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

Ramides Cluster Crusade, Installment 3 – Tanky goodness!

Aaaaand here’s the next part of the Ramides Cluster Crusade book. Be gentle with me on this one – it’s my first scene involving armoured fighting vehicles (or tanks as some people call ‘em), and I’m a li’l bit dubious….

Gerhanna Mountains, west of Ceredes.

The stink of promethium, and the grind of steel tracks. The two things Major Lara ‘Torch ‘em’ Terner loved best in the galaxy. And she had both in ample supply right now as her armoured column grounds it’s way through the foothills of the Gerhanna mountain range flushing out Kroot survivors, and leaving nothing more of them than scorched, greasy smears on the stony ground. Looking about her from the turret hatch of her command Hellhound Pax Incedrius, she was willing to admit that calling the collection of fighting vehicles a ‘column’ was a bit of a liberty. The dozen tanks currently engaged in the foothills represented a little under half of the 3^rd’s armoured strength, all that hadn’t been snaffled up before the regiment had even left Basic and Prep. She spat over deep red hull of Pax Incendrius, and dropped down into her command seat inside the turret.

As commander of the 3^rd’s armour, she’d had what she assumed was the full story from Grove when she was appointed to the post. She knew all about some brass bastard stealing her tanks before she’d even seen them. Probably doled out to some no-hoper hive ganger from the arse-end of the galaxy who’d drive them off a cliff first time he was out alone. She wanted to spit again, but settled for a disgusted growl and adjusted her headset mic.

“All units, report status” she barked. As the reports filtered in, she cranked her turret to and fro, her scope showing nothing but the pyres marking the destruction of more of the beaked xenos. She flicked a strand of lank blonde hair from her eyes. Getting long again. Gotta get it cut she thought to herself for the fiftieth time today, and promptly forgot it, for the fiftieth time today. Her Hellhound flame tank was immaculate, lovingly cleaned and maintained after every use, but she tended to forget about taking care of her own appearance.

As the last report concluded, she briefly checked the map of the area provided by command, and transmitted the next series of waypoints.

“Proceed to the next waypoints, as before. Remember boys, try and keep yourselves between the enemy and the mountains.” She broadcast “We’ve got some good drivers, but even they can’t drive us up mountains”. A chorus of acknowledgements and laughs came back, and she switched her headset to the internal link. “Let’s roll Jensen”

“On our way ma’am” came the reply from her driver, nestled below and forward of her position, next to the young gunner Kettering. Sure enough, the tank lurched as Jensen gunned the engines and swung them around to head on towards the next waypoint. Keeping one eye on the small display of her turret scope, she checked the fuel and promethium levels before calling down to Kettering.

“Kett, how’re you doing for ammo?” She asked. Although the turret mounted Inferno cannon was the main armament of any Hellhound, they also had a hull mounted Heavy Bolter for a little bit of ranged defence. And Kettering had been a little too trigger happy in that last engagement. She understood that he was still green, being fresh in to her little armoured division, but even so, she needed him watching his ammo.

“I’ve got plenty left ma’am.” He replied without looking up from his own scope. Lara grunted.

“Uh-huh, and I’m Saint Ophelia reborn, kid” she said, resuming her own scanning through her scope. “Take it a li’l easier on the trigger. We –“ the rest of her words died away as a transmission came loud in her headset.

“Leader, sixteen. I’m under heavy fire up here” crackled the voice over the vox.

“Sixteen, leader. Care to elaborate?” she asked, already plotting a course from where they were to sixteen’s last reported position.

“I can confirm – Throne of terra, shoot it you idiot! – repeat, I can confirm at least four Emperor-damned Krootox” came the terse reply

“Received sixteen. We’re on our way Terri”

“Appreciated leader. We’re taking a beating up here. Sixteen out” replied Terri Eckol, commander of Mud Rat, one of the regiments Chimera APC’s. Laa switched back to the internal channel.

“You heard the man Jensen. Half a klick upslope. Move it!” she barked down at her driver. The man made no response, as usual when he was concentrating on driving, but Lara had to brace herself against a bulkhead as the Hellhound slewed and roared off towards the flashed of gunfire illuminating the side of mountain now cast in shadow by the setting sun.

Gunfire hammered against the armoured hull of Mud Rat and Terri Eckol swung his turret around searching for the source. A huddle of the beak-faced Kroot were firing from behind a jutting rock, and there beside them partially obscured by the boulders it was using as cover stood the Krootox, it’s grey skin mottled with scorch marks from las-rifle fire. Sighting on the hulking creature, Eckol squeezed the main trigger and Mud Rat’s multilaser burst into life, unleashing a punishing hail of las-bolts into it. The thing roared and reared up. Eckol kept his finger pressed down hard, and the line of crimson bolts stitched across the beasts relatively soft underside, punching dead into it’s alien body. It screeched, and toppled backwards, crushing it’s rider, and the huge gun strapped to it’s back as it died. The fire coming from the aft of the Chimera shifted from the dead beast to the sheltering Kroot as the Guardsmen being carried moved onto the next target. He could hear cheers and shouts coming from the transport compartment, but he had precious little time to celebrate the death of the Krootox.

A trio of heavy blasts from the opposite side rocked the whole vehicle on it’s disabled tracks and finally proved too much for the abused turret. A shower of sparks erupted from the traverse ring, and Eckol heard the clatter of metal dropping to the floor of the transport below him. Slamming the traverse controls to seek out this new threat produced a shrieking howl of tortured metal. The turret began to move, but slow and haltingly, accompanied the whole time by the grind of the damaged traverse mechanism. Below him, the Heavy Bolter thundered sporadically, the Krootox and their supporting Kroot warriors keeping out of it’s limited firing arc. Eckol cursed loudly. More heavy shots slammed into the same side of the transport, this time at the transport compartment. At least one punched through the armour, as the curses and shouts were punctuated by screams of more than one man.

“Emperor help us, if they don’t get here soon we’ll be Xeno food…” He muttered, and slammed the traverse control again.

Lara tightened her seat restraint as Pax Incendrius bounced violently over another ridge of grey stone, and still ended up bouncing her head off of the turret hatch. She gritted her teeth and held on as best as she could, trying to make sense of the bouncing, jittery monochrome image on her small screen as they closed on Mud Rat’s position. Although she’d directed other units to assist as well, she was the closest, and she preyed they’d make it in time. From the amount of fire up there, Eckol and his tub wouldn’t last long unsupported. The Hellhound lurched again, and landed on relatively flat ground. Peering at the pict viewer she could see Mud Rat at the centre of a hail of fire, rocking on it’s shattered tracks at every volley of heavy Krootox fire. It’s turret seemed to be stuck. Either that or Terri was hurt and not in full control of it.

“Frag it Jensen, I meant FAST!” she yelled at the driver, knowing he was driving damn fast, but needing something to vent at.

“Get ready with your flames ma’am!” he yelled back. Looking back at the pict screen, Lara grinned darkly, and grasped her firing controls, opening the firing valves to full…

Sparks and shrapnel flew from the front of Mud Rat, peppering the crew compartment. Eckol’s gunner cried out as the storm of fire and metal enveloped him, and then fell silent. A glance told the tank commander that he’d need to look for a new gunner if he ever made it out of here alive. Which wasn’t very likely. He squeezed off a burst of fire at a scurrying group of Kroot, then yanked at the traverse control to track them, but the damaged mechanism finally gave up, seizing fast with a scream of tortured gears.

“No damn you! Don’t you fragging well dare!” he yelled at the controls. Moments later the traverse mechanism exploded, releasing the pent-up pressure, and launching cogwheels and gears into the commanders compartment. Pain blossomed in a dozen or more places, and his head swam, his vision in one eye vanishing. More heavy fire rocked the hull, and Eckol prepared to make his peace and meet the Emperor for divine judgement…

Flames washed out the image through his scope, and he slipped into darkness.

Pax Incendrius practically leapt over the last ridge of shattered stone, crushing a handful of shooting Kroot beneath its armoured bulk. Moments later it unleashed Hell on the main Kroot firing line, burning promethium engulfing them to the last. Ammunition detonated, blasting apart melting flesh, and the two hulking Krootox caught in the wash of flame shrieked as they were reduced to nothing more than burning piles of alien flesh. The cannon atop one of them detonated, showering flames and burning Kroot flesh all around.

Lara traversed the turret, and vented another stream of burning death into the filthy aliens as Jensen ploughed them forward, blocking the remaining Kroot and their beasts from firing upon the beleaguered Chimera APC. Even as they stopped, Multilaser fire lanced into the back of the remaining aliens as the first of the other armoured units arrived. Kettering joined in the slaughter, opening up with the heavy thud-thud of his Heavy Bolter. The aliens came apart under the barrage.

Behind Pax Incendrius the battered APC sat motionless except for the smoke that was leaking from its shattered Heavy Bolter sponson. Its deep red armour was barely visible beneath the scorch and blast marks from the attack it had weathered. Of its crew and passengers, there was no sign.

Excerpt from Forgotten Crusades of M40, by …..

“Under the assault of the Arcadian 3^rd regiment, the scattered Kroot forces fell back towards the Gerhanna mountain range, travelling from across the planet to seek refuge in the caves and valleys of the barren mountains, apparently hoping to use their stealth and animal cunning to harry any Imperial forces sent into the mountains to flush them out. A ring of firepower surrounded the tall yet relatively small mountain range as the Arcadians prepared for a long, costly clearing action…”

The Bloodhound: Zenethene’s Collar

So, here’s another one of the novels I’m working on at the moment. This one’s been on the go in some form or another for a lot longer than the Ramides Cluster book, and has seen a lot of re-writes and changes in writing style. Its central character is Damien Bloodhound, aka “The Bloodhound”, a character from Games Workshop’s Inquisitor range. His character appealed to me, and a felt there was a lot that could be done with him. The one idea that really jumped out at me was the thought of watching an Inquisitors warband follow a case, but not from the Inquisitors view – from one of the ‘henchmen’.

So, here it is (well, the start anyway), The Bloodhound: Zenethene’s Collar.

Chapter I: Sefus Incorruptus

Location: Hive Sefus.

Hive world of Teclis, Segmentum Pacificus.

6:48 am, Local Time

The fat, red sun rose above the distant, haze shrouded horizon, its harsh red light driving back the shadows of night as it flowed across the cracked, dry landscape of Teclis. It flowed around the half-buried boulders and rocks, and streamed through the empty windows of the shattered ruins that had once housed the inhabitants of Teclis. Its heat began to evaporate the toxic mists that covered much of the planet come nightfall, and melted away the light frost that covered the tops of the boulders and ruins that protruded from the thinning carpet of fog. The whole landscape glowed a fiery orange as the sunlight illuminated the fog like some enormous glow-tube.

Damien watched the sun begin its gentle climb into the deep blue sky, leaning on the wall beside the window. At this level the window was grubby and scratched, but still mostly transparent, and he was high enough in the Hive to look down onto the fog, rather than out into it. He idly mused that this was probably the sort of thing to inspire minstrels and poets. With a grunt, he stood straight, and turned away from the window. In front of him now, rather than the almost-pleasant scenery of Teclis, there was a non-descript corridor immediately occupied by an irate bald male in purple robes, and a larger, greasy looking male in the matt grey coverall of a Hive docking supervisor.

The male in the robes was Nerist, one of several adjutants to an Imperial Inquisitor who had recently shown up here on Teclis. And he was currently getting very angry at the other male. Damien didn’t know his name, but he was apparently important to the next stage of the investigation. Damien watched them, and the corridors around him, listening. At the moment, the Inquisitors presence here was supposed to be a secret, so Nerist was posing as a Scribe from the Administratum. Unfortunately, an Administratum Scribe didn’t have anywhere near as much power as an adjutant to an Inquisitor. A fact that was being clearly demonstrated by the dockworker, who seemed to be flatly refusing whatever it was that Nerist was asking for.

Nerist gestured emphatically at the docker, and his nasal tones took on a distinctly annoyed tone. Damien covered a smile with his hand, covering his mouth, and rubbing his unshaven cheek. Damien didn’t like Nerist. He didn’t like any of the Inquisitors adjutants, but he disliked Nerist the most. Although that was probably just because he’d been forced to spend the most time with Nerist. Six days of wandering through the lower levels of the Hive, huge, cavern-like receiving bays, reading through delivery manifests, wandering through the stacks of goods and other necessary stores in huge, cavernous warehouses. With the nasal, condescending tones of Nerist to accompany him. The adjutant seemed to think that Damien, as a ‘hired-gun’ was below his own hallowed status of Savant. Damien enjoyed seeing him being ignored by the docker.

However, the longer the docker said ‘no’, the longer Damien had to spend standing in this corridor, listening to the grating voice of Nerist growing more and more irate, and consequently, louder and louder. And the longer it would take to find whatever it was the Inquisitor was looking for. Damien grimaced. The longer that took, the longer the Inquisitor would have Damien in his employ, and the longer he’d have to find out who Damien really was. And that would be really bad.

It was early, and Damien had been up late the night before, and was in no mood to wait around whilst this jumped-up crate-pusher decided to flaunt his meagre authority, even if it did really annoy Nerist. Damien pushed himself off from the wall, and walked calmly towards the others. He firmly shouldered Nerist aside in mid-rant, ignoring the skinny mans indignant grunt. He smiled at the docker, a smile without a trace of humour in it.

“I had a really rough night last night” he said, his own bloodshot eyes meeting with the grey of the docker “Why don’t you just do what my associate here asks you, and keep this morning pleasant for all of us?”

The docker looked from Damien to Nerist and back again “Listen, friend” the docker filled that last word with scorn “I’m not giving my manifest to anyone without the authorisation of –“. He never had the chance to explain who’s authorisation he needed. Damien’s temper snapped. His hand flew out, slamming into the docker’s beefy chest, and knocking him back. The burly man had no chance to recover from his shock, as Damien stepped in close, seizing the lapels of the docker’s grey coveralls, and hoisting him off the floor, up against the wall. The docker was broader than Damien, but almost a hand shorter, and Damien lifted him with only a soft grunt of effort.

“You listen. I don’t care whose authority you need, or whose orders you’re ignoring. Throne! I don’t care if you have a decree from Earth itself” Damien ignored the docker’s startled gasp, which was echoed by Nerist at Damien’s back “You’re going to do what this Scribe asks, and you’re going to do it with a smile, or I’m going to force you through that window behind me. Ok?”

The docker swallowed hard, and nodded, almost before Damien had finished speaking. Damien smiled again, and dropped the man back to the floor plates “Good! See, isn’t it much nicer when we co-operate?” he said with a false cheerfulness that jarred against his previous aggression. Not waiting to see if the docker replied, Damien turned, his smile vanishing

“He’s all yours, Scribe Nerist” he said, passing by the indignant adjutant without stopping, or even sparing him a glance.

9:08am Local Time

Face down on the unmade bed, face buried in the thin, almost solid pillow, Damien dozed. It really had been a rough night, although nothing out of the ordinary for him really. Drinks in one of the local lower-Hive bars, drinks to drive away the all too familiar craving. Then after the drinks, the fighting. It didn’t seem to matter where he went, or what he drank, it always came down to the fighting. It didn’t matter whether it was looking at someone the wrong way, or not looking at someone the right way, not paying enough, or paying too much, sooner or later, you could guarantee that someone would want to fight him.

Of course, it had occurred to him that perhaps the fights happened so damned often because he wanted them to. In moments of honest introspection, he even admitted that in some cases that was true. But whether he wanted it or someone else did, it happened. The sorts of bars Damien frequented tended not to worry with Hive security to break up fights. They were the sorts where the fight would run its course, and the loser – and in some cases, the winner too – would wake up in some waste recycler, if they woke up at all. Unless of course the staff of that establishment didn’t want a fight right then, in which case it was common practice for shotguns and electro-clubs to appear.

Last night had involved someone – Damien couldn’t remember who – kicking off. The staff on this occasion had stepped in after ten minutes or so, electro-clubs swinging. His opponent went down in short order, his nervous system temporarily shut down by the shock from a club. Damien, even when drunk, was more than a match for some lower-Hive bouncer. He’d left the bar in a hurry after breaking at least to bones, and possibly killing one bouncer. The barman had produced an old combat shotgun from behind the stained and battered bar, and started blasting.

That hadn’t been the end of the night. It should have been, for any half-sane man, but Damien had given wondering about his sanity a long time ago. There was always another bar, and as far as they were concerned the closure or disruption of another bar could only increase their custom. His blood was up that night, and the drink just couldn’t quell the cravings, couldn’t calm the finger of need that seemed to claw their way out from his soul, burrowing into his mind… and the Crash made it all so much easier, so much clearer…

Damian tensed at a quiet bleep, close to his ear. It came from a small relay that was connected to a sensor discreetly hidden outside the door to his current dwelling. The bleep signalled that there was someone there, and since the door chime hadn’t sounded, they didn’t want him to know they were there. His hand slipped under the edge of the thin mattress (barely any thicker than the pillow) on his bed, and clasped around the hand of the Stubber pistol secreted there. Damien waited, ears strained for any sound from the door. There was a faint scraping noise, seemingly from outside the door, and then the hiss of the ill-maintained door sliding aside.

No sooner had the door begun to open than Damien was rolling from the bed, rolling up into a firing position on one knee with the Stubber aimed at the door, two paces from the bed. In the doorway, face painted with surprise stood a broad, dark-skinned man, clad in grey combat trousers and a drab olive vest. His hand was just moving to the holstered weapon at his hip by the time Damien had his head in his sights.

“Throne Gholien! You gonna shoot me?” asked the big man at the door in a deep voice that seemed to boom, a crooked grin partly erasing the surprise on his face. He knew Damien as Jado Gholien, as did everyone else on this planet “Don’t think the boss’d like that too much”

“What do you want Carell?” Was all Damien said, lowering the weapon, and rising to his feet. He tucked the Stubber into his belt, so as not to show the other man where he’d hidden the weapon.

“The boss wants to see you” said Carell “Of course, if you’re sleeping, I’ll just tell him you can’t make it” His sarcastic tone did nothing to improve Damien’s already foul mood, nor the headache he thought was coming. He did manage to suppress a curse though.

“Just take me to him” snarled Damien. Carrell laughed softly, clearly enjoying Damien’s annoyance, then stepped out into the hall to wait whilst Damien snatched up his Flak-jacket. Damien followed him shortly, the door closing behind him, and locking as Damien swiped his ID card through the archaic locking system “I’m not even gonna ask how you got in Carell, so don’t bother gloating. A five year old grox-herder could’ve gotten through that look, so stop looking so smug. It makes you look constipated”

The broader, dark skinned man grunted, and muttered something that was probably less than pleasant, and started away down the corridor.

Damien didn’t actually dislike the man in front of him. He may actually have liked him, had the situation been different. As it was, he just didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust anyone. It seemed as though that had been the state of affairs for his entire life. Carell was a little like himself, particularly right now. He was a ‘hired-gun’, working for the same employer as Damien, although from a different background. Damien had been able to find out that Carell was a former Imperial Guardsman, released from his previous duties for some undisclosed reason, and now selling his services to the highest bidder. It wasn’t unusual for former Guardsmen to turn to the life of a mercenary. There were enough people that would pay to have a big strong fellow with a gun on their side. Hive nobility, Crime Syndicates, entrepreneurs, even regular citizens with something worth looking after who had the credits to spare.

Age-old Human Nature dictated that wherever someone had something of value, someone else would want to take it. And in Hives like Sefus, ruled by a constantly power-hungry Nobility, someone always had something of value that someone else wanted. So mercenaries like Carell (and like himself, if he was honest) always had plenty of work. At the moment, Damien couldn’t see that he was being paid to protect anything, except a secret. It suited him – it meant no-one was trying to kill him outside of the usual drunken brawls – but it made him uneasy. Even when he didn’t use his real name, his general description seemed to find its way into the hands of those that wanted to know, and as such, his fee wasn’t small. He was good enough to ask it, and to have it paid, but no-one would willingly pay his price, simply to have him trawl through lists of incoming cargoes.

He was pretty sure the same was more or less applicable to Carell. Your average gunslinger would usually take whatever creds he could, but Guard-trained men could ask a much better price – not as much as Damien, but a fair price none the less. So why would anyone, even an Imperial Inquisitor, pay such prices to have two men following scribes into warehouses, a job that could’ve been done just as well by any two-cred gunslinger in any one of the lower-Hive bars? Maybe the Inquisitor was just a little eccentric, or had access to even more funds than usual, but the situation made him uncomfortable.

Damien followed the dark-skinned former Guardsman through seemingly endless grey corridors and passageways, and a into a handful of Travellers that clanked and rumbled as they lifted the two of them into the higher reaches of the Hive. As they ascended the levels of the Hive, the apparel and general appearance of those passing them in the corridors, and sharing the Traveller carriages with them changed slowly. At first, they were all pale-skinned men and women, clad in coveralls, coloured to correspond to their jobs, with a handful of offworlders – Traders and merchants whose fortunes weren’t so good, for the most part. – and a scattering of basic, heavy-built servitors. They saw to the tasks that kept the Hive running on a day to day basis. Receiving the supplies at the docks, recycling the refuse of several million people, repairing minor faults in the mechanical running of the Hives systems. They kept the hive alive. Had they descended any further into the depths of the Hive, or the UnderHive as it was known, then all they would have seen in the decaying, dim corridors would have been the scavs that scratched a living in the forgotten deeps below the Hive. Death stalked those corridors in a thousand guises. A hundred thousand. Even more that it did up here, in the ‘civilised’ areas.

The clothing and appearances changed. The coveralls were replaced here and there by plain robes, or trouser and jacket combinations in the same colours as before, but marking the wearer as an overseer or Scribe. Damian knew from previous experience that at the top levels, the corridors would be all but empty, except for the occasional scurrying servant, and the clothes would range from ornately embroidered, expansive swirling robes, to military dress uniforms, to the most fanciful decorations imaginable. It more often than not made the wearer look like a painted fool – in particular, those that had taken to having there skin artificially darkened with pigment-therapy, to an orange/bronze colour – but it was just as dangerous up there in the Heights as it was in the UnderHive. Maybe more so.

But Damien didn’t have to contend with such annoyance today. Due to the Inquisitors secrecy, he had taken rooms no more than half way to the pinnacle of the Hive. As Carell stopped outside the door leading to the Inquisitor’s rooms, a light crowd of robed and lightly embroidered people moved passed, silent except for the occasional whisper of psuedosilk. Few gave him and Carell distasteful looks – it was reasonably common at this level for employers to have their hired-guns come to them at home. Damien ignored those around him, trusting Carell to do his job, and touched a small, softly glowing rune beside the door. There was no signal that he could hear, but he knew that inside, a chime would sound, and vid-monitors would be watching him.

Moments later, the door hissed quietly aside, and Damien was greeted by a plump, robed man with heavy lidded eyes, and a shock of black hair. Without a word he gestured Damien into the room, and closed the door behind him. Damien waited, and the man walked past, gesturing him to follow. Around the room sat a handful of other adjutants, either working at terminals with there glowing screens facing away from Damien, or talking in small groups. Damien recognised most by sight, but could give only two names to match the faces. Also in the room was a short pale man, with a blank face, and cold, grey eyes. A long rifle stood beside him, propped against the wall, and Damien knew he was good with it. He was the third of the Inquisitors hired-guns, a sniper, who was a deserter from some far-off Planetary Defence Force. He thought his anonymity safe, but few secrets were safe from Damien.

The sniper nodded, and Damien acknowledged it with a nod of his own, moments before passing through another doorway, directly opposite to the first.

His guide stopped just inside the door, and Damien passed him, his eyes passing around the room, and suppressing a groan. The one large window in the room was opaqued against the glare of Teclis’ sun, so that it merely glowed pleasantly. Nerist was in the room, his face red with splotches of what Damien figured was irritation. The Inquisitor sat in a large, carved wooden chair just beside the window, turned half towards the window, and half towards Nerist. The adjutant’s head whipped ‘round as Damien entered, and directed a withering glare at him as he moved towards the centre of the room. A glare which Damien ignored with ease. He stopped in the middle of the room, and a little to Nerist’s left. He would approach no closer unless asked, but he was not some sycophantical adjutant, who would wait at the threshold until summoned.

Even seated, the Inquisitor made quite an imposing figure. He wore a tight-fitting coat of a blue so dark it was almost black, that flared into something like a robe at the waist. Dark boots, polished ‘til they shone rested on the floor, crossed at the ankle. Gloves of the same colour as the coat covered the Inquisitors hands, meaning that no flesh could be seen at all. His face…. Well, his face stretched the definition of the word. A hood of the same colour and material as that of coat and gloves covered where Damien assumed the Inquisitors hair was, and rested in folds on his broad shoulders, and where the mans face should have been was a tangled bio-mechanical mess. And opening near the bottom hung slackly open, metal glistening wetly within whenever the light shone that way. Above it, the nose was merely a meshed hole. The eyes were… disturbing, to say the least.

The left was a mechanical replacement, which protruded like a thick needle an inch or so out of the eye-socket, whilst the right was almost human in appearance – if human eyes were a ruddy orange colour, flecked with red, with an oval-shaped pupil. The flesh that clung over the steel of the rest of the face was either a sickly pink, or black and cracked, as if badly burned. It made most men avoid looking when possible. In fact, Damien mused, it seemed almost designed to make you feel uncomfortable.

“You sent for me, my Lord?” Asked Damien, keeping his eyes on the half of the Inquisitors face that he could see. The man seemed to gazing out of the window, and the shadows the glow of the sun cast on the metallic protuberances cast him in a stark relief.

“I did Jado” The Inquisitors voice was deep, even deeper than Carells, but that was where the similarities ended. It sounded like a bass human voice fed through a cognitor, then mangled by some crude mining vehicle. It was harsh, and seemed to rumble at the same time as it felt like nails on slate “Savant Nerist has reported your behaviour this morning with the dock worker” Now he turned his head to face Damien, bringing the full force of his stare to bear on him. “It was brash and bold, and could bring unwanted attention to my enquiries here”

Damien had known this was coming “My apologies Inquisitor. I acted in haste.”

What had to be called the Inquisitors cheeks twitched in what Damien though was a smile “Yet you have more to say, unless I am sorely mistaken” For a voice that was almost totally artificial, it expressed a surprising amount of emotion. Tired forbearance in this case.

“Yes my Lord. The Savant’s enquiries where getting nowhere. The docker was flatly refusing to co-operate with an officially sanctioned enquiry. I merely interceded where necessary to aid the enquiries. Is that not why you employed me?” Damien kept his disdain for Nerist and the stubborn docker from his voice.

A strange rumbling sound came from the Inquisitor, almost as if he was trying to dislodge something from his throat, his one biological eye closing. Damien wondered if the man was alright, when he noticed his shoulders shaking gently. He was laughing! He returned his gaze to Damien “You are indeed correct Jado. You are currently in my employ to solve any problems that more diplomatic courses cannot”. Nerist fidgeted, and Damien had to suppress a surprised stare. It was a measure of the adjutants annoyance that he would show it in such a way in the Inquisitor’s presence. The laughter had passed, and the Inquisitor turned his gaze to Nerist, who immediately stilled. The flesh above the one remaining eye twitched upwards, in an approximation of an eyebrow being raised. “You do not agree Adjutant Nerist?”

Nerist seemed torn for a moment, between respect for the Inquisitor, and the anger he clearly felt. His face practically glowed, it was so red “Inquisitor, with all the respect and praise due to yourself, this man threatened a dockworker, a man who may very well report to his superiors that we were asking questions, seemingly regardless for procedure or authority. This will surely bring recriminations and questions from the overseers, which I am sure you wish to avoid – “ Nerist cut off with a strangled grunt as the Inquisitor raised a glove finger. Nothing more, but Nerist paled as if he’d levelled a las-rifle at him.

“Would you presume to know my mind Savant?” The Inquisitors voice made it clear what folly this was. Nerist made a sound of pure fear in his throat, seemingly unable to speak “Do you think to know what I would and would not wish?” Nerist shook his head furiously, only managing to make a quiet groaning sound in his mouth. “As well you should not. Leave us, and think no more on this matter”.

Nerist bowed deeply, muttering an unintelligible prayer, and all but ran from the room. Damian kept the smirk from his face with ease this time. The Inquisitor was clearly not pleased, and only a fool willingly antagonised an Imperial Inquisitor. Even Damien was not that foolhardy. As Nerist departed, the Inquisitor turned back to the window again. Suddenly, he spoke again, without turning his head “Do you wonder why I continue to perform a task capable of being carried out by someone far below your abilities?”

The question caught Damien off guard. Why ask that question now, just minutes after he had been asking himself the same thing? Was it possible that this Inquisitor possessed some form of telepathy? Damien knew it was possible. He’d heard about it often enough, even worked with one such individual before. Of course, that had been under very different circumstances… He very firmly steered his thoughts away from that line of thought. If this Inquisitor could read his thoughts, then he’d have to take some further precautions from now on.

Again, the cheek twitched, and Damien knew that at least part of what he had thought had been understood by the deformed Inquisitor. But how much? Was it perhaps best to strike now, whilst the other was unarmed? It wasn’t his favoured way, but if his survival depended upon it, as he feared it did…

“That will be quite unnecessary. And quite impossible, I assure you, Jado Gholien” The Inquisitors cheek still twitched as he spoke “I believe you cannot even reach your weapons. Try, if you must. I know you will want to, now that I have told you that you cannot”. Damien frowned, and it quickly became a snarl. He couldn’t move his hands towards either of the holsters at his hips, nor the Stubber tucked behind his belt. He knew he wanted to, just to prove the man wrong, but even as the thought of moving his arms coalesced, they seemed to hit some kind of mental wall, and dissipate. “It is quite fruitless to continue to struggle, Jado. Now, please cease your attempts to take your weapons and listen”

The way the Inquisitor used his name – his assumed name – caught Damiens ear, and for the moment, he did cease his attempts to seize his weapons “You have my attention. What’s this all about?” His anger at the way he was being treated outweighed his feelings of trepidation, and his voice openly betrayed the fact. The Inquisitor turned to face him again, but it was impossible to read any trace of emotion on that mutilated face.

“We all have secrets, do we not?” Damien seemed to feel the weight of the mans gaze, pressing into his skull, searching for his secrets. He held resolute, refusing to avert his eyes. For some reason, the image of the Imperial Aquila drifted through his head. Battered, scarred, but still strong and unmoving. Well, why not? As good a symbol as any for his defiance of an Imperial Inquisitor. There came that strange gurgling laughter again, softer than before, then the Inquisitor continued. “But some secrets need to maintained, whilst others cause only unnecessary… tension”

Damien merely grunted. That sensation of the Inquisitors gaze pressing on him had intensified until it now felt as if there was a very real hand pressing down upon his head. But inside his head as well, as though it were compressing his thoughts, looking for a crack to appear…. Suddenly, the pressure was gone, so suddenly, that Damien grunted in surprise.

“I believe, that the time has come to reveal some truths to you, if not all” again, he turned to face the window, casting his face once again into half-darkness. “My name is Hidalgo Bericken. As you know, I am an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus. As I am sure you have gathered by now, I am here on Teclis looking for something. Do you, perhaps, have some idea as to what?”

Damien did. His previous training meant that he investigated things almost without realising it “Something that you are expecting to be delivered, or that you believe has been received recently. Something valuable enough to warrant being transported in its own container, despite the fact it’s small enough to be hand-held” The Inquisitors cheek twitched again, but before he could speak, Damien continued “It’s also something that the sender doesn’t want discovered by the wrong people. And they seem to believe that you will be the ‘wrong people’.”

The Inquisitor turned to face him “Well done master Gholien. I can see that my faith in your abilities was not misplaced. You are correct in your… deductions. It is an artefact, something which I have dedicated long years of my life to locating. Something that, should it fall in the wrong hands, could spell destruction not only for Teclis, but this entire system. Indeed, the whole Segmentum could well be threatened.” He paused for a moment, studying Damien, as if waiting to see how the gravity of the situation affected him. Damien remained unmoved – in his experience, every Inquisitor thought that their current case was vital to the survival of at least the sub-sector. With a soft gurgle-laugh Bericken continued.

“The item in question is fashioned as a collar, carved with inscriptions in an ancient dialect that I shan’t bore you with. Suffice to say that it is heretical in nature, and intrinsically linked to the Ruinous Powers” That did get Damiens attention. He folded his arms across his chest, and shifted his position slightly. Bericken noticed “The thought of facing heretics and agents of the Dark Gods unnerves you Jado?”

Damien shook his head “No. It’s just a little more than I’d expected, that’s all” he lied. He hated heretics. The very thought of them angered him, and had resulted in stern disciplinary actions being taken against during his days as an Arbites officer. Heretics angered him in a very fatal way. Bericken cocked his head slightly to the side, studying Damien for a moment in silence before continuing.

“Well, whatever you expected, this is what we face. This artefact is highly coveted by those in league with the Eye. It’s power is terrible, and should our enemies secure it… well, it would become very unpleasant for us, and any others loyal to the Emperor.” Bericken rose from his seat, and crossed the room to a carved wooden sideboard atop which rested a crystal decanter and half a dozen lead crystal glasses. He poured two measures of amasec, and turned, handing one to Damien before he continued “This object is known as the Zenethene Collar”.

The deformed Inquisitor took a sip of the liquor, and watched Damien over the rim of his glass. If he’s waiting for a reaction, he’s in for a disappointment. “Never heard of it” Damien replied, before taking a sip of his own drink. And he wasn’t lying. Being a former member of the Arbites he knew by reputation or investigation of a number of heretical practices and implements – most recovered or discovered after the cultists using them were dead – but it wasn’t a life that exposed you to ancient an terrible devices of arcane power.

If Bericken was annoyed by this, he gave no sign. Not that I could tell from that speeder-wreck of a face, thought Damien, making no effort to hide his thoughts. He realised his error a moment too late. Bericken lowered his glass. “Jado, please. There’s no need to get personal” he chided. Damien almost blushed.

“My apologies Inquisitor. I meant no offence” he blurted, but Bericken waved his apology away.

“Think nothing of it. I know what I look like Jado. You’re right – I am a bit of a speeder-wreck” He took another sip of the amasec, and Damien gulped down a mouthful, in case he said anything else stupid. “Anyway, the matter of the Zenethene Collar – if you ask before you leave, one of my Savants will provide you with information on it, and some background of my search for it – the Collar is named after the heretic Beran Zenethene who is the first known ‘user’ of it, sometime in M.25. It is quite singular, in that it can grant even non-psykers the abilities of an Alpha-plus” Bericken crossed back to his chair, and sat. Damien remained where he was, since at present there were no other chairs in the room. “As you can imagine, this makes it a very potent threat, with the possibility of turning anyone into a Warp-crazed killer, with the psionic ability to enslave an entire Hive with a mere thought”

Damien drained the last of his liquor, focusing on the burn of the amasec as it traced it’s way to his stomach, rather than think too long about the damage something like that could do. In anyone’s hands. “I take it from the way you mention him that Beran Zenethene is no longer with us?” he asked, returning his glass to the sideboard.

“You are correct. The Ordo Malleus finally rid the galaxy of his corruption some two hundred years after he first came to prominence. But not before he cut a bloody swathe across a dozen worlds, and founded – in one way or another – double that many cults devoted to his worship, or that of the Collar itself.”

Damien folded his arms again, and leaned back against the carved edge of the sideboard “So why wasn’t the Collar destroyed then?”. Bericken shifted slightly before replying.

“Regrettably, the Collar has means of preserving itself. One of the Inquisitors present at Zenethene’s eventual death spirited away the Collar from the heretics burned body. It appears that the Collar itself is possessed by some daemon of great power. It whispered into the mind of that Inquisitor – a Nayl Demoas – telling him of the secrets the Inquisition could learn from studying the Collar. It was in Demoas’ care for less than a year before his Interrogator donned it, and slaughtered his master” Bericken swirled the last of his amasec in the glass “Since then, the Inquisition has chased rumours of it’s re-appearance all across known space. As yet, no local Inquisitor has laid hands upon it” He drained the glass of it’s contents, and looked up at Damien.

“So, this Collar has a daemon living inside it, can turn anyone into a grade-A Psyker killing machine, and has been known to corrupt the agents of the Inquisition?” asked Damien, his tone deadpan”

“That is correct” replied Bericken, again studying Damien in that slightly cocked manner.

“Best we keep you away from it then” quipped Damien with a smile.

***

Ramides Cluster, Installment 2

Here’s the next part of the ongoing novel-in-training ‘The Ramides Cluster Crusade Book I’. Enjoy!

Basilica of Divine Glory, Ceredes.

Ceredes, proud capital of Marghen, bruised and blackened by recent events, bustled. When the Tau had occupied the planet, they’d left much of the original building work as it was. The only buildings destroyed were those that acted as Imperial bastions during the initial attack, and had been demolished during short-lived sieges. The Arbites Precinct, the city’s Guard barracks, and a handful of outlying buildings in the Administratum sector. The only buildings they had specifically targeted for destruction were the temples, shrines and cathedrals dedicated to the Emperor. These had been flattened with demolition charges, or pinpoint barrages from their Broadside armour units. It seemed that this force of Tau at least, had learned the lessons of Imperial faith. They wanted to supplant the Imperial Cult with their greater good, and wanted to annihilate any possible inspiring rallying points for the scattered remnants of Marghen’s defenders.

For that, if nothing else, Major Erid Nove hated the aliens. Bad enough that they dare set foot on one of the Emperors worlds, but to desecrate and destroy His temples? He couldn’t even find the words to voice his disgust. That was why he’d volunteered to take charge of Arcadian operations in the city. Everywhere the Tau and their Kroot slaves had settled, the Emperors places of worship had been destroyed, but here in the planets capital was the Ecclesiarchys primary cathedral on Marghen, the magnificent Basilica of Divine Glory. Now it was little more than expansive ruins, basalt and marble pillars jutting up from the smashed and burned stone that was heaped inside it’s vast perimeter. Here he could help the effort to rebuild these shattered temples, and play a part, however small, in restoring this worlds faith.

Around him, in the abandoned office building requisitioned as by the Administratum as their base of operations, wall-mounted cogitators whirred and hummed, staffed by men, and servitors hard-wired into them. Guardsmen of the 3^rd, local defence forces, and Administratum staff passed in and out constantly, carrying messages or orders. This was the hub for the reconstruction of Ceredes, and Major Nove had made sure that he was assigned charge of the military detail attached to it. He knew that others of his regiment were out there in the world, hunting the last of the aliens, and killing in the Emperors name. Their efforts were appreciated, but Nove wanted to be here, helping build something lasting and tangible in tribute to the Emperor.

On the plate glass screen before him, pict images of the Basilica before the invasion were scrolling, showing the immense structure from every conceivable angle. Marghen’s sun reflected almost blindingly from the huge brass steeple at the south end in the current picture. Nove knew from recent reports that much of the brass from that magnificent edifice had been recovered, and would be re-forged into the Basilica’s new steeple. In his minds eye, he imagined walking the pavements around the grand structure (…fragging idiot…), morning sunlight blazing from the (…eat the toe of my boot!) polished angles of the steeple, streams people flocking in to receive (…gak you!)…

Nove turned from the monitor in a blur of speed, his pleasant day-dream rudely shattered by the unpleasant conversations of reality – the small fire-team assigned to the office this evening. The men hated this posting, and Nove had ordered punishments for a dozen men already when he’d heard them complaining too loudly. It wasn’t that he personally resented the dislike the men had for this posting, but if something wasn’t seen to be done, one of the Ministorum busy-bodies would likely take it into their heads to complain to the General, or the Commissar and that would be a barrel full of Grox-dung none of them really wanted opened. This time however, they’d interrupted him.

It was easy enough to spot the Riflemen on duty – they were the ones in the 3^rd’s dress uniform, currently resting on a pile of cased Masonic equipment, rifles propped against the wall beside them. The three of them were of a height with one another, placing them within an inch of Nove’s own height..

“Attention!” barked Nove, bearing down on the three, causing a passing scribe to almost stumble as he avoided the aggravated Major. The three troopers leapt to their feet, one of them – Nove thought it was Gaffren – knocking over the flight crate he’d been sitting on. It landed with a crash, and a flutter of purity seals, marked with symbols of the Administratum and the Cogitator unit. “What the frag are you three gretchin doing in here?”

It looked as though they were all about to answer at once, but a screeching voice cut through the noise of the room, silencing the three troopers, and making the Major wish he were a less pious man, so he could cuss.

“Major! Do you realise what your man has just sent crashing to the floor?” Nove turned to the source of that nasty voice as it scurried across the office, various scribes and servitors trailing with it “That is a level fourteen Cogitator unit! It is several thousand years older than the gung-ho trooper that so casually tosses it around, and is worth considerably more to this enterprise than the four of you combined!” Nove opened his mouth, but was given no chance to speak “Damage to just one of that units processing coils could see all of you consigned to a Penal Legion! Emperor protect us, if you are the men here safeguarding our valuable equipment!”

“Administrator,” Nove managed at last “I can only apologise for my back-bred troopers, and promise you that if it’s needed, I’ll escort them to the Commissar for Penal conscription myself” Startled looks lit up the faces of the three Riflemen. The Administrator didn’t seem impressed.

Adjutant-Administrator Hyrem Genolios Ferrius, the man in charge of Adeptus Adminstratum operations here in Ceredes was skinny, pale, bald, and generally unhealthy looking. His dark robes of office were always immaculate, and Nove had heard it rumoured that a whole team of Servitors was responsible for making sure he was never dishevelled or less-than-perfect looking. His attention to detail would try the patience of a Saint, and his voice would… well, it wasn’t a very nice voice. Like nails on a slate-board. His train of adjutants, scribes, and servitors formed a semi-circle around the three troopers, awaiting their masters decision on this little debacle.

“At the very least get those boar-like soldiers out of my offices! I cannot work with such slab-headed cretins around me!” grated the pale Administrator. Nove span on his heel before the shrill words were well out of the others mouth.

“Detail! Get your sorry arses out of that door before I bayonet you all!” he roared. The three Riflemen snapped hasty salutes, snatched up their lasguns, and practically scurried from the room, regrouping outside the blast-taped windows, on the dusty pavement.

Orange sunlight slanted through the shattered remains of buildings across the street as Marghen’s sun sank towards the horizon. It reflected from the polished silver buttons and buckles of the Arcadians dress jackets and kit, making them glow like small orange suns. This minor detail was completely lost on Major Erid Nove as he stormed from the bustling command centre, and commenced a blistering verbal barrage at the three unfortunate troopers…

The Ramides Cluster Crusade, Book 1

Well, here’s the collected first three parts of my latest, and – dare I say it – greatest literary piece. Set in the Warhammer 40,000 universe, created and controlled by Games Workshop. Dealing with (at the moment) a regiment of Imperial Guard involved in a Crusade against the Tau Empire. Got some big plans for this one, but as anyone that’s been reading the parts as I’ve written them will tell you, I’m a slooooooow worker!

Well, enjoy, and constructive criticism is always welcome.

The Ramides Cluster Crusade

Book I: Arcadian 3rd Infantry

+++ MERGHAST +++

+++ GALACTIC WEST OF RAMIDES CLUSTER +++

Laronis Plains, south of Ceredes

A gentle, warm evening wind blew through the long grasses that stretched for miles across the plains, making them sway as if caressed by some invisible hand. The soft hissing of the wind passing through the grass hid the quiet sounds of the evening as the sun slid slowly below the horizon. Overhead, small birds flitted to and fro across the amber sky, their shrill cries swallowed by distance and the gentle sighing of the wind through the grass.

Rifleman Kenrik spared the carefree birds no more than a glance as he crept quietly through the chest high grasses. Hunched over to keep below the top of the tall fronds, Las-gun in hand, and clad in the red and brown of the Arcadian 3^rd Infantry, he was accompanied by the other guardsmen of Sergeant Rossin’s squad. The Sergeant himself was a handful of metres ahead of Kenrik, his head swivelling as he searched the failing daylight with his glowing bionic eye. Kenrik knew from experience that soon the Sergeant would cover that glowing green eye with a patch he carried with him to prevent it giving away their position in the approaching dark. But until then it could see better and further than anyone else in the platoon, possibly the whole regiment. If anyone would spot the enemy hiding in these grasses, it would be the Sergeant.

As if the thought had been a command, the Sergeant held out a closed fist as his whispered voice came through the earpiece’s of the squads communicators “Movement ahead, fifty metres. Fire team one and two hold here for my signal. Three and four, with me” The Sergeant moved away to the right, taking six of the twelve man squad with him. In moments, despite the red of their armour and fatigues, the two fire teams were swallowed from sight by the dense grass.

Kenrik settled down into a crouch, and checked his rifle. There were a few bits of dead grass and seed-pods cluttering the breech which he cleared before checking the power pak readout. Full charge. He looked around as someone settled in beside him, the smell of promethium telling him who it was before his eyes fell on his fellow trooper. Even with the pilot light of his flamer out, Rifleman Jheryn still smelled of burning Flamer fuel, and the tone of his skin made him look slightly cooked, like he’d spent too long using the weapon.

“Hey Kenrik, you ever seen these things?” whispered Jheryn, shifting a spare fuel canister around his belt. Kenrik shook his head.

“Saw some bodies up at Ceredes, but they were pretty mangled” He grinned “Looked even uglier than you though.”

Jehryn grunted at the friendly jibe “I heard from some of the PDF that they eat their enemies. You believe that?”

Kenrik gave Jehryn what he hoped was an incredulous look. He’d heard the same thing, and he did believe it. But Jehryn could be a little skittish about things like that, and Kenrik didn’t want to get a promethium-bath because his squadmate got nervous and started spraying burning flamer fuel around. “You’ll believe anything” he whispered back, looking around, trying uselessly to peer through the fronds of grass in the direction Sergeant Rossin had indicated. Somewhere ahead of him was a pack of carnivorous aliens, with a taste for human flesh…. Kenrik muttered a prayer of protection to the Emperor, and checked his rifle again.

Sergeant Rossin silently willed his booted feet not to make any noise each time he set one down among the softly hissing grass stalks. This close to the enemy he could hear their primitive communications, sounding like a series of clicks and whistles to him. They were ahead of him again, after he’d led half his squad around in a flanking manoeuvre, and he could see their forms thanks to the infra-red of his replacement eye. Seven of them as far as he could see, seemingly resting. Not surprising, after being harried across the plains by the Arcadians for two weeks. Any moment now, he’d give the attack signal. He silently thumbed his safety off, and opened his mouth…

Ahead, one of the glowing red shapes stood from where it squatted, it’s head raised, and let out a sharp, ululating cry, like some angry bird. The others joined it, rising and raising their own voices. Then they turned towards the Sergeant. More voices joined the chorus of bird-like calls, as the ground to Rossin’s right exploded upwards, revealing the enemy hidden in shallow dugouts around him.

“Oh frag…” he muttered, before opening fire with his las-gun.

The quiet of the evening was ripped apart by the shrill cries of the enemy, followed shortly by the staccato crack of las-rounds. Kenrik leapt to his feet, followed by Jehryn and the rest of the small squad. Before anyone could speak, the Sergeants voice rang in their ears.

“It’s an ambush! The fraggin’ bastards set a trap!” he snarled over the din of weapons fire, shouts, and screams.

Kenrik clicked off his safety, and set his rifle to full auto. Next to him, Jehryn ignited the pilot light on his flamer with a small handheld burner. Kenrik looked around him, waiting for orders, but none came, just the sounds of gunfire from what he assumed was Rossins position. It was clear they couldn’t just wait here to be found by the enemy.

“Frag this! We’re supposed to be hunting them!” He said “We advance as before. Jehryn, be careful with that flamer, please?” He moved forward at a trot, gripping his rifle as the sounds of battle drew closer. Every second he expected to feel alien jaws closing about his neck, or the impact of the killing round, any second now…

He stumbled as he broke from the tall grass into a beaten-flat clearing, about ten metres across. To his right, the remaining grass trembled as if blown by insane winds, and the sounds of combat filled the air. But ahead of him, emerging from the wall of grass opposite came the enemy, their bladed rifles held in long, wiry arms, vicious beaks open in anticipation of man-flesh.

With a whoosh, Jehryn loosed a gout of white-hot flame into the onrushing enemy, and the heat of that stream of fire as much as anything else brought Kenrik to his senses. He squeezed his trigger, loosing a stream of orange bolts into the attackers. The others joined him, their own fire stabbing across the clearing, felling the still-burning aliens.

In moments it was done. The attacking aliens were reduced to melted flesh and bone, or lay dead on the scorched earth as around them the grasses burned, ignited by the splash of hellfire from the Flamer. One of the Arcadians was down too, Rifleman Vars, his neck and chest torn open by enemy firing.

Seeing that Vars was dead, Kenrik wasted no time. ‘Mourn the dead after you’ve saved the living’ Was one of Commissar Koreol’s favourite sayings, and it was particularly fitting to this moment. The Sergeant and his troops were still fighting. Kenrik headed into the much sparser grass, much of it snapped or beaten down, searching for a target. He thumbed his selector back to single shot, not wanting to cut down a squadmate in a hail of fire.

The grass ahead of him parted as an alien rocketed through it, barrelling into Kenrik. They both went down, the guardsman squeezing again and again on his trigger, feeling his attacker spasm with each las-round he pumped into him. With a heave, he rolled the alien off of him, and scrabbled to his feet. Sergeant Rossin emerged from the same area as the dead alien, looking from Kenrik to the smoking, bleeding body on the floor, and a grin spread across his face.

“Sorry ‘bout that Rifleman. Didn’t realise anyone was so close” said the sergeant, the grin growing. Kenrik frowned, confusion getting the best of him. Then the sergeant rolled the alien over with a booted foot, and Kenrik could see the bayonet buried in the back of it’s skull. Kinross bent over and wrenched it free before smiling over at Kenrik “Good shooting, all the same”.

Kinross voxed in to base, reporting the engagement, and left the dead Kroot where they lay.

Governors Palace, outskirts of Ceredes.

Elements of the Tau Expansion Force had reached out to the Ramides Cluster in the early part of M318.6, seeking to claim the relatively unguarded planets in the area in the name of their ‘Greater Good’. Initially the planets fell with little resistance, the local PDF’s and sparse Imperial Guard garrison’s either destroyed or in some cases surrendering to the technologically advanced alien invaders and their savage allies. For several years the Tau enjoyed unchallenged dominion of the Cluster, as Imperial naval forces surrounding the Cluster set up picket forces, seeking to contain the alien’s expansion, but lacking sufficient force to strike against them.

The Imperial war machine, though slow to react, had marshalled forces to retake the Cluster. Whilst not on the grand scale of a crusade such as that to re-take the Sabbat Worlds, it was still a noteworthy gathering of force. No less than twelve regiments of Imperial Guard were mustered, including armoured and support elements, and two regiments of armour. Two chapters of Adeptus Astartes had pledged companies as part of the counter-attack, their smaller numbers more than counter-balanced by their superior abilities and equipment.

The Arcadian 3^rd had been one of the last to join the push against the Xenos usurpers, it’s transport fleet joining the tail-end of the almighty armada conveying the multitudinous men and machines across the void. Barely had they joined this vast flotilla, than they were directed to Marghen to mop-up the remnants of the Tau forces there. The planet lay within a days Warp-voyage from the picket ships of the Imperial defence line, and as such had been among the first to fall. It had been relatively lightly held by the enemy, with only vanguard elements of their armies’ planetside, awaiting the arrival of the main force. The Imperials had hit them hard, smashing aside their newly built defences and settlements, many still swarming with construction drones. In less than twenty-four hours, the Tau presence on Marghen had been broken, and the survivors scattered out into the vast plains, and dense mountain-ranges.

Unwilling to lose the momentum the attack had gained in its initial days, Lord-General Bellus ordered his forces onward. The newly-arrived Arcadian 3^rd made planetfall as the last elements of the attacking force were preparing to load their troop transports, the vast, ugly ships standing with belly ramps open, swallowing up rank after rank of Guardsmen.

General Stefen Grove watched the last of the troopships lift off, it’s huge thrusters baking the scorched surface of Ceredes’ main landing fields, some ten kilometres away, the rays of the sinking sun bathing the drab ship in orange and gold. That one had brought down the remains of a Guard regiment that was being posted here as a garrison, to bolster the Planetary Defence Force. Most of the original PDF was dead – killed in the fighting with the Xenos, or executed by the newly arrived Commissars for surrendering to them – but those elements that had been fighting a guerrilla war against the alien occupiers had returned to their barracks and defences to find themselves greatly under-manned. And so the Guard brought in the remnants of a decimated unit to bolster them, making two useless forces one useful force.

With a grunt, the scarred General turned from the large window that afforded him the view of the rapidly dwindling troop ship. The Guard, by the will of the divine Emperor had done the same with him and the 3^rd. He resisted the urge to run a hand along the ridged scar that obliterated his right eye, and blighted his face almost to its chin, a scar earned with the Arcadian 25^th Armoured. He’d only been a Major when the 25^th had reached the end of it’s useful life, fighting the Great Enemy, but earning that scar, and leading the tattered dregs of the once-proud regiment out of that war zone victorious had also earned him the rank of General, and command.

That command had consisted of an untried Infantry company and had seemed an insult, inflicted upon him by a bitter high command, looking for a scapegoat for such a painful victory, but unable to find one. An armour commander, commanding a lot of foot-slogging rabble? Hah! He should’ve thrown the command, the rank, and the glories back in their faces! But he didn’t. He’d tried as best he could with what he had. What he’d mostly had were apologies and excuses. The 3^rd was destined to be an armoured company, but someone higher-up in the echelons of command had pulled strings and had the tanks redirected elsewhere. With a full regiment of men mustered and midway through Fundamental and Preparatory, the Guard decided not to waste time. And so a newly promoted armour General and an armoured company with no armour became an unhappy Infantry regiment.

Grove took a glass of some local alcohol proffered by a young woman bearing a tray and clad in the livery of Marghens’ ruling house. She looked nervous and tired, a combination Grove had seen replicated time and again since his arrival here. Always on the faces of the Marghenites. The natives of this planet had been under Xenos rule for nigh on four years after the initial assaults. They’d been tired and nervous then. Now the Imperium had returned to their little world, and there had been more fighting to restore the planet to the Emperors possession. And now they were back in the glorious light of the Emperors rule… and they would shine in that light whether they liked it or not. Already Inquisitors from the Ordo Xenos were scouring the surviving population for deviances and heresies, even as the Commissars of the Imperial Guard seemed to be executing citizens indiscriminately. The entire populace was tired and nervous.

Looking around, Grove spotted the newly appointed Imperial Governor of Marghen heading towards him. He silently cursed himself for not paying attention. He’d been avoiding the Governor all afternoon, which had required some very careful manoeuvring around the palace corridors, and then around the Grand Hall in which Grove now found himself. But it appeared his stationary time at the window had allowed the Governor to find him, and he was now closing in for the kill. Grove considered trying to slip away, but the crowd of planetary dignitaries and Guard officers was far from dense, and seemed to have opened up around him. If he walked away now, he’d just seem downright rude, and the Governor didn’t need that right now. Plastering a smile on his face, Grove turned to face the onslaught.

“General, I am so pleased you could make it this evening” Said the governor in his nasal, slightly annoying voice. Governor Dercy LeVert wore an over-decorated Marghen Defence Force Generals dress uniform, though Grove knew for a fact that he’d never made it past the rank of Corporal “I trust the Nectar is to your liking?”

Grove was lost for a moment, wondering what on Terra the man was talking about, until he saw LeVert casting furtive glances at the glass in his hand “Ah, yes, the Nectar. It’s wonderful Governor. I must see about requisitioning some before we leave” he lied. He’d only tasted the Nectar of the Fert plant twice, once for each of its varieties. One was bitter enough to strip the paint from Baneblades hull, and the other was sweet enough to rot the teeth of an Ogryn. Grove hated the stuff. He also hated playing politico with local dignitaries, but such were the burdens of command.

“Wonderful!” replied the Governor with over-enthusiasm. “I shall speak to my staff and have some sent to your billet this evening!” Grove merely nodded, and murmured his thanks.

Levert wasn’t a bad man, but he – like most of the planet – didn’t really know what to do. His family had been one of a string of lesser noble families, generally seen filling the halls at high society balls and banquets. Then the Tau came, and the High Houses, including the ruling House on Marghest at the time, had been all but wiped out in the fighting. They enjoyed the fruits of their position, and had fought hard to keep them. Under the aliens, some of the lesser noble Houses had had their chance at ruling – under the leadership of Tau Ethereals, of course – but that had come to an abrupt end with the Imperial reclamation. Those that had ruled under the Tau had been summarily executed by the zealous Commissariat. Grove had seen the courtyard in the city where hundreds of the capitals dignitaries had been lined up and shot by firing squads. The same had happened all over the planet.

All very commendable, but it did leave rather a large gap in the planets hierarchy. Now House LeVert had been elevated to Noble House Levert, and the oldest surviving male of that house had been elevated to the position of Planetary Governor. Chosen solely because Dercy LeVert had entered the MDF, and was the highest ranking member of the Houses in the armed forces. Hardly the greatest reason to choose someone to rule a planet. Although Grove knew for a fact that a large number of Commissars were being dispatched to this planet, and one had already been assigned as Levert’s ‘aide’. No prizes for guessing who would really be running Marghest.

The conversation dragged on for interminable minutes, with LeVert tying his best to appear the very image of a planetary Governer, and Grove fighting to keep a smile on his face and appear at least vaguely interested in what the smaller man was saying. Furtively, Grove was looking for someone on whom he could dump the dull Governor, but it seemed everyone else in the Hall was as tired of him as he was. They all avoided the General’s eyes, and a clear space longer than a mans arm had opened around the two of them. Even the Governors small entourage had abandoned him.

Grove spied the regimental Commissar – a short, pale man who managed to somehow loom over the tallest Guardsman – lurking by one of the buffet tables, a large glass of Nectar held in one gloved hand, but the Commissar offered no rescue. He merely smiled grimly and turned away. It was a measure of how dull the conversation was that Grove would have been willing to make small-talk with the disliked Commissar, just to palm-off Levert. Commissar Deckard Koreol was disliked by the men, and distrusted by the officers of the 3^rd. He’d been with the regiment since it’s founding on the green fields of Arcadia, and had succeeded in fragging-off everyone, without exception.

The short man, clad in his peaked cap, black Commissariat dress uniform and leather gloves, leaned forward to speak to his second, and the comparison between the two could not have been more marked. Commissar Rien Dortun was the sort of Commissar you saw depicted as the hero in pict-vids. He was tall, well built, with tanned skin and dark hair. His face seemed made to smile, and women swooned over him. He was the opposite to Koreol, and despite making the rest of the men look like underfed Ratlings, he was popular with them. Dortun made a move towards Grove and the Governor, but stopped at the touch of Koreols hand on his arm. Oh yes, the senior Commissar wanted to see Grove suffer. Fragging politico, thought Grove bitterly, taking a swig from his own glass of Nectar. He immediately realised what he’d done, and almost choked on the bitter liquid, coughing as he swallowed it, interrupting the Governor in mid sentence.

“General, whatever is the matter?!” Levert looked startled, and had taken a half-step back from Grove. He wondered how the little man had ever survived in the MDF “Are you alright?”.

Recovering himself, Grove nodded, wiping at his mouth. That stuff is bloody awful! “Appologies Governor. It went down the wrong hole”. Levert looked warily at him for a moment more, then resumed whatever it was he’d been saying before. Grove snuck a look over at Koreol. The bastard was grinning.