The forest shuddered and rippled, sending Shockwaves of green pulsing across the canopy. A couple of seconds later and the Thunderhawk dropped slowly down through the trees, its engines roaring and whining as they fought for a soft landing. The gunship came down just outside the busy clearing, crushing trees and plants like blades of grass.
Gabriel and Isador watched the vessel descend in silence. They already knew who was waiting for them inside, but they were not sure why he had come to Tartarus. The Litany of Fury had not been sent any warning of his arrival, but the crew had managed to get a message down to surface before the inquisitor could requisition one of the Chapter’s Thunderhawks and make planetfall himself.
The two Blood Ravens cast their eyes around the scene of carnage in the glade, and shook their heads. There were dead Marines strewn over the ground, and one that had apparently been ritually sacrificed across a rock in the centre of the clearing. It didn’t look good.
“What do you think he wants?” asked Isador, voicing the worry of everyone. “Do you suppose that he suspects one of us of heresy?”
“He is an inquisitor, Isador, protector of the Emperor’s divine word and will. He suspects everyone of heresy,” answered Gabriel flatly. “That is his job.”
“Perhaps he has sensed the taint of Chaos on this world?” offered Corallis, looking back towards the ruined figure of Mikaelus.
“Yes, perhaps,” replied Gabriel, as the hatch hissed open on the Thunderhawk and its boarding ramp lowered slowly.
Isador took half a step back as Inquisitor Mordecai Toth strode down the ramp towards the group of Marines, and Gabriel stood forward to greet him. Despite the absence of a Space Marine’s suit of power armour, Mordecai was an imposing man. He was tall and well muscled, and his dark skin glistened under the dappled light of the forest. His armour was elaborately etched with runes and sprinkled with purity seals. Emblazoned on his chest was the Imperial “I,” marking out the inquisitor’s almost limitless authority in the realm of the Emperor. A great book of law, sealed with locks and runes of binding, was chained around his waist, and an ornate warhammer swung casually from his right hand as he strode down the ramp.
“Inquisitor Toth,” said Gabriel, drawing himself up to his full height in front of the newcomer. “Welcome to Tartarus.” The captain spared a quick nod for each of the two Blood Ravens who had accompanied the inquisitor from the Litany of Fury, and he noticed that a nervous-looking curator from the librarium was still hovering in the hatchway behind them clutching a package of papers.
For a moment, Mordecai looked Gabriel up and down, the movements of his one human eye not quite matched by those of his augmented bio-monocle, which seemed to take in the rest of the glade. “Thank you, captain, but we have no time for welcomes or courtesies. The Blood Ravens must leave Tartarus immediately.”
The guardsman prodded the stonework gingerly, pressing his gloves up against the intricate carvings, tracing the forms of the runes. They seemed to slip and slide under his touch, as though striving to avoid his fingers. But the man’s eyes gleamed with a long forgotten magic, as though something primal were gradually seeping out of his pupils. The runes on the stone were reaching into his soul, even as they danced and swam around his fingertips.
Behind him, he could hear the voices of his comrades, each barely a whisper as they jostled for better positions. One or two of them were getting impatient, and he was certain that they were complaining about how long it was taking him to decipher the symbols. Up on the rim of the crater, a row of men stood guard, keeping their eyes peeled for any sign of movement in the surrounding wilds.
The stone was roughly cut, but slick with recently let blood. It was stained a rich, deep brown where countless trails of blood had caressed the sides of the altar, streaming their way into the fertile earth below. Tavett could almost feel the energy pulsing along the stains, as though they were themselves veins. Even through his gloves, the rock altar seemed to throb with inorganic life.
Firing a quick glance over his shoulder to check on his comrades, Tavett sprung from his kneeling position, launching himself onto the surface of the stone altar. He could hear his companions shriek as they saw him jump, and their rapid footfalls filled his ears as he spread himself across the cold stone tablet. They are so pathetically slow, thought Tavett. That’s why I was chosen, because I’m better than they are. My blood burns, and they are nothing more than cold husks.
By the time Sergeant Katrn had reached the altar it was already too late. Tavett lay on his stomach with his arms and legs outstretched to the corners of the tablet, as though struggling to embrace its huge form. His uniform was ripped to shreds, and his back was a web of lacerations and carved symbols. Blood poured out of him, coasting over his skin and gushing down the wriggling runes on the sides of the altar. His head was pushed round, so that he was looking awkwardly to the side, as though his neck was broken. And he was chattering incoherently as trickles of blood seeped out of his open mouth, a grotesque smile etched into his emaciated cheeks.
Katrn watched the ruined trooper with a fixed expression, staring with a mixture of hatred, anger, revulsion and jealousy. Why had that wretch Tavett been gifted with this glorious end? The little runt wouldn’t even have been here if it wasn’t for Katrn’s leadership. He had shown no understanding of the true nature of combat and war until Katrn had skewered him with his own bayonet on the walls of Magna Bonum. Only then, as Katrn had stared down into his streaming face, had a flash of realisation seared into Tavett’s stricken mind: blood for the Blood God-that’s what war was for.
The sergeant looked down at the bloodied form of Tavett and saw the last flickers of ecstasy dying in his eyes. There was still blood in him, still some life left to be bled before his soul would be sucked from him and cast into the unspeakable realms of the immaterium, where it would be enveloped in the ichorous embrace of the daemons of Khorne. Katrn shook his head in disgust and drew his pistol, firing directly into Tavett’s temple. This wretch was not a fit sacrifice for the Blood God, and he was certainly not deserving of such a glorious end.
As the shot passed straight through Tavett’s head and ricocheted off the stone beneath, something else stabbed into Katrn’s shoulder. He spun on his heels just in time to see the rest of the Guardsmen rack their weapons, some of them already diving for cover behind the altar and others wailing into shredded deaths as hails of shuriken rained down from the rim of the crater. A lance of pleasure fired through his shoulder as a trickle of blood started to soak into his tunic. Instinctively, he pressed a finger into the tiny wound and drew out more blood, letting it drip to the ground in great globules.
Thrilled, Katrn levelled his pistol as he ducked behind the stone of the altar and fired off a couple of rounds, but the figures around the pit were constantly moving and he could not target them. They flicked and fluttered with incredible speed, almost dancing around the crater, but constantly loosing hails of fire into the pit. Despite himself, Katrn found himself marvelling at the grace of his assailants. Compared to the orks and even to the Blood Ravens, these were enchantingly elegant warriors.
“Bancs! Let’s have some grenades up there,” called Katrn, as the trooper came flying over the altar into the pocket of cover behind.
“Yes, sergeant,” replied Bancs, instantly rummaging into his pack for frag-grenade ammunition for his shoulder launcher. “What are they, sergeant?”
“I’m not sure, Bancs. I’ve never seen anything like them. Could be eldar,” answered Katrn, still gazing in wonder at the attackers as they ducked and bobbed their way around volleys of las-fire from Katrn’s Armoured Fist squad.
“I’m sure that they’ll bleed just like the rest of us,” answered Bancs enthusiastically, ramming the ammunition stock into his weapon and bracing it against the edge of the altar.
“Yes,” said Katrn. “I’m sure they will. All the same, I think that it’s time to leave this place. We will be missed. We have to get back to camp.”
The clunk and hiss of the grenade launcher was followed by a series of explosions around the rim of the crater, which sent mud and rubble sliding down into the pit in miniature avalanches. The eldar seemed to vanish, and it was impossible to tell whether any had been hit by the blasts. After a few seconds, another rain of grenades shot over the lip of the crater, detonating over the open ground beyond. There was still no sign or sound of the eldar.
“Let’s move out,” said Katrn, waving his bloody arm like a banner for the rest of the squad.
The Armoured Fists squad and the ramshackle assortment of other troopers that Katrn had recruited from the regiment during the battle for Magna Bonum scrambled up the walls of the crater on their hands and knees. Peering over the rim, Katrn could see the pockmarks left in the ground by the grenades, but there were no bodies and no blood had been spilt. Scanning his eyes quickly through the tree-line, he waved a signal to his men, and they all pulled themselves clear of the pit, readying their weapons as they ascended onto the level ground. But no shots came.
“I don’t like this,” said Bancs, his head twitching nervously from side to side. “Maybe they don’t bleed like us… I think I preferred fighting the orks.”
“Shut it, Bancs,” hissed Katrn, silencing the anxious trooper with a powerful authority that even surprised himself.
“S… sergeant-” started Bancs, unable to control himself.
“I said shut it, Bancs. What are you…” Katrn followed the trooper’s horrified gaze and saw his own blood seeping out of his wounded shoulder and wrapping itself around his right arm. The blood was congealing and solidifying, as though sculpting muscles out of blood on the outside of his body. A rush of power flooded into his mind as he watched the awful mutation of his arm. A mark of Khorne, thrilled Katrn, turning to gaze back down on the altar, still bedecked with the tattered remains of Tavett.
“Bancs, give me your cloak. Now, let’s get back to the camp.”
The grenades exploded around the rim of the crater, but Flaetriu’s rangers had already withdrawn into the trees. The farseer had told them to prevent any bloodshed in the pit, not to slaughter the humans, and Flaetriu was as good as his word. How was he supposed to know that the weak-willed mon-keigh would butcher themselves, even without the help of the Biel-Tan?
From the shadows of the forest, Flaetriu watched the second rain of grenades and scoffed quietly. A blind ordnance barrage was no way to fight eldar rangers, and he laughed inwardly as the scrambling, crawling mon-keigh flopped over the lip of the crater, confident that they had dealt a deadly blow to their foes. The fools.
“Flaetriu,” said Kreusaur, appearing at his shoulder and pointing a long slender arm. “What is happening to that one?” The eldar’s keen eyes could make out the grotesquery that was squirming around the mon-keigh’s shoulder and enveloping his arm. “Should we kill him?”
“No, Kreusaur. The farseer was very explicit-there is to be no bloodshed here. We must let them leave,” answered Flaetriu, fighting against his nature. “We should fetch her now, before this commotion attracts the attention of the orks.”
The two rangers took one last look at the group of humans, who were making ready to leave. Then they flashed a quick signal to the rest of their party, turned, and vanished back into the forest.
“You must leave, and that is final,” said Mordecai without raising his voice. His manner was infuriatingly calm, as though he was asking Gabriel to do the most natural thing in the world.
The men had retired into the Thunderhawk in order to conduct their conversation in privacy. Gabriel and Mordecai were on opposing sides of the uncomfortable drop-bay, sitting into harness fixings usually used by Marines in rough descents. The Thunderhawk was not designed with conferences in mind, and neither man was happy with the inappropriate surroundings for their important discussion. Standing in the hatchway that led into the cockpit was Carus Brom, who had insisted that he should be included in any decisions that might effect the defence of Tartarus.
“You will need to give me a better reason than that, inquisitor,” replied Gabriel, teetering on the edge of composure.
“I need give you nothing of the sort, captain,” countered Mordecai, leaning back in mock relaxation, hiding his face in the shadows, and letting the light reflect off the insignia on his breast plate.
“I am well aware of the powers and function of the Emperor’s Inquisition, inquisitor. You may well have the authority to evacuate every last civilian and Guardsman off this planet,” said Gabriel with a casual nod towards Brom. “But you are very much mistaken if you think that I will cede command of the Blood Ravens to you. The Adeptus Astartes are not common soldiers, inquisitor, and I will thank you to show us the appropriate respect.”
The inquisitor leaned forward again, bringing his face back into the light, and gazing levelly into Gabriel’s keen green eyes. He nodded slowly and then leant back into the shadows. “Very well, captain, I realise that you have had experience of the Inquisition before.” He watched Gabriel smart slightly, and then continued. “If you must have a reason, then I shall give you one: a giant warp storm is sweeping through this sector of the galaxy, wreaking turmoil and havoc on each world that it touches. It is pregnant with the forces of Chaos and it is unclear what fate might befall any life-forms touched by its wrath. It will arrive imminently, and it could trap us here on Tartarus for more than a century, raining the terrors of warp energy into our souls each moment. We must evacuate the planet, and we must do it now. Would you like me to explain that again, so that we can waste some more time, captain?”
“The Imperial Guard can attend to the evacuation, inquisitor. We have already given them the use of some of our transport vessels to assist with the wounded civilians. The matter is already in hand, and I am sure that Colonel Brom here is more than capable of ensuring the success of such a logistical exercise. The Blood Ravens, however, are not logisticians, inquisitor. We are Space Marines, and we have more pressing issues to attend to,” replied Gabriel, conscious of Brom’s eyes from the cockpit.
“More pressing issues?” asked Mordecai, raising an inquiring eyebrow.
“Yes, inquisitor. I have reason to believe that there are forces of Chaos working on this planet,” answered Gabriel simply.
The inquisitor said nothing for a few moments, and Gabriel could only vaguely see his face in the shadows. Then Mordecai leant forward, pushing his face towards Gabriel, his eyes dancing in the sudden light.
“Strange that I sense no taint here, captain,” he said, almost whispering. “In any case,” he continued in a more casual tone, “if there were a Chaos presence on Tartarus, it would be better for us to leave it here with the orks, rather than wasting any more lives trying to combat it. Believe me, captain, we could not dispense any fate worse than that which will be dealt out by the storm itself-these forces of Chaos and the orks will not be able to stand against each other and the storm.”
“What if they do not need to stand against each other? I suspect that the orks and the Chaos powers are in cahoots on Tartarus, inquisitor. Could they not stand together against the storm?” asked Gabriel, his voice earnest and firm.
“They are welcome to try, captain. But we must leave here, and we must leave now,” said Mordecai, leaning back into the harness once again and letting out a quiet sigh of exasperation.
“You may leave whenever you like, inquisitor, and the Blood Ravens will gladly donate the use of our transport facilities for your purpose. We, on the other hand, will stay long enough to satisfy our suspicions and settle our affairs. How long until the storm arrives?” asked Gabriel, his mind made up.
“Three days, captain. Perhaps less.” The inquisitor turned to Brom for the first time and waved his hand dismissively. “Colonel Brom, would you be kind enough to leave us alone for a moment? The captain and I have some matters of faith to discuss.”
The Imperial Guard colonel stared back at Mordecai and then shifted his gaze to Gabriel, searching for an unlikely ally. “With all due respect, Inquisitor Toth, this affair involves me and the Tartarans as much as it does any of you. Tartarus is our home, and we know it better than anyone. I have heard stories of this warp storm before-legends speak of it visiting this planet once every three thousand years, bringing with it-”
“-that’s all very interesting, colonel,” said Mordecai, cutting him off and rising to his feet. “But perhaps I did not make myself clear? When I asked you to leave us, I expected that you would leave the Thunderhawk now.”
Brom’s mouth snapped shut and his eyes narrowed as he met the inquisitor’s gaze. “As you wish, Inquisitor Toth,” he said, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. He turned to face Gabriel and bowed very slightly. “Captain Angelos, I take my leave.”
Gabriel did not stand, but he nodded an acknowledgement to Brom as the latter turned and strode rigidly down the boarding ramp. “Thank you, Colonel Brom,” he said softly, unsure whether Brom could hear him or not.
“This does involve him, inquisitor. He may well have some knowledge that could be of use to us-and knowledge is power, as you well know. You could have shown him more respect,” said Gabriel as Mordecai retook his seat.
“Captain Angelos,” began Mordecai, ignoring Gabriel’s protests on the behalf of Brom. “I understand that you uncovered deep-rooted heresy and the taint of Chaos on the planet Cyrene. That was your homeworld, was it not?”
Startled by this sudden shift in the conversation, Gabriel recoiled. “I fail to see how that is relevant to the present situation, inquisitor, even if I were disposed to discuss it, which I am not.”
“You should feel free to discuss such things with me, Gabriel,” said Mordecai ingratiatingly. “I may not be your precious Chaplain Prathios, but I am an agent of the Emperor’s Inquisition and nothing needs to be hidden from me.”
“Even so, Inquisitor Toth,” replied Gabriel formally, “I cannot see what Cyrene has to do with this situation on Tartarus.”
“That is why you are not an inquisitor, Gabriel,” said Mordecai, smoothly persisting with his familiar tone. “As I recall, you were the one who requested the assistance of the Inquisition in the performance of an exterminatus on Cyrene-the systematic annihilation of all life on the planet-genocide by another name.”
“Toth, I’m not sure what you’re trying to do here, but you are succeeding in trying my patience,” said Gabriel, anger tingeing his voice.
“I am not questioning your loyalty, captain. But I am concerned that your actions on Cyrene may have affected you in ways that even you do not fully understand.” Mordecai paused to take in Gabriel’s response, but the Blood Raven’s face was simply knitted in anger. “In particular,” he continued, “I must wonder whether your actions there might have affected your judgement here.”
With a sudden crack, the harness behind Gabriel whipped out of its fixings in the wall, sending a little shower of adamantium raining down over the two men. Gabriel released his grip on the straps as he realised that he had been pulling them unconsciously. He said nothing, but just stared at the inquisitor with burning green eyes. Mordecai held up his hands, as though signalling that he didn’t mean to be confrontational. He knew that he had gone too far, and he made a mental note of Gabriel’s limits.
“Perhaps that was a… poor choice of words, Captain Angelos,” said Mordecai, retreating into formality once again. “My fear, captain, is simply that you may have become oversensitive to the appearance of taints of Chaos following the ordeal on Cyrene. It would be quite understandable.”
“Are you suggesting that I am making this up? Have you seen the Marines in the clearing outside!?” asked Gabriel, his voice grating with volume and indignance.
“No, captain. I am merely asking that, as a loyal subject of the Emperor, you keep the interests of the Imperium in mind before your own… agenda.” The inquisitor was choosing his words carefully now, intending to make Gabriel think without being overly inflammatory.
“I suggest that you leave my Thunderhawk, inquisitor,” said Gabriel, rising to his feet and indicating the boarding ramp, “for the good of the Imperium.” Inquisitor Toth may have commandeered the vessel from the Litany of Fury, but it was still a Blood Ravens’ gunship.
Toth rose and stood directly in front of Gabriel, staring him in the face with deep brown, almost black eyes. He was shorter than the captain, and lighter. Gabriel’s power armour transformed him into a giant, superhuman warrior, but Toth faced him calmly. He had confronted Space Marines before and was not about to be intimidated by this captain. “Thank you for your time, Captain Angelos. We will talk again soon,” he said, before turning and making his way out into the forest.
Isador and Corallis found Gabriel still in the Thunderhawk. He was kneeling quietly, as though in meditation, and Isador could hear faint whispers questing through the air. The captain’s face was calm and his eyebrows were slightly raised, as though he were listening to a majestic symphony. A tear ran down his rough cheek, vanishing into the depths of an old scar, and a trace of light danced along its tail. In the shadows at the far end of the chamber sat Prathios, half hidden and perfectly silent. He nodded to the two Marines as they entered the chamber.
With a sudden gasp, Gabriel flicked open his eyes and stared directly ahead. His eyes were wide and burning, as though gazing on some distant horror. Then it was over and he seemed to return to himself; turning his head to face Isador he smiled faintly.
“Isador, it is good to see you. We have much to discuss,” he said, rising to his feet and gesturing for the Marines to join him.
“Are you alright, Gabriel?” asked his old friend, momentarily looking around the chamber for the source of the whispers, which seemed to persist even after Gabriel’s meditations ended.
“Yes, Isador. I’m fine. The good inquisitor gave me much food for thought, that is all,” replied Gabriel, still smiling weakly.
“Captain,” interjected Corallis. “The inquisitor had no right to speak to you in such a manner. And he has no reason to doubt you.” Corallis and Isador had already spoken to Brom, and they had a good idea what Toth would have said to Gabriel.
“On the contrary, sergeant,” answered Gabriel frankly. “The inquisitor has every right to speak in whatever manner he chooses. That is his prerogative. And he has his reasons to doubt me. He is wrong, but he has his reasons, and I cannot blame him for that. We must each serve the Emperor in our own ways, Corallis.”
“So, are we going to leave?” asked the sergeant hesitantly.
“Do you trust that the storm will deal with our enemies for us?” asked Isador, as though anticipating that Gabriel would have succumbed to Toth’s pressure.
“No, my brothers, we are not going to leave. We will not use this storm as an excuse to avoid our enemies or our responsibilities. The forces of Chaos are here for a reason, and I suspect that this fortuitous storm has some part to play in their plans. Coincidence is not the ally of fortune, only knowledge can overcome ignorance. We must stay and discover the truth.”
Isador and Corallis nodded and then bowed slightly. “We are with you, brother-captain. As always,” said Corallis, his voice full of relief.
“Sergeant Corallis, organise the remaining scouts into two squads and dispatch them to sweep the areas flanking the valley. We need to see why the Alpha Legion chose this spot to engage the Blood Ravens, if indeed it is they who are here on Tartarus.”
Corallis nodded and then strode off down the ramp to organise the scouts, leaving Isador and Gabriel together in the belly of the Thunderhawk, with Prathios still silently observing his younger battle-brothers.
“What news from the librarium, Isador?” asked Gabriel, recalling the sight of the curator who had accompanied Mordecai.
“Interesting news,” replied Isador, checking back over his shoulder to make sure that they were not being overheard. “It seems that there are records of Imperial settlements on Tartarus dating from before the thirty-eighth millennia. However, the records themselves have been expunged from the Chapter archives. So, whilst there are references to them, the references lead nowhere-simply to empty shelf space.”
“I assume that your curators have pursued these missing files,” said Gabriel, encouraging Isador to continue.
“Of course, Gabriel,” replied Isador. “But their inquiries have been met with silence and the seals of the Inquisition. It seems that there is more to the history of Tartarus than we are supposed to know, captain.”
Gabriel nodded, unsurprised. “I agree, Isador. And what about this storm? Do the records say anything about a warp storm?”
“There are a few references to various legends about a warp storm that is supposed to visit the planet every couple of thousand years. Folk stories, Gabriel, nothing more. No mention is made of any verification,” said Isador hesitantly.
“Is there something else, Isador?” asked Gabriel, taking note of his friend’s tone.
“I’m not sure. However, when we tried to discover the details of the legends, we discovered that they had also gone missing from the archives. It does seem as though somebody has tried to eliminate all accounts of the pre-Imperial past on Tartarus-but this person did not do a very good job of covering his tracks,” conceded Isador.
“They did not anticipate an investigation by a Blood Ravens Librarian, clearly,” said Gabriel affectionately. “Have you spoken to Brom about this? He mentioned something about a legend when Toth started to talk about the warp storm. Perhaps the colonel will be of use to us after all, Isador.”
“I did see him,” said Isador, shaking his head slowly. “He came storming out of his meeting with you in an evil mood. I left him alone, and he went off with some of his men.”
“We need to find him. They may be only folk stories, Isador, but even fairy stories can reveal something of the truth, if you know how to read them. And I am confident in your skills in this regard, my friend,” said Gabriel with a faint smile. “If we can find out anything at all, it may give us the advantage we need. Make sure that your inquiries are discrete, Isador. It would not do for the honourable inquisitor to think that we did not trust him.”
The broken body of a mon-keigh soldier lay across the altar, and Farseer Macha inspected it with a mixture of disgust and despair. The human’s blood was still warm, dripping into little, vanishing pools on the earth. She shook her head in disbelief and prodded her finger into the cauterised hole in the man’s temple. The wound was clean and crisp, as though the las-shot had carefully parted each molecule of tissue as it had passed through. With a wave of relief, Macha realised that the mon-keigh had been killed before the sacrifice had been completed. Apparently, the pathetic humans couldn’t concentrate long enough to conduct a proper sacrifice. She praised Khaine for the stupidity of the mon-keigh-blood for the Blood God, indeed.
However, the mon-keigh’s blood was not pure. As Macha withdrew her finger from the man’s head, she noticed that something was growing up through its skull from the underside, as though rooted in the stone of the altar itself. She clasped the human’s hair in her hand and quickly tore its head away from its shoulders, pulling the head into the air. A rainbow of blood swept out of the body, dappling droplets into the already sodden soil. Sure enough, writhing in ungodly ecstasies under the man’s body was a bunch of snaking capillaries, growing directly out of the stone, drinking the man dry. They were discoloured and brown, hardly matching the man’s blood at all. Beneath them, as though trapped deep within the material of the altar itself, Macha could see the suggestion of a face, contorted in agony. It was just the ghost of a once human face-an immaterial representation trapped in the material realm, taunted and tortured by the gyrating sea of souls that made up the fabric of the altar.
“Flaetriu? Was this the first sacrifice that the humans made?” asked Macha, standing back from the altar in revulsion.
“We saw no others, farseer,” answered Flaetriu.
Casting her eyes around the crater, Macha realised that the little group of mon-keigh encountered by her rangers could not possibly have excavated the site. It would have taken them days, especially if their attention spans were really as short as suggested by the botched sacrifice.
“Something else has been here, Flaetriu. Something more powerful than the mon-keigh that you saw off.” She had returned to the altar and was running her delicate fingers through the wriggling capillaries, almost caressing them. “Something got here before the humans and before us.”
“The orks?” offered Flaetriu half-heartedly, casting his hand up towards the rim of the crater where a mob of the greenskins had been slaughtered by the eldar, as both had come to investigate the pit.
“No, ranger, not orks. Orks care little for such things, and they have not the wit for an archaeological dig. This is the work of the minions of Chaos. I sense the hand of the Alpha Legion in this, Flaetriu, and that is most troubling. It seems that the Chaos Marines are not here merely to war against the other humans.” She paused for a moment, letting the tiny tendrils tickle around her fingertips. “But their hand is dark and the future is confused. I cannot see their intentions. We must move quickly.”
“Farseer!” The call came from Kreusaur, standing dramatically on the lip of the crater, shuriken catapult held vertically into the sky. “The mon-keigh, they are coming. Do you wish us to execute them?”
No, Kreusaur, replied Macha, her voiceless words slipping directly into the ranger’s mind. The time for conflict with the red soldiers will come. But this is not the time, and this is certainly not the place. Distract them, ranger. We must press on before the other humans do something that we will all regret.
The thin breath of smoke eased its way into the air in front of Brom, its calm tranquillity belying the turmoil in his head. He stuffed the little roll back in his mouth, his hands trembling with agitation, and sucked a series of shallow draws. The smoke caught in his tense throat, making him cough and splutter, and he threw the little stick down into the grass and ground it into the mud with his boot.
The smoke seemed to hang in the air in front of him for a long time, keeping its coherence in the form of a small cloud. As he breathed, the cloud gently washed away from his face, only to be drawn back again when he inhaled. In annoyance, Brom lashed out with his hand, swiping his glove straight through the smoke, muttering to himself about the audacity of the inquisitor and the arrogance of the Space Marine. One day they would need his help, and then they’d see what their lack of respect had cost them.
Down on the valley floor, Brom could still see the carnage that the battle had wrought. He was sitting on a small rock promontory that stuck clear out of the tree-line about halfway up the valley wall, and even from there he could see the piles of ork corpses and the streaks of blood that ran across the river basin. The green, verdant land of Tartarus was slowly being transformed into a blood-soaked offering to the glory of the Emperor-and the Tartarans were celebrating his majesty with their own blood, mixing it with that of these filthy xenos.
How much blood had been spilt today? Enough to make the Lloovre River run red. For a moment he wondered whether the people in the capital city would see the red in the water before they raised it to their lips to drink. But the planet was soaked with blood in any case-it wasn’t as though the people hadn’t already consumed their fair share of produce from the tainted soil, thought Brom sourly, tugging out another smoke.
“People are so hypocritical when it comes to blood,” he hissed to himself, without really thinking.
The little cloud of smoke in front of his face had still not dissipated, and it seemed to be curdling into vague eddies as he tried to wave it away. It slipped and flowed around his hands, presenting no obstacle against which he could strike, almost enwrapping his limb with its weightless form. For an instant, Brom thought that he could see a face crystallise in the smoke, but it was just a fleeting moment and then it was gone.
A gentle breath of wind whipped through the valley and dispersed the smoke in a reverie of whispers, making Brom check quickly from side to side to ensure that he was alone. He was not.
“Colonel Brom. There is something that I would like to ask you.”
“Librarian Akios,” said Brom, standing awkwardly to his feet and turning to greet the Blood Raven. “How may I be of service?”
“Captain Angelos has asked me to question you about the local legends concerning the warp storm,” began Isador, realising his own clumsiness as soon as he spoke. He did his best to recover. “And I would be most interested to hear what you have to say on the matter, colonel.”
“There is not much to tell, Librarian. Mostly just folk stories, I’m sure. Nothing that would interest the Adeptus Astartes or the good Captain Angelos. Certainly, Inquisitor Toth showed no interest in what I had to say,” said Brom, almost poisonously.
Isador watched Brom closely as he spoke and noticed the particular way in which the colonel emphasised the inquisitor’s name. He paused momentarily, unsure about the meaning of Brom’s tone. Just then, Sergeant Corallis’ voice hissed into the vox unit in Isador’s amour.
“Librarian Akios, the scouts are back from their sweep, and Captain Angelos requests your company,” said the sergeant simply.
“I will be right there,” replied Isador, turning away from Brom immediately.
“Where is Brom?” asked Gabriel curtly, as Isador came up the ramp of the Thunderhawk. “This concerns him also.”
“He is smoking, captain, out in the forest,” answered Isador.
“I would have thought that he would have better things to do,” replied Gabriel. “His men need discipline and courage drilling into them, Isador. After the fiasco on the walls of Magna Bonum, there is worse to tell.”
“What has happened?”
“The scouts returned with news of an excavated crater about ten kilometres from here,” began Corallis. “They were ambushed by a group of eldar rangers as they closed on its location, but successfully repelled the xenos. Strewn around the rim of the crater they found the bodies of a mob of orks-evidently they had also been interested in the crater for some reason-”
“-and evidently the eldar did not want them to see it, for some reason,” interjected Gabriel.
“Indeed. The scouts proceeded down into the crater, where they found a disturbing artefact. Some kind of altar, marked all over in runes that they could not decipher. They hastened to bring this news back to us, so that Librarian Akios might have the chance to see the writing,” finished Corallis, turning to Isador.
“The involvement of the eldar on Tartarus is certainly unexpected. It bespeaks something terrible-the eldar do not concern themselves in the affairs of others without a reason, even if their reasons are often incomprehensible to us,” said Isador, distracted by the casual mention of the ancient, alien race. Then he realised why the eldar had been glossed over in the story-there was something more pressing between the lines. “What does this have to do with Brom?” asked Isador quickly.
“Stretched over the altar, gashed and torn with sacrificial markings, was one of Brom’s Guardsmen, Isador,” explained Gabriel.
“One of Brom’s men was sacrificed? We should inform him, of course,” said Isador, still not quite understanding what all the fuss was about.
“There’s something else,” continued Gabriel. “The man was executed by a single shot to the head. A shot from an Imperial Guard officer’s laspistol.” Gabriel could see the Librarian’s mind racing with the significance of these facts. “He was sacrificed and executed by other Tartarans, Isador.”
C.S. Goto (ebook by Undead)
01 – Dawn of War