four hours of the campaign. Nobody seemed too concerned that Captain hevlock of the
Destroyer Daelin had not responded to hails in over seven hours, or that his last known position was
with a light minute of the growing anomaly.

The anomaly itself appeared as a great red storm cloud, which impossibly, seemed to churn and roll
across the void as if it was blown by winds. Dark shapes moved unseen within the great mass of red
clouds. Furthering the surreal storm imagery, flickering green lightning occasionally flashed from within
the disturbing storm formation. As it spread, something dark was spreading with it. An insidious sense of
dread, gnawing behind the eyes of almost every psyker within the fleet; a nameless horror they could
not articulate adequately.

Something was coming. Something had arrived...

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 9 2010, 09:13 PM

This story isn't dead. The last two posts were written mere days ago, and I will be updating this semi-
regularly.

Posted by: Wordsofduality Apr 10 2010, 03:47 AM

Yay!

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 10 2010, 11:03 AM

Thanks Wordy!

A question to everyone: Is the plot hard to follow? I realise I have created many characters for this, and it
may be a bit unruly. Am I doing ok?

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 10 2010, 10:51 PM

I seriously need feedback about that characters and plotting query. I don't want to finish this story, then
someone tell me it makes no sense.

Posted by: Wordsofduality Apr 12 2010, 02:34 AM

I WILL READ THIS

Tomorrow I will surge through it and give you some feedback.

S'least I can do.

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 12 2010, 04:02 PM

Ta wordy!

Any more of a Heretic and a pirate written? I'd love to read more of that also.

Posted by: Wordsofduality Apr 12 2010, 05:16 PM

Bit of a block hit me the past week, but I'm soldiering through. Expect more in a few days.

A few chapters in now, and it flows fine for me at the moment. I didn't get lost when I read the last
Lychen story, so I see no reason why I shall here!

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 12 2010, 05:43 PM

Well, there's a lot more characters in this one, for one.

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Apr 18 2010, 01:02 PM

Just reread this, and I'm enjoying it immensely, LL!

On your question, I found the plot pretty easy to follow. There's an awful lot of mystery, yes, which is
only a good thing, but it isn't particularly confusing. Then again, I've just read the thing in around 4
sittings, so I've probably got an advantage of having it all in one go. If it's updated only semi-regularly
then it would probably be somewhat more difficult to follow.

Also, on the end of the latest part; SCREEEE!!!

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 18 2010, 04:03 PM

Rightio Mustard! Thanks for the feedback.

On the scree note. Oh my yes...

I'm glad that, as a whole, it is easier to follow. I think perhaps I should either update more regularly, or
alternatively wait and create several updates before posting them up.

I have planned all this out in advance by the way, right up until half way into Flesh Withers. Just so you
guys know I'm not just randomly updating. I have an endgame in mind have no fear!

Posted by: LordLucan Apr 21 2010, 07:48 PM

As if by magic!:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty Two.

Leshi was scrabbling through the darkness, her claws scratching against the close walls of the tunnel
which enclosed her lithe form. Her breath came in odd, metallic rasps as she sucked in air through the
rebreather which was fastened to her brutal features. The tunnel had a damp, stagnant stench to it,
which overcame even the filters on her borrowed mask. Her gore-stained billhook slapped against her
muscular thigh, and her bear pelt was tied around her waist.

Much to her annoyance, she had had to lower her crimson cowl as she had pushed the mask around her
skull. Still, it was the only way to traverse the long tunnel which bypassed the heavy gates of the cultist
den. The very air of the passage was afflicted by black damp, which ripped the oxygen itself from the air.
Eventually, mercifully, light spilled from the terminating tunnel exit. Though the light was nought but the
dim torchlight of a Lychen Huntsman, it was positively blinding compared with the utter absence of
illumination afflicting the tunnel. Her hand reached out blindly, before she felt the strong warm palm of
Resh close around her own, pulling her bodily from the narrow confine. As soon as she was released
from her torment, she hurriedly ripped the mask from her face and took a dozen lungfuls of air, before
hoisting her penitent cowl over her face again, concealing her beautiful blue eyes, that shone like perfect
marbles within a cross-hatching of cuts and wounds.

“The Emperor protects the frenzied,” Resh muttered in her ear, a traditional Lychen blessing. She grinned
momentarily, her adamantine-plated fangs glinting in the torch-light of her fellow Lychen.

She was the last of the ragged group to travel through the airless expanse. Though they had only one re-
breather, each Lychen had taken it in turns to use the device. Resh had made it very clear that he’s cut
the fingers from any Lychen who didn’t share.

“Where are we Huntsman?” Leshi whispered as best she could, her lips awkwardly manouvering around
her sharp facial implements as she did so.

Resh merely ran a hand through his slick hair, before gesturing behind him. The chamber was truly huge,
a cavernous expanse of high ribbed ferrocrete and steel walls, that enclosed a remarkable hoard. Rising
like brazen pyramids were hundreds upon hundreds of piles of artillery shells, intersperced with spider-
like racks of heavy missiles and plasma cartridges, that loomed around the cluster of Lychen like a surreal
lifeless cityscape of munitions.

The armouries of Azgoth. Resh stifled a cackle.

A hulking Lychen clad in scale armour with a face full of tusks and tattoos, marched up to Resh’s side,
hoisting a large wire mesh bag, which carried several sizable devices, marked by the distinctive atomic
symbol.

“Is this the target?” the beast of a man rumbled, brown saliver splattering against Resh’s cheek as the
Lychen requested orders. Resh shook his head slowly.

“Nay. We have a greater quarry Brutalii, though you may set your charges as you see fit. The rest of you,
disperse and avoid detection. I will signal you when the time comes to execute the killing blow. When I
signal you, converge on my position and commence the feast of fury! Tonight, the heathen flesh-tainters
will fall,” Resh quietly explained to his assembled warriors, who each tried to suppress their violent urge
to cheer and carve bloody scars into their cheeks and chests. The Lychen merely contented themselves
with licking their gory muzzles and panting furiously in thw dim twilight cast by the few torches of the
huntsmen that led them.

Now was not the time for carnage.But soon it would be. So very soon. Without another word, the
barbarian bestial fiends disappeared into the darkness like stalking pack animals.

###

Xandean’s eyes snapped open as he gasped, toppling from his bunk. He landed on the harsh grating of
his quarters with a thud and a crack, before his mangy rag of a blanket followed him to the ground.
Wheezing, the boy pulled himself up, rubbing his scuffed knees testily. Once the painfaded, he was left
once more with the uneasy quiet of the Alhaim. The entire ship seemed to moan, just beyond human
hearing and the smell of old meat clung to his nostrils as sickeningly as ever. He shivered slightly, despite
the stuffy unpleasant warmth of the Lychen transport vessel.
He had had a dark dream again, feeling the brass talons of something vast and unknowably evil closing
around his throat in pure bestial rage. It had felt so real, Xandean was still rubbing his aching neck and
bruised larynx. He wouldn’t be able to sleep now. Everytime his eyes closed, the horned face would rear,
screaming in a language he didn’t want to understand. It was a scream of sonorous rage older than
mankind itself. He wished so much that Emeline had stayed behind with him. Though she was almost as
insane as the Lychen she ruled, he found her at least tolerable compared to the psychotic brute Vash or
the silken slime of Grazer.

Grazer. The sanctioned psyker’s presense was literally infused throughout the Alhaim, like the vile roots
of a dying tree. No matter his kind words, Grazer was not really a safer option than the other Lychen.
Still, Xandean concluded as he threw on his tabard, Grazer and his coven of Psykers were the only ones
he could talk to about his increasingly disturbed dreams. ‘Do not let the Goge rise’. What did it mean?

He had to find out.

Each of his bare footfalls seemed toring out with alarming clarity despite his best efforts to stifle them.
He didn’t know why he was trying to be quiet. It must have been something about relative quiet which
encouraged you to do likewise, Xandean considered, as he struggled to force open the heavy steel bolts
across his crimson-splashed chamber door. Each bolt was rusting slightly, and each slight moment forced
upon them by the tiny form of the aide ellicited a great metallic screech. Eventually he opened the door,
his puny musculature straining with effort.

The great stink of corpses struck him once more now that he had entered the vessel’s main tributary
passages and corridors. Here, the grated floor was still sicky with congealed blood and viscera and
Xandean winced as he traversed a dozen corridors thick with the gory remnants of the Lychen occupants
of the Alhaim. Eventually, he emerged from this stinking maze of feted pits, and came across a more
open corridor. The left hand wall of the corridor was missing and was simply replaced with a large
armoured viewing port. The glass edifice was barred with adamantine strips, but between these strips,
the boy could see the entire panorama of the void war before him, like some surreal and ever-changing
constellation. Lights moved in the heavens, each star a cluster of vessels; a cruiser and its escorts and
fighter screens, a brief explosion signalling the end of an unlucky vessel, or a speeding piece of ordnance
hurtling towards its destination with lethal intent. Xandean didn’t claim to understand void conflicts in
any way, but such a spectacle invited interpretation, and somehow his mind could...feel what was
happening, as if he were each of the captains of those great vessels, each charging into uncertainty with
a wild grin on their faces.
It was the strange pinkish haze that spread from his right hand peripheral view which captured his
intense attention most. Easily the largest thing in space before him (aside from the listing orb of
Talaheim of course), it seemed to churn and thrash like a thunderstorm. The more he focussed upon this
cloud, the more his eyes and his mind sought to make out the things that moved within it. The more he
began to hear voices. No, not voices. They were older than voices. They were thoughts and relayed
synaptic functions. It wasn’t... he couldn’t perceive it. Not in its entirety. It was like he was trying to
comprehend the vastness of a forest by glaring at a single leaf. What he saw in the clouds was not many
things. It was one thing, with many voices. Many eyes. Eyes that were staring, fixed, upon the world
beneath. For that he was thankful, for if the gaze of the presense should fall upon him, then-

A low growl broke him from his reverie. Startled, Xandean stumbled from the window, and toppled into
one of the deep drain-troughs that ran alongside the raised grate-covered floor (presumably in order to
carry off the thickest deluges of blood letted by the Lychen during their numerous rituals. He fell onto his
back, cold wet fluid splashing his neck disgustingly as he stifled a yelp of revulsion. He kept silent,
listening out for the growl. Yes, there it was again.

It was an animal’s growl. It wasn’t one of the Lychen Guard, Xandean knew that for sure. Many people
would claim the Lychen were like animals, but their voices held the key difference. Their growls were
tinged with all too human traits; rage, righteous indignation, brutal joy. The growl which rumbled
through the deck was just the functioning of an animal, driven only by hunger and its training. It was a
Weresbhik, a hunting hound of this most brutal of Imperial Guard Regiments.

He had met one of those beasts before, and he had no real wish to meet another. He made himself as
small as possible, as he heard the padded paws of the animal clang across the grating in a regular beat,
accompanied by a strange scraping noise.

Slowly, it emerged from the darkness like ‘the great grand wolf’ of every Imperial child’s dark fairy tales.
The beast was huge, its slick black pelt rippling as heavy muscles worked beneath the flesh of the fiend.
The long muzzle of the hound was modified and twisted until it looked very little like a wolf’s face at all.
Brass and dull, pitted adamantine was riveted to the snout, and instead of a true lower jaw, a mess of
whirring metal implements were fixed to the beast, clacking like manibles against the serrated steel
fangs of its upper jaw. All across the heavy shoulders of the Weresbhik, armour plating was similarly
bolted to the flesh bloodily, giving the animal a curious, almost crustacean impression.

Xandean held his breath desperately as it neared him. The monster stank worse than the fetid false ditch
he had tumbled into, and his eyes watered as it paused over his position, sniffing the air and pawing the
ground. Xandean realised, with horror, it had no Lychen controlling it. The scraping noise he had heard
before was the barbed chain of its lead trailing across the floor as it walked around the ship freely. The
Lychen had ordered the Weresbhik to remain on the ship during the campaign (or ‘banquet’ as most of
the Lychen called their wars, with a disturbing lack of irony), as they were travelling by chimera and the
hounds wouldn’t be able to keep up. Only Grazer could have released them, as he and his psykers were
the only Lychen left on board. By why?

Suddenly, its head snaped around and stared directly at the boy. The mandibles whirred and squealed,
merging with the low growl of the monster as it stared at him with its large yellow eyes. He quailed
before the beast, shrinking from the thing’s advancing muzzle. Then it stopped. Its eyes blinked and
Xandean stared into the animalistic eyes of the hound. With a shiver, he realised why Grazer had
unleashed the Weresbhik from their kennels, and why they had no handlers. Xandean had looked into
the hounds eyes, and he felt more than one souls staring back. This second soul was more than an
animal. It had cunning and it was firmly in control of the simple beast it piloted like a puppeteer. With a
final sniff, the Weresbhik turned from the boy and trotted onwards, disappearing back into the twilight
of the deeper decks.

Suddenly, Xandean didn’t want to see Grazer immediately. He would try the bridge. Though technically
forbidden to go there, the bridge would be the only place sane in the Alhaim. The Captain was no
Lychen, and he liked to keep his bridge as his own.

Xandean made slow progress through the vessel. Each time he stalked a few dozen metres through the
hellish ship; he’d pause and hide, lest the other Weresbhik locate him. The other hounds might not be as
indifferent to his presense as the first one. When he did finally reach the bridge and officer’s quarters,
Xandean almost didn’t realise he had done so.

The walls were sprayed with gore and organs, just as before. The walls and floors were torn and
scratched by claws, just like the rest of the ship. However, with sickening realisation, he noticed that this
blood, this carnage, was fresh. The blood was still glistening. As he picked his way through the ruined
passages and chambers, scraps of tattered, torn and bloody naval uniform confirmed his suspicions. The
Weresbhik, at Grazer’s behest, had slain the only figures on board who were not of the psyker’s Coven.

Something was very wrong onboard the Alahim. Xandean, reluctantly, realised he was the only one there
to stop Grazer, his witches, and his enslaved war hounds.

Oh well, he thought, maybe he’d get a medal or something. He just prayed that his medal wouldn’t have
to be awarded to him posthumously...

###

A tangle of limbs. Warmth and supple flesh beneath the touch. A heady mist of pleasure, a smell of
blood and sweat desirable yet sickly. Forbidden and wrong, yet desired above it all. Howls of pleasure
merging with exultant roars.

“This did not happen. You will never speak of this do you understand?” she said bluntly as she slid her
knee length boots over her naked calves.

“Of course,” he rumbled, as he ran the back of his rough hand down her smooth naked back. She was
sitting on the bunk, facing away from him. He traced the indent of her spine down from her neck to the
base of her back, his finger wiping the film of blood from her back which had gathered there.

“We drop for Talaheim tomorrow. Vash mustn’t know.”

He didn’t care about the undercurrent of revulsion in her voice as she spoke. He knew what she felt,
even if she didn’t want to admit it.

Keshak shook his head, clearing his mind of the past as he led the way into the dank expanse beyond the
ragged hole melted into the rock of Azgoth’s rearmost chamber. He had to maintain his composure, as
he avoided the occasional drip of still-molten stone that dribbled from the fresh wound in the bedrock.

Beyond the wall, the band of Lychen Guard emerged into a room far different to the grand chambers
they had traversed before, which only truly revealed itself to the soldiers as they turned the questing
white lances of their underslung torch beams to the enclosing walls of the place. Gone were the
haphazard caverns of the labyrinth, and gone was the looming gothic arches and grand archaic metal
work. The passage beyond had a low ceiling, and angular walls, that looked like they had been precision
engineered by some great and extinct intelligence, far larger than someone from a backwater world of
carnage could properly appreciate. Yet, despite its precision and grim utilitarianism, the place seemed far
more ancient than the crumbling Imperial arctitecture behind them. Not only this, but the ever-present
echo of the surface war had almost entirely subsided, until it was barely a gasp in the alert ears of the
Imperial shocktroopers.

“This place is old,” Emeline stated blandly, voicing the thoughts running through every oen of the
Guards’ minds.

Keshak turned to his Blade Enforcer as she appeared at his side. “The whole Imperium is old,” he replied
with a slight flicker of a smile that made Emeline narrow her eyes fractionally. They were far enough
ahead of the main mass of Lychen, but their conversation remained guarded, as the towering form of
Colonel Vash was still close by, following just behind them.

“I know that. I mean this place is much older than the Imperium. I don’t recognise any of these symbols
and carvings on the walls. And the language...” Emeline noted, trailing off.

Keshak nodded as he took note of the strange language painted across the walls in regular paragraphs
and lines. The symbols and letters making up the lexicon were similar to those used in Low Gothic, and in
the Beast-cant of lower Lychen.

“I remember a language like this. I... think I have seen it before,” Keshak mused, turning from Emeline as
if in contemplation, or recollection. Emeline’s eyebrow raised, her interest peaked.

“I was a boy, no older than that aide of yours I would say. I was with my brothers... We were play-
fighting... out on the red sand fields outside the city of the Carnivore-Emperor... we strayed far from our
father. Stupidity really. Unblooded children were easy prey for the roamers, the family-less cultists of the
wilderness. We fell... one of the old buildings collapsed beneath us. An entire city buried by red sand.
There were old machines; dry things covered in broken coils. This writing covered everything. This place
must be human. Only men could build this,” Keshak decided then.

Emeline seemed a little less convinced. “Pre-Imperial? Perhaps. It seems you had an eventful childhood
Kesh. Did they find you?” she asked softly as they walked.

“Who?”

“The cults... from the wilderness,” Emeline explained, he eyes flickering across Keshak’s broad frame
momentarily. Keshak noticed her, and smiled.

“Oh, they did,” he grinned roguishly, silver teeth glittering from within his beard, adjusting his belt of
knives abscent-mindedly as he did so.

“What happened?”

“What happened? Well, I was blooded. Every Lychen eventually kills. I did so honourably, saving my
brother from monsters. I relish those kills like no other. I didn’t care if it was a holy act, not then. All I
know is, I saved my brother.”

“Brother? I thought you said brothers?”

Keshak stopped talking from that point on, his grin fading, his eyes returning to the angular landscape
before them.

~
Vash snorted slightly, staring at the surroundings without comment. His blood-shot eyes glared like twin
fiery pits within his devil-mask helmet, examining the structure enclosing the force with evident tactical
interest. Vash didn’t care about how old the place was or who built it. He was looking out for sniper-
nests, weapon emplacements and potential ambush points. He hungered for conflict, for the wonderful
urge to break bones and split marrow. Being denied the chance to slay, felt like terrible impiety on his
part. He felt as if he were being lax in his prayers to Him on Terra. Vash was nothing if not a diligent
adherent of the haemovore cult. Impantiently, he swirled his twin sabres in rhythmic patterns, their light
hum pleasing to his simmering wrath. Keshal and the Blade Enforcer walked ahead of him, but Vash’s
attention was elsewhere.

The force of bestial soldiers passed through the long mysterious corridor and into a far wider chamber. A
single bridge spanned a deep cylindrical chasm, which descended even deeper into the depths of the
cold planet. Emerging from the hollow column like silent giants, other cylinders stood, crowding around
the narrow bridge like a bizarre false-forest, intertwined with snaking vine-like cabling that hummed with
electrical power. The cylinders were colossal, the visible sections easily five hundred metres tall apiece.

“Power plants,” Vash grunted. Whatever was down here took a lot of power to maintain. More power
meant something big. Something big needed a lot of workers and guards. More people meant more
foes. He couldn’t wait.

As if on queue, one of the Lychen called out with a snarling exclaimation, gesturing towards a huge
alcove dominating the far end of the bridge structure. Vash bellowed for some magnoculars, almost
snatching them from the grip of his attendant.

Servitors. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. The semi-rotten cyborgs shambled forth mindlessly, cold
limbs scraping the floor as they wandered forwards with dead eyes. Industrial welding equipment
sparked in their grips, alongside piston-driven claws, pincers and large pieces of metal girder, gripped like
clubs by the foremost servant-mechanoids. Vash’s prosthetic face whirred as he tried to smile.

“Enemy sighted... at last! Conserve your ammunition my brethren! Targets ahead are configured for
close assault. Let us see how well they are configured. Forwards! Blood for the Blood Emperor!”
“Skulls for his Golden Throne!” his Lychen bellowed back with fanatic glee, holstering their rifles while
they drew clubs, axes and their ever-present daggers. As one great mass, the Lychen barrelled forwards,
flowing around Vash as he advanced. However, he wasn’t charging as quickly as he wanted to. His
limbs... they wouldn’t respond. No, that wasn’t it. They were responding, he felt them straining and
pumping. No, it was... his armour... he couldn’t...

Vash gasped, as his armour suddenly tightened across his chest and legs, before passing to his arms.
Bloodlust clouding their vision, his Lychen Guard ignored him and simply barrelled into the oncoming
horde of machine men.

Emeline paused in the unthinking charge too, desperately grabbing Keshak mid-charge. He almost pulled
her from her feet as he howled and hissed and struggled to reach this new foe.

“Kesh! Stop! Stop being a rabid dog and listen to me! Look around!” she screamed over the tumult.
Keshak continued to try and shake her off. With frustration, she span around and elbowed the frenzied
fanatic in the gut. Keshak wheezed, his wrath falling from his features like a heavy cowl.

“Look at me Keshak! Where is Vash?”

Keshak glared at the bustle of Lychen shouldering past him to reach the assault on the servitors. “He’s in
comba... wait, no he isn’t. Where...?” Keshak asked to himself, confusion arresting his charge mid-stride.

“There!” Emeline pointed behind them both, towards the towering form of Vash, who had inexplicably
fallen to his knees, roaring in a voice that could shatter mountains. It wasn’t a growl of pain, but a
sonorous scream of frustration and demented impotence.

Warily, the Corporal and the Blade Enforcer advanced. Disturbingly, they noticed the Colonel had tossed
both his swords aside. As they neared him, they saw what had happened, and paused in their advance,
horror plastered across their features.
###

Xandean entered Grazer’s lair with an insidious trepidation running through his very bones. The psychic
noise around the chamber was like a stifling, numbing cloud, suffocating and stagnant. Grazer was
pouring a lot of warp energy towards the surface. Whatever it was, couldn’t be good.

The terrified boy entered the central trailer, but made sure to hide in the deepest recess of shadow he
could locate.

The psyker’s room was dominated by a vast twenty foot pentagram, painted in blood. At each of the
star’s points, a large ivory bowl sat, each with a spluttering candle placed within them. The bowls were
attended to the shaven-headed, hollow eyed sanctioned psykers of the Lychen regiment. However, they
did little other than kneel before their candle-bowls, babbling and chanting wildly. Circling the entire star,
a hundred Weresbhik laid upon their bellies, calmly gnawing upon the gory bones of the murdered
bridge staff.

And, at the centre of this scene of chaotic madness, Grazer stood. He was in the midst of the pentagram,
gesturing with his claw-like hands, and reciting his blasphemous lyrics from a vellum scroll, spitting upon
each psyker individually around him. As one, at a gesture from Grazer, each of the men ripped open the
veins in their wrists and poured their supernatural animus into their bowls. As soon as the blood struck
the candle flames, th flames turned a violent purple, before bursting into five towering columns of lurid
fire. This was not a fire of heat, but of unnatural warp-chill, and frost spread from them, causing a
blizzard of raging snow and ice to coat every surface within the room. Xandean blinked several times,
dazzled by the fires and near-blinded by the torrent of ice.

“Lords of the eight-fold plan! Lords and Ladys of anarchy! I summon the innumerable legions of the warp
to bear witness, to see the works of man undone by glorious entropy! I invoke Harst, the broken and
raging one! Come, let I, Grazer, child of discord, bring your armour under MY control!” Grazer screamed
from within the storm.

“HARST...” the five psykers replied as one, their dead lips animated by something older and fouler than
them.
“Yes! His armour! The upstart Vash wears it now. The heretic of heretics, the one who denies that which
he unknowingly serves. Defiant fool! Let us claim him, and destroy the murderess Emeline!” Grazer
implored of the presense.

The storm was silent for a moment. Then it spoke again.

“WE APPROVE. WE WILL DESTROY OUR BROTHER’S PET.”

With that, a sudden light filled Grazer, and he seemed to suddenly form a suit of ghostly armour around
his wasted shoulders.

###

Vash’s armour glowed with a deep purple light, fusing and twisting before Emeline’s very eyes. The devil
mask moulded to his face, forming a living monster’s visage. The skinned musculature of the chest plate
and greaves formed living, bleeding flesh, sprouting horns and blades as well. The cloak whipped
around, forming twin bat-like wings. Vash was screaming, pain coursing through him like fire in his veins.

“Get! Away! From! ME!” he gasped desperately.

###

Grazer raised his arms from his sides, as if in a fighter’s pose.

###

Vash stood up, his arms raising against his will, as if in a fighter’s pose.
“It... isss... Grazer...” Vash hissed, veins bulging as the daemonic armour strained against his own
muscles. “He wants to kill you! Get away!” he howled at Emeline.

Keshak snarled, charging the stricken Colonel.

###

Grazer swayed, flicking out his right arm dismissively.

###

Reluctantly, Vash swayed to avoid Keshak’s charge, flicking out his right arm dismissively, batting Keshak
across the face with the back of his hand. Instinctively, Emeline threw herself towards Keshak, who
crumpled beneath the daemon-enhanced blow.

###

Grazer’s left ghost-guntlet reached out, and closed around something tightly. Grazer cackled like a
madman, his eyes blazing with that same purple fire which blistered his cheeks with cold.

“Vengeance is eternal, my dear! Sparrow shall be avenged!”

###

Emeline was stopped dead in her tracks, as Vash shot out his left, closing his gauntlet around her throat,
before hoisting her from her feet easily. She hissed in agony, drawing her las pistol in a single fluid
movement. Even as she blasted the armour’s twisted face mask, her eyes began to dim. The bolts were
simply absorbed into the chaos-twisted armour. Slowly, the devil-face mutated into the iggling features
of the turncoat Grazer.

“Release me Grazer, you worm! Drop Emeline now! I will flay your flesh and break your soul, you slime! I
will kill you! I WILL KILL YOU!” Vash ranted through his prosthetic, which was almost lost within the mass
of daemon-flesh and purple glowing bronze. However, despite his rage, he was powerless to stop
himself, and watched in disgust and disbelief, as Emeline slumped, losing consciousness.

Grazer was killing her. What was worse, he was using him as the murder weapon.

Posted by: Colonel Mustard May 3 2010, 05:45 PM

Well this could end messily...

Then again, it's the Lychen. It probably breaks a law of physics if it doesn't end messily.

Posted by: LordLucan Jun 21 2010, 01:17 PM

Next Chapter. Would have been done sooner but, alas, exams waylaid me. enjoy:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty Three.

Keshak speared a kick into Vash’s armpit, as he surged from the ground, growling. The blow did little
more than stagger Vash slightly, but it did cause the lumbering, entrapped brute to loosen his grip upon
Emeline. The Corporal utilised this brief reprieve to leap towards the Blade Enforcer, dragging her bodily
from the clawed grasp of the thing which bound Vash within itself.

The armour bellowed heinously, swining another rbackfist towards Keshak.

“Duck to the right!” Vash called out, his voice strained through struggling against the armour’s unearthly
power.

Keshak did so, and the flailing daemon armour lurched off balance. Keshak rounded upon it with a series
of brutal elbows to the back of the helmet, which hissed in fury, a serpentine face bubbling through the
brass to defiantly screech at Keshak.

“Why are you helping me?” Keshak bellowed, swaying to avoid another flurry of metallic devil claws.

“Kesh, this is... not... me! Harsh... he was never... he wasn’t the heretic...” Vash gasped, his arm pounding
towards Keshak, who drew his hooked machete and deflected the blow with a resounding clang and hiss
of sparks. The armour responded with a furious lunge, tackling Keshak by the waist, flooring the pelt-
wearing barbarian like a split log. Keshak barely had time to roll aside to avoid the heavy boot which
stamped down after him, splintering the flagstone beneath it.

“It is Grazer... it was always Grazer! Now fight me properly keshak! This is not me! Grazer has none of my
combat skill. All he has is warp-bound strength. Now finish me!” Vash howled, tears of frustration
sparkling at the corners of his eyes, the only part of his face visible beneath the contorting glowing mask
of the monstrous armour.

Keshak nodded grimly, plucking his las pistol from his belt in one fluid motion. A dozen bolts flashed into
Vash, sending the warrior toppling backwards, daemon armour fizzing and hissing, even as it began to
reform.

“Don’t give it a chance to heal! Strike!” Vash bellowed in despair. Keshak sprang upon the stumbling
warrior, his blades hacking and slicing with all the fury and loathing his Lychen mind could muster. Beasts
and obscene figures writhed across the armour’s surface, as if the images were fleeing the strikes of the
enraged cannibal warrior.

Grazer had not the skill to deflect all the fearsome blows of Keshak and merely batted away the slowest
of blows with Vash’s fists, like some colossal bear. Keshak sailed between the clumsy blows, careful to
avoid even a single strike from the ethereal talons of the hated armour.

Yet, even as he struck at the unreal carapace with its black blood and streaming brazen flesh, he knew
his blows were doing little more than enraging the many daemons bound within the suit. His weapons
were glowing red hot now, due to the infernal heat of the monster before him. With a gasp, he jumped
backwards, his energy spent.

“It cannot die Vash! I cannot best him!” Keshak wheezed, before a swipe of the daemonic gauntlets just
managed to clip his side while he darted to avoid it, sending his spinning across the bridge. He skidded to
a halt mere inches from the edge, and he spared a glance down into the depth of the cylindrical
chamber. He couldn’t see the base of the tunnel, shrouded as it was by shadow. If he did fall, he would
not rise again.
“You must defeat me; defeat him. The swords! They are part of the armour. Harst’s talons of course!”
Vash croaked, even his prodigious strength waning against the inhuman power of the daemons within.

Keshak instantly saw what Vash meant, gazing at the scimitars humming upon the ground where Vash
had desperately tossed them. The Corporal charged towards the nearest, hands grasping out to catch the
hilt of the great glittering blade. A heavy boot slammed downwards, landing squarely upon Keshak’s
wrist with a crunch. Keshak bellowed, scratching and biting hopelessly at the boot, struggling to free
himself and end Harst’s armour once and for all.

With hate-filled eyes, he turned to look upon the grinning devil visage ofthe amrour, and the pain-filled
eyes of Vash who looked on helplessly from behind it.

“Grazer, if you do this now, no power in this galaxy will stop me finding you, and pulling your heart out
through your intestines! I will never stop hunting you, you vile coward! Stop this now, or I will send you
screaming back into the warp-pit which spawned your bastard progeny! Stop this!” Vash screamed, even
as his second boot raised to deliver keshak’s finishing blow.

###

Xandean was shaking. The psychic backlash of the titanic duel Grazer was miming from with his living
storm of anarchy made Xandean’s eyes runn with bloody tears, and his skin crawl as if imbedded with
hatching spider eggs.
Slowly, he had crawled from his hiding space, towards the heretical gory pentagram which dominated
the chamber. As he approached, two of the sitting Weresbhik stirred from their stupor, their heavy metal
heads swinging to regard Xandean. They growled and spat, churning machinery whirring into their
modified jaws. Xandean closed his eyes, repeatedly thinking of being unseen, of going unnoticed.

His whole life, he had known he had some sort of unnatural luck; some knack for understanding the way
of things, or even the way of people. He only hoped that his understanding could be turned to limited
control of his destiny at this moment. His power felt stronger here, so close to the tempest, and he felt
his power pushing against the power of Grazer, just brushing past the monstrous power within the
hunched sorceror’s frail flesh. Gradually, the Weresbhik turned back towards Grazer, eyes blank with
obedience.

Grazer staggered around in his ghostly armour, as if struck by a flurry of bullets, before swinging his fist
ocne more. This evidently did something which pleased Grazer, as he laughed out loud, eyes splitting
with blue fire which frosted his cheeks.

“Naughty little corporal! You think you’re stronger than the gods do you? Poor deluded fool! I will cure
you of your delusions, fear not,” Grazer chuckled obscenely, his unreal boot slamming downwards with a
sonorous clang.

Swallowing back his own vomit, induced by terror, the boy quiveringly raised the shot pistol he had
liberated from one of the slain bridge staff. He struggled to aim the weapon towards Grazer, his hands
straining under the pistil’s fearsome heft.

Suddenly, Grazer’s head snapped around. His glowing eyes fixed upon Xandean with all the burning
presicion of a lazer beam, and all the malice the twisted figure could muster. Xandean felt all power
leave his body, as if a great weight had suddenly slammed down upon every atom of his being, pinning
him to the deck helplessly.

“The child awakens! A weak, meek little clerk with delusions of competence! Do you think my mighty
mind can be harmed by your glittering little pin prick of a consciousness? As for that crude implement,”
Grazer began, crushing the shot pistol with a single languid gesture. “The warp is beyond such mortal
perils. You have nothing. Nothing!”

Grazer was everywhere, even in Xandean’s waking eyes. He could break free. He had felt no power like
this in all his life. Every fibre of his being was being quelled by Grazer’s invulnerable mind. There was
nothing, no mind that could match his. No single mindin the entire fleet could...

Not one mind no, Xandean considered then. However, there was something born of many minds,
rumbling through the void towards Talaheim and Azgoth. A trillion impossible voices. A billion billion
souls, fused as one.

“What? What are you thinking of Xandean, you whelp? I can read your every thought or emotion. Many
minds? Impossible voices? What is this nonsense, little scum? Nothing can hold back my mind!”

Xandean glared at Grazer, as best he could. “Look beyond these walls and your own madness, and see
for yourself,” Xandean wheezed.

Xandean felt the mind of Grazer expand, as if ascending on etheric wings, before sweeping from the
chamber to observe this new phenomenon.

It didn’t take long for him to suddenly comprehend the horror relentlessly rolling down upon them.
Unlike the barely warp sensitive Xandean, Grazer was invested almost wholly in the warp, and the
sudden intrusion of the ancient chattering voices took the psyker aback. He wilted visibly before
Xandean’s eyes, his eyes pale and filled with twinkling tears. He shuddered as if he had been touched by
something vile, raising his hands in fear.

“A shadow! So many... voices beyond... they are one... they can see me! Get away! Leave me be!” he
almost squeaked, his power seeing to shrink, like the coils of a serpent unravelling.

Xandean could move, and he stood unsteadily. As he stood, the ghost-armour around Grazer flickered
and dimmed.

“Too many eyes! There are too many! How can it know me? There is nothing, nothing but cold survival. It
doesn’t feel anything! Nothing! A hollow heart filled with a billion voices, all screaming words before
words!” Grazer was cowering now, the tempest dying down as its conjuror faltered in his incantations.

Xandean grinned, slowly stepping away from the circle of Weresbhik, who were slowly rising from their
reverie, growling and snarling in incomprehensible, animal wrath. Too late, Grazer’s disintergrating mind
realised the sudden danger he was in.

“I wonder how loyal your dogs are Grazer, now they’re off the leash?” Xandean spat.
Before Grazer could reply, the Weresbhik leapt as one, and Xandean hurriedly turned from the scene of
carnage, the sounds of squelching flesh, whirring blades, and pitiful screams filling his ears.

###

Harst’s armour never landed the finishing blow upon Keshak. Without warning or reason, the armour
instead bucked backwards with a demented screech. Devilish eyes and talons spewed from the armour,
ripping at the mail and brazen skin with reckless abandon.

Purple fire rippled from the construct, and Vash bellowed and yelled form with this horrific tempest of
fire and bladed talons. Keshak reached for the scimitar with his healthy hand, but the mosnter’s
thrashing tendrils flicked the blade aside with ease, before mindlessly staggering towards Keshak, its
limbs out of control. Vash was incoherent now, the roars of the dameons drowning out his own
desperate calls.

Then, abruptly, the thrashing stopped. The armour died, withering and shuddering as it did so, just as
the point of Vash’s second scimitar erupted from his belly like a bolt of glowing lightning piercing the
heavens. Vash staggered forwards for a few paces, and keshak spotted Emeline clutching the scimitar
which had stabbed Vash. Vash, who was now cld in inert armour, turned slightly, and Emeline let go of
the blade before falling to the floor, utterly spent.

Meanwhile, vash looked down upon the blade, watching the bloody drooling from its tip like a gargoyle
spout. He stared around, his eyes bleary and blurred by pain. He took two unsteady steps, before
toppling from the bridge entirely.
“Blood for the-“ he gasped, before he disappeared into the darkness of the pit.

Emeline and Keshak could only stare at each other, panting . No words would come, there was nothing
to say. Their unspoken conversation was interrupted by the echoing, distant sounds of the rest of the
Lychen, as they grappled with the servitors entering the chamber from the opposite end of the bridge.

“Wh-“

“Not the place Keshak. We have a war to win,” Emeline interrupted Keshak as she stood to her feet and
headed towards the manic melee in progress.

Keshak stood to, sparing a glance towards the place where the great Vash had fallen, a living legend
destroyed by treachery within. With a hollow feeling of indescribable loss, he reluctantly tore his eyes
away and back towards the combat ahead.

Combat. Blood. Vash’s eulogy would be a curse and a blade flashing amongst flesh. Gore and sundered
muscle would be his blessing and remembrance. Vash would approve, Keshak stated to himself, as he
plucked his machete from the ground, and charged, hate etched into his features like sigils carved into a
cliff face.

“Salvation in slaughter! Salvation for Vash!”

Posted by: Tyrant Jun 21 2010, 02:13 PM

Glad to see Flesh Crypt is going again! My only complaint is that you sometimes wait so long between
updates that I forget what's happened before!

Very good part, and a poignant (what I assume to be) death for Vash. Very introgued as well to see what
the approaching warpstorm-thing will turn out to be!

Posted by: LordLucan Jun 21 2010, 02:22 PM

QUOTE (Tyrant @ Jun 21 2010, 02:13 PM)

Very introgued as well to see what the approaching warpstorm-thing will turn out to be!

Genestealer cult... shadow in the warp...

As for Vash, thanks for the compliment.

I only didn't update this one for ages due purely to exams. The climax of Flesh Crypt looms, and I hope
the revelations at the end will surprise everyone!
Posted by: LordLucan Jun 22 2010, 04:36 PM

Next part. Here it is. I'm not terribly good at space battles, but hopefully this is ok. I'd love some
feedback upon it:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty Four.

++What the hell is it? ++

++Over a hundred... no a thousand targets just appeared on my auspex! Helm? Tell me what they are
damnit! ++

++Are they coming out of that anomaly? Why haven’t our patrols come back? What in the seven hells
are they? They can’t be ours. ++

++They’re holding course Captain. Orders? Servitor targeters tracking them, seven hundred thousand
kilometres out! They don’t have the normal exhaust signatures sir. ++

The manic vox traffic between the Imperial fleet crackled and sparked, as they began to register the
things which began to spread out from the cloud anomaly, like fog-shrouded bullets. Mile-long monsters
struggled free of the cloying defences, the vanguard for even larger void-born abominations that drifted
behind them. They were like ships, but so much worse. Instead of proud prows and gun batteries,
thrashing tendrils and horny beaks protruded from the impossible beasts, overlapping plates of
something stony and podmarked by eons of void-flight coating the pulsating flesh of the terrible
ceatures.

Yet, the vessels, so far, had not launched ordinance. A mistake in the opinion of the Imperial fleet.
Silently, two lumbering Imperial cruisers turned away from Talaheim, powering out to meet the strange
newcomers with the star-like flash of their primary plasma drives. In their wake, shoals of escorts also
followed, their gun ports opening with a grim inevitability. Such a similie was made horrendously literal
in the case of their sudden new foes, who seemed to be quite literally a shoal of living beasts, moving as
one with a dreadful purpose.

It was then the lances ignited. Hundreds of crimson columns of searing silent light flashed into existence
between the two forces. Rippling burn marks and bubbling ruptures ripped through a dozen of the
thrashing bio-ships, that simply spasmed and went limp (yet continued to drift forwards through the
frictionless void). The titanic turrets housing the lances of the Imperial fleet slowly swivelled in their
moorings, turning to target new foes after each blast of the fiendish weapons. While the motion seemed
silent and smooth out in the void, deep inside the industrial hellscapes of the Imperial vessels, the
grinding of wheels and the grating of steel and steel was deafening, as was the resounding hiss of lance
discharge as the weapons fired over and over again.

Following the probing precise impaling shots of the lances, the Imperials followed up with their main
guns, urching slightly to one side, opening up their broadsides for disciplined arcs of overlapping
firepower. Ratings and officers barked orders, whipped slaves and had the endless massive shells, plasma
coils and hyper-penetrator rounds of the diverse armaments of the Imperial fleet hoisted towards the
great railguns, macro cannons and energy weapons that filled kilometre long gun decks like grim
monuments to annihilation. The batteries could not fire as one (as no one man could truly organise so
many diverse weapons with so many individual crews to fire in perfect unison) but the effect was
unchanged; hundreds of millions of rounds erupted into the void like noiseless volcanic discharges,
dozens of gigatons of explosives rippling across space, filling 30 light seconds square of space with utter
destructive force.

Space was vast, and a vessel could individually dodge any one of the various rounds directed towards
them pathetically easily. However, the sheer volume of fire meant that the living ships that barrelled
heedlessly towards them would certainly be struck by megatons of fire at the very least. It was then that
the red clouds shrouding the fleet came into play. Shells detonated across the clouds, fire rippling
outwards before they could strike their true targets. Railgun bullets seemed to burn up within the
clouds, as if the friction of atmosphere suddenly came into effect within the cloud, and the screaming
rounds barely even ruptured the bowels of the bio-vessels as they thudded into their unnatural flesh.
The colossal contrails of fire, heralding the prow torpedoes of the Imperials seemed to have a great
effect. The fifty-metre colossi punctured the surreal red storm clouds. Though their vast forms instantly
started to corrode and burn, they survived long enough to detonate deep within the defences of the bio-
storm. Vast flashes and ripples within the cloud signalled the detonations of the huge munitions;
fragments of bisected void-beasts exiting the cloud in plumes of frozen gore heralding the demise of a
great many bio-ships.

Many expired, but alas not enough to halt the onrushing horde. As the enemy fleet closed upon the
Imperials, the nature of the red clouds became clear. Creatures. Bilions of monsters, winged things, or
jelly-fish like spores with bladed fronds and gnawing tendrils, writhed and struggled within the mass.
Amongst them, ever smaller creatures strived, right down to the near microscopic. Like the funnels of
industrial factories, bony tubes lining the flanks of the largest bio-ships pumped out an endless deluge of
phage cells, fungal spores and other, more insidious things not even the Magi could identify from simply
staring at the closing oblivion before them.

The captain upon one of the cruisers mouthed orders, his voice lost to him as he struggled to
comprehend what was coming towards him relentlessly. The second captain, Captain Enneko, was not so
dazed, but was no less unnerved. He gave his orders in a gruff snarl born of masking a deep-seated dread
form his crew.

“They are closing sire. Orders?” his helmsman asked, the professionalism and calm intensity of the
Imperial navy reflected in every syllable that he spoke.

“Burn retros. Full reversal. Relay this order to our sister ship, and the rest of the escort picket fleet. Put
some distance between us and that... whatever that is. And ordnance, I would be terribly grateful if you
could burn a few more holes into them with our lances. It seems these bastards can’t block them with
their damn clouds. Go!”

After a few minutes, the orders of Enneko were relayed to the rest of the fleet, and the Imperial fleet
slowly began to back away from the juggernaught descending upon them, crimson spears of light
punctuating their ponderously inadequate reactions. Bio ship after bio ship was ruptured by the frenzied
forest of red beams, but it was never enough. Onwards the foe came, like a tide of chitinous doom.
Soon, the hololithic displays on Enneko’s bridge was a veritable forest of red symbols, symbolising enemy
contacts. There were too many to count, let alone too many to adequately vanquish with his salvoes.
“Sire, the unknown xenos vessels have closed to within ten thousand kilometres!” the sensorium
operator bleated, his voice as mechanical as his waist, which was bound into the great hulking data
banks and pict-recorders that ran through the vessel like a nervous system. “Smaller contacts are
breaking off from the main concentrations of hostiles!”

Enneko rubbed the back of his hand across his sweating brow, before gesturing to his tactical officer.
“Turrets! I want the turrets tracking whatever’s coming, now!”

What was coming was too varied and bizarre to truly classify. Gouts of bizarre acidic fluid (which
impossibly seemed to retain its fluidity and lethality even in the void), swarms of coiling barbed worms
and silently skittering beetles, as well as clouds of luminous green bio-plasma, drifted towards the
human machines like an inexorable tide of vileness. Sword Frigates hurriedly filled the yawning chasm
between the biological munitions and the capital ships, burning through their reserves of fuel in a
desperate bid to protect their lumbering charges. Plasma splashed against the humming void shields of
the vessels, swiftly overpowering the glittering blue barrier. The strange acids and burrowing
monstrosities followed in this storm’s wake, their wriggling bodies clawing through acid weakened
bulkheads. Across hundreds of decks within the various frigates, armsmen and ratings found themselves
fending off tides of stinging, biting things, or found their lifes cut abruptly short as weakened hulls
crumpled, dragging out the occupants of the starships into the suffocating vacuum to die agonising
deaths at the void’s cold embrace.

“They are within six thousand kilometres now sire! They’re almost within unaugmented visual range!”

“Turrets! Batteries! Fire it all! The damned fools are trying to ram us!” the Captain bellowed over the
hurried reports of dozens of his command staff.

The blasted hulks of the dying escorts drifted without power, and were soon lost as the mindless void-
monsters a kraken sailed past them, engulfing them within the obscuring clouds of cloying spores and
warrior organisms. Hideous screams of the dying and butchered filled the vox channels for a few scant
moments, before the cloud’s occupants overran the escorts, and silence was all that came back from
them. The bio-ships finally closed the gap at five thousand kilometres. Bursting from their hides like
harpoon-tipped lashes, immense tentacles speared outwards towards the fleeing prey. Hundreds of the
dread lash whips were blasted to atoms by the concentrated fire of the cruisers’ batteries and point
defence turrets. However, detonating weapon battery munitions so close to the cruisers caused
horrendous black lash radiation, which burned away much of the close-in targeting equipment. A
thousand slaved servitors were boiled in their turret harnesses within seconds, megaton blasts exploding
scant kilometres from their emplacements.

This meant the cruisers were virtually helpless to avoid the seconf wave of fleshy barbs, taht embedded
themselves into the frontal prow sections of their vessels, hoisting the monstrous void predators closer
towards the stricken craft. Enneko’s cruiser’s sister ship was the first to be seized, and the Captain had
the dubious priviledge of witnessing the demise of a Luna class cruiser, barely three miles from his own
vessel. He watched in mute horror as the red clouds of spores and warrior beasts clogged up the gun
batteries with their dead and dying, and picked away at the few remaining turrets with their furious
talons and rending claws. Then, the impossible bulk of the kraken beast finally docked with the ship
itself. Like an amorous lover, the beast enfolded the cruiser with titanic tentacle fronds, each longer than
a dozen Imperators, that coiled around and beneath the dorsal section of the ship, while a vast beak
slowly pierced the proud prow of the ship, shearing through deck plating as if it were merely egg shell,
rather than adamantine plate. Bio-plasma widened the wound sinflicted upon the vessel, burning away
whole sections of hull, exposing it to the void. Engorged tendrils plunged into these wounds, ejaculating
a stream of mycetic spores and bio-sacs full of scythed fiends deep into the bowels of the violated
cruiser. At last, with a noiseless crunch, the entire cruiser was slowly, torturously, snapped in two.

Enneko didn’t see what happened after that, as the great red cloud filled every viewscreen like a
mystifying fog, dense an inpenetrable. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry as scorched earth.

“What do we have left?” he asked wearily, sinking into his throne.

“Lances are inoperative. Most of our turrets are blind also. We have lost contact with the gun decks, and
the torpedo chamber are only barely holding out against something which crawled in via the engine
room. As for sensors, we’ve lost all but the frontal prow picters, and all we have on screen is something
massive bearing down on us,” the tactical officer explained gloomily, his fused goggles giving him an
insectoid appearance.

“The torpedoes? They can still be fired?” Enneko asked, his eyebrows rising slightly.

“If Sergeant Vilinko can hold off whatever is in the chamber, I suspect we can fire a single torpedo before
the enemy vessel docks with us.

“One torpedo is all we need. Tell them to begin launch procedures now!”

###

The torpedo chamber was like some great cathedral, with huge arcing stone buttresses holding up a roof
of adamantine girders painted in beautiful frescoes of the Emperor ascendant. Lining the floor of the
chamber were three great artificial valleys, machined until perfectly smooth. Each led to a single sixteen
metre tall portal, made to look like some baroque portal into the void. Only one of the valleys was filled
with the glorious tower-shaped form of a torpedo. And it was this tube which was under attack.

“More firepower! Bring it down!” Vilinko screamed, as he shoved past a dozen fleeing menials, his fellow
armsmen at his elbows. His shotcannon blazed in his hands, each blast a veritable sunburst of scorching
shrapnel and boiling shot. The men at his side had set up bi-pod-mounted lascannons and missiles
launchers, sending beams of blinding blue light into the oncoming foe, as well as dozens of speeding
missiles taht made beautiful fiery contrails through the smoky air of the torpedo chamber.

The monster which had crawled into this sanctified area was a towering, hunchbacked beast they had
never seen before. If they had lived on some other world, at some other time, they might have known it
as a hierodule. But then and there, they knew it only as target gamma. And it had killed all but ten of
Vilinko’s men, and he’d be damned before it killed the rest without some measure eof retribution.

The armoured platfom they fired from was suspended over the torpedo tubes by great chains, and it had
been these chains that gamma had used to claw down to slaughter his men, and even now he cursed the
designer of the vessel. Heresy be damned!

“Kill it! Protect the adepts!” he screamed, firing another rblast of shot intot he snarling face of the beast,
which reared up on his mighty hooves and bellowed an undulating, horrendous cry. Before he could
react, an armsman was hacked in twain within moments by the flashing scythes of gamma. Then
another, then another. The thing was fast and lethaly, all blades and fangs. Only the terrific blasts of the
lascannons seemed to do anything other than annoy the great fiend. Each time the laser weapon
screeched and fired, the beast would flinch and howl pitifully, clouds of vapourised ichor filling the
chamber like purple smoke.

Vilinko spared a glance towards the man crimson-robed priests and adepts frantically labouring beneath
him. The torpedo was smoking. Runes of activation lighting up all along its length. It would not be long.
Just a few more minutes.

Gamma lashed out again, and the lascannon team were dashed from the platform in a splash of blood
and a chorus of screams. They crashed down into the tube with a faint splattering squelch. And then the
monster was upon them. Bodies and organs drenched Vilinko and he toppled backwards in revulsion,
firing instinctively as he fell onto his backside. The blast struck gamma squarely in the face, obliterating
whatever passéd for its eyes. It reared up once more.

Just as it did so, a great shudder rocked the entire vessel, followed by a storm of rising fir from below,
which rose like the hellish pits of the warp. The shuddering unbalanced the hierodule, sending it toppling
into the tube far below, where it was burned utterly by the scorching exhaust plume of the torpedo, as it
speared from the tube like an avenging angel. Vilinko turned just in time to watch the blast portal unfurl,
unleashing the roaring torpedo. For a moment, he could look out into the void. He could briefly make
out some massive maw, yawning wide before them. Then the torpedo struck and he knew no more.

###

Enneko’s cruiser launched its final, terminal piece of ordnance squarely into the kraken beast which had
ensnared it. At such a range, the resulting blast not only vaporised the entire bioship, but also blasted
the cruiser into slag and scorched the red cloud into nothingness for almost a thousand kilometres all
around the detonating craft. This brief reprieve gave the remnants of the Imperialfleet the chance to flee
from the encroaching fleet of living monstrosity, and join up with the remaining fleet elements that
clustered over Talaheim’s northern polar region.

The Molvius was the swiftest of these escapees, and easily evading any pursuit with practiced ease.
Rogue Trader Borus, perhaps alone amongst the Crusade fleet, had faced Tyranids before on the far
distant eastern fringes. However, he had no intention of aiding the rest of the fleet. He had a very
different agenda. One which he was preparing to fulfil, even as he watched dispassionately a dozen
Imperial vessel being crudely ripped apart.

Only one vessel of the fleet had done nothing to avoid the fleet, and only one vessel seemed incapable
of doing so; the Luthor’s Spear, one of the greatest feats of human engineering ever constructed, was
trapped and powerless as its crew revolted.

Overall, the Imperials could do little other than stare in bewilderment, as one of the living ships drifted
close towards Talaheim, before unleashing a torrent of red mist into the upper atmosphere, seemingly
taking its time to saturate th local area with as much spores as possible, heedless of any counterattacks it
might face. With a sickening sense of hopelessness, the leaderless captains of the Crusade fleet noted
that the spores would land upon Azgoth within the hour. It would seem the cultists of Talaheim had
powerful allies indeed. And the crusade had no means to warn the soldiers who struggled and fought
below.

###

Keshak dived forwards,hacking the head from a servitor with a single blow of his machete. Before he
took another breta, he elbowed a second servitor in the spine, before plunging his blde deep into its
neck. He was howling something incoherently, ignoring the terrible piercing pain in his other wrist.

Pain was good. Pain means you’re alive. Pain means syou can still salvage absolution through blood and
rending, he repeated to himself over and over again. But Emeline was right. There was something wrong
here. He noticed this with every dessicated cyborg he put down with his blade, or ruptured with his
glinting fangs.

They were not fighting back. Not one of them. Keshak paused, looking around at his fellow Lychen. They
too were beginning to notice. Their heavy axes and daggers slowed, eventually stopping. Their eyes and
sour expressions revealed their thoughts. There was no sacrament here. No true foe to face and
eviscerate in the glorious pandemonium of combat and carnage. The servitors were not even an enemy.
As they halted their onslaught, the Lychen simply stood, watching as the surviving servitors ignored their
supposed enemy, and simply headed towards the opposite side of the chamber, their tools sparking
slightly from the damage inflicted by the over eager death cultists.

“What is this? What sort of warrior servitor are these? I killed about ten before they even looked
towards me,” Firil complained with a low growl, the slender Lychen freeing his axe from the skull of a
downed servitor with a stamp of his boot.

“They aren’t combat servitors. We know combat. This is just...” Keshak began.

“Maintenance. They look automated. They’ve just been activated to repair the wall we just blew up,”
Emeline added darkly, herself and Keshak exchanging harsh glances.

“But why are they repairing that wall? The wall was behind the cultist stronghold. There’s no tactical
advantage in repairing an inner wall facing away from the enemy, when you have foes breeching all
across the frontal battlements of your fortress. It’s incompetence,” Keshak explained with a sniff,
snapping his wrist back into place with a crunch which elicited a hiss of agony from the Corporal.

Firil scowled. “We’ve encountered incompetent meat before, why should we be surprised?”

“Because I don’t think this is a cultist stronghold. It is far older. I doubt it is even Imperial. Whoever runs
this damned crypt, they seem content to entomb themselves inside. Whatever is here, it is something
incredibly valuable. Something, perhaps, the Inquisitor desires? I say we push on to find out what is so
important in this crypt,” Emeline interjected, standing at the centre of the mass of Lychen fearlessly, her
face set in a Commissarial scowl of authority, her subtle facial tattoos merely adding to the fierce
expression.

Firil turned, his cunning eyes darting her way, as his fingers played around the haft of his axe. “I say we
ask the Colonel’s opinion on the matter. Vash will know what we must do.”

The assembled Lychen all seemed to mumble their approval, looking at each other and at Emeline as
they did so. It soon became apparent Vash was nowhere to be seen.
“Vash? Vash com forwards!” Firil called out, confusion written across his face. “Where is he Blade
Enforcer?”

Emeline held Firil’s gaze with her own stern glare. “He is dead. He failed in his duty to the Blood Emperor,
and by your custom I slew him for his failing. As is my right.”

Firil looked around at the others, before turning and sneering at the female commissar. “You are a liar.
You couldn’t kill Vash. The largest of us wouldn’t dare try,” he hissed, sharp features contorted in hatred
and poorly concealed panic.

“You can believe what you choose. But Vash is dead either way. I field-promote Keshak as temporary
commander. Let us no stall ourselves here in futile debates,” Emeline explained, her official voice gritty
and powerful beyond her mundane voice. All her revulsion and suppressed loathing for the Lychen found
a voice within her chiding Enforcer rhetoric.

“Keshak? I respect the man. He is a good slayer of men, and is a lucky son of weresbhik, but that is not
our way. He’s just a flesh-drawler- I mean a Corporal. We have a chain of command! Major Jaerz should
be the bloodied one next! He should be Colonel!” Firil exclaimed, as his fellow Lychen rumbled their
approval of his idea.

He and Keshak exchanged hateful stares. “Vash took the Colonel role, despite his rank. I should be given
the chance,” keshak explained.

Emeline nodded her agreement.

Firil smirked. “Jaerz! It is attainment through blood once more!” he barked. Within moments, a huge
Lychen surged from the crowd, barbed mace clutched in one meaty paw. Keshak swayed to avoid the
bone-splintering blow, kicking out as he fell backwards. Jaerz continued his assault, leaping towards the
corporal with a curs eon his lips. Keshak met the man mid-charge, plunging two blades into the man’s
belly. As the warrior staggered backwards, keshak span around him, drawing one of his hooks from his
belt, and plunging it into Jaerz’ back. With a terrible tearing sound, he drew the hook downwards,
peeling the armour and skin from jaerz’ back. The man hissed in rage, smashing his mace into Keshak’s
knee. Luckily it struck carapace, battering the armour from his body with a single blow. Keshak replied by
drawing his shotgun and planting the fierce axe-bayonet into Jaerz’ skull, splitting it like a melon filled
with dark blood.

Emeline had her pistol drawn in an instant, but she reluctantly lowere dit when she realised the other
Lychen were now cheering, as keshak ripped a great slab of bleeding flesh from Jaerz’ back and tore
ragged chunks of meat from it with his silver jaws. Only Firil seemed disappointed, but he hid this well,
releasing his axe as Jaerz had died.

Emeline shook her head, holstering her pistol before setting off on a march to uncover the secrets of the
crypt. It did not take long for the Lychen to rip Jaerz’ body to gory shreds, and Keshak eventually caught
up to Emeline, his head and shoulders stained bright red, his beard matted to his chin by congealed
internal fluids.

“You’re all insane, you know that? I sometimes forget that,” Emeline muttered to Keshak.

“You remember our role model, yes?” Keshak replied, the barest hint of a smile returning to his gory
features.

Emeline returned the smile, but only when she was certain Keshak wasn’t watching her. She had to keep
up appearances after all he reminded herself. What taht appearance was supposed to be, she had long
since given up trying to fathom. Prolonged contact with the Lychen somewhat shifted one’s moralistic
outlook, she noted dryly.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she suddenly spotted a blue robed figure standing in the middle of
the angular chamber before them, his frail old hands raised above his head in surrender.

“Please, please! You must stop, go back! The Flesh crypt must be preserved!”
Posted by: Colonel Mustard Jun 22 2010, 05:33 PM

Aha, updates!

On space combat: I liked what was done, which was done well, and I'm wondering how this'll affect
Kaleb's carefully laid plans. The scale of the Tyranid fleet was also something a bit special and cool, which
is definitely a good thing.

And looking at Vash, I have a feeling he isn't dead. He's a proto-astarte, after all. That makes him a tough
nut to crack.

That and Codex: Lychen just wouldn't be the same without him.

Posted by: LordLucan Jul 14 2010, 08:16 PM

Apologies for the delay in updates. Each update is large and has many layers. I hope my readers will try
to read these pieces together, as it does all tie together eventually, I promise. No thread is left untied
here.

Hope you enjoy this section.

Previously on Flesh Crypt:

-Resh and half the Lychens began to infiltrate the Genestealer cult's central lair.

-Vash plummeted (seemingly to his death) after the malalite sorceror Grazer took over his Colonel's
armour.

-Emeline and the rest of the Lychen have breached the titacular Flesh Crypt itself.
-The Tyranids have come, eager to devour Talaheim and all upon it.

-The Shadowfall is heading towards Talaheim, on a mission to eliminate the heretical artefact known to
be a threat to the High Lords themselves.

-The Mordians in orbit are heading towards the battleship luthor's spear, to undo the riot on deck and
restore order, before the ship is overrun.

-Inquisitor Deriss has a dataslate which incriminated Darvius in a conspiracy surrounding the mysterious
figure known only as Tyrianus.

And without further ado, here we go:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty Five:

The war for Azgoth was a mess of dischordant screams and the harsh roars of weapon discharges igniting
the freezing ice world’s chill air. It was a great resonant scream of metaphorical despair; the howl of war
incarnate as the Cadian, Mordian and Vostroyan soldiery slowly but surely ground the frantic genestealer
cultists into paste beneath their relentless onslaught of Imperial might.

Yet, the sounds of killing and dying had themselves petered out, until nothing but the churn of the wind
and the gurgling of the dying punctuated the all pervading quiet. The Imperial Guard paused in their
butchery of the cultists, lowering their lasguns as their heads were turned. Cultists likewise stopped.
Their hands fell down by their sides, and almost to a man the strange misshapen hybrids began to smile
thoughtlessly. The Guard, however, were not smiling. The harsh pale glare of Talaheim’s star was now
tainted a ruddy crimson.

Bazofzeck’s armoured formation stopped their engines, as hundreds of their men pushed open the
hatches of the vehicles to get a better look at the sky. The Cadians likewise turned from their barricades
for a few scant moments, primal anticipation overriding their faultless discipline. A baffled major wiped
his face with the back of his sleeve, before pulling out his magnoculars.

“What in the Throne is that?” he muttered to himself, as he looked upon the great red cloud which had
begun to fill the sky.

He soon had his answer, as the ocular instruments buzzed, focussing upon the oncoming foe. A million
million tumbling shapes, like jelly fish descending from on high, wreathed in fire, plunged down through
the red clouds. The Major watched dispassionately as many of the strange things thundered into far
distant glaciers, far from Azgoth. They exploded in a great shower of ice and steam. The one that
followed plunged deep beneath the glacial sheets, into the murky subterranean oceans of Talaheim. Still
more seemed to burst in mid-air. Those that did this spewed forth dark-pinioned clouds of winged things
the Major could not identify.

“What are they sir?” a trooper asked, licking his lips as he fondled his lasgun warily.

“I...” the Major began. His reply was cut short by a sudden speeding mycetic spore, which slammed into
his position with the force of a tumbling meteorite. The kinetic force of the stone-skinned monstrosity
ripped apart the entire barricade dugout, scattering over a hundred Cadians in its wake. Even before the
moaning, bleeding survivors could so much as sit up, they were suddenly and violently ripped asunder
by speeding shapes; sleek scaly beasts with sword-blades for hands and venomous daggers for fangs.
Blood and gory innards were splashed across the cacked uneven floor of the spider-city.

It was to be the first drop of blood spilled by the newcomers, but would be far from the last, as more and
more spore-pods landed in the wake of the first, striking across the city. Each pod’s slimy wombs were
torn asunder by their fearsome occupants, followed soon after by whoever was unfortunate enough to
lie outside the hideous landing ‘craft’.
The Tyranids, the great beast itself, had come to Talaheim.

###

Resh didn’t even pause in his silken jog as he despatched yet another stupefied cultist, his razor-edged
blades opening the beast up from neck to abdomen within the space of two heartbeats. His men glided
behind him. Their Lychen instinct to bellow bloody challenges and rip apart the defeated with their fangs
was for now suppressed, as Resh led them ever nearer towards their final objective; the cult’s monstrous
xenos demagogue.

The Lychen had made excellent progress through the expansive Governor’s palace, carefully clearing
corridor after corridor, chamber after chamber. Each time they encountered the shambling cultists, the
mutant freaks seemed slow to react, and were cut down by precise volleys of lasfire, or otherwise
evisterated by the blood-hungry infiltrators. This was easy, Resh noted. Far, far too easy, he added with
disquiet. It should not be so easy.

The cultists seemed like they were listening to something on the very wind, their disfigures features
contorted into vile parodies of contented grins. Resh so enjoyed destroy each and every one of those
corrupt visages. It sickened him to the core that the blessed flesh of humanity could be so twisted and
subverted by heinous xenos filth. The meat had been forever spoiled by simple genetic treachery. These
thieves, these stealers of genes, were the Lychen’s most hated foe besides the great enemy itself.

After several hours of intensive combat and discreet advances through darkened passages and shadowy
alcoves, the Lychen soldiery were nearing their target.

This would end tonight, Resh smirked to himself, silvered fangs slicing into his upper lip slightly as he did
so. Azgoth would fall.

###
The hangars of the Luthor’s Spear were open to the void, a thin force field keeping the air within the
cavernous chamber from spilling into the twinkling blackness. Towards the furthest end of the hangar,
the rebelling crew of the battleship were gathering. Corpses, ruined fragments of smashed machinery
and furniture were piled across the chamber, makeshift barricades against what was coming towards
them.

The crew were grimy and panicking, clad in stolen armour and armed with stolen weapons. Their eyes
were filled with pious tears as they chanted litanies to the Emperor and the orator. Yet, no matter how
hard they cheered and sang, their fear was still palpable, as they looked out across the voidscape before
them. The distant shape of the system’s capital planet was barely visible beneath a pinkish cloud.
However, it was the shape of multiple stars that caught their eyes. Stars which grew larger every
moment, until they could makeout the distinctive shapes of Imperial Guard void transports.

The defenders barely had time to leap to cover as the first missiles streaked into the hangar from the
fearsome starcrafts. Their barricades were pulverised within moments, cascading fire drenching the
screaming men and women. Many sought to flee, but were pressed together in a crushing scrum as they
slammed into the narrow exit portals, scrabling fists and boots lashing out in a desperate bid to escape
the Imperial relief force.

The Imperial transports landed like graceful raptors, unfurling landing talons that dug great grooves into
the ferrocrete flagstones of the hangar’s floor itself. Slowly, on grinding chains the ramps at the front of
the fat bellied craft lurched open, disgorging its deadly cargo.

A hedge of gleaming silver and deep, merciless blue filed from each vessel, each formation moving as
one vast beast of war. Some of the crowd took pot shots with their lasguns, but their lack of skill showed,
and the shots went wide in pathetic arcs. They weren’t even really aiming, rather seeking to distract the
soldiers while they fled.

Unfortunately for them, the foe they sought to distract or pin were Mordians. Each of the finely-attired
Guardsmen had stony features devoid of mercy or compassion. The crew were traitors in their cold grey
eyes. Nothing more.
“Present!” a Major snarled in a deranged tone, raising his chainsword above his head. The line of
bayoneted lasguns were lowered from shoulders and hoisted into aiming positions.

“Fire!” he screamed. A storm of las bolts instantly struck the churning crowd. No shot missed this press
of bodies, and the gore sprayed high, followed swiftly by the screams and groans of dying and maimed
rioters.

The frontal rank paused, as the second rank advanced between them.

“Present! Fire!”

Another volley. Another chorus of moans. The third rank marched between the first and second rank,
before they too presented their rifles with terrifying precision and discipline.

“Present! Fire! Present! Fire!”

The Mordians obliged, and slowly but surely, the rioters were cut down in great swathes, until nothing
but twitching corpses remained.

“Men of Mordia! Once more we must cleanse the rebellious and the unjust! Secure each deck. Kill those
who raise weapons against you. Break those who surrender. We must bring the Admiral’s ship to heel
gentlemen! At arms!” the grey-coated form of the Mordian Commissar boomed across the deck, his hard
voice reaching to every Mordian ear. Instead of responding, each Mordian simply slammed the stock of
their las rifle onto the deck twice.

They knew their purpose. Without another word, the Platoons filed off, each taking a different exit portal
from the titanic chamber.
###

Emeline had given the strange blue-robed figure only a few moments to explain himself, as her Lychen
slowly circled him at Keshak’s behest.

“We are not your enemy Imperial. We never have been,” the figure had begun, and began a tirade of
stuttering explanations and recollections of past truces with the ‘cult of the Eagle’ as he had called the
Imperium.

He certainly did not seem like a cultist eager to destroy them. However, she had thought the same of the
Arbites upon Azgoth, before they had turned upon her with a viciousness which had surprised even the
Lychen. Thus, as the priest promised to ‘explain everything’ once he led them further into the safety of
his crypt, Emeline ordered him to walk ahead of them, and not to turn around, while the Lychen trailed
behind several metres. This meant they could locate any potential traps set for them down in the depths.

As it transpired, the odd tech priest did not lead them to destruction, but rather into a grand chamber,
which opened out deep beneath the surface of the frozen cliffs of Talaheim. The Lychen followed him,
quietly staring at the vast constructions that loomed all around them like the limbs of ancient gods long
forgotten. The shallow ramp which they followed eventually opened out into a spider web of overlapping
slender bridges and causeways, that weaved in between towering cylinders of translucent blue fluid,
which steamed with utter coldness. Even passing by one of the columns was enough to make some of
the Lychen flinch from the chill, which was more profound and all consuming than the freezing winds of
the ice world around them. The causeways were narrow winding structures, each only able to allow two
Lychen abreast to traverse them.

“We knew we had to hide from all outsiders down here. When madness finally claimed the cultists
above, we sealed the vaults, lest they contaminate the great works we are doing here. Great works,” the
man continued to mutter.

As the bestial Guardsmen passed down into the deepest angular vaults of the Crypt, they noticed other
blue robed figures, shuffling in the darkness. They fled and hid at the approach of the soldiers, but
maintained a close vigil on the interlopers nevertheless. The winding walkways spiralled around each of
the many columns of coolant, turning around and around as they descended deeper into the hidden lair.
Emeline noted with a bemused expression that there were no stairs. Instead, the walkways merely
sloped downwards in gentle arcs, occasionally intersecting with one another in pleasing patterns. Even
the discreet railings edging each walkways were fashioned in pleasant organic shapes. The bases of the
coolant tanks were illuminated somehow, and the tubes refracted and reflected the resulting
shimmering blue light to all corners of the vast domed chamber. Whatever this place was, she decided, it
was designed to be spectacular. And it had succeeded in this objective Emeline conceded as she noted
how even Keshak was almost silent with awe.

She could hold off her questions no more.

“What is this place? Who are you people? Whom do you serve?”

The frail old man paused, and turned slowly, his remaining organic parts forming almost a grin, if it
wasn’t for the bulky vox-grille replacing his mouth. “This is the Flesh Crypt, Miss...?”

“Commissar Emeline. What do you mean by Flesh Crypt? What are you doing here? What is... this?” she
asked coldly, gesturing all around.

“Commissar, apologies. It has been so long since we have received... guests, here. M... M28 I believe was
the last time. The Apotheosis League I believed they called themselves. One of the Ancient Geno-
Brigades from the Era of pain. But you probably don’t want to hear about that. My name is Ducter
Vasinis,” he explained, his fabricated voice strangely upbeat at all times.”

Emeline merely stared at him, while keshak and several of the remaining Lychen snarled with low voices
filled with menace. Vasinis nodded curtly.

“Of course of course. I forget myself. This place was designed to hold information... well, not exactly
information... erm... “ Vasinis trailed off, as if looking for the words to describe his thoughts. “Do you
know of the STCs? The Standard Templates?”
Emeline and keshak stared at each other for a moment. “You are keeping STCs... here? How ma... I
meant, which ones? Are you entirely certain?” Emeline gasped, staring at the vast cold momuments in
unrestrained disbelief.

Vasinis seemed confused by the question? “How many? Well, erm...” the man trailed off again, his hands
flickering over a dataslate bonded to his steel-edged wrist.

“Well, I suppose theoretically... all of them.”

This caught every single Guardsman’s ear, and they all fell silent. Emeline stepped forwards, laying a
hand gently upon the robed Ducter’s shoulder, staring intently into his strange, feverish eyes.

“Are you seriously telling me you have a copy... actual physical copies... of every single Standard
Template Construct ever created?” she said softly, her voice almost quivering with excitement.

“Well no,” he began, looking into her eyes with a mischievous expression. “We have something better.
Do you want to see? If you do, we must go lower.”

For another half a mile, the Lychen descended through the strange artificial forest of cooling rods. As
they neared the deepest levels, the lumen globes embedded into the walls no longer illuminated the
chambers, only the ethereal glimmer of the chilled blue columns remained. Eventually they reached a
wide platform, formed from a group of crossing walkways, and the Ducter paused there.

“How deep does this chamber go Vasinis?” Keshak muttered, peering over the railing towards the
darkness.

“We are not certain, Colonel. The chamber was delved out of an existing cavern system, which
penetrated almost to the core. This is the third deepest level.”
Vasinis gestured to the blue columns themselves. As they had descended, Emeline had noticed each
tube of glittering blue was rigned by vast metal hoops. Each of these structures were covered in oddly
sooth caskets, bonded to the mechanical hoops by impossibly complex forests of cables, wires and
coolant capillaries, which carried the translucent fluid around the casket-tanks.

“This is the Flesh Crypt. We didn’t name this place to sound imposing my dear... Commissar. This is a
storage facility, for the greatest amongst us. The most glorious minds our race has ever produced!”

Emeline walked over to one of the nearest hoops, and examined the pods that cluster upon it. She
brushed away ice crystals from plaques covering each of the tanks. The names inscribed upon the golden
plates meant little to her; Obediah Taane, Richar Ree, Prof Delaquar Hartip, the Hawk-King. Ancient
names from a dead civilisation. Almost dead, she corrected herself, her mind still racing through the
revelations imparted to her.

“What did these men do? Did they decipher STCs or...?” she muttered.

Vasinis shook his head, as a child trying to impress a parent might do. “No. No my dear. These men are
the Scien-men! They helped MAKE the Standard Templates!” he beamed excitedly.

“How... how many of these Scien-men are stored here?”

“Many hundreds. Our records are slightly corrupted since that incident when the Saturnites...” Vasinis
trailed off, when he noticed the Imperials had no clue what he was talking about. He choughed a metallic
cough.

“Yes, anyway, hundreds. The gold Ones who came before brought them here because of the low
volcanism of this world. In fact, they made PV293 this way. They chilled the heart of the world, and made
it oh so cold. They needed somewhere stable and safe to hide them from the... well I suppose an Eagle
Cultist would have called them Men of Iron. Hollow men; all circuits where a soul should be.”
Emeline stared long and hard at the plaque of the hawk-King. All the pieces fitted together. The reason
the world was cold, the reason the world had defences powerful enough to hold off an entire Imperial
Battlefleet. All to protect the greatest trove of Archeotech in the entire galaxy, barr perhaps Mars and
Terra herself.

“Wait. How do you know of us then? Of the Imperium?” a snide voice called out from the Lychen.
Probably Firil, Emeline scowled.

Vasinis flinched back from the crowd of Lychen, who still looked like marauding barbarians despite their
seemingly-peaceful discussions with the guardians of the Crypt.

“We have met before. The Vaults have not always been sealed like this. The cultof the Eagle came here
long ago, and build the great spider to mine for ore. We were forced to reveal ourselves when their
drilling threatened chamber seventeen. We pretended to be primitive locals, eager to join the cult of the
eagle-God, of the Man-Emperor. They accepted us with open arms. We just had to accept some
changes,” Vasinis explained, gesturing to a team of Servitors that trotted past the group.

“But surely the Cult Mechanicus was eager to cooperate with you?” Emeline asked, turning from the
tank back towards the cyborg figure.

“We could not risk the Priesthood learning of this place. They’d be as likely to burn it to the ground as
cherish it. They would pull these men apart for their knowledge. They would take the creative spark in
these men, pulp it, sift it and extract only the means to perpetuate themselves and their cult. They are
not your allies, Eagle-Cult,” Vasinis pleaded with Emeline.

The Commissar’s face hardened and she suddenly drew her pistol. “We are official allies of the
Mechanicus. It is not our place to decide who or what gets to benefit from discoveries. If these figures
can produce another clutch of STCs, then it is a price I would be willing to die for, let alone kill for,” she
boomed then, maing the old man flinch in fear.

“Keshak, try to unhook one of these pods from their mountings. Even one would be a mighty prize to
justify this mess of a campaign,” Emeline ordered, and Keshak nodded, moving towards one of the tanks,
blade drawn. Vasinis shrieked and threw himself in front of the pod.
“You mustn’t, you can’t!”

Keshak snarled. “Stand aside. I have gutted men for less.”

Vasinis fell to his knees. “No, you don’t understand. If you disconnect these men, even for a moment
without the correct de-frosting procedures, they will die and be useless to you. These pods were
teleported into position. There is no physical method of removing them safely beyond teleporting them
back out again.

Keshak paused, and looked to Emeline. She sighed, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. She
paced for several moments, before cursing loudly. Once more he trained her pistol upon the blue-robed
old man, pressing the barrel to his blubbering head. Her finger quivered over the trigger for several
moments, before she reluctantly lowered her weapon, sheathing it with another curse.

“Please! Please I meant no harm in my words! Our only purpose is to defend this crypt. Forgive us!” he
hissed, cowering. “Please, jsut take your package and leave us in peace, we mean no harm. We began
de-frosting procedures several days ago, just as your master asked. If you have your teleport homers
upon your person, you can transport it directly to your master’s vessel if you wish,” Vasinis pleaded,
hands clasped together almost in prayer.

Emeline raised and eyebrow. “Our master? Who do you think we are?”

Vasinis seemed confused. “Are you not working for those Imperials who breached the vaults four years
hence? We were told to store the artefact, and wait for his return in four years, and we were to de-frost
the artefact just before his return.”

The Lychen began to murmur between themselves. It was Emeine who spoke first. “Who is this master
you speak of? What is his name?”

“Borus Cavote of course. He is a Rogue Trader I believe. He said... yes, he said he was going to deliver his
package to Terra, but was waylaid and needed a place to store it.”

Emeline’s lips were dry. Borus was well known to be Inquisitor Darvius’ political pet on the Sector level,
able to get away with pretty much anything due to being allied to the fearsome Inquisitor Lord.
Whatever was stored here was meant for Terra. Emeline had a feeling, deep in her stomach, that
whatever the artefact was, it was nothing good.

“Where is this artefact stored?”

“In one of the empty cryo-pods, several levels beneath us. Do you want to take it now?”

Emeline’s face was lined with stress, and staine din blood, framing her stern eyes and made them seem
all the sterner. “Show me this pod. Immediately.”

Posted by: LordLucan Jul 31 2010, 12:01 PM

Posted by: LordLucan Aug 19 2010, 06:26 PM

Updated!:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty Six:

A living rain. Children of the stars themselves were falling to the ground of Azgoth. An endless tide.
Thracis and his hooded acolytes stood dumbstruck before the beauty of the sight, as it filled every
monitor and spy-lens in the throne room. The Governor-Magus watched with tear-filled eyes as scythed
monsters overwhelmed the Imperial fools at every turn.

The bright uniformed Mordians marched to their doom in ordered ranks, relentlessly firing into the
churning masses, before simply being overwhelmed by the surging beasts. Cadians in their functional
dull armour made organised withdrawals, forming ever tighter and tighter bastions of defense. They too
would fall soon enough. Thracis looked on with pride as his fellow children of Father-Dearest walked
forwards, arms upraised in mindless bliss. They invited the beasts to feast upon them, cryinf with joy as
their lives were ended in a glorious storm of mangled flesh.

The Sky Mother was here, the great Goddess herself. Her angels were here.

“Is this not the greatest of sights, Imperial?” Thracis muttered happily, without turning from his grand
window box, which looked out over the carnage happening upon every level of the spider city.

“It is the last sight for your kind,” a brutal, quiet voice echoed throughout the chamber. One of the
Lychen hunters.

Thracis’ guards suddenly broke from their stupefied gazing upon the Tyranids, and spun around at the
sound of the enemy suddenly so close at hand.

Warriors clad in the pelt of hairy beasts leapt from the deep shadows of the temple-throne room, blades
drawn. Resh ducked beneath the hastily-raised rifle of the first warrior, slashing open the man’s fetid
belly, before transfixing the mutant’s alien spine upon his second dagger. Another huntsman jumped
upon a cultist, the two combatants ripping each other to shreds with their alien and metal fangs
respectively. Blood and foaming saliva splashed across the marble mosaics spread across the chamber.
Point blank las bolts flashed out in all directions, sparks illuminating the half-gloom of the throne room
as they smashed into obscene sculptures and setting tapestries alight. Leshi darted backwards to avoid
the rending claw of one of the depraved cultists, before she raised her pistol and shot him through the
temple. An arm wrapped around her throat from behind. Her fangs sunk deeply into the flesh, ripping
away a gory chunk. The hybrid brayed an oddly wet cry of alarm. He span on the spot, her billhook
hacking through the beast’s waist. Bisected, the thing fell without a further sound.

Barely a dozen Lychen infiltrators had breached the defences of Thracis’ lair, but a dozen Lychen were a
formidable force in their own right. The warriors bellowed and howled like beasts as they slashed and
shot at everything taht came within reach of their weaponry. Cultists hissed and spat as they leapt upon
the Lychen with equal ferocity and hatred, claws against claws, blades against blades, fangs against
fangs.

Thracis cackled evilly, tossing back his ermine-trimmed Governor’s robes with a casual flick of his
shoulders, revealing the extent of his hybrid monstrosity. Beneath his human limbs, a vast pair of
snapping talons unfurled, as well as a carapace of sickly sodden chitin, which moved and folded with a
sickening fluidity.

“I have researched your race Lychen. You are known across a dozen sectors. Butchers and eaters of flesh.
You are devourers. You absorb flesh so you can be as the Emperor. We are the same. We have just picked
the correct god! Look!” Thracis called out over the din of battle, gesturing to the monitors and out of his
great balcony.

Resh glared hatefully, as he deftly span between two cultists, beheading each of the warriors with
perfectly aimed blows from his twinned short swords. Even as sickly purple blood drenched him, Resh
leapt towards Thracis, mindlessly hacking down any cultists foolish enough to bar his passage.

“Your corruption ends here! Your blasphemy ends now! You are not a man, and that flesh is not your’s! It
is the Emperor’s!” he bellowed, gutting a hybrid warrior with a flick of his swords. “And he will have what
is his,” resh added with a growling pant, before llunging into the waiting arms of the smiling Thracis.

He was so focussed upon ensuring the demise of the Magus, resh did not regard his fellow Lychen, who
were slowly falling, as ever more cultists poured into the chamber from shrouded alcoves embedded in
the walls all around them. Not only fallen Arbites and twisted hybrid-PDF-men beset them; thrashing
tides of hybrid workmen and scribes charged the lichen in suicidal waves, their minds linked as one
insane mass, united in the desire to defend their cult leaders to the bitter end. Hooded warrior clad in
deep purple robes led the counter attack upon the Lychen interlopers, huge hunched monsters with
thick claws and utterly inhuman features. Monsters as close to pure in their alien bestiality as anything
yet faced by the brutal Imperial soldiers. They were outmatched.

Leshi stumbled backwards, as a robed purestrain leapt upon a fellow Lychen, ripping him apart with a
twist of its vast limbs, tossing the ragged lumps of flesh aside like soiled tissue. Leshi barely raised her
bladed weapon before the beast lunged at her, impaling itself upon her blade. Transfixed, the beast
roared before twisting its torso, sending the female lichen clattering against the far wall. Her ribs
shattered, and all she could do was slump into a sitting position at the bas eof the pillar taht would be
her killer, blood slowly drooling from her ruined lips. The monster advanced once more, leaping forth. A
beaked warhammer caught it mid-charge, caving in its skull with a wet thud. Its killer, a Lychen clad in
studded leather, dided moments later, a las bolt punching through his head with a fizz of vapourised
neural matter. His weapon dropped from nerveless fingers.

Amidst the carnage and bloodshed, Resh engaged Thracis in single combat. With a speed impossible for
a normal man, Thracis drew his ceremonical cutlass within seconds, easily deflecting the flurry of blows
Resh unleashed upon him like a mad man. Resh in turn rolled to avoid the thrashing talons of the Magus.
The two combatants circled each other like predators, each questing to find an opening they could
exploit. Thracis’ talon tore great chunks of masonry from the walls, as he furiously sought to end the
lithe Lychen Huntsmaster who evaded his every strike. His cutlass had better luck, catching Resh with a
dozen shallow cuts. This staggered the Lychen, who barely avoided the follow up strikes of the hybrid’s
monstrous talons. As Thracis lunged, he pivoted upon the spot, hacking through the out-stretched wrist
of the alien limb, chopping through it with a single stroke. Thracis screamed an inhuman wail, elbowing
Resh in the face. This sent the warrior skittering across the floor, before he collided roughly with the far
wall.

Winded, resh was helpless as he felt the formidable mind of the Magus reach out and grasp his own.
Vistas of alien suns and a terrible sound of a wordless language assailed his soul, and the huntsman cried
out, dropping his blades. Slowly, Thracis advanced upon him, displaying a hideous smirk. Beind him, resh
could see his men dying and howling in defiance as their ends came. Resh shuddered with misery and
dread. Then he spotted Leshi. She was sat in a pool of her own mangled limbs and ruptured torso. Yet,
despite her impending death, her fangs were gritted in determination. She would never yield. Her
strength gave Resh strength. Even in death, fury and the path made with the Blood-Emperor were
eternal.
Resh grinned mirthlessly as he pulled himself up to his knees. Thracis was almost laughing as he reached
out for Resh.

A blast. A single bolt blasted through Thracis’ abdomen with a hiss. His eyes widened for a moment, his
concentration lost. Resh made every instant count.

The first second. He took up his blade, and hacked his second alien limb from his body.

The Second. He stabbed the sword-arm of the governor, right through the meat of his bicep.

He Third second. Resh drew his punch dagger from his belt, and slammed the blade upwards,
penetrating just under the chin of the Governor, pinning his mouth closed, as it plunged deep into his
oversized xenos-tainted brain.

Thracis glared upon resh with eyes wide with panic. Resh winked, once, kicking the corpse from his
blades with a disdainful snarl, before he spat upon the body.

Rehs looked to Leshi, who slowly lowered his laspistol, clutched in her quivering grip. She smiled once,
and her head drooped, never to rise again.

The cultists paused before Resh, who stood over Thracis like some barbarian warlord of ancient times.
They were silent. The other Lychen were all death, Resh noted with bitter resolve.

“Your tainted prince is slain! Who’s next? I shall take you all!” he spat, swirling his flensing blades around
him in eagerness.

However, they were not looking at him, but behind him. Resh realised his folley moments too late, just as
three vast talons erupted from his chest in a gory torrent and he felt himself being hoisted into the air.
He was slowly turned to face his slayer. The distended muzzle of Father-Dearest growled back, coating
his face with warm drool.
###

Darvius flipped over another set of drawers, ripping apart the flimsy wooden containers in desperation.
Nothing. Just reports and letters received by Deriss. Frantically, he limped over to the trunk at the foot of
Deriss’ bed. His power-knife hissed as it carved through the steel container with pathetic ease, bypassing
the security features in the most direct manner possible. Still notihng. Just reams of useless paperwork
and old books.

Darvius cursed aloud.

“Minval! Have you found anything?” he hissed to his psyker. Minval, a frail old man bedecked in hundred
sof streamers of parchment and tattered purity seals, closed his eyes, claw-like hands running over every
surface in the room.

“My vision! Obscured! The voices... so many... there are so very many...” he began to weep, slumping to
the floor.

“Your help, as ever, is greatly appreciated,” Darvius replied with a scowl, impotently kicking his rival
Inquisitor’s bed over in his rage.

Deriss must have the data-slate on his person. The fool would eventually break into Darvius’ encrypted
files, and all his rendezvous and meetings with Elis and her mysterious master, Tyrianus, would be
revealed. All their plans, all their monumental schemes would be undone! Darvius would not fall on
account of Monicker Deriss, and certainly not on account of Tyrianus, a patron Horrmann noted never
directly got himself involved in these various schemes. In fact, the more darvius considered it, the more
solidified his decision became in his head.

“Damn him, this Tyrianus. I am not his dupe. Minval!” he called out, grabbing the sobbing psyker by his
tattered robes. “We are leaving!” he roared, stumbling from the chamber on his newly-reattached foot.
The Luthor’s Spear was in utter anarchy. Men ran about without direction, sirens blared amidst the
crimson emergency lights, and distant gunfire could be made out, gradually getting closer and closer.
Darvius and minval rushed onwards through the tumult of bodies, towards the bridge.

No Provosts dared to get in the Inquisitor’s way, his face a mask of determined wrath. As he ran on, he
noticed the bedraggled form of Layla, pushing her way through the masses. Her glass-coat was broken in
several places, and her beautiful face was splashed with someone else’s blood. At her side, the smoking
form of Jaxx loped awkwardly. His flesh was hanging from him in burning strips of bubbling meat, and his
dull metallic components were tarnished and coated with black soot.

“What in the warp happened to you two?” Darvius asked hastily, as he pushed onwards.

“We were waylaid. The crew are tearing this place apart. I only just got back before the Mordians got
here and started massacring deck after deck of rioters,” Layla breathed, evidently exhausted by a long
flight through dozens of decks.

“Please tell me you at least eliminated the assassin!” Darvius replied. His eyes widened when neither of
his acolytes responded immediately.

“Oh no! No no no! This accursed ship! It is conspiring to destroy me!” he growled, violently smashing a
fist into a fleeing menial, breaking his nose in a spray of blood. Nobody even looked down at the fallen
scribe.

“The Callidus-designated assassin commandeered a Type 47-XD Starhawk Interception craft, and
escaped on a heading bearing directly towards the current crusade target world,” Jaxx explained with
cold inhuman precision.

Darvius paused in his flight, and looked up at the towering form of Jaxx. “The assassin is heading for the
planet? But why, if her mission is failed?”
“Secondary objectives,” Layla added, completing Darvius’ thoughts.

“But... frakk! The bitch is heading to destroy our trump card! The High Lords must know! They knew
what I was planning all along! Damn it I have underestimated them!” Darvius growled to himself,
kneading his temples with his palms as he thought.

“Planned? What did you have plan-“ Layla began.

“Quiet! Quiet! I need to think, I need... Layla! Contact Borus on the molvius. Tell him ‘The operation is
established’, he will understand. Tell him those exact words, understand? Jaxx, you will come with me to
the bridge,” Darvius said. “I need to have words with the Admiral.”

###

When Darvius did burst in upon the Admiral’s bridge, it was into a scene of bizarrely tranquil disorder.
Every officer on the deck was mumbling and arguing quietly wit hone another,r and they each rushed
between terminals with desperate urgency, but nobody was screaming or yelling or throwing themselves
to the floor in despair, despite the horrific images displayed across the hololiths shimmering everywhere
one looked. Darvius, despite his fearful panic, had to appreciate the Admiral’s discipline.

Raventium himself stood at the centre of this melee of rushing bridge staff, like the eye of a storm. His
eyes were strained, and Darvius could read the unease emanating from the Naval Commander with
ease. He was scared. Though he hid it almost perfectly from his own staff, there was no hiding his terror
from an Inquisitor.

“Raventium! He campaign is compromised! We must prepare for immediate withdrawal. Imperator

Vult!” darvius boomed, cutting across the low murmur of the bridge. A scant few eyes turned towards
him.

“Do you hear me Admiral? I demand you acknowledge my orders! It is the Emperor’s will!”
Still, most of the officers ignored his ranting. Even the coldly terrifying visage of Jaxx did nothing to deter
them. Only Raventium turned, his expression switching from one of unease to one of irritation.

Darvius realised that the staff were not intimidated by him in the slightest. As he looked up at the
viewscreens, he soon realised why.

Space was not the glittering void it had once been. The entire view from every pict-screen and sensor
spine showed the same startling images. The void was tainted by crimson clouds, billowing and coiling
about with a life of their own. Tendrils of mist coiled around Imperial vessels wherever they could. Only
the deft skills of Borus spared the darting arrow-swift Molvius the same fate. Hungry, monstrous things
shifted through the darkness; impossibly vast maws and serrated beaks splitting vessels, before vomiting
tides of vile effluence inside the mile-long wounds gouged into ships. Darvius’ words were strangled in
his throat.

“Leave? We cannot leave, Lord Inquisitor... sir. Look upon the Tyranid hordes with your own eyes! Our
fleet is shattered, and we are powerless to stop... them,” Raventium explained, pointing to the screens
all around with an ironic, mirthless chuckle.

Darvius’ mouth was dry, and his words barely came to him. “No, they died. I saw the reports. I read the
files. Macragge... they all died...”

Raventium cocked his head. “Died? They look very much alive to me, wouldn’t you say? Horrifically so!
Did you know they were coming Inquisitor? When you sent this crusade to a backwater world, did you
suspect these aliens would come? Yes... that’s why we were redirected. You wanted to be the first to
engage and destroy this new fleet didn’t you? To get all the glory!” Raventium accused Darvius spitefully,
pointing at the Inquisitor accusingly.

“You go too far Admiral. Now, calculate a warp vector out of this system immediately, or I swear I will gun
you down!” Darvius hissed, and Jaxx raised a las pistol towards Raventium. The admiral seemed
unmoved.
“We are not going anywhere. The Mordians are chasing insurgents throughout this vessel. My gun decks
are a battlefield, and the engineering block is filled with corpses. We are dead in the water. All we are
doing here is listening quietly to our allies dying, while we keep as quiet as possible. Like little mice,
cowering from a cat, we’re sitting here praying the great beast can’t hear us. You shooting me we do
nothing,” Raventium explained coldly, staring down darvius with a level gaze.

Darvius heard a click behind him, and glanced backwards. Commissar Festus stood in the entrance to the
bridge, his bolt pistol levelled squarely at Darvius’ head. Darvius barred his teeth in irritation.

“Get off my ship,” Raventium stated, his words neither filled with wrath nor trembling with fear. Merely
distain.

Darvius looked back to raventium for a moment, then to Festus, who stood as stock still as a granite cliff.
It took several seconds for Darvius to respond.

“Gladly. But know this Raventium; should you survive this, you will wish that you had died here. The
Inquisition has a long reach,” darvius warned, before gesturing for Jaxx to lower his weapon. The
automaton did so, and the two fled the chamber, Festus neatly side-stepping the duo as they stormed
past him.

“Should I put a detail on them Raventium?” Festus asked.

“No no. I don’t care if they leave or not. If he wishes to flee, let him. If he stays, he is a better man than I
thought he was,” Raventium replied wearily, slumping into his comman couch.

“He’ll run, the coward!” Festus growled to himself, holstering his bolt pistol.

“Perhaps. Are your men prepared? For the incursion?”

Festus nodded. “As ready as they’ll ever be. I have also spoken with the mordians and Sisters of Battle.
They are all ready to repell them when they come. Ave Imperator!” Festus responded, before saluting
smartly and leaving the bridge.

“Lord Gravean is calling on the vox once more. A wide-band distress call. His ships are breached now. Do
we respond?” the girl at the comm. Asked with a hint of sorrow.

Raventium slumped even further into his chair, his hand pressed against his face. “Maintain vox silence. I
don’t want to give off any unnecessary signals.”

The helmsman turned in his chair. “I think it is oo late for that sire. Sensors are detecting several bio-
ships, 6000 kilometres to our starboard and port sides. They’ve unleashed spores. What do we do?”

Raventium was silent.

“Sir? Your orders? What do we do?”

More silence.

Instead of replying, he plucked a picture of a beautiful vista up from where it was perche don the side of
his throne. A beautiful image of blue skies and trickling water met his gaze. A wonderful house of white
brick and crystal was nestled into the hillside, inviting and homely. His home; or at least he very much
wished it could ahve been, at the end of his career. Alas, not to be, he sighed inwardly.

“What do we do?” Raventium parroted, his voice broken and croaking. “What is your name? I never
asked.”

The helmsman looked to his fellows before responding. “Erm, Cailborne sire.”
“Well Cailborne. We are going to die,” Raventium replied mournfully.

Every officer’s heart sank. However, Raventium was not finished.

“We will die... and our death with tear the heart from these monsters! Somebody find me a tech Priest.
And find out how many personel it would require to overload the warp drives. Oh yes and vox?”

“Yessir?”

“Open every channel. Scream down the line if you have to! Bring every last one of these bastards to us!
Luthor’s Spear shall strike at the heart of the Abomination one last time!

At this, a sudden drive filled his Officers; a purpose and a goal, which energised them. If they were to die,
they wished to die well, defending the Emperor’s realm to the very last.

###

“Get to the hangar! We are leaving this living tomb now!” Darvius screamed over the din of the people-
choked corridors of the Battleship, as Layla, Minval and Jaxx sprinted after him.

Meanwhile, in the silence of the void, tiny specks glistened as if wet. Each was a cluster of a dozen spore
pods, and each burst with the force of a Basilisk shell as they neared the metal flesh of the Luthor’s
Spear, driving each pod deep into the guts of the ancient war machine. There, in the dark, the pods
unleashed their murderous children.

The animalistic screeching of Tyranid warrior organisms resounded throughout the warship.

###
Father-dearest was confused. It had witnessed countless prey-beasts before being consumed. Each one
twisted their faces into the shape of fear, according to his pretty-Thracis. But Ftaher-Dearest did not
know this expression.

In all its years, the alien abhorrent intelligence driving the Patriarch had never encountered a defiant
smirk. As Resh dangled, impaled upon the talons of the grotesquely fat Genestealer monstrosity, he
grinned at the Patriarch. The fiend send lances of psychic might into the Lychen’s mind, peeling back the
layers of thought and memory, until every secret of Resh’s was now the Patriarch’s.

He saw now why the prey-fiend smiled.

Brutalii, down in the armoury. Charges set, and one Lychen left behind to detonate them, whether Resh
succeeded or not. Ftaher-dearest did not understand the expression, but he knew the intent behind it.
An ace-

“...in... the... hole,” resh completed the thought with his own gargling words, before breaking down into
a series of agonising giggles.

The Patriarch shredded him within moments, ripping his body into a dozen sodden scraps of meat.

“Father-dearest, what is-?” began a cultist, as the patriarch barged past him, hacking him in half with a
dismissive gesture as the obese genestealer charged from his throne room.

The giant beast smashed the chamber door to splinters as it barrelled through, bounding on all fours;
desperate to reach the armoury before-

A dull boom. Then another, and another, rippling upwards from deeper within the palace. The Patriarch
turned to flee, just as the tiled floor beneath it bulged upwards in a storm of fire and atomised debris.
The beast only managed to roar once, before it burst against the ceiling, which in turn was shattered by
the titanic blast.
A veritable tide of fire ripped through the palace like a hellish tsunami. Everywhere the cultists cowered
or fled, was filled with scorching fire and a blast which was so forceful, not even ash remained of the
destroyed cultists. They were instantly sublimed to vapour even as they fell.

Across Azgoth, the blast’s thunderous retort shook. Such was the force of the blast, one of the great,
titan-sized limbs of the spider city unlodged itself ina storm of tumbling rubble and splintered ice. A
metallic groan followed soon after, as the entire city lurched to oen side. It seemed as if the whole world
had tilted on its axis for the few surviving troops clinging to the city. Their terror was cut short by the
endless stabbing scythes of the Tyranids.

Deep within the crust of the world itself, the Lychen felt a slight tremor, dismissing it as they focussed
upon more revelatory things.

In one single, titanic strike, the Cult of Azgoth was destroyed in an instant. Yet still, their vile
primogenitors remained...

Posted by: Tyrant Aug 20 2010, 02:32 PM

I have read this part.

That is all.

Posted by: Tyrant Aug 20 2010, 02:42 PM

But seriously:

I enjoyed this part a great deal. It could benefit with a proof-read and spell-check to remove a few errors
here and there, but there was nothing that hugely detracted from the piece.

I particularly liked the reference to "alien suns" when the magus used his powers; that was a nice touch.
The events aboard the Luthor's Spear have echoes of the Dominus Astra, I noticed.

Posted by: LordLucan Aug 21 2010, 12:15 AM

Next update (proof-read and spell-checked, so hopefully ok... ) :

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty Seven:

A Star Hawk was not a craft designed for the stressful consistency of planetary atmosphere. The star
hawk descending towards Azgoth through a bruised sky filled with diseased clouds, Shadowfall’s chariot,
was no exception. Like some vast blazing archangel, the starship plummeted through the skies,
streaming rent panels and melted fuselage like the trail-end of a comet.

It descended amidst an ocean of tumbling, pulsating sacs of quivering meat; a million million veined
wombs, which would each give birth to a brood of monstrosities as surely as they would fall to the
ground under their own weight in the gravity.

She was calm. Her mind worked like a finely tuned machine; sculpted by the greatest psycho-
indoctrinators of her order to be a coldly determined fiend. Only her mission mattered. Her sensor mask
was pulled tight to her skull, and through green-tinged lenses she saw the world as few others could.
Heat signatures and advance motion detectors, vistas overlaid with schematics and geological survey
data, merging the images into something impossible for a normal mind to resolve into a coherent image,
but easily achieved by the Shadowfall’s honed psyche. She knew every control at her fingertips, every
route into the Azgoth mining facility. Even the ancient forbidden texts, thought lost, had been made
available to her.
Deftly, she swept her head to one side, avoiding a chunk of blazing debris as it tore itself free from the
nose-cone, and smashed a forty foot gash across the armoured roof of the tumbling Star Hawk. Fiery air
whipped at her synth-skin armour, and ripped free the long blonde braid affixed to the back of her scalp
with normally-secure adamantine pins. It was her own hair. For a moment, as it swept around her head
like a wisp of pale clouds, she had a vision.

she once had beautiful hair. Blonde locks, flowing in the breeze. But she never did show them off to the
others. The doors were always shut. It wasn’t safe. Her father warned her not to go out. He always
warned her.

The Shadowfall shook her head, before quickly fastening the braid to the back of her skull once more,
simultaneously dodging the flight controls, as they were ripped free of the Hawk with a rending screech,
a trail of burning sparks following the wreckage as it threw itself into oblivion behind the crumbling
Hawk.

Her memories distracted her. Were they even hers? She had lived so many lives, so many lies. What was
real? The mission. That was what she had to hold onto.

He transport was compromised. Even before it began to tear itself apart, serrated winged things lashed
and howled at its chassis, hooked tails and plasma-filled jaws eroding the surface inch by inch. Only the
burning of re-entry kept the Tyranids at bay for the moment. It was the perfect moment; the only period
where the Shadowfall could successfully disengage. Her mind was made up by that simple truth.
Without another word, she sprinted across the near-vertical deck of the cockpit, vaulting the twisted
ruins of the nose cone, before she propelled herself into the open air. She spread her arms, while she
willed her skin between them and her sides into thin, membranous flaps. This arrested her descent
rapidly, as warm air pounded against her distended flesh. Her shuttle, lacking this deceleration, seemed
to speed ahead of her at breakneck speed. It was soon lost amongst the other falling spores; another
fiery speck amongst a downpour of apocalyptic flame and thrashing eldritch tendrils.

She constantly adjusted her ‘wings’ as she fell with an inhuman grace, her body twisting and spiralling in
the wind with the agility of a sparrow hawk. She was utterly dwarfed by the colossal spores that rumbled
past her. All she could do to avoid the sickly embrace of the betentacled things was to close her flaps and
accelerate her journey to the ground, before opening them once more as the danger cleared.
The ground was nearing now. Though she had not activated it sooner, for fear of using up the device’s
limited power, the shape shifting assassin finally activated the simplistic grav chute clamped to her belt.
Instantly, her fall seemed to slow, as if a narrow column of the freezing world’s sky had truly frozen. Her
speed arrested, she gained new problems. The great winged monsters, like mythical gargoyles come to
life, flocked to eviscerate her. They screamed without words or thought as they swooped in, claws raised
and tails lashing.

The Shadowfall dodged and span aside to avoid this flurry of frenzied strikes, weaving between snapping
jaws with the grace of a dancer. Yet this dancer was the more deadly of the combatants, and her
shimmering green blade only lashed out five times as she cavorted in the skies. In reality, only three
strikes had been necessary. As she fell, the neatly carved remains of the gargoyles fell beside her.

Azgoth was growing before her exponentially now. Every instant, the crippled spider loomed a hundred
times larger than before. It perched precariously upon the ice sheet, like a stricken climber clinging to a
cliff face for their very lives. An entire limb hung limp and burning, and the entire city sagged like a
drunkard.

She landed. Even with the chute, the force of the landing was tremendous. Just as her toes touched the
hard ferrocrete, her body was in motion. With impossible swiftness, she rolled and flipped, end over
end, for a dozen metres. Mere seconds later, she rose calmly. A moment later, the bodies of the
gargoyles splattered to the ground, before they began to slide towards the lip of the great city hab-level.
The ground was perilously slanted. Only the assassin’s ingrained agility allowed her to keep her feet upon
the warped vista.

She scanned around swiftly, adjusting her vision to the sudden glare of the winter world. Spores were
thundering into the city blocks continually, each impact like a thunderclap, combining into a constant,
rolling rumble. Men and machines lurched and fell about, lasrifles firing seemingly at random as they
struggled to maintain their purchase upon the relentlessly uneven city. Even the Tyranids had issues with
the orientation. Spore pods smashed into the cobbles and ferrocrete floors of the settlement, and found
they had to plunge tendrils deep into the ground like the fetid sickly roots of some obscene blossom.
Those that failed to do so simply toppled from the city, opening like putrid orchids as they fell into the
darkness below. However, a swift glance at this abyss told Shadowfall this was not the end for many of
these monsters; a steady black stream of scuttling things scaled the icy cliffs, killing claws now tasked
with driving themselves back upwards towards the warmth and the prey trapped upon the crippled city.
The assassin wasted no time. She could not help the Cadians who struggled and died all around her, and
nor did she care to. Her mission was mimetically encoded into her very being. Her mission could be
completed. She merely had to destroy the Rogue Trader’s cargo before he could unleash it to lethal,
seditious effect. She hopped between buildings, and clambered up oddly askew walls and floors with
equal cat-like vigour, easily evading the leaping, tearing things that scuttled and hopped after her with
nothing but insane hunger burned into their hollow eyes; a hunger that gnawed at them behind their
eyes and into their collective abominable soul. A gaunt got close, jaws snapping mere inches from her
heel. A spinning kick knocked it aside. Before it could rise, her blade flashed, and it died.

She was closing in. Her vision was a fused mess of floor plans and tunnel grid patterns, merged with a
dozen spectral views of the carnage going on around her. Still, the map converged upon a tunnel system.
A system which would lead directly towards the site of the ancient site. The site which came before
Imperial occupation; the site that would undoubtedly contain the artefact. She only hoped her diverse
weapons would be sufficient to eliminate the target. She stifled her doubts, locking them behind a wall
of doctrinal discipline. She would not fail. She could not fail. She was Callidus. She was the Shadowfall, a
shadow amongst shadows.

She ducked low, as a Leman Russ spiralled through the air over her head, before clipping a building in a
shower of dust and rubble, before tumbling off the city entirely. A world-shaking groan echoed across
the spider city; it was coming loose. Some titanic conflagration had unseated it from its perch, and it was
gradually tipping off its axis. Most of the buildings were beginning to become bizarre horizontal ledges,
jutting out like gargoyle-disguised water spouts from the side of some colossal gothic cathedral.

The Shadowfall ignored this all. She was comfortable in all orientations, her body supple and lithe as a
serpent, and a swift as fluid through a capillary vein. Her hands never failed to snatch at handholds, her
feet lost purchase but rarely, and all the while her gaze was fixed at he objective; the cavern mouth. A
chasm was gradually widening between it and Azgoth, as the city began to lose its grip upon the stony
wall, but the ornate aperture was still easily within her reach. She pushed off with both feet as she leapt.

For a moment, nothing but air and the endless depths were between her and the true surface of
Talaheim, many miles below. Her jump was short.

She was losing height. The cavern mouth rose higher as she fell. With a desperate flick of her wrists, she
tossed a slender black cord against the wall. As the tips of the cord struck the rock, they punched
through, rear-facing black thorns erupting at the edges. She tugged the cords tight, fixing the barbs
deeply into the rock, which pulled her in tightly. She struck the rock face with a thud. She felt bones
splinter in her legs and ribs, but sheer force of will seemed to knit them together, even as she pulled
herself upwards like a black widow upon silk twine. Moments later, her athletic thighs gripped the lip of
the cavern’s portal, and she hoisted herself inside.

###

++The Operation is established. ++

The soft voice of a woman, tinged with an undeniable authority, had resounded through the vox network
of the Molvius, much to the delight of its Captain.

Borus Cavote grinned widely, his red beard ruffling as his face creased in joy.

“This is Rogue trader Cavote. I hear ya loud and clear miss! It’s about bloody time! Borus out!” the
hulking man boomed cheerfully, before bounding from his command bridge, towards the hexagonal
debarkation chamber, which connected to the bridge via a grand passageway lined with beautiful
sculptures and etchings from across the known reaches of the galaxy.

“Continue evasion procedures everyone! Keep us out of the jaws of the lion until I get back!” he called to
his bridge crew. “Punax you devil! Where are you? Our mission is engaged!” he chuckled into his throat
vox, raising his arms as he emerged into the chamber.

As if responding to some silent command, a dozen scrawny servitors approached the great bear of a
man. Each cadaver-like machine-beast clutched in their talons a perfectly sculpted piece of power
armour. Slowly and ever so carefully, each piece was placed upon the Rogue, who stood at the centre of
the chamber as if awaiting adulation.
As he was carefully placed within the complex interlocking plates of the armour, other figures emerged.
Each of the two dozen figures were bedecked in a wide array of armour and armed with the diverse
weapons, their exotic gear a wordless testimony to their many endeavours and operations. These were
Cavote’s brigands, an affectionate name for a group of utterly affectionless fiends. Their armour was torn
from the bodies of hundreds of looted foes, their jewellery and finery pillaged from the treasure ships of
xenos royal houses, or the coffers of merchant vessels whose crew had the misfortune of crossing their
barbarous path. Whether armed with stubber-rifles, hellguns, bolters or xenarch lightning casters, they
were murderers to a man, with the same dead eyes of men who had made a choice of wealth over
morality.

They were the perfect accompaniment to Borus himself. He was not a good man. He had come to terms
with this a long time ago. However, he was an exceedingly rich man. In the Imperium, men often
assumed the two were the same. He let them think that. It made proving them wrong all the funnier,
when he raided their tubs and robbed them of everything.

“Our mission is at hand?” Punax asked with a professional air. Punax was the second in command of the
brigands, yet he was almost nothing like his master. He was a grim pragmatist; a man who fought only for
enough money to survive and to remain hidden from prying eyes. A man, Borus almost chuckled to
himself, as he looked upon the beast that walked like a man. He was of the Hyanx, a beastman race,
much akin to the canine. Borus despised his race if he was honest. Yet, Punax was a loyal soldier, and
extremely good at killing people. Those were all the qualifications he needed from an employee.

“Indeed! Indeed! We are to deploy into the catacombs directly, retake our kind gift to the Crypt cultists,
return it here, and then... poof! We’re away from this hellhole! Back to civilisation! And riches! Riches
beyond our wildest dreams!”

“I ‘ave heard that our mutual friend will get us all provinces to rule! Perhaps even whole planets,” one of
the brigands grunted, as he checked the charge on his strange alien needler weapon.

Borus slapped him on the back, as the last of his armour plates was screwed in place. “Forget planets my
lads. Think bigger. Sectors! This is big. Really big! A new world order is at hand lads! And we’re poised to
take just what we want when... He, takes back the Adeptus for himself,” Borus beamed, before gesturing
to several scuttling aides to come closer.
“Give me the beacons! And ready the transporter array, and inform the rest of my brigand soldiers to
gather at the secondary transport terminals on the fifth deck! Go go” he shooed the cowering hooded
figures, snatching the strange silver beacons from their quivering hands as they fled. “Hmmm... jittery as
mayflies those lot,” he chuckled harshly, which was then chorused by the dirty, cruel laughs of his
brigands. All save Punax, who merely unhooked his stalker silenced bolter from his shoulder harness,
carefully checking the weapon over with an unreadable expression.

“We go in fast and quiet. The Guard on the ground aren’t to know what we’re doing. This isn’t exactly
legal,” Borus explained, drawing his own bolt pistol from his holster.

“Witnesses?” Punax asked, his efficient tone marred by the strange, growling inflection his jutting snout
gave his words.

Borus shook his head. “Nah. We do whatever it takes to get this back. If we don’t get it back cleanly...
well we would be better off chancing it with those things,” Borus concluded, gesturing from one of the
ostentatious portholes surrounding the chamber. “Questions?”

The silence of his men was his answer, and he nodded. “Off we go then.”

The brigands filed from the chamber, towards a wider silver dome room, which hummed with unseen
energies. Before Borus reached the portal into this chamber, he heard the insistent cough of his son,
sounding behind him.

Sneering, Borus turned to his child. “What is it now boy! I don’t have time for your nonsense!”

Howe shifted uneasily from one foot to another, his face pale and sickly. “When you are on the surface...
am I?”

Borus chuckled. “In charge? Warp no! You? Is that all you think about boy? No concern for your father
eh? I must say charming there, you slimy toad! No, Helm will be in charge in my absence. You will do
what he tells you to do. You’re not a leader. Know your place,” Borus rumbled, before turning to leave
once more.

“Safe journey,” Howe hissed spitefully at his father’s back, making sure to vent his venom just out of
earshot of his bombastic father.

One day, he cursed to himself. One day.

###

“What is this? Have you opened it?”

Emeline’s voice rang out in the dimly lit chambers much more loudly than expected. The other Lychen
surrounded the lower levels of the Flesh Crypt, each looking upon the bizarre sight before them with
bemusement.

Vasinis made a vague gesture with his hands. “We were instructed not to. Only to begin de-frosting at
the appointed time, then Cavote would return to collect the device. Or weapon, or creature, or whatever
it is in... there...” Vasinis trailed off.

The stasis capsule was a similar cylindrical shape to the other casket-like pods arranged around the mile-
high columns of coolant that dominated the Flesh Crypt like some surreal forest. However, this one was
billowed steam in rolling clouds, and water glistened upon its surface. Its blue robed attendants had
fearfully retreated at the approach of the Lychen, and even now kept their distance, save for the ever-
present form of Vasinis.

“How did he know about this place? That Borus does not seem like the well-read type” Keshak asked
bluntly, itching his head with the flat of his hooked machete.

“He said his employer informed him. He didn’t say who this employer was. We assumed one of our old
clients,” Vasinis explained, wringing his hand with unease.
Emeline scowled as she walked towards the strange container. She pulled off the glove of her claw-less
hand, before running her bare backhand across the condensation coating the silver capsule like morning
dew. She looked upon the engraving:

The Express Property of Lord Borus Cavote, Rogue Trader, and Enfranchised by the God-Emperor’s
Glorious Warrant of Trade.

Even when dictating his words, the arrogance of the Rogue bled through like a sick ooze. Rogue Traders
made her skin crawl at the best of times; men and women sanctioned by the Imperium to get rich, on
the pretence of expanding Mankind’s horizons. It was obscene. An idea crafted in a simpler time
perhaps, she considered.

Maybe she should open it? No, there was danger there. Undeniable. If it was a weapon, who knows
what would happen should she open the container? He should open it though, she thought. Wait, no,
she knew better than this. The Inquisitor, the other one. Deriss. He would know what to do. Open the
silver prison, and unleash its magnificence. No... wait that wasn’t right. Yes it was right! Of course it was!
A puppet needs its strings! They were not her words.

The Commissar suddenly lurched backwards, her body clad in a cold sweat. Keshak rushed to her side as
she fell to the ground, shivering.

“What is it? Is the pod dangerous? Emeline! What happened?” Keshak muttered in her ear. She didn’t
answer, but instead turned to stare at him, confusion on her features.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. I just thought... for a second... I thought...” she began.

“We should open this. It’s all de-frosted anyway isn’t it? I think we should open it,” Firil suddenly called
out. A few of the other Lychen nodded. Murmurs of approval rippled through the regiment sporadically.
Keshak stood up to block Firil’s path. Something was not right. “Wait. Think about this my brethren!
Whatever is in there, it just floored your Blade Enforcer, and that swine Borus is coming for it. It is not
something we should open.”

“But... shouldn’t we release its magnificence?” Firil asked, unsure of his own words. Other Lychen began
to mutter similar queries, looking to each other for guidance.

“What? What are you talking about? None of us are opening this! You hear me?” Keshak warned once,
barring his fangs like a territorial wolf.

One Lychen raised his lasgun. His muscles were straining, and he panted like a wounded bear, sweat
beading across his forehead. The weapon turned slowly towards Keshak.

“Somebody end me! My limbs!” the Lychen bawled suddenly in a voice approaching panic; a truly
disturbing tone coming from a Lychen.

Firil suddenly complied with his request. His axe swept through the air, taking the warrior’s head from his
shoulders in a single gory sweep. The headless body turned towards Firil, raising its lasgun once more.
With a growl of surprise, he hacked the body’s arms away at the elbows, before splitting the body in two.
This time the body fell, and did not rise.

“Lychen! Do not listen to the thoughts occurring to you! They are poison! Begin the cant! Think of
nothing but the cant! Crush any thought but the blessed oaths!” Keshak wheezed, as he too slumped to
his knees, as Emeline had done.

The Lychen staggered around, muttering words they did not understand. However, slowly, the words of
the Lychen Battle Hymn returned to their lips, thundering through their minds like a burning brand
scorching their flesh, rousing their minds against the thing which crept into their minds like a thief.

“Human Flesh and Human blood is the bedrock of the Imperium!”

They began, the words thundering like blood behind the eyes. Pressure in the skull.

“The Emperor is the soul and Protector of the Imperium!”

The thoughts were screamed, both in the head and on the lips of the stunned Lychen.

“The Emperor is Imperium!”

Keshak cried out, biting his arm to draw blood, before spitting it across his assembled men.

“The Emperor is, then, humanity!”

They were all roaring now, roaring as one great mass. A tide of zealous hate and murderous rage which
wasted their minds clear in a tumultuous wave.

“The Emperor is human flesh and human blood

To receive benediction, we must be like unto him

We take sacrament, and we partake of the Emperor

We partake of Human flesh and human blood

We are the Haemovores

Salvation in slaughter!

We fight for blood, we fight for flesh

Let none deny our holy task

We face no horror we cannot surpass, so go forth, brethren of blood,

Smash skulls,

Split muscle,

Suck marrow from the bone

Cry prayers to Him, and Feast!”

At the height of the chanting, Firil, overcome with hatred and passion, leapt forwards to strike the
cylinder, howling curses as he raised his axe and struck the capsule.

Vasinis rushed to try and prevent the assault, but as battered aside with an elbow. Keshak leapt for his
over-enthusiastic ally. Too late.

“Die! You cannot surpass me!”

The axe struck the capsule with a resounding clang. It rebounded from the case, the barbed head of the
blade ripping out cables as Firil staggered back, surprised at the strength of the material. Sparks flashed
from the ruptured machinery around the pod, and Keshak dragged Firil backwards by the waist with a
startled grunt.

Nothing happened.

Keshak sighed, his eyes brimming with barely controlled wrath. “Direct your fury to a more worthy
target. This capsule remains sealed. Borus is coming to retrieve this abomination. We must punish him
for this great blasphemy. Punish him with blood, and froth, and the parting of muscle!” Keshak growled
in Firil’s ear. Eyes wild with religious delirium, Firil could barely contain his mad cackle of glee. “Indeed!
Indeed! Salvation in Slaughter! Salvation is Slaughter!”
Keshak nodded, before standing to address his men. “Form a perimeter around this crypt. Find
defensible positions, but keep clear of... whatever this is. We will destroy it when we know how. All that
matters is that we deny this prize to the enemy. Understood?” Keshak bellowed. The Lychen roared
together in a cacophonous rumble, before they split off into their platoons; banging skin-clad drums and
carving war scars into their flesh with their knives as they moved off to prepare themselves.

Keshak walked over to Emeline’s side, and offered his hand to her. She shrugged him off and clambered
to her feet herself. “I am fine... acting-Colonel Keshak. Perfectly fine.”

Keshak followed her as she moved off. “We all felt it. The alien thoughts. There is no shame in a brief
lapse-“

Emeline rounded upon him, her eyes wild with fury. “There is! There is Keshak! I am a Blade Enf- I am a
Commissar! We are the moralistic heart of the Guard! We cannot fall, or succumb! We are His
representatives to the Guard; his justice and his strength, uplifting the serried ranks! I... failed... I failed
the regiment... I failed... you,” Emeline responded fiercely, her anger gradually failing as she glared at the
Lychen, her face mere inches from his own.

Keshak licked his glinting teeth and smiled. “Did not Saint Dorn curse his weaknesses? When he cursed
himself for not reaching Him in time? It is not your failures that define you. T is what you will do to
correct them. You could respond with disbelief and denial, and fall. Or you can embrace it, and avenge
your wrongs! You can break those who have wronged you and all mankind! Rip down their faces and
grind their bones! Return the flesh to the fold, and save us all,” Keshak breathed in her face, as he ran a
hand across the tribal scars running down her cheeks roughly.

“Earn these!” he concluded with a snarl.

Emeline smirked, before slamming a fist into Keshak’s face, snapping his head back. He grinned a bloody
grin, and the two set off.

Leaving the silent warning lights of the capsule to flash discreetly, as Vasinis slowly walked towards the
silver tomb. His movements were not his own, and he wept as he advanced upon the casket. He didn’t
want to, but he was a wailing voice in the back of his own mind. The main noise in his mind told him to
open it. To release the magnificence within.

He was, in effect and in practice, enslaved.

Posted by: Tyrant Aug 21 2010, 01:03 PM

Another good part. The assassin's descent was very good, I could visualise what was going on very easily.
Can't wait to find out just what is inside the capsule now!

Posted by: LordLucan Jan 24 2011, 07:50 PM

A long belated update!:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty Eight:

Colonel Henrick of the Cadian Shocktroopers was not pleased. He panted as he and his remaining Kasrkin
squad jogged through the icy, windswept catacombs of the frozen mountain. He was commander of the
Cadians on the ground, but he had no ability to lead anyone. The vox links had all gone dead, or became
filled with fearful chattering which made him sneer in disgust. An explosion of titanic proportions had
ripped through the entire mountain, almost shaking his bones to powder; such was the force of the
detonation. He suspected that his army was no more; lost as the spider-city de-coupled from the cliff
face into oblivion.

Yet, Henrick was born a soldier, and he knew nothing else, and his reaction to the mounting tragedy was
to close off his mind to empathy and understanding, or to lamentation. He killed and secured chamber
after chamber. The ten man kill team of cadian stormtroopers were the very greatest soldiers his war
torn world could produce, and their quality needed no qualification. Clusters of hybrids spread
throughout the ruined palace were overcome in lightning-fast breeching manoeuvres by the furious
Kasrkin; smoke and flash flooded the senses of the monsters within, who were slain within seconds. Each
bolt unleashed by the kasrkin was a kill shot, and the human war machines didn’t utter a single word as
they coldly cleared room after room. It mattered not how many foes they faced; from small armies to
cowering huddles of mutant women and children who wailed in mewling terror, were slain with equal
ease and efficiency.

Henrick didn’t know how deep his squad descended into the darkened hold. Their helmet auto-senses
made the rooms all look the same; a greyscale landscape of shapes and targets. He only counted his
passage by the number of rooms stormed; the number of heretics executed. They had to keep moving
however. He knew that some of the accursed sky-creatures had managed to avoid tumbling with Azgoth.
They had formed living chains of bodies, and had clambered up their own doomed comrades to gain
access to the biomass cowering inside the glacial mountains. The piles of slaughtered cultists would keep
them busy for at most an hour, he estimated. In that time, he needed to find a defensible position. His
seasoned eyes scanned every inch of the rocky caverns he passed through, his keen mind reading the
stone like a manual.

They eventually approached an area where the caverns coalesced somewhat; a constructed crossroads
deep underground.

“Colonel; contacts ahead. Auspex scopes thirty figures,” the Sergeant stated with grim coldness, bionic
eye whirring mildly. The Colonel merely nodded, checking the cell power of his power packs. They were
low. Very low.

“Make your shots count.”

They rounded the corner like phantoms. The formation of enemy noticed them too late; each kasrkin
had a bead on an opposing foe, with a dozen targets selected for destruction after their first foe fell. The
enemy, however, were a strange sight which made the Kasrkin pause momentarily. They wore a complex
mix of diverse and divergent armour and weaponry. In their centre stood two prominent figures; one a
giant in powered armour with a ginger beard fashioned into a three-pronged fork, the other a hulking
shadowy figure wielding a stripped down bolter. Henrick noted with a humourless smirk that the darkly-
clad figure had already targeted the kasrkin long before his fellows had even realised the cadians had
came upon them.

It took Henrick a fraction of a second to identify these figures.

“Hold! Hold! Friendlies!” he barked, and the kasrkin stopped, powering down their powerful hellguns,
that shimmered with heat in the freezing air.

The exotic men before them did likewise reluctantly. The bearded giant strode forwards with a porcelain
grin.

“My Lord Henrick. I hope we haven’t missed too much of the fun?”

Henrick scowled. “I am not in the mood Cavote. Tell me what you are doing here now, and update me on
the situation in orbit. Are we betrayed?”

Borus raised his hands. “I was ordered here by Raventium. We are to help secure the glacier for
reinforcements. Azgoth was alas, lost in a bombardment by those accursed... things...” Borus explained,
his face taking on a sincere frown. “We thought you dead Colonel. Gravean will be pleased.”

“He will not be pleased. You do not know him. He is a bureaucrat. He’s already cursing me for
mismanaging by resources on the ground I imagine,” Henrick replied with a deadpan expression. Borus
took it as the joke it was. He grinned.

“Probably. Where are the enemy? We haven’t encountered any so far down here. It is possible we
teleported too deeply into the complex,”

The Colonel gestured over his shoulder. “They’re coming up behind us Borus. We need to find a
defensible location and fast.”

Borus nodded solemnly. Then, his face seemed to brighten. “We found a storehouse, half a mile down
the eastern tunnel. The cultists had corralled their broken tanks into a barricade I think. No signs of the
enemy though. Probably killed themselves; the cowards,” his accented voice rumbled cheerfully.

Henrick’s eternally irritated features softened slightly. “We will take the lead Trader. Your men are
effective I am sure, but we are the Emperor’s instruments of war. You can form the rearguard until we
are clear to reform.”

Borus bowed in contrition, and gestured for Henrick to lead the way deeper into the darkened hybrid
burrows. The two groups descended at rapid pace, the Kasrkin setting a fearsome tempo to their
relentless march. Gradually, the two groups separated, the slower mercenary soldiers falling behind.
Borus glanced towards Punax, who nodded curtly. Wordlessly, the other mercenaries acknowledged
their master. They knew their orders.

Henrick paused in his march, his irritation masked behind his thick carapace helm.

“You must increase your pace Borus. The enemy have creatures bred for lethal speed, and they will not
tire before we d-“

Henrick was cut off by a sudden deluge of weapons fire. Shurikens, las bolts, bolt shells and pulse rounds
scythed through the unprepared karskin like blade through corn. Each shot was targeted at a joint or
weakness within the thick armour of the grenadiers, punching through into tough Cadian flesh with
ease. Red mist filled the chamber as the murdered kasrkin jerked and danced like lifeless puppets.
Henrick died instantly, as Borus’ heavy handcannon punched through his visor and pulverised his brains
in one gory impact.

The steel-face sergeant was swifter to react. Decades of ingrained training kicked in, and he rode the
storm of fire with unconscious precision, ducking between the blasts, while using his still falling brethren
as makeshift cover. Within the space of a few seconds, the sergeant had blasted six of the mercs from
their feet, cratering their chests with fat crimson laser bolts. With the Cadian cry of ‘into the Jaws of
Hell!’ burning on his lips, the Sergeant leapt into combat.

Wielding his bayoneted rifle like a fighting spear, he felled two more of the treacherous soldiers of
fortune with disciplined combat drills, his arcing silver bayonet gutting them like fishes.

“Finish him Punax. The Inquisitor specified there was to be no witnesses, and Borus is no liar,” the Rogue
Trader muttered dismissively.
The canine beastman raised his bolter and fired in one fluid motion. The stalker shell came out of the
barrel with a whisper, and the desperate kasrkin only realised the mortal threat as it slammed into his
lower back, splintering his spine and spraying his guts across the frozen flagstones of the tunnel floor.
Even as he tried to draw his hellpistol side arm, the enemy fell upon him as one, stabbing and beating
him to death like rude savages.

Borus turned from the spectacle with a sniff. “Good dog...”

Now, Borus smiled, it was time to retrieve the Artefact. The Artefact which would change the destiny of
humanity forever...

The Flesh crypt beckoned.

###

The Luthor’s Spear was penetrated in a hundred locations. The entire vessel moaned wordlessly at the
violation inflicted upon its tortured hull. The colossal bulkheads burst inwards with a great roar, mile-
long tendrils of sickly wet meat plunging into the battleship’s innards, before ejaculating a murderous
tide of clawed horrors, which shrieked and screeched as they scuttled through the labyrinth of corridors
and tunnels that ran through the void-city.
It the lower decks, Mordians and former rioters fought side by side, throwing bodies and smashed
machinery onto desperate makeshift barricades. The Mordians, cold and hard as carved stone, bellowed
abrupt and forceful orders as they pumped volley after volley of fire into the onrushing tides of chitinous
death that bore down upon them from every angle.

Steam rose from the sweating, panting bodies of the dying defenders, and mucus bubbled in the heat as
they fought fighting retreats on a hundred fronts at once. The howling of biological nightmares merged
with the pathetic screams of the dying as they were dragged into the churning masses of bodies. They
died in screaming agony; dissected and devoured hungrily within moments.

They fought upon gantries, which toppled to the base levels a kilometre below, as the weight of alien
bodies and acidic ichors finally undid the support structures holding the dense industrial framework of
the lower levels together. Armouries and ammo dumps became desperate sieges, as the crackle and
boom of autocannons and missile launchers resounded throughout the dying warship.

The Mordians didn’t even flinch as they died in their thousands; only curses passed their lips as they
died, vainly thrusting with hedges of bayonets. One group managed to force a swarm of gaunt leaping
creatures off the edge of a plunging ravine of twisted metal, their bayonets and lasers cutting them
down with relentless fury. They were soon undone by a passing winged fiend, which ripped them from
their platform, to land broken on the mangled machinery beneath.

On the upper decks, Jalia and her sisters of battle had been forced into the banqueting hall of the upper
Officer corps. She gestured to the surviving Armsmen and mad-eyed serfs with her to flip the table to bar
the terrible biological horde passage. With a resounding clang the great marble table was cast onto its
side, and with a great roar of desperate rage, the serfs began to shove the table towards the gates.

Sister Superior Jalia covered them as they fought against the table’s immense weight. Her Sisters’ bolters
spat explosive death into the onrushing beasts that died scrabbling to ascend their own corpses to reach
the valiant defenders.

“The Emperor protects His children, and those who know Him shall know righteous fury, and they shall
rain down a great and terrible vengeance upon those who would defile his altars and slay his people! In
the Emperor’s name, we shall fear not the darkness, nor the rising tides of filth! We are as fire upon ice,
and our light shall shine in the cold depths!”

Her sisters screamed this prayer over the din of their gunfire, eye aflame with zealous wrath. Armsman
and rioter and Sororitas fought as one, with one mind and one purpose. In the face of annihilation, they
knew, for perhaps the first and perhaps last time in their lives, what it was to be human. They knew what
it was to truly be part of that great racial legacy which had driven back the ravening hordes since man
first groped blindly into the dark void beyond their little world.

Sister Orifame squirted a great cone of blessed promethean death from her angel-spouted flamer,
cutting down a score of the monsters instantly. Following this flame deluge, Jalia unleashed the fury of
her bolter, punctuating each syllable of her prayer with a bolt to the skull of a flesh-fiend. One of the
large creatures rose up, and vomited a great ball of tangled thorns, which cut down three of her convent
in a single blast. The fiend was cut down in turn by the angry retort of Imperial firepower. Slowly, but
surely, the aliens were driven back beyond the gates, which were slammed shut by the armoured boot of
another sister positioned near the portal. As soon as it closed, the heavy marble slab was slammed into
place with a rumble, sealing the gate. The nightmare din of the horde lessened to a mere shuddering
rumble. Bony blows resounded against the adamantine doors like hail upon a tin roof. Yet, the beasts
were withheld.

Jalia sagged, looking around her at the relieved faces of her fellow humans. Some even had the lingering
ghosts of smiles across their blood-drenched features. Jalia almost smiled beneath her impassive helm,
but she suppressed it. They were not safe yet.
When she turned her face towards the towering stained glass window behind them, her worse fears
were made reality. Multi-coloured light spilled into the banqueting chamber through the beautiful
edifice of glass. This light was tarnished however, by the grotesque silhouette of a chitinous creature
crawling across it, shaped like some winged daemon from the warp, come to take them all to the life
beyond the veil. More and more of the winged things clustered around the glass window, crawling across
the hull of the Luthor’s Spear like parasites. As they clustered, the light from the window dimmed, until
only one image could be discerned upon the shimmering coloured glass. It was the image of the Living
saint Drusius, clad in her armoured mantle, falling upon her won spear to save a crowd of cowering
Imperial citizens.

Jalia turned to her sisters, and then to the other humans huddled within the chamber.

“Hold onto something. Emergency void seals should activate within moments. It is the only way to
secure this chamber,” she explained coldly as she reloaded her bolter, her Sisters doing likewise.

“W-what is, mistress?” one of the serfs whispered reverently, as he dutifully grabbed onto a jutting
alcove.

Jalia didn’t answer. The surviving Sororitas simply turned towards the stained glass, and fired into the
shadowy forms that defiled it. The glass shattered, and Jalia felt herself being dragged bodily from the
chamber, into silence and weightlessness.

Her sisters and the monsters tumbled through the void like insane silent carnival dancers. Bolters
flashed, and ichors bubbled in droplets. Void-swimming, tentacle-covered things snatched at the
surviving sisters, pulling them apart and leaving their parts to drift divergently across the empty expanse.
A warning chime in her helmet buzzed erratically, as it bleated about her tumbling oxygen levels. She
could see the Luthor’s Spear beneath her, like a great beleaguered bastion city, too vast in scale to truly
comprehend its human construction. It was so very beautiful, and Jalia shed a tear to witness such
magnificence lost. Above her, a heaven of flesh and mewling tendrils writhed, vast and terrible as a
nuclear dawn. Without thinking, she detached her krak grenades from her belt, and began to prime
them one by one.

When finally some ugly beaked thing ploughed into her back, she screamed into her helmet, ripping it
free as she detonated her charges.

Her brief, flickering flash was lost amidst a thousand similar flashes, as the Battleship’s turrets fired
relentlessly at the infinite tide of spores that fell upon it like daemonic rain.

The hive fleet converged upon the fallen giant like jackals ripping into a carcase. And all the while,
Raventium, Admiral of the once mighty fleet, looked on, his sword drawn and his pistol loaded, awaiting
his end as only a doomed hero could. For he knew his end was approaching. But it would be a mighty
end.

Posted by: Gaius Marius Jan 25 2011, 02:16 AM

Ugh, another chapter LL? Now I'm gonna have to read through the whole thing just to remember what
was happening. I"ll have a proper response up in a bit.
Posted by: Colonel Mustard Jan 25 2011, 07:56 PM

Omnomnomnom...

So, they Lychen versus Borus versus an entire Hive Fleet and a cuckoo in the nest. This is going to be
interesting...

(Also, there are an awful lot of typos in the last part, which you might want to fix up).

Posted by: Tyrant Jan 25 2011, 08:28 PM

Never trust a Rogue Trader. The clue is in the name, for crying out loud.....

I really liked those cadians, damn you for killing them off so quickly.

Just one quibble:

" The colossal bulkheads burst inwards with a great roar, mile-long tendrils of sickly wet meat plunging
into the battleship’s innards, before ejaculating a murderous tide of clawed horrors,"

I really think "vomited forth" would work better. But that's just my preference, so it's not even a real
quibble. Disregard.

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Jan 25 2011, 08:35 PM

QUOTE (Tyrant @ Jan 25 2011, 08:28 PM)

Just one quibble:

" The colossal bulkheads burst inwards with a great roar, mile-long tendrils of sickly wet meat plunging
into the battleship’s innards, before ejaculating a murderous tide of clawed horrors,"

I really think "vomited forth" would work better. But that's just my preference, so it's not even a real
quibble. Disregard.

I can't but find that I agree with Tyrant with this; there's something really rather...phallic about the
imagery in the current sentence.

Posted by: LordLucan Jan 25 2011, 09:03 PM

The grotesque sexualised imagery was very deliberate yes.

Also, I have edited the test to remove the majority of the typos (probably missed some though, but I did
my best)

Posted by: LordLucan Jan 26 2011, 12:42 AM

And here is another update. Enjoy!:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty Nine.

It was dark and cold as death. The only light was a pin-prick, vanishing at the very top of the great shaft.
Upon the rock-cut floor were rust and ruin, and frost clinging to the titanic refrigerator units that
eternally hummed. Amongst the lifeless shale, scraps of armour lay in wretched repose; twisted greaves,
a dented breast-plate of former sculpted beauty, a tattered cloak, draped across a spar of metal like a
ruined raven smashed at the roadside. A horned helm lay splintered into three. Snapped swords rested
forevermore on ashen drifts.

Within this great circle of rubble and debris, a body lay sprawled. A great giant’s body, lifeless and
prostrate, its hulking back arched up as if in paused agony. The huge tarnished dome of a skull was split
open and bleeding. Glazed white marbles served as eyes in the bloody sockets. Hands lay open and
gripped nothing; one was flesh, the other like beaten brass. A ferrous shark’s maw fused to the jaw of
the figure, agape and motionless as a marble carving of a feral god of some barbarous court.

A fallen figure lay in the dust; the lowest and most wretched of things.

###

It was utter anarchy. Menials and crusade staff thundered through the corridors in mad directionless
hordes, illuminated only by the blood light of emergency beacons that flashed and flared intermittently.
The Inquisitor darted through the crowds like quicksilver, flowing through the available spaces between
panicked fools with fluid grace. Hanque was not so swift nor dextrous; barging through the crowds using
only his bulk and the butt of the shotgun he fearfully clutched to his chest.

“Deriss! Wait! Deriss!” he bellowed after the rapidly-vanishing figure. The aliens were coming through
the upper levels, deck by deck. The armour nearest the bridge had held against the horrific ravishing of
the hordes. Instead, they were invading in a more traditional way; clawing through Armsmen barricades
and cordons, chewing through rank upon rank of whimpering Adepts.

Hanque’s mind was in freefall. Barely months ago, he was a barman upon a backwater world. Suddenly,
the grim and grandiose majesty and horror of the galaxy had flooded him at every turn. Each sight was
terrible and yet somehow more dreadful than the sight before. Hanque knew where Deriss was heading.
He was going to the escape pods, and the shuttle bays. Not out of cowardice or self interest. He knew
that Darvius would flee, and he meant to confront the twisted Inquisitor; to condemn the rogue who
doomed them all here.

An unseen fist or boot or maybe simply a careless head, connected with Hanque’s jaw with a crunch. He
turned and smashed his shotgun left and right. This brought sudden retribution from startled and
mindlessly angry men, who growled incoherently as they slammed into him; a dozen men ploughing him
into the adamantine bulkheads with a wet thud. He didn’t feel his shotgun go off, but he saw its effects
painted in crimson mist, which splashed across his eyes and made him retch. There were screams, and
the crowds pressed and floundered in the chaos.

The press was impossibly dense, and Hanque struggled for every breath; willing his bruised lungs to drag
in more air. But they couldn’t. That was when the corridor behind him collapsed. Flames and rubble
toppled downwards upon the fleeing multitude. Bodies were crunched and limbs cascaded with spilt
gore. He fell upon his back, and boots stamped upon his face in their haste to flee.

A soulless, keening roar shook the tight metal transit route, which would become this simple hiver’s
tomb.

The scything beasts were so fast. They were a blur of fangs and claws as they passed overhead. Then,
with terminal inevitability, Hanque felt something wet and smooth slither across his chest. Before he
could scream, the thing plunged into his face, jaws clamping around his own in the mockery of a kiss.
Bones broke, and a fiery agony stabbed into his face, and down the back of his neck.

He didn’t even feel the other dozen ripper-beasts, as they opened his carapace and burrowed deep
inside his considerable gut.

###

The cold cryo-towers of the Flesh Crypt resounded with the sound of the Lychen building defences
across the raised platforms that helically coiled around the stasis pods and coolant rods like giant banana
plant leaves in some frozen rainforest canopy. Pieces of old broke machinery was piled upon sandbags
and butchered corpses, the Lychen joyfully singing their battle chants as they went about the grizzly task.
The few remaining heavy weapons were set down upon tripods, and build into the banks of crude
barricades that were set up at every level of the cryo-stacks, each bastion in theory providing covering
fire to those emplacements directly above and to the sides of them. Emeline walked amongst them,
cursing at them in what few words she knew in Lychen, before she threw blood in their face from the
ceremonial flask at her belt. The Lychen laughed and growled in good cheer as she passed by, carefully
adding to their scars with their small flensing knives.

Slowly, a thumping rhythm began to build across the echoing, cold expanse, as they stamped their feet
and their rumbling voices picked up with the promise of battle. They knew not why the Rogue Trader
came for the Artefact, nor why he would try to kill them for it. They knew only that they would deny him
his prize, and wear his skin like a fine cloak; a testimony to his foolishness.

Nobody willingly makes war upon the Lychen Guard.

Firil took himself off to one distant emplacement, and took out his whetstone, humming an ancient song
from his childhood; memories of a time when he felt safe and un-hunted. A time before he was blooded
and sent out into the world as a killer-bred. He sharpened his brutal axe head as he hummed, and a
smile came to his split, pierced lips, and his gaunt features creased in a hollow grin.

Eventually, Emeline returned to Keshak’s side, who stood impassively amongst the largest group of
Lychen Guardsmen, placed upon a great jutting balcony, suspended almost a mile above the cavern floor.
He calmly reloaded his shotgun as he stamped along to the Lychen beat; the pulsing heart of war which
thundered in their blood. His fur mantle hung at his shoulder, and he shrugged it off as he flexed his
shoulders in readiness. His great shield was in his hand and humming, a brutal shotgun with a gory axe
head fixed upon its end dripping with condensation from the chilly pods.

Keshak turned to Emeline as she returned to his side. They said nothing at first. She merely dipped her
hand into her blood-flask, and the pressed the gory hand to his face, leaving her imprint upon his scarred
features. They stared at each other, as they listened to the rumble of Lychen-thunder.

“These men will not come to us as a mass. They are devious and cunning, and will use all the stolen
proscribed equipment in their arsenal to overcome us. They will fight at range, and will keep moving. I
have seen reports of the boarding actions of Borus and his henchmen. They will play to every advantage,
and will make you fight on their terms Keshak. Do not let your nature cloud what you know must be
done, and how you must fight.”

Emeline spoke these words lowly and softly into Keshak’s ear, with tenderness so unexpected, even
Keshak was momentarily taken aback. He turned to regard her.

“This Borus is a child with his toys. He relies upon them too much. He wants to fight on his terms; he
shall be disappointed. Things will not go his way,” Keshak replied bluntly.

Emeline frowned. “And why is this? What makes you so certain?”

Keshak replied with a deep intake of breath through his nostrils. “Can you smell that? The scent on the
air? It is so rich, compared to the crisp Crypt air.”

Emeline shook her head. “I don’t smell it. What is it?”

“Blood. But not the blood of men. Borus does not come alone. He is being chased. He is in a hurry. This
will make him clumsy. This will be his downfall.”

Emeline nodded, before turning back towards the huge shadowy alcoves built into the cavern’s highest
edges, each one a possible entry point for the traitors. They had no idea what was coming.

###

Darvius frowned as he walked with all the haste and briskness his recently re-attached foot was capable
of, his jade greatcoat flapping behind him like a flag. Layla and Minval jogged at his side, the old psyker
clad in his robes of purity seals, the beautiful interrogator clad in her perfect glass-tile cloak. The grim
shadow of Jaxx could be seen ahead, clearing the path of those few Armsmen, civilians and lesser alien
warrior beasts that barred their path through the wide processional avenue. His shimmering blue power
blades carved a path of cold carnage through the wide passage.

The processional avenue was a huge circular tunnel, which bypassed many of the crew decks and
quarters that had become clogged with bodies and helpless mortal whelps, which led directly to the
battleship’s luxury shuttle bay. It was a relic of a time, long ago, when the Luthor’s Spear had been a
flagship of some Golden Age flotilla of some Planetary Kingdom, and was built so the grubby masses
would not disturb the royal’s passage to his yacht. The irony; to think, Raventium had argued for it to be
demolished when the Luthor’s Spear next had a refit! The fool! This was ideal for Darvius’ purposes, he
mused darkly.

His thoughts returned to the matter at hand, when he lost sight of Jaxx ahead.

“Pick up the pace! We mustn’t be separated!” he hissed. Layla nodded sombrely in response.

Minval merely mewled and whimpered, babbling in his normal insane chattering. “Many eyes! So many
eyes! They are everywhere! They are not they, but it! The vile and singular greatness! Majesty of
nightmare! Oh Emperor, it hungers so, it-“Minval wailed, as Darvius dragged him by the collar forwards.

“As much as your rambling is enthralling, I am not in the mood!” Darvius began. “We must continue
onwards! A Captain may go down with his ship, but I do not intend to.”

“Come now, Lord Inquisitor Hormann Darvius, tarry a while with me. I have some questions for you...” a
low, cultured voice called from behind Darvius, the tone of threat explicit.

Darvius grimaced as he turned slowly around to face the Inquisitor Deriss, who stood in a fighter’s
stance, his long slender laspistol raised and aimed squarely at Darvius. Layla gasped, and reached for her
own pistol. Darvius stopped her with a glance, before fixing his glaring eyes upon his rival.
“Deriss my friend, come to wish me a fond farewell have we?” Darvius replied with an acidic, mocking
tone.

“Something like that Darvius. But let us both drop this coy demeanour shall we? I know what was on
your data-slate. I know why you flee like a coward at dusk. You are a fiend and a villain, and not a very
charming one at that. Which is worse in a way, but I have questions for you,” Deriss smiled, features
devoid of humour.

Darvius smiled with equal falsity. “I am sure you do. Therefore, you have not read the data-slate, as
otherwise you would know what it was I was supposedly up to.”

Layla silently began to reach for her weapon, while Minval muttered to himself (though Darvius knew he
could be relied upon if it came to confrontation.

Deriss snarled. “It doesn’t take a genius to work out your plans. I have seen the faked merchant trading
routes, the overlapping cargo transfer wafers, and the oceans of discreet bribes you have paid to officials
to mask your work. The data-slate is just one piece of the puzzle. I have discovered the lengths you went
to install the Molvius with this crusade fleet, and how you transferred the fleet to this backwater. And I
know where the Molvius is heading. I’ve pieced together how the cargo routes and short warp jumps
overlap. I have to admit it was cleverly done; you masked the overall destination well, but you cannot
hide it. You are sending Borus, and the Molvius, directly to Terra. What is Borus supposed to deliver to
the very heart of the Imperium? Who is pulling your strings Darvius? Who is so powerful, they have a
Lord Inquisitor as their lapdog?”

Deriss’s voice broke as his passion erupted through his normally-inscrutable facade. Darvius’ smile had
faded too. He just stared into the other Inquisitor’s eyes hopelessly.

“You would not believe me if I told you. You are not sufficient reason for me to divulge anything. Tyrianus
is bigger than you or I. What has been set into motion cannot be undone. I have played my part. I have
done my duty. And that is all that matters now.”
Layla glanced from Deriss to her master. “What is this? What are you talking about Hormann?”

Darvius looked to Deriss, and panic spread through his blood like ice water. Deriss’ face had hardened.

“In the name of his most holy Inquisition, I declare you-” Deriss began.

“Shoot him! Shoot him now!” Darvius yelled.

Layla hesitated for a moment, confused.

Deriss fired, a fat ruby bolt striking Layla’s bionic arm, sending sparks flying. Layla toppled, firing as she
did. The bolt went wide, and smashed a light to flaming ruin, taking a chunk of vaporised plascrete with
it. Deriss fired again as Darvius leapt for cover, drawing and firing his needle pistol into the darkened
tunnel.

Minval shrieked, his ancient voice rising to an inhuman howl of ethereal horror. Reflexively, he raised his
hands with a jerk. The force of his mind pulsed through his arms, tossing dozens of the scattered corpses
towards Deriss, battering the Imperial agent from his feet in a tangle of dead limbs. He barely managed
to roll clear as a storm of singing needles shattered around him in a venomous cascade.

Darvius didn’t think. Reflexively, he snatched at layla’s collar, and dragged her onwards. She yelled
something, but he couldn’t hear her over the sound of Minval’s psychic gale. The psyker staggered after
them, his eyes bleeding and his hands smoking as he ranted about a billion mouths talking actions
without words.

Deriss struggled to free himself from the press of dead flesh. When he did so, they were already gone,
and only silence remained in the royal processional.

###
There was another noise, beyond the eternal workings of the heat-extracting engines. On the still air,
through pipes and across metallic conductors, a beat resounded faintly. A rhythm, relentless and brutal
in its promise.

Boom boom boom. Again and again. It had no tune. It needed no tune. It was primal and poke only of
glorious carnage and Salvation in Slaughter.

The fallen figure lay as it ever did, upon its back with its jaws unfurled like some extinct sea creature of
myth. And yet... and yet...

A finger twitched.

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Jan 26 2011, 04:49 PM

VAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!!!!

Awesome part, but a shame about Hanque; I liked him.

That said, your willingness to kill off characters who would, in the circumstances, be killed, is rather
impressive, and makes the entire thing more readable. I'm enjoying this immensely, believe me, and I
can't wait to see where this goes. And it also seems to have no typos this time. Hurray!

Posted by: LordLucan Jan 26 2011, 05:41 PM

Cheers for the comments guys.

Yeah, nobody is safe in my stories.

Posted by: Tyrant Jan 26 2011, 06:29 PM

Another cracking update, I just hope this doesn't go quiet for a few months before the next instalment!

Posted by: LordLucan Jan 26 2011, 06:44 PM

Nah, I'm pushing on till the end now, as it is nearly done. No worries.

Posted by: Th232 Jan 26 2011, 09:43 PM

Shades of Kharn in what I presume will be Vash's resurrection?

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Jan 26 2011, 09:50 PM

QUOTE (Th232 @ Jan 26 2011, 09:43 PM)

Shades of Kharn in what I presume will be Vash's resurrection?

I sense a few, yeah.

That said, it would be interesting to compare which one of the two is angrier?

Posted by: Gaius Marius Jan 28 2011, 02:53 AM

Alright LL, i've gone through the first twelve or so chapters. My thoughts are that the characters,
intrigues and combat scenes are first rate as usual. Vash is an awesome monster/character and the
different tactics of the regiments (Vostroyans: Tanks! Moridain's : Volley! Lychen: Nom!) are awesome.
You've said you have problems writing action scenes but I see no hint of that here. The only problem is
that I keep seeing these weird errors where it looks like words got mashed together that a spell check
should have caught, but I don't know if those continue into the later chapters.
Posted by: LordLucan Jan 28 2011, 10:09 PM

Next Update:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Thirty:

To destroy a warp drive was no simple task. A hundred thousand seemingly tiny and monumentally
difficult steps had to be taken. The canticles of proper use had to be disregarded in their entirety.
Ointments and unguents were forsaken. It was heresy to unmake a starship in such a terrifyingly
destructive manner. Yet, Magos Ulvinous would have to slap the face of the Omnissiah if he was to
maintain his honour, and bring about the elimination of the biological replication swarm which had
assailed the vessel.

The warp chambers were devoid of crew and utterly chilling, in every sense. Coiling faces glared
ethereally in the steam of solidifying air, and fanged chunks of permafrost coated every surface. The
sound of the engines and they moaned and whispered in their own formless language was a sinister
undercurrent to the distant rumble of war which echoed from above. Yet fear was a notion which he had
discarded long ago, along with his human shape.

Magos-Enginseer Ulvinous was a great spider clad in a crimson robe, ostentatious and grandiose with a
great profusion of brass-etched limbs that gleamed in the gloom. Saws and plasma torches screeched as
he worked, carving through control lines and null runes with the same blank expression; a mask of
indifference to hide the horror of his actions.
He was doing the Omnissiah’s work, he told himself. The luthor’s spear, and all the wondrous artefacts of
the Golden Ages that were built into every ancient system and circuit and ether-coil, must not fall into
the hands of ones such as these aliens. Annihilation was superior to subversion. He would allow these
creatures to take another vessel. Not one more than this final ship.

The control rods whined as they clattered into the gantries below, bisected and useless.

As if some mad behemoth from the first of days had been un-caged, the warp engine roared. Ulvinous
quailed before the mighty exhalation, watching with horrified fascination as his crimson robe turned
monochromatic, and the walls turned an odd shade of deep blue, where once they had been deep steel
grey. The spirits in his bionics chirped and bleeped and hummed in his false ears, warning of the terror
being unleashed; as if begging him to reconsider.

He could not. The warp engine was charging now. Soon, it would reach maximum. If he could destroy the
linkages to the navigation cogitators, the Luthor’s Spear would tear itself apart in one of the largest
detonations seen in the sector for seven hundred years.

That was something, he supposed. Perhaps his name will be etched into annals for all time, in some
data-crypt upon Mars or Terra? Nothing was ever deleted.

The rousing engines were joined din the din by a great rushing sound; like water down a mountainside.
The great alien multitude was coming. They knew, it knew, Ulvinous was a threat, and like nightmarish
counter-bodies in the humours, they were coming to cleanse him.

Let them. Soon it would matter little, he concluded.

###

The northern gate to the Flesh crypt exploded inwards in a cascade of debris and sundered stone. The
blast rocked the cryo-towers like chimes, dislodging bricks and sheets of metal in response. Borus was
blasting his way inside, using his arsenal of outlandish weapons to do so. Flashes of various hues
illuminated the harsh semi-gloom of the Crypt; arcing tendrils of azure energy licked the great domed
ceiling as the bombardment tore through the upper levels.

The Lychen were not cowed by such crude displays. They thumped their shoulders and weapons,
clamouring and bellowing their war chants to the tumultuous sky of steel that loomed above them. They
seemed to dare the soldiers onwards, to their doom.

The first of the dog soldiers plunged through the fog of rubble in a flash of heavy lasers and streaking
rocket-munitions that smashed into the forwards Lychen positions. Fire rocked the towers and their
petal-like bastions. Burning, screaming Lychen tumbled from the sundered barricades, just as their own
allies opened up with their cannons and rifles. Mercenaries toppled, bisected by strobing weapon pulses
or churned up by rattling autocannon fire. More of the soldiers leapt into the fray, fearlessly jumping
from the gateways and onto the overhanging helical walkways which surrounded each towering column
of preserving gel.

The Lychens too were forced into mobility, when the third wave of attack came from a veritable shower
of tumbling mortar shells and plunging grenades launched from the advantageous raised position of
their foes. Keshak cursed as he threw himself from the lip of his makeshift fort, flames and a concussive
blast snapping at his heels as the yawning chasm greeted his leaping form. With a grunt of supreme
effort, his hooked machete caught the edge of another balcony, metal scraping against metal as he
fought to hold on.

“They are on the towers! Rise up and take them from beneath! Savage their nethers!” Keshak howled to
his barbarian horde of Imperial savages, who eagerly obliged.

The battle descended into skirmishes, balcony to balcony, as the individual groups broke off to engage
their foes at every level. Overlapping fire by the lichen heavy weapon teams forced the Mercenaries to
hug the towers closely, and prevented the honourless fiends from utilising the higher position to their
advantage. Instead, Mercenary and Guardsman traded fire between the layers, or flung themselves from
one cryo-tower to the next using grapples or even sheer hateful exertion. Swiftly, as all combat is wont to
do in such restrictive conditions, the battle descended into the minutiae of personal murder.

Emeline was like a lithe feline, as she stalked along the primary gantry which spiralled up the towers like
a spine. A man clad in shifting crystal turned to her with an annoyed grunt, hefting his multi-barrelled
weapon. She blasted a smoking hole between his eyes before they could focus, and she carved him in
two before he even realised he was dead. Her lightning claws hummed in their gauntlet as she lashed
out at any foe that came within reach. She ducked the swing of a crackling maul, and drove her knee into
the man’s gut. He staggered backwards, dodging the scorching sweep of her claw, before kicking her in
the face. She spat blood and fell on her back. His bolt pistol was raised before her own laspistol.

His bolt went wide, pulverising a railing in a shower of sparks, as a Lychen plunged a clawed fist into his
side, drawing out a streamer of ropey innards with a squelch. The man hissed in agony, and swung for
the Lychen reflexively. The feral beast caught his fist with its teeth, pulling the man from his feet, before
executing the merc with a short burst from his lasgun. The bloodied lichen grinned at Emeline, throwing
a salute.

The Blade Enforcer only just managed to leap for cover as the Guardsman’s chest was blasted in two by a
surprise stalker shell. Another two Lychen at her side fell without as much as a yelp, taken unawares by
the silenced bolter rounds. Only the gory detonations were noisy enough to alert the final few Lychen
with her to fire towards the figure far above, who slew them with grim efficiency.

Despite the furious close quarter abilities of the Lychen, the mercenaries were still somehow driving
them back. Disciplined volleys and arcane weaponry reaped a terrible toll upon the feral warlords.

Keshak howled in frustration as he smashed his shotgun into the throat of a stumbling mercenary clad in
organic alien mesh. His head snapped backwards unnaturally; gore spraying from a sundered trachea.
Keshak killed a second with a blast from the weapon, flinging his opponent from the railings in one
barrage of buckshot. He raised his shield to ward off the blue bolts of a pulse rifle, and winced as the
heavy weapon scorched his armour white hot.

Desperately, he swung his shield around, the burning metal slapping away the barrel of the smirking
soldier-for-hire. He punished his overconfidence with a thrust of his shotgun, which punched through
that pearly smile, and lodged in the man’s throat. He whimpered and gargled in sudden agony, as he was
force-fed an Arbites firearm. Keshak wasted no time; drawing his cleaver and opening the warrior’s
stomach even as he gagged upon the axe-head shotgun.
###

“I don’t have time for this! Clear a path through this rabble will you?” Borus growled as he stomped over
the rubble of the north gate, his power servos whining gently as he did so.

One of his men, Cavore, turned to him. “They were expecting us Boss. They have barricades and
emplacements. We’re rapidly running out of men on both sides.”

Borus sighed. “Do I look like I care about how many people die today? I do not have time to play with
these scrappers; even if they show a damn fine mean streak. Where is Punax?”

Cavore gestured with his long-las barrel, towards a black shape, darting expertly between barricades
with inhuman grace which belied his surprising bulk. His men were spread out across the strange
walkways that ringed the huge blue columns, fearsome exchanges of fire lighting up the cavern like some
overly expensive Candlemas festive display. They were delaying his progress intolerably. Soon, the
artefact’s occupant would be de-frosted. He had to freeze the warpish terror before it unleashed its
baleful influence upon everyone, and ruin his chances of delivering it to the High Lords. Tyrianus wished
to make the Imperium’s takeover as complete and efficient as possible. Enslave the High Lords, and the
galaxy would be his. And borus would be his left hand in this new world order. And what better way to
enslave the High Lords than with slavery’s namesake? Borus grinned, but this soon turned into a sour
frown.

Borus groaned. Punax was a typical dog. I bet he is relishing a stand up fight, the honourable idiot. Trust
him to get stuck into a scrap like this, he hissed to himself.

“He’s a bad dog. He knows not to play with his food. Where’s the ringleader?”

Cavore nodded towards a mess of a combat on the larger balconies, a hundred metres below. Some
great bearded giant with a shield thrashed amidst a concentration of his own men, hacking and stabbing
and cackling like some demented medieval berserker.
“Cavore! Rifle!” Borus demanded, gesturing with an out-stretched gauntlet. The tattooed merc looked to
him in protest.

“But boss, we have lads down ther-“

“Rifle. Now. Please. Once again; don’t care about who I kill. Now; rifle!”

Cavore tossed the Rogue Trader his long las after a moment’s hesitation. Carefully, Borus glared into the
scope atop the long barrelled weapon. Three mercs circled the barbarian butcher, who danced within
the sniper’s sights.

“To break an army, your crush its head, even if the army is a pack of rabid dogs,” Borus muttered as he
exhaled and fired.

The first two shots tore chunks from the beleaguered mercenaries surrounding his target. He reloaded a
second time. Taking advantage of this, the shield-bearer hacked them apart, howling and cavorting in the
fountains of viscera.

“And we all know what happens to rabid dogs...”

He fired again.

“They get put down.”

Borus smiled.

###
The shuttle bay was a warzone; Mordians and Naval Security desperately firing into the crowds of
desperate ratings and serfs who flooded the great arched hall, who furiously tried to capture the few
remaining transports off the doomed vessel.

Jaxx moved through the crowds like the vicious cow-catcher of some huge steam locomotive. The fleeing
figures parted at his passing, or were slain where they stood. Glowing blades carved perfectly straight
incisions, efficiently slaying each and every civilian within range. In the wake of the shadowy cyborg
figure, Darvius and Layla walked briskly, eyes fixed upon the shuttle that would bear them from the
Battleship.

“Darvius, was he right? Was he telling the truth?” his interrogator asked him simply, as they approached
the swept-wings of Darvius’ jet-black personal shuttle.

Darvius didn’t respond at first. After a moment of insufferable silence, he turned to her.

“Yes, but was wrong to denounce me. I had a chance to save the Imperium. All is dust now of course. I
had not anticipated... this,” he gestured around at the carnage. “You must believe me Layla. I only ever
intended to save lives. My mission here was thwarted by petty men on Terra. I am an Inquisitor; I am
above their moral authority, and yet they sent an assassin to kill me. Can you not see the corruption at
work here? They send an assassin against an Inquisitor. You know our mandate. An Inquisitor is as close
to the Emperor as one can get. To attack me is tantamount to assaulting... Him. Deriss doesn’t realise
what they did. He was mistaken in his attempted purge.”

Jaxx paused as he reached the ramp of the shuttle, before turning back towards Darvius, his swords
crossed across his chest.

“Directive Six... complete,” the cold metal voice of jaxx almost sighed. Layla smiled warmly at the
towering automaton.

“Good work Jaxx. Now we must leave. Take the controls and plot a course for the Molvius. Darvius; I
can’t be part of this plot. I just can’t plot against them...” she replied sadly, as they entered the vessel,
which sealed with a hiss.

Darvius took her silver hand in his own biological one as he spoke, staring into her eyes as he spoke.

“I promise you Layla, we are done here. I have no wish to unseat the High Lords. Tyrianus goes too far. I
see this now. We are leaving. We can flee to the furthest reaches. I grow weary of plots and intrigue. We
can fight the Emperor’s true and lasting enemies together.”

Layla smiled at the Inquisitor, but withdrew her hand. Darvius had always known somehow she was
never truly his, but such a blatant reveal of her intentions, veiled though it was to a non-Inquisitor, stung
him.

Layla looked out of the small viewing portal, as the Luthor’s Spear began to shrink from view, and the
huge bio-vessel terrors revealed themselves to her.

“You mention this Tyrianus again. Why do you fear him so? Why are you willing to turn the Inquisition
against you to protect him?” she asked, her voice tinged with melancholy.

Darvius sighed, sinking into his seat. “Do you really want to know? Is it not enough that we survived, and
that I will show my loyalty to the Emperor, and abandon this man? Is this not enough?”

Layla shook her head.

Darvius nodded. “Then you shall know.”

###

The battle seemed to rage slowly, as if all the combatants fought underwater. The roars and frantic
orders of battle came as muffled rumbles that couldn’t penetrate the depths. Men fell and blood sprayed
in a joyful ballet of carnage.

Keshak felt oddly peaceful and serene. Such alien thoughts told him instantly that something was wrong.
Slowly, his men were turning to him, and howling wide-mouthed exclamations. He saw Emeline,
cowering behind a dented silver casket, shrieking his name like a discordant banshee. He watched his
machete slide from his grasp, and clatter to the floor.

Finally, he saw the gaping fist-sized black wound burned into his chest, and smelt the delicious aroma of
burning human meat and scorched hair. His gaze followed the dissipating trail which smoked in the air.
High above, a dark figure, small as a speck at such range was hidden within the smoky gloom.

Another crimson flash from on high. Keshak didn’t feel the second shot, which was a bad sign. He looked
down at his shield-arm, which lay cauterized on the grated metal floor like a marionette’s limb.

What else was there to say?

“Blood for the Emperor!” he croaked weakly, as he sank to his knees. “Skulls for-“he wheezed, before his
words were replaced by wracking coughs filled with dark blood that stained his beard and coated his
silver fangs.

He fell onto his face, and that was that.

His brother was running in a field, laughing. All his brothers were laughing. The long grass was coloured
red as the skies of Lychen, but they didn’t care. They threw a leather ball between them, uncaring and
unheeding of the rules of their homeworld. He reached out.

They weren’t passing him the ball. Perhaps they couldn’t see him? He yelled out to them. More blood.

Yet, they seemed to see him, and they threw him the ball.
Keshak smiled.

A pool of blood slowly spread out from the corpse, dribbling onto the balcony directly beneath.

###

The blue-robed guardians of the Flesh Crypt clustered in the deepest part of the vast shaft. They flinched
at every distant boom from above, and some of them muttered concern when chunks of debris from
above crashed into some of the bottom-most caskets, which were thankfully empty of occupants.

One of them, Vasinis, was not concerned. He knew he had to unleash the magnificence within the
casket, and he opened the seals on the stasis crypt pod one by one. Other priests noticed what he was
doing, and rushed to thwart him. As they reached the pod, they too realised they wished to free the
magnificence within the casket; to bring forth the benevolent face of their dominance.

Somehow, though they knew not how, they knew the name of this creature, as it flashed through their
skull, and danced behind their eyes.

Krell.

Krell.

Krell.

Krell

Their Enslaver; their god. Their future.

Krell.

###

The claws plunged through both eye sockets, and the man howled in whimpering agony as she ripped
them free and hacked him down.

She didn’t pause, or even slow as she clambered the walkways with relentless pace, hate etched upon
every fibre of her being. A shot scored a bloody gash across her flak-coated shoulder, and she merely
turned and shot her foe without breaking stride. Her eyes were fixed upon the arrogant, evil man who
descended through the Crypt.

Borus, on a pathetically elaborate grav-platform, languidly lowered himself amidst the carnage of battle,
bypassing the platforms as he plunged down directly for the base of the cavern. Emeline would not let
the bastard escape. As he passed, she screamed and fired his pistol with reckless abandon.

The shots, like those of her fellow soldiers, merely rebounded from the hatefully beautiful power armour
of the Rogue Trader, who didn’t even turn to regard her as he descended impatiently.

“No! No!” she hissed as he swept past her. The Commissar span on her heel, and charged back down the
myriad pathways and passages through the labyrinth of warfare and burning barricades. She ignored the
Lychen who sprinted at her back. She was the Alpha female, and they chased after her like a pack hungry
to enact fiery and lingering vengeance upon their enemy.

“Let us kill well in the wake of he who died well!” she heard Firil howl behind her. She ignored him.

They didn’t matter to her. None of them did. Not now.

She increased her pace, actively jumping from balconies to aid in her descent. Each broken fall made her
gasp as the wind was knocked form her, but she fought on through the rasping agony. Bones were surely
bruised and broken, but she was nearly there. She could almost-

A heavy force slammed into her side, flinging her sideways forcefully. Emeline struck the side of a tank
with a bone-crushing clang. A dark man in a bodyglove leapt into view, bolter raised. No, it wasn’t a man.
Not quite. Before he could fire, Firil fell into combat, his lasgun chattering with a reckless din. The dark,
wolfish figure darted to avoid the hastily aimed las bolts, disarming the Lychen with a timely roundhouse
kick, sending the weapon clattering over the railings and into darkness. Firil, snarling and spitting
mindlessly, didn’t even pause before leaping to grab the wolf-man’s bolter. The two wrestled with the
firearm, snapping off random bolts in all directions.

A passing merc was caught in the leg, which was blasted from under him. Before he could rise, Emeline
jumped on his back, and put a las bolt in his head.

The black clad wolf-man turned through his hip, ripping the Lychen from his bolter and sent Firil
tumbling to the ground with a growl. Instantly, he raised the bolter to fend off Emeline’s murderous
lightning claw. The bolter sparked as it was bisected, momentarily stunning Emeline. Punax didn’t
hesitate, and instantly struck her with an open handed blow to the throat. Gagging, she slumped across
the cracked pod.

Firil surged to his feet, his axe in his hand and a curse on his lips. He was fast, but the Hyanx beastman
was faster. In one smooth motion, his own gladius was in his hand, and deflected the clumsy blow of
Firil, before reversing the strike and slicing his hand cleanly off at the wrist. Firil screamed din pain, but
simply lowered his head and charged the wolf-beast like a scrub-ball player. The two combatants crashed
to the floor of the balcony in a tangled heap of thrashing limbs and furious exertion. Firil managed to
draw his own hooked knife, but Punax blocked it with a forearm, simultaneously thrusting his gladius
deep into Firil’s windpipe. Firil’s scrawny form was thrown from the hulking beastman, and rolled to a
stop at the edge of the balcony, overlooking the chasm below. Punax reached to retrieve his sword, but
Firil grinned as he rolled away from the mercenary. The Lychen willingly threw himself to his doom to
deny Punax his weapon; to give Emeline the chance to kill him.

As Punax rose, she charged him, crackling claw raised. He was swift as mercury, and instantly grabbed
the claw, ripping away the power cable. Unpowered, the adamantine claws were still sharp, and he
hopped backwards to avoid them. They caught his face, scouring three shallow cuts across his long
muzzle.

The two combatants faced one another, cold eyes assessing their prey like hunting cats.

Meanwhile, Borus descended towards his prize...

###

The Shadowfall ignored the distant sound of scuttling as she engaged the rearguard of Borus’ hired guns.
They moved without grace or precision, and the Shadowfall felt nothing but contempt for those who
would vainly try to thwart her mission. She shouldn’t feel contempt. She shouldn’t feel misery or fear or
panic. She was supposed to be a cold blank slate; a creature of counterfeit emotions, which could only
imitate humanity, but never experience it truly.

Yet, she did. Her thoughts were rebelling against her, as her mission and her previous abortive objective
played upon her mind. Vague patchwork images came to her as she smoothly blocked the strokes of her
foes, dodged their woefully aimed shots, and dispatched each lumbering brute with inhuman ease.

What was wrong with her? Why was she plagued by memories? What was happening? Her mind was in
two; one part was unconscious and utterly lethal. The other was baffled and scared of the waking
dreams which were now plunging through her mind. And she was a she, she knew that. A young girl;
once beautiful, with a stern mother and a father who loved her, and-

No, she was the Shadowfall; the reaper of the High Lords, and she must destroy the artefact, and the one
who would use it. She had to-

Escape. No, she couldn’t escape. This was everything she was, and what she was, was nothing.
A blade shouldn’t doubt its master. And she was a blade. And she was a girl. A human and an implement.

Her thoughts returned to her mission, and with some surprise she realised she had killed all the
mercenaries who barred her path. Reflected in their pooling blood, she saw that her face was in flux. The
dancer, the young officer, Darvius, and a dozen other faces rolled and shivered across her face, each one
of her former stolen identities. She was in flux; out of control. She needed to finish this mission and
retreat back to the temple callidus, where it was cool and dark and simple.

###

Cavore waited at the top, as his master took the easy way down to the artefact. He sneered, taking pot-
shots at the few remaining Lychen who lingered near the top of the shaft.

He heard the quiet padding of footsteps behind him, coming up fast. The mercenary swirled around
grinning, and raised his weapon.

“Nobody gets the jump on old Cavo-“

His headless body flopped to the floor as the Shadowfall passed him by, and threw herself bodily over
the lip of the rubbled gate, straight down into the battle below.

###

“You are not dead whelp! Rise! Rise before I crush you worm! RISE!”

A field of bones and broken bodies, stretching for eternity in all directions. Blood rained down from a
wounded sky, as carrion of rotting brass picked at falling war machines of a billion different cultures and
eras. And standing above him, he was the Blood Emperor. Armour of god and brass leaked black gore,
and a hideous face was framed by a halo in negative, which rose like tusks from the frill of an ancient
beast of prehistory.
A vast gauntlet closed upon his chest, and the blood-Emperor pulled him to his feet.

”You will perish when I tell you to perish! When I break you and only then will you burn! You are by
snarling muzzle! He will not rise! I shall endure always!” the beast roared, red smoky fumes billowing
from its distended maw.

He resisted, slapping away the gauntlet.

“Touch me again... and you will regret it,” Vash growled. “I will gut you, you bastard whoreson of a devil!
Weakling prince of the heathen butcher! I am no heretic! I am dead, and this is justice! I am the fury of
the Blood-Emperor, not the plaything of the Murder-God!” Vash screamed, his voice a sonorous boom
which shook the mountains to rubble, and boiled the blood.

Doombreed rose up before him, a colossus unlike any other. ”Your words are wittering blather here
Vashan the Man-Eater. You cannot be so foolish that you know not the face of your God! You have many
gods, all with one face! You are too pathetic and mortal to know this yet. You know nothing!”Doombreed
howled, blowing Vash backwards. The giant man picked himself up.

“I know one thing. You called me mortal. So I yet live. And that means this is a vision. MY vision! You are
the weak one here!” vash snarled, and he charged Doombreed, and drove a fist into the titan’s knee.
Surprisingly, the knee and the brazen armour around it buckled like paper, and the monster toppled to
one knee as the blow landed. As the head lowered, Vash leapt up and grasped it with his bulging arms.

”You will meet me yet Vashan the Man-Eater. Then we shall have a reckoning methinks. But not yet. You
have yet to learn the truth that breaks your heart. You have yet to learn why you will fall, and call no
mere man, no matter how powerful, God, “ the Daemon prince howled, as Vash began to throttle the
fiend with his new-found strength. Doombreed dissolved into the form of a barded serpent clad in
blood-drenched carapace, which writhed in Vash’s grasp.

“Your words are poison daemon! I will banish you here. As long as I am here, I shall bind you!” Vash
screamed.
“Then let us wake you up,” the serpent hissed with evil malice.

Suddenly, the serrated steel tail of the serpent plunged into Vash’s back, and he screamed...

... And the scream resounded throughout the cold dark cavern floor, and Vash lurched into life like some
great snarling crocodile, ripping the last scraps of Colonel Armour from his body unconsciously. He leapt
to his feet, and raised his arms to the looming light far above him.

His scream was undulating and lasted far longer than a mere mortal man could manage. After a few
minutes, the great roar rumbled into dormancy, and he was left in sudden silence. Nothing but his own
deep breathing punctured the all pervading quiet.

That, and the sound of lasfire, somewhere beside him. It took him a moment to realise it was the echo of
a distant battle, brought to him through the clamouring of piping.

He was in pain. After several harsh cracks, the towering beast of a man had mostly re-set his dislocated
bones and limbs. With a venomous grunt, he pushed the splintered spurs of ribs back into his barrel-
chest, and rolled his shoulders once he had done so.

He looked to his wargear. All of it smashed or heretical. He spat upon the cursed gear, grinding his vast
metal jaws angrily. His bloodshot eyes searched in the gloom desperately.

Give me an implement. Anything. At last, his eyes fell upon something half-submerged.

It was embedded in a drift of desiccated rust; its hilt and motor miraculous intact even after such a great
fall from an unassailable height. With a low-side grin, Vash closed his hand around his eviserator, and
dragged it from the detritus with a single yank.
He raised his blade on high, and howled a mighty challenge to the unseen heavens.

Then he paused. There was one more issue. He was stuck in a great abyss.

“Ah b*******...”

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Jan 29 2011, 10:34 AM

Wait, Keshak is dead now? That's not fair, I liked Keshak. And I though he had plot armour. Plot armour!

PLOT ARMOUR!!!

Anyway, it's a good part, and not as typo-riffic as some of the ones before, which is always a nice thing,
and it's nice to see Vash back on his feet (knew you couldn't keep him down forever).

I also need to stop reading Krell as Krill; somehow the idea of this mysterious villain being a shoal of tiny
shrimp-creatures that are the staple of the blue whales' diet doesn't seem quite so scary as some sort
enslaving psyker-beast.

Posted by: Tyrant Jan 29 2011, 11:55 AM

I will be very interested to see what form the Enslaver has when it finally emerges. Are you going to
provide any explanation of how they got the thing in there to begin with? That can't have been a very
easy task.....

I suspect also that the training of the Shadowfall might make her ideal for resisting the Enslaver's
influence.
Posted by: Colonel Mustard Jan 29 2011, 01:01 PM

QUOTE (Tyrant @ Jan 29 2011, 11:55 AM)

I suspect also that the training of the Shadowfall might make her ideal for resisting the Enslaver's
influence.

That and Vash's sheer indomitable anger; this Krell will probably have its work cut out trying to keep
both of them in line at the same time.

Is it, by the way, an Enslaver, as in the sort of creature that forced the Necrons to take forty million
winks?

Posted by: Tyrant Jan 29 2011, 01:13 PM

Colonel Mustard-

It is I think, as they were also called the Krell.

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Jan 29 2011, 01:24 PM

Ah, right. Probably so, then.

Posted by: LordLucan Jan 29 2011, 11:25 PM

And another Chapter is here! This is nearing completion now folks. Not many chapters to go! thanks for
your support guys!:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Thirty One.

Ulvinous worked swiftly, tearing out great chunks of machinery and leaking nucleiode feeding lines as he
tore the mechanisms of the warp drive’s navigational cogitator into gory, heretical ruin. His
mechandendrites, power claws and servo arms worked at maximum, smoking and steaming as he found
to complete his work. The hooded adept lay dangling beneath the looming wet-ware machine like
overhanging fruit on a branch, secured only by his grapples and tendrils.

With a mechanical howl, he plunged his steel-coated fists directly into the machine’s pulsing heart,
pulling away black clumps of matter with every handful.

The warp engine pulsed and convulsed beneath him, but he could not look at it. It was the beating heart
of a building storm; a storm of madness and apocalyptical horror. Already the walls bled and the metal of
the containment tanks ran, and limbs and faces pressed through like corpses through damp cloth, leering
and whimpering in an endless babble.

He spared a momentary glance above, towards the seals which closed the core from the rest of the
vessel. The beasts had burned through with their vile venom and their bio-plasma. Only the eternal roar
of his guns servitors above kept them at bay. Even then, it would only be momentary resistance before
the final lasting end of the Magos and the Luthor’s Spear.

Some of the smaller beasts plunged through the cyborg cordon, and scuttled towards him on their long
blades of limbs. As they approached, they hissed and squealed. Many eyes and impossible tendrils
formed from their shadows, before their own innards dragged them apart in a mad storm of rolling flesh
tempests and horrid mutations beyond their overmind’s power to control.

The core was rousing, and these would not be its final victims.

###
The metal of the wall was peeled open with a supreme grunt of effort, before Vash dragged himself
through the wound he had carved into the wall which barred his path. Even as he pulled his huge
sweating body =into the hole, his eviserator was whirring again, carving into the next bulkhead with a
fearsome shower of sparks and flecks of molten metal.

Vash followed his ears and the sporadic scent of gore he could sense in the pockets of air separating the
various chambers of the Flesh Crypt from the outside world. A rough tunnel was already forming in his
wake; a four hundred yard path of crude chainsword-sculpted scramble-holes. Vash ignored the jagged
edges of metal which cut into his flesh, and the silver dust which clogged his lungs and made him
constantly growl and grunt to dislodge gory phlegm from his throat. His bionic limbs squealed as it
scraped against the metal of the many, many walls.

He passed through ancient forgotten offices, damp walls filled with stinging insulation, and through oily
cables filled with viscous matter. He was relentless. He would reach his goal, and he would die for his
brothers in Lychen blood.

###

Darvius could not be allowed to escape. He had to get off the ship. The only thing faster than a shuttle,
Deriss beamed, was an escape pod.

He ran with all the speed and agility ingrained upon his mind. He ran through corridors filled with
nothing but the dead. Those few men he met on the way fled in random directions. They didn’t know
where the pods were. Either that or they fled in mindless terror, with no thought to where they were
running to as they ran for their very lives.

An ethereal howl was building throughout the ship. The Luthor’s Spear was ready to blow.

With a swift kick, the door to the pod room clanged open easily. The seal was already broken. Either the
aliens had got here first, or other men had already had a similar idea to him. He drew his pistol. Either
way, he couldn’t afford any delay.

As he entered, he was struck by the sight of a naval officer hurriedly chucking bags full of naval
documents and machinery and trinkets into an escape pod. Deriss noted with some disappointment that
this was the last pod; the others were already launched. He aimed his pistol at the surprised officer.

“I require the pod in the name of the Inquisition! Hand it over immediately! Important Imperial
business.”

“M-more important than... those things?” the Officer stuttered nervously at the sight of the pistol.

“Yes! Now stand aside!”

The uniformed man raised his hands in surrender. “Can we not just take it together my Lord?”

Deriss nodded impatiently. “Very well,” Deriss began, shoving past the Officer as he clambered into the
cramped confines of the pod. “You seal the door behind us. You can also help me navigate. I need you to
follow a specific shuttle. Do you think you can do that?” Deriss explained dismissively, not even
bothering to turn around as he spoke to the Officer.

The Officer smiled, his glinting adamantine fangs unnoticed by the Inquisitor.

“I’m sure all can be... accommodated...” Sparrod replied with his usual smooth tones, as he sealed the
pod, and launched the spherical vehicle into the void.

###
Emeline lashed out with her claw like a sparring boxer, fighting to find any advantage as she lunged
towards the unarmed wolf-man Punax. Though he had no weapons however he was far from unarmed.
The hulking figure was fast, and caught her outstretched arm, flinging her onto her back. The Commissar
rolled to avoid the stamp of his boot, which dented the grating of the floor. A hasty slash split the armour
at the back of his knee, but couldn’t puncture the dark material.

He sprang over her, before a sharp elbow pounded into her back, followed up by a devastating
backhanded punch. She tried to ride the blow, but was merely caught by a second strike, a fearsome
chop smashing her collar bone and sending her sprawling. She screamed in impotent fury, stabbing her
claw towards him in a futile attempt to end the skilled mercenary warrior. Punax hooked her arm under
his armpit, and yanked upwards with a brutal crunch, and she yelled out in agony. Her wrist was broken,
and she fell to the floor with a dull thud.

With her other hand, the Blade Enforcer took up her fallen pistol, snapping off a short burst of laser. This
had little luck striking punax, who dodged her aim and struck the weapon from her grip once again.

His momentary smirk of victory ended abruptly. Emeline’s bolts were never intended for Punax, but
rather, for the huge column of hyper-chilled coolant which ran through the cryo-towers like blue-blooded
veins. The bolts shattered the nearest blue tributary, sending a cascade of freezing matter over the
Hyanx dog-soldier.

Punax howled, his voice all too human as the gel sapped all vigour and life from his back and spine. Frost
and ice spread across his struggling frame, and as he struggled pathetically to rip the ice away, huge
chunks of frozen red meat splintered from his ruined form. Emeline dodged the whimpering creature as
it fled from the chill and threw itself from the balcony in mindless desperation. She watched from the lip
of the balcony, as he shattered totally upon another railing far below.

She felt no joy in her victory. Only sickening misery, and the agony of her sundered bones greeted her.
One thing sustained her, and it was that most Lychen of emotions; wrath. She could just make out the
descending form of Borus beneath her. Summoning all her drained strength, she clambered painfully to
her feet, retrieving her pistol as an afterthought.

This was not over. But soon, soon she promised herself, it damn well would be.
###

Most of the corridor pict screens showed the same images; tides of scything death, scuttling and
screeching as it tore apart the meat which was once the crew of the Luthor’s Spear.

Raventium could see all from his hopeless dome of command. He saw the warp engines powering to
near maximum, which eventually destroyed the pict servitors inside, and the images turned to dislocated
static. He saw the shuttled bays flooded with fleeing civilians and shuttles crashing into each other in
great fiery detonations.

“Is it time Festus?” Raventium asked faintly, his black gloves stroking the image of his family framed at
his side.

The command bridge had fallen silent; every bridge officer was standing, and armed.

The Naval Commissar stepped to stand at his Captain’s side. His chainsword and bolt pistol were drawn.
He nodded solemnly. “The doors will be breached soon. Large alien organisms have pounded through,
and all my armsmen and cadets are dead. We shall be next.”

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

Heavy bodies against the bulkheads signalled the truth of Festus’ words.
Raventium smiled a false smile. “Then let us begin. Ulvinous will complete his mission yes?”

Festus nodded again, his eyes stern and determined.

Raventium’s eyes were no longer sad, but fiery and fierce.

“Then let us die as the stuff of legends! Helm! Lance!” raventium bellowed.

A rough rider weapon. One from the Admiral’s personal collection of souvenirs. He laughed bitterly as he
caught the thrown spear, sweeping the shape-charge head around with a flourish.

“Security! Open the blast doors!” he growled, hopping down from his command throne, and marching to
face the entrance portal.

“Gentlemen; to arms. Will you follow me into doom and glory?”

There was a riotous reply. Festus grinned.

“It seems conclusive...”

“I quite agree.”

The doors slid open with a slow rumble, replaced instantly with the keening screech of a massive ram-
face monster clad in overlapping chitin plate. Raventium hurled his spear like a javelin of old Athens. The
weapon sailed through the air, and impacted with the force of a battlecannon as it detonated
instantaneously on contact.
The great ram-beast slumped forwards, sundered torso spewing its innards. Even before it was dead, the
smaller creatures were flooding in over and around its carcase.

Festus’ chainsword roared into life as his bolter barked and spat explosive death into the churning mass.

The bridge crew howled curses and joined the fray, swords and pistols raised. Raventium tossed away his
cloak of black feathers as his antique blade sang from its scabbard and cut down the first creature that
came near, and the second and the third.

He laughed the doomed laugh of the madman as he slew beast after beast. Blades and claws and fangs
slowly tore chunks from him, and took the sight from his left eye, then the hand from his right arm, but
he fought on. Even as his innards were pulled out like ugly sausages, he fought on screaming.

Festus had lost his bolter, and fought with his chainsword in a great frenzy, bellowing incantations and
curses in every language he knew. A muscular tail suddenly swung around into him and smashed him in
the ribs. He was sent him sprawling across the consoles with a wheezing tirade of swearing. He rolled
behind them to avoid the slash of a serrated claw, which carved a screen in two with a flash. His own
blade hacked the head from its owner, and he backed away as another alien murder-machine vaulted
the helm controls to reach him. It was smashed from the air by his whirring fanged sword, but its ruined
torso continued on its path and battered him from his feet. Festus shuffled on his back to avoid more of
the gathering creatures. Everywhere he turned, more flooded in. He killed and killed, but the bodies just
made barricades for seven more of their brethren.

He kept walking backwards, swinging his sword like a madman, until his back was against the great
viewscreen at the front of the bridge. Hundreds of xenos creatures assailed him in all directions.
Everyone else was dead. There were only chittering monsters and the towering, impossibly loud din of
the warp engines, the great echoing reactors now deafeningly loud across the entire vessel.

“Last one standing is it? You hear that? Last one standing you fethers! Come and get me! It would be a
crime to deny a sinner his last meal!”

They leapt as one, and Festus charged to meet them, but they were all caught in the blast before they
could do anything.
Then all was white with fire, noise and the illusionary laughter of false gods.

###

Two Lychen fell, slain instantly as the Shadowfall fell into their midst and slashed through their bodies
like a knife through fog. The third Lychen span around and grabbed her in a bear hug.

To the beast’s surprise, the Callidus assassin’s body gave way like clay, slithering out of his grasp and
hacking away his arms and legs in the space of seconds. Another Lychen charged her back. Her head
snapped backwards, breaking the creature’s face, before she gutted another Lychen that came upon her
from the front. Pirouetting on the spot, two more were disarmed and beheaded with consummate
grace.

She had no quarrel with the Lychen, but the instant they attempted to impede her, they were nothing to
her. Even as her mind fought invisible mimetic battles with itself, her body unconsciously slew all around
her.

She sprang from that perch, and descended to the next overhanging gantry way. These Lychen saw her
coming, and their lasguns scoured minor glancing blows against her flesh as she slid into combat with a
cat’s agility. Two more died wordlessly, as a third smashed the butt of his lasgun into her jaw. She rolled
with the blow, folding over backwards as she disengaged from combat. He charged again, but was
impaled upon her glowing xenos blade. Yet, the feral lunatic continued to attack, and almost stabbed her
before she could finish off his execution with a simple decapitation.

They were persistent, she’d give them that.

Her analytical mind returned to the matter at hand. The world around her was an analytical maze as she
glared at every surface to glean enough knowledge to instantly locate the final pod, and subsequently
the artefact’s location.
Yet, another sound intruded upon her almost tranquil assessment.

An eviserator blade erupted from the wall behind her, almost removing her head in a single blow. The
roaring device ripped through the steel surface like paper, carving a man-sized hole through the wall
with a keening scream of tortured metal.

A veritable giant burst from the makeshift portal; a hulk of bleeding, scarred matter and rage. Gaping
jaws opened and closed with hungry glee born of pure savagery.

The two beings glared at each other with mounting confusion and bafflement.

Vash shrugged as he swung his eviserator, initiating this new combat.

Probably an enemy. Probably, he tried to reassure himself.

Posted by: Gaius Marius Jan 30 2011, 03:55 AM

Finally caught up! Awesome story LL, liking Vash's resurrection and looking forward tothe next fight.

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Jan 30 2011, 10:37 AM

So it's either going to be Vash vs the Shadowfall or Vash and Shadowfall teaming up in some Lychen-
Callidus tag team. I really don't know which would be cooler.

Actually, probably the tag team, but only if they did it to fight crime in a muscle car.

*Plays Starsky and Hutch theme tune*

Posted by: Tyrant Jan 30 2011, 11:44 AM

Hopefully Vash and the Shadowfall will team up for some Enslaver-butt-kicking action soon. Although
one of them killing the other would be very grim and tragic, entirely suitable for 40K. I'm torn, now.

Posted by: The Viceroy Jan 30 2011, 12:02 PM

Vash eating the Enslaver and the Shadowfall seems so much more likely.

No one can stand against the Hungry Hungry Lychen. They're hungry........FOR VICTORY!

Posted by: LordLucan Jan 30 2011, 05:26 PM

Next Update. So close to the end now.

Hope you all like it:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Thirty Two.

On that day, a new star was born in the heavens, if only for a few hours. The Luthor’s Spear was lost in an
instant, as a warp portal of fearsome scale opened in its very gut. It took barely half a second to flash
through the entire multi-mile vessel, and only a few minutes more before a blast wave spread outwards
from the doomed hulk in every expanding arc of plasma fire and rolling warp vortex energies.
The huge living vessels recoiled from the explosion like serpents cowering before an open flame, but
they were doomed. Flesh and stone and iron-hard chitin were all turned to less than vapour in a flash.
Atomic bonds came apart in that same eye-blink. Those not caught in the initial blast were struck by
flaming debris and ionic after effects, that boiled their innards and ruptured their hulls. Where once
there was a furious boarding action of monstrous scale, there was now a forty light second radius vortex
of unimaginable energies. An impossible light storm in space rumbled and churned. Particles of
wreckage and astrological matter were dragged into the portal to the hell dimension; huge clouds of
nebulous crimson spores spiralling into the blazing bright orb of utter darkness, which spread darkness
like light rays.

Yet, such an abomination was actively resisted by reality itself. Mass and causality and reality reasserted
itself gradually, and the jagged warp maw began to shudder closed, imploding and crushing onto itself.

Then, there was quiet.

###

Borus’ grav-platform touched down at the base of the Flesh Crypt with a clang, and the arrogant man
hopped from his mount without concern. Carefully, he hefted his travelling chest, with its bio-locks and
thrice-blessed containment fields. It contained everything he would require to extract the beast within
his artefact pod.

It had taken years for him to find the Mechanicus vessel which had contained the Tech priests’ little
experiment. How tyrianus had known about the creature, he had not asked, nor had he needed to know.
However, he knew that the Mechanicum had managed to contain the abomination before, which meant
it could be overcome. Getting it out of the Flesh Crypt was of more concern to him. The way out was
blocked by aliens and feral idiots waving chainswords as if close combat was still relevant in a galaxy that
had weapons which could end suns.

He had the perfect method though. He had got in with a teleport; he could get out again with a teleport.
Handily, his chest had Teleporter homers. All that was required was that they be attached to the pod,
and voila! It’d be in his hold, secure, and he could get the Molvius out of this Emperor-forsaken hell hole.
He remembered the Crypt’s lower levels being lighter than this though, he noted. And slightly warmer as
well. As he neared his destination, he spotted the great crowd of blue robed priests barring his path.
They all stood, slightly swaying as if collectively listening to a beautiful song. They turned in unison at
Borus’ approach. Their faces lacked expression. There was none of their customary terror and cowering
that he recalled the last time he had stormed their little commune of pacifist weaklings.

“Stand aside! The Imperium demands your contrition! I am Borus Cavote! I shall be taking my property
now,” he bellowed, his voice powerful and laden with as much Imperial authority he could fake.

“Incorrect,” the replied in unison, like a forest whispering.

Borus sighed, as he opened his casket carefully. “You let it out didn’t you?” he snarled, as he took a large
silvered visor from his case. The device slid carefully behind his head, and across the top of his skull,
before falling down over his eyes like a Dredd pattern helm. He tapped the runes on the side of the helm,
and a shimmering light suffused the headgear with a hum.

“I will not be dominated enslaver. Now, you lot will stand aside now and-“ he began, just as the collective
gathering of blue-robed dupes charged at him as one.

The Rogue Trader stumbled backwards, drawing his crackling power mace reflexively.

The first sweep sent half a dozen men skittering across the floor, pulverised by the flanged energised
weapon. He slammed the weapon hastily into another’s skull, popping it like delicate blown glass. Others
leapt upon him as he struck again. They grabbed his arms and shoulders all around, headbutting and
punching and scratching against ceramite mindlessly, ignoring their casualties and how their hands were
being worn to bloodied ruins.

He snapped a neck with his gauntlet, broke a back with his mace, caved in a face with the brow of his
skull, and stamped upon another’s larynx. Yet still they wouldn’t stop. He stumbled backwards amidst
the appalling scrum of bodies that pressed Borus with every step. It was like fighting back a living tide
which would never relent or slow. Even those who should have died continued to fight on until he utterly
smashed their synaptic centres with his mace, which arced with purple lightning as he struck about him
with furious blows.

Those furthest from him eventually stopped. But they merely walked backwards, forming a solid ring of
bodies as they withdrew towards the enslaver.

Coated in blood which tarnished his gilded armour, Borus sneered. “You are paying for this getting
washed. Now mister enslaver, shall we give up on your little tantrum now?” he mocked, as he slowly
advanced in his heavy armour, each footfall a sonorous clang of metal upon metal.

A twinge of pain made him pause. A sharp stabbing feeling at the back of his knee. It took him a moment
to register the las bolts as they peppered his back.

He turned suddenly, and struck at the Lychen girl who charged down the walkway to attack him,
backhanding her with his armoured glove. A spray of blood gushed form her face as she clattered to the
ground.

“Bastard! Bastard!” she gargled hatefully amidst the froth of blood bubbling from her ruined cheek.
Borus turned around to get a better look at her.

He grinned as he recognised her.

“I remember you! Commissar Emeline of the Lychen Guard! How are you, you silly old girl!” he replied
with an ugly chuckle.

She raised her pistol and fired at his face, but he merely raised his forearm to ward of the shots, like a
man sheltering his face from the rain. Soon enough, her pistol whined as it ran empty and she discarded
it with a hiss.

“I tell you, I am liking this new you. Less imperious; more bestial and fierce. I reckon you would make a
damn enjoyable conquest,” he giggled as she leapt at him without a thought, claw raised.

His mace snapped out, shattering the de-powered claw in one blast, and further ruining her wrist. She
yelled out in agony. He punched her from her feet, driving the wind from her chest in a single blow of his
fist.

“But maybe later, when this is done, if that is alright my dear? Also, fix up your face; you look a mess.”

He began to advance towards the enslaver’s casket once more, and the Blade Enforcer rose once more
and charged, kicking the laser wound behind his knee. He winced, and sagged slightly. With her good
hand, she drew her serrated dagger at her belt and plunged it into the joint of his hip, dragging it out
with an accompanying trickle of warm blood. This time he snarled and swung his mace directly at the
Commissar, who managed to sway backwards to avoid the blow. She licked the blade clean as she
growled at him like a fearsome she-wolf.

Borus faced her again, his face a mask of distain.

“A stupid move on your part,” he explained with cold certainty.

She charged. Her carapace was ripped away as the mace pounded into her.

She rose unsteadily, and swung at him with her dagger feebly. She tripped over as she evaded his second
blow, and shuffled along the floor out of his reach, before she struggled to rise again.

Borus smashed Emeline from her feet yet again, and gore splattered across the ground yet again. And,
with similar inevitability, she rolled to avoid his finishing blow.

However, now she could no longer rise. She struggled to her knees, vomited blood, and then toppled to
the ground once more.
Borus hadn’t time for this. He ignored her ruined form, and charged towards the enslaver and its
remaining cadre.

Emeline sobbed, her tears mixing with her spilled viscera.

###

The Tyranids upon Talaheim shrieked with one voice as the blast took their mind. Every element of the
mass ecology felt its heart and mind ripped into instant oblivion like a great weight slammed down upon
their collective skulls. The hive had suddenly become planet-bound and broken.

The mewling monsters fell upon their bellies and writhed in animalistic misery for almost an hour, as the
Warriors and Zoanthropes thrashed in confusion and conflicting psychic responses. Yet, this was not their
end. Not yet.

The Hive Mind was recalculating.

Deep within the mountain-delving of the former Imperial colonies, a great scarred beast rose from
amidst the confusion. The Hive Tyrant towered over its putrid, wriggling semi-sentient appendages, and
its huge facial crest rose once more, like some imperial regent coronate at court. A rippling wave of calm
rippled from the fiendish monster, and the screams and howling of the crazed Tyranid constructs began
to quieten into lurking alien anticipation. Only one of the Tyranids continued to screech and thrash, but
not in confusion. It was in agony.

The tervigon, a living termagaunt womb, began to convulse and scrabble at the stone walls of the
chamber with its claws desperately, as a psychic tornado plunged into its receptive mind with tidal force.
Other Tyranids leapt onto it, holding the huge thrashing brute down. Its distended belly began to bulge
and ripple as its flesh expanded and mutated. Its jaws were forced open by the heavy claws of a
lumbering carnifex. Full-bodied rippers devoured everything organic they could find, and hurriedly began
to throw themselves into the hue jaws of the monster, which instinctively began to dissolve the beasts in
its powerful acidic bile.

The Hive Tyrant watched the sight without any concept of mortal comprehension. However, soon, its tall
skull turned away; its psychic perception registering further life, deep beneath the surface, at the base of
the mountain itself.

A Psionic impulse rippled through the Hive, until they reached dozens of hungry Raveners that instantly
began to burrow through flagstones and basalt. Downwards, ever downwards, towards their new goal. In
their wake, gaunts flooded their hastily constructed tunnels, following their larger cousins towards the
rich new seam of biomass resources beneath them.

###

The Shadowfall and Vash clashed with tremendous force. She deflected the main swing of his chainblade
easily, but the force his body crashing into her sent them both careening over the edge of the balcony.
Vash landed atop the callidus as they landed, but she slithered from beneath him as he rolled to plunge
his eviserator through the floor where she had moments before lay.

Despite his vast bulk, Vash was no sloth. Her green-blade slashed at his thick skull, but he sidestepped
and swept his own blade towards her, howling and roaring incoherently. He had such hate in his heart.
So many miserable memories that lent every blow and strike a staggering power and fury, taking the
assassin aback. She slipped between his blows like liquid shadow, barely avoiding his frenzied cascade.
The lithe female killer cart wheeled over his head, gripping his neck in-between her ankles as she twisted
her body. She felt something snap.

She landed with a wince, as he snapped ankle sent a jolt of pain into her mind. She quelled it instantly,
before her polymorphine-enhanced frame healed the wound instantly. Vash cackled with towering hate
as he span around and planted a great overhand swing down upon the assassin, who easily darted to
avoid it, before she jabbed a kick into his ribs which staggered the brute for a moment.
Her emotions were a rolling tumult beneath her cold mask of professionalism. Her facial hood was
ripped free, and her face was rippling and shifting in response to this new foe. There was something in
the rage and the way the giant moved. There was something there. Something else...

Another whirring blow almost cost her her throat, as she leapt up to rob the killing strike from the
Lychen.

“Blood for the Emperor! Skulls for the Golden-“

He was chanting and raving as he fought. Her mind was once more in freefall, and it was compromising
her. She knew this... she knew it.

Vash kicked the assassin backwards, sending her into a railing with a painful crash. His whirring blade
was in his hand, and he raised it high. She lunged forwards and thrust her glowing blade towards him. It
sank into his gut, but he instantly hacked through the mechanism at its base, robbing the alien blade the
chance to end him. Though it carved his own eviserator in two as he struck, the blow also destroyed the
xenos blade; turning it inert. Still, even an inert piece of xenos metal lodged in the gut was not
something to shrug off. Vash staggered backwards, growling and hurling curses.

Shadowfall pulled the twin staves which held back her hair, clicking them together to form her memory-
sword, a flexible adamantine blade which became rigid when combined together with its hilt, which was
held in her boot.

But she couldn’t. Her mind saw the Lychen momentarily staggered. Lychen... it stuck in her mind. She
saw a dozen ways to end the fight. She saw the man flailing and gargling hateful words through a granite
throat, as he began to yank the phase blade from his torso. She knew the moments.

It wasn’t training. It was from stolen aliases or hypno-drills at the Temple. Her training wasn’t what she
saw before her eyes. She saw memories.
~

She saw a lavish hallway, and dozens of black-armoured Troopers, who grabbed her and dragged her
towards the exit. Her mother rushed as she heard her whimpering pleas. She wanted her mother!
Mother help me! I’m not blooded m-mother! Tell them! Tell them!

Her mother was agile and bladed, and she opened some veins before the flashes of red ended her.

Then came a roar. A roar too loud for a man, that made the blood of the troopers run cold. She
remembered. It was a grave and terrible voice. Her father’s voice. He was a giant, and he smashed aside
the troopers like reeds in a storm. He could almost reach her. She pleadingly reached for him. Father!
Father! Please!

But he fell short, and he couldn’t save her as she was dragged kicking and screaming from the chamber.

The last memory was a keening wail; a calamitous scream of a despairing scream. It echoed her name.
He called out her name through tortured breaths.

“VELLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Vash dropped his broken eviserator, and dropped the splinter of alien metal to the ground with a clang.
Her face... her face...

There was no sound, as he looked upon her.

“You are... Vella...” he stated, his voice seeming to shrink in his cavernous throat even as he uttered his
lost daughter’s name.
Shadowfall; Vella, was sprawled across the floor before him, shivering and convulsing as if fighting
herself. Her eyes were wide and full of glistening tears.

He lowered himself to one knee, and reached for her. She blocked his approaching hand, but he tried
again and again until he reached her shuddering cheek, and gently placed his palm against her cheek.

“Objective... lost... father... artefa... mission...” she was muttering.

“I do not understand. Vella; oh Vella,” he replied, his voice strained and painful but full of conflicting
emotion, which blazed behind his eyes.

‘the truth that breaks your heart’. That was what the Doombreed had hissed in his ear.

A million questions flooded his mind at once, and he tried desperately to channel them into something
which made sense.

“They... took you... what have they... what are you?” he rumbled to his daughter, as he restrained her
thrashing.

Shadowfall, no Vella, no shadowfall, looked upon her father/target, and she could do nothing. Kill or hug
or plead forgiveness? For what? Death and murder? She was the pinnacle of death-dealing. He’d be
proud. Pride doesn’t matter though, but what am I? Vash’s question crystallized her thoughts then.

“A daughter... an assassin... I am Vella the fallen shadow, agent #284783-B of the Callidus Temple. I have
to... stop the Rogue Trader... he will unleash something which will destroy us all. I have to stop him...
father, I must stop him,” she whispered in reply, staring into Vash’s bloodshot, loving eyes.
Vash opened his hands, and he nodded.

“And I am your father. I will deny you nothing.”

They reached the bottom of the chasm within minutes. All the mercenaries were dead or dying, and
most of the Lychen along with them. Like some slender ape, Vella jumped from railing to railing as she
descended with tremendous speed.

Vash could not smile, but his heart surged with pride and sorrow in equal measure, and those two
inevitably fed into his fearsome eternal rage. His daughter was a source of wonder to him; it was a
Lychen’s dearest wish that his offspring became a fine hunter of men and heretics. His daughter had
become a veritable apex predator, a great and awesome display of the human capacity to slay. And yet,
he was filled with hate and dark thoughts.

The Imperium had betrayed him. He had stolen his child, and blooded her before she was ready, and
murdered his spouse. The Imperium had done this. Not a heretic, nor an alien horde. The Imperium had
turned upon a loyal servant. Vash would have charged into the eye of Terror alone in the Emperor’s
name, and still they hadn’t trusted him. They had stolen his family from him, and driven him to acts
more terrible and insane than most Lychen saw as normal. He could not reconcile the two positions in
his mind, and he resolved to cleanse his tormented spirit in the other thing which still made sense.

Slaughter, and the thirst for carnage.

Vella almost stepped on Emeline as the assassin was so focussed upon her looming prize. She only
stopped when Vash beckoned to her.

The giant knelt at Emeline’s side, helping her to her knees unsteadily. Her eyes were glazed and blood
seeped from her lips. Ugly black bruises signalled internal bleeding.

Vella stepped to Emeline’s side and cocked her head. “Will she die?”
Vash shook his head. “We have survived worse,” Vash grunted.

“YOU have you mean?” Emeline chuckled weakly, before retching. “Vash; kill him for me. Gut him and
bring be his heart! I’ll eat that fether’s heart! He betrayed us. He killed him... he killed them...” Emeline
muttered angrily, gory spittle dribbling from her mouth.

Vash grinned his inhumanly-mechanical grin.

“Vella; do your thing. I will keep the traitor off you. Salvation in Slaughter!” he roared.

Vella nodded, her expression shifting from confusion to almost a grin. “Die well father.”

Vash chuckled deeply. “I don’t intend to die today Vella! I intend for many others to die in my place. Now,
shall we begin?”

###

“It should exist. More should exist. More and more and more, recurring.” The enslaved moaned
monotonously as one, moving to bar Borus’ path. He smashed them aside one after the other with his
crackling maul.

“Yes, yes. You can do all the existing and replicating you want once you get to Terra ok? Now, I would like
you back in the box. Get back into the box!” Borus snarled without humour. He was in pain and annoyed.
That bitch had cut him badly, but he wasn’t done yet.

He activated his helmet's vox link to the Molvius.

“Acting-Captain, this is Borus. I will be deploying the teleport homers in under ten minutes. I want you
prepared.”

There was a crackle.

++ Borus, this is Captain Howe of the Molvius, say again? Over. ++

Borus growled in irritation. “Boy! I did not place you in charge you idiot. Where is the Acting-Captain?
Put him on.”

++ Sorry father, not possible. We recently had a minor disagreement, and I have decided to take over as
Captain. ++

“This is mutiny boy! We will have a long conversation when I return, do you hear me?”

Howe seemed to chuckle down the vox. ++ I hear you, but it isn’t mutiny. I insisted on being granted the
Warrant of Trade when Inquisitor Darvius arrived on board earlier. Therefore, I am the owner of the
Dynasty now, and you... are a man with a club. ++

Borus felt an icy chill running down his spine. He desperately scrambled to figure out a way to escape.

“You... you have to bring me back on board if you want the artefact. If the Inquisitor wants to forwards
his little scheme, he’ll need me. Then we shall see who owns the warrant your little bastard!” he roared.

++ Sorry pa. It seems the Inquisitor has decided on a change in tact. I believe his words were, “Frakk
Cavote! I want warp translation in under an hour! Get us out of here!” Sorry. Got to dash. A ship doesn’t
run itself. ++
And with that, the link went dead. Borus hopelessly tried to regain it, but nothing but static replied.
Borus shivered in sudden mounting horror.

The enslaved human marionettes approached him.

Borus glared at them.

“Can you stop the Xenos? Can you get me off this world if I help you?” he hissed.

Dead eyes stared at him blankly. “It shall endure, as we all shall endure.”

“Marvellous,” he replied without sincerity.

Posted by: Gaius Marius Jan 30 2011, 06:02 PM

Borus may be a villain, but you have to admit that he does have style.

Also, odd that they'd kidnap Vash's kid when he probably would have just given her to them if they had
asked.

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Jan 30 2011, 06:50 PM

Yes, it does strike me as somewhat unnecessary.

Still, that rebukes my suspicions that it was actually Emeline who was Vash's kidnapped daughter quite
soundly. Now to deal with Borus and the Krell.

Also, where's the damn muscle car?

Posted by: Th232 Jan 31 2011, 12:07 AM

Removed thoughts due to threat of angry letter....

Posted by: steffen19k Jan 31 2011, 12:47 AM

Ok, Th232...

If you just spoiled this story for me, I'm gonna be mad at you. In fact, I'm gonna be so mad that i'm going
to write you a letter telling you just exactly how mad I really am...

Or not... I dunno yet. But all the same, DONT GO TRYING TO SPOILER STORIES!!!!

Please.

Posted by: Tyrant Feb 1 2011, 09:55 AM

I wonder what the Enslaver will be able to do against tyranids.....I suspect not a lot.

Posted by: The Viceroy Feb 1 2011, 01:16 PM

Perhaps he will........enslave them.

Posted by: Tyrant Feb 1 2011, 01:21 PM

Perhaps the Hive Mind will politely remind the Enslaver that the tyranids already belong to it.

Posted by: LordLucan Feb 2 2011, 09:35 PM

Here is the FINAL chapter! Well, there is a very important epilogue which sets up the finale of the trilogy
which is still to be put up, but this is the end of the story. Kind of. Enjoy!:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Thirty Three.

The Krell had no mind. Not the any mortal sense. Its memories and perception of the material universe
with which it had plunged itself into was snatched from the minds of those sentient beings which it had
parasitically dominated through all the countless billions of centuries of its existence. It recognised no
individual Krell, but it was all Krell but also none of them. The name krell itself was unknown to the
Enslaver; it was named such many incursions ago. It was destiny that it was to be called Krell. It had
known it would be krell before the puppets comprehended it/them.

The Enslaver knew only what its puppets had known or would know. Temporal concerns were nothing to
it. It observed the wheel of the universe as if it had been there from the start. It had seen the warm
waves of the Fraan-shan tee as they had begun their constructions within the warp, and the great
looming Unknowables, who cast souls adrift in tidal surges that drove the sleepers wild; drove them to
madness and hunger.

It perceived the first slave of this individual krell’s thoughts, as it had been brought into being. Newborn,
it could not comprehend the warded mechanicus chamber which had bound it, only the agonising terror
of its slave’s last moments, and the shadowy face of the hooded Magos who observed the capture
coldly.

This Krell, this appendage of a legacy long since born, perceived in the present the shielded puppet, clad
in armour of body and mind. It saw the raging sprites loitering beyond its stolen perception. Recognition
tinged the scattered recollections of the Krell, as it perceived what was heading towards its incursion
site.

The Consciousness. It had perceived it before. This presence was new and terrifying for the mortals of
the present, but the krell knew this Consciousness for a very, very long time.

~
It saw through the eyes of an enslaved Eldar, standing upon a sun-ship, as the great wraith vessel began
to come apart, as more and more warp portals opened within its guts, a and more and more of the Krell
were born. Billions upon billions, until there was nothing but the hovering, ethereal shapes of the
drifting reality anchors which had hooked themselves into material space.

Then came the consciousness. Reality bled as a warp storm flared up, rippling across space and time as
the barriers and structures of reality flexed. It spat out a horde of flesh. Across a dozen worlds, they
duelled. Krell recalled a world of ice and deep oceans, and a world of lush, lethal jungle.

The consciousness had been small then; the barest fragment of something else. It had not expected to
be so utterly destroyed. For it could not subsume the Enslavers. Like two programs warring to override
the other, the weaker program had failed.

But, Krell perceive things like no other. It had taken the bodies of the mind-beasts that led the horde.
And its perception had widened, and it had seen the entirety...

Krell had seen, briefly, through the eyes of... it. And it, was vast. And it had been attacked. Like a great
whale wheeling in the deepest depths, it had turned. And it began to advance.

Now it perceived its return. This consciousness was closer and more powerful than before. The krell
were now few; victims of the Discordant Multitude, which attacked the Krell in the ether, where they
were vulnerable and un-sapient.

Yet, defeat meant nothing to the krell. They simply caused their existence. They had no purpose or desire
or fear. Two of the blue robed puppets approached, their ether-sensitive minds drawing them towards
like-matter. It was a natural, automatic process. Slowly, translucent tendrils bypassed their flesh, and
melded with their souls. They shone with inner lights of many hues. Their rage and terror emotions were
red blisters on their animus, but they were soon chilled into supple green, which began to pucker and
open like ancient blossoms. Soon... soon.
Another puppet was nearing, closer than the rest. It was odd and blurred, like several minds overlaid
upon one another. It would enslave and begin to transubstantiate more of itself. For it must exist. It must
exist with ever greater frequency.

For it was krell.

###

The flesh crypt rumbled with tremors, and the great domed roof of the dead tomb began to shudder;
tiny fractures striking out across the stone and metal like spider’s webs. Borus grimaced in nervous
panic, his pearly white teeth gritted in his skull.

He was running out of time.

His powered armour allowed him to walk with brisk pace towards the remaining Lychen who could
threaten its temporary ally, but every step sent a jolt of murderous pain through he injured knee. Damn
Lychen bitch, he winced.

He returned to finish off the wounded female and the sight that assailed him made him pause. The
Shadowy assassin bounded across the cold stone floor. He reflexively raised his crackling power mace,
but the darting figure seemed to ignore him, almost dancing across the floor towards the Enslaver.

Let the xenos deal with her, Borus scoffed. He wasn’t going to get in the way of her. He had a much
easier target to eliminate.

Or so he thought.

###
Vash fell upon the hulking armoured Trader like a wild bear, howling and snarling with feral glee. Borus
turned at the sound, and spat upon the floor before him as he drew his handcannon from its fine leather
holster.

“This is the 41st Millennium! We’ve built starships that kill planets, and can cross the void in the blink of
an eye! And we have guns, you stupid, stupid beast!” Borus laughed, as he fired the pistol into Vash.

The expander rounds blasted a gory chunk from Vash’s slab-like chest muscles. He staggered, but
growled as he continued charging the arrogant Trader.

“The ages of ending wars with a fist fight are over. We have so many better ways to kill our foes. One day,
you will all learn how truly obsolete you all are,” Borus added, punctuating his venomous words with two
more shots, that thudded into Vash, drawing dark blood from his bowel. The hulking Lychen almost fell
to his knees, but still he advanced upon his foe.

“What use is a sword, when I could vaporise you all with a push of a button?” the Trader smirked, as he
fired his handcannon again.

This shot, however, rebounded from Vash’s great adamantine jaw, and the bleeding brute leapt the final
few feet into combat with the power armoured villain.

Borus snarled. His power mace was already in his hand as he swung it for Vash’s leering face. The
Guardsman thrust out his brazen bionic arm, catching the lightning-wreathed mace head mid-swing.
Servos fought augmented musculature, as the two wrestled over the burning cudgel. Fire and azure
energies flickered across the gloomy chamber. Vash’s adamantine hand blazed a fearsome orange, metal
running molten down his elbow. Both men panted and grunted with effort, staggering like drunks
through the maze of dead and dying corpses which had fell from on high less than an hour ago. Flashes
and yelling filled the gloomy expanse, as if a living human storm had erupted from the darkness.

###
Vella moved between the lumbering automatons with ease. She didn’t even register the meat puppets
as she slew them. Each of them fell without a sound. Even the bloody chunks of carved flesh tried in vain
to attack her, such was their domination.

She was very close. The waves of utter warp deadness ahead struck her like a nauseating fog. It coiled
upon her, and suffused everything.

She had to bear witness to its majesty. She had to bow down before it and bring about more of it, until
all that existed were krell or gateways from which more Krell would come. She knew she was enslaved.
Vella was utterly dominated. Her soul was the plaything of the Krell.

However, the Shadowfall was not. Vella understood now why she was taken from her home, so abruptly
and so forcefully. They traumatised her deliberately, until she utterly lost her mind. Until her mind
fractured and was rebuilt. Until multiple personalities could be induced by the Adeptus Psychometrika;
the mind-smiths of Terra. The Assassin temples had tailored specific assassin weapons for specific tasks.
Culexus slew even the greatest psykers. Vindicare could pick out a target from many miles away, and no
barrier stopped them. The Eversor destroyed all in drug-addled fury. The callidus were designed to
infiltrate, to get close enough to slay any foe. Some foes were easier to overcome than others.
Genestealer cults required surgeries to better perfect the Polymorphine process. In the case of the
Enslavers, the only way to infiltrate them was to convince them you were a mind controlled puppet. And
the only way to do this convincingly, was to surrender part of the assassin’s mind to the beast.

Vella was the serf of the Enslaver. Shadowfall would be its executioner.

Finally, as the final mundane puppet was slain, she reached the final pod, and she gazed upon her new
god; her master and Supreme Being. Shadowfall’s memory sword shivered in her grip as she advanced
slowly towards it. The beautiful being was a great tangle of writhing, translucent tendrils, which framed
a wonderful shimmering, bulging mass of a body. The body pulsed with an internal light that enticed the
eye and flickered with witchlights that rippled beneath its flesh like fireflies. A small face with a dozen
glowing amber pinpricks for eyes gazed upon her without a hint of mortal consciousness. Two of the
thickest psychic-tendrils clutched the bodies of two crypt-keepers by their heads. Their own flesh was
becoming transparent, their organs merging and boiling into one central mass in the centre. Shadowfall
refused to look into the swirling portals at their centre, which fell away into yawning impossible chasms
into madness and un-reality.

Shadowfall walked towards the Krell, emulating the stance of a stupefied puppet, discreetly tensed and
ready to unleash hell once she got close enough.

However, Vella could not deceive that which was divine. Even as she perceived that the Shadowfall was
distinct from her own mind, so therefore the Krell also perceived this.

An undulating, hideous moan arose from somewhere near to the psychic abomination. A tendril lashed
out. The memory blade carved the pulsing appendage away, but could not deflect the psychic onslaught
which accompanied the terrific assault.

Like a bodyglove-clad toy, she was flung backwards with monstrous force.

###

Borus aimed his pistol, but Vash’s free arm elbowed the gauntlet which clutched the pistol, sending it
skittering away. Finally, Borus lost his grip on the mace, and the Lychen tossed it aside furiously. Wasting
no time, Borus instantly lurched forwards, slamming Vash backwards, smashing into a monitoring
station, which sparked and burned as the heavy warriors smashed into it bodily. Borus followed up with
three furious punches, his gauntlets clanging sonorously against vash’s jaws as he rode the blows like a
skilled boxer. Vash deflected the fourth strike with his right, before plunging his semi-molten bionic into
the rubberized gap beneath Borus’ left armpit. He howled in pain, staggering backwards as burning
metal seared his flesh like roasted grox.

Vash leapt once more into the fray, but Borus ignored his agony and snatched the brute’s thick neck
between his heavy gauntlets, and squeezed. Blood vessels burst, and tendons stretched and ruptured, as
Vash’s windpipe simultaneously closed. The Lychen didn’t gap, but rather glared at Borus with hate, his
own hands closing around the Trader’s armoured gloves. The power armour would not budge. Furiously,
Vash tried to reach Borus, but the great suit allowed him an extended reach advantage over his un-
armoured opponent. Vash growled wetly, ignoring his suffocation as he thrashed and struggled,
desperate to pull off Borus’ face.
“You haven’t got the reach lurch!” Borus cackled. “You rage away all you like! It’ll all be over soon. You
want a piece of me? Huh? Do you? Do ya!” Borus roared, as Vash pounded upon his gauntlets
relentlessly.

Vash was screaming something, but without oxygen it came out as a gurgle.

“What was that? Sorry? Do you want a piece of me? Hmm?”

Vash lunged forwards. He disregarded the fact he was being held at arm’s length. He ignored the fact his
neck snapped abruptly as he lurched to close the gap. Borus’ eyes widened as he watched Vash, neck
broken, reach forwards and rip the servos from both his arms. The next blow was a devastating punch to
the face, which pulverised his perfect teeth in a shower of blood.

Vash tottered backwards, as he gripped his skull and twisted. There was a crunch, and his dislocated neck
reset painfully.

Borus, jaw smashed and bloody, simply stood, dazed and dumbstruck, before the giant that now loomed
before him. With slow deliberation, he plunged a hand down Borus’ throat. His hand closed on the fleshy
muscle, and Vash calmly ripped his tongue from his mouth in one mighty yank.

Gory froth bubbled from Borus’ throat, and he swiftly began to gag and choke.

Vash swallowed the tongue in one gulp, his bear-trap jaws barely closing to digest the meat.

He watched as Borus died standing in his locked power armour, gagging and retching.

“Just one piece of you,” Vash replied finally.

###

The roof began to collapse, huge chunks of masonry and girders clattering into the cryo-towers in a
violent cascade of destruction. Ancient scientists, preserved for millennia in the casket-pods, were
destroyed in moments by the violent avalanche of rocky matter. Their knowledge lost forever.

In the wake of the collapse, serpentine raveners and their accompanying hordes plunged into the
chamber like a vile rain of xenos gruel; they flooded the walkways with slithering quickness.

###

Shadowfall rolled aside, as another pod was telekinetically tossed towards her, then another, and
another, followed by body after body. She darted and leapt between the deluges, even as vella cursed
her for her blasphemy.

The Krell will never be overcome. It will grant more of its kind existence, then they shall make more, and
more, until all is Krell.”You have to understand Shadowfall,” Vella pleaded.

“You must submit now. We are its own now. It is us, and you must be use too,” Vella yelled, tears in her
eyes, as Shadowfall coldly closed the distance with the bulbous nightmare, which rose up from its pod,
held aloft with its own formidable psychic might. Shadowfall tossed a dozen slender needles from her
belt. Each venom-tipped dart embedded in the Enslaver’s flesh, which quivered with unknowable
feelings as the toxins injured the abomination.

Shadowfall dodged the lashing tentacles of the fiend, as she plunged her sword again and again into the
rubbery, unnatural flesh of the Krell. The wounds opened into little portals, within which starlight and
the birth of the universe could be glimpsed. It was illusion, but vella knew the Shadowfall was simply
resisting. But she saw the beauty, and she wept at the sight.

“It you try to kill it, it will destroy me Shadowfall! It will shred my mind and destroy what remains of who
I was. Please, save us both! Let it live! Let it flourish and propagate!”

Shadowfall continued to hack and slash. She severed one of the main tendrils that clutched the living
psyker-portals. The puppet held aloft by the tendril fell to the ground; an empty sack of hollowed out
meat. Before she could sever the other, a dozen glittering appendages slithered around her throat and
arms, before they threw her down upon the ground roughly. She felt bones splinter. She was almost out
of polymorphine. These bones would have to stay broken. She hoped she was destroyed now, before she
did something to truly harm the Krell.

“I have had enough of you already,” Vash snarled at the looming Enslaver.

He approached the creature with twin pistols drawn; one Emeline’s las weapon, the other Borus’
handcannon.

“Now feth off!” Vash growled as he pulled the triggers.

As he tried to pull the triggers.

“Kill the Shadowfall! Gun me down!” Vella pleaded with Vash, as he stood transfixed by the enslaver,
which expended a greater portion of its will to overcome the single-minded lunacy of Vash. He stood
there, arms quivering as he desperately tried to aim at the enslaver. However, he found he was aiming
towards Shadowfall.

Towards Vella.

No. He could never do that.

Vash’s jaw tightened with a metallic scream, and he slowly turned his pistols back towards the Enslaver.
“Screw you squishy!”

Vella was howling as the Shadowfall struggled to rise and draw her own weapons. “Drop your weapons,
or the krell will destroy my mind! Father, it will rip my soul away! Please, I don’t want to return to
oblivion! Don’t let me be submerged again! Daddy I love you!”

Vash found, for the first time in many years, he couldn’t act. His will was being worn down. It was using
his own love to worm its way into his very mind, and into his motor functions. Instead of firing, the
pistols began to lower.

It was then, as all hope shattered like glass, that the bolt struck. A single, vast arc of warp lightning
flashed from above, and slammed into the Enslaver like a vengeful bolt from Jupiter himself.

For the first time, the Enslaver screamed; a true, horrific howl of mindless agony, which was sounded
through every available vocal cord nearby. Vash screamed, vella screamed. Even Borus’ lifeless corpse
gargled in pain.

Vash opened his eyes, and it was as if a great mass was lifted momentarily. He glared upwards, at the
source of their dubious salvation.

A bulbous alien monster descended into the flesh crypt, held aloft by unseen means. Its limbs were
atrophied stumps, yet its great crested head sparked and rippled with warp energy.

Justice; countless eons in the making.

The Krell was off-guard. Vash raised his pistols, as Shadowfall threw its memory sword. Las bolts
pounded through its flesh, burning colourful patterns into the monster’s flesh. Expander bullets burst
inside the beast, ripping chunks from its bulk like piranhas stripping a carcase. Finally, a singing silver
sliver of adamantine plunged through its twinkling eyes, and ended the Krell’s existence. The being
turned a dull brown colour, before it dropped to the floor like a sodden sack full of dead worms.
Vash dropped the weapons and rushed to Vella’s side, easily pulling her lithe form to her feet. She stared
at him with her stern brown eyes.

“The beast dies, as do all enemies of man. Its flesh doesn’t even look worthy of a feast. I will find the
Blade Enforcer, and we need to escape this place. Too many Lychen died here without fleshly
recompense. It is a bad omen,” he explained.

Vella looked upon him as if she were examining an interesting plant or moss formation.

“Commendable work Guardsman. Secondary objective has been accomplished. I concur that we must
secure an extraction route from this combat zone,” Shadowfall formally explained to Vash, as it hobbled
around the crypt, glancing towards the Tyranids that began to scuttle down the walls and walkways as
one great tide.

Vash’s heart sank as he watched her pace around the chamber. Huge chunks of masonry crashed to the
ground at random intervals, like colossal storms of lethal hail, but Vash cared not. He tried to grab her
arm, but she retracted it.

“Vella, come along! Don’t play games with me. You’re blooded now. The time for games is over,” he tried
to grin, desperately clinging onto his final chance.

“Vella? Possibly a codename of mine? That personality was unfortunately purged from my
consciousness. I could attempt to retrieve some semblance of it for you, but it is likely submerged deep
within my psyche-vaults, if it even exists anymore. Apologies,” Shadowfall explained, before returning to
her hurried scanning of the surrounding area.

Vash’s face set.

“No. Bring her back...” he demanded in an uncharacteristically small voice. “Bring Vella back. Bring my
daughter home.”
Shadowfall wasn’t listening.

Vash growled, glaring upon the Tyranids above, the automaton with his child’s face ahead, and the dead
Enslaver, and the remaining warp portal, which had somehow remained open. In fact, it was expanding
with each pulse. The body which it once had been was gone now. Only the tear remained, and dark
shapes writhed within the madness.

His options were dwindling.

###

Semi-conscious, Emeline vaguely perceived that she was being dragged across the floor. Her battered
body resented the pain and she moaned groggily. The lithe female who dragged her beneath her armpits
seemed unmoved.

She also realised she was holding Borus' severed head in her hands. She looked up at Shadowfall.

"Compliments of the Colonel," Shadowfall explained. "He wanted you to have it. A point of honour I
believe," she clarified coldly.

“What... is happening?” Emeline asked. Her voice sounded distant; lost amidst the sound of Vash
roaring, gunfire, and the shuddering chattering of a thousand hideous monsters.

“We are affecting an escape Commissar,” Shadowfall explained bluntly, nodding in Vash’s direction.
Emeline followed the gesture.

Vash, like some warlord of legend, formed their rearguard, walking backwards as he fired his captured
pistols in all directions, cursing and bellowing hateful oaths.
“Salvation in slaughter! To slay is to pray! To main is divinity! Purity through the gory feast! Split marrow!
Feast! Murder and main in his name! Kill the unbeliever! Maim the unjust! Burn the Traitor! Kill! Maim!
Burn! Kill! Maim! Burn!”

Vash was ranting and raving. Tyranids leapt at him and died in droves. Those who passed his pistols were
beaten down with his elbows, his fearsome jaw and his relentless boots. When his pistols were spent, he
drew a great mace and a gory hooked machete salvaged from the corpses of his men that lay broken
upon the ground. He added many Tyranids to these mounting piles, as he rips chunks of flesh from his
own Lychen brethren, and called out their names through bloody mouthfuls.

The trio were all falling back to the same place, and Emeline’s eyes widened as she realised their
destination.

“We can’t enter an open warp portal! We’d be torn apart! Our souls will be shriven and rent asunder!
Have you both lost your minds?” Emeline protested, struggling in Shadowfall’s grip ineffectually.

Shadowfall considered the question. “According to available data, it would seem so. But if we have faith
in Him on Terra, His benevolence shall shine down and we shall be delivered.”

Emeline felt very ill all of a sudden. “Oh frak oh frak oh frak!” she whimpered, as she desperately recited
every prayer she knew in her head.

Shadowfall threw Emeline into the shimmering portal first. Her elongated screams tried to scrabble free
of the portal, to escape being consumed, but her screams were dragged into the nightmare realm along
with her.

Shadowfall followed her in without a second glance at the stranger behind her. For a moment, as she
was pulled into the warp, she thought she heard her own voice, screaming somewhere distant. Then she
was gone.

Vash reached the pod, which led up to the hovering portal, and paused, opening Borus’ carrying case,
and glared inside with the glee of the utterly insane. He looked up at the xenos warriors closing in on
him. Eagerly, he armed all munitions, charges and devices he could find within, before he shoved the
case into the tyranid horde with his boot.

Vash threw himself backwards into the portal, even as the teleport homers and melta charges within the
bag activated, scrambling hundreds of Tyranids at the molecular level instantly.

Vash plunged into the warp with his eyes wide open, and a rusting, feral grin upon his face.

Posted by: LordLucan Feb 2 2011, 09:44 PM

QUOTE (Tyrant @ Feb 1 2011, 01:21 PM)

Perhaps the Hive Mind will politely remind the Enslaver that the tyranids already belong to it.

Not exactly. See above.

Posted by: Colonel Mustard Feb 2 2011, 10:21 PM

Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!!

So, Emeline, Vash and Shadowfall/Vella are in the Warp, Deriss has got himself the worst chauffer he
possibly could and Darv lives to fight another day (until that unfortunate incident with The Purge and
those virus bombs, at least). Superb stuff, and I'm looking forward to seeing how all this is resolved in
Flesh Withers.

Also, as an aside, I loved the bit from the Krell's point of view.
Oh, and a final question; what about Xandean and the Alaheim?

Posted by: LordLucan Feb 2 2011, 10:31 PM

QUOTE (Colonel Mustard @ Feb 2 2011, 10:21 PM)

Oh, and a final question; what about Xandean and the Alaheim?

Epilogue.

Posted by: Tyrant Feb 2 2011, 11:25 PM

Hooray for zoanthropes! The viewpoint of the Krell was excellent, really enjoyed it, especially its
memories of ancient times. I liked the implication that perhaps the Krell was responsible for bringing the
tyranids down upon the galaxy.

Hope we don't have to wait too long to find out where they all end up!

Posted by: LordLucan Feb 4 2011, 01:03 AM

Epilogue:

The vessel was ancient; a looming dagger-nosed behemoth. It lacked the developed prow of younger
Imperial vessels, and was clad in a veritable mausoleum of skulls and devotional markings that made it
appear to be a living monument to days gone by.
Terrible energies played over the miraculous Gellar field, forming dark shapes and snarling maws that
broke across this unseen barrier like waves on a breakwater. The warp was restless here. Normally, such
a violent storm would shred even the sturdiest vessel. Yet, the old void-hunter travelled along a channel
of eerily calm within the tumult. The Navigator on board cowered in his dome, shivering with terror as
the vessel was drawn through the warp, without his input at all.

One cannot judge distance or scale within the warp, but what greeted the commander of the vessel as
he stared from his view screen was, to him, vast beyond all comprehension.

The ship groaned and yawned as the two Gellar fields rippled and joined like raindrops collecting in a
cistern. Once within a comparative frame of reality, the edifice’s scale was, if anything, even greater.

The old Grand Cruiser was almost four kilometres long from stern to prow. It managed to fit entirely
inside a single titanic hangar mouth, where it docked upon a spire alongside three dozen similar capital
ships, and countless other frigates, cruisers and starships, Imperial and otherwise.

###

Elis’ boots were already ringing from the metal deck plates of the dock as soon as the umbilical linking
the dock and warship opened with a creak.

She moved with purpose and grace, and her contingent of armoured Guards, in their ornate obsidian
armour sculpted with countless serene faces leering out of the shoulder and chest plates, struggled to
keep up. Her power armour lent her certain pace, but her own impatience was the main cause.

Yet, even in her haste to meet her mighty Patron, she was waylaid every few miles by endless scenes of
wonder and astonishing beauty. Within the titanic stepped warp-base were mile-high carvings and
manufactured landscapes of bejewelled flowers and crystal waterfalls. Wondrous music echoed through
the harsh angular corridors that made her heart flutter. She pushed such thoughts aside however, as she
neared her destination. More soldiers guarded doorways, their silvered death masks smiling calmly,
belying the brutish men who dwelled within each suit. Eventually, soldiers clad in power armour blocked
her way, but parted when they looked upon her beautiful (if scarred) features, the swirling blue and
purple facial art that framed her hard eyes, and her flowing white locks.

All knew not to get in the way of the Bride of Tyrianus.

She slid her palm into the reader at his chamber door, and the mechanisms within swirled and growled
as they slowly unlocked. Doors ten feet thick rumbled open, and she entered a gleaming white chamber,
which was sealed behind her. Acrid white gas pumped through the air lock, and she felt her skin tingle as
the disinfectant scratched away any impurities at the molecular level. Her facial paint vanished in the
process, but she didn’t mind.

The next chamber was in complete contrast to the white room. This was a room of shadow, interspersed
with the occasional blinking lights of the many machines that calmly whirred and functioned in the
eternal gloom. She could barely see, but she knew her way around by instinct. Vaguely, she registered
Tyrianus’ high platform, and reflexively bowed before it. She saw minute crimson beams through the
dusty air around her, each aimed at vital weak spots in her armour. Most aimed at her head.

“Dinas; this is no way to treat our Lord’s Maiden. Please get your men to lower their weapons,” she
responded bluntly.

The red dots didn’t waver an inch.

“Enough,” a strained, wet voice called out, with an instant authority which could not be resisted. After a
few seconds, the lasers lowered.

“Thank you my lord Tyrianus. Once more, the Tetroscape astonishes me with its beauty my Master. I only
wish my journey here was as a bearer of good tidings.”

Tyrianus didn’t respond as once, but Elis could see the tips of his boots shifting upon his dais.
“Darvius failed?”

Elis nodded. “I fear so. We lost contact with the Molvius and Borus a month ago. We suspect Borus has
perished. Of darvius we cannot be sure.”

Tyrianus made a strange wet sound, possibly a snort of derision. “The Inquisitor was always an
overconfident dupe. His role was merely to draw attention to himself... tell me, Elisia. Was the Dominator
set upon its path to Terra?”

Once again, she shook her head.

“I am surrounded... by incompetence,” he spat bitterly, his deep voice at once grotesque and compelling.

“Is the endeavour salvageable my Lord Tyrianus?”

There was a long silence.

“Do you know what they call this place? This great warp catastrophe? ‘The Storm of the Emperor’s
Wrath’. What staggering irony...”

“Tyrianus? What do you mean?”

“It does not matter,” the deep voice almost sighed. “And no, this endeavour is far from complete.
Thwarting my Enslaver assault means nothing. All the High Lords have prevented is a bloodless coup.
Now the Imperium will have to pay for the High Lords’ own selfishness. And it will pay in blood, alas.”

Elis snarled. “If they resist you Tyrianus, they are traitors and deserve no sympathy, only the sword.”
Tyrianus chuckled deeply, the sound carrying throughout the chamber. The machines that were
connected to him bleeped and shuddered slightly, compensating for his exertion.

“My dear Elisia; my ever loyal Bride. You were always the greatest of them. Your unrelenting
mercilessness is gratifying. But you need not be so guarded in your address to me here. This chamber is
void shielded and warded. No one can hear us here. You may drop the facade here. I do so tire of the
cloak and dagger. Call me by my true name.”

Elis grinned despite herself. She had been forced to use his false name for so many years now; she
almost thought she’d have forgotten it by now. But she hadn’t.

“My apologies, my Lord Goge Vandire. I shall remember next time.”

###

[Excerpt from Astartes Combat Squad Hasit debriefing, circa 283.759.M41]

Subject 1 [Sergeant Hasit]: By my honour and my sword, I shall report nought but truth to my Tribe and
chapter. Long live the Fifth: Chosen by Destiny!

Subject 2 [Captain Ikek]: Chosen by Destiny! Good Sergeant. Now, what did you find? Did you locate the
Tiberias Crusade, spoken of in Ishamail’s visions?

Subject 1: We located what remained of the crusade fleet. It looked as if there had been a tremendous
naval engagement in orbit of the world Talaheim. We managed to locate a handful of vessels which were
still recognisable as such. The others were either too burned or eroded to be of use.

Subject 2: Eroded? Rust?

Subject 1: Nay. Some sort of enhanced acidic compound. Brother Artethian has taken samples.

Subject 2: What were you able to deduce from these findings?

Subject 1: The enemy were advanced, and numerous. How they had entered the system without being
instantly fired upon is unknown. It suggests either they had dampeners, or did not utilise a warp portal
to enter the system. Also, the samples seem very similar to the biology of the creatures fought at
Macragge by Lord Calgar; those Tyranids.

Subject 2: I hate that word. It has such an arbitrary meaning. But back to the task at hand. How complete
was the destruction? Was anything salvageable?

Subject 1: We located a large warlord Titan; the beloved it is called if I recall correctly. Its Mechanicus
crew must have jettisoned it when they were boarded, and before the capital ship was obliterated. We
also found several troop transports. The Garron and the Alaheim.

Subject 2: Survivors?

Subject 1: None upon the the Garron. There was one upon the Alaheim. A youngster, cowering under a
ton of sheet metal. He was a little flighty, but I have yet to see a mortal who could outrun Brutii.

Subject 2: is he the child spoken of in the vision? Does he have witches sight? What did he see?

Subject 1: I suspect he is Lord. And he said very little of what he had seen. Something about many eyes...
I shall leave his induction to ishamail.

Subject 2: You presume to have him trained by us? I am not convinced he is suitable. Atellus shall be the
one to train him after all.
Subject 1: Forgive my impertinence, but if he has the gift, he is the child spoken of, and therefore must
be trained.

Subject 2: Very shrewd Hasit. Continue. What of the planet?

Subject 1: Utterly lifeless. We performed a deep orbital scan, and we found no life, even down to the
bedrock.

Subject 2: So, they escaped then? The Tyranids?

Subject 1: It seems likely. I have had the Titan stored in our Strike Cruiser for transport back to Varsavia.
Shall we attempt to locate the Tyranids?

Subject 2: Nay. Bring the boy back. If this Xandean is as important as Ishamail says he is, it is imperative
he returns to us. He is likely to be the only one capable of finding him. You have performed your duty
admirably.

Posted by: confusedfool Feb 4 2011, 04:24 AM

Hello Everyone.

I'm new here but I must say that this and your earlier work "Abomination" which linked me to this
website are some of the most delightful examples of proper GRIM DARK I've seen in fiction, even
published works. Which brings me to ask if you are planning on writing a sequel to the adventures of GX-
202? Or is there already a sequel to Origin?

I'm looking forward to how in the warp you are justifying Necroing Goge Vandire of all people..... I hope
he dies.... painfully.

Carry on.
Posted by: Gaius Marius Feb 4 2011, 02:39 PM

Van Dire.... oh s***

Nice that the aide gets to be an Astartes at least. And I hope we find out what happens to the Lychen.

Posted by: Tyrant Feb 4 2011, 02:52 PM

Well, nobody can claim that you lack ambition, LL..........Goge Vandire, eh.....wonder how he's survived
for so long?

The Tetroscape sounds very interesting as well, to exist in the warp as it does suggests it isn't of human
origin. Wonder if it belonged to the Old Ones?

Posted by: LordLucan Feb 4 2011, 03:17 PM

QUOTE (confusedfool @ Feb 4 2011, 04:24 AM)

Hello Everyone.

I'm new here but I must say that this and your earlier work "Abomination" which linked me to this
website are some of the most delightful examples of proper GRIM DARK I've seen in fiction, even
published works. Which brings me to ask if you are planning on writing a sequel to the adventures of GX-
202? Or is there already a sequel to Origin?

I'm looking forward to how in the warp you are justifying Necroing Goge Vandire of all people..... I hope
he dies.... painfully.

Carry on.

Origin is not finished yet. But rest assured, I will get around to finishing it.
Posted by: Colonel Mustard Feb 4 2011, 05:55 PM

*Whistles slowly*

Well, that was an unexpected tist. Yet absolutely awesome as well.

I wonder how he managed to avoid that bolt shell?

Powered by Invision Power Board (http://www.invisionboard.com)

© Invision Power Services (http://www.invisionpower.com)