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My god.....that is.....amazing!

Keep up the good work and feed us some more awesomeness

Your work is amazing, as always. Keep up the great writing!

Like so many of the Alpha Legion's operations, it began with a series of seemingly unconnected events.

A Black Coat forger going by the name of Anders created seven fraudulent travel visas. These allowed a passenger shuttle bearing seven occupants to move from customs orbital A-32 to the surface of Yulais Prime.

A spaceport shift manager was bribed an extortionate amount of money to allow for the intake of two new trainee pilots for the port's low-orbit security gunship fleet.

A large armored transport truck was stolen from the lot of Daedalus Trust and Investment, the second biggest bank in the hive. Consequently, Gravus Hive Arbites Commander Duran detailed three squads of arbitrators to provide additional security to the bank. This bank was located over fifty kilometers from the Imperialis Donativum, the hive's single largest bank.

An Imperial Navy frigate was permitted access to low-orbit over Yulais Prime, broadcasting ident codes that identified it as the Wrath of Heaven. These codes were fraudulent, and the true Wrath had been lost with all hands to a Chaos fleet months earlier. The ship's actual name, The Dynasty would not be discovered for some time.

A chop shop, run by an underhive gang, accepted a commission to retrofit an armored truck with axles and shocks that would permit the carriage of much greater weight. The work was completed in an afternoon.

Six civilian transport were rented under a false name, and driven to six different points in the upper reaches of Gravus Hive. Each of these had been loaded with high-yield explosives, and their trunks had been packed with industrial screws and bolts.

The day of the heist had come.

*****

The Black Coat named Coschik sat in uphive civilian clothes, lounging in the pleasant sunlight all up-hivers were privileged enough to enjoy. He checked his chronometer, noting that it was nearly noon.

"Twelve hundred hours, and not a minute before." The man calling himself Maximilian had instructed. "One minute more and you don't get paid."

It was two minutes till.

Coschik sipped at his iced water, watching people come and go down the boulevard. He unconsciously patted the detonator that sat in the pocket of his trousers. That detonator, when activated, would activate the explosives armed in six vehicles on the far side of the upper hive. But not yet, he had to wait until noon.

Once the explosives were blown, his role was over. Coschik was to dispose of the detonator as discreetly as possible, and then lay low for a few days. The situated would work itself out, and once word came down that the heist at the Imperialis Donativum was concluded, all he would have to do was wait. When things cooled off again, he could return to the Black Coats and pick up his fee.

This Maximilian was a brutal bastard to be sure. Setting off six anti-personnel car bombs in crowded areas just to distract emergency services? That was cold, even by Black Coat standards. Coschik felt no personal guilt for the bombs he was about to set off. If not him, then someone else would have done the job. He was not the only explosives expert on Yulais Prime. If the deed was going to happen regardless, he may as well profit from it. Let the guilt hang around that Maximilian's shoulders. He knew he was not at fault.

What he couldn't know was that there was a seventh bomb, one smaller than all the rest. What he couldn't know that the detonator he held was not the same one he had programmed, though the two looked remarkably similar. What he couldn't know was that Maximilian, real name Balchus, had altered the detonator Coschik had made, retrofitting it with a smaller transmitter. This cleared up additional space within the detonator to fill it with shrapnel, and wire the detonator itself to blow up in his hand. A pipebomb on a delayed fuse, to ensure the other six car bombs would explode before the detonator itself became a weapon.

Coschik looked at his chonometer. Noon, on the dot. He calmly reached a hand into his pocket, eased the detonator out beneath the table, and squeezed the trigger.

One second.

Two.

The cafe' erupted in sound and fire. The small, banana-sized tube of metal exploded in Coschik's lap, the packed shrapnel screaming out of the weapon in all directions and burying itself in the mercenary's torso. His internal organs were shredded on impact, liquefied from within as the flames of the blast seared his clothing and flesh. The force of the blast blew Coschik backwards out of his chair, killing him before he crashed against the wall behind him.

A fire alarm screamed. People screamed. Chaos reigned.

****

On the other side of the hive, four men hunched over in an armored truck that rumbled towards the Imperialis Donativum. Balchus and the three mercenaries with him sat in thick carapace armor, their faces covered in black boot polish. White eyes stared out through the grime-smeared faces as the men checked and rechecked the readiness of their autoguns, each ensuring that he had enough mags for the operation ahead.

Balchus's eyes did a quick inspection of the men with him. All of them were similarly armed, and carried black equipment duffles packed with various gear. The one who called himself Grayson was visible through the steel mesh that separated the cab from the cargo area of the truck. The back of his head was visible as he negotiated the armored vehicle through the busy up-hive highways. He was bald, and like all the others wore an earbead for tactical communication.

Anders sat across from Balchus, reapplying the shoe polish on his face for the third time. The man spoke little, but Balchus had to admire his skill as a counterfeiter. The visas he had created for the group had been among the most convincing he had ever seen. He was an older man, but his build suggested a lifetime of combat, probably ex-guard.

Then Rius sat at Balchus's right. Rius was the brother of Coschik. Balchus looked at his chonometer and realized that the man was probably dead about now. One less loose end. Rius was oblivious. He continued checking his autogun for blockages.

"Alright, turn it on." Balchus called out to the cab. Without a reply, Grayson took a hand from the wheel to flip on the vox scanner that had been added to the truck at the chop shop.

"-confirm multiple explosions"

"emergency services have no-"

"Med-evac requested from outlying hives-"

The voices came as Grayson toggled frequencies. Rius gave Balchus a nod. "Told you my brother would get it done. That'll tie the Arbites up nicely."

Balchus nodded.

"We're here." Grayson announced, slowing the truck to an idle. Balchus could hear civilian cars honking loudly behind them. He glanced ahead through the mesh and out the windshield, seeing the glass and marble entryway of the Imperialis Donativum looming before them. "Are we ready?" Grayson asked asked.

"Ready!" Rius called out.

"Let's do it!" Anders yelled.

"Go!" Balchus pounded on the mesh.

The truck suddenly accelerated rapidly, it's inertia slowly being overcome as Grayson pushed the pedal all the way to the floor. The four men wedged mouth guards across their teeth as the truck approached top speed.

The engine growled, it's driveshaft turning rapidly as it propelled the massively heavy vehicle forward. Balchus felt his blood sing at the prospect of impending battle, the adrenaline flowing. It was a battle after all, just a different battlefield than most soldiers would ever see. The Alpha Legion always showed up in unexpected places.

The armored truck bucked as it bounded over the curb at top speed, There was only a slight pause until the the sound of shattering glass and smashing masonry enveloped the four robbers in a wash of sound. The interior of the truck shook wildly and each man held on to his handhold with white-knuckled grips. Balchus fought to keep his head from banging against the steel walls as he heard citizens screaming and shouting, doubtless scattering to avoid the runaway truck. The drive leveled out, and with a glance through the mesh window, Balchus could see they had driven right into the lobby, as planned. The truck lurched to a halt.

He spat his mouthguard out, and racked his autogun.

"Let's go! Stick to the plan!"

Rius threw open the rear double doors. The three men poured from the back of the truck, now dented and covered in dust. The autoguns came up expertly and with all the professionalism of trained soliders. Grayson exited the driver side door, his own autogun up as he moved into position.

The lobby was completely destroyed. Broken glass and crushed marble littered the area. Blood spattered the front fender of the truck where someone, perhaps multiple someones, had been too slow in getting out of the way. Some people screamed, others just staggered about in shock.

Balchus fired a quick burst from his autogun into the air, the slamming report of the hard rounds echoing painfully through the vaulted chamber. More screaming, but now he had their attention.

"Everyone down in three seconds! If you are not down when I get to three, you die! One! Two!"

Everyone was down, on their faces in the rubble.

Balchus nodded once, waving at the team to fan out. The men swept across the lobby, weapons ready as they checked abutting offices and corridors for stragglers. Grayson dragged a whimpering manager from his office, pushing him down on his face with the others.

Balchus unslung his dufflebag, unzipping it and removing a small rectangular device. He knelt and placed it carefully on the marble floor, taking care that it was far removed from any hard obstructions. Satisfied that his men had the situation under control, he flipped the switch on the device and rapidly began moving away from it. A green light on the device blinked once. Twice. Three times.

Crackling energy and light filled the room for one blinding instant. The bank patrons screamed at the unexpected burst of light and noise, but in a moment it was over. The overpowering sphere of energy faded as rapidly as it had appeared.

Where the teleport homer had once been, now stood a massive figure clad in blue terminator armor chased in scaled green. His face was covered by a squat helm, red eye lenses looking out on the small mortals with disinterest. One arm ended in a massive, double-barrelled weapon from the era of the Great Crusade known as a reaper autocannon. A barbed sword hilt sat in a scabbard about the giant's waist.

His shoulder pauldrons bore a symbol, one that was rarely worn openly. For this operation, it wouldn't matter. Durmanhoth of the Alpha Legion proudly wore the multi-headed hydra emblem as he stood silent and imposing in the center of the lobby.

As always a great new installment I wonder what Durmanhoth will do once he gets his hands on the Rampant...I assume he gets his orders from somewhere...or someone...Btw what happened to the Inquisitor???

Loving every bit of this story.

When I read that description of Durmagoth I was like "Holy gak." It really shows how talented you are as a writer when the reader is still intimidated and awed by him this far into the story. Keep up the amazing work as always!

Also, I feel kinda bad for the Black Coats.

LoneLictor wrote:When I read that description of Durmagoth I was like "Holy gak." It really shows how talented you are as a writer when the reader is still intimidated and awed by him this far into the story. Keep up the amazing work as always!

Also, I feel kinda bad for the Black Coats.

You mean the guy who blew up innocent civilians because he could make a buck off it?

Mr Nobody wrote:

LoneLictor wrote:When I read that description of Durmagoth I was like "Holy gak." It really shows how talented you are as a writer when the reader is still intimidated and awed by him this far into the story. Keep up the amazing work as always!

Also, I feel kinda bad for the Black Coats.

You mean the guy who blew up innocent civilians because he could make a buck off it?

Well, I feel bad for 'em as a group. Its true, that one guy was probably a jerk, but his brother and the others didn't seem too bad. And they're just getting completely screwed over by Durmagoth.

Vex and the Black Coat pilot called Noonan moved quickly, slipping into their flight gear and packing the rest away into their duffles. The old smuggler felt off in the flight suit, bearing the livery of the Gravus Hive Security Task Force. He was much more suited to wearing whatever he stumbled out of bed and threw on. Actually, he corrected himself, what he was used to as of late were his prison fatigues from Armillo North. As things stood, his wardrobe had improved. Now at least he had a pilot's sidearm slung around his chest as standard-issue gear.

"Keep up, damn it!" Noonan hissed, peeking around a hallway corner and then hustling out of their bunk room. The pair had been permitted access to the facility as trainee pilots in the Sky Interdiction Squadron, or SIS, a fleet of gunships that stood ready for rapid deployment throughout the hive. They had been in place barely a week when the reports had begun filtering in. Several explosions had been reported across the hive, and terrorism was suspected. SIS was being mobilized to provide both emergency medical evac and to stand ready in the event that law enforcement on the ground needed fire support. It was the event they had been waiting for.

"Only because you asked nicely," Vex replied, adding the word "bastard" under his breath. The two had not gotten along since Durmanhoth had deployed them together, and Vex, in typical fashion, had turned to mocking the man as a way to pass the time. Now the time had come, and they had a role to play.

The pair moved with the tide of other pilots, streaming out of the barracks that sat alongside numerous landing pads at the top of the hive. Daylight stung Vex's eyes. On each pad sat the blocky, ugly shape of a security gunship. Each ship bore a twin-cockpit encased by a single armaglass canopy, the livery of Gravus Hive adorning each side of the hull. The rear of each gunship contained a small cargohold, capable of transporting a single light vehicle or a platoon of emergency personnel. Vex and Noonan matched the pace of the other pilots, trying not to stand out in the crowd. They were posing as trainees, after all, and were not to be deployed in this exercise.

"Which one?" Noonan asked. The pair slowed to a jog amidst the pads, their heads turning from gunship to gunship. "Which one, you stupid frakker?" Noonan's blood was up, his teeth clenched in irritation.

Vex's role in the assignment was twofold. First, as a trained pilot, he would assist Noonan in stealing a gunship. His second role had been to engage the crew of their target gunship in a game of cards the night before, and slip a powerful sedative in their drinks. This would ensure that Vex and Noonan would be able to pilot the gunship in their place without too much trouble. The game of cards had ended with two groggy pilots returning to their billets, and Vex pocketing his hard-gambled winnings.

Now if only Vex could remember which gunship had belonged to the drugged pilots.

"Vex!" Noonan was practically frothing with impatience now.

"That one!" Vex exclaimed, pointing to his left. A gunship sat unattended, the ground crew having fueled it up and run a preflight check on it already. Noonan sighed, straightening up and moving quickly towards it. Vex moved along behind the Black Coat, his stomach dropping as he remembered the words of the Alpha Legionnaire.

"As soon as the mission is completed, put two rounds in the back of the Black Coat's head."

Vex hadn't argued, and he hadn't asked why. He had learned not to ask why. All the same, the thought sickened him. The smuggler had been in his share of scraps, and some of his heists had undoubtedly destroyed lives along the way. But cold-blooded murder? The fact that he didn't understand the reason only made things worse. He didn't like the mercenary, to be sure, but he wasn't ready to be his executioner either. The only thing that scared him more was the thought of disobeying the hulking astartes. In the end, Vex had just nodded his assent. Now he looked at the back of Noonan's head as he jogged after him, wondering what it would look like after the bullets went in. He hated this.

Noonan reached the gunship, climbing up the step ladder next to the forward cockpit and tossing his dufflebag in. He had one foot in the cockpit when a stern voice called out behind them.

"Hey! That's our gunship, idiots!"

Vex turned, his heart skipping a beat as he saw the pair of pilots approaching them. He knew right away he had screwed up. These were not the pilots he had drugged. He had chosen the wrong gunship. Noonan glared down at him a moment, one leg still in the cockpit.

"It's been reassigned." Vex called out, summoning a cheery voice over his sudden fear impulse and affecting his usual cheeky grin. "You didn't get the reassignment schedule? You boys are flying with B-Wing now, over there." Vex pointed vaguely at a distant hangar.

"B-Wing is over there." One pilot pointed out, his voice deadpan as he pointed in the opposite direction. "Your flight suits identify you as trainee pilots. You aren't even authorized to fly. What the hell is going on?"

"Bit of a bugger." Vex said, his charlatan's mind frantically searching for words. His smile returned, and he casually pointed at the pilot who had spoken. "Say, you know a guy named Vilkas? You look just like my buddy Vilkas! You do!"

"Something isn't right here," said the other pilot, drawing his sidearm. "I'm calling the shift chief." His free hand reached to the radio at his belt.

A deafening bang rang out behind Vex, and the pilot with the autopistol pitched over backwards, a hole punched in his chest. His partner drew his autopistol and leapt to the side, firing as he fell. Vex ducked, fumbling for his own sidearm as a series of staccato bursts rang out from behind him and from the pilot. By the time he brought his autopistol forward, he saw that the second pilot was now likewise down, screaming from the bullet wound in his wrist.

"Vex!" Noonan screamed, his voice edged with pain. The smuggler turned, seeing the mercenary now clambering into the cockpit, his own shoulder a bleeding fountain of pulped flesh. The Black Coat had also been hit. "Let's go now or I swear I'll leave you here!"

A glance around told Vex all he needed to know. Although most of the gunships had already taken off, the remaining loading crew and pilots had turned in their direction, alerted by the unexpected sound of gunfire. Armed security personnel were pounding towards them in a hurry. The smuggler double-timed it towards the gunship, tossing his kit into the rear cockpit and tumbling in. He pulled down the canopy shield as Noonan cycled up the engines. Vex could see the back of Noonan's head right in front of him in the forward cockpit, and the familiar dread returned. He glanced to the mercenary's bleeding shoulder. Would it look like that? Worse?

"Emperor, we're surrounded!" Noonan screamed in frustration, skipping the preflight and switching the fuel to minimum choke.

"Powering up weapon systems!" Vex reported. He had piloted many atmospheric craft in his day, and they all were more or less the same. Green lights indicated full ammunition and no blockages in the hoppers. "All four cannons green!"

"Fire you idiot!" Noonan screamed.

Without thinking, without second-guessing his actions, Vex pushed the firing stud. The four autocannons cycled up and spat a hailstorm of high-caliber munitions across the pads. The advancing security teams dove for cover as the projectiles sliced into their ranks, cutting men in half wherever they landed. He held the firing stud down, screaming aloud as adrenaline poured through his bloodstream, spit flying from his mouth. The continuous fire kept the teams suppressed as Noonan jerked up on the thrusters, taking the gunship up into the air so violently Vex's stomach lurched. He let go of the firing stud as the ground sped away from them. How many men had he killed? it didn't matter, he decided. They would have killed him if they could have. He shouldn't feel guilty. Still, how many? A half dozen?

His head spun, his senses slowly returning to him. They were moving now, pushing away from the pads and into the lower reaches of the hive. The vox was alive with frantic queries from the pads.

"How bad are you hit?" He called to Noonan.

"It hurts like a sonnavabitch, in case you couldn't tell!" Noonan screamed back.

Vex glanced down at the auspex screens before him. So far they had no pursuers, but that would change very quickly. He had to inform Durmanhoth that their extraction was about to get a lot hotter. The smuggler pulled on his vox headset and dialed in the secret channel the Alpha Legion operatives were using. He recalled the callsigns Balchus had taught him, and spoke them breathlessly into the mic.

"Hydra One, this is Hydra Three."

"Hydra Three, this is Hydra One. Go." The deep voice replied. Vex suppressed a shudder.

"We had a problem. We were exposed when leaving the pad. We won't be able to wait at the rendezvous point for you, they'll be all over us."

"Understood, we will have to adapt." The stern voice answered. The confidence it conveyed gave Vex a small measure of comfort. "Maintain an elusive holding pattern. You will have to meet us halfway and pick us up under fire. Relaying coordinates now."


************


Durmanhoth relayed the coordinates and the closed the link before the smuggler could reply. The plan had faltered, as plans inevitably did to some degree. He recalled the teachings of the twin primarchs. He would not rage and beat his operatives like members of other legions when things did not go to plan. He would adapt. He would just have to buy more time.

"I repeat!" The voice called over the voxspeakers mounted outside the bank. "We have the building surrounded! You are advised to throw down your weapons and surrender. There is no other way out!" Durmanhoth listened idly to the voice of the Arbites commander. In the intervening hour since their arrival, an Arbites detachment had finally managed a response. That response now lined the exterior of the bank in a semi-circle of Arbitrator-pattern Chimeras, each one surrounded by a cluster of black-visored Imperial Judges. There were perhaps two-dozen of them, and more would be coming. It wouldn't be long until a team attempted entry.

Durmanhoth watched them from within the bank. They had yet to see him, and therefore had little idea the threat that was facing them. In a way, he pitied their zealous devotion to law and order. He now stood alone in the lobby. Balchus and the Black Coats had taken the bank manager down to the safe deposit sublevel of the Imperialis Donativum. The remaining hostages were still on their faces, whimpering in his presence. Durmanhoth ignored them. He blink-clicked the vox channel over to Balchus's frequency.

"Hydra Two, this is Hydra One. The Arbites have set up outside. Status?"

"Hydra One, this is Two. We've narrowed down the boxes to a dozen or so, but we'll have to breach them all individually. Any explosion that's too large may destroy the Rampant."

"How much more time do you need?" Durmanhoth asked.

"Twenty minutes. Can you give us that long?" Balchus asked.

"Yes." Durmanhoth replied, cutting the link. His head turned towards the hostages. He activated his vox speakers. "When the shooting starts, run out of here as fast as you can. Anyone left in here when I return will be shot." Some hostages risked a glance up at the traitor marine. None spoke a word.

"Come out and surrender peaceably, and your sentence may be reduced." The voice continued to drone from outside. The Alpha Legionnaire stalked forwards, moving his bulk out of the lobby through the massive hole in the entry that had been plowed through by the armored truck. Slowly, unhurriedly, Durmanhoth strode into view of the Arbites, each step crushing stone and clomping loudly like the steps of a god. Atop the ruined marble steps of the bank he stood, motionless.

The assembled Arbites stared at him, their disbelief an almost physical thing hanging over them. The targeting arrays in Durmanhoth's ancient armor spun over the cordon of judges, settling finally on the commander who held the mircophone of the vox horn. His visored head was magnified, his vital signs presented on the Alpha Legionnaire's heads-up display.

Durmanhoth felt the slimey presence of Heartrender in his mind, and he realized his free hand was touching the sword through the scabbard.

Are you going to kill them for me, my love? Such things you do for me.

"Drop your weapons and surrender!" The commander finally called out, breaking the silence.

Durmanhoth toggled his vox speakers to full volume. "Kill me if you can, you loyalist bastards!" The reaper autocannon attached to his right arm roared, and the killing began.

Vex seems to be a little too soft I think...Durmanhoth on the other hand does what he has to...A compelling read as always! Keep it up!

Excellent as always! I really like how you get to see how Vex thinks when he gets into the wrong ship.

This is getting more awesome with each addition to it.

"Fall on your knees,
I hear the horrid voices,
Of someone else's angels."

The explosion shook the confines of the safe deposit room, the seventh of it's kid. The chubby manager whimpered, sinking to his knees in Grayson's grip. The Black Coat closed his eyes against the gritty blowback. He hauled the manager back to his feet as the dust cleared.

"Stand up, damn you! You're too damn heavy to keep ahold of as it is!" He growled.

Balchus set his teeth, trying to shut out the cacophonous radio chatter he was picking up over the Arbites frequencies. From what he could hear, Durmanhoth was in hot battle with the judges on the streets above, and was raising serious hell. Still, as powerful as his master was, he could not endure alone forever. He stepped back into the blasted out room, hoping that this time they had picked the right deposit box. Rius stepped inside alongside Balchus, while Anders held his autogun on the corridor leading back up to the lobby.

Crushed stone and steel crunched under his feet as he stepped inside. Mangled remains of the deposit boxes that they had already tried, as well as the objects they contained, lay scattered everywhere. They were using smaller breaching charges to avoid damaging the contents of each box, but the trial and error process was taking too long. Balchus's eyes fixed on the smoking hole that had been box #22-50, their latest attempt.

"Come on, you bastard. Please be the one." He reached a questing hand into the smoking hole, and his heart sank as they found only on a handful of papers. He pulled them out, and stared in anger down at the document that read "Last Will and Testament".

"Damn it!" Rius snarled as Balchus showed him the paper. "We're never going to find this damn thing!"

Grayson frowned, the big man watching from the doorway. The mercenary smacked the manager along the back of his head, eliciting another whimper. "Tell us which one, you bastard! I know you know!"

"I swear! I don't!" The manager protested.

"You do. You know!" Rius yelled.

"Everyone be quiet!" Balchus barked. "He doesn't! We've been over this! It's almost a foregone conclusion that the rogue trader would have deposited under a false identity anyway. We have to do this the hard way."

"Even the big bastard that you got outside, that...space marine, Emperor I still can't believe that one, can't hold out forever!" Anders called from the hall. "Sooner or later the judges will get around him, and then we'll be in a world of hurt."

Balchus pulled another breaching charge from his dufflebag, choosing another box at random.

"Trust me, if you could see the fight going on outside, you'd see a world of hurt."


***********

The reaper autocannon shells tore through the air, the bark of their discharge echoing through the enclosed streets with concussive force. One. Two. Three. Four judges pitched off their feet in the first sweep of the weapon, their bodies pulverized by the massive shells. The rest sought more certain cover behind their chimeras, raising their shotguns and lasguns at the approaching behemoth. He felt nothing as he killed them. A series of targets swirled over his heads up display, vital signs showing up before he reduced their numbers to zero with torrent of controlled fire. The return-fire was negligible as the hostages from the bank swirled out around him, blocking firelanes. Durmanhoth exploited the small opening. The Arbites had lost fourteen critical seconds before they were able to return fire without harming any civilians.

Durmanhoth felt wrong. He felt utterly deprived of emotion or sensation. Even in the face of the lasrounds that burned and hissed against the terminator armor, he was possessed by a need to remove his helmet, as though the helmet itself was what deprived him of sensation. He felt that if he could smell the blood in the air, hear the weapons fire more clearly, then perhaps he would feel the battle thrill. He knew that his astartes physiology was pumping his veins full of combat stimulants, and that they were operating as intended. His glands functioned in a biological sense, but still he felt nothing.

A warning rune winked at the edge of his display. A major heat source threatened to penetrate his armor on the right side. The Alpha Legionnaire turned, identifying the multi-laser mounted atop the Chimera as the threat. Red light winked angrily from the turrent, crackling against his right pauldron. He raised the autocannon in that direction, hosing the turret with shells. The first few did little appreciable damage. Durmanhoth kept the firing stud depressed, feeling the kick of the weapon on his arm and yet feeling no thrill from it. Then the mutli-laser's barrel ruptured, spinning away. The Chimera kept firing, but with it's coolant coil sheared off the remainder of the barrel fused shut, rendering the weapon useless.

"Try harder!" He bellowed at the judges. "Cause me pain!" He fired at a judge that scurried between Chimeras. The man's visored head exploded in a red mist.

As though in reply, Durmanhoth's enchanced hearing picked out a dull thump over the cacophony of the firefight. As he turned his head to identify the noise, a krak grenade detonated at his feet. His autosenses flared in response to the blinding heat that seared before him, and his armor's autostabilizer struggled to keep him upright in the face of the grenade's shockwave. Warning runes winked, indicating armor breaches along both legs. He was dully aware of shrapnel from his own armor embedded in his right leg, enough to cripple a mere mortal. Durmanhoth shifted his weight to the injured leg, checking if the bone was intact enough to continue moving at full speed. It was.

Clinically, detached, the traitor marine continued his graceless butchery. He eschewed cover, simply striding back and forth, picking targets and pouring shots into them like thunderbolts. Lasbolts and hard slugs from shotguns punched into his armor in a constant rain, stripping and burning off the blue-green paint of his legion.

Nothing meant anything. He couldn't take it anymore.

Of course you can't.

He couldn't help himself. Durmanhoth's free hand pulled Heartrender from it's scabbard. The purple tendrils cracked and split the tactical dreadnought armor enclosing his fist, interfacing with his nervous system. Sensation came screaming into body. Adrenaline now suddenly had a distinct taste. The rush of pain from his injured leg and the chemical tang of the pain suppressants pounded through him with each beat of his twin hearts. His pupils dilated as he regarded the judges arrayed before him, and he smiled.

He smiled as the munitions impacted his body, threatening to stagger him backwards should his auto-stabilizers fail. A laugh began rising deep inside his chest. Yes. This was war.

He fired again, raking the side of another chimera. The rounds buckled and then punctured the vehicle's hull. He saw every spark fall from the ruptured steel. The kick of the heavy weapon sent thunder though his body. Durmanhoth allowed the laugh to escape his lips, and blink-clicked the disengage rune for his helmet. It's magnetic seal broken, the helmet snapped off on it's own accord, clattering to the street and leaving his face exposed to the air. Sound rushed in like water, as did the stink of cordite and the coppery tang of spilled blood.

He was alive again.

I can give you more. Show me to them.

Durmanhoth held the demon weapon aloft for the judges to see as he stalked towards the center of their line, lasbolts hitting his gorget dangerously close to his face. He felt the weapon pulsing in his hands like an organ, and felt his blood draining from his body and into the weapon. The neural interfaces in his armor confirmed this was indeed the case. The weapon was drinking his blood.

Then suddenly there was a bright pink flash, and the air was filled with the hard shriek of a disembodied voice. The voice was that of a deranged crone, and rang in the ears of everyone who looked upon the weapon.

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

The voice repeated the message again, cutting even above the gunfire, and the repeated yet again. As Durmanhoth stepped around a devastated marble column, he staggered under the impacts of a heavy-bolter embedded in the hull of another Chimera. His armor chipped away in flying ceramite shards, and he turned his undamaged pauldron into the torrent and returned fire.

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

Another voice now joined that of the crone, speaking with her in time. It was the voice of a young man, his voice accented with the High Gothic of an aristocrat. Both voices now repeated the message relentlessly in unison as Durmanhoth attacked.

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

Another warning from his mind-impulse link flared just before Durmanhoth destroyed the heavy bolter. A shotgun slug had struck a damaged portion of his breastplate. Multiple rib fractures. The pain thrilled him, and he felt himself moving at a speed that the armor should have restricted.

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

A third and final voice, that of a little girl, joined the crone and the old man. Heartrender howled the words through the currents of the warp, and Durmamhoth could see that the demon's sorcery was having an effect on the Arbites beyond mere fear. Their movements became sluggish as they sought new cover. Men stood with lasguns that had run out of charge, and rather than reload they simply stood, stupefied. Others fumbled their words as they called in reinforcements. Durmanhoth even watched with amusement as one judge pulled his sidearm and shot himself in the face, a victim of some private, subtle influence of Heartrender.

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

"Hydra One!" Came the crackling, excited voice of Balchus over the vox. "This is Hydra Two! We have the package! Repeat, we have found the package."

A lasround smacked Durmanhoth square in the forehead. Had he been a mortal, the blow would surely have killed him. As an astartes, his reinforced skull had stopped the lasbolt from injuring his brain. Instead, blinding light filled his vision as his skull fractured at the point of impact. Blood spilled down his exposed face, too voluminous to be cauterized. The pain was extreme, and Durmanhoth was flooded with sensation. His fired the autocannon blind as blood pooled into his eyes, sweeping the weapon wildly left and right.

"Hydra One? Do you read?"

"Die! Die knowing your Emperor is a lie!" Durmanhoth screamed, emotion filling every word. "Die as He On Earth is dead!"

"Hydra One, I'm not reading you. We are moving to extract you. Stand by." Balchus's voice faded as the link was cut. The words were muddled to the Alpha Legionnaire, their meaning murky, as though spoken underwater. All there was for him was the present. There was only now.

He wanted to die. He wanted to know what death felt like.

YOU MAY AS WELL KILL YOURSELF. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

His neuro-impulses embedded in his armor warned him that the ammo feed for his autocannon was nearly spent. Durmanhoth heard nothing. He moved with impossible speed, even for a space marine, and especially for one as heavily armored as he. Heartrender filled him with a celerity so unnatural that judges stood stunned as the traitor marine vaulted a heap of rubble and into their midst before they could reposition. Heartrender swept out and decapitated the nearest judge. He saw him die. He felt him die.

Another slug caught Durmanhoth in the knee, shattering the bone. The pain fueled his next blow, and he cut the shooter in half. He aimed and fired the autocannon into judges that scattered before him. He held down the firing stud even when there was no target peeking out of cover. The buck of the weapon thrilled him.

The weapon clicked empty.

Durmanhoth growled, disengaging the weapon from his armor. The reaper autocannon dropped to the street with a clatter, and now he gripped Heartrender two-handed. He was dimly aware of the sound of a starting engine coming from the bank.

His blood-filled eyes locked on the redeployed lines of judges, now taking cover between the two functional Chimeras. In the distance he heard sirens wailing. More were coming. Let them come, he thought.

Let's kill more of them.

Durmanhoth charged the line as fast as the demon's vigor would allow, snarling as incoming fire opened dozens of minor injuries all over his body. His shattered leg screamed as broken bone stabbed into raw tissue with every step. His mind-impulse link blared warnings into his brain until the damaged unit shut down completely, his armor losing power. The Alpha Legionnaire staggered halfway to the line of judges, falling to his knees. His head sagged, and as he looked down he saw the cratered mess of his armor hanging in heaps about his bleeding body.

The judges swept up from cover to finish the job.

The armored truck barreled out of the Imperial Donativum, bounding up and down as it trundled down the steps. The massive bulk of the truck skidded to a halt between the stricken traitor marine and the closing Arbites. The rear door hung open, and Balchus leaned out, aiming his autogun. He fired off a burst of shots at the surprised judges, winging one of them and causing the rest to stagger back into cover. Rius joined him at the rear door, taking potshots at the fleeing judges, his autogun bucking.

Balchus's panicked face turned to his downed master.

"Lord! Get up! Let's go!"


********

Balchus was stunned by what he saw when Durmanhoth looked up at him. His face, apart from being horrifically injured, was completely deformed. His eyes had grown to large, black pupils that filled his sockets. A large, purple tongue forked out of his mouth and licked at the air languidly, and his master smiled at him with a mania he had never seen before.

"Loyal Balchus." He smiled. "We are scourges on the Imperium. The Dark Prince loves us."

Balchus grit his teeth, never having seen this behavior, or heard these words. Still, now was not the time to dwell on such thoughts. Return fire from the Arbites banged hard off the armored hull of the truck, and Grayson was screaming that it was time to leave.

"Let's go! We have the Rampant! Remember the mission!"

The words seemed to have some effect on the Alpha Legionnaire. His manic, unnatural eyes blinked, the purple tongue moving back inside his mouth. "The mission." He repeated.

"The mission!" Balchus called back. "Hydra Dominatus!"

Durmanhoth shuddered, his damaged armor hissing as he rose to his feet again. With an effort that looked like it pained him, he returned the demonic sword to it's scabbard. "Hydra Dominatus". He repeated, his voice taking on it's usual grim tone again.

Durmanhoth of the Alpha Legion clambered into the armored truck, the modified vehicle sagging to compensate for his massive weight. Grayson gunned the engine, turning the truck around and barreling away from the judges. The traitor marine collapsed in a heap in the back of the truck. Balchus and Rius continued firing from the opened rear door as the vehicle sped away, the forboding sound of approaching sirens blaring in the distance.

Algorithm wrote:The explosion shook the confines of the safe deposit room, the seventh of it's kid.

Just a small correction there. I think you meant kind.

Anyway, very well written. Eager for more action!!!

This fiction is so great! You are so awesome at writing this stuff Algorithm.

Goddamn it, this story is amazing.

"They're sending two gunships after us!" Kylone Vex called out to Noonan. The smuggler cranked up the volume on the gunship's vox system, pressing one end of the headset closer to his ear. He heard the orders going out from the Gravus Hive Security headquarters. They were to be shot down on sight.

"Of course they are, we just killed a half dozen of them." Noonan worked the trim on the gunship, sweeping it around the avenues of the upper hive, keeping an altitude of two hundred feet above the streets at all times. The Black Coat blinked the blur from his eyes, trying to focus on the instrument panel in spite of the pain from his pulverized shoulder. Soon he knew the adrenaline would begin to wear off, and then he'd be in a real world of hurt. "How much further?"

Vex glanced down one of the three monitors built into the back of Noonan's seat. The green cogitator displayed a series of solid coordinates, indicating the point that Durmanhoth had commanded them to pick up the rest of the team. A set of blinking numbers below those indicated their current position. The numbers were close to syncing up.

"We should be on them in three or four minutes! How's the arm?"

"Piss off." Noonan snarled back.

******

The armored truck bucked wildly as is sped down the hive's thoroughfares. Balchus leaned out the back door, bracing his autogun against his hip and firing one-handed out at the pair of pursuing Arbites attack bikes. His free hand was wrapped tightly around the steel handholds within the truck's cargo area, the only bracing point that prevented him from tumbling out onto asphalt that whipped past. Rius stood with him, holding on in a similar fashion as he took potshots with his autopistol.

Their shots were having little effect, most of them pinging from the bulletproof armaglass that made up the windscreen on the attack bikes. The visored judges sped after them, each bike equipped with a built-in heavy stubber that could be fired with the press of a button. The weapons boomed, and Balchus ducked back inside the truck as hard rounds ricocheted from the vehicle's exterior.

Rius wasn't fast enough.

Balchus struggled to keep himself upright as he watched a line of blossoming exit wounds explode from Rius's back as the stubber rounds hit home. The mercenary's body shuddered backwards like an errant marionette before the momentum of the truck pitched it forward out of the hatch. Balchus heard the thump of the man's body hitting the road, and saw the Arbites swerve around the corpse before continuing pursuit.

"Faster, damn it!" He yelled at Grayson.

"I'm lucky I haven't rolled this damn thing as it is! Any faster and you can forget about turning!" Grayson barked back from the cab.

"Forget the autogun." Durmanhoth growled, laying in a pool of his own blood and holding his body upright with one massive arm. "You're wasting your time. Use the pipe bombs." The astartes kicked Rius's dufflebag across the floor to Balchus.

"Here, cover me!" Balchus yelled to Anders, tossing him the autogun. The mercenary caught it, checking the load on the mag and taking Balchus's place at the open rear doors. Anders regarded the blood spatter that lined the wall of the truck where Rius once stood, and cursed. After a moment, he began firing again.

Balchus's hands worked frantically in the dufflebag, noting that he had two pipebombs. He pressed the arming wires into both, and checked the frequency on the detonator. He ensured that the massive gold and green microchip that was the Rampant was still safely sealed in the miniature lockbox they had found it in. He pushed the box back down into the dufflebag.

"Shut up. Not another word from you." Durmanhoth hissed.

Balchus glanced up in surprise at his stricken master. "Lord?"

The astartes was glancing at the blade belted at his waist. He met Balchus's eyes with a hint of irritation. "Nothing. Kill our tail, we're almost at the extraction point.

Balchus leapt up again, steadying himself against the bucking motions of the truck, and took step after careful step back towards the truck's rear doors. The two attack bikes came back into view, and Balchus ducked in time with Anders as another fusillade of shots spanged off the truck's rear.

"Reloading!" Anders yelled, closing one of the two rear doors and dropping into a seated position behind it. As the shots from the Arbites abated, Balchus moved quickly up to the door, stepping around Anders as he fumbled with another magazine. He knew he had to be precise. If the bombs exploded in front of the attack bikes, the armaglass would deflect the shrapnel and the Arbites would most likely be spared. He had to detonate the weapons as they bounced alongside the bikes if they were to have any effect.

Without hesitating he tossed the first pipebomb, thumbing down the detonator's button as it bounced neatly between the two attack bikes.

Nothing happened.

Balchus swore. A dud. In his entire career, both as an intelligence agent for the Inquisition and as an operative of the Alpha Legion, he had only ever had two bombs fail to detonate. This was the third. What luck.

He heard the report of gunshots close by, and Balchus realized that Anders was up again, throwing open the other door once more to lay down covering fire with the autogun. The attack bikes swerved, sparks flying from the armaglass as the hard rounds bounced ineffectually off. The Arbites brought their vehicles around, lining up another deadly shot with the heavy stubbers that would probably see both Balchus and Anders dead.

Last chance,

Balchus tossed the second pipe bomb from the truck, and this time when he pushed the detonator's activation stud he was rewarded with a cacophonous thud. Ball bearings cut one Arbites to ribbons straight away, the man screaming as he toppled from his bike, his already ruined body grinding down to paste as he impacted the speeding road. The second bike swerved wildly as the driver lost control. The Arbites panicked, loosing off a string of shots as his bike careened away. Balchus made to duck back into the truck, but Grayson took a particularly hard turn at precisely the wrong moment. The operative's stomach lurched as he pitched forward towards the speeding asphalt. He hands pinwheeled wildly, seeking purchase on anything to arrest his fall. One hand caught the inner latch of the door. The door swung with his weight as Balchus tumbled out of the truck, his legs impacting the road and dragging. Balchus screamed as he felt the flesh of his legs tearing away, and he struggled to maintain his grip on the door handle. The detonator flew out of his other hand as he reached to grab ahold of some other part of the truck. The pain was unbearable, the hard material of his pants making a growling noise as it was ripped away.

A large hand clamped over his wrist, hauling him back inside the truck so hard it dislocated his shoulder. Balchus screamed in agony as he was jerked up and off the road with tremendous force. He saw the face of Durmanhoth as he was dragged roughly back into the vehicle, the astartes on his feet again, gripping his operative with one hand. The other hand clutched at a hideous wound in the giant's chest.

Durmanhoth looked down at his wheezing, agonized operative. "Your wounds will not kill you if they are treated."

"Good to know." Balchus spat through gritted teeth, fighting against the raw agony in his legs. Scraps of flesh hung from the torn clothing, blood pooling rapidly around his prone body.

"Oh, great, another steaming pile of grox crap!" Grayson yelled from the cabin.

"More bad news?" Anders asked, eyeing Balchus's wounds with trepidation.

"Roadblock ahead! Looks like three Arbites Chimeras!"

"Stop the vehicle!" Durmanhoth barked.

"We're almost to the extraction point!" Grayson argued. "Maybe I can punch through!"

"Stop the truck right now, or I'll punch through your damned chest!" Durmanhoth roared.

The truck skidded to a halt, smoke rising from the burnt rubber of it's tires. Buildings and tenements loomed all around as the battered, bullet-riddled truck came to a stop roughly five hundred meters from the Arbites road block.

"My integrated communications are damaged." Durmanhoth said, casually stooping to remove Balchus's commbead and pressing it into his own ear. "Hydra Three, this is One."

"Hydra One, this is Three."

"We're almost to the extraction point, but the road's blocked off. Maintain a holding pattern, and when things die down land and pick us up at these new coordinates." Durmanhoth spoke the coordinates quickly.

"What do you mean 'when things die down'?" Vex asked.

"You'll see." Durmanhoth replied, switching frequencies. "Dynasty, this is Hydra One."

"Reading you." Captain Devlin's voice answered.

"Captain Devlin, you are to arm lance batteries and open fire on the following ground position." Durmanhoth read off another series of coordinates. After a moment, Devlin answered.

"Lord, from what my staff are telling me these coordinates are less than a tenth of a click from your current position." Devlin replied, concern evident in his voice.

"That is correct, captain."

"There is substantial likelihood you'll be hit. That sort of precision-"

"Is why the Imperium doesn't deserve you. That sort of precision is exactly what you are going to give me, isn't it captain? You are going to show me why it was wrong for Battlefeet Cadia to pass you over for promotion so many times."

"Even if I hit these coordinates precisely, the entire local fleet will converge on the Dynasty." Devlin protested.

"Then you'd should begin warming up the warp drives also, shouldn't you?" Durmanhoth answered laconically. A period of silence followed.

"Yes lord. As you wish. Dynasty is plotting firing solutions. I suggest you hold onto something."

Never fails to amaze me...Keep up the good work

As I said earlier, I'm running out of ways to describe how excellent a writer you are.

I am not done yet and only halfway down the first forum page, but so far I love it! You are a magnificent writer that really understands the 40K background. I have been trying to write stories for 40k as well lately, and I must say I am astounded by your skill.
Lots of respect, (and a bit of jealousy) from me.
Good luck!

After a long, long, long absence, I've decided to revisit this story, and god willing, finish it. I'm sorry to those who enjoyed it. I evaporated into thin air as I wrapped up law school and began focussing on the bar exam.

In any case, writing is a hobby and it bothers me to leave a story unfinished. So for those who have previously read, thank you for picking it up again and being patient with me. For anyone who's reading this for the first time, I hope you enjoy.
Now, back to Durmanhoth. Hydra Dominatus!

You sir have won my eternal respect With this show of sheer skill, and a burning love for all 40k related Things. Well done!

More Please

Chapter Five: Old Debts and Iron Men

“An offended heart is the breeding ground of deception.”

Captain Devlin appeared calm on the surface, but his heart was pounding a furious staccato as he watched his chief gunnery officer plot the firing solutions for the Dynasty's prow lances. His practiced eyes roamed over the scrolling lines of mathematics, probing them for any error. Occasionally his eyes flicked up to check the positioning of the Imperial vessels at anchor around Yulais Prime on the sensorium's heads-up display. So far, none of the vessels had noticed the Dynasty feeding power into it's weapon systems, or that it's warp engines were spooling into stage one readiness. Such a feat required Devlin's enginseers to overcharge the ship's plasma reactors in order to power both energy-intensive systems at once, and it wouldn't be long before scanner sweeps from some of the orbital monitors picked up the energy signatures.

Then would come the hails from the patrol vessels; the questions. Then they would all die.

"Solution plotted, captain." The gunnery officer reported, though Devlin could see this well enough for himself. "On your order."

Devlin fought the wave of anxiety that threatened to overwhelm his composure, his throat feeling dry. He was keenly aware of the sweat beading his back, making his starched uniform stick uncomfortably to him. This was it. If the precision strike was miscalculated, even to a slight degree, then Lord Durmanhoth and the entire surface team would be obliterated. Though he had no love for the Alpha Legionnaire, Devlin was a military man at heart. He needed a master to serve, and a purpose to which to bend his talents. Durmanhoth was as good as any, perhaps better. His lord valued his talents, understood what Devlin was capable of. Killing him would doom the captain to a pointless existence as a corsair, nibbling at trade convoys for the remainder of his life.

"Captain-" The gunnery officer began again.

"Fire." Devlin said, setting his jaw.

------------------------------------

Vex and Noonan both shouted their alarm as the sky was rent open, seemingly by the vengeful hand of a god. The gunship's external temperature auspex array spiked, reading a temperature hot enough to vaporize adamantium as an angry read beam lit up the air in front of them. Even some three kilometers distant, the glare of the weapons discharge burned Vex's retinas and forced him to screw his eyes shut. The after-glare that burned in his eyelids preserved the image of a spear of angry red energy lancing from the heavens of Yulais Prime and striking the ground of Gravus Hive below.

"Frakking hell!" Noonan screamed, banking hard and shielding his eyes with his undamaged arm. G forces pulled hard on the pair as the craft rolled to the starboard side and the ground swirled into view. Vex fought against the dropping feeling in the pit of his stomach and forced his eyes opened, reaching a hand forward and flicking the transmit button of the vox.

"Hydra One, this is Three. Do you read?" He yelled, his eyes scanning the streets below as the gunship moved towards the last location of the ground team.

No answer.

"Hydra One, this is Three! What the hell was that?! Hydra One, respond!"

---------------------------------

Durmanhoth lay on his back, staring blankly at the roof of the rear compartment of the armored truck. He lived, and yet the aching void in his chest told him otherwise. Even as the backwash of flames licked around the truck, even as he heard the rush of burned air that followed the lance strike, he felt nothing.

Again, the damned nothingness.

His once-proud terminator armor mimicked his state of mind. What remained of it clung to his body, shattered and unpowered. He made no attempt to move. Distantly, as though it happened to another, Durmanhoth heard the mortal called Grayson screaming from the truck's front seat as the heat from the lance strike shattered the armaglass of the cab and the man was cooked by the flash burn. As though in a dream, the Alpha Legionnaire watched the gout of flame vent out from the grill dividing the cab from the rear compartment where he lay. He could smell the burning flesh.

None of it meant anything to him. His heart rate never changed.

"It worked," said a familiar voice at his side. Durmanhoth's dead eyes turned in his head, regarding Balchus as the man dragged his ragged and lacerated legs up beneath him. The operative was peering through the mesh grill, now that the flames had died down. The man was grinning, the expression on his face indicative of manic joy at having survived the impossible. "I don't believe it. Lord, the roadblock has been annihilated!"

Anders stirred beside him, his knuckles white on his autopistol. As though not believing it himself, the sole surviving Black Coat joined Balchus at the grate. "What the hell was that?" he exclaimed, unknowingly echoing Vex's words from moments before.

Vex.

Durmanhoth's mind focused, hearing the crackling of Vex's transmission again in his ear. The astartes grumbled, hefting his arm, suddenly heavy from being clad in the unpowered armor, and activated the voxbead in his ear.

"Hydra One, please! You've got to respond or we'll have to turn tail and run! There's a wing of security gunships less than two clicks behind us!" Vex's voice was bleating.

"Hydra Three, this is One." Durmanhoth growled, pushing himself into a seated position. He could feel his Larraman's Organ staunching his bloodflow, and his enhanced physiology reknitting his broken bones. He craned his head, pushing Anders aside so he could see through the truck's grate himself. A smoking crater sat where the arbites blockade had been moments before. "If you flee here, killing you will become the sole purpose of my existence."

"Hydra One, understood!" Came Vex's voice over the vox, and Durmanhoth thought he heard a bark of relieved laughter.

"Land at our position, Three. As soon as we're on board, dust off for the Dynasty. She'll be under fire as soon as she fails to respond to hails."

"Understood, One. Hydra Three coming in for extraction!"

Anders flung opened the doors of the truck, clambering out cautiously. Balchus followed, slinging the dufflebag containing the Rampant guidance system chip over his shoulder. Both men were glancing around them in amazement at the devastation they saw. Durmanhoth pushed his way to the outside of the truck, his injured organs and bones screaming as he forced his body to heft the unpowered terminator armor. He rolled his bulk to his feet as he sidled out of the truck.

Around the trio, ashes from the scorched city drifted down in lazy flakes, an eerie quiet having settle on the blocks surrounding them. The sound of Vex and Noonan's gunship approaching from the west was the only sound filling the air.

"We made it! You guys are insane! Most insane job I've been on by far!" Anders declared, grinning like an idiot.

Durmanhoth glanced at Balchus.

"Yes." Balchus replied, pulling a compact stub pistol from a holster at his belt. "Too bad you died in the firefight with the judges."

He raised the weapon and fired once, the bang like thunder in the silent, dead city block. A bloom of red blood spattered from Anders's chest, the red in stark contrast the ash grey that had settled on all else after the lance strike. The Black Coat's mouth moved as though to yell some curse, and then he sank to the ground, dead.

----------------------------

Captain Devlin waited anxiously in the hangar back of the Dynasty, watching the arrival of the gunship bearing his master. He had to be here, although he'd rather be on the the bridge in this crucial moment. His relief that Durmanhoth had survived the lance strike had swiftly been brushed aside as questioning hails from other ships in orbit had begun to assail him. He answered none of them, heading off to the hangar bay. None of the ground crew could be allowed to see the Alpha Legionnaire, and he would have to personally dismiss them once the gunship docked, ensuring none remained. As the ground crews filtered out of the hangar, the pleas from the bridge over his voxbead grew more insistent.

"Captain! Four ships have firing solutions on us! Two are actively charging their laser batteries! We have to jump!" Devlin grimaced. A warp jump this close to the gravity well of the planet was extremely dangerous, but then remaining in system was suicide. Still, Durmanhoth's orders had been clear. No warp jump would be made until he himself gave Devlin the order.

If only the bridge crew understood where they were going.

A gunshot rang out from inside the cockpit of the gunship, the muzzle flash visible in the gloom of the bay. Devlin allowed himself a grin, knowing Vex had not been looking forward to that part of the plan and relishing the smuggler discomfort. As the canopy of the gunship opened, the captain saw the dead Black Coat slumped over his control in the forward section of the cockpit, the rear of his head punctuated with a single gunshot wound. Vex clambered out of the gunship behind him, still clutching a smoking autopistol with a look of disgust on his face.

The rear ramp opened, and out stomped the massive shape of the Alpha Legionnaire. His armor was broken and fragmented about his body, making him look like a giant wearing scrap metal and bits of debris. The barbed sword was still belted to his hip. Even from here, Devlin could see that Durmanhoth had been shot hundreds of times, many of the shots penetrating the now-useless battle plate. Balchus stepped out behind him, limping on two blood-soaked legs.

"Now." Durmanhoth growled as he came into view. "Initiate the jump."

Devlin opened his vox link, speaking words that at once alleviated his nerves and filled them with fresh concern. "Navigator Grell, commence jump to Cadian relay 857, and then make secondary jump for Medrengard."

"Please confirm your identity." The storm trooper commanded, raising his hellgun in unison with his counterpart. Inquisitor Depril smiled, inwardly pleased at this show of force. Security at Vermillion 22 was of the highest concern, and few areas of the facility were more sensitive than the room he was about to enter. Both of the storm troopers standing sentry at the doorway knew Depril's face, and had seen him pass this was on a half dozen occasions. Even so, The Ordo Hereticus had insisted that everyone be subjected to the same rigorous security protocols before entering the room these two men guarded.

Vermillion 22, like many secret Inquisition facilities, did not exist. Officially it sat on an unnamed, plague-stricken world in the Faustus Sector that had been under strict interdiction for a number of decades following the Gothic War. Satellites orbited the world, broadcasting looped recordings warning that the world was under strict interdiction by the Inquisition, it's surface ravaged by a plague that would spread to anyone foolish enough to ignore the warnings. Such warning were, of course, a ruse, but in the event that such a ruse was unsuccessful, a number of orbital lasers stood at readiness to obliterate any ship that approached without broadcasting the secret Inquisition ident codes. No hail would be sent from the world in challenge, and there would be no grace period.

On the world that held Vermillion 22 like a secret treasure, security was god. Only the feral tribes that were permitted to roam the wastelands far away from Vermillion 22 were permitted to live outside this strict deity.

Inquisitor Depril had been forced to pass a dozen such checkpoints, and at each one he had been subjected to increasingly complex security challenges. At one, he was required to recite a passphrase to a bank of gun-servitors. At another, his palm print was scanned and cross-referenced with the Ordo Hereticus database. At yet another, he was subjected to a swab of his cheek, and his DNA was analyzed. Here, at the final door leading to his most secret chamber, he would be subject to voice identification.

One of the storm troopers keyed a series of buttons on a data pad adjacent to the massive blast doors leading into the secret room, and after a moment, the device beeped.

"Inquisitor Argus Depril," the inquisitor spoke clearly for the recording devices. "Head of Taskforce: Nightfall, Ordo Hereticus."

The datapad beeped again, and after a moment a banging sound filled the dank corridor as the lock disengaged. As soon as the door unlocked, both storm troopers saluted the inquisitor, and left the area.

None but Depril was permitted to see what lay in the chamber beyond. He waited until the sound of the storm troopers' boots ebbed to silence, and Depril rearmed the security protocols as he stepped through the doorway.

Inside, the weapon with which Taskforce: Nightfall was dismantling the Alpha Legion sat in one corner. The figure was massive, robed, and hooded, with only his mouth visible in the half-light of the chamber. The room was filled with wards on the wall to dampen any psychic eavesdropping on the figure's mind. Aside from a tray of untouched food on the floor, and a drain-edged trough in which the figure eliminated his body waste, the chamber was completely bare rockcrete.

The figure sat with a massive tome on his lap, reading with interest as he always was when Inquisitor Depril beheld him. This was his source, his secret font of information. He knew that some of his colleagues in Taskforce: Nightfall were lobbying the Ordo Hereticus for the closure of the project and the reassignment of all involved, but as long as the masters of his order kept Inquisitor Depril as head of Taskforce: Nightfall, that would never come to pass.

"You've come back." The figure said, his voice barely more than a whisper as he turned the pages of his treasured tome. "Which means you've run into another dead end."

"Only when viewed from a pessimistic perspective." Depril replied, suppressing his irritation. "Taking apart the Alpha Legion grows considerably more difficult with each new success. They are more deadly when operating in smaller units, we both know this. The difficulties I am encountering are directly correlated to my successes. Four cells in this sector have been completely stamped out, and with them seven Alpha Legionnaires and dozens of their operatives. Only Durmanhoth remains. The last Alpha Legionnaire to rot this sector."

"You must act quickly to bring him into the light and eliminate him," the figure said. "You and I both know that if you tarry, he will found new cells, and in time, he will share what he has learned with the rest of his scattered brothers."

"You don't need to lecture me. I came for information." Inquisitor Depril sighed, pushing his spectacles back up his nose. "Where is the connection in these events? Let's review what we know. We know he was first encountered acting in an individual capacity during the mutant uprising of Ghast Secundus, and he may have even supplied the EMP to the rebels that destroyed the hive's response capabilities. He was captured following the rebellion, and psychic interrogation yielded little in his mind outside of his name, which he alternatively believes to be Alpharius and Durmanhoth."

The figure nodded. "Like the others, identifying themselves as the primarch to outsiders. Not as a mark of pride, but to confuse, as I've told you."

"Then the prison ship bearing Durmanhoth is, by means unknown, compromised. Durmanhoth escapes leading a band of other traitors and heretics. He is then sighted in the Maelstrom zone, and reports conflict on his activities there. Following this, he establishes contact with the cells operating in this sector, and Taskforce: Nightfall adds him to the list of targets marked for elimination."

"And he would have been." The figure adds. "Were it not for the misplaced loyalty of your man Balchus."

Depril set his jaw.

"Damnation is his just reward." Depril replied. "His defection effectively guaranteed Durmanhoth's evasion of our sector-wide purge. Since that time, what do we have? We have the raid on Armillo North, and the extraction of Kylone Vex from the facility. And now, this." Depril pulled a sheaf of papers from the sash at his waist, waiving them irritably. "The relay in this system just communicated this message from the Ordo Hereticus Segmentum Solar command: reports of a giant in green armor participating in, of all things, a bank robbery."

"The method?" The figure asked.

"Simultaneous explosions targeting civilians throughout the hive city where the bank was located. Within the window of the local judge's response time, the robbery was commenced. Details were expertly planned and brought together, including a financial scheme involving accounts believed to be connected with known associates of Alpha Legion cells."

The figure nodded. "It was Alpha Legion. How do you know it was him?"

"Security footage of "my man" Balchus in the bank lobby."

The figure nodded again, adding nothing.

"But this attack," the inquisitor continued, "took place far from the Faustus Sector. I am unsure how to find the trail again. Give me something to use."

"I cannot." The figure replied.

"You cannot?" Depril replied, setting his jaw. "Your information has led to the dismantling of substantially all Alpha Legion operations in this sector. And now, with one Alpha Legionnaire remaining to complete the purge, your use to me is at an end."

The figure's mouth curled in grin. "No. My use to you is about to reach it's full potential."

Depril frowned. "Explain yourself."

"You ask me to connect these events for you, but the Alpha Legion excel at making events seem unconnected. The legion is unpredictable in the extreme, you know this. But, there is one aspect you can count upon. They know when they've been compromised, and they act when compromised."

Depril began to smile, starting to understand. "And so..."

"And so, however he is going about it, whatever his methods, Durmanhoth knows that someone has compromised operations in this sector. He will come to you, inquisitor, because he is coming to kill me."

"Do you know where we are?" Durmanhoth asked his inner circle, sitting in his customary place in the strategium.

"Yes, lord." Captain Devlin answered at once, straightening in his chair to hide his discomfort.

Balchus nodded, his face dark. "I do, yes."

Vex looked around at the other men at the table, perplexed. "Well I don't!"

The transit through the warp had been fraught with danger from the start. The Dynasty had jumped within the gravity well of Yulais Prime, causing extreme physical forces to pull jealously at the vessel in it's last moment in real space. The sub-orbital monitors in the system had begun to open fire, pounding the Dynasty's meager void shields and overloading them almost immediately. Macrobattery ordnance and lance strike had stitched across the hull of the vessel, raking away tonnes of adamantium and steel with each hit. Ratings and menials had gone spilling into the void as Captain Devlin had activated fire suppression protocols, which amounted to little more than halon gas and venting of entire deck levels.

The jump itself had ripped a ragged hole in the line of the in-system vessels. As the gateway into the warp opened, most of the larger tonnage vessels had been able to divert full power to their drive systems and pull out of the crushing, other-worldly force that pulled them towards the rift. At least two vessels, both of them frigates like the Dynasty, were significantly closer to the rift when it opened, and possessed less powerful plasma drives. As a result, the vessels had been pulled into the warp with the Alpha Legion ship, but unlike the Dynasty, they had been unable to power up their gellar fields in time. None on the bridge had any doubt that two imperial vessels had suffered an unspeakable end.

The Dynasty itself had been badly damaged. Torn between the gravitic forces of Yulais Prime and the hungry gulf of the warp, the very bones of the ship and been twisted and rent. Whole decks had been exposed to the void in those last seconds, killing thousands of crew members. Those deck levels were now silent tombs, and the Dynasty operated on a skeleton crew.

The first jump had taken them to a well-used smuggler's route at the edge of the Cadian Gate. Known as the Finger of Horus, the narrow strait ran far from Cadia itself and avoided most of the in-sector defense systems. However, such a route was narrow in the extreme, and required both expert navigation and a fleet that numbered no more than 3 vessels. It was one of many such routes that the forces of Chaos used to launch small-scale raids into Imperial space from the Eye.

Once the Finger of Horus had been traversed, the Dynasty had made a second jump into the Eye of Terror itself.

Durmanhoth gave Vex a withering look. Months had passed during transit, and in that time his enhanced physiology had repaired substantially all of the injury he had sustained in Gravus Hive. Scar tissue knotted his head where the las round had hit him, and with his hood back, all present in the strategium could see that the normally taciturn astartes was especially stern.

"I'll state it plainly then, since I doubt any of you fully comprehend where I've brought us." Durmanhoth pressed a button in the hololith projector at the center of the table, and the three dimensional image of a planet stained by swirls of pollution filled the air. "Medrengard. Adopted home of the IV Legion, the Iron Warriors. For the time being, we are at best tolerated guests."

Captain Devlin nodded. "Scarcely even tolerated, if you don't mind me saying so, Lord Durmanhoth. The orbital space around Medrengard is littered with heavily armed gunships. As soon as we exited the warp we were targetted by every vessel in range. Only stating the code phrase you provided made them stand down.

"And even then grudgingly." Durmanhoth added. "Half of the captains of those vessels would destroy use at the slightest annoyance. The Iron Warriors are more organized than my legion, but they are still a loose confederation at best. None of those commanders, either in orbit or on the world below, are answerable to one another. The phrase I gave you is an identifier, given by the Iron Warriors to those whom they owe a debt. I've come to collect on that debt."

"What debt?" Vex asked, trying not to get mired in all the details he scarcely understood. Balchus winced.

"What did we say about questions?" Through a combination of skin grafts and tissue replacement surgery, the operative had mostly healed during the journey much like his master.

"Well, with all due respect, to both you and," Vex nodded deferentially at the imposing form of the astartes, "I was promised my freedom after the operation on Yulais Prime. You'd be free of any questions from me if I'm set free."

Captain Devlin laughed. "You're free to take a shuttle down to Medrengard and be on your way if you wish. It's a daemon world you know, they all are this far into the eye. Maybe you'll find a nice person down there? You never know."

"That's not what I mean." Vex snapped angrily. "You have the Rampant. I gave it to you gift-wrapped. The fact that I'm here, in this strategium, means you plan on using me somehow. I don't want any part of what's being planned here."

"Enough." Durmanhoth barked, leaning forward and peering at Vex. For a moment, Balchus thought he could see a glint in his lord's eye, an echo of the evil he had seen overtake him during the firefight on Yulais Prime. "I'll speak very plainly for you, and you can consider your options. I plan to treat with one of the lords of this world, and if he keeps to his word as I believe he will, he will be giving us resources. Upon receiving what I need, I am turning this ship around and heading back into Imperial space. I have one last blow to deliver the Imperium before my work is done. You will aid me in this, or I will ensure that you come to regret your indolence."

Vex set his jaw, lowering his eyes in the face of Durmanhoth's fierce gaze.

"I know what I told you, mortal, but my mission comes first. Death to the False Emperor! That aim always takes precedence. In the face of that dream, your freedom, even my own life, means less than nothing to me." Durmanhoth stood from the table. "But in the event the Iron Warriors decide to simply kill us and take this ship, at least we can all meet our ends on our feet, here at the edge of Hell."

Warsmith Helvetico allowed himself a cold grin, watching his old ally enter the bridge of the Bane of Empires. It had been decades, and he was surprised to see the Alpha Legionnaire was still alive. He supposed he shouldn't be, it was his way.

Helvetico was commander of the Iron Warriors 14th Grand Company. He was in many ways an oddity within his legion. Even for an astartes, he was a giant. The Warsmith stood tall in the ancient suit of terminator armor that had originally belonged to his master. The necrons had cut Warsmith Vasco down nearly a century before, and Helvetico had broken with tradition by challenging Vasco's lieutenant for the position. As a sorcerer, Helvetico was normally outside the decidedly short line of succession, but that hadn't stopped him. He had been Vasco's Lord of Magisters, and tradition had never halted his ambition before. Helvetico had torn the would-be successor apart and forbade any of his Grand Company from ever speaking his name again.

His outright refusal to play the political games of Medrengard made him odder still. Rather than maintain a mountain stronghold on the daemon world like most of his contemporaries, Helvetico and the 14th Grand Company had taken up residency within a massive space hulk seized from the greenskins. The Bane of Empires looked to be a massive collection of wreckage and detritus, but was in fact a technological marvel made a reality by the Dark Mechanicus. On the Warsmith's insistence, the space hulk had been heavily modified so that the hundreds of weapons systems of the hulk's component ships had been integrated and slaved to the will of a vastly intelligent data-daemon. The daemon, called Antithesis by the Warsmith, was in turn his slave, and so he was the undisputed master of a hulk bearing the firepower of an entire fleet.

He allowed a crackling spark of fire to escape the confines of his powerful mind, snaking up the force staff that he held in one gauntleted fist. His grin turned into a sneer as he spoke.

"I wonder what force it is that preserves you, Son of Alpharius." The Warsmith growled. "Every time I hear rumor of your death, I come to find them misinformed."

Durmanhoth stopped just short of entering the half-light of the bridge's forward command dais. At his side stood Balchus, both of them robed, their faces obscured. Durmanhoth wore his armor beneath the robes and Heartrender was belted at his waist.

"No force preserves me. I look to my own preservation." He replied, bowing his head in respect. "Warsmith Helvetico, my thanks for honoring me with your time."

"I honor my oaths, as should all of my legion." Helvetico grimaced, casting a knowing glance to his bodyguard. Three terminators stood protectively in the chamber around their master, their heads helmeted. If they saw the look, they gave no sign of it. "Great Perturabo despised Horus, you know. He only followed him because of his oath. I owe you a debt. Your talents were most useful to me, all those decades ago." The Warsmith pointed a figure at Balchus. "Who is that flesh-thing at your side?"

"My most capable operative." Durmanhoth answered, not elaborating. Balchus gave a respectful bow.

"I'll never understand you, Durmanhoth." Helvetico said, his lip upraised in a snarl. "Using flesh the way you do. They are valuable as slaves, sweating and toiling in our manufactora, or at best clearing mine fields." His head turned to Balchus. "Flesh, do you know what game you play, working with one such as Durmanhoth?"

"With respect Warsmith, I follow my orders. I fight the Imperium without question." Balchus replied, his voice surprisingly calm.

"Let me tell you a story, flesh. Four decades ago, when the Despoiler's crusade was in it's opening phases, he charged Durmanhoth's brothers with overseeing the arming of several greenskin warlords in the Scarus Sector. They were given old bolters, weaponry and ordnance the legions no longer needed or wanted; weapons that were beneath an astartes. These aliens, loathesome as they are, were sent in as a massive distraction for the Imperials to deal with. The Alpha Legion were also instrumental in guiding the greenskins by disabling key points of Imperial resistance, ranging far ahead of the xenos horde and clearing the way.

"One of the worlds the greenskins ravaged contained a secret Imperial weapons depot. I led the 14th Grand Company there to break the depot's defenses open and steal what lay within. It was there that I met your master. He and his brothers were at work there, trying to steer an increasingly unruly warboss into attacking a nearby airfield. Instead the warboss attacked the Alpha Legion, and their rampage nearly broke the siege my warriors had set up three kilometers to the south. The Alpha Legionnaires were slaughtered, all except Durmanhoth. He escaped along with the rest of my Iron Warriors, and spent the next decade helping my Grand Company in our wars."

Helvetico took two paces forward, his eyes like red hot pools of iron as he spoke. "The moral of the story is this: Durmanhoth survives. In the years he fought for me and in the years since, it is always the same story. Durmanhoth survives, and he is the sole survivor. Not even his brothers in the Alpha Legion stand, what hope do you have? You will soon be dead, little flesh."

Balchus said nothing, averting his eyes.

"Ordnance, men, and one of your warpsmiths." Durmanhoth said, penetrating the uncomfortable silence. "That is the price I require for satisfaction of your oath. I need a missile capable of intercontinental launch from a static, land-based position. I need a platform from which to launch it. The missile is to be fitted with one of your best anti-bunker siege warheads. The blast radius must be a minimum of one kilometer in diameter. I need thirty Iron Warriors to swear an oath to you to fight for me unto death. Finally, I need a warpsmith capable of retrofitting the missile with a complicated, unique guidance system."

Helvetico's steely grin returned, running a gauntleted fist over his chin as he considered Durmanhoth's terms. "What are you up to, Son of Alpharius?"

Durmanhoth did not return the grin. "My endgame. Thousands will die."

Helvetico laughed, the sound booming and unpleasant. The Warsmith's dark gaze fell on Balchus again. "Durmanhoth survives. Remember that."

Damn, is that it!
These chapters need to be longer, for they end far too soon.

Chapter Six: We Avenge

"A fire in the master's house is set."

Shulta sniffed at the sky, weighing it's quality in his nostrils, tasting it's new metallic bite on his tongue. The chieftain had tasted similar before, when the men from the Forbidden Lands had come to them in years past. That had been a harrowing time for Shulta and his people, and a sterling reminder that the servants of the one true god were harsh messengers. He remembered that day in vivid detail, taking place in the early days since he had taken charge of his tribe. The steel dragons had come that bore the men from the Forbidden Lands. Each of these men had examined his people in detail, claiming that The Emperor, blessed be his name, desired their continued purity as the price for their existence. As Shulta knew had been the case in the past, several of his tribe had been taken away in the steel dragons, and vanished into the sky.

Whatever became of them, they never returned.

Now it appeared that a second harrowing was upon his people. The steel dragons had appeared again, though they differed in shape. Where before they had been a series smaller, sleek beasts of burden, now there were but two. These new dragons were much larger than Shulta remembered, and more muscled in their appearance. The steel dragons in days past had borne a different sigil as well, that of the men from the Forbidden Land. These new ones bore a sigil that Shulta did not recognize: that of a many-headed reptilian beast.

The steel dragons from days past had also come from the horizon, hailing from the Forbidden Lands. These new dragons descended from the heavens themselves. Seeing their arrival, Shulta had ordered the tribe's shaman to cast the runes and advise him on what such a new visit might portend. The shaman's divination had only revealed a single concept: fury. Thus it was with trepidation, Chief Shulta had departed the relative safety of his village with the tribe's elders and a handful of the hardiest warriors from his people. Shulta wore the traditional green paint on his face, signifying submission and openness. He had ordered his warriors to keep their spears and nets holstered unless he ordered otherwise, and Shulta himself wore a simple tunic of tanned hide rank-signifying totems.

He would show strength to those the steel dragons bore to them, but also submission.

The first of the steel dragons landed on the plains before Shulta's delegation, the breath of the beast causing the earth to burst into gouts of flame. Shulta dropped to a knee, and his entourage joined him in his show of deference as the beast's mouth opened, and figures stepped forth from the open maw. His eyes downcast, the chieftain's keen ears heard a single set of massive footfalls moving towards him, coupled with two smaller sets. The footsteps grew closer, and Shulta heard the second steel dragon continuing to circle above.

"Look at me." A thunderous voice commanded, it's timbre deep and resonant, yet devoid of emotion. Shulta complied instantly, his eyes rising to regard the giant before him.

Clad in a massive set of blue-green armor, painted in a scaled pattern that reminded Shulta of stories of the sea beasts of old, the giant glowered down at him. A large, ridged helmet was clamped to the giant's belt beside a sword of cruel lines. The figure's bare head was bald and heavily scarred, the eyes utterly empty. The figure was nearly twice the height of Shulta's largest warrior.

At one side of the giant stood a man who looked like one of the men of the Forbidden Lands, in that he was closer to Shulta's height and bore technology beyond the grasp of his tribe. He was robed, and regarded Shulta with something like calm curiosity. At the other side stood a figure as large as the giant in green, his armor painted the color of unrefined iron. His size was exaggerated by monstrous, inhuman limbs that rose from his back and more closely regarded the tentacles of a squid than human appendages. The appendages whipped at the air as though bearing a mind of their own. This figure's head was helmeted, and he looked down at Shulta with malevolence through orange-tinted lenses.

"Great lords of the Forbidden Lands," Shulta began, forcing will and courage into his voice. "My tribe is open to you. our purity and faith in the Emperor remains unbowed. Any among us that you find unworthy, we give to you willingly."

The multi-armed giant laughed, a hard, cold sound. Shulta suppressed a shudder, realizing without the need for words that this one loathed him.

The giant in blue-green took a single step forward, standing close to Chief Shulta and kneeling down to his level. The giant brought his eyes almost level with the kneeling chieftain, and Shulta saw ancient intelligence there.

"I have come to bring you a terrible truth, loyal servant of the Emperor." He said, his face betraying no emotion. "You are deceived. We are not of the Forbidden Lands, as you call them. We are holy ones, chosen of the Emperor, and we come from the heavens themselves."

Shulta's eyes grew wide. "Tell me, holy one! What can we do for you? What sacrifice does the Emperor demand?"

"The men of the Forbidden Lands have turned their backs on the Emperor. The One True God has sent us here to destroy them."

A gasp escaped the elders that knelt behind Shulta. The chieftain's mouth grew dry at the revelation. How long had he and his tribe served the pretenders in the Forbidden Lands? Decades? The depth of betrayal was almost too much.

"Angel of the Emperor, how may we aid you? How may we shrive ourselves of our sin, of our ignorance in following those the Emperor hates?"

"I came here to give your tribe a chance at salvation. I came here, and death comes with me." Shulta saw the second steel dragon landing behind the giant in green. Other giants disembarked from it's open mouth, their armor painted in a similar fashion as the multi-armed monstrosity that glowered down at him. "I want your tribe, your entire tribe, to fight alongside us. We, warriors of heaven, have come to bring you to the Emperor's salvation at long last. We will destroy the false men of the Forbidden Lands."

"Our lives are yours!" Shulta cried out, and his elders echoed their agreement. "For the Emperor! Tell us, great one, what shall we call you?"

"I am Alpharius." answered Durmanhoth.

The Alpha Legionnaire had arrived on the unnamed planet bearing Vermillion 22, secret facility of the Ordo Hereticus.