The Emperor Knows

*This is a little short story I had the inspiration for the other night in the shower. Strange the things I think of whilst showering! Anyway, I wanted to show the short-sightedness of most Commissars, and the Imperium in general. This is the first draught that I banged out this morning, so it’s subject to a lot of review and editing, but I wanted to get some feedback on it if I could…*

Commissar Nelum Bright was not a cruel man, though there were many that would disagree. He wasn’t a particularly vicious or violent man. He was however, a little too keen on exercising the power granted his position as enforcer of the Emperors will to the 51^st Eritaen Badlanders regiment of the Imperial Guard. He was a member of the prevailing caste of Commissars who believed that the most suitable punishment for almost any infringement was a shooting.

Rifle discipline not maintained? Shoot him! Late to report for duty? Shoot him! Unlicensed drinking? Shoot him! Twice!

Whilst this approach was indeed effective at maintaining discipline – by its very nature it prevented re-offending – it did tend to create an immense dislike for the Commissar in the men he was responsible for disciplining. It also had further-reaching consequences which none save the Emperor himself could see, but which held sway over events directly involving the zealous Commissar and his charges.

Private First Class Den Grubber was not a bad man, as many people that knew him would attest. He wasn’t the galaxies best Guardsman, nor was he the worst. He was a stolid, God-Emperor fearing trooper who did his best. In short, he was one of innumerable billions of Imperial Guardsmen across the length and breadth of the Imperium of Man that constituted the bulk of its forces. He did differ in one way however – he was an extremely good reflex marksman.

He lacked the patience, snipers eye, and steady concentration that would have earned him a marksman’s beret. His innate skill lay in taking snap shots without preparation that had an unerring way of being fatal to high priority targets; enemy officers, heavy weapons operators, charging infidels – he’d changed the course of almost every battle he’d fought in without him or anyone else realising. The Emperor had smiled on Private Grubber, but the erstwhile trooper remained oblivious.

The Badlanders found themselves involved in the Siege of Brooknorth, one of the last rebel strongholds on a planet that had declared its succession from the Imperium. Brooknorth was an imposing bulwark. Perched atop and carved into a mountaintop, it’s high walls and ceramite gates had repelled all attempts at retaking it in the Emperors name. Atop the battlements enemy officers screamed encouragement to the defenders that rained fiery death down upon the attackers. Massive defence cannons obliterated armoured vehicles and whole squads of men, largely impervious to the return fire of the attackers.

From their billet in a bombed-out manufactory complex south of Brooknorth, the Badlanders sortied against the defenders. But as the months wore on and the siege became a stalemate, dissenting voices muttered that the city was un-takeable. Our ever-vigilant and zealous Commissar came down upon these voices wherever he heard them like a metric tonne of bricks. Shootings became a daily occurrence. One particularly unfortunate trooper had to wait in line to be shot for almost an hour after the Commissar ran out of ammunition and had to go to the quartermaster to requisition more.

So the siege wore on, and the Guardsmen grew restless. And where there are several thousand restless Guardsmen, there will be drinking, as surely as there will be brawling, whores, and Commissarial executions.

And so, after pressure from higher echelons, those responsible for the execution of the siege organised a grand attack, one last ditch effort to break the fortified city. Squadrons of aircraft, orbital support from the battleships high above, hundreds upon hundreds of armoured vehicles, and a veritable swarm of the humble guardsmen. All were made ready,  and the date and time were set for the grand assault that would make or break the Siege of Brooknorth.

On the night before the dawn attack, tensions ran high in the billets of the Badlanders. Worse than the months of idle patrols and waiting was this tense waiting to charge the enemies guns. Everyone knew this would be a meat grinder; the attacking Imperial forces would hurl themselves against the high walls of Brooknorth until either the stones broke or they did. Many of them would die tomorrow.

Private Grubber sat around a small camp fire with the rest of his squad. Their sergeant was already asleep and snoring like a Rhinodon, but they were to tense to sleep. Someone suggested – as someone invariably does in these situations – that a drink would help settle their minds. After some discussion, Private Grubber drew the short straw, and was dispatched with accumulated credits in search of contraband alcohol.

He found it amongst the tents and shanties of the hangers-on that followed a Guard army around the universe. Here ladies of the night, food vendors, weapons dealers, gamblers, and retailers of myriad contraband items plied their trade, living off the needs of the men that weren’t taking care of by the Departmento Munitorum. After bartering with the trader for a bottle of black market joyliq – guaranteed as both an intoxicant and paint stripper – he headed back towards his billet and his waiting comrades.

Our dear Commissar was also abroad that night, well aware of the tensions in the men, and keen to nip in the bud any signs of cowardice or ill-discipline that could impede the regiments performance the following day. With a squad of hand-picked troopers commonly dubbed “Bright’s Brutes”, he walked the billet, correcting any infringements with either a beating or a swift round from his bolt pistol – mostly the latter.

Whether Fate, the Emperor, or the dark Gods of Chaos, or just plain old luck were responsible, it was largely agreed by his comrades afterwards that somebody “up there” had a rotten sense of humour. Just as Private Grubber entered the billet from one end, Commissar Bright entered from the other, and unknowingly the two wound their way through the tents and clusters of men towards one another.

In the darkness between scattered lamps and campfires, Trooper Grubber tripped on a guy line, and the bottle of joyliq fell from his hands, rolling across the floor and coming to a halt, miraculously unbroken. In between growling various coarse characterisations of the trooper that had stretched the guy line there, Trooper Grubber thanks the Emperor the bottle hadn’t smashed – his comrades would not be happy if he wasted their accumulated credits by spilling the booze on the floor. Then he looked up, whilst climbing to his knees, to where the bottle had stopped. Right against the toe of one of Commissar Bright’s polished jackboots.

The Commissar glanced at the contraband alcohol, and at the stunned, and now horrified trooper, and with only a brief “Violation of drinking laws! May the Emperor have mercy on you!” shot Private Grubber between the eyes. One of Bright’s Brutes dragged the body off to be disposed of, and the ever vigilant Commissar continued his rounds, executing no less than twenty-three other troopers before calling it a night, and seeking his own tent.

The grand assault went ahead the following morning, heedless of the missing troopers, and here is where we see the first of the far-reaching consequences of the Commissars actions in the night. There was a moment, mid-way through the assault, when the commander of the enemy defence was atop the battlements, personally screaming obscene encouragement at his men. The deceased Troop Grubbers squad crashed into scant cover, and there he was, un-observed by a single other soul on the battlefield through the scudding clouds of smoke and explosions, a clear shot for a standard issue Imperial Guard las-rifle. Exactly the type of shot Trooper Grubber had an unrecognised gift for spotting and taking.

Alas, Trooper Grubbers headless corpse lay in a mass grave, his spirit gone to the Emperors side. No-one took that shot. The firm leadership behind the walls broke the Imperial offensive, and indeed the back of the whole campaign. Imperial forces were beaten into retreat, and in fact to this day the system that is home to Brooknorth is still in rebel hands. Invisible shockwaves from the defeat at Brooknorth spread out across the Segmentum, strengthening the resolve of othe dissenters and heretics, and sparking no less than three other rebellions. These were quickly but messily put down, costing thousands more Imperial Guardsmen. And the Emperor knows what difference a single life can make. He knows how many of his brave warriors could have been  saved to fight another day had Private Grubber been there to take that shot. Shame no-one else does

Oh, and the ever-zealous Commissar Bright survived the defeat at Brooknorth. After killing more of his own soldiers than those of the enemy.

Ramides Cluster Crusade, Part 7

At long last, the next instalment! Fingers crossed the next one won’t be quite as long in coming!

 

Grove stood inside the temporary HQ building, tucked safely behind the rockrete walls and defences of the siege. The windows of the building, their glass long gone, had been boarded up with flakboard, and hasty doors had been installed in the empty doorways. Holes in the roof had been hastily repaired with more flakboard and sheets of thick plastek. They’d not seen any signs of rain since their arrival planetside, but there was no sense in risking the leaky roof with so much electrical equipment present.

The room was dim, the only light coming in from gaps around the hastily-fitted doors and the various display plates of consoles about the room. The biggest light source was the main hololithic display which occupied the centre of the room, like a large, shiny black mushroom two metres across and waist high. Its flickering green glow lit the faces of the men stood around it, studying the image it projected into the air above it – The Gerhanna mountain range.

Grove took a mouthful from the cup of caffeine he held, and glanced around at the officers clustered around the display. Major Terner, the regiments armour commander sweeping her non-regulation hair back from her face. Commissar Koreol with his cap in hand, talking to Major Greer. Opposite Grove stood Colonel Chise DeGuine with two junior officers, the green of their uniforms glowing in the light from the display. Deguine was currently the highest ranking officer in the PDF, and de facto commander of the PDF forces on Merghast, under Grove himself. His uniform was loose on him now – he’d been a larger man before the arrival of the Tau, and had lost weight as he led the resistance during the xenos rule of his home planet. He was a hard man if his reputation were to be believed, but he looked tired. More tired than any amount of sleep could ease.

Another man lurked outside the glow of the hololithic display. His short black coat bore no insignia, and none of his garb was military in origin, but he seemed to exude a sense of menace that meant aides in the HQ avoided him, taking the long route around the command centre rather than pass by him. DeGuine regarded him coldly from time to time. Some of the other PDF officers watched him as if he might suddenly kill them all without warning. Grove couldn’t say he blamed them.

The last officer gathered leaned closer to the display and fiddled with one of the control panels, bringing up further data about one of the flashing red icons on the green image. Colonel Tarquin Saddler was a tall, lithe man without seemingly a spare ounce of flesh on his bones. His hair was steel grey and neatly trimmed, and his jaw was clean-shaven like every man of the 3^rd. His left eye was a glowing augmetic – the mirror image of Groves own in his right -  and it wasn’t the only augmetic part of Groves 1^st officer and closest friend. The gaunt Colonel carried half a dozen augmetics, including his left arm and several internal organs. All courtesy of the Archenemy. He’d been with Grove on Cabride with the 25^th.

Grove moved alongside Saddler “Another engagement?” he asked, gesturing at the flashing icon and it’s scrolling data.

“Yes sir” replied Saddler in his clipped tones – his family was wealthy and noble back on Arcadia, and his elocution was perfect “second platoon this time. They are moving to Sergeant Mayes’ last known position”

Grove nodded “Rossin’s mob should be able to-“

“General!” one of the troopers manning a vox station called out. Grove turned his head to face him “Sergeant Rossin’s reporting that the hostiles are… uh, different sir”.

Grove frowned and glanced at Saddler, who shrugged. He hurried over to the vox station and took the proffered headset . Saddler flicked the channel onto the display’s speakers “Rossin, this is Grove. What’s the situation?”

There was a hiss of static before Rossins voice crackled through. Gunfire could be heard in the background “Sir, we’ve engaged an enemy patrol of some sort. Kroot. But these are different sir”

“They’re aliens sergeant. They’re supposed to be different.”

“I know sir, but these – Jehryn, to the right! – these are different to the others we’ve fought. They’re deformed. Even uglier than the others.” Replied Rossin “I know how stupid it sounds, but that’s how it is sir”

Grove frowned at the vox station. Rossin wasn’t an idiot, and he wasn’t given to flights of fancy. He was a well grounded veteran, one of the most capable sergeants in the regiment. It wasn’t like him to make so little sense. “That’s not our business Sergeant. We’ll leave that to-“

“If I may General?” The black clad stranger had stepped stepped forward into the light cast from the central display, and revealed himself to be a mild-faced man with long black hair tied back loosely from his face. His arms were folded across his chest “It would perhaps be useful to have a specimen brought back here for analysis” he looked at Grove with eyes that appeared black in the half-light “With your permission, of course General” It was phrased as request, but Grove knew very well that it was a request he couldn’t really refuse

“Very well sergeant. Bring in a specimen – preferably a dead one – once you’ve reached Sergeant Mayes’ position. We’ll send in a squad to relieve you”

“Confirmed sir. We’ll pick the ugliest we can find. Rossin out”

He handed the headset back to the Vox operator, and turned to the other officers “What do you make of that?” he asked

“Maybe your sergeant’s just confused?” offered DeGuine

“Possibly. But I’m not so sure…” answered Grove, staring at the blinking icon that indicated Rossin’s squad. He shifted his gaze to the black clad man “Inquisitor?”

The man in black stepped back into the gloom “We’ll see when your man returns General” was all he said.

*

Kenrick could see flashes of gunfire, and hear the echoes of a heated firefight bouncing from the walls of the mountains, originating on the plateau just ahead. That was where Sergeant Mayes and his squad had been jumped, and that’s where Rossin was leading elements of 2^nd Platoon. They’d already fought through a group of Kroot headed in the same direction. The ugly creatures had been scurrying up the scree slope towards the plateau eager to join in the bloodshed, and totally oblivious to the guardsmen behind them. 2^nd Platoon had cut them down in a merciless hail of fire. That’s when they’d noticed the difference that had been reported back to command. They’d dragged aside several of the stinking bodies as possible ‘specimens’ for later collection. Kenrick forced himself not to dwell on the twisted image that rose in his head of the dead Kroot. Ahead and above he could hear a string of crude curses and imprecations over the crackle of las fire. Sergeant Mayes was still alive at least.

Rossin signalled for bayonets, and moments later lead the charge over the last lip onto the plateau. Kenrick followed close behind Jheryn, still wary of his friends over-eager use of the flamer. The survivors were clustered behind a large sliver of fallen stone blasting at the onrushing aliens. Dawn had seemingly broken as Kenrick and the others fought through the other pack of xenos, and the morning light shone on Kroot that were as twisted as those killed earlier by 2^nd platoon.

Blue-white las fire lanced into the clacking mob of aliens felling half a dozen of them in seconds. The newly arrived troopers fanned out into the stone debris opposite the ledge that the Kroot continued to leap from, keeping a steady wall of firing up. The twisted creatures shrieked as they realised the new threat, and turned their attentions to the grey-clad guardsmen now re-enforcing the others.

Rossin reached Mayes position, blasting from the hip as he dropped down next to the shorter man “You can relax now Mayes. The grown-ups are here to sort this out” he called with a grin

“Nuk you” was Mayes’ snarled reply. Rossin laughed, and unleashed a hail of fire up at the ridge. Mayes dropped back into cover and started slapping fresh shells into his shotgun. He gestured to the cleft in the wall behind them, now clearly visible in the early morning light.

“Might want to check that” he called to Rossin “That’s where the first nukkers appeared. Been quiet since they dropped those two”.

Rossin looked over at the cleft, taking in the two grey-clad bodies at its mouth. It didn’t make sense; if the Kroot had forces in the cleft, as evidenced by the two dead troopers, why hadn’t they attacked when the trap was sprung? Mayes’ squad would have been trapped and ripped apart in moments, and all Rossin would have been re-enforcing would have been corpses.

Rossin fixed his prosthetic gaze on the dark cleft in the wall, frowing hard at it as his glowing eye cycled through its selection of alternate spectrum viewing. As it switched to heat sensor the cleft was suddenly full of glowing movement. Rossin swung his rifle up yelling “Behind us!”

No sooner had he yelled than Kroot spilled from the cleft, their shrill cries cutting through the sounds of the firefight in progress. Their bladed rifles were raised as they darted forward – and past the two sergeants. They leapt over the stunned Imperial Guardsmen and into the other Kroot. The imperial fire faltered and died as the two forces of aliens tore at one another, seemingly ignoring the humans on the plateau.

As the two bands of aliens fought, Kenrick was struck by the differences he saw in them. Even in the swirling melee it was clear. Those dropping from the ledge were darker – their skin, their beaks, even their blood. Not only that, but they seemed… twisted. Absurd as it sounded even to him to say that one lot of xenos was more twisted than the other, it was still true. There was a sense of wrongness about them that left him disturbed. It also worried him that after the initial charge, the darker Kroot were overwhelming the others. More and more of their kin were dropping down from the ledge above.

Sergeant Rossin had no idea what was going on, but none of the aliens seemed interested in killing his boys right now and that suited him just fine. He wasn’t going to get involved in some kind of xenos spat if he didn’t have to.

He activated his comm link “Ok boys, let’s pull back and let these ugly bastards fight it out” he looked over to Mayes who nodded curtly “Back down the way we came. Launchers, get some grenades up on that ledge, see if we can’t slow ‘em down some”. Moments later the hollow thuds of the platoons two grenade launchers echoed across the plateau. So far they’d been kept in reserve due to the close quarters of the fight and the risk of fragging the troopers they were coming to relieve. But now they rained explosive death down on the ledge as the grey clad Arcadians pulled back from the plateau.

Fire bloomed along the ridge above scattering stone shards and dead Kroot over the edge. The Kroot tearing at each other finally seemed to take notice of something around them and began to disengage, starting to scatter. A loud crack resounded across the plateau, and Kenrick glanced up at the ledge still bleeding smoke into the sky. A large fissure had appeared in the stone, and the whole overhang was about to drop down into them

“Move!” cried Rossin. The Arcadians broke into a run for the rubble dotted ramp that had lead them here, and the Kroot, seemingly realising the same as the Imperials – that the whole plateau was about to play host to a lot of falling granite – scattered.

Kenrick was running even before the sergeant had yelled. He wasn’t the farthest from the ramp, but may as well have been. He ran frantically, ignoring the sounds of stone falling from above, aware of other grey-clad bodies running around him.

Something hit him hard from the side and sent him sprawling on the hard stone. An awful stench assaulted him as he lay partially stunned. Beside him was one of the dark Kroot, scrabbling to regain its feet. Panic welled in Kenrick as the twisted creature turned its dark pupil-less eyes on him, and he scrambled for his rifle. A serrated blade appeared in the Kroots hand and it leaped at the fallen Guardsman. Kenrick knew he was going to die, and the world seemed to grow silent and slow down as he watched the barbaric xeno fly through the air towards him, cruel blade outstretched and eager for his flesh. The blade never reached him. He watched in numb shock as the dark Krot was caught in the ribs by one of the xeno’s bladed rifles. The up swung weapon embedded in its chest and knocked it across the plateau towards the edge.

Reality snapped back into realtime, and Kenrick finally grasped his rifle. His saviour, one of the lighter Kroot looked down at him, then grabbed his webbing and hauled him to his feet and towards the edge of the plateau. It squawked at him

“Jump!” it shrieked in crude gothic “Jump human!”

Kenrick glanced down – the plateau here ended in a steep un-climbable slope of scree pierced by blades of granite. A quick glance behind him showed him the whole upper ledge finally giving way and starting its brief collapse fall to the plateau. And him.

He jumped.

***

The mountains rumbled, like the sound of distant thunder, echoing from their granite flanks as the plateau so recently occupied by Sergeant Mayes and his men was buried by a grenade induced rockslide. When Sergeant Rossin returned to check the area after the engagement there was no trace of the battle that taken place. The plateau was now an impassable mound of shattered granite. He reported the situation to command, along with the reports of those troopers K.I.A. and proceeded with his orders to return to base with a specimen of these ‘uglier’ Kroot.

Histories: I – Loss

*The first of the Histories stories detailing the start of Rand’s misadventures. They don’t start on the most light-hearted of notes…*

Rand of Blackrose: Histories

1 – Loss

In the gloom shrouded trees of one of Ayenees countless forests, creatures of the night went about their lives unaware of the world around them, or uncaring of it. Here there are worse things lurking in the darkness than insects and animals.

Along a twisting woodland path, in the heart of this dark forest, a dark clothed man walked alone. At his side, sheathed in plain black leather, hung his sabre. Looped over one shoulder, hung a coil of black rope, ending in a hook. The man carried no other visible weapons. He’d never liked the idea of everyone knowing everything he carried.

The man was tall, and well built, although not large in stature. His shoulders seemed slightly slumped, as if disappointed at something, and trying his best to hide it. Blue eyes looked out beneath red/brown hair, lightly streaked with grey. Ahead, a large storehouse stood alone and foreboding in a clearing. A single oil lamp hung above one of the smaller side doors, and it was to this that the man headed.

Behind the man, a shadow only slightly smaller than him ghosted silently through the undergrowth, keeping the man ahead in sight, whilst remaining hidden and well back in the shadows. As the first traveller reached the door, the shadow following him paused at the edge of the trees, crouching in the gloom. The first man disappeared inside, the door locking behind him.

As the door closed behind him, Jaime Caultrim tensed slightly as he heard the sound of the bolt sliding across, yet affected not to notice. The broad-shouldered man who had been waiting at the door brushed past him, motioning for Jaime to follow. Suddenly this didn’t seem like such a great idea after all.

The man led Jaime into the main storeroom of the building. Around the walls were clustered crates and boxes, all containing stolen goods, Jaime knew. There were no windows to watch. Casting a brief glance up, showed the gloom shrouded rafters. He may have to make use of them if things went badly.

“A little high for you, do you not think, Mr Caultrim?” A voice like bones grating drifted from the shadows across the room. Jaime would’ve laid odds on that the man behind that voice angled the lamps to leave him in the dark.

“I’ve climbed higher” was all Jaime said in reply. The shadows at the far end of the broad room seemed to shift for a moment, before a tall figure, draped in a black cloak, emerged from them. The deep hood of the cloak continued to obscure his face, as always. Jaime thought he could feel the mans gaze fixed on him. Paranoia. Probably.

“Is the job done?” again, the voice of grinding bone. As if the question had been a cue, two broad shouldered men stepped up to either side of the black cloaked figure. Two more stepped in behind Jaime, although he pretended to pay them no mind. He bit his lower lip for a moment, knowing that this was not going to be easy…

“No” That single word seemed to ring like a bell in the quiet room “The man still lives. I attempted to complete the task, but there were…complications” Jaime felt that explaining that he had not killed the man because his wife had arrived, and he had given in to his guilt0 would be useless “I apologise for-”

“You apologise? You pathetic fool” the voice coming from that hood now sounded like bones snapping “A simple task, even for a pathetic mortal like yourself, and still you could not manage it. You should have killed the man, and taken the money. For your failure, I take your life forfeit”

Jaime had a knife in either palm before the word ‘life’ had been finished. Only his preparation gave him the chance to avoid the cudgel, which swung at his head from behind. He turned, ducking beneath the blow, and drove one of the blades deep into the mans chest, at the same time slashing at the second mans stomach.

Pulling the knives back, he immediately knew something was wrong. A quick glance at his knives showed not red blood, but a thick black ichor coating the blades. The man he had stabbed was lurching, but not dying like he should have been, and the man he’d cut barely seemed to notice.

Jaime darted aside, spotting the other two men making their may towards him. The man in the cloak stood watching.

***

As the door closed on the man ahead of him, the shadow that had been following him stepped out of the trees, and into the relative light of the half moon. A quick glance over the building showed an easy access to the roof. In a crouch, the man ran towards the building, stopping when he reached a large rain barrel alongside the wall. Nimbly leaping onto its lid, he pulled himself easily onto the roof of the building.

His soft leather boots and careful footsteps made no sound on the wooden planks of the roof. At his side hung a leather scabbard, holding a sabre, with a gold worked pommel topping it. His clothes were dark, and easily concealed the few knives he carried about him. His blue eyes carefully regarded the position his feet would fall in, until he spotted a skylight. It seemed to be the only window not boarded up tight

Making his way to it, he crouched beside the raised lip of the skylight, and cautiously peered down into the poorly lit room. He watched the other man enter the room following a fellow who was obviously a thug. He could see lips moving, and wished he could hear what was being said. Something caught his attention, the way the people inside were standing, and the fact that three more thugs had stepped into the room. Tension was growing down there.

Then, as he watched, one of the toughs lashed out at the man with his stout wooden cudgel, but the man ducked nimbly, and struck back. A smile spread across the watchers face, and a sense of pride filled him. It faded very quickly when he realised two men who should have been on the floor, were still advancing. The four toughs were backing the man towards a wall. Before he knew what he was doing, the watcher found himself standing, and unsheathing his straight-bladed sabre.

Raising a booted foot, he sent it crashing through the glass of the skylight, then dropped through the shattered window, catching himself on a beam. He only paused there for a second, long enough to see the man in the hood turn to face him, before he leapt from the beam, onto a stack of crates. He dropped from the crates down to the floor.

“I’m coming father!” yelled Rand Caultrim, rushing at the hooded man with his sabre raised.

***

Jaime allowed himself a quick glance up to the rafters at the sound of smashing glass. That was all the time he had. Ducking, he rolled beneath two cudgels that were swiping towards his head, slashing with the knife in one hand, and stabbing out with has sabre in the other. Roars of pain told him his blades were striking home, yet his attackers persisted.

“I’m coming Father!” The voice made Jaime’s head whip ‘round to find its source. Sure enough, his son was running at the hooded man. What did that fool think he was playing at?

“Rand, No!” yelled Jaime, turning aside another attack from one of the men. Jaime’s counterstroke cost the man his arm, yet he still kept coming. He threw the knife in his hand, the blade striking into the face of his first attacker. In a spray of black blood, the thing finally went down. Jaime started trying to back towards his son. If the boy attacked that… thing…. Jaime tried not to think of what the outcome would be.

***

Rand charged at the black cloaked man, his sword flashing out to run him through. In the blink of an eye, the hooded figure had moved two paces aside, and was whirling a rapier in his hands. He wasted no time, stabbing out at Rand immediately. Rand barely turned the blow aside, dimly hearing his father shout to him.

“So, you are the heir to the Caultrim family?” The voice seemed to come from a crypt, dry, and dead. Another stab, followed by a slash. Sweat began to run down Rands back. His attacker wasn’t even breathing heavily

“Such a shame. First your father, and now you. You Caultrims really are quite good at what you do. Yet far too troublesome” Rand leapt back, away from a fatal swipe, and found his back pressed to the wall.

“W-what are you?” Rand was angry that his voice had faltered, but under that invisible gaze, it was understandable “Why do you want to kill my father?”

The hooded mans shoulders shook, and it took Rand a moment to realise he was silently laughing “I am what you will soon be. Dead. And as for your father? Maybe once you are in my service, I will explain” He lifted his rapier in a hand that seemed all bone and paper-thin flesh. Rand felt paralysed, never thinking to try and block the blade with his own. The rapier slashed down towards Rand…and stopped with the ring of steel on steel.

Astonished, Rand looked up, into his father’s face. His father’s blade held the hooded mans mere inches from Rands face.

“In your own time lad” said Jaime, kicking the hooded man square in the chest, and away from them. “What do you say we get out of here, hey?” The older man added with a grin. Rand returned it.

“Bloody good idea” he said as he straightened from the wall. A brief glance showed one of the men dead, one missing an arm, and all of them bleeding that thick black blood heavily. Jaime started for the door, and Rand made to follow, but the hooded man flitted between them, rapier-blade stabbing. Rand parried the first blow, but not hard enough. The blade sliced along his arm and he jerked back with a startled yelp. His father caught the second blow, easily turning it aside. As Jaime did that, Rand sought vengeance. He stabbed out with his sabre, straight at the mans chest, but at the last minute, the hooded man jerked aside, and the blade ran though his arm instead of his heart.

The man roared, and stumbled backwards, and Rand let out a triumphant shout. With a smile, Jaime grabbed his son’s arm, pulling him towards the door.

“Nice work lad. You must have had a good teacher” Said Jaime, his face beaming with pride

“He’s not bad himself” Replied Rand. The grin on his fathers face vanished, twisted in pain, and he fell to the floor with a groan, mere feet from the door. As Jaime hit the ground, Rand skidded to a halt, looking to the stricken form of his father. A thick crossbow bolt protruded from his back, in line with his heart.

Jaime lifted his head feebly from the floor, his eyes fixing on Rand as blood began to run from the corner of his mouth.

“Get out…of here. Please Rand…. please….” His head slumped back to the floor.

Tears stinging his eyes, Rand shifted his gaze to the man in the cloak, and the empty crossbow in his hands. In a flash, Rand was throwing the two knives held within his sleeves. One of the thugs leaped into the path of the blades, surprisingly nimble for his bulk, then fell dead to the floor.

The remaining two were advancing on Rand, and the hooded man almost had the crossbow re-loaded. He knew his father was right, he knew he should leave, he knew he would be killed if he stayed, and yet, a part of him didn’t care. With one last look at his father’s body, Rand ran from the building.

Some time later – it could have been minutes, or hours. Rand had lost track – Rand found himself kneeling in a small clearing, tears streaking his face, glistening in the moonlight. Across his knees rested the blade given to him by his father on his 16^th naming day. Rands hands rested gently on the straight blade of the sword, his last reminder of his father.

Drawing a deep breath, Rand let out a cry, equal parts anger, mourning, and despair, cutting through the night before falling silent.

An introduction long past due

*In an attempt to get myself back into the swing of writing I’ve been reading through some of my older works, some of them dating back to the days when I would lose hours of my day role playing on Yahoo chat and various message boards. I had about a dozen different characters that I would play in various settings and formats. My favourite and most prolific was a chap named Rand Caultrim, a thief and a rogue that had an eye for the ladies and a knack for getting into trouble. I RP’d this fellow through everything from Guild Wars, Vampire hunts, to getting married and having a child, to rampaging across the fictional country/realm of Ayenee. I also wrote quite a bit of story for him detailing the exploits of his that he got up to when I wasn’t playing him, and stuff that had happened before I introduced him.

That last batch entitled “Histories” started out (like most of them) as something to post on the short stories board of Ayenee.org. Then after I stopped posting due to one thing and another, I continued writing them for my own enjoyment, and they turned into a series of short stories. I apparently got as far as number eight before being de-railed and starting something else, and I seem to have lost the plot outline I drew up so I’m a little lost as to where I was going with it! So, whilst I try and figure that out to get writing again, I thought I’d introduce you all to a close personal friend of mine – Rand Caultrim, of Clan Blackrose (although that title has/will/does come and go!)*

Châteaux Gabel stood proud and regal, even shrouded in darkness, its dressed marble arches, and tall pointed windows all shouting money. The wrought iron gates were sealed, held closed with a heavy lock, built into the gate. A man in a leather breastplate stood beside the gate, his crossbow slung from a strap over his shoulder, and his form illuminated by the pole lantern resting in its holder beside the gate, its pool of golden light pushing back the darkness. The hired guard yawned lazily, and leaned against one of the stone gate-pillars.

In the darkness beyond the gate, well outside the glowing sphere of light in which the guard stood, Rand was crouched and watching. He’d watched the Manor house for a few days now, and new the owners had money. The hired guard made that clear, if nothing else. Silently, with a skill and grace borne of years of practice, Rand slipped through the darkened bushes, to a spot he had already marked in his head. Rand emerged from the gloom-shrouded undergrowth well out of sight of the idle guard. The Châteaux’ grounds covered almost two miles, and Rand had picked a spot well out of sight. He approached the fence, its tops ending in spear-like points. Rand had already tested their edge, and had no intention of landing on one.

On the far side of the tall spiked fence, a small copse of trees stood silent in the darkness. Although more than 8ft from the fence, they would provide Rand with entrance, and give him cover once he was within the Chateaux’ grounds.

Hanging from his belt was a length of rope, coiled around, and held together by a small piece of string. One end of the rope ended in a dull silver hook. Rand pulled the rope from his belt, and removed the string. Reeling out enough to allow him to build some momentum by swinging, he tossed the hooked end over the fence. The first throw fell short, no more than brushing the leaves of the closest tree. Slowly, Rand reeled the rope back in, and hefted the hook to throw again. The second try snagged around the branches of the trees, nestling firmly in the darkened boughs.

Rand gave a firm tug on the rope, assuring himself it would stay put, and tied his end of the rope to the base of a tree on his side of the fence. He then set about pulling himself to the top of the fence. His clothes barely rustled as he reached the top, the smooth black velvet worn for that purpose. Gone was his embroidered coat, and fancy trousers. Gone were his shiny leather boots, and his gold worked sabre. Now he wore his real work clothes. A matching coat and trousers, cut from the same black velvet. At his waist he carried a small pouch, and two dark metal daggers. The other blades were concealed about his person as always.

Placing his feet between the spear tips atop the fence, he held his crouch less than an inch away from sitting on one of the gleaming points. His gaze passed over the darkened Manor grounds, back in the direction of the main gate, then south, towards the servants’ entrance, then finally on to the Manor its self. Its tall arched windows were dark now, shrouded by the stillness of night. Not so much as a candle showed anywhere within sight. Rand nodded to himself, and dropped noiselessly to the close cropped grass on the other side, immediately darting for the cover of the trees.

Once there, he paused for barely a second, routinely checking nothing about his person had been dislodged by his drop. Finding all in accordance, he made his way softly through the night, towards the slumbering Manor.

Rand stopped, crouched beside one of the lesser servants’ doors. In the days he had watched this place, he had never once seen this door used, and judging by the positioning of it, it was too far out of the way to be of much use.

Reaching to his belt again, Rand unhooked the small bundle carried there. Unrolling it, he perused his selection of lock-picks, all in matt black metal, and selected the ones he thought most appropriate. He slipped the specially shaped strips of metal into the keyhole, carefully probing the mechanisms inside. A push there, and twist this. With a gentle click, the door was unlocked.

Rand froze. The click had been soft, even to his ears, yet still he waited. No one came, or acknowledged the click. Quickly replacing the picks in their places, he hooked the bundle back onto his belt, and stood, very gently pushing the door inwards. Dim light poured sluggishly from the half-opened door, before Rand slipped in, dagger in hand, and closed it gently behind him.

Looking about, it was as he thought. To his left was a small door, probably a servants access to one of the drawing rooms. To his left, a narrow passageway led off, door s along its length speaking of more servant access. Ahead lay a steep staircase, leading up towards the second floor. Nobles, for some reason he had never been able to discern, felt that their valuables would be safe, so long as they kept them above the ground floor. Rand shook his head, smiling slightly as he climbed the stairs

At the top of the small staircase, a narrow door waited. This one had been painted, on the inside, showing that it was probably used quite frequently during the day. Rand paused, pressing his ear against the wood, straining for any sound of movement beyond. Silence.

Placing his hand on the door handle, he gently opened the door, peering around the edge, down a long hallway, carpeted in plush red. Gilded stand lamps stood along the walls, only one in two lit at this late hour. In between them, lacquered chests, inset with pearl, or worked with gold and silver lined the walls, or plinths holding statuettes and vases, just like the niches in the walls, displaying finely crafted ornaments. Pushing the door gently part-closed, Rand ghosted down the corridor, his soft soled boots making no sound on the thick pile carpet.

Swiftly crouching at the chests along the wall, Rand opened all those not locked. At the first, he pulled a folded silk shoulder bag from his coat pocket, opening it before sliding a gold-worked porcelain plate into it. Silently he drifted along the corridor, taking only what he could easily carry, and use afterwards. No good in taking something you can’t sell or make use of yourself.

He reached the end of the corridor, regretfully leaving an oil painting hanging in its place. Too big. He moved towards the first door on his right, placing his ear flat against it. The silence of the night within was broken by the muffled sounds of a sleeper. On to the next room. Another sleeper. The third, also occupied. At the fourth, no sounds disturbed the dark silence. Tentatively, Rand tested the door handle. It moved easily, with no squeak. He silently thanked the foolish nobles for keeping their doors well oiled.

Rand slipped into the empty room. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, with their drapes still tied back. The pale light illuminated things clearly enough, and Rand quickly found what he sought. Pretty statues and fancy plates were all well and good, but he preferred something a little more ‘real’.

The room was a study of some kind. There was no bed, but an adjoining door on either side connected it to the neighbouring bedrooms. A large darkwood desk sat facing the windows, with a large leather chair behind it. Bookcases covered most of the walls, and the spaces between were filled with maps, bearing the names of Ayenee, Ircania, and others Rand didn’t recognise. He wasn’t really interested in maps. It was the desk that drew him.

Swiftly and silently, Rand began rifling through the draws. A small purse of gold went straight into his pocket. An ornate dagger from the desktop was slipped into the shoulder bag. Letters, more maps, notes… A key. Rand grinned as he studied the key in the pale moonlight. A lock-box key, unless he missed his guess. The locks on those could be picked, but it took longer than a door lock, and taking them with you was too awkward. Especially when you had the key.

A muffled sound from the far door made him freeze. He looked to the other door. The noise was coming from the room he hadn’t checked. Foolish of him to go rushing in. Again, there was the muffled noise. It sounded, familiar somehow. Silently, Rand stalked to the door. He gently pressed his ear to the door. A female voice carried through the wood
“…she finds us, we’ll both be put out.”
“They will never know, provided you can keep from crying out this time” came a deeper voice, definitely male
“Come here, and I’ll make you…”
Rand stepped away from the door, smiling. A couple, making illicit use of one of the Ladies beds. He’d leave them to it, as long as they didn’t draw attention. After all, he’d be a hypocrite if he interfered!

Rand looked about the room, his eyes searching for the lock-box. Bookcase, table, a globe. Rand stopped on the last one. Was that a trick of the shadows, or an opening in the globe? He grinned again as he approached, reaching to the shadow, and lifting the top half of the large globe. Inside the half-hollow sphere were three bottles, no doubt containing antique alcohol’s of some kind, and a lacquered metal box.

Bending slightly, Rand slipped the key into the lock, turning it slowly. With a gentle click, the lock was released. Rand lifted the lid, and the moonlight sparkled with the lustre of gold. Hastily filling a smaller silk bag, Rand slipped it into the shoulder bag, and closed both the box and the globe. He made his way back to the table, replacing the key, and closing the drawer. Before he left the room, he paused. The muffled sounds from the other room were growing louder, perhaps more energetic. He grinned and slipped back into the hallway. If the couple carried on, they’d cover his escape smoothly. Not that it needed covering of course.

He ghosted back down the hallway, to the smaller servant door. Opening it, and gently closing it behind him. He paused again. He could hear the couple now, even here. It sounded like she couldn’t avoid crying out again. Shaking his head, and grinning, Rand swiftly traversed the steps, and stepped back through the door which had provided his entrance. Closing it, he darted across the darted grass again, headed towards the thicket. A brief backward glance showed a faint light, probably a candle, in one of the rooms neighbouring the lustful couple. He doubted he could have planned it better himself.

Once back in the gloom of the trees, Rand quickly found the tree with the hook snagged within its branches, and freed it from them. He climbed the fence again, this time relying on his knot around the other tree. Reaching the top, he spared another glance back at the Manor. Four of five windows were aglow now. It appeared the others were not very heavy sleepers. With one last rueful smile, Rand dropped from the fence, carefully cushioning his shoulder bag, and set about untying the rope. Within moments, the rope was freed, and coiled about his arm. Re-tying it with the string, Rand slipped it into the now full shoulder bag, and once more slipped into the night.

More Damien

Having just re-read the Eisenhorn trilogy, and the excellent Ravenor trilogy by the talented Dan Abnett, my interest in Damian Bloodhound: Zenethenes Collar has been re-kindled. So here’s the next instalment!

 

The corridor was gloomy and empty for a moment, then suddenly it was alive with movement. From pools of shadow Damien would have thought couldn’t hide anything larger than a rat, armed warriors appeared. Several dropped from the pipework that formed much of the ceiling, and two lifted floor plating to enter the corridor. In moments the corridor ahead was solid mass of sweating bodies and weapons. They all wore blue bodygloves in various states of dis-repair, with black leather bandoliers and boots Gang tattoos covered many of the grimy faces that regarded the Inquisitor and his retinue with cold disdain or open aggression, and the well muscled arms held weapons that unwaveringly covered the four Imperial agents. Carrell and Bella had both visibly tensed at the sight of people crawling from the walls, and Damiens own hands yearned to raise his shotgun. Facing this many armed Hive Gangers with his weapon slung screamed wrong to his Arbites trained mind.

 

The corridor ahead was filled with the sort of Ganger scum he’d often been at odds with during his time as an Enforcer of the Adeptus Arbites. Murderers, extortionists, kidnappers, drunks, junkies… the last slur in that list stung at him as he thought it. Am I any better than them?

 

Berricken stepped forward “I didn’t come here to have guns pointed at me. I can have that done thirty levels up in significantly more pleasant surroundings” he said levelly. Damien didn’t need to be a psyker to feel the cold displeasure that emanated from the Inquisitor in waves. The assembled gangers said nothing, although a few of them darted furtive glances at one another. “Well? Do none of you have tongues in your heads?”

 

Cackling laughter filled Damiens head, and he couldn’t stifle the gasp that escaped him. Carrell jerked and swore colourfully. Bella’s scowl grew deeper, and Damien saw the leather strain over the knuckles of Berrickens cane hand. They’d all heard the laughter

 

-Tongues in their heads? Is my tongue in your head if you can hear me? Haha, am I licking your brains?- The cracked voice intruded into head, the second voice today. It ended in demented laughing that bounced around Damiens head.

 

Ahead of him, the crowd was stirring, gangers parting to make way for someone. The front row of gangers parted and a tall man clad in the blue and black stepped forward, two huge holsters hanging to either side of his belt. His head was shaven, and an eye patch riveted to the socket covered his left eye. Behind him came a bent, scrawny wretch, dressed in tatty robes, and supporting himself on a staff half again as tall has he was. From the look of him Damien guessed he’d never been very tall, but with his back hunched double he was barely taller than Patch’s waist. He had no eyes, just empty sockets. Damien spat before realising what he was doing. Berricken spoke.

 

“Keep your psyker quiet” he said, gesturing to the hunched man with a nod of his head, a look of intense distaste upon his face “If I hear his voice again, I will destroy him”

 

There was a muttering from the assembled gangers – mostly from those out of sight Damien noted – but Patch merely hooked his thumbs through his gunbelt. “Apologies my lord. He’ll not bother you again” His voice was deep but with a rasping quality to it. Probably from a damaged trachea, caused by strangulation, if the scars around the neck are anything to go by, thought Damien. Berricken nodded slightly, then gestured with his free hand at the gathered gangers.

 

“Why so many of you? Don’t you trust me?” he asked

 

“Trust’s a luxury. We don’t have many of those” Patch smiled, without a trace of humour in it “besides, until we know for sure who you are…”

 

“Of course” was Berricken’s only reply. Damien looked briefly around at him, but he stood stock still, the shadows inside his hood disguising where his eyes rested. Suddenly Patch’s eyebrows rose, then he nodded “Are you satisfied?”

 

Patch nodded again “You’re the ones. Nefik never said anythin’ about a nuking psyker though”

 

“Nefik didn’t know. Now, can we do business, or am I wasting my time here?”

 

Patch scowled at the four of them before he nodded again “This way” he said, and turned on his heels. The other gangers moved to either side of the corridor to allow Berricken and his party to pass between them in single file. Damien could feel their heavy glances on him, and half expected to feel a blade in his ribs at any moment. The gangers closed up behind them, and followed them down the corridor, the combined noise of their booted feet on the grille rising above the din of the underhive.

 

Patch led the group down a series of corridors all seemingly identical in their gloom and industrial decay. Damien tried to keep track of where they were, but he soon found himself lost. If they had to make their own way out of here now, it would be a long time before Damien could find the entrance they’d used, and the maps he’d seen of this area didn’t seem to correlate with anything he’d seen since he’d arrived down here. Of course, if they had to make their own way out then something would have gone awry with this deal, and there’d be a lot of shooting and killing, which would almost make the fact they were lost moot.

 

Eventually Patch came to a halt outside a heavy looking hatch, and turned to Berricken “In here”. Damien moved forward to precede the Inquisitor, and a dozen hands grabbed his armour “They can stay out here. You won’t need no guns in their”

 

Berricken looked hard at Patch, then nodded “Gholien, Carrell, wait here. We won’t be long”

 

Damien opened his mouth to protest, and Berricken’s head whipped ‘round. He could feel the weight of the Inquisitors gaze upon him, even though shadow hid his face. The words died on Damiens tongue, and he merely grunted. He hands released him, reluctantly, and he made a show of dusting off the shoulders of his armour.

 

Berricken turned back to patch, and gestured to the hatch “Shall we?” Patch moved forward, and the hatch slid open noisily on badly maintained hydraulics. He walked through into a dimly lit room where a handful of figures moved in the shadows. Berricken followed, seemingly unconcerned, and Bella swayed after him. No-one seemed to want to grab her, Damien noticed. Bella’s steel heels had barely cleared the threshold when the hatch slid noisily back into place, leaving Damien and the Guard veteran alone amongst forty or more hardened underhive gangers.

 

Damien affected a nonchalance he didn’t feel, and leaned back against the bulkhead beside the hatch. Carrell caught on quick, and did likewise on the other side of the heavy-set door, casually sliding his las-gun up, and checking the power reading. He adjusted the power setting, dropping it down to minimum, then sliding it up to full. The weapon hummed in his hands, rising in pitch as the power setting rose. Then he lowered it again. He settled into a rhythm, slowly up, slowly down, slowly up, slowly down, all the time his eyes wandered around the gangers crowded around them.

 

Damien had to admit he was impressed. The whining of the weapon was unnerving when it repeated itself so methodically, and set his teeth on edge at the top end of the scale. He regretted not having anything so effective to do himself. He had to content himself with popping out one of the loaded pneumatic shells from his shotgun, and toying with it, tossing it in his hand, making sure all of the grubby killers around them saw the size of the shell. If they knew their weapons – and I don’t bloody doubt they do! – they’d know full well the damage it could do. And they’d know he had at least another nine just like it racked inside the weapon.

 

Either their little psych games worked, or the gangers grew bored when they realised nothing interesting was about to occur, and most of them drifted off. A dozen of them remained, spread down the corridor opposite Damien and Carell. One or two were visibly bracing themselves for the high-pitched hum of Carells weapon, and Damien suppressed a smile. The old Vet knew his business.

 

One of the gangers, a short man with a mop of grubby brown air sidled along the wall and stopped opposite Damien, his eyes darting from Damiens face to the casually held shotgun.

“That’s Arbites” he said abruptly, nodding down at the gun “I know, I seen ‘em carrying ‘em”. Damien remained silent, merely arching a brow at the man.

 

“How’d you get it? Hmm? You Arbites? You a stinkin’ badge?” the man demanded, pushing forward until his nose was a hairsbreadth from touching Damiens. Damien could smell the stink of sour sweat and lho-stick smoke, and he wrinkled his nose as he fought down his rising anger. Emboldened by his silence, the short smelly ganger pressed on, producing a knife from somewhere. It didn’t gleam like Bella’s, or even the bootknife Damien carried, but the edge was keen, and would do a fine job of skewering the former lawman.

 

“I think you’re a badge, that’s what I think” the flat of the knife slid over the scoured section of Damiens chest armour that had formerly borne the symbol of the Arbites, and his badge number “you can come down here, lookin’ down your nose at us, but you ain’t leavin’ that way, you filthy nukin’ badge!” on the last word the knife twirled in the short mans hands and the point drove into the left breast panel of Damiens battered carapace armour. It had done little more than scratch the paint before Damien hurled the shorter man across the corridor. As he crashed into the opposite wall, Damien darted forward catching the ganger under the chin with one hand and lifting him clear of the floor. His own knife slid free of it’s scabbard on his thigh and before the smelly ganger could do more than grunt, its gleaming point rested millimetres away from his right eye.

 

The other gangers in the corridor snatched up weapons that had been allowed to sag, training them on Damien, but he paid it no mind. His anger narrowed his view to the disgusting little bastard in front of him “Say it again” he hissed. The pinned ganger’s eyes widened “Go on, say it again you little twist bastard! I dare you!”

 

At last the little man managed to speak, though his words were weak and strained with Damiens forearm across his throat “What?! My… my mistake! I was wrong! You’re no…” he gasped painfully “You’re no badge!”

 

Damien shook his head slightly, his eyes locking with the gangers “Bad choice of words”. His knife darted forward, and the ganger screamed. Immediately Damien dropped him, and spun on his heel driving his back leg into the stomach of the ganger to his right before he could do more than think about firing the cheap autorifle in his hands. Damien half-heard curses from Carrell’s side of the corridor but didn’t have time to worry about whether the Guard veteran was paying attention. He slammed his open palm into the nose of the buckling ganger, then smacked aside the pistol held by his associate. The weapon fired, the round bouncing from the closed door that Berricken had passed through some ten minutes earlier. He brought his left arm around and his fist connected with the side of the gangers head with a satisfying sting in his knuckles, and the man dropped to the floor. Damien dropped into a firing crouch against the wall, swinging his shotgun up. Wonder how many I’ll kill before they waste me. The thought seemed distant, almost drowned by the thudding of his heart in his ears.

 

A quick glance to his right showed Damien that Carrell hadn’t been idle. As he looked, the burly veteran slammed the butt of his rifle into the face of a crudely tattooed ganger, making his tally equal to Damiens two, before dropping in beside Damien, his las-rifle up and set to maximum power and full auto.

 

The whole episode had lasted no more than a few seconds, and only now were the gangers reacting to the sudden flurry of violence. The short stinking man was curled against the wall, blood streaming between the fingers of the hands clasped over his ruined eye, shrieking like a banshee. The others were either raising weapons or moving toward the pair crouched against the wall. Damien hefted his shotgun, his finger squeezing in the trigger…

 

There was a flash of light, temporarily blinding him, and shouts echoed down the corridor as everyone lost sight for a moment. In that moment Damien felt his weapon slammed out of his hands towards the floor, where it landed with a clatter. Other similar clatters filled the corridor, and Damien grasped blindly at the pipes of the wall, waiting for his eyes to recover. Suddenly he could see clearly, and blinked in surprise. Everyone in the corridor looked as stunned he felt. Every weapon that had been held ready to kill was now on the floor, leaving some very surprised gangers, a Guard veteran, and a renegade Arbites.

 

-Jado, can’t I leave you alone for ten damned minutes?- the heavy door hissed open, and Bella slipped into the corridor, power sword humming in her hand, and Berricken followed, frowning at Damien

 

– Pick up your gun, and don’t even think about using it!-

 

Damien grimaced and scooped up his shotgun, then rose to his feet. Carell did likewise. Berricken turned briefly back to the gloomy room behind him, and spoke with his mechanical voice this time “Thank you gentlemen. May the Emperor watch over you”

 

The Inquisitor walked passed his two hired guns, gesturing for them to fall in behind him. Casting one last glance at the gangers still standing stunned – except for short and stinky who was mewling in a ball on the floor – Damien followed behind Bella. Berricken walked confidently, seemingly following some internal map, or following instructions through the warren of twilight corridors. Damien could feel the Inquisitors anger, now that his own had subsided. After a few minutes, having left the gangers well behind, Bella slowed her pace for a moment falling in beside Damien. A small smile played about her full lips. Her voice was pitched low “Bad dog” was all she said, before swaying ahead again, leaving Damien to smoulder in his anger.

 

*

 

The heavy door closed noisily as the Inquisitor made his way off into the Underhive, leaving the shocked gangers to retrieve their weapons and attempt to appear as if they hadn’t all been caught with their underwear down.

 

“This ain’t safe Jedwyn. That bastard’ll suck out our brains and leave to rot” Darlap ran a hand over his bald scalp as if already feeling his brains being stolen “We shouldn’t have got involved with ‘im!”

 

There was a general murmur of agreement from the half a dozen others in the gloomy room. They represented the leaders of almost all the gangs running the underhive here – at least, those that could be gathered in a room together without killing each other. They all owed him, Gart Jedwyn, something or other. Darlap would be dead at the hands of the local Arbites if it hadn’t been for him leading the raid that freed him. Jedwyn had taken great pains to bind the other leaders to himself. He had plans. Plans for this gang, plans for the other gang. Plans for the whole damn underhive. And this Inquisitor had sought him out, offering big rewards for information.

 

“If we hadn’t got involved with him, he’d have come down here any way, killing and psyking and messing up our turf all across the hive” said Jedwyn, turning from the hatch “This way he only goes where he needs to. Where we want him to. And instead of us all ending up dead or brain-fried, we get paid.” Darlap grimaced, but kept his disagreement to a murmured growl.

 

“Now let’s get the hell out of here” The assembled gang leaders moved towards the hatch. As they filtered out and joined up with their gang-mates outside, they made their ways into the shadows of the Underhive, each keeping a wary eye on the others, lest one of them should take the opportunity to thin the competition now that the immediate threat of the Inquisitor and his lackeys was gone. Jedwyn smiled, alone in the meeting room. Life in the Underhive was tough, and contrary to popular belief, it got tougher the closer to the top you got. Killing off your rivals tended to make other gangers uneasy, and they’d all be quick enough to tear down anyone that they thought might get too powerful. But with an Inquisitor in the mix… He could feed his rivals into the maw of Imperial justice one at a time, and no-one would suspect a thing.

 

And at the end of the day, the Underhive had big enough shadows to swallow even a member of the Holy Ordos of the Inquisition.

 

*

 

Patch followed his man through the steam-filled shadows of a water reclamation conduit, his fingers drumming on the worn leather of his gun belt. Hidden in the gloom, his face was set in a frown, and he was resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. He knew that Gren, one of his most loyal gangers was behind him, making sure no dirty scav-rat snuck up on them, but the whole meeting with the Inquisitor and the other gang leaders had left a bad taste in his mouth. And an itch between his shoulder blades.

 

The three burly gangers emerged from the steam and darkness into the relative light of their home turf. Patch could see a dozen men and women in the gang colours of the Scions in the sparse crowd of this Underhive street, and knew there’d be a dozen more watching or within earshot. The Scions weren’t a large gang, and they didn’t go in much for the vat-rafted muscles and combat-stimms that others – notably the accurately named Grunts – did, but they were powerful because they were sharp. They kept a close eye on the borders of their relatively small turf, and when they hit, they hit hard.

 

Loi, the other ganger that had accompanied Patch to the meeting and had left the way back, turned to look at his leader “What’s up Patch?”

 

Loi was Patch’s right-hand man, and his closest friend. Patch’s fingers drummed on his gunbelt “I do believe that man plans to kill me”.

Ramides Cluster Crusade, Part 6

Rifleman Cobren crouched behind a jagged splinter of rock, remnant of some large rockfall previously, with his rifle butt tucked under his shoulder, panning around slowly for a target. By his estimation they were only about four miles into the jagged Gerhanna mountain range, but it had taken them the best part of four hours to get here. The terrain was harsh, all sudden drops, jagged rocks, and steep inclines. Cobren’s hands and knees were sore, and he was sure he’d been bleeding from his right leg for a while, in spite of the gloves and heavy fatigues he wore. It was the same with everyone else in the patrol. The hard granite more often than not ended in sharp edges and even sharper points that made a mockery of their gloves and fatigue trousers.

The patrol – thirty troopers all told – was currently resting on a plateau about half a mile above the plains, surrounded on three sides by the imposing bulk of surrounding peaks, and on one side by the top of the lower foothills they’d crossed to reach here. Half of the plateau was bare stone, and the other was littered with boulders and debris, like the shard that Kenrick crouched behind now. His fireteam had been posted to keep watch while the rest of the patrol patched up bleeding hands and rested aching legs.

“Hey, Cob” the call came from Rifleman Targes who was sitting propped against an outcropping of stone to Cobren’s left, covering the area to his right “What do make of that?” he asked, nodding to the cliff face that filled much of that side of the plateau.

Looking in the direction Targes indicated, at first he saw nothing beyond the rough, grey wall of a mountain flank, dappled by harsh shadows in the early morning light. He was about to tell Targes he was loosing it if he saw anything other than a mountain when he saw what the other Guardsman was talking about. One of the shadows about waist-high up the stone face looked deeper than the others. Like a gap hacked in the stone by some monstrous axe.

“Looks like something we should tell the sergeant about” he called back to Targes. The other man nodded, and called back to the rest of the troops “Sarge! Think we found something”

The sound of cursing presaged the sergeants arrival “What is it Targes? Better be some nucking good, or I’ll use your hide to make me a pair of fragging shin pads”. Sergeant Bren Mayes wasn’t a big man. A fact which seemed to cause him no end of annoyance. Annoyance that seemed to find it’s escape through the almost constant stream of obscenities that he uttered.

Targes was unfazed by the threat – everyone in 1^st platoon was used to Mayes’ rough tongue. “Looks like there’s a opening in the cliff face over there, sir” he replied, pointing it out with a gloved hand.

Mayes glared at the shadows on the granite as if they’d caused him some personal affront, but in moments he grunted “Well nuck me, I think you’re right Targes. You and Cob go check it out, make sure there’s nothing bloody lurking in there”

Corben suppressed a sigh – his legs were aching, and even being on lookout, it was a nice break – and got to his feet. Targes joined him as he approached the shadow concealing the opening in the stone, their rifles raised. They flicked on their stablights that hung from webbing over their chest armour, but the beams failed to penetrate the darkness within. They came to a halt a few metres from the opening “After you” said Targes “I’ll cover you”

“You damn well won’t!” answered Cobren “You found it, you can go first. I’ll cover you!”. Targes cursed, hefted his rifle, and took a step forward. Then his head exploded with a sharp crack, spraying Cobren with blood.

“Oh Throne!” Cried Rifleman. They were his last words as a second shot caught him full in the face. His knees buckled and he fell backwards.

Mayes turned at the sound of the first shot, was in cover by the time Cobren took the second, and squeezed the trigger as the dead Rifleman hit the ground. A spray of scarlet bolts peppered the opening from his las-pistol sidearm “Hostile contact!” he cried, holstering the pistol and un-slinging his shotgun. There were curses and footsteps behind him as the resting Guardsmen leapt to their feet to find cover, and a few over-eager shots chipped stone around the hole.

Then there was stillness. The Guardsmen covered the opening, and nothing seemed to be coming out. Even the wind seemed to have stopped, as if the mountains themselves held their breath. But the silence couldn’t and didn’t last.

Shrills calls and clicks cut the air as the Kroot sprang their ambush, leaping from a concealed overhang overlooking the plateau. They fell on the Guardsmen from behind, bladed rifles and savage beaks ripping into the grey-clad Humans.

Mayes spun, leaning against the same stone splinter the late Cobren had used for cover, and opened fire with his shotgun. The first blast caught one of the lanky attackers on it’s long arm, and as the thing turned from disembowelling a trooper, Mayes’ second shot ripped into it’s ribs, dropping it. The short sergeant rose and stepped forward into the melee, firing one-handed as he drew his pistol again. One of the alien Kroot rushed at him, it’s beak and hands soaked in red, and Mayes knocked aside it’s long, bladed rifle with his shotgun before riddling it with shots from his pistol.

“For the Emperor! For the nucking Emperor, you toerags!” he cried, snapping off another shot “Vox! Vox dammit! Santrey, where are you?” Mayes’ knew the odds of 8^th squad surviving this were slim, but if he could Vox to command, then maybe their deaths wouldn’t be in vain. But nothing but desperate battle cries, the squawks of the aliens and the screams of dying men answered him.

Something barrelled into him, slamming him to the ground. He rolled over and brought his pistol up into the face of his attacker. Or to be more precise, into the blood-streaked face of Ishmal Santrey, his squads Vox officer.

“Sir, Vox reporting. I have a channel open to command” Getting to his knees beside Mayes, he fumbled the mic from it’s cradle – his left arm didn’t seem to be working, and his fatigue sleeve was soaked in blood. Mayes blasted a Kroot that looked like it was taking an interest in them, and took the mic. Other grey-clad figures seemed to be making their way towards the sergeant and his Vox man.

“Command, this is 8/1, location shows as 84.1, 65.6. Reporting engagement. Hostiles identified as Kroot. They laid a damn ambush-” He cut off as Santrey raised his own pistol and fired over Mayes’ shoulder. The discharge was so close that Mayes felt his skin blister from the heat. He nodded his thanks to the wounded Vox man. “-an ambush, on a plateau on Mount Tocra”

There was a hiss of static before any reply, then “Received 8/1. Support has been despatched. Hold them. Command out”. Then the line went quiet. Mayes quickly assayed the handful of men that had gathered around him and rose to his feet, adding his fire to theirs. Aliens dropped squealing, but they were too quick, and there were too many. The trooper to his left fell to a well placed throat shot, gurgling desperately through a ruined voicebox, and the Kroot charged again. Mayes took a moment to admire at the enemies agility, and their astounding jump distances. Then he opened fire with both weapons, a stream of curse flowing from his lips.

Ramides Cluster Crusade, Part 5

Hello once again! I know it’s been a long time since the last update, but with a new job and several ongoing projects (both written and other things as well) I haven’t had anywhere near as much time as I’d hoped for these two, even though they’re my two favourite projects! Anyway, enough with the excuses – this afternoon I took some liberties, and used my time at work to get some more done on the Ramides Cluster Crusade, which quite nicely adds to the last section I wrote about a month ago. I’ll post them both up here, but as they’re more-or-less first drafts, they’re subject to change!

As always, enjoy!

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With a creak, the aged camp bed finally gave up under the thrashing weight of Colour Sergeant Rae Cade, and deposited the sweating man on the floor of his tent. With a strangled gasp he awoke and began frantically scrabbling amongst sweat-soaked sheets that had twisted about him in his aggravated sleep. He freed his head, and sucked gratefully at the cool, dry air of the Plains. With a muttered curse he kicked the treacherous camp bed off of him, and extricated himself from the sodden mass of his bed clothes.

The flap of his tent twitched, and he could make out a head, silhouetted against the floodlights outside “Sarge? You alright?” Though he couldn’t see the mans face, he could imagine him squinting into the darkness of the tent.

“I’m fine Kenrick. Damned camp bed kicked me off is all” he stood, and moved to the small lamp unit that sat on the ammo crate that served as his one other piece of furniture in the tent – being the senior Sergeant in the regiment got him a tent on his own, and a camp bed – for all the bloody good it did me! – but not much else. The lamp came to life, filling the tent with a soft yellow glow “I think I’ll stick to my bedroll like the rest of you. Safer than that contraption” he said, gesturing to the collapsed bed and forcing a grin.

Kenrick smiled at the senior sergeant “Good idea sarge.” The Rifleman hesitated. Kenrick was a smart lad, very observant. But Cade didn’t need him being smart or observant right now.

“Anything else Rifleman, Or can I get back to sleep? I’d invite you in, but you’re not my type” He said gruffly. Kenrick almost blushed.

“Sorry sir. G’night sir” His head disappeared from the flap, and Cade watched his silhouetted figure walk away, probably headed to his own tent, shared with other members of his squad.

Righting the camp bed, Cade sat carefully down on it, and ran his hands back through his close-cropped brown hair. Brown and grey now you old git, he thought to himself. True enough, there was a sprinkling of grey amongst the brown now, and hard lines creased his face, as much proof of his years of service as the faded scars he wore, one across his right cheek, from his mouth to his ear, given to him by a filthy cultist years earlier on Cabride, when he’d fought with Grove and the 25^th. He’d been sergeant of an Armoured Fist squad back then, and one of the few to make it out of that hell storm alive, and manage to stay alive.

He thought he’d seen it all; Cultists, cursed renegade Marines, and Dark Eldar raiders. A lifetimes worth of enemies, fear and hatred given form. He’d fought them all, las-gun in hand. And he’d do it all again if he had to. But these nightmares were something else. How could you fight something that was inside your head? He’d been to see the preacher that had been assigned to the Regiment since Cabride, and received numerous blessings and benedictions. He hadn’t dared tell the old preacher about the nightmares, especially here on Merghast where the Inquisition was so closely studying the planet for corruption. If they new the contents of his dreams, he’d be facing questioning from here ‘til the Emperor walked.

He knew the smell, the one in his dream that assaulted his sense every time before he died. He’d smelled it on Cabride, as he fought the followers of the Dark Gods. He smelled it as they’d butchered his friends and comrades. He’d smelled it on himself afterwards, despite scrubbing his skin raw. That smell was the smell of Chaos. The stench of Warp corruption. And it was in his dreams. It was in his head.

He picked up the sweaty sheets from the floor and tossed them on the end of the bed, then reached out to his uniform tunic that hung from a peg mounted on one of the tent poles. After fishing around in the pockets he found his wrist horologe and glanced at the glowing green digits. Roughly middle of Merghasts night time. Sunrise should be in another five hours or so. Really he should go back to sleep, get some rest before his duty tomorrow… he looked grimly at the sodden sheets and the creaking bed, but it wasn’t them that made him pull on his boots and finish dressing – he slept in his uniform trousers, a habit he’d found useful in his earliest days as a soldier – it was the thought of closing his eyes and confronting the darkness that waited there.

He pushed his way through his open tent flap as he fastened his brown leather pistol belt around the grey fatigue tunic. It felt odd to be clad in grey fatigues after so long back in the 3^rd’s regimental reds, but the Munitorum had finally shipped in their urban camo, and the mottled grey helped here in the granite of the mountains. A cool breeze tugged at the tent flap as he looked around at the primary mustering point for the 3^rd’s siege of the Gerhanna Mountains. Stretching away behind him, into the plains were the rows of tents and small hab domes that housed the men stationed here. The glow of fires and the raucous sounds of drunken Guardsmen fractured the cool dark of the otherwise unbroken Plains. The voices were few, and the fires fewer still, as many of those off duty had retired already. If the last hardy souls hadn’t joined them in an hour or so, Cade decided he’d come back and make sure they got at least some rest tonight. The men needed to let off steam, but not so much that they were useless the next morning.

Ahead of his, and scant few metres from the front of his tent ran main road into the mountains. Originally a paved causeway laid in centuries passed, it had since been covered in hardpan. The later layers of grey-black had worn away after years of traffic and neglect, and patches of the original flagstones showed through here and there. Stablights illuminated the road for the entire distance it ran though the encampment, bathing it in constant daylight. As he stood there, a half-track growled past, headed into the Mountains with a dozen or so Riflemen aboard. A mile or so into the Mountains the road became little more than a dirt track with only the occasional cracked flagstone to indicate it had ever been anything more. Cade had heard it mentioned by someone that originally the road had been laid for pilgrims making their way to temples secreted in the peaks. Whatever it had been built for, gave the 3^rd an ideal entry point into the treacherous valleys and crags.

He walked across the road, squinting slightly as his eyes adjusted to the harsh light after the relative gloom of his tent. He nodded at troopers as he passed them, not realising where he was headed until the smell of incense reached him on the breeze. He stopped in his tracks, eyeing the patched canvas tent that served as a chapel here. He didn’t want another damned benediction- get many more and you’ll be able to swap sermons with that pious git Nove! And he didn’t want to have to put up with the preachers tern eyes again, not right now. He turned on his heel and headed past the main command building, an abandoned dwelling of some sort that had been hastily repaired with flakboard and plastek sheeting. High gain Vox masts blinked in the night sky above it, and an almost constant stream of Riflemen and officers passed in and out of the temporary HQ.

He walked on past sentries who didn’t need to straighten at his approach, but tried anyway. He allowed himself a small smile as he returned their crisp salutes. A bastard company they may be, but they were as good Guardsmen as any. In the shadow of the HQ stood a large tent, by far the largest in the encampment, it’s walls re-enforced with flakboard and sandbags. Even with the hum of activity around him, the rumble of engines and the sounds of thousands of men living and soldiering, he could hear the air scrubbers and purifiers working away. The scent of disinfectant and antibac carried on the breeze as he approached on of the tents side entrances, a door fashioned from a flap of canvas held rigid by poles. He pushed inside and was immediately slapped in the face figuratively by the sterile, cool air inside the medicae tent, and more literally by the plastek strips that hung over every external door.

Cade made his way through the rows of beds, nodding or sharing a few words with those he recognised and were awake. There weren’t many wounded at the moment, since the fighting had been little more than skirmishes so far, but looking at the rows of empty cots it was easy enough to picture them full of wounded Riflemen. This siege is going to be long and damned bloody. Shaking his head he silenced the morbid thoughts and carried on towards one bed he knew would be occupied. Sure enough, as he approached he could see the curtain that divided the beds had been pulled half way ‘round, and voices could be heard issuing from behind it. Voices apparently having a disagreement.

“…any harder and I’ll be back under your bloody knife!”

“If you sat still sir then it’d be a lot easier for both of us!”

“I am fragging sitting still you ham-fisted grox lover!”

Cade stepped around the curtain and smiled at the tableau within.

In the bed, complaining vociferously was the man he’d come to visit; Cavalry-Lieutenant Terri Eckol. Struggling with the bandages that covered half his head was one of the corpsmen attached to the 3^rd, a young man named Glyss who was most definitely getting the rough side of Eckol’s tongue. Mid way through one of his tirades at the apparently inept and ‘sadistic’ corpsman, Cade cleared his throat loudly.

“If I’m interrupting I can leave you two alone and come back later” he said, smirking. The two looked around, startled. Cade laughed “I know what it’s like with you young couples…”

Glyss blushed hotly, and Eckol pushed his hands away “I’ll ‘interrupt’ you in a minute” growled the older man, hastily tying off the loose bandage that wound around his head. “I’ll interrupt your damn breathing!” Cade laughed harder, and Glyss blushed redder before pulling back the curtains and scurrying away, muttering about letting him bandage himself.

Cade dragged the chair from the end of the bed alongside and dropped onto it, taking in the state of the wounds around the Cavalry-Lieutenant’s head and face. After his Chimera had been disabled, it’d been pounded into submission by a retreating band of Kroot, and Eckol had been lucky to escape the wreck alive. According to the Medicae’s, he had third degree burns to his feet and lower legs from the fire in the crew cabin, and they’d removed no less than twenty-eight pieces of metal from his head, neck, and shoulders. They were still waiting to see if his left eye would recover any sight – Eckol wasn’t keen on augmetics.

“So, can I take it from the way you’re abusing the staff that you’re not feeling any better about your time off?” asked Cade with a grin. Eckol was on forced medical leave, and hated it. Cade had taken to referring to it as his ‘time off’ just to annoy his old friend. The Cavalry officer grunted sourly, and grimaced.

“They keep telling me to rest. Then when I do, they bloody well come and wake me up to try and strangle me with these damn bandages!” He shot a venomous look at another corpsman passing by, but the woman failed to take any notice “Wish they’d make up their damn mind” Cade chuckled gently.

“I’d have thought that with all the meds they give you for them” he gestured at Eckols legs, or more precisely at the raised blanket that covered his legs “you’d be out cold”

“Hmph, I can barely feel my legs – which I’m grateful for, ‘cause if they hurt anything like they look, I’d rather not know – but the rest of me’s just fine” A frown creased his brow, and he looked at the horologe on the small bedside cabinet “Isn’t this a bit late for you Rae?”

“What, I got to be tucked up in bed by now?”

“No, but people don’t normally come visiting their invalid friend in the middle of the night” He fixed Cade with a hard stare “Unless they’ve got something to tell them. You come to tell me they’re going to amputate?!”

Cade was taken by surprise by his friends conclusion-jumping “What? No, don’t be stupid! You’re gonna have those ugly legs of yours for a long time yet! I just couldn’t sleep, and thought I’d come see you” because it’s better than seeing that damn Preacher again! Eckol didn’t seem convinced, and Cade didn’t think he could convince him, so he changed the subject.

“So, you and Corpsman Glyss…” He said with a forced grin.

The Half-track sped along the illuminated roadway relatively smoothly, and with little concern for other traffic. There were few vehicles or pedestrians on the track at this time of the night, and thanks to the lights, they’d see anyone or anything coming a long way off. Outside the corridor of light little could be seen. The lights of the command building and the central area of the encampment, a few well lit vehicle pools or fuel dumps. But no people. Even though he was sat in the open-topped transport with a driver and a dozen troopers of the 3^rd, and passing through an encampment currently housing thousands of others, he felt a sudden sense of loneliness. He peered into the darkness beyond the lights, hoping for some sign of life out there, but was greeted with only unbroken darkness. They’d left the main encampment, and in another few miles would reach the end of the illuminated stretch of road. Then they’d be on their own, on foot, in these hostile mountains…

“Major?” A voice from one of the troopers next to him brought him back to the moment, and out of his dreary thoughts of dark stone and sudden drops. Major Han Greer looked around at the trooper, McKinney, who had attracted his attention. The man held a battered hip flask in his hand and was proffering it to him. Greer arched a brow and accepted it. He sniffed at the flask, and recoiled at the harsh scent of crudely brewed moonshine. He looked to Sergeant Hake, whose squad he was accompanying tonight.

“Sergeant, are you aware that one of your troopers has just handed a superior officer an illegal alcoholic substance?” He asked crisply. He always spoke that way – thanks to his education, which had been considerably more than most of the troopers in the 3^rd – and it rankled some of the other officers and Riflemen alike. But not Sergeant Hake. The bald-headed Sergeant smiled.

“Yes sir. I instructed Rifleman McKinney to pass said beverage to you once he ‘ad taken a swig sir” replied Hake, in his city-slur accent. Greer nodded, and took a swig. The moonshine burned at his throat, and nearly made his eyes water. He coughed, and handed the flask back to McKinney.

“Are you also aware” he said hoarsely, which made several of the troopers grin “That it tastes like fermented piss?”

“Sir, I tend not to enquire as to Rifleman McKinney’s distilling techniques”

“I can well see why Sergeant” Greer finally smiled, and there was a wave of laughter from the other men. All except McKinney, who looked inexplicably proud as he handed the flask to the next trooper in line.

Greer was new to command – straight from the Royal Academy on Arcadia. He came from a wealthy family who had a strong martial tradition, and so had enrolled at the Academy on his thirteenth birthday. Now at the tender young age of twenty three he had his first command assignment – 3^rd Platoon. This was his first combat assignment, and he was worried that he hadn’t gelled with the men under his command very well during the voyage here. Well, except for Hake and his squad. The older Sergeant seemed unofficially to have taken the younger senior officer under his wing. Greer was thankful for that, and genuinely liked the bald Sergeant. But he hoped by all that was holy that the rest of the officers never found out.

He already knew that it was a commonly held sentiment in the regiment that he was too young, and not to be let off the leash. All his major orders so far had merely been official announcements of ‘suggestions’ made by the regiment’s other officers. They were made subtly enough, just men voicing in a friendly way what they would do, but it was clear to Greer that the other officers felt he needed them to tell him what to do. If they ever found out that he was grateful for the sergeant’s discreet guidance, he’d probably be demoted to a desk post back on Arcadia. If they didn’t find some way to drum him out of the regiment entirely.

Unconsciously his hand moved to the bulky pistol at his hip. Realising his hand gripped the weapon, he pulled it from its holster, and checked the slide. He smoothly ejected the clip, checked it, and slapped it back into place. The weapon was a very expensive one, bought for him by his father from Smith-Sousson Armouries back home, and presented to him when he’d received his commission as commanding officer of 3^rd Platoon. It was a slim model bolt pistol with a sickle magazine, finished in polished nickel. It had earned more than a few admiring glances when he’d first fired it at the range on the outward voyage, and more than a few sneers – many of those officers that had climbed through the ranks to theirs commands saw it as shiny toy gun for the boy playing at being a soldier. He’d considered stowing the gun and using the standard las-pistol he’d been issued with his uniform, but the power of the weapon persuaded him otherwise. It kicked like an angry Rhinox – he’d been unable to fire any weapon for days after the first time he used it – but it had a stopping power that most las weapons couldn’t hope to match.

Re-holstering the weapon, he looked ‘round at Hake, who had his standard issue Mk IV Lasrifle tucked between his knees as he idly cleaned the flash suppressor at the end of the barrel “Sorry sir, don’t think I’ll be able to get it as shiny as yours” he quipped with a grin. Greer smiled back “Keep trying Sergeant. You never know, maybe McKinney’s drink will help”.

Hake and the others nearest laughed. Hake had never said a bad word against the gleaming pistol. He’d fired it once on the range, and had voiced his surprise power of such a slim model, but he’d made a point of letting Greer see him cleaning his own weapons – the rifle, his standard issue pistol, and the stubber he kept in a boot holster – and commenting that he’d never get them as clean as Greers’ whenever the Major handled his weapon.

The hatch in the back wall of the drivers cabin slid open, and the trooper who would man the roof-mounted weapon if they came under attack called out to Greer.

“We’ll be reaching the drop-off in about two minutes sir”

Greer nodded, and the hatch slid shut. Moments later he heard the roof hatch clang open, and the upper body of the gunner appeared through the roof as he cycled up the heavy bolter mounted there. Greer turned to Hake again.

“Two minutes Sergeant. We should be passing the perimeter in less than that. Eyes sharp” Hake nodded, then stood, bracing himself with one hand on the bare roof bars. He slung his rifle on it’s shoulder strap with the other before addressing the squad.

“Defensive positions! One minute to arrival boys, then we get to take a walk in some fresh mountain air. Look sharp, unless you want to be some Kroot’s dinner!” he called. Immediately the men rose from their seats, and the benches folded flat against the low walls of the half-track. As the vehicle slowed at the outer defences, their rifles bristled around the edges of the flatbed. Greer stood beside Hake as the vehicle stopped. A junior officer trotted over to them, data-slate in hand, and saluted when he saw Greer.

“Good evening sir!” he called in a city-slur similar to Greers’ “heading out?”

Greer nodded “Yes lieutenant. Recon patrol. 1^st squad, 3^rd platoon”. The young officer looked at his slate, then nodded.

“Good hunting sir” he called, before stepping back from the roadway and snapping another salute. Greer thumped on the cabins wall, and the half0track started forward towards the armoured gates that blocked the roadway. As Greer watched they opened with a hiss of hydraulics, revealing the darkness of the road ahead. The half-track roared forward through the now half-open gates and left the illumination of the defenses behind. Glancing back, Gree could see the rockrete walls that ringed the mountain range, and the spotlights stabbing out into the darkness inside that defensive wall. Behind it, mortars and other heavy weapons waited, supported by the handful of armoured vehicles that could be mustered by the regiment and the local PDF. Nothing was escaping these mountains. But nothing seemed to be trying to.

As the darkness enveloped them, the headlights of the half-track blazed to life, illuminating the roadway ahead. Greer closed his eyes to aid them in adjusting to the darkness. When he opened them again the halftrack was once again slowing to a halt. The gunner on the roof had his spotlight on and was panning around the broken ground that surrounded the roadway here in the mountains, and before Greer could say anything, Hake kicked open the gate at the back of the flat bed, and leaped down, rifle up and scanning for targets. The rest of the squad followed in quick order, making no sound except the thud of their boots dropping to the ground and scuffing on the roadway and the scree beside it.

Greer dropped to the ground and closed the tailgate, drawing his own pistol. No sooner was the tailgate closed than the engine of the halftrack revved and the vehicle swung around. In moments it was speeding back along the roadway, back towards the illuminated defence wall. Greer thought he saw the gunner wave, but he didn’t bother to signal back. Instead he turned to face the mountains, their bulk like darker shadows against the night sky. Head already briefed Hake on their route, before he’d decided he would join them on this patrol.

“Take us in sergeant”.

Ramides Cluster Crusade, Part 4

Just a short one this time, since I’ve barely had time to think about these projects lately what with finding and starting a new job. A new character is introduced, and a new chapter starts…

***

Sereoph Plains, West of Ceredes. Primary mustering point for forces entering the besieged Gerhanna Mountains.Day 16 of Arcadian 3^rd operations on Merghast.

The air was damp, making his skin feel clammy, and condensing into tiny water droplets on the polished steel stock of his las-rifle. But despite the moisture in the air, his mouth was dry as a tomb, his tongue like a swollen stone in his mouth. He wiped his eyes, and stared into the gloom.

The shadows in the cave crawled, as if alive. He tried to put it down to the stabbing beam of his lamp pack, but he knew that wasn’t the cause. Whenever he shone his lamp at a section of crawling shadow, it seemed to linger in the light before clearing, as if the darkness was a living thing, shying away from his probing beam of light. His trigger finger twitched as the squirming shadows parted, resisting the urge to open fire. Shooting at shadows? Was he some wet-behind-the-ears recruit? The hell he was! Drawing a lungful of the damp air that did nothing to ease the desiccation of his desert-dry mouth, he tried to collect his wits.

The crawling shadows weren’t the worst of it. The sound, that was the worst. Like a monstrously slow heartbeat, almost rhythmic. It seemed to emanate from the walls, from the damp floor, every surface in the gloom shrouded cave resonating and amplifying the bone-shaking bass rumble of an arrhythmic heart beat. It disrupted his thoughts, and made the echoes do strange things. Footsteps and voices he knew were behind him seemed to come from ahead. In the lulls between beats, there were almost voices in the air, at the very edge of hearing, and yet somehow always heard, like whispers inside his skull.

The caves were filled with an almost palpable sense of dread, and it got worse with every step he took.

A snarl came from ahead, and he snapped his rifle up, trying vainly to find the source in amongst the crawling shadows. He tried to call into his vox for backup, as the sense of dread increased incredibly, and a foul smell, like spoiled meat flooded over him, but his voice was dead in his throat, and he managed nothing but a rasp. Questions chirped in the vox, enquiring at the strange noise, and he struggled to make any noise. Words never came, as something surged forward from the darkness, flashes of mottled flesh, claws, teeth, and utterly inhuman eyes. His las-rifle fired, shots blasting wildly and striking stone chips from the cave wall. No time to aim. No time to react. But time to die.

He finally found his voice as sharp points sank into his flesh, spilling his blood. He screamed.

Damien II

*Here’s some more to the Bloodhound novel that’s slowly grinding along. I haven’t had much time to write recently, because Real Life keeps getting in the way and stealing my energy/time/inspiration. But here’s a little bit of progress!*

Vid-pict log *SEF435-39r

Location: Hive Sefus Main Spire. Upper-Lower Level 23

1857.83 M41

[Image rolls, distorted for 3.6 seconds, then stabilises. Vid-pict shows a grainy, greyscale image of a lower hive corridor. Internal chrono shows it to be 22:24 local time]

Four figures enter image from screen right. The lead figure is clad in combat fatigues and light flak armour, and carries what appears to be a MKIII Guard issue las-rifle in his hands, panning the weapon from side to side as he moves his head. Ident classified Guard-DIS-Beta.

Second figure is wearing what seems to be Arbites patrol armour including helmet, stripped of insignia, and carries a modified Arbites Suppressor riot shotgun. No ident available.

Third and fourth figure remain outside of the poorly maintained vid-pict’s focus. Seemingly at the command of one of the out of focus figures, the lead figure opens fire on the vid-pict, destroying it.

[static for 12.6 seconds. Feed ends]

Smashed and melted fragments of plastic rained to the rust-stained decking from the destroyed vid-pict, joined moments later by fragments of a similar unit mounted further along the long, broad corridor. The crack of Carell’s precision las-shots was quickly swallowed by the background noise that permeated the lower levels of hive Sefus. Steam and other gases leaked slowly from poorly sealed pipes, run-down air scrubbers and other mechanical devices rattled and clanked in the walls and ceilings, and below it all sending constant micro tremors through every surface on the levels below the special buffering was the rumbling of the hives colossal generators. Ancient things, buried at the centre of the lower levels, they growled on day and night. They were the best maintained part of this area of the hive. Even the Lord Governor, miles above in his sprawling residence knew that if they died, hive Sefus died.

All that Damian knew was that they were getting on his nerves. The constant micro tremors made it feel as if there was a low level current buzzing through his feet, and he was beginning to get a headache. He peered down the length of the corridor, wishing there were more or brighter lights down here, whilst at the same time feeling comfortable in the lower light. Caged yellowing lumen strips were spaced along the ceiling every few metres, but from what he could see about one in three was dark, leaving large pools of shadow around areas of the pipe covered walls. Down here there was no need to hide the pipes, cabling and air scrubbers behind pleasant panelling. Down here the walls were mostly made up of the various lifelines of the upper levels. It made Damien uncomfortable – anyone could be lurking in those shadows. His fingerless leather gloves creaked as he shifted his grip on his shotgun.

“I don’t think we need worry about an ambush” the Inquisitors mechanized voice croaked from behind him, and Damian realised the bastard had been skimming his surface thoughts. He made an effort to submerge his thoughts behind his crude mental barriers as Bericken continued “my contacts seemed very certain that we were perfectly safe in dealing with this Gang”

“If it’s so safe, then why are we here?” asked Damien gruffly.

“Nothing is certain Jado. No sense in taking risks” replied Bericken

“And all dogs need exercising” purred the fourth member of their party. Clad head to toe in red leather armour so dark as to be almost black, the only flesh visible was around her eyes, mouth, and through half a dozen or so gaps in the leather. The skin that showed through those gaps was always cut, always bleeding. The armour was form-fitting, and showed the shape of a stunning body, but Damien didn’t risk admiring. The woman was a member of a Death Cult, sworn to kill and die for the glory of the Emperor. A slim power sword hung on her back, and two long-bladed weapons hung one at either hip. She was a fanatic with a taste for blood, and a lust for death. Her name was Bella.

“Woof woof” snarled Carell, glancing back at the leather-clad killer “Dogs bite, bitc-“

-Enough!-

The psy instruction slammed into their heads, and Carrell quickly resumed his visual scanning of the corridor ahead of them. Damien bit back a curse as the words burst into his head, not bothering with the courtesy of passing through his ears. He hated psy-talk like that. It made him feel dirty, like he needed to shower his brain or something. It was the first time Berrick had communicated with him that way, and he didn’t like it. The party moved along the corridor in silence, the sounds of their feet on the metal grate flooring buried beneath the sounds of the lower hive.

Minutes passed, and side corridors opened beside them. Carell and Damien checked them both before waving the other two forward. They both looked the image of relaxation; Berrick strolled, a silver-worked black metal cane clasped in one gloved hand, the bolt pistol at his hip almost hidden in the billow of his robes. Bella swayed alongside him atop spike-heeled boots, seemingly having no trouble at all with the grating and her impractical footwear.

Those boots struck a solid plate that rang with a different tone to the others, as he covered the opening of a side corridor, and waved Berricken and Bella past. Damien frowned, staring at the plate as he stepped over it. This whole level was battered, but the scratches and scuffing here seemed recent. His eyes followed the plate as it ran across the width of the corridor, then met the wall, which was clear plating as wide as his hand…

“Stop!” he called spinning to face the others “This is –“

A hiss of gas and the squeal of hydraulics cut him off as the emergency fire shutter flew up from its concealed compartment beneath the floor. Reaching the ceiling there was the thump of mag-locks closing, and the corridor behind was sealed off. Damien span on his heel and darted forward, dropping into a crouch ahead of Berricken. To his right Carell had done likewise. There was a whisper of steel on leather, and Bella had both of her long-bladed daggers drawn. She stepped languorously in front of Berricken, blades raised in a high stance.

“Lower your weapons!” the shout came from somewhere ahead, though there was no-one to be seen.

“Show yourself!” replied Berricken. He alone still seemed sanguine with the situation. He stood leaning lightly on his cane, his hood leaving his face in deep shadow. He could be fouling himself in fear, and we’d never know.

“Stop pointin’ those weapons at us, or you’ll die down here” came the voice again. Damien couldn’t help but see the truth of the situation. They were penned in, against Throne knows how many enemies, all of whom could be armed to the teeth, with no cover and no backup.

-Lower your weapons- Carrell cursed but lowered his rifle, and rose to his feet. Damien did likewise but without the swearing. –You too Bella-

With a grimace and a glance at Berricken she nodded and sheathed the shining steel blades.

Wandered a li’l….

I sat down this evening to do some further work on the serialised horror novel project that Goon proposed months ago, and it was all going well. The concept piece I sent him was well received, and I had a fairly good idea of where I was going, and what I wanted to achieve. So I started tapping away at these little plastic keys…

I’ve just read back what I’ve written this evening, and whilst I like the way it’s going, I realise with a sinking feeling that it’s drifted significantly from the ‘horror’ genre it’s supposed to be in. I think I may end up using this piece as a sci-fi/war story with horror undertones. Which is great, but it puts me back to square one with the horror project.

Bugger.

Oh well, I may well post up what I’ve got so far, later. Right now I have to go away and have a cogitate on horror….

Rooney