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Death Guard fiction: Incursion; Updated Apr 02 with part III
Topic Started: 4 Jan 2009, 08:34 PM (337 Views)
Svartmetall
Member Avatar
Colour Sergeant
1: SIGNS AND PORTENTS




+++ Tac-Logis feed (audio only) +++

LOCATION: SYRIIS VII
DATE: 582.M41

RECOVERED FROM DAMAGED SERVITOR RECORDING MODULE

TRANSCRIBED BY SAVANT EREBUS, DEPARTMENTO MUNITORUM
DATA-LIBRARY RECORD FACULTY, SEGMENTUM OBSCURUS


[Heavy weapons fire]
VOICE (i): (incoherent screaming)
[Bolter and heavy weapons fire]
[Vox source (i), positively identified as Lieutenant Sorun Karel]: What the feth?
[Lasgun fire]
[Low-pitched noises, unidentified, possibly localised demolition?]
KAREL: [Not on the floor please]!
[Heavy weapons fire, continuous]
KAREL: Keep firing!
VOICE (ii): Throne, why won’t they die?
KAREL: Keep fething firing!
[Lasgun and heavy weapons fire]
VOICE (iii): They’re right inside the fethin’ bunker!
[Vox source, unidentified, possibly Traitor]: (incoherent roaring)
VOICE (ii): What the feth are these things?
VOICE (iii): I said perimeter brea-(incoherent screaming)
[Lasgun and multiple bolter fire]
[Vox source (ii), tentatively identified as Sergeant Harol Erathen]: I’m out! Someone get me a-
[Sound of close-combat chain-weapons and organic noises]
KAREL: Harol! Motherf-
[Heavy weapons fire]
[Vox source, unidentified, possibly Traitor]: (incoherent hissing and gurgling)
VOICE (iii): Sir, we have to-
[Short burst of bolter fire]
KAREL: Feth! In the name of-
[Sustained lasgun fire]
[Organic noises]
[Vox source, unidentified, possibly Traitor]: (incoherent roaring)
[Vox source, unidentified, Traitor]: (low-pitched blasphemous intonation)
KAREL: (incoherent screaming)
[Organic noises]

+++Tac-Logis feed (audio only) ends+++


----------


A good day. Many slain for our Father, and those few we lost glorified His name in their passing. The puppets we harvested were weak and irresolute, a sure sign that this world - and possibly the whole Sector - is ripe for the taking. Morsh-Hâl in particular took a glorious toll, his blade and claw liberally covered with the weaklings’ offal by the end of the day’s combat. Quorthon informs me that, with the Lord of Decay’s favour, he managed to transform the commander of the regiment we crushed into one of his Spawn; its play among the bodies of its erstwhile comrades was apparently most amusing. Sadly I missed this, being as I was occupied with the destruction of the communications and medical facilities of the prey; we also managed to appropriate much ammunition from the rearward staging areas of the Imperials’ forces. The few we bothered to take captive will be questioned and then turned or devoured tomorrow.


----------


TRANSCRIPT OF PICT-RECORDED DOCUMENT

LOCATION: SYRIIS VII
DATE: 582.M41

RECOVERED FROM DAMAGED SERVITOR RECORDING MODULE

TRANSCRIBED BY SAVANT ARAEL, DEPARTMENTO MUNITORUM
DATA-LIBRARY RECORD FACULTY, SEGMENTUM OBSCURUS


[Pict-record white noise clears to] Overhead three-quarter perspective view of standard-pattern Munitorum loading bay. Barricades of sandbags and what appear to be overturned workbenches are arranged before the loading bay doors. Frequent irregularly-spaced noises are heard [possibly heavy weapons fire?] and dust can be seen in the air. Multiple human figures assumed to be armed Munitorum staff mingle with Guard [positively identified from uniform and camouflage patterns] troops behind the barricades.

VOICE (i): (unintelligible)
[Vox-source from internal compound command feed, unidentified]: Throne protect us! They’re- [squeal of static]

[Pict-record image dims for 2.4 seconds, accompanied by loud low-pitched noise - possibly demolitions charges? - before clearing] Loading bay becomes visible again, with noticeably more dust in the air.

[Vox-source from internal compound command feed, unidentified]: (unintelligible)
VOICE (ii): Feth!
VOICE (i): Stay at your fething posts!
[Vox-source from internal compound command feed, unidentified]: The fething Medicae’s gone…they’ve killed everyone in there, they’re all dead! Even the wounded and- [squeal of static which ends abruptly]

Three distinct, loud, metallic banging noises. The inner surface of the loading bay doors can be seen to deform slightly, roughly one and a half metres off the ground.

VOICE (iii): Sarge!
VOICE (i), positively identified as Sergeant Boras Castin: Hold your ground!
VOICE (ii): Sarge, they’re right outside th-
CASTIN: Hold your fethin’ ground!

Bright flash. Pict-record image whites out for 3 seconds and pict-source microphones correspondingly overload with distortion for 2.5 seconds. Image clears to show loading bay doors visibly damaged with a gap of approximately half a metre between them. Indistinct shapes moving behind gap in the doors.

VOICE (ii): They’re-
CASTIN: Fire at will! All men, fire at will!
VOICE (iii): (incoherent screaming)

Mass lasgun fire begins, directed at the gap in the doors. Image flickers as pict-recorder attempts to balance light levels between weapons fire and ambient room light levels. Activity behind doors ceases. Most lasgun fire ceases after 9 seconds. Image stabilises.

CASTIN: Cease fire!

Sporadic lasgun fire.

CASTIN: I said cease fething firing!

Lasgun fire ceases. Silence lasting 5.6 seconds, during which the smoke from weapons fire clears.

VOICE (ii): What are they-
CASTIN: Report!
VOICE (iii): Can’t see a thing, Sarge, we-

Loud metallic crashing as the right loading bay door is smashed off its hinges by something on the other side of the door.

VOICE (iii): Feth!
CASTIN: Fire! Fethin’ FIRE!

A heavy stubber, out of pict-source capture, is heard firing, immediately accompanied by massed lasgun fire. Large power-armoured figures emerge through the gap, accompanied by bulkier figures positively identified as wearing Tactical Dreadnought armour and at least two wearing bulky power armour of unidentified pattern. One of the figures in unidentified armour pauses long enough to tear the left loading-bay door from its mountings; height of figure estimated as being at least three metres, by comparison to standard-pattern loading bay door dimensions.

VOICE (ii): Holy fething Throne!
CASTIN: Keep firing!
VOICE (iii): Who the feth are they?
VOICE (iv), unidentified, possibly Traitor: (incoherent roaring)

The foremost of the advancing figures gestures in what appears to an encouraging wave to those behind him. Lasgun and stubber fire is continuous but appears to be ineffectual. Armoured figures positively identified as Traitor by blasphemous iconography. The leading Traitors reach the barricade closest to the door. Point-blank weapons fire is visible, and bolter fire is audible along with the sound of close-combat chain-weapons.

VOICE (iii): (incoherent screaming)
VOICE (ii): (incoherent screaming)
CASTIN: For the Emperor!

The huge Traitor that had torn off the loading bay door charges the nearest barricade, picks up an unidentified Guardsman by the neck with what appears to be a claw and eviscerates him with a vertical slice of its right hand, which is holding some sort of close-combat weapon. The claw then contracts to sever the head, leaving the head and both halves of the torso to fall to the floor separately.

CASTIN: Doran! God-Emperor, no!

To either side, slightly smaller armoured figures butcher the other Guardsmen huddled behind that barricade in a similarly emphatic and grisly manner. The leading Traitor reaches the barricade behind this and impales two Guardsmen simultaneously, with what appears to be a pair of lightning claws of unidentified pattern. The Traitors in Tactical Dreadnought armour, meanwhile, advance upon the other three barricades and slaughter all those behind them with a combination of bolter fire and close-combat chain-weapons; as this happens the lasgun fire diminishes and then halts. Heavy stubber fire continues for another 3.2 seconds while another of the Traitors in power armour of unidentified pattern charges out of pict-source capture, followed by organic noises which coincide with the cessation of all weapons fire.

VOICE (iv), unidentified, Traitor: For the Father!

The leading Traitor is now clearly visible, standing roughly six metres from the pict-source; height is estimated at 2.8 metres. One human, assumed to be Castin, slowly walks forward to the leading Traitor from just out of pict-source capture. No other Guardsmen or Munitorum staff are visibly left alive at this point. Castin raises his laspistol and aims it at the figure in front of him, firing the weapon 7 times until its charge is exhausted; the pistol fire has no visible effect on the Traitor. Castin then lowers his weapon and drops it to the floor, holding his gaze on the Traitor who steps up to Castin and swings its left claw upwards, with the point impaling Castin’s head through the base of the jaw. Castin, held aloft by the Traitor, jerks spasmodically for 4 seconds before falling still; the Traitor discards his body and advances forwards out of pict-source capture. One of the Traitors in Tactical Dreadnought armour pauses almost directly underneath the pict-source, glances upwards and raises its bolter. A brief flare of muzzle-flash and [Image goes black. Recording ends.]

END OF TRANSCRIPT


----------


We have done what we can for the moment. It remains to be seen whether what we have wrought here will have sufficiently interested the Traveller to bring him here; certainly we will need the resources that only he can bring to bear, in order for our greater plans to be realised.


----------


BY ORDER OF HIS MOST HOLY MAJESTY
THE GOD-EMPEROR OF TERRA

AUTHORISED PERSONS ONLY

***NOTIFICATION OF INQUISITORIAL ALERT***

CASE FILE 988.1V34D
Author: Lord Inquisitor Silas Mourne


It is with a heavy heart that I must confirm Traitoris Extremis activity in the vicinity of the Syriis sub-sector; the Traitors have been positively identified by visible blasphemous iconography on their corrupted armour in what fragmented records I have been able to sequester from contact sites. Iconography suggests the foul Plague Marines; I have already notified the Ordo Sepulturum with all haste. There is a distinct possibility of involvement with the wretched post-Black Crusade epidemics in this and other sub-sectors (q.v. Agripinaa, Amistel Majoris); also I suspect the recently reported sightings of the accursed Terminus Est in the outer fringes of this sub-sector may not be entirely unrelated. May the Emperor have mercy on us if the Death Guard have now turned their attentions to this area of the Imperium!

Hallowed be the Throne!

MESSAGE ENDS




----------
Edited by Svartmetall, 2 Apr 2009, 10:35 PM.
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Svartmetall
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Colour Sergeant
2: SHROUDED INTENTIONS, HIDDEN REWARDS



“Wake up.”

A slight stirring, accompanied by an almost inaudible mumbling.

“Wake up, Captain.”

The very gentlest of slaps, to each side of the face.

“Come on, Barra. You have the Emperor’s duty to attend to.”

“Uh…whuh?”

The sleeve is rolled back, and the needle pierces the skin of the young man’s left forearm.

“Ahh…”

“It’s just a little pick-me-up. We need you awake, after all.”

Finally he stirs; his eyes are still unfocused, but at least they’re open. The smears of blood and other substances on his uniform have dried to the point where it now crackles like old, un-oiled leather as he stirs in his restraints. “Where am I? Who the feth are you?”

The older of the two men gives a small, weary smile, reaches into a pocket and places his badge on the table. The uniformed man’s eyes open wide now. “What…”

“Easy, Captain. All in good time. I imagine you have some questions of your own, but I must ask you to show a little forbearance; mine will be taking precedence today.”

“My men?”

“You know the answer to that question already, Captain.” He loosens the man’s restraints.
“I thought-“
“You don’t think. You know.”


----------


Barra falteringly lifts the glass of water to his lips and drinks, hesitantly at first and then deeply. He closes his eyes. “Yes. Throne, I wish I didn’t.”

“What you know, Captain, is closely tied to my own interest in this region. While I am aware that this may be an…unpleasant…procedure for you, I need to hear first-hand what happened here five days ago.

The younger man’s eyes widen. “Five days? I’ve been out for five days?”

“Sedation, for the most part; you were raving.” The older man gives what looks like a sympathetic smile. “It seemed kinder to keep you under till things were in place to…debrief you.”

“Debrief?” Barra asks, draining the glass.

The older man holds his gaze on Barra for a few moments, then gestures to the impassive guard at the door. “More water, if you please, Mister Helmann?” The guard nods once and leaves the room. “Debriefing, yes. I can call it ‘interrogation’ if you like, but really that word is generally reserved for those who don’t co-operate. And your record tells me that you’re the kind of man who will co-operate with us.”

Barra nods carefully, unsure where this is going. “I, er, I like to think so, sir.”

The older man smiles with what looks like genuine warmth. “I’m very glad to hear that, Captain Barra. And, of course, an entry in your record to say that you were most helpful with us today couldn’t hurt, now, could it?”

“No, I guess not.”

The smile never falters. “Excellent.”

Returning with a pitcher of water and two glasses, the guard places both of them on the table before resuming his station by the door.

“Ahh, thank you, Mister Helmann.” He pours one glass for Barra and one for himself, pushing Barra’s glass over to him with a scraping noise that seems overly loud in the quiet warmth of the room. “Now, Captain; the first indication you had of the Traitors’ presence was…?”

Barra takes a sip of his water and rubs at his arm, then places the glass back on the table and stares into its depths for several moments before raising his eyes to the older man’s. “We heard gunfire from the northern part of the compound, sounded like bolters and maybe a melta or something, but no sign of armour or anything like that. Then the usual sort of thing you get in any contact situation, lots of people all yelling at once, all trying to report what they’re seeing.”

“And what did they say they were seeing?”

“Most of ‘em said it looked like Astartes, or something very similar. Power-armoured for sure. Some said there was a kind of cloud with them; we didn’t know what that meant until after. I knew it couldn’t be Astartes, this sector’s been quiet since the Crusade died out, so I figured they were just seeing whatever it was wrong and panicking.”

“Were your men prone to panicking, Captain?”

“You have to remember…sir, most of ‘em were green, new blood from the last Levy. Most of ‘em had never seen action; we’d lost so damn many in the Crusade, after all, most of the old hands were gone. And these guys, they were keen and all, but…show ‘em a Sentinel in the dark and they’d say it was a Warhound, you know?”

Another avuncular smile. “Of course. I understand.”


----------


“So I got Erwon, my two-I-C, to head over and check it out while I voxed the other sectors to keep their eyes peeled and report anything.”

“Prudent.”

“And…well, no sooner have I finished telling the men to do that than I’ve got Erwon yelling at me to get my arse up there in short order. Er, pardon the language, sir.”

“Honesty involves accuracy, Captain. Carry on.”

“So I took myself and two fire-teams over to the north sector, and it was chaos already.”

An eyebrow raises. “Chaos, Captain?”

“Aye, sir, a complete mess…”

“Ahh. Of course.”

“The men were firing blind for the most part, out into the fields to the west of our position. Couldn’t see any incoming when I got there, and I was going to chew Erwon out for over-reacting when this thing lands in the mud next to him.”

“What sort of thing, Captain?”

“It was…” He reaches for his glass of water again and drains it. “It was a head, sir. All wrinkled-up looking and yellowy. And I just thought ‘what the feth?’ and then it split open in the mud where it was lying, and these flies or something came out. Was dark, so I couldn’t really see them that clear, like, but they sounded like flies to me.”

“Flies?”

“Aye, sir, I know how it sounds, but that’s what it was. Then they started buzzing round people, getting into their eyes; one of ‘em went into Erwon’s ear and he started yelling to get it out. Some of the other men were shouting about them, I guessed the damn things were doing the same to them. It looked like they were stinging people or something, people jerking about trying to get them off, swat them and stuff, you know?”

The older man takes a sip of his own water. “It sounds unpleasant, Captain. But hardly the stuff of which Black Crusades are made. What happened next?”

“That’s when they charged us. They were…huge. And they did look like Astartes, sir, but…different, somehow. Bigger. Some of them looked mis-shapen, somehow, like their arms didn’t end in the right shape or something. And there were more of those flies or whatever they were, a swarm of the damn things like a cloud around them.” He drinks more water, his eyes closing as he remembers. “They were unstoppable. We hit them with everything we had, they just seemed to shrug it off like it didn’t matter. And when they were into us, they just...they just tore us to fethin’ pieces. Closer in like that, I could see ‘em clearly, and I wish to the Throne I couldn’t. They looked like Astartes gone wrong. They had stuff growing on them or something.”

The older man locks his eyes on the captain as he recounts his tale. “Continue, please.”

“Some of ‘em had bloody great claws and stuff instead of hands. One of them…Throne, he had these damn great teeth where his belly should have been! He was just butchering men all around him. I mean, teeth? What the hell has teeth in its gut and wears power armour? They had Terminators, too, huge bastards with chain-swords and axes and stuff…and all of them were dark green, with flesh and stuff hanging off them, and this weird sign with three circles on it. It…it made my eyes hurt to look at it.”

“And that’s when you realised that they were Traitors, yes?”

Barra drains his glass again, sweating now. “Aye, sir.”


----------


“Traitors of the worst kind, Captain.” He closes his eyes for a few moments, the lines around them momentarily showing his true age, before opening them to look directly at the young captain again. “The blessed Emperor’s own Astartes, fallen and corrupted.”

“We’d heard rumours from the Crusade, sir, that there were Traitor Marines seen, but we never expected to see them here. Especially not now.”

“Of course not. How could you?”

“I mean…we couldn’t even slow them down, never mind stopping them. Something like two platoons’ worth of men dead in the first ten seconds or so after contact, then they set to clearing the whole complex. They used flamers to smoke out the men, then tore them to shreds. Throne! It was a massacre. And all the time those damn flies, in your eyes, your ears, your mouth if you weren’t careful…”

“I have to ask, Captain, how you managed to survive yourself, given how out-matched you say you were?”

“Truth be told, sir, I don’t really know. I got cornered by this huge one of them, a Terminator, he had some huge kind of autocannon with a chainblade or something on the end of it which he pointed at me and I thought, ‘this is it’…then he put down the gun and picked me up by my neck. He stank, I mean really awful, like you’d been dropped in the latrines on a hot day and rotting meat stuck in there with you or something.” He pauses and drinks more water. “And up close I could see all his flesh, it was covered with boils and swellings and stuff, and some of it was moving, like stuff shifting around just under the surface or something. It was horrible.”

The other man’s gaze never leaves Barra’s eyes. “I know this must be difficult for you, Captain, but please try to remember everything you can. Every detail is important.”

Barra is sweating more freely now. “He just held me there, like three feet off the ground, while they slaughtered everyone in the complex. Then this other one comes along…he was even bigger, like a monster with huge claws and one huge eye, and horns and things sticking out all over. Throne…I was so scared of him. I could handle dying in action, sir, in a straight fight, I really could, but this was different. It was like they were examining me or something, and all the time all I can hear is the sounds of my men dying. I was reciting the Litany of Protection…”

“Commendable.”

“…but sir, I was so scared.”

“Understandable.” As he reaches for more water, the older man notices that Barra’s hand is shaking slightly. “Are you all right, Captain?”

“Yes, sir. So…this big one, he stares at me, then he says something to the other one, swings his claw round at my head and that’s the last thing I remember before waking up here.”

“Yes, you had severe contusions to the left side of your head when you were found. Tell me, Captain Barra; can you think of any reason why they might have spared you?”

Barra is breathing more quickly now, sweat visible on his face and hands, and looking pale.

“No, sir. I…I know they killed everyone else, including higher-ranking officers than me. I’m just a Captain. Four years in the Regiment and proud of it, but nothing special. Why me?”

“That’s a question that gives me pause, too, although we are chiefly concerned with gathering as much information as we can about the heretics’ movements. Also, there is of course the question of what to do with you now that you’ve been in such close proximity to the Traitors…”

Barra’s eyes flick upwards again, fearful now. He’s heard the stories.

The even tone of his questioner’s voice never wavers. “Are you sure you’re all right, Captain?”

“Actually, sir, I’m not feeling so hot right now. Do you have any more water?”


----------


As the older man turns to the guard at the door, Barra shudders and squeals with sudden pain. “Ahh! Feth!” He grabs at his right arm, wincing as he does so. The guard comes to full alert but he is far slower than the old man, who springs to his feet and kicks his own chair backwards. Barra has rolled up his right sleeve to reveal a large, angry-looking yellowish blister or boil of some kind. As they both stare closer, there is a tiny movement inside the blister. Barra yells with pain as this happens, and the other man runs to the door, yelling: “Seal this wing off! On my authority!” He turns to Helmann, the guard. “Stand outside this door, and let nobody in!” Helmann rushes to obey, and as he does so the other turns back to Barra to see him staring at the blister on his arm, which is already visibly bigger and spreading .

“What the feth’s happening to me?” he shouts as the movement within the blister becomes more pronounced, then shudders and yells again with pain. He tears open his tunic, to show patches of yellowish discolouration spreading across his chest. “What the feth is this?

The older man grimaces. “I think we know now why they let you live, Captain.” He reaches into his coat and produces an ornate bolt pistol, with gold filigree work inlaid into its sides.

Barra backs up against the wall on the opposite side of the room from the Inquisitor, eyes wide with pain and panic. A violent shudder racks him, and the blister on his right arm splits with an audible, wet sound to reveal a fat, glistening insect nestled in a welter of pus. He screams as it spreads its wings and escapes his body, the droning sound of its wing-beats clearly audible even over the sounds emanating from Barra, blood and pus mingling and streaming down his arm from the insect’s birth-wound. The Inquisitor tracks it as it circles the chamber, and as it briefly rests on a wall fires one round which vapourises the insect and leaves a small crater in the wall itself. Barra screams again, and the Inquisitor turns to see new blisters rising on the surface of his body, movement starting to become visible beneath some of them. He closes his eyes for a second, genuine regret clear on his face.

“I had truly hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

Barra screams again, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he writhes in agony. “Ahh! Feth! Help me!

“I’m sorry, but you’ve been used, Captain Barra.”

He raises the pistol again, as another one of the obscene flies begins to emerge from a blister on Barra’s chest.

“You’re not a survivor. You’re an incubator.”

He fires one round into Barra’s head, granting him a merciful release.

“…and may the Emperor have mercy on your soul.”

He empties the rest of the magazine into the body, pulverising human and insect flesh alike until all movement ceases. Only now does he realise that his own breathing has in fact speeded up somewhat, and spends a few moments calming himself down again. Holstering the pistol, and heedless of the horrified expression on Helmann’s face as he stares through the cell window at what has transpired inside, he pulls out a small communicator unit.

“Bring the cutter to the detention centre with all speed. And make sure you’ve got plenty of flamer fuel.”

A brief pause, then a scratchy female voice can be heard emanating from the communicator. “How is he?”

“He’s with the Emperor now.”

“Feth.”

“Feth, indeed. We need to move quickly; it’s even worse than Mourne suspected.”



----------
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☺Deserter
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Throne Agent
Ahh mate, loved it :)

One thing I'd say - feth. Could really do with changing. Unless the Guardsmen also came from Tanith...

"Feth" is one of the Tanith tree spirits isn't it? I'd go with another made-up cuss word. It's the only thing currently spoiling it :)
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☺Dave38x
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DubDubDubDubDub
thats fantastic mate,

absolutely fantastic :)

agree with what deserter says about feth though...
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Svartmetall
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Colour Sergeant
3: OFFERTORY


The statue is crying. As he walks down the wide nave, that’s all he can think. Rain coming through the shattered window of the façade is spattering in its face and running down the front of the statue to the floor, an uncanny mockery of emotion that seems to mourn the bodies which lie ripped and torn at its feet.

A voice crackles in his earpiece. “Clear two. Proceeding three directly.” The second element of his team are sweeping the ancillary chapels and shrines to the east, while he leads his own retinue through the main cathedral. Farl stalks the aisle to his right, augmented muscles conveying an air of tightly-restrained brutality, his flamer slung over his massive back as he concentrates on an auspex. To his left, Meyer and her gun-servitor mirror Farl’s procession down the aisle; her one organic eye is narrowed, anger at the defilement of this holy place clear on her face, and her fingers are white as they grip her bolter tightly. He knows she will not let her emotions affect her professionalism, but finds the depth of her faith – which some call fanaticism, but he calls devotion - reassuring. Five metres behind him, Haldon carries his heavy stubber nonchalantly, his deceptively casual slouch masking an animal alertness and combat reflexes that have saved all their lives more than once.

The four of them advance slowly, methodically eliminating all potential hiding places as they go. Who or whatever has done this was able to enter a holy place of the Emperor in the planetary capital and, apparently, slaughter everyone inside at will; they will die for the outrage they have committed, but they are capable and resourceful and will therefore not be taken lightly. He is still concerned that the planetary governor seemed entirely unaware of the gravity of the threat from heretics even after being apprised of the events on Syriis VII itself; as he walks he replays their last conversation in his mind.


----------


He smashed his cane hard on the desk in front of him.

“You were informed three weeks ago of the atrocities carried out by Traitor Marines on the capital world of this whole sub-sector, and what did you do by way of increasing security? Nothing!”

The governor blustered in return. “I did everything that was required of me by Imperial law! We increased border checks and spaceport security details, I personally prohibited all unauthorised travel and all shipments from off-world were rigorously checked!”

“Yes, yes. All the usual measures in times of unrest. Tell me something. Did the confirmed presence of Traitor Marines in the very next system not strike you as something unusual, perhaps deserving of unusual measures?”

“Well, I-“

“Does the lack of extraordinary measures taken in this system perhaps indicate that the only thing greater than your complacency is, in fact, your incompetence?”

At this the governor rose from his gilded chair, even more red-faced than before. “Now see here! I will not be spoken to like that, not even by the likes of you!”

There was a limit to what he would suffer from even the most diligent and dutiful servant of the Imperium, and this braggart was neither. He strode forwards to the edge of the man’s desk, and leaned forward till his eyes were only centimetres from the man’s own.

“The likes of me?” He kept his voice even and quiet. “Do you have the faintest conception of the things the likes of me can do? I have merely to give the order and this planet will be cleansed of all life! You think you hold the reins of power here? I’ve seen a thousand men like you, you strutting little popinjay, and I can tell you most assuredly that all I have to do is give that man behind me a nod and you will spend the rest of your days with an excruciator attached to every major nerve centre in your body.”

Behind him, Farl smiled in a manner more suited to some kind of predatory reptile, as if to make the point. Although he actually possessed a keen mind and was fond of debating the minutiae of philosophy till the early hours over a glass of amasec, Farl was happy to play the role of psychotic thug when the situation demanded, and the boosted musculature of his two-and-a-half-metre frame only accentuated this image.

The governor flinched, seeming to shrink within his robes. “I…” He swallowed, the gravity of his personal predicament seeming suddenly to affect him more than what was happening to his planet all around him. “We…”

“You wish to apologise for your rudeness, and you’ll help us in every way? I’m glad to hear it. I do so hate having to have the families of planetary governors executed by way of encouragement, the paperwork is most tedious.”

Behind him, right on cue, Farl looked slightly crestfallen.


----------


“Clear three, proceeding on four directly. Lord…we think there may be movement in the adjacent chapter house; requesting permission to investigate.”

“Granted. Proceed with all due caution.”

“Acknowledged.”

They have reached the crossing at the centre of the cathedral, a wide expanse of green local marble with a high, domed ceiling. Meyer scans the space around them in all directions; as she does so, the assault cannon mounted in the gun-servitor that is slaved to her augmetic eye swivels, matching the movements of her head with smooth precision. Haldon rests his gun over his shoulder and looks around him, the towering, intricately-carved pillars of the cathedral no more than tactical impediments to him, while Farl examines the round plate of solid platinum inlaid into the small raised dais at the centrepoint of the crossing, which is cast in a likeness of the Emperor with a nimbus of light around His head. There seems to be blood on the metal, but there are no bodies near this area of the cathedral. Farl’s brow furrows.

Lord Inquisitor Silas Mourne stares up towards the apse at the far end of the cathedral, a hundred metres away. Even from this distance he can see that the frescoes and statuary there have been defiled in some way, and while the dim light of this stormy afternoon affords little by way of illumination there appears to be blood spattered liberally on the walls and floor. The defilement of the cathedral appalls him on some deep, visceral level; his unshakeable faith has seen him survive the depredations of heretic, Traitor and Daemon alike over the centuries, and to see a holy place of the God-Emperor soiled like this fills him with revulsion and a righteous fury that dwarfs even Meyer’s.

What concerns him - even more than the ingrained uselessness of the planetary government - is the fact that he has heard nothing from the detachment of the Adepta Sororitas that arrived on this world just as he was having his conversation with the governor. The Commandery of the Order of the Blooded Thorn on Marianus V were actually the nearest suitable force able to respond to potential Traitor activity, but bizarre warp activity has delayed their arrival here until after his own. Canoness da Silva should have been in contact with him by now, and the continuing silence worries him deeply.


----------


“Lord!” Haldon’s voice is loud in the dripping silence. “Above us!”

He looks up, Farl, Meyer and the assault cannon doing likewise, to see the figure of a man far above where the domed ceiling hung above the crossing; his enhanced eyes zoom in and make out the shape of Cardinal Wulf. The Cardinal’s body has been threaded with barbed wire and hung suspended above the crossing of his cathedral, his eviscerated torso the source of the blood Farl had seen; as if this were not crime enough, he has been decapitated. Meyer mutters an obscenity as she looks, followed by what Mourne can hear to be a whispered prayer for Wulf’s soul.

“Ach…we must continue. This is vileness, to be sure, but we must press on. We will return to give him the burial he deserves, but now our priority has to be to find the ones that did this to him.”

Farl’s mouth is set hard with anger, and even the normally laconic Haldon looks grim, his weapon now held at combat readiness. They resume their advance along the half-kilometre length of the building, now walking together along the central aisle, weapons covering each side. Meyer is a few metres forward of the rest, the gun-servitor following on; abruptly she pauses, peers ahead and then makes a low, guttural sound in her throat.

“Oh feth…look. Lord, look.” She points south at the apse, having advanced just far enough to see what has been done at the apse. Joining her at her side, Mourne can now make out what has made his companion of forty years turn pale with revulsion.

Seven of the Adepta Sororitas hang at the far end of the cathedral, having been staked to the wall over a metre off the ground and divested of their power armour. Their eyes have been removed, and blasphemous symbols daubed on their robes and faces with what looks to be their own blood. Despite his horror Mourne still recognises the symbol of the Plague God Nurgle, obscene at any time in its own right but an especially atrocious sight here, fouling the bodies of the Emperor’s own in His own place of worship. The expressions on the faces of the Sisters show that they did not die easily. Farl strides forwards until he is only a few metres from the ghastly tableau, then checks his flamer before turning to look at Mourne.

“Mourne…please? Let me cleanse this?”

He can only nod at his subordinate, his mouth dry. Farl activates the igniter of his flamer and proceeds to bathe the bodies of the Sisters with fire, washing it back and forth until almost the entire apse of the cathedral is ablaze. His angular face is set like volcanic rock, illuminated by the fire he has set in the dim remains of the afternoon. The mixed stenches of promethium and burning flesh fill the dank air of the building.

As Mourne watches the bodies burn, his earpiece erupts with noise.

“Contact! I say again, contact! Hostiles unidentified, incoming bolter fire!” Heavy gunfire is clearly audible even over the vox’s limited frequency range, and Mourne is surprised to hear what sounds like panic in the voice of his usually unflappable second-squad leader. “Two do-…three down! Request immediate assistance!”


----------


He turns and barks, “To me!” before setting off in the direction of the north-eastern chapter house, part of the extensive complex of cloisters and secondary chapels that huddle around the main cathedral building. Meyer, Farl, Haldon and the gun-servitor sprint after him out of the echoing space, leaving blood and fire behind them.

The gunfire continues in Mourne’s ear as he leads his squad through the back of the apse out towards the cloisters, and as he runs he can hear the change in sound as they draw nearer to the fighting, bolter and continuous lasgun fire becoming clearly audible now without the need for a vox-link to convey it to him. Their footsteps echo through the cold stone of the cathedral’s outbuildings to the cloisters, where high stone walls encircle a manicured garden perhaps two hundred metres square. On the far side of this space, in the gloom beneath the looming wall of an Ecclesiarchy chapterhouse, the glare of bolter fire is mixed with the actinic beams of lasgun fire; Mourne can see one of his men fall even as he watches, shredded by a storm of bolter fire from a hulking shape in the shadows of the cloisters.

Meyer yells in anger, and opens up with her bolter at the shape, followed almost immediately by the assault cannon mounted into her servitor; stone chips spray as it tracks its firepower along her sight-line towards the shrouded enemy. Haldon adds his heavy stubber to the hail of fire, though it is inaudible beneath the hammering roar of the assault cannon, and Mourne’s own plasma pistol adds its voice to the chorus. After a few seconds of the cannon’s work there is so much dust in the air that the enemy is no longer visible, and they cease fire with an almost telepathic synchronisation, advancing carefully towards the spot where they last saw the men of the second squad while keeping their weapons trained on the spot where they last saw the unknown enemy.

No sign of an antagonist can be seen once the smoke has dissipated, but it is clear that all of Mourne’s second squad are dead. Most lie on the floor of the cloisters, bearing the stigmata of bolter fire, but one appears to have been sliced in two by some huge bladed weapon. Meyer watches at Mourne as he surveys the carnage, seeing the way his jaw grinds and knowing he is as angry as she has ever seen him; after the deaths of his entire second squad, and especially the obscene fate of the Sisters, this is the mood that has seen him put cities to the torch. And worse. Wordlessly, Mourne strides over the bodies of his men, seeing that the far end of the cloister is marked by a tall stone arch over a doorway into the chapterhouse. His three companions follow on, checking their weapons’ ammunition displays as they go and trying not to look too closely at the severed halves of a man that lie on either side of the stone floor.

The entrance-hall of the chapterhouse has at least some illumination in the form of lit torches on the walls, smoke curling upwards and fading into the darkness of the high ceilings above. Simple wooden tables and benches are situated around the walls, one or two smashed into kindling and one decorated with the body of a monk, skin pallid with some kind of sickness and an iron stake driven through its heart into the wood beneath. Half-way along the east wall of this hall they can see a large archway with stairs behind it leading down; lit torches can be seen along this stairway’s walls.

“The crypt. Of course.” Mourne’s voice is calm and steady, belying the raging anger within. “We are obviously being led; Haldon, take point. I need the best eyes and ears we have alert for whatever’s down there. Observe silence discipline.”


----------


All pretence of nonchalance is gone from Haldon now, and his movements are as cat-like as his eyes as he descends the stone steps. Meyer and Mourne follow with the gun-servitor a few metres behind while Farl takes rearguard, flamer unslung and igniter lit. The steps descend in a spiral for what Meyer estimates as thirty metres before opening out onto a large, low-ceilinged chamber, simple stone arches spaced roughly four metres apart stretching off into the darkness which is relieved only by an occasional torch hanging from a wall. The shattered body of another monk lies surrounded by smears of its own blood in the middle of the floor about twenty metres into the crypt; Mourne gestures with battle-sign language to Haldon to check the body. Haldon dutifully creeps forward to the corpse, leaning over it carefully in case of booby-traps, checking for probable cause of death. He stands and signs back; blunt weapon to skull and chest, most bones broken, no sign of traps, looks safe to proceed. A drip of water from the dank ceiling punctuates his signing.

Slowly, silently, they advance, eyes constantly trying to make sense of the shadows and alert for any sound. The crypt beneath this cathedral complex is larger than any Mourne has seen, walls dotted with burial spaces for the monks who have lived here for millennia; the desecration of so vast an edifice of the Emperor’s might fills him with a very real nasusea. Here, in the foundations of this cathedral, he feels more intensely than ever that faith is the foundation of the Imperium Of Man; faith is what sustains him, and Meyer, and all the people like him who fight the darkness. He knows that the Emperor truly protects those who have faith in Him.

Meyer holds up her hand to signal a halt, perhaps seeing something ahead; she turns to Mourne, and as she begins to sign a bolt round blows off the back of her head, spraying Farl and the gun-servitor with blood and brain-matter. The gun-servitor, slaved to her nervous system, collapses to the floor as she does; its eyes have always been as blank as hers now are. Mourne stares in shock as the woman who has fought alongside him for four decades, her faith and strength at least the equal of his own, lies in a spreading pool of her own fluids at his feet. Farl is beginning to point his flamer at what he thinks is the spot the bolter fire came from when another bolt round detonates in Haldon’s gut, almost cutting him in half and leaving him twitching on the stone floor, eyes wide with uncomprehending shock. Mourne and Farl aim at the place where they saw the muzzle-flash of the enemy’s bolter, a combined gout of flame and plasma erupting out into the darkness. As soon as they stop firing they can hear the sound of something heavy hitting the floor from the direction they had been aiming at. Hearing this, Farl charges forward before Mourne can stop him, a grin of savage triumph on his face.

Mourne has time to yell “No! We couldn’t see-“ before Farl is stopped in his tracks by a focused torrent of foul-smelling ooze, exuding a stench somewhere between vomit and rotting meat that makes Mourne himself gag reflexively. Farl stands motionless in shock for a second, covered from head to foot in the noxious substance, before beginning to jerk uncontrollably as the acidic slime begins to eat into him. Mourne can see Farl’s face beginning to run and dissolve, liquefying flesh streaming over his flak armour as he screams and shudders in his agony, collapsing to the floor. He puts a plasma bolt through his loyal companion’s head for mercy’s sake, then runs to the wall and grabs one of the guttering torches.

Stalking forwards now, heedless of any pretence at stealth, Mourne shouts his fury and hatred into the darkness.

“Where are you? Show yourselves, you bastards! WHERE THE FETH ARE YOU?


----------


Less than a minute later he reaches the far wall of the crypt, a rough hole in the wall leading on to a narrow tunnel of crude bricks. The torch drips embers onto the ancient stone beneath his feet, reflecting jumping orange highlights off his ornate power armour and the gleaming metal of his pistol. Mourne feels cold despite its flames, his fury having honed itself to an icy pinnacle of rage that will most likely see this half this world burn before it is sated. He is gripping the torch so hard that a thorn from its haft is causing his left hand to bleed, but he does not even feel this, so focused is he on vengeance.

The passage opens into a cave, large enough to make his footsteps echo. Much of it is wreathed in shadows, but there is some kind of altar ahead with a ring of torches around it. Mourne strides towards this, as he can see something odd behind the glare of the torchlight, and as he draws closer the true nature of this cave becomes clear.

Lying in the centre of the circle of torchlight is a metal circle, almost like a shield of some kind, and on it are two human heads. One is the tonsured head of Cardinal Wulf, eyeless and pallid. Next to it, as if forming two points of an equilateral triangle, is the similarly-abused head of Canoness da Silva. There are no words to express the anger and lust for vengeance that Mourne now feels, and he simply utters a hoarse cry of rage as he turns to look for some sign of the author of this atrocity. Nothing is visible apart from a few unevenly-spaced stone columns that shore up the roof of the cave, so he thrusts the torch ahead of him and begins to hunt.

He is not sure whether he actually hears the blade descend or whether he senses it psychically somehow, but he manages to throw himself to one side just in time to avoid being bisected by a huge crescent of rusted metal that carves the air past his right ear. A hideous low gurgling noise comes from the darkness behind him, and as he turns to face the enemy at long last he can see a huge form silhouetted by the torches behind them, stalking him slowly and deliberately. He raises his pistol but the blade sweeps around and back faster than he would have thought possible, moving in a low figure of eight to cut off his right hand at the wrist. While he is still only aware of the shock, before the pain has started to feed through to his brain, the huge figure cuffs him to one side and forces him up against the nearest column of stone. The agony of his wound is still only a slow trickle as he is held there, but the pressure increases all the time as he is slowly crushed against the stone.

With an odd clarity, he can hear the pings and groans his armour makes as the metal is stressed to the point of deforming, and smell the stench of the millennia that surrounds the entity that is killing him. The gurgling noise comes again, and he realises that it is a noise of pleasure, like a feline purring; his enemy has been enjoying this game all the while, and it is a game he has played alone. The chestplate of his armour finally collapses, and he feels his ribs begin to splinter; then the pressure is suddenly relieved and he collapses to the floor, the stump of his hand finally bleeding profusely and his chest a huge mass of pain from what is probably a punctured lung. He is spun over onto his back, and for a moment he can see the face of the enemy clearly in the torchlight as he watches the blade descend.

“You...!”

There is a sensation that is too massive, too profound to be mere pain. Vision begins to dim for the last time, but he sees enough to realise that his own head is being placed next to the other two, forming a perfect triangle, before the darkness that he has fought all his life finally swallows him.


-----------


He has come. The Traveller is here. Praise the Father!




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