“Knock it off, all of you’z! We’ze movin’ out!” bellowed Berzek, clattering the gretchin round their heads with a sweep of his huge arm. The grots snivelled and whined, flicking recriminating glances up at their massive keeper.
“We’ze not gonna stay an’ fight?” asked one of them, scowling.
Berzek smashed the rotten little creature across its face with the mechanical claw that was bolted onto his forearm. The gretchin stumbled backwards and smacked into a wall, before it slumped to the ground whimpering.
“Ize da biggest ork ’ere, which meanz I’ze da leada an’ you’z a lousy bunch a gitz. We been waitin’ an waitin’ ta fight deze marine-boyz, an’ we’ze gonna stomp dem but good. To do dat, we need da strength of all da boyz, not a small weak mob ov runtz like you’z boyz.” As he splattered his words, Berzek reached out and gripped his power claw over the face of the fallen gretchin, lifting it up by its head and shaking it around for the others to see.
“We’ze orks! An’ we’ze made for fightin’. Fightin’ and winnin! So uze you’z skulls fa sumtin.” With that, Berzek clenched his fist and crushed the gretchin’s head into a dripping, bloody pulp.
“Weze gonna go get Big Boss Orkamungus. He got sumtin’ special planned for deze humies,” explained Berzek with a cackle of phlegm building up in his throat. He spat it into the street, where it splattered over the dusty, red helmet of a fallen Marine.
The great vaulted space in the cathedral was strung with ropes, from which swung artificial floors. The cathedral was one of the only large structures left undamaged by the bombardment, and it had been rapidly transformed into a medicae-station for the Imperial Guard and civilians of Magna Bonum. Each of the four temporary floors was already strewn with injured bodies, and servitors rushed between the makeshift beds administering pain-killers. There was little else they could do for the wounded until fresh supplies arrived.
“The remaining greenskins seem to be fleeing the city, captain,” said Colonel Brom. “I sent out two squads and neither of them has reported any serious resistance. Sergeant Ckrius has indicated that a number of ork groups actually refused to engage with his troops. They fled when he approached. I assume that they have had enough of fighting for today.”
“You should never assume anything about the orks, colonel,” countered Gabriel, looking up from a large map that was spread over the altar of the cathedral. “And you should certainly not think that they will ever have had enough of fighting. They live to fight, colonel. If they are fleeing, you may rest assured that it is not because your squad of Guardsmen scared them away. It is more likely because they have more important battles to fight later.”
“Colonel,” interjected Isador from the side of the altar, looking from Gabriel to Brom as though trying to build a bridge. “Perhaps you can help us with this map? Orbital imaging from the Litany of Fury suggests that there is an even larger ork force massing in this area here,” said the Librarian pointing to a spot about fifty kilometres away from Magna Bonum. “Can you tell us anything about that site, colonel?”
Colonel Brom hesitated for a moment, waiting for Gabriel to look up from the map again, but the captain didn’t move. So Brom approached the altar with a nod to Isador, and inspected the map.
“That is the river basin that feeds the reservoirs for the city of Lloovre Marr,” said Brom, tracing his gloved finger along the valley floor towards the capital city. “If they cut off the water, the city will not be able to stand against them for long. Our problem, however, is that the valley is the easiest approach to the city.” Brom traced his finger back across the site of the ork encampment towards Magna Bonum. “And it is the only route along which we can transport heavy weaponry. The valley walls are sheer, and the plains on either side are thickly forested. We will not be able to reinforce the regiment in Lloovre Marr without passing the ork forces in the valley.”
“If you are right, colonel, then this is an unusually well planned assault by the greenskins. Their attack on Magna Bonum served merely to pull our forces into this city, while their real target was the capital. And they have cut us off from that quite effectively,” said Gabriel, looking up at last.
“It would confirm reports that the main warboss was not actually part of the assault on Magna Bonum,” offered Corallis. “The boss would stay with the bulk of his force, would he not?”
“You’re right, sergeant. Dispatch a scout squad up into the forest on the rim of the valley, and let’s see what these orks are planning. In the meantime, the Blood Ravens will move out in force and try to catch the ork army before it reaches the city. Colonel Brom, we may yet have need for your Tartarans.”
“Everytin’ iz ready, boss!” spurted Berzek as he threw himself facedown into the swampy ground with his arms spread out wide in supplication.
“Dem humies is in fa a good stompin’!” replied Orkamungus, chuckling with colic. “Dis is gonna be da best fight o’ dere miserable lives!” The warboss stepped forward and trod affectionately on the back on Berzek’s head, squashing his face further into the sodden ground until he started to thrash with suffocation. But a slippery voice oozed into Orkamungus’ ear and disturbed his show of appreciation.
“Just make sure that it is the last fight of their lives,” hissed Sindri, as he walked out from the shadows of the forest.
Orkamungus turned in surprise, and pulled himself up to his full height when he saw Sindri and Bale standing before him. The Chaos Marines were imposing figures, resplendent in their shimmering power armour, but they were dwarfed by the immense physical presence of the ork warboss, who towered over them.
“I don’t takes ordaz from you, humie,” bellowed Orkamungus, showering the Chaos sorcerer with globules of spittle and slimy ichor.
“We’ve kept our side of the bargain, ork,” said Bale, stepping forward past his sorcerer and spitting the words back at the huge creature. Bale was not about to be cowed by this brainless beast. “You wanted a new planet on which to wage war, and we have given it to you.”
Sindri eased back into the conversation. “You wanted to face the Imperium’s finest warriors, remember? You wanted to face the Space Marines, Orkamungus. And they are here. We have given you the Blood Ravens.”
“We have even provided you with weapons to use against them,” rumbled Bale, bluntly insinuating that the ork force would have crumbled without the aid of the Alpha Legion.
Orkamungus howled at the slight and raised his immense hand, ready to level a blow against the Chaos Lord. “We’ze don’t need yor fancy weaponz!” As he did so, a clatter from the shadows of the trees revealed a squad of Alpha Legionaries with their boltguns trained on the huge warboss. Bale himself had moved faster than everyone, having already stepped inside the range of the ork’s strike with his manreaper scythe poised.
“All we ask in return,” said Sindri, filling the awkward moment with velvety tones, “is that you keep your end of the bargain. We simply want you to keep the Imperials distracted from our operations here. I’m sure that you’ll enjoy that.”
“You’ze kept your word, humie. Dat’s da truth. But dat don’t mean you’ze can orda da orks around,” said Orkamungus, eying Bale warily whilst talking to Sindri.
“My apologies. We’ve delivered the last of the weaponry,” continued Sindri, indicating the pile of crates on the edge of the tree-line. A group of orks were already prising open the containers and prodding about at the devices inside. “I’m sure that you’ll make sure they find their way into capable hands.” As he spoke, one of the orks yelped in pain as a plume of flame jetted out of one of the weapons it was holding, bathing his own head in fire.
“Now, if you will excuse us, we will take our leave. I… respectfully request that you keep the Blood Ravens busy for as long as you can,” said Sindri, bowing slightly in mock grandeur.
“Bah! We’ze keep dem more dan buzy. We’ze keep dem dead!” spat Orkamungus, stomping his foot down into the wet ground with a tremendous splash, missing Berzek’s still-gasping head by fractions.
Disappearing into the shadows of the forest, the Alpha Legion squad moved rapidly towards their extraction point. The legionaries were fanned out around Sindri and Bale, defining a perimeter that bristled with barrels and blades. They were alert and focussed, just like their delusional brothers in the Adeptus Astartes, but they were also liberated from the pathetic constraints of the Imperial creed. The orks may have been their allies, but they knew better than to underestimate the green-skins’ hatred towards humans. All humans. The legionaries scanned the forest for signs of an ambush.
“The thought of kowtowing to these filthy creatures disgusts me,” said Bale, his voice rich with anger. “I hope you know what you’re doing, sorcerer. Otherwise, I will throw you to them as a personal gift.” The Chaos lord was storming through the foliage, lost in the intensity of his own repulsion.
“The orks are a tool, my lord, nothing more,” said Sindri smoothly, keeping pace with Bale. “And quite an effective one, I might add.”
“Perhaps,” coughed Bale, stopping abruptly and turning suddenly to grasp Sindri by the neck. “But I dislike providing such unpredictable aliens with our own weaponry.”
“Lord Bale,” managed Sindri between gulps of air. “Orks are not unpredictable. Quite the contrary.” The grip around his neck loosened and he dropped to the ground. Bale snorted roughly and started back towards the waiting drop-ship. Sindri rushed after him, abject, humiliated and fuming inside. “You can rely on them to turn against you. But they will honour their agreement for as long as we can provide them with enemies to satisfy their lust for battle.”
“There are other ways to make people do as you please,” answered Bale with off-handed ferocity. “Ways more appropriate to warriors of the Alpha Legion. If we intimidated them with our strength, then they would take pause before betraying us.”
“But my lord, you cannot intimidate something that knows nothing of fear.”
“I can teach them to fear the Alpha Legion, sorcerer,” countered Bale with calm certainty. “Just as I have taught hundreds of worlds to tremble at our name.”
“My lord, trouble yourself no longer with these orks. They will serve their purpose. Already the pathetic Imperials will be heading for Lloovre Marr, in pursuit of the mob. We will have what we came for and be gone before the orks finish off the Imperials and turn on us.”
“The Blood Ravens are not fools, Sindri. The Alpha Legion have had dealings with them before. You risk underestimating our allies and our enemies, sorcerer, and that is not the kind of wisdom I need from you,” said Bale as he climbed up into the hatch of the drop-ship.
Berzek spat a fountain of mud and blood out of his gaping mouth as he lay imprinted into the fecund earth. He looked up at the huge form of his warboss, and watched him foaming at the mouth. The immense ork was on the verge of catatonia, and Berzek didn’t know whether to speak or to attempt to slither away. If he said the wrong thing, he would be stomped. If he said nothing, he could be stomped anyway. Orkamungus was one massively stompy ork.
“Why’ze we talkin’ wit dem humies, boss? Why’ze we no fight wit dem good?” said Berzek from amidst a mouthful of swamp. His decision was made.
Orkamungus looked down at him in surprise, as thought he’d forgotten all about him, or perhaps the boss simply assumed that the grunt had died.
“Dem smelly Chaos-boyz iz weak. Not nearly enuff of a challenge for orkz boyz. If dey were strong like orkz, dey no need us ta fight for dem.
“We’ze takin’ dere guns and dere help and, when we’ze done choppin’ up all the otha humies, we’ze comin’ back here to chop dem up az well,” said Orkamungus with surprising composure.
“Dat plan’z a good’un, boss,” offered Berzek in relief, as he realised that he was still alive.
Through the shifting shadows of the foliage, Flaetriu flashed a signal to Kreusaur on the other side of the clearing. The rangers had been keeping their eyes on the ork camp when the Chaos Marines had dropped in, making sure that the stinking greenskins were not about to stray into the farseer’s plans, and they had quickly melted further back into the forest to observe the events that unfolded. Now, with half of the Alpha Legion squad already in the drop-ship, the rangers could contain their disgust no longer.
As one, the rangers opened up with their shuriken catapults, transforming the clearing into a mist of tiny, hissing projectiles. The air was perforated by the rattles of rapid impacts against the power armour of a clutch of Chaos Marines, who dived for cover behind the hatch of the drop-ship. But there was no cover, because the eldar had the clearing surrounded.
“Orks?” bellowed a rumbling voice from inside the drop-ship, and thunderous footfalls could be heard storming back down the ramp.
“No, my lord,” hissed Sindri, who was still on the ground. He turned his head slowly, taking in every shadow in the tree-line, apparently oblivious to the hail of lethal molecules that were hurtling about the glade.
“How many?” asked Bale as he leapt from the top of the ramp and thumped into the ground next to the sorcerer, his huge scythe glowing with thirst.
“Two, I think,” replied Sindri as his eyes settled on those of the invisible Flaetriu. “Two eldar.”
The sorcerer stabbed his force staff into the turf and sent an arc of purple energy sizzling through the canopy. It smashed into a tree, which burst into incandescence instantly. But the ranger was already gone.
“Two? Where are they?” asked Bale, his head snapping from side to side as the incessant shuriken bounced and ricocheted off the armoured plating on the drop-ship, giving the impression that the eldar were everywhere at once. He couldn’t see them.
Sindri ignored Lord Bale and lashed out with another bolt of lightning that incinerated another tree and brought a scream of frustration from the mouth of the sorcerer.
A wail of pain made them turn, just in time to see one of their Marines shredded by a focussed barrage of shuriken projectiles. He was riddled with tiny holes all across his abdomen, as though each of his major organs and both of his hearts had been shot through. He had fallen forwards onto his knees and blood was pouring out of the joints in his armour, from around the edges of his shattered helmet, and from the hundreds of tiny wounds all over his body.
Bale took a step towards him and swung his scythe cleanly through the Marine’s neck, taking his head off with a single strike. “Silence!” he yelled, still searching the tree-line for signs of movement.
A series of heavier impacts suddenly strafed across the ground towards Bale’s feet, coughing up little divots with each strike. They weren’t shuriken hits, it was bolter fire. Bale spun to face the other side of the clearing and saw a squad of Blood Ravens scouts burst through the thicket with their boltguns blazing.
The Alpha Legionaries responded instantly, turning their guns onto these new targets and rolling for positions of cover behind rocks and the ramp of the drop-ship. Bale howled with relief-at last he had enemies that he could see-enemies he could kill. Without any regard for the torrent of bolter shells that whistled and streaked past him in both directions, Bale broke into a run, charging through the crossfire at the Blood Ravens scouts with his scythe whirling round his head.
Sergeant Mikaelus rallied his men with a battle cry, knowing full well that his scout squad, formidable though it was, was no match for a full battle squad of Chaos Marines. “For the Great Father and the Emperor!” he yelled, receiving an echo from his men. The scouts were relatively new initiates into the Chapter, but even they knew of the Alpha Legion and the particular hatred felt towards them by the Blood Ravens. None of them would have thought twice about launching this attack, despite the probability of death.
Lord Bale was on top of the line of Blood Ravens in an instant, his scythe flashing with vile energies as he brayed bestially. The scouts fought valiantly, sending disciplined salvoes of bolter fire sleeting across the glade and punching into the cover of the Alpha Legionaries. But their cover held, and the scouts had only trees and foliage to protect their armour from the onslaught that burst back across the clearing.
Two scouts were already pierced with fatal wounds when Bale hacked through their necks with a majestic sweep of his blade, and three more had been brought down in a hail of fire as they had charged towards the drop-ship with their own guns blazing with honour.
Mikaelus placed a careful shot straight into the eye-socket of a Chaos Marine who poked his head over the ship’s ramp to make his own shot.
The Blood Ravens would take some of these traitors with them. As he drew his combat knife and charged towards the Chaos Lord who was scything through his squad, Mikaelus sprayed a spread of automatic fire towards the muttering sorcerer in the centre of the glade.
He was only a couple of strides away when the burst of power smashed into his back, sending Mikaelus sprawling to the ground at the Chaos lord’s feet, his combat knife falling just out of reach. Something was forcing its way through his armour and infusing into his blood. He could feel fire pulsing through his veins, as though his body had been injected with raw warp taint. The scream of another scout brought sudden silence to the forest, and Mikaelus felt the burning certainty that he was the last of his squadron.
“That was pathetic, Marine,” spat Bale, rolling Mikaelus onto his back with a prod from his barbed boots. “I have come to expect better from the Blood Ravens over the years. But I suppose that you are not what you once were.” Bale stooped down and picked up Mikaelus’ knife, flipping it playfully in his hand. “I had heard, in fact, that some of you might show enough promise for me to welcome you into the Alpha Legion.”
The sorcerous energies pulsing in his blood racked Mikaelus with agonies of paralysis, depriving him of his last wish-to spit his hatred into the face of this Chaos lord.
“I suppose that I must have heard wrongly,” said Bale, catching the combat knife and plunging it down through the chest of the Blood Raven at his feet.
“The forces of Chaos have revealed their hand, farseer,” reported Flaetriu, bowing deeply to the seated figure in the trees.
“Yes, Flaetriu. They too have a role to play in this affair, although the presence of the Alpha Legion changes the balance of power here. You were right to attack them, ranger, even if you were too hasty.” A look of deep concern glided across Macha’s beautiful face. “How did the other humans fare against their dark brethren?”
“Not well, farseer. Not well at all.”
The convoy rumbled on through the valley, with the wide treads of Rhinos, Razorbacks and Predator tanks flattening everything before them. The Whirlwind missile launchers had already ground to a halt as they came into range, and the sky above the convoy was streaked with vapour trails from the flurry of rockets that were being loosed over the horizon. At the head of the column were a spread of assault bikes and the hovering forms of land speeders, which darted ahead and then dropped back into line on reconnaissance sorties. The bulk of the Blood Ravens’ force, however, was led by the massive weight of the Predators and Vindicators. Flanking them were the remnants of the Tartarans’ heavy weaponry: some spluttering Leman Russ tanks, a squadron of Hellhounds, and a couple of Basilisks, both of which were starting to pull off to the side to start their barrage of earthshaker artillery from long range.
The impacts of the ranged ordnance could already be felt on the ground. As the distant thuds drew nearer, rockslides started to cascade down the steep valley walls and the water in the river jumped with kinetic energy. In their hearts, many of the Tartarans hoped that the bombardment would be enough, and that the ork army would already be shattered by the time they arrived. But, as they rounded a bend in the meandering valley, the thunderous wailing of orks ready for battle rolled over the convoy, squashing any thoughts of an easy victory.
The valley was overflowing with ugly, snarling jaws, huge jagged teeth and massive green muscles. The greenskins were erratically spread across the river basin, randomly bunched into growling mobs, each ork jostling for position at the front of their groups. There were craters in the valley floor where the Whirlwind rockets had done their damage, each carpeted with broken green bodies. But for every ork that had fallen under the rain of rocket-fire, twenty more snarled with defiant thirst as the Blood Ravens swept around the meander in the valley. And when they caught sight of the humans, every greenskin throat was opened into a terrible keening for war: “Waaagh!”
Ordnance started to fall onto the Imperium’s forces as the range closed and the ork mortars began to hurl stikkbombz. By the time the Rhinos and Chimeras screeched to a halt, spewing Marines and Tartarans onto the valley floor, the Imperial column was caught in the eye of a pungent, smoky storm.
As battle was joined across the whole valley floor, with rockets and artillery shells pounding the ork position and a flood of troops firing hails of bullets into their disorganised lines, a Thunderhawk roared through the sky over the Imperial forces, its guns ablaze in salute to the Emperor and His Blood Ravens. The soldiers on the ground raised their weapons and cheered as they saw Captain Angelos’ personal heraldry fluttering from the roof of the vessel.
The lascannons on the gunship flared and pulsed, sending streams of las-fire slicing into the orks as it descended onto the valley floor, burning gaggles of orks as it came down straight on top of them. The vessel dove into the middle of the ocean of green, cut off from the Imperial troops, but providing them with a rallying point in the heart of the enemy lines. With a clunk and a hiss, the hatch popped open and Gabriel leapt clear of the ramp with a single bound, his chainsword already a blur of motion and his bolt pistol coughing. Close behind him was Isador, dropping to the ground below the Thunderhawk and calmly surveying his surroundings before lashing out with his force staff, sending a ring of energy pulsing out into the pressing perimeter of orks that encircled the gunship.
Then came Tanthius, crunching into the rocky ground with the full weight of his Terminator armour, his squad thudding down around him. A huge eruption of firepower burst out of the vanguard group, with the Terminators towering over the orks and unleashing waves of auto-cannon fire and sleets of bolter shells from their storm bolters. Jets of chemical flame doused the charging orks, sending them wailing and screaming into the river for relief, only to be cut down by the Thunderhawk’s gun-servitors.
The unexpected penetration into the heart of the orks’ position took the greenskins by surprise, and some of the forces that were charging towards the Imperial convoy broke off in confusion. Turning, they started charging back through their own brethren, knocking each other aside in the frantic scramble to engage their enemies. For a while, it looked as though they would start fighting amongst themselves, and the Imperial column took advantage of the confusion to press forward into the sea of green, pushing an incursion through it like a lance into the heart of the ork infantry.
Meanwhile, the Thunderhawk was back in the sky, hovering over the battlefield and employing its lascannons to great effect in the confined space of the valley floor. Beneath it, the Terminators stood immovably against the tide of orks that rushed, dived, and charged at them, ploughing through their number with a combination of continuous bursts of heavy fire and simple, brute force from their power fists. In amongst the throng, standing back to back in their own pocket of resistance, Gabriel and Isador fought off the mob with incredible ferocity and skill. Gabriel’s bolt pistol had jammed, leaving him with only his chainsword and his combat knife to dispense the Emperor’s benevolence. And Isador was alight with divine grace, slicing and searing with his staff as though guided by the hand of the Emperor himself.
Gabriel felt more alive than he had felt in years. It was almost like dancing, as he parried a cleaver chop with one hand and spun his combat knife in the other, plunging it up to its hilt into the ear of the offending ork. The screams and inhuman shrieks of combat gradually faded out of his hearing, only to be replaced by a single searing note of unbelievable beauty. The voice multiplied into a choir, filling his soul with light and washing over the action around him, making it seem clumsy and slow in comparison. Gabriel ducked and swirled with unprecedented grace, slicing cleanly through limbs with his chainsword and pushing his short combat knife into all the soft, vulnerable places of ork anatomy.
The explosions of ordnance fire boomed in the background, and Gabriel was vaguely aware of it as his knife stuck in the neck of a greenskin. He kicked the beast clear of his blade before turning and throwing it into the snarling, open mouth of another. With only his chainsword left, he clasped it in both hands and swung it powerfully around in an arc, slicing through the guts of six orks as they tried to close him down from three sides. Behind him, Gabriel could feel the motion of Isador as the Librarian flared with power, dispatching orks three at a time with blasts from his staff or fingertips. The pair were gradually cutting a path further and further into the ork forces, moving away from the Terminators on their own.
Whispering voices quested for their ears as they fought onwards into the orks. Kill. Kill. Bleed them dry. It is your responsibility. We all look to you. Drench the soil with their blood. Kill. Kill. Suddenly the silvery voices of the heavenly choir were shattered again by the screams of tortured souls, and Gabriel shrieked with pain as Isador’s staff scraped across his chest before cracking into the ork that was about to plant its cleaver in his head.
As Gabriel walked through the forest, he could still hear pockets of fighting continuing amongst the trees. The bulk of the ork army had been broken, and most lay dead in the valley, with their pungent blood running red in the river. The thump of dreadnought footfalls and the rattles of their autocannons could still be heard as the last of the fleeing orks were mopped up by the Blood Ravens. Small groups of the greenskins were mustering for their last stands, desperate to make one more kill before they died.
Gabriel had been slightly concerned that they had not found any orks large enough to be the warboss of such a significant force, but he had other things to attend to and he let a squad of scouts disappear into the forest to hunt down the ork leader. He had also noticed that a number of the larger orks appeared to have Imperial weaponry, including the boltguns such as Space Marines used. It was not uncommon for a few of these scavenger creatures to have weapons from other races, but the numbers here were noticeably larger than he expected. He was increasingly suspicious that there was more to this ork invasion than a typical greenskin jaunt.
“Captain Angelos,” said Sergeant Corallis, hastening from a clearing in the trees ahead. Corallis’ face was crestfallen and he was obviously distraught. As he approached, Gabriel noticed that he was carrying something roughly hemispherical in his hands.
“It’s Kuros,” breathed the sergeant, pushing the object towards his captain.
Gabriel reached out and took the shoulder plate, nodding in understanding. The underside of the armoured panel was covered in a thick layer of carbon, as though it had been used as a bowl in which to overcook some meat. “What happened to this?” asked Gabriel, handing the shoulder guard over to Isador but addressing his question to Corallis.
“It was still attached to his body, captain,” explained Corallis, tremulous with anger and disgust. “He is burnt beyond recovery of his gene-seed. Something seems to have reached into his soul and burnt him from the inside out.”
“What about the others?” asked Isador.
Gabriel placed his hand on Corallis’ shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Brother Corallis.”
“They were my squad, captain. I should have been with them.” Corallis punched his right fist against his left shoulder, where his left arm should have been. “This is a pathetic excuse.”
“Corallis, this is not your fault. Sergeant Mikaelus was leading the squad. He is a fine Marine and a devoted servant of the Emperor. You could not have left your squad in better hands,” said Gabriel.
“Mikaelus is also dead, captain, along with the rest of the squad. Their bodies are up there in the clearing.” Corallis would not be consoled.
“Are they all burnt like this?” asked Isador with concerned tone.
“No, Librarian Akios. Only Kuros is like this. Mikaelus is worse. Most of the others died like warriors, and we will be able to recover their gene-seed,” answered Corallis, turning to lead them back to the clearing.
The little glade was a scene of carnage. The bodies of the scout squad were strewn over the rocks and grass, lying in ruined poses, in pools of blood that matched the deep reds of their armour. The trees around the edge of the clearing were battered and shredded with bolter holes, and patches of the ground were scorched into dry browns.
Mikaelus was lying on his back across a large rock in the centre of the glade. His face was contorted with pain and his skin was blistered, as though burnt on the inside. Protruding from his chest was the handle of his own combat knife, and the earth around the rock was sodden with blood, as though he had been slowly drained of his life.
“He was still alive when we found him, captain. But his mind had gone. His soul had already left this realm, and he was rambling like a conduit to hell itself,” said Corallis numbly.
Scratched into Mikaelus’ armour was a crude mark. It looked like it had been carved with the tip of a dagger, or gnawed with a claw. In a vulgar way, it resembled an eight-pointed star.
“This is not the work of orks, Gabriel,” said Isador, giving voice to the feelings of everyone. “This is a mark of the ruinous powers. It is a mark of Chaos.”
“He is right, captain,” added Corallis. “The others were killed by bolter fire, not by slugs or cleavers. Boltguns are the weapons of Marines, not aliens.”
“Perhaps, Corallis,” said Gabriel.
“And the burns, Gabriel. They are warp burns, of the kind unleashed by sorcerers of Chaos. This looks like the work of a squad of traitor Marines,” concluded Isador reluctantly.
“The documents you found about Tartarus, Isador, did they say anything about what happened to it during the Black Crusades? Is there any history of Champions of Chaos bringing war to this planet?” asked Gabriel, still unwilling to make the logical leap.
“The great book does not mention these things, Gabriel, but I suspect that the tome is incomplete. I have a number of curators investigating the archives already,” replied Isador.
“Isador, can you sense anything unusual in this place?” asked Gabriel without daring to look the Librarian in the eyes, but willing to trust the senses of his old friend.
The Librarian concentrated for a moment, opening his mind to the eddies and energy flows of the glade. Instantly a flood of voices crashed into his head, screaming and shouting of pain and death. But there, hidden behind the Shockwaves of the slaughter, was a careful, delicate whisper, trying to slip unnoticed into his soul. He had heard that voice before, and he hesitated slightly before replying.
“No. No, Gabriel, I have sensed nothing since we arrived. But if there is a sorcerer of Chaos with the enemy, he may be able to mask their presence, especially with all the background static caused by the battles and the uncouth aliens.” Isador looked away into the trees, as though looking for someone.
“There is something else you should see, captain,” said Corallis, leading Gabriel to a point on the other side of the glade, pointing out the burns left by the thrusters of a drop-ship.
“This,” said Corallis, picking up a fragment of ceramite from the grass. “This is not Blood Ravens armour, and it was not shot by a bolter.”
The shard of ceramite looked as if it had been punched out of the armour of a Space Marine, but it was a dull, acid green. Moreover, it was perforated by a series of tiny holes, barely a couple of centimetres across.
“It looks to me, Corallis,” said Gabriel, “like our friends the Alpha Legion are on Tartarus, and that we are not the only ones who are not pleased to see them. These are shuriken marks, are they not? It seems that the orks are just a distraction from the main game.”
C.S. Goto (ebook by Undead)
01 – Dawn of War