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With the confident swagger of the untouchable sadist, Ramsae stomped forward toward the bound wolf and gripped his lank hair in an iron grip. He pulled his prisoner's head back violently, causing the wolf to grit his teeth, his eyes wincing at the sudden pain. The light became jarring in his eyes as the winged helm of the Night Lord filled his vision. The grotesque helm and it's burning lenses stared down at the shackled Astartes, small wisps of air escaping its swollen mouth-grille, the armour humming with barely restrained energy. Ramsae's granite voice dribbled forth like a sick plagued miasma, poisonous and painful to hear.

"Oh I could never forget you, my precious little wolf. Not when you have so much to sing to me yet. Your song intrigues me and I could never abandon you before it is finished"

The wolf grinned cruelly at his tormentor, a gleam of defiance bright in his eyes.

"You know I've yet to sing anything worth hearing Ramsae. Unless you want to hear more about your lineage as a whoreson and weakling whelp. I've plenty to say about your cowardice and ineptitude you worm"

The helm froze momentarily, a shudder running through the hulking warrior. The Wolf had realised early on that Ramsae was easily goaded with petty insults, usually ending in pain and broken bones. Ramsae however relinquished his grip and casually walked to the rear of the cell, his footsteps receding behind his victim. Juda stood impassive and still as ever, his eyes averted form the grisly proceedings.

A black, damaged cabinet dominated the wall at the rear of the cell, and arrayed within was a dizzying collection of blades, knives, crooked wires and flensing tools. Each one was blackened with old gore and detritus, some lined with bodily grease and tattered hair, others still lined with thin strips of human flesh. Ramsae passed his hand over them leisurely, like a merchant perusing wares at a summer market, a connoisseur deciding upon which fine vent to sup upon on a fine evening. He leisurely picked up a long, twin-pronged spiral blade nearly the length of his forearm, it's length twinkling in the dim light. Usually used to hollow out the hides of cattle for roasting, it doubled in the hands of the Night Lord as a particularly gruesome torture tool. He chuckled as he approached the crouching prisoner once more.

"I am well aware of my heritage Little Wolf. We sons of Curze are whoresons all. I have no illusions of grandeur or high honour, unlike you and your petty wolves. What would your jarls think of you now, kneeling in a pool of your own gak and piss, begging us lesser legions for your life?"

With a blurred flick of his wrist, Ramsae brought the blade to the Wolf's eye, hovering just above it, the threat of its advance hanging on a hairs breadth. The wolf did not flinch, his eyes fixed on his tormentor, fierce pride shining under his shaggy mane. His response was a defiant snarl.

"All that is true barring one thing, Night Lord. I've never begged you bastards for anything. No Son of the Rout ever has. I can forgive your small memory and idiocy I suppose"

The armoured Night Lord laughed, the sound spilling form his helm as a cough of heavy static. He stood straight again, removing the blade from his prisoners face and toying with it between his heavy gauntlets. It appeared as a child's plaything in the over-wrought hands of the traitor Astartes. He turned casually, his voice light with grim mirth.

"Today is different I feel my friend, today you will finally sing me that song I have been hungry for. You'll tell me everything I want to know and then you'll beg me to kill you in the end to remove the pain of your dishonour"

The wolf cocked his head as a curious bird might, his greasy locks falling across his face.

"And why is tonight so special whoreson? You finally find the stones to leave your mothers teat and stand like a man for the first time in your miserable life?"

Ramsae was about to reply when his cohort answered instead. Juda's voice was softer than his brothers, less severe and bile-ridden, and a hint of some slight emotion coloured his words. The Wolf couldn't pick it out accurately, but it was somewhere between recourse and exhaustion.

"We are due to make high warp to a gathering of our kin, cousin. My brother is concerned that he will need to hand you over to his betters before you relinquish your secrets..."

Ramsae turned slightly in annoyance, his tone murderous.

"Watch your tongue Juda...don't make me find a new plaything in your innards..."

Juda nodded his head, less in deference and more in relinquishment. This seemed to be the core of their relationship the Wolf had noticed: Ramsae was all talk and violence, throwing his weight around and revelling in the little cruelties he inflicted. Juda was more reserved and quiet, and never joined in the violence. Indeed, several times he had actually stopped his comrade and reigned in his barbarism. As to why the Wolf did not know, but it frequently felt like the smaller Astartes was tired of the barbarism his colleague indiscriminately inflicted. The Wolf had noted this, and when his hopes of escape were still high he would wonder if he could use the other mans timidity to his advantage.

But now hope was in small supply, and all the Wolf had left was his defiance.

Ramsae returned his attention to his victim, and began a slow, deliberate walk around him. His metallic footsteps echoed around the small cell. When he spoke, it was to his fellow Night Lord, although his eyes were relentlessly fixed on the Wolf.

"Remind me Juda, what do we know of the Little Wolf so far? Where did his song with us begin?"

This was a tired part of the game Ramsae chose to play: having his subordinate repeat what they knew of the Wolf, and then threatening violence for more. It would be tiring if not for the pain that always accompanied it. Juda nodded once more, and from the movement of his head, it was clear he was viewing information on his helm display. He had said the words many times before, but still he accessed the official record out of habit.

"As you know Ramsae, we happened upon our esteemed guest eighteen cycles ago. We happened upon his vessel crippled within the Eye and limping out of Medrengard Space. The vessel was clearly not his own, and wore the pennants of the IV Legion..."

"limping away from the Iron Warriors" Ramsae's attention returned to the chained wolf, "curiouser and curiouser"

Juda nodded in agreement.

"Indeed. Our friend was blazing to the Cadian Borders of the Eye broadcasting a Fenrisian Distress on all channels. He was also alone...all we found on board the vessel were corpses and questions"

Ramsae crouched low beside the Wolf, and arched his head next to the prisoners ear.

"And thus we come to the question again my friend...what were you doing on Medrengard? What drove you to that hovel of suffering and iron?"

He brought the blade up once more, it's edge serrated and glinting.

"What secret did you discover on the white world? What discovery did you make that sent you calling out into the black for any of your kin? What have the Iron Warriors been hiding down there?"

The wolf sighed, seemingly exhausted and nodded sadly.

"Alright Ramsae...I'll tell you..."

He paused, the silence expectant and full. He leaned slightly closer to his tormentor, drawing his mouth closer to the bestial visor.

"Your mother's virtue...that's what they're hiding down there..."

The wolf spat a heavy glob of phlegm into the helm of his enemy, and the sticky fluid smoked slightly as it ate into the paint of the helm. Ramsae rose up with a furious roar and gripped the neck of the wolf in his monstrous gauntlet. Juda made a step forward as if to stop him, but then stopped himself.

"Mongrel gak! I'll teach you some damn respect!"

With a violent movement, part stab and part slice, Ramsae brought the blade up quickly into the wolf's face and tore out his left eye in a fountain of blood and tear fluids. The wolf barked and choked in pain, his face alight with pain and tension, his bloody orbit lying on the floor in a pool of fluids. It stared up accusingly and bloodshot, lying impotent and discarded upon the hard patina below.

Ramsae raised his foot and stomped on the mucousy orb, stamping on it until it was a fine pink paste upon the floor. The Wolf's breathing came in short sharp gasps, his eye socket aching and sharp. Ramsae shoved him backwards, his muscles protesting against the heavy chains, old scars and bruises welling up once more. His body fought furiously to stem the pain and adapt to the removal, but he was old and in very poor shape. He let out a pained growl.

"You bastard...you'll pay for that"

Ramsae turned away casting the bloody tool to the floor, making to leave the cell in frustration. He was muttering furiously under his breath, his words lost in an incoherent rage. He sliced his hand sharply in a silent order and Juda began opening the cell door to his master.

Then, for, the deepest dredges of his pain, the Wold noticed a numbing hum building in his head. It started quietly and built in intensity, almost as if the removal of his eye unlocked a door and the noise was now pouring forth. It was different from the noise of pain and the eventual silence of unconsciousness - this was something altogether more powerful.

The Night Lord's seemed not to notice the approaching crescendo and the Wolf winced at the peculiar sensation. A golden light entered his vision and a sound almost like a soothing voice hovered in the periphery of his perception. It told him to open his eye, to open his true eye and see.

When he opened his remaining eye, a new sense of clarity fell upon him and a golden glow suffused his sight. Ramsae had already stormed from the cell, a petulant child bored with the toy he had broken and Juda was preparing to close it once more. The wolf found his voice, a voice that was both his and not his, and what he said stopped the Night Lord in his tracks.

"Your name isn't Juda..."

The Night Lord paused, and looked at the wolf


"I know who you are, your name is Abraham."


The Night Lord's hands trembled slightly and when he spoke it was with genuine emotion: awe, surprise, fear.

"What? What did you call me?"

"Your name is Abraham...and you have hidden for too long"

Juda stood stock still, frozen before the cell door, the words of the Wolf pinning him to the spot surer than any quirk of gravity ever could. When he spoke his voice trembled, his tone somewhere between curiosity and paranoia.

“How do you know that name Wolf?”

The Wolf nodded his head solemnly, his hair and beard dipping slightly, unsure himself of how he knew the answers but the words coming unbidden anyway.

“I know much about you. I know your name is Abraham Drangspear, third son of the Drangspear Line, ancient noble house of The Gala P’Gos Peninsula. I know you were given to your Legion as child, your head full of noble ideals and goals. I know you have lived since the dark days of your Legions fall from grace and I know you have hidden ever since.”

Coming fully into the room and closing the heavy cell door behind him, the Night Lord paced quickly toward the Wolf and knelt quietly. He removed his helm with a gentle twist and hiss of atmosphere, and the face underneath was surprisingly noble and handsome. He shared the paleness common to his Legion, his eyes like orbs of midnight water and his hair close-cropped and black as jet. He shared a broad, almost equine aspect similar to the Wolf, but his face was much more angular and less obviously brutal. His mouth was downcast and his brow heavy, and without the static baffling of his helm his voice was like a stream of ice water, cold but not harsh.

“You know nothing Wolf, you don’t know who I am…You don’t know what I have done!”

The Wolf leaned forward, a savage smile breaking his face, his one eye gleaming.

“I know you were not born of Nastromo…I know you are Terra-Born, something your brothers do not know”

Juda glared angrily into the face of the wolf, before slumping, defeated. He slid back, sitting roughly in front of the prisoner his head hung low. Silence fell upon the pair, the Wolf and the Night Lord, and when Juda next spoke he could no longer hide his weariness.

“I am so tired cousin. You must think that humorous: the monstrous Night Lord tired of the war”

The Wolf nodded, more in sympathy than any agreement.

“The war is not what you are tired of Abraham, we both know what it is that ails you”

Juda, who was Abraham, looked up, his eyes softening, the weariness apparent on his face.

“Then tell me cousin, tell me what I am tired of…”

The Wolf breathed in and closed his eye. The golden light that suffused his mind pulsed and memories and images came to him from the light, memories he couldn’t possibly know but now did. They were viewed from afar, like a great eagle watching form the skies. A consciousness, more complex and vast than any the Wolf had ever known suffused him and brought the words to the fore.

“You are Abraham, born of Terra. When the schism came and your Legion sided with darkness, you and your brothers fought on the side of the Emperor. You and five hundred of your brothers, Terran and Nastromon alike, took up arms against the Usurper and stood for the defence of the Throneworld against the wishes and design of your Father and Brothers.”

Abraham, who had once been Juda, nodded.

“Aye…they were dark days, but the choice was obvious. We owed our existence to the Throne, and we would die to see it safe. The choice was an easy one.”

The Wolf smiled in agreement, and continued, his voice getting stronger and clearer the longer the story was told.

“But then the War came to Terra and you and your cohort were at the other end of the galaxy, fighting traitors wherever you found them. You employed the fear and subterfuge your Legion had bred into you against the enemies of the Imperium.”

Memories came to Abraham, memories of a time long ago. He remembered leading his brothers, the Cohort of the Umber Throne against the forces of the Arch-Traitor Horus. He remembered glorious battle and purpose. He remembered slaying Iron Warriors on Tannus, breaking through the cult-lines of Alpha Legion on Fornia XI and supporting Blackshield Companies in a shadow campaign against traitor-Mechanicum forces on the vassal Forge-Realm of Gilineaad. His purpose had been clear.

“But then you met your Legion once more…”

The memories soured. The wider Legion was fractured, a hollow picture of its former self. His Primarch was missing and his former Brothers had fallen to petty barbarity.

“What did you do when you happened upon your Legion once more?”

Abraham looked into the Wolves remaining eye, and felt guilty tears prickling at the corners of his sight.

“We hid…we ran…we chose not to fight”

“You couldn’t bring yourself to fight your brothers, regardless of how far they had fallen, so you took the path of least resistance”

It was not a question. It was a statement, harsh and utterly honest.

“We couldn’t fight them. They were many and we were few. They were our Brothers.”

“They knew you were no longer loyal to their cause and pursued. Many of you perished. Few survived. How did you survive Abraham?”

The silence fell once more, the air leaden. Abraham had never spoken of his survival to anyone, not even those he knew remained hidden as he did. When the words came, it was as if a great burden was lifted.

“Our ships burned in the heavens. Dozens of them boiling into the void. My brothers were dying on both sides. Sevatar, the cold bastard, had sent terror-squads in to kill us personally. They wanted to watch us die and skin us where we fell.”

Abraham shook his head, the memory clearly sickening him.

“One happened upon me within the vessel. He was young, a Neophyte, a brother I had never met before. It was clear he was brought in early on in the great betrayal. He was raised in the hatred and blackness that had descended upon my Legion. He looked at me like a cut of meat, and with a maddened desire he charged me.”

Abraham looked up, guilt wracking his noble features.

“I ran him through with my blade, I ended his life. He was young and full of potential, he simply found a wrong path…I looked at his broken body, his cold dead face and realised my chance.”

He rose to his feet, his shoulders straightening slightly as the confession came.

“I took his armour and pennants and made them my own. Very few in the parent Legion knew me by sight, so to fade away into the character of another was easy. I killed my way off the ship and embedded myself into one of the satellite warbands. Ramsae and his ilk are vain and callous, and always keen for new cronies and sycophants. Embedding myself into his service was easier than you might imagine…”

The Wolf’s mouth tightened as he responded.

“So you chose not to fight but to hide within the belly of the beast. A single grain of sand moving against the tide. The name of Juda is very fitting.”

Abraham sighed, no defence coming to the fore. Before he could speak again the Wolf continued.

“But you have not been idle in your long years with your kin. Small acts of sabotage and kindness have been hidden in your duties. Prisoners released under the attention of your Lord, locations of Imperial Colonies removed from ships systems, mercy granted to those you could not save”

“You make these things sound like things to be admired. I am a coward cousin, you can say it. For every life I save or spare, hundreds more are destroyed by the sadists and monsters I call brothers. I hate them for what they have become, I hate them for their petty hungers. And I hate myself for allowing it to happen…”

The Wolf shook his head.

“You are simply lost Abraham, not a coward. You have been fortunate these long years, your Lord seems to take particular joy in fighting his fellow traitors and you have been able to fight for the Throne in your own, distorted way. Still, you have much you need to atone for”

A new trickle of coppery blood dripped form his abused eye socket and the wolf shook his head to remove it. His voice had changed, more powerful, less haggard and with hints of a new accent underneath.

“The time for hiding is over Abraham. A great change has come to the Universe and all loyal sons and daughters of the Throneworld must stand in the Light or let darkness prevail.”

Abraham sneered, but there was no strength in it. He had been exposed and laid bare and his conviction was waning.

“How do you know these things Wolf? What can I possibly do to atone for centuries of inaction?”

The Wolf fixed him with his remaining eye, and he felt the Golden Light within fill him utterly. His conviction was iron-shod and his certainty complete.

“I am not a Wolf cousin. My name is Wodin, skjald and winter-seer of the Lost Companies. You will help me return to Fenris and I will share with you the secrets I found on the White World of Iron.”

A sly grin lit up Wodin’s face.

“And I will give to you the certainty and purpose you crave…”

Oh this is very good. When you had the Alpha Legion rescuing the human psyker I got excited and bought a few Alpha legion mini's. Now I want to buy some Night Lords! Forgeworld loves you and my wallet hates you.

DarthDiggler wrote:
Oh this is very good. When you had the Alpha Legion rescuing the human psyker I got excited and bought a few Alpha legion mini's. Now I want to buy some Night Lords! Forgeworld loves you and my wallet hates you.

Awesome dude I love this kind of response. Sorry about your wallet though!

Dude this is amazing.

Another great couple of posts. Just a couple of things I think it's 'Sevatar' rather than 'Sevetar'. And when the wolf loses his eye you've written 'It stated up accusingly' should that be 'stared' rather than 'stated'?

Also there's only one other thing I'd say and I 'ummed and erred' about writing this, as there's no way I could do what you're doing and I really do think it's a great. But I don't like 'Ramsae' and I think it's because the name and the way he acts smacks me as too 'Game of Thrones' . Don't get me wrong I know the Night Lords would torture people, and I know we all take influences from somewhere but I think the fact he is called Ramsae just strikes me as too obvious. If you're not a GoT fan and it's just a coincidence then great. But for me all I could actually picture was the GoT character and I'm sure you'd rather people have more of a mental picture of the character you're trying to create then from the TV show.

But in the end I thought you'd rather people tell you their thoughts as if you're anything like me, people are always looking for ways to improve.

Please don't take this the wrong way, looking forward to the next piece.

thanks

TommyBs wrote:
Another great couple of posts. Just a couple of things I think it's 'Sevatar' rather than 'Sevetar'. And when the wolf loses his eye you've written 'It stated up accusingly' should that be 'stared' rather than 'stated'?

Also there's only one other thing I'd say and I 'ummed and erred' about writing this, as there's no way I could do what you're doing and I really do think it's a great. But I don't like 'Ramsae' and I think it's because the name and the way he acts smacks me as too 'Game of Thrones' . Don't get me wrong I know the Night Lords would torture people, and I know we all take influences from somewhere but I think the fact he is called Ramsae just strikes me as too obvious. If you're not a GoT fan and it's just a coincidence then great. But for me all I could actually picture was the GoT character and I'm sure you'd rather people have more of a mental picture of the character you're trying to create then from the TV show.

But in the end I thought you'd rather people tell you their thoughts as if you're anything like me, people are always looking for ways to improve.

Please don't take this the wrong way, looking forward to the next piece.

thanks

Thanks for taking the time to read dude. Fixed those errors you pointed out, Autocorrect can be a real pain in the bum sometimes.

As for the name, you caught me. All writers do it, it's the reason names like Elvis, Gabriel, Jonah and Ahab are used so often, they immediately conjure an image. I must admit, it was more Ramsey as he is in A Song of Ice & Fire rather than GoT, but I did use the name to evoke an immediate image. It's probably some selfish catharsism on my part as well, considering I know what's going to happen to him in my story

But still thanks for taking the time dude hope you'll keep reading

Hey I know, GW themselves aren't exactly always original when it comes to names! I think it's just because the show's back on and it's so 'current' that he's all I could picture! Don't worry I will continue reading, as I say I think you're a great writer and I could never do what you do conjuring up the imagery and setting with your words.

I've read all the Song of Ice and Fire books myself, wished Martin had gotten round to finishing the latest book before the series overtook him but hey ho, I'm sure as a writer you're probably more sympathetic to him than most!

The moment hung between them both: The wolf with a single shining eye of gold, black-pinned and heavy with knowledge, and the Night Lord, with darkened eyes of doubt and ages-long pain.

Abraham had hidden for centuries, quietly working against his own Legion from the shadows, but never as overt as bravery demanded. His guilt hung heavily upon him each night as he stared into the black. He would tell himself in his more painful moments, that he was still an instrument of the Emperor’s Will, waging a quiet war against those he despised. But with clarity of thought he always realised it was not enough. Sometimes he wished to don his old armour, its form pure and unsullied by the trappings of madness, and fight his way to Alvante in his throne room and tear his black heart from his chest. He would imagine himself dying in a blaze or righteous glory, dying with the Emperor’s name upon his lips and His will within his arms, taking as many of his black-hearted traitorous kin with him as he could.

But always cowardice would seep back in the night, and he would continue his small sabotages as if they meant anything in the great scheme of things.

The Wolf knew these things. He knew that all Abraham required was a guide, a sign pointing him back to the right path. His eye beseeched in the dim cell, and he opened his mouth to speak once more as the heavy cell door ground open on hydraulic gears and suspensors. Abraham turned in panic, seeing the slow heavy door rumble open. He turned to Wodin, returning his helmet to his head and whispered in a static-laden hiss.

“Be still. Say Nothing”

Abraham slipped into the shadows at the corner of the cell, his midnight armour blending with the inky, sodden darkness. The lenses of his helm dimmed into nothing and Wodin lost sight of his would-be ally in the gloom.

The metallic door boomed open and Ramsae stormed in once more. The larger warrior stood silhouetted against the glum light outside, his head scanning the chamber. His voice crackled from his helm in a furious baritone.

“Juda? JUDA!? Where in blazes are you, you swine-stain!”

He took a ponderous step into the cell, his every movement aggressive and confident. His helm hove to and fro, its burning irises drinking in the room. But still he didn’t see Abraham, his camouflage complete in the dull haze of the room.

Ramsae approached the Wolf, standing tall above him, his armour glowering and buzzing with a machine growl. He grunted impatiently.

“I appear to have lost my subordinate Little Wolf, how unfortunate. I don’t suppose you have seen him?”

The hulking warrior drew a long, blackened punch-dagger from his belt, easily the length of a human femur and brought it close to Wodin’s face. A dark chuckle left the Night Lord’s grille.

“Is he still in here with you, hmm? Maybe here for some private sport?”

With one armoured paw he gripped the back of Wodin’s head and grasped it tightly, bringing the punch dagger back threateningly.

“Can’t have him enjoying my plaything before I’ve had my fill...”

The blade drew back, the servos of the armoured gauntlet tightened and Wodin grit his teeth as a monstrous cry filled the cell and Abraham launched himself from the shadows to bodily tackle Ramsae. They collided with a teeth-shattering bang, armoured plates and connectors protesting harshly at the violence. The punch-blade went to the ground with a glassy staccato, and the two Night Lords struck the metal ground with a throaty scrape.

Ramsae spun under his former brother, an incoherent bellow on his lips as he brought his right fist up to choke Abraham. His left punched and punched and punched into the smaller mans sides, the cell becoming of a sonic forge of hammer blows. Abraham, though slighter, fought all the harsher bringing his hands down in open-palmed strikes to Ramsae’s helm. He forced his enemy down bodily, using his own weight to pin Ramsae to the floor.

Ramsae however had not risen to command through weakness, and the bulky Astartes brought his upper body up sharply and cracked his helm off Abraham’s with a heavy tolling. Abraham flailed backwards, his helm dented and useless and struggled to pull it from his head. Ramsae rose from the floor, spitting blood from his mouth-grille, his right lens cracked and useless. He turned with a snarl upon his smaller brother.

“Finally worked up the stones to face me coward! After all these years, you finally snapped?”

Abraham pulled the twisted metal from his face and cast it aside, his face riven with sweat and fury. His eyes blazed at finally fighting his twisted commander, finally bringing him to call for all the gross indecencies he perpetuated in their long existence. He yelled furiously as he charged across the small room, bringing his fists down in a two-handed hammer blow that smashed hard into Ramsae’s shoulders.

The bigger man rode the blow, wrapping his great simian arms around his opponent. With all the strength that his genetic heritage and powered armour lent him, he hoisted Abraham inches above the ground and hurled him heavily across the cell. Abraham sailed, his course whistling and with the sound of meat breaking under a hammer he impacted into Wodin. The Wolf was cast violently aside, his bindings shattering form the ceiling above him with a whip crack. The Wolf went to the floor, his head smashing into the cell wall, a grunt of agony coursing through him. The room swam and his mouth tasted foul and coppery.

Abraham attempted to stand, his legs like jelly and spine in burning pain when Ramsae was upon him once more. The maddened Astartes gripped Abrahams throat in his heavy gauntlets and crushed down, spit and blood foaming from his helm. He cackled wildly as Abraham struggled beneath him, the blood leaving his already pale face. The smaller warriors eyes rolled back and he gasped for air, and Ramsae brought his helm closer.

“I always knew there was something wrong with you weakling! You’re no Astartes! You’re a mewling whelp. You’re nothing but meat for cutting...”

The room grew dark for Abraham, his eyes burning as tears pricked under the assault. It could not end like this. Not now...

With a bellow of unbound rage and the crack of petal being parted, the blackened punch dagger cracked out from the front of Ramsae’s throat, blood boiling form the wound and splashing onto the choking Abraham. The sadistic warrior’s hands left his victim and went to his throat, a frothy gurgle escaping him. The dagger pulled out violently, a spray of gore splashing up the wall with furious pressure released. Abraham tumbled backwards, his lungs greedily drinking down air in great gulps.

Ramsae tumbled, his hands pawing uselessly at his butchered neck, his teeth cracking as they worked wordlessly in agony. A shape hove’s into view, indistinct in the billowing pain as Wodin pounced once more, the punch-dagger in his fist and a look of vengeance upon his grinning face. The dagger strikes once, twice, three times more into the Night Lords side, the sound of bone and meat parting singing a swan-song for the doomed man. The dying warrior tries to speak, but the pain saps all energy and as his eyes dim he hears his last sound.

“Like this you bastard...not bound, but as equals. This is how real warriors fight...”

And with a blood-frothed gasp, Ramsae dies, his throat torn and his inside streaming onto the cold ground.

“Not like butchers...”

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

Wodin helps Abraham to his feet, the Night Lord rubbing his throat gingerly. His face is pitted and bruised, but already his Astartes physiology is repairing him. The swelling will fade, the bleeding will stop. He takes the Wolf’s hand gratefully and rises shakily. Wodin nods, the sticky blade still held proudly in his fist. He gestures to the twitching corpse of Ramsae, quietly bleeding on the floor, the pool of blood steaming in the cold air.

“Does this mean you will help me cousin?”

Abraham spits onto the floor, a bloody wad of phlegm splashing messily to mingle with the blood already pooling there. He looks up at Wodin, suddenly so clear in his purpose.

“Aye...I will help you Wodin. I need...I need to do this. For the memory of my Legion and for my years of disservice”

Wodin nods in understanding, a proud smile cracking his haggard features.

“And for Him on Earth cousin. I will show him I am still loyal...”

First Epilogue


The great crystalline image shifts and warps constantly, its insubstantial form like wisps of atomic smoke in a murky haze. Tracers of electric blue swirl and coalesce into forms of pleasing geometry, whilst orbs and splashes of delicate colour and partial haze scatter the great image, reams of iconography and hieroglyph stretch in gentle curves around every item. The great holographic projection dominates the chamber, itself a mighty hemisphere several stories high and brimming entirely with crystal clear water. The walls appear clothed in ancient stone, carved with ruins and images of a time long past, but nestled in plain sight amongst them lurks high technologies of a bygone age, tiny emitters no thicker than a human hair but capable of relaying vast, holographic constructs like the one dominating the chamber, tiny pearl crystals acting as foci for mental powers of staggering scale, tiny, coral-like tubes that filter and clear the huge volume of water within the chamber.

The cold blues, whites and greens form a roving tapestry of information, staggering in its complexity and beauty, swimming through the perfect blue in pleasing curves. Three dimensional and circular, the hard-light edifice depicts a galaxy, gently curved and spiralling, and within swim myriad systems, planets and singularities. Every detail is included, so complex and intricate that life appears to teem on the graphical orbs.

The information swims and bobs before three colossal beings who float in repose in recesses set into the walls of the great hemisphere. Each one seems completely still and devoid of life, the illusion betrayed by the slight flurry of bubbles that issue from fleshy tubes lining their throats or the occasional, slow movement of their black, dish-sized eyes. Ropey, muscular tendrils issue from their torsos, swaying and basking around their supine forms, the gentle currents issuing forth into the great construction of photons and light, lending the holograph an almost mystical air. Beads of air-filled bubbles cling to their mighty forms, their lower tendrils hanging far below, pooling on the stone floor which appears as an inverse tropical pool, green moss and lichen dusting its rippling base. The great hologram reflects in its depths, appearing as a starry sky upon a blue ocean.

The silent watchers are blueish in complexion, their skin rubbery and moist like a porpoise, appearing bloated and glistening in the pale light of the holographic galaxy. They float gently as if in intense concentration. Faint flickers of power and sparks crackle through the moisture around them in sympathy with their thoughts, great tentacles snaking away into the stone walls, gently swaying in the current. Across their rheumy chests lie gangly arms easily the length of a man, reptilian and alien all at once. Terminating in great hands bearing long, multi-digit fingers each, steepled in a prayer-like clasp. Small tics of movement ripple under their slack skin, blood flow creeping through ancient veins, feeding a great swollen head sat upon a sunken neck. A nest of feeder tendrils hang in imitation of a bushy beard, and underneath yawns a viscous beak, opening and closing in a facsimile of breath.

Despite their hideous appearance, each of the creatures hides in its depths a mind of the most beautiful complexity, a biological supernova of neurones and synapses feeding thoughts beyond the ken of any mortal. To these creatures, the lives of men, orks, tau and Eldar are fleeting ephermal things, no more than a quiet sigh in the endless song of eternity. These creatures strode the stars when they were the only ones to stride them, and watched with quiet pride and endless curiosity as the young species took their first faltering steps into the light. They are the first of all psyonics, the greatest of psychic kind, the oldest of the ancient kin.

These three are also the last of their kind, hidden away in the dark corners of the universe, awaiting a time when they might rise again.

They have watched the universe for a millennia, since the fall of their great plan and since their siblings and spawn burned in a furious war of the heavens. They have silently and patiently influenced fate from the borders of existence, watching new plans and schemes grow as a vine consumes an ancient tree line. And now plans they set in motion eons ago are suddenly crumbling before them.

Scarlet stains of painful crimson scar then massive hologram before them, illustrating where the endless tides of then Primordial Enemy have spilt into the realms of the real from the infernal realm. What has triggered this sudden cataclysm can only have one source, and now they pry into the ether to ascertain the cause.

They have always known this doom would come, but even still, a shudder of surprise runs through their mighty, blubbery bodies.

A sphere of holographic light warps and flickers in the great display, before solidifying into the shape of an alien face. Insectoid and chittering, the face is constantly in motion, mandibles clacking and antennae twitching in staccato rhythms. It bows to the great ones who acknowledge its presence with little more than a gentle sigh and focussing of their black-pinned eyes. It's voice is a gibberish, clicking and clacking with a shuddering palsy. It's language is a screech, the sound of nails upon concrete. The creatures reclining beneath it lack the auditory organs to understand its words, but their powers of perception go far beyond such base needs as language.

"Oh high ones, blessing of xathxsi upon thee. The many mouths of the many mothers and fathers sing your blessings."

The creatures respond in kind, their bodies and mouths remaining still, their minds singing in unison out across the voids to the mind of their messenger.

Dispense with the pleasantries Ma'lcrau, we know you bring grim tidings before us. Speak.

The being known as Ma'lcrau shudders in supplication and obedience. It's tone, if one can be discerned amongst the inane chatter, rises in speed and pitch.

"It is as you had foreseen oh mighty ones. The Deterrent has perished. The Father of the Mon-keigh has passed into the aether."

An imperceptible nod mars the stillness of one of the Great Ones. Another closes its eyes in an approximation of sorrow, translucent sleeves of flesh sliding horizontally across its eyes. One voice booms across the light years, causing Ma'lcrau to flinch.

Can this be verified Little One? How have you come to know this?

"The Cabal of your servants has proved this veracity through operatives within the Palace of the Deterrent. Everything you have foreseen has come to pass. The Mon-Keigh nation will fall to turmoil."

A shallow gasp shudders through one of the ancient masters, the closest it has come to surprise in its epoch-spanning life. Tracers of luminous light run down its spine, like a deep sea rhythm with its thoughts.

Will fall? It has not already?

"No my Lords...the underlings of the Deterrent have hidden the death from their subjects. The core of the Mon'keigh empire remains standing, for now."

The Masters go silent momentarily. Ma'lcrau is used to this. The quiet colossi before him commune with each other, their minds linked in a way that mortal specials will never know. In the realm of the mind, the Masters are without equals, and the passing of moments in this world is many years worth of communication in the hallowed minds of the masters. They will have discussed every possible outcome from this moment in the time it takes Ma'lcrau to breath. When finally they speak, it is not to him.

Sha'ariim! Come!

Another hazing of light in the great holograph creates another figure of blue and green, many miles away from the insectoid chaos of Ma'lcrau. Lithe and gentle, with curved deep eyes and pointed ears, dark hair and skin unblemished and porcelain, the newcomer is named Sha'ariim and she is one of the Eldar species. Ma'lcrau has always privately despised The Eldar, they who failed before and in their decadence fuelled the horrific strength of the Primordial Annihilator. These thoughts are hidden from Sha'ariim, private to all but the masters. When she speaks, it is in the lilting tongue of her people, all song and sorrow.

"Greetings my masters. I am surprised by your call. I had not expected to 'flect with thee until the next new moon. The operation with the young ones continues as planned"

Circumstances force our hand child. The fates of all are in peril. The Master of The Mon'keigh has passed and the fate of all and none rests upon a knife edge.

The Eldar pauses, absorbing the knowledge.

"That explains much...the Mon'keigh that were in combat with the young ones had suffered an staggering malaise that I found quite perplexing..."

That is understandable: The Deterrent was intimately linked to his species, much like we are with you all. The racial sorrow they feel is a byproduct of The Deterrent's power. It is also one of their greatest weaknesses...

"But My Lords, you designed them that way did you not?" Chatters Ma'lcrau, his bladed limbs shuddering. "You made us all like that"

Yes Ma'lcrau, we did, but to link to us, to you all...we never planned for that connection to be hijacked by a creature such as their Emperor...it was an unforeseen circumstance of their vitality.

The Eldar nods.

"I remember...you did approach him once, offering him a place in our Cabal. He declined in the most pragmatic terms."

He did not need us at the time. If not for the Ruinous Powers corruption of his sons, he would have never needed us. But now he is dead and his people will slip into death and despair.

The Eldar sneers, her beautiful feature marred by contempt.

"Well then let them die, they have caused enough misery and horror in their stupidity. Let them die and rid us all of their idiocy"

A tremor runs through one of the ancient masters, photoreceptors in its whale-like skin reddening in sympathy with its frustration. It speaks as a parent to an unruly child.

We cannot child. If mankind dies to the Primordial Annihilator now, we all perish. It is not like it was in the old times. Mankind holds they key to the universes survival. If they are to die, the must die in the correct manner.

Another voice sounds, another Master.

You are to cease your doings on Hul'shadaam and make all haste to the centre of the Mon'keigh empire. Gather the Cabal. Gather the faithful. There is much to do.

"And what of you my Lords?"

We will be with you soon...it is time for the Universe's First-Born to return to our home.


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

And that's it for Part One folks hope you've enjoyed so far

Awesome, awesome stuff!

I'm really looking forward to the updated and up to date PDF version now!

Amazing work as always, Alas, as Necrons have always held a special place in my heart, I can't help but feel disdain once my eyes fell upon "Old Ones"

 King Pariah wrote:
Amazing work as always, Alas, as Necrons have always held a special place in my heart, I can't help but feel disdain once my eyes fell upon "Old Ones"

I'm sure the good old Necrontyr Empire will have something to say as well

Ladies, Gentlemen and Faithful Servants of the Emperor, thanks for your patience.

Book One of The Death of the Emperor is now available as a PDF via my Dropbox below

https://www.dropbox.com/s/kqvnwiug17octny/The%20Death%20of%20the%20Emperor%20-%20Book%20One.pdf?dl=0

To give you an idea of how monolithic it's become: over 100,400 words, 194 pages, sixteen chapters. All put into a PDF for easy consumption!

Super-glad to have it done and dusted, means I can start working on Book Two now Thanks for reading guys, you've made this an absolute pleasure to write and create.

Also, added the PDF to the contents post as well!

Cleared the thread cache, and that looked like it fixed the issue!

Good to see the collected PDF is here - thanks!

Made a very slight change to the initial post on the lead up to Book Two

The Eye is silent.

It pulsed weakly in the pale blue sky, its usually angry scarlet dulled to a burgundy smear on the otherwise clear morning. Birds sung in the rain-hazed forests and clouds flitted peacefully in the sunlight. Green hills rolled outward to a forest of lush emerald, thick and unyielding like a wall of fir and leaf. A city of grey steel and concrete basks in the sunlight, its streets unusually quiet in the morning haze. In the distance stand noble peaks and further still dazzling oceans of blue and cerulean. The scene is played out across the world, and if not for the ever-present stain on reality above, it could be considered tranquil.

But the Eye is always monstrously noticeable, such a cosmic error could never be easily hidden: it ran across the edge of the horizon like a false sunrise, its bitter image a constant reminder of the horror that dwelt within. It stretched obscenely across heavens, like a hasty and angry smear on an otherwise beautiful painting. The world suffered its presence, a cancer growing from the reality above.

But it no longer screamed and buzzed with a funerary dirge, it no longer vomited terrors the like that mankind trembled in fear from in an endless celestial parade of grotesquery. The people below, usually plagued by Nightmares and visions of ruin, slept peacefully in the cool nights and paid it no mind in the hazy days. It hung in the sky limp and blistered, its fury seemingly abated for the time being.

Augurs and Long Range Telemetry Discs poured their vision into the hated scar, satellites and psy-scryers still poked and prodded with radio waves and exotic radiation to ascertain when the next attack would come, but not with same urgency as was normal. They seemed almost lazy and calm in the face of potential attack.

The next attack always came, went the old adage, there would always be a next attack.

It was never a case of if. It was a case of when.

When the hateful creatures and denizens of the dark realm would sally forth in an endless tirade of butchery and bloodshed. When the people of the green world would take up arms and throw the hateful monsters back to the hell from whence they came.

When the noble lands of Cadia would once again shudder to the sounds of gunfire, death and screams. It was a certainty borne of centuries of grinding attrition and butchery.

But in recent times, there was nothing.

Something had changed: The Eye hung silent in the sky, its fiery glut now a pale shadow of its former ruinous glory. No raiding parties screamed from it, no haram of unearthly beasts formed in its hell-light. It was barren, the birthing of its horror seemingly silenced.

Cadia’s commanders had maintained the world on a high alert status out of experience, for to drop ones guard was to invite ones enemies into the fortress. The great macro-cannons and star-battlements still aimed their monstrous strength into the horrific phenomena, the grey and green fleets of the Cadian Defence Fleet still ringed the sector in a colossal wall of iron and engine. But a malaise had fallen upon the world, a soul-deep certainty that something had gone awry in the universe beyond.

At first, the people of Cadia stared up in suspicion. Their world, and the worlds linked to it formed what the Imperium referred to as the Cadian Gate, a scar of stable, real-space matter that punched into Eye of Terror, the greatest and most persistent Warp Storm in mankind’s history. They were mankind’s shield against the horror that lurked within, a bulwark against the formless terrors that called the warp storm home.

But the monsters no longer came, no armada or swarm crawled form the cancer above.

Suspicion turned to fragile hope. Then hope became despair.

If the terror beyond no longer flooded the Cadia Gate, might it have found another route into the Imperium of Man?

What use is a fortress when the invaders already prowl within the walls?

The idea was a persistent one, a cloying viral image that festered and grew as it was considered. Might the forces of Chaos have skipped the steel wall of Cadia all-together and found another real space route in which to vent their fury?
Might mankind’s resources and military might now be focussed in the wrong place.

Situations like these had occurred before of course, the waxing and waning of the Eye of Terror being like the stages of a moon. In these events, Cadia’s armies of Astropaths and Sanctioned Psykers would contact the Imperium at large to ascertain the likelihood of attack elsewhere. Many times a ploy by The Despoiler would be foiled by this net of communication.

But no word was forthcoming from the Imperium. No word was forthcoming from the Throne-world. No word came from anyone
.
At first it was suspected to be an enemy ploy, a damping of Cadia’s communications networks in preparation for an attack. A new Black Crusade was in the works, said the Old Generals, mark my words. The Despoiler is coming! It seemed a rational assumption that the enemy would try to usurp interstellar communications.

But when the Astropathic Choirmaster of Cadia was consulted, she espoused an altogether different view. It wasn’t so much that their messages weren’t reaching their destination, it was that the destination was no longer there. When they employed their witch-sight, the glorious beacon of the Astronomicon was curiously absent form view.

It was as if the rest of the Imperium was no longer there.

The Lords and Masters of the Green World bent their resources to unlocking this puzzle, using technology and Astropathic arts to lift the veil and re-cement communication with the Empire. For weeks, the Choirmaster and her kin poured their power into the heavens hoping to find a hint of the Homeworld.

Weeks turned to months, and months bled into a year, and still the Imperium and the Eye were silent. There were no enemies beyond and no allies either. It was as if the Universe at large had simply ceased to exist.

Cadia was alone, and this terrified her population more than any horror they had faced before.

The council chamber erupted into furore once more, several raised voices shouting and demanding for attention but finding nothing but hostility in return. Verbal attack and riposte echoed across the vast, hemispherical chamber, and many a scowl and barred teeth painted the faces of those within. Fists are slammed upon tables, a quill is broken in an angry grip and the honour of maternal parentage is called into question. It is like a rowdy school yard dressed in finery.

The Cadian High Council Chamber had often been a place of harmony and singular vision, but over the recent passage of time it had become one of dissent and disunity.

The grand vaunted windows fill the room with pale morning light, and motes of dust floated in the glare from the opulent crimson curtains that lie open to the morning. The walls are deeply lacquered wood, stunningly brown and well-cared for, and a forest green carpet coats the wide floor. A heavy stone circlet dominated the room, a wide pale table in the heart of the chamber, its circular body heavy and careworn. Its central mass was hollow, and within crouched a sprawling growth of projectors and cogitators, above which hovered green holographic screens and three dimensional representations of planets and galaxies. A grand chandelier of ruby and emerald hung form the high ceiling, and above that a sumptuous fresco of angels and demons locked in a sprawling combat.

Around the table sat twenty four men and women of high standing and noble birth, with only four seats remaining empty. A twenty ninth seat, more vast and regal than the others, sat at the head of the round-table. Carved from onyx and gold, its proportions quite outside the scope of a regular human being, it sat empty. Draped upon it; a regal flag of red silk showing the raptor of Terra, and upon this sat a laurel of gold. The throne was ever empty, and represented the Master of Mankind in his long absence. Even empty it dominated the room with its quiet, unyielding form. It demanded respect from any who debated in this chamber.

Although respect is something lacking from the twenty four who currently inhabit the chamber. Usually stoic and conservative, the men and women gathered here shout, scream and spit at each other like drunken louts in the hazy death of the evening. Some stand and point threateningly, others sit haughtily, their noses held up in disdain. Others grip the table in a vehement frustration, while some brood quietly, their hands steepled before them.

It has been a year since their world lost contact with the Imperium at large, a year since the Eye last screamed at their world. Events have gathered pace and now they must meet to decide the fate of their people. They have all entered this room with their own agendas and own wants. The strain is starting to show, and flared tempers and angry retorts are all too common, even to these Lords of Cadia.

They have all met for one reason: To ascertain the fate of Terra and the next steps that Cadia should take.

The gathering is not going well.

Brilliant writing - I am once again in awe of your work!

“ORDER!” bellowed the adjudicator, thumping his iron staff into the marble floor, “MY LORDS, WE WILL HAVE ORDER!”

The delegates still stood, arms flailing in mad accusation and voices raised in complete disarray. Some addressed the room, others focussing their ire on individuals. Some looked sheepish as the adjudicator called for calm, sitting sullenly in the noise. Pandemonium was too soft a word for the vitriolic noise filling the chambers. The adjudicator slams his cane down once more and raises his voice above the delegates.

“IF WE WILL NOT HAVE ORDER THEN THIS CONCLAVE IS OVER!”

Most of the voices dwindled to solemn grumbling, others a sly hiss of irritation. Most took their seats, some leant on the table fists balled into white angry stones. The adjudicator looked over the gathered Lords and Ladies, his steely gaze that of the strictest scholam master and pointed with his staff of office. It was two thirds his height, and carved with iron symbols of Cadia’s laws and achievements. It was the High Staff, and in the Conclave it was a potent reminder of purpose.

“You are the masters of Cadia, Lords and Ladies of The Gate. Please compose yourselves as such. I and the High Lord will not tolerate another outburst.”

The adjudicator nodded to the aged gentleman beside him, who sat silent and brooding at the right of the Throne at the head of the table. The symbolism was clear: this old man, this aged Lord with his grey, thinning hair and wrinkled jowls, was the Right Hand of the Emperor on Cadia. The old man’s face was a weathered fist, all lines and age, and his eyes though grey and fading possessed a steely strength common to all born in the face of unremitting war. He demanded utter respect in his silence. The Old Man nodded in reply and the adjudicator continued.

“Thank you My Lord...Mistress Gase, please continue with your report”

From the opposite side of the round table a woman stood wrapped in robes of white gauss and gentle silvered chains. She seemed utterly delicate, almost like frost thawing on a spring morning, and she radiated a cold quite at odds with the ambient temperature. A white sash marked with a a golden eye wrapped around most of her head, hanging loosely behind her back and trailing on the floor behind her. Despite her obvious blindness and seeming frailty, she lacked neither for sight nor strength. She was the Master of Astropaths on Cadia, a powerful messenger and psychic, and when she spoke the gathered Lords listened.

“Thank you Adjudicator Melchior. As I was saying before that minor interruption, I am afraid I bring grim tidings form the Choir once more. We have again been unable to pierce the veil that dwells about our system. The Warp is quiet and melancholy, but our sight cannot pierce beyond the edge of the Gate”

A cough issued from an extravagantly dressed general to the left of the Choir Master. He rubbed his bushy moustache without thought and when he spoke the faint traces of a fine Terran accent could be heard underneath.

“I take it there has been no word or contact with the Throneworld then?”

“Sadly Lord-General, no there has not. Once again the Choir cannot even see Terra let alone contact her...”

With a harsh squeal of metal upon stone, a heavy-set man in the uniform of Cadia’s admiralty stood suddenly, his fists balled in accusation. This wasn’t the first time he had interrupted proceedings.

“What use is your witchcraft and bone-shaking then Gase!? Terra has not simply vanished, your coven simply isn’t trying hard enough!”

Another seat screeches and a willowy ancient wrapped in silks of deepest mauve and blue rises. A tight fitting hood of silver wraps his bearded head, covering his forehead. His spindly limbs wave in aggression like a witch-doctor lost in a psychedelic stupor.

“The Navigator House of Temiel will not stand by and allow you to ridicule our cousins from the Astropathic Choirs Admiral Blaire. Your long-standing mistrust of the subtle arts is not why this conclave has been called!”

“Trust you Temiel, to stand with your witch-kin siblings! Why haven’t the Navigators been able to see Terra? Or the Astronomicon? Your friends from beyond finally abandon you?”

“The Navigator’s art does not work like that Blaire, or are you too stupid or arrogant to remember that?”

Utter pandemonium follows. Every Lord and Lady is suddenly on their feet. Accusations fly, old rivalries explode. The adjudicator looks to the Old man who scowls in frustration. He raises his staff, ready once more to call for order when the doors to the chamber suddenly boom open, filling the chamber with light. All voices are silenced as a single set of footsteps marches into the room.

The new arrival scans the room, violet eyes drinking in the scene. A sabre and heavy pistol sit upon the newcomer’s belt and a well-worn cape hangs at their shoulders. Their hair is shoulder length and neat, their uniform has seen action but is not untidy and a smirk of confidence paints their face. The gathered officials are suddenly po-faced and silent. The newcomer bows lightly and speaks clearly and with a voice that is used to having its orders obeyed.

“My Lords, please accept my humble apologies for my lateness, I had urgent business in the Southlands, damned insurrectionists keeping me from all this loveliness...but I am pleased to see you chose to start without me.”

Standing straight once more, and with eyes now suddenly furious, Lady Castellan Amanda Creed, high master of Cadia’s armed forces and Defender of the Realm demanded their attention and compliance.

“And now if you’re done squabbling like spoilt children, we can discuss how we are going to renew contact with the Homeworld”

More! More!

I always enjoy your writing Dark Lord Seanron.

Creed marched toward the round table, her every step deliberate and pronounced, her boots sounding like a snare off the polished floor. The nobles averted their eyes from her approach, complicit in their guilt of excluding the Lady-Castellan. She was a savannah predator coasting through the room, her poise confident and her eyes afire with purpose. She considered them one by one, daring them to rebuke her, challenging them to question her authority.

They did not.

The gathered lords and ladies, masters of men and commanders of untold resources, quailed at her advance. Their combined influence could swallow star-systems and end worlds, could launch crusades and defend sub-sectors, but they knew to whom they paid deference. They knew who Cadia truly followed.

When Creed spoke, Cadia listened.

When Creed commanded, Cadia went.

For all intents and purposes, Creed was the will of Cadia.

And at this moment, Creed and Cadia boiled with frustration at their indecision.

Only two amongst the gathered nobles seemed unbowed by Creed’s presence: the Adjudicator, master of proceedings, nodded respectfully and ushered the Lady-Castellan to her seat alongside the Great Throne.

The other was the Old Man, who smiled warmly at her approach. She paused next him, and lowered herself to one knee. When she spoke, it was hushed, quiet and with genuine warmth.

“Sorry I’m late, I came as soon as you I could”

The Old Man nodded and placed a gnarled hand on her shoulder, gently and parental. He leaned forward with effort and kissed her gently on the forehead. They looked into each other’s eyes, eyes so alike it was uncanny. The gathering sat in reverent silence, not daring disturb this moment. The Old Man cleared his throat and whispered.

“It is good to see you Mandy”

She grasped his hand and squeezed softly. A smile ghosted her lips.

“Thanks Dad…”

Rising again to her full height, Creed turned on the room and cast away all softness and light. Again, she was the Commander, the Conqueror, the Castellan. Her uniform accentuated her natural authority, its blacks and greens casting her as a warrior-general. Her eyes were the violet common to Cadian’s, but they burned now with an intensity that forced one to avert their eyes lest they be found wanting. She was controlled military fury distilled.

“So, my Lords, what have you been discussing in my absence? Still quibbling over the finer details of our situation? Still trying to increase whatever petty hold you have of our troubles?”

None spoke immediately, although there was plenty of uncomfortable shuffling and wayward glances. Most waited for others to speak, whilst others simply remained silent. Eventually, Navigator Temiel stood slowly and bowed to the Lady-Castellan. His haughty demeanour was now nowhere to be seen.

“Lady-Castellan, your presence is, as ever, greatly welcomed at this council. We were simply discussing the possible ramifications of our severance from the Home world and our continuing inability to regain contact with The Throne...my colleagues from the Astropathic Choirs were just now...”

A gruff snort of derision escaped Admiral Blaire, cutting Temiel off sharply.

“What my esteemed colleague is neglecting to inform you, Lady-Castellan, is how he and his coven-mates are the primary reason for our lack of contact…”

The Psyker-Lord glared at Blaire, threatening to launch into another tirade, but before any further rebuke could erupt Creed held her hand up for silence. All eyes snapped once more to her.

“My Lords and Ladies, I understand that you are under great pressure to serve our beloved Cadian Nation. I know that the fire and steel of our homeland runs deep in our veins and can lead to our molten temperaments spilling to the fore. However, you have done NOTHING but snipe, and cajole and bark at each other for these past months. You have allowed Cadia and her people to stagnate in ignorance whilst I have been away”

Many of the Lords looked away in guilt, whilst some became suddenly very interested in the tiled floor beneath them. A few, Blaire included, seemed to be about to rebuke her stance but then though better of it, instead choosing to stew in demure silence. The Lady-Castellan continued.

“I have been fighting insurrectionists and cult-insurgents for the past two cycles in the Southlands as you all know, keeping your interests safe while you hide away like a pit of vipers in your bilious wretchedness. Whilst the Cult Forces on Cadia are lighter and even less coordinated than before, they are still a very real and potent threat. I would still be there, if my Father hadn’t summoned me”

The Admiral looked venomously to the Old Man, who remained stoic and quiet, watching his daughter dress down this room of masters. He had taught her well.

“You have spectacularly failed to formulate any kind of plan, any kind of united front to these dark times and instead choose to wallow in beleaguered ignorance and ignominy. Well, no more! As of now, I am taking command of this council and we will move forward with MY plan!”

Lord Peesby, a ratty looking Administrator and head of Cadia’s Bureaucratic legions raised a meek hand. Creed smiled and nodded to the skinny, greying man who stuttered in reply. He had the worrying habit of constantly fidgeting with his spectacles, making him seem untrustworthy. It was something he was painfully aware of, and his nervousness at appearing so made him fidget even more.

“My Lady…this is most irregular…I mean, that is to say, we are a Democracy of Command…you cannot simply storm in and demand we follow you with no choice…can we? That’s not how Cadia works”

Creed smiled at the mousy gentleman, a smile that made him immediately regret speaking. The kind of smile a shark delivers to its helpless prey.

“My dear Lord Peesby, of course you have a choice…you either hear out my plan and agree to follow it, or you can be thrown in the stockades until you come to your senses. Are we clear?”

A shocked murmur rippled through the gathered nobles, and the ratty scrivener balked. The Old Man and the Adjudicator attempted to stifle smirks at the discomfort in the room. Peesby gripped the legs of his spectacles so hard they almost fell off. He coughed anxiously.

“You are being overly harsh my Lady”

“These are harsh times Peesby, and harsh people must step forward to protect the greater whole. Will you listen to me?”

The scrivener stood for a moment, all eyes on the room fixed upon him, before he visibly sagged and took his seat once more. This was the height of his resistance, and the pressure of being the centre of such attentions was beyond him.

“We shall listen my Lady, what is your plan?”


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Creed began a steady march around the table, her arms moving in broad strokes as she began to discuss her plan with the gathered nobility. Her voice never wavered, her surety iron-clad. Her words were to the point and descriptive, and each of the Nobles hung on her every syllable, whether in agreement or not.

“As you all know, we have had no contact with the Throneworld for a solar year Terran-standard. Similarly, we have had no contact with the wider Imperium for just under that time. No trade, no astropathic communication, nothing! We are essentially alone in the void.”

She turned slowly on the spot, drawing her steely gaze around the room.

“This is not anything Cadia has not faced before: we have been cut off from the Imperium while we warred with the Despoiler and his Crusades. But the fact that The Eye has remained similarly quiet is disconcerting. More than that, it is downright frightening.”

A murmur of assent rippled through the more militant Lords, with several nodding their concurrence. She was giving voice to a fear that they all held in one way or another.

“Of course, the ways of the Despoiler are viperous and unpredictable. This could be a ploy, a seeming cease-fire to lull us into a false sense of security. Wait till our back is turned and then strike at our spine with a poison dagger. For this reason we cannot lower our defence, the gate must stand firm!”

Again, more murmurs of assent, but some Lords shook their heads and grumbled to each other. Sly whispers were traded and some looked to argue, before Creed cut them off with a curt glance. She was coming to the crux of her point and would not be interrupted.

“But what if it is not a feint? What if, Throne Forbid, the forces of the Black Crusade have bypassed the Cadian Gate altogether? What if Terra stands embattled now, the Imperium in flames and we are here, keeping a lonely home fire burning while the fortress falls? Should we stand by and do nothing?”

Creed turned sharply and pointed to one of the Lords sat at the round table.

“My Lord Olnixx, your congregation has been in very strong favour of an active foray away from Cadia to ascertain the fate of the Throneworld. One many of our hallowed company seem not to share. Tell me, what was the likelihood of the Despoiler bypassing Cadia and striking at the Imperium directly?”

A hulking figure in the volumous red robes of a Martian Adept rose slowly and with visible effort from his chair. His face was partly hidden under a deep, rubberised hood of scarlet, but what was visible was a mess of heavy cabling and blister-like sensor orbs fused into a scarred and unhealthily pallid skull. Static discharge oozed from his heavy body, and a deep hum throbbed from his robes, making the teeth of those nearby ache. A boxy generator sat between his broad shoulders, with thick loops of cabling and chains snaking around his brutish form in a mechanical mimicry of a serpentine embrace. When he spoke it was grating and distorted, like plates of blunt metal scraping against each other. The other Lords sat nearest him winced as he began.

“Thank you Lady Creed. The Mechanicum of course appreciates whenever you call upon our insight and knowledge. Our Data-Scriveners and Staticiologists have worked ceaselessly in their calculations, and we have narrowed the likelihood of the [subject] DESPOILER [/end-subject] laying siege to the Empire without recourse through the Cadian Gate to be 65.3333333% repeating, rising to a rate of 68.333333% if he has amassed anything in magnitude to the last four of his crusades - an unacceptable risk in the Mechanicum’s hallowed opinion…”

Once again, Admiral Blaire rose sharply from his seat, his fists raised furiously to match his voice. His dislike of the Mechanicum rivalled that of his distaste for the Psyker arts, and seething disrespect coloured his tone.

“And you would have us abandon the Gate? Olnixx I have tolerated you and your coven of revenants for many years, but I have reached the very limits of my patience with you and your superstitious ilk! Statistics and Witchcraft? Black math and sorcery? They do not defend the Imperium! Blood, sweat and bullets, they are what built this world and that is what will defend us now! My family has defended Cadia for generations, and I will not have that illustrious history threatened by this harem of cowards and ingrates, I will not have…”

A sudden crack of skin on leather and Blaire was on the ground.

No one saw the blow coming, so fast and stunning it was. Blaire lay in repose on the floor, a look of dumb shock painted on his face. A thin dribble of blood dripped form his aghast mouth, and a cracked tooth nestled in a small pool of vitae beneath him. His chair lay behind him, similarly discarded, and over him stood the furious form of Creed. Her eyes were alight with anger and her fist hung in the air, it’s black glove scuffed red from the impact of her strike. She had been so fast, so furious that Blaire never had a chance to defend himself.

In their darker, pettier moments, many of Cadia’s leaders would whisper grim bemoaning about the Lady-Castellan. They would sneer and claim her high status was down to her bloodline, that she essentially inherited her stewardship from her illustrious forebear. They would claim she lacked the will and ability to command, and she was a Creed in name only. A meagre woman defending the homeworld was ludicrous.

These people were fools.

Amanda Creed had become Lady-Castellan through her furious intellect, tactical drive and skills in the theatre of war. She had risen through the ranks as any other son or daughter of Cadia had before her. She had refused every benefit and favouritism sent her way due to her name, and had become a glorious commander to rival her heritage through blood, sweat and many, many tears. Her tactical acumen was sharpened in battle, and she inherited that wry feel for war that was her bloodline’s greatest asset.

Unlike her Father however, she was also a staggeringly sharp warrior, a brawler and swordswomen of sublime skill. She had trained with masters form different regiments, fought face-to-face with beasts and xenos of every stripe and had warred across the galaxy for over three decades. Few in the Cadian forces could match her abilities or achievements.

It had been a proud day for her Father when he passed the mantle of Castellan to his daughter.

And now she stood, with her years of experience and combat skill, looking down with monstrous fury at the reclined figure of Admiral Blaire. Her voice was like creeping ice, ready to crack and drown the Admiral at the slightest provocation.

“Admiral Blaire, I have tolerated your disrespect to this council for far, far too long. You’re condescending nature and utter lack of honour has tarnished this company for the last time. I demand some damned respect from you! You’re meant to be the Admiral of the Cadian Defence Fleet, and yet you bicker and snipe like a spoiled child! Enough I say, enough!”

There was a flutter of applause from various lords, and nods of assent from others. Blaire lay on the floor, nursing his bruised chin, his eyes furious and moist. He stared up, bilious thoughts churning through his mind, and Creed stared back daring him to challenge her once more.

Second passed, the air alive with violent potential.

Blaire looked away.

“This slight will not be forgotten, Lady-Castellan, but I yield…”

She held out her gloved hand to aid the stricken Admiral, who waived her away and rose messily himself. He retrieved his chair and sat sullenly, his hands steepled before his face, his eyes wet with restrained anger. The impunity of the Lady-Castellan clearly galled him.

Creed’s gaze hung on the Admiral momentarily, before she sighed and continued.

“A near 70% chance that the Imperium is besieged is unacceptable to me, it is abhorrent. I am the Master of Cadia’s armies yes, but I am also a defender of the Emperor’s realm. I cannot stand by while this veil cuts us off from the wider Empire. We must aid the Empire if we can, and even if there is no war, we cannot remain in isolation. Cadia will suffer for her solitary status. We must contact the Imperium, but not leave Cadia undefended ”

“So what will you do Lady-Castellan?” asked Olnixx “We cannot do both!”

“My Lords, we can, and we will”

There was a general murmur as the room broke into conversation. Such a thing had never been suggested before. It seemed so simple, but the Cadian mindset tended toward binaries and a world-view of black and white. Constant war with the forces of the Eye had demanded as much. To become flexible was simply not in the Cadian mindset.

The adjudicator raised his hands and asked for silence once more as Creed continued.

“I will take a third of our forces from across the Naval, Army, Mechanised and Mechanicum divisions and make all speed for Haylie’s Point.” Haylie’s Point was a well know refuelling and refit point, a small three-planet system near Cadia that most Imperial Expeditions went through. It was physically closer to Cadia than any other Imperial Domain, and like Terra had been severed from contact. “From there, my fleet will needle its way across each system and bastion, recruiting and amassing forces where I can. I will need the Mechanicum’s expertise in creating some method of communication and linking for each world we find. I will build a grand force from what I can find. I will invoke the Right of Conscription and create a force to forge toward Terra”

Gasps went up from a select few in the chamber, mainly the more hard-line and traditionalists. An aged women in the finery of a High Ecclesiarch raised an elaborate sceptre in query. A veil of silver and red covered her face, and a hajib of crimson and golden scales pooled around her slight frame. She was the head of the Church upon Cadia, and her words carried great weight.

“How will you do this Lady-Castellan? The Right of Conscription is a Holy Order. How will you enforce it? Only the Church can grant such a request!”

“I will take the Conscriptus Mandate with me, that is what will grant me authority”

More gasps arose from the gathering: The Conscriptus Mandate was a holy tome, a silver leafed book allowing the bearer to call men and women to arms in the name of the Emperor in a Holy Crusade. All major military bodies in the Imperium possessed one and each was utterly unique. They were utterly precious and usually remained on the home worlds of the Imperium’s finest military institutions. Signed with the Blood of the Emperor himself, they were Holy Relics, well-defended and revered by many. To have one removed and carried across the void was almost heretical. The High Ecclesiarch went completely pale under her robes.

“You assume much Lady-Castellan, the Mandate is one of our greatest treasures…we cannot allow it to leave Cadia! To even suggest such a thing is to spit on the Emperor’s Law itself”

Shouts came from the traditionalists in concurrence with the High Ecclesiarch, however many more were now silent, weighing the new possibility. Creed raised her hands for quiet once more.

“And to stand by and do nothing while the Emperor’s Realm falls is to not? I understand your concerns, High Ecclesiarch, and I applaud you for your passion and will. But I need the Mandate, I need to build this crusade. I need to relink Terra and Cadia. We need to do all we can, and tradition cannot stop our cause”

Olnixx stood suddenly, his mechanical bulk drawing the attention of the room. He placed his metallic hand upon his chest and bowed shallowly.

“The Mechanicum concurs with the Lady-Castellan. We vote in favour of her taking the Mandate!”

The mousy scrivener Peesby rose to his feet meekly, nodding, and straightening his glasses.

“I too agree with the Lady-Castellan. It is a highly unusual request, but these are unusual times. The Mandate should be taken to Terra.”

The High Ecclesiarch stared aghast as more and more Lords and Ladies rose in favour of Creed’s plan. The Astropaths, the Navigator Houses, The High Generals, they all stood united finally. An iron-clad plan led by Cadia’s favoured daughter was all they required to forge ahead. Creed looked to each of them, fierce pride and thanks in her eyes. This was the Cadia she knew and loved, the Cadia she had lived to defend.

Soon, only she and Admiral Blaire remained seated.

Creed looked to them, no malice in her eyes and held her hands out to them.

“Admiral, your Ladyship, please help me. I would rather not take the Mandate without your blessing. Please, stand with us…”

Moments passed.

Finally Blaire stood, glacially and without hury, before unpinning a golden badge from his lapel and casting it onto the table. It twinkled faintly in the light, its detailed form sumptuous and well-made. Cadia was depicted upon it, and the symbolism was clear.

“This will be my last vote in this so called council. I stand against you Creed, you and your plans…The Cadian Gate can ill afford to send her ships on some needless quest to Terra. I vote against this motion, for what it is worth, and I take my leave. A vote under duress is no vote at all...find yourself another Admiral for I am done with you fools”

Blaire turned briskly and stalked from the chamber, all eyes following him, some in shock, others in vindication. He pushed open the great doors and slammed them behind him, leaving chamber in stunned silence.

The adjudicator whispered under his breath, whilst the remaining Lords turned their attention to the High Ecclesiarch. She looked defiant under the scrutiny, until Creed once again addressed her.

“My Lady...please, I know no one is more dedicated to His Holiness than yourself, but does the God-Emperor himself not teach that as He protects, then so too must we protect Him. There is too much at risk not to act. I implore you, please help us.”

Creed held out her hand, one so used to violence but now offered in peace.

The High Ecclesiarch remained silent for several moments, her thoughts her own, weighing the need to act against decades of ingrained tradition and religious protocol. Some would say that in that moment she would receive a divine thought, a gentle nudge from beyond, but such things weaken the character and importance of this woman and in reality, her own will asserted itself for the good of all mankind.

“Very well Lady-Castellan, the Mandate travels with you under one condition. You must allow my Chambers Militant to travel with you to secure it. I would be remiss in my duties to leave it unguarded by The Faith”

Creed nodded, a warm smile shining from her face.

“That is more than acceptable my Lady, thank you. God-Emperor Bless You! And your chambers militant are most welcome upon this crusade”

A feeling of purpose infused the chamber, one that united these otherwise disparate individuals and showed them the true path. That had always been one of Amanda Creed’s greatest strengths: the ability to unify the disparate strands of humanity into a cohesive singularity. It had been a trait her Father nurtured in her from a young age, the ability to see the strength in any situation and wield it for the betterment of the whole. An excited hubbub rippled around the table. There was so much to plan, so much to do. Genuine hope gripped them, the first that had been felt in the longest time.

It only left one question: who would govern Cadia in Creed’s absence. Who would take the mantle of Castellan?

There was only ever one obvious answer.

Creed turned to the head of the table, bowing to the great throne and then turned her attention to the Old Man.

“Father...you have given so much already in your long life, and I have no right to ask you for anything else. But we need you, I need you. Take the mantle of Castellan, lead the defence of the Gate in my stead. Will you do this?”

A slow, steady smile spread across the Old man’s face, and with visible effort he hefted himself shakily to his feet. The Adjudicator wrapped his arm around the Old Man’s chest, helping him rise, supporting his old friend as he had for a lifetime. In another time he had been a Sergeant in the Astra Militarum, but now he was the Adjudicator, the Old Man’s confidant and keeper of tradition.

His name was Jarran Kell, and he supported the Old man now as he had done for his whole life.

The Old Man drew an elegant sabre from his belt and raised it to his wrinkled brow. He closed his eyes and in a voice hoary with age and experience, a voice that had demanded loyalty and dedication from all who had heard it, a voice leaden with power and certainly uttered an oath to his daughter, and to his world.

“By your words and by this blade, I will. I will take this burden from you, Long may Cadia stand!”

Amanda Creed embraced her father, tears in her eyes, as cheers and applause filled the chamber. She pulled away, fixing him with a loving glance and mouthed a silent thank you.

“I love you Mandy, now go and find the Throneworld, for me and for Cadia” whispered the ancient Ursarkar E. Creed, “and don’t be gone long”

Words cannot properly convey the literature you're bringing to life. Why you're not working with GW this instant is beyond me. You've taken on this ambitious story that few others would dare attempt and crafted a masterpiece. This is truly the pinnacle of fan-fiction and I honestly hope other aspiring fan authors will read this story.

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Guys, you are much too kind, thank you

I'm not usually big on fan-service, but I've updated the initial post with the next section and some of you may be happy to see who it is in regards to

I wanna make a kickstarter to pay you to write about my army!




Or just to get this published....

The loading bay resonated with the sound of human and industrial activity, a bustling, noisy din that dizzied the senses and shocked the unprepared. Staccato hammer blows mingled with marching, booted feet, great whirs of drills and saws juxtaposed the shouts and demands of sweating workers, and all around a great, ceaseless drone of humming machinery and energy discharge. Sparks rained from above casting lunatic shadows across the great metal walls, and an oppressive artificial heat suffused the air. It is a scene played out across dozens of similar bays across the world, each one a hive of preparation and precision.

Squat, brutish drop ships filled the bay, angular and box-like, their sides dripping with condensation and steam. Colossal chains and fuelling cables linked the ships to unseen machinery in the upper reaches of the artificial chasm, the wires and metallic tendons vibrating with restrained energy. They were like great, hulking sea-beasts, their bays yawning open like terrible maws, ready to swallow the lives of the men and women who would use them. Engines purred wetly, a throaty rumble akin to a great predatory cat. Too imagine these brutes flying is fanciful, but fly they will, swollen with troops and warriors from the planet of their birth. They will flock to monstrous starships prowling in orbit, crawling across the edges of the world’s atmosphere like mountains put to the void, a flock of young racing for the safety of their mother.

Grieves didn’t like drop ships. In all honesty Grieves didn’t like any form of space craft. Claustrophobic monoliths prone to accidents, mishaps and all kinds of warp-borne horrors, Grieves had seen enough space-borne terror to last several lifetimes. The moment you surrendered your future to the mechanical menaces was the moment you signed your fate away to the uncaring whims of a heartless galaxy. He always said in his less guarded, more inebriated moments that the day The Emperor invented a way for men to march across the stars without the need for the mechanical brutes would be the happiest day of his life. Until that day he would scowl and knuckle under in service to the Guard and the Emperor and climb aboard the iron leviathans when commanded to do so.

He ran his hand through his silver, cropped hair and sighed at the sight of so much gathered force. Grieves was old, very old, approach his eightieth year of life, and each of those harsh, war-filled years showed on his ruddy face. Wrinkled, pitted by shrapnel scars, and tanned through exposure to dozens of sons across dozens of worlds, Grieves was the very definition of the word haggard. He appeared eternally tired, as if the weights of the world would break him at any given moment. But for all his curmudgeonly scowling he was a damn fine soldier, absolutely loyal to the Throne and to the Guard. His abilities in war and steely will had seen him rise through the ranks of the Imperial Guard until through decades of battle and bloodshed.

He had tangled with Greenskins on Igriit, a bitter, snow covered world that froze the bones and bit the skin. He remembered the colossal barbarian aliens blitzing through the ice and wind, hammering into the Imperial lines with suicidal abandon. He had duelled Thrumiir Pirates, vile cancerous aliens who preyed on shipping lanes and colonies for the spinal fluids of their human victims. The day they had cracked the aliens main command dock had been the day Grieves had been promoted to staff-sergeant.

He still suffered nightmares after the clashes with Eldar Reavers on Skoljja IV, a protectorate of the Wolves of Fenris. He remembered the screams in the sweaty dark, the cackling sadism of the aliens and the more terrifying howls of the Astartes. He had lost his left hand in that battle, an alien splinter grenade bursting above him and shredding his arm. After the campaign, High Command saw fit to graft a mechanical replacement to allow him to continue serving. The matte black device was skeletal and alien, and it still twitched involuntarily from time to time.

Grieves had seen much in his time, and his exemplary record saw him elevated to the highest ranks of Cadia’s military structure: The Kasrkin, the best of the best and defenders of the Homeworld and the Gate. He would serve twenty years in this illustrious unit, fighting heretics and terrors from beyond the Eye, guarding Cadia against all who would see her fall.

He would say goodbye to many of his friends and comrades, seeing hundreds die in a bitter war that would seemingly never end. It weighed on him, the loss and the sorrow, but he refused to let it break him. He would endure to honour the memory of all who fell. He saved as many as he could in wartime and gave thanks to the God-Emperor in moments of peace, what few that ever occurred.

It was this dedication that would draw the attention of the Lady-Castellan herself.

He remembered that day, when high-command summoned him to Central HQ. The vast cathedral-like structure had daunted him more than any alien berserker or heretic lunatic, and to stand in its shadow made him feel like the smallest creature in the universe. When he was summoned he had been surprised to find the Lady-Castellan waiting for him.

“I’ve been watching you Grieves, your record is exemplary”

“Thank you, ma’am! I live to serve the Throne”

She smiled at his obvious nervousness.

“I’ve noticed a trend however. I always find your units at the forefront, at the most intense battles. I have verified testimonies that you have saved over 600 of your fellow soldiers. They call you a hero.”

Grieves swallowed hard at the word hero.

“I’m just a soldier ma’am; I’m just here to do my part”

Creed has nodded, as if confirming something she already knew, and held out her hand.

“Sergeant, you have always done your part, and now I must ask more of you. You are what Cadian’s aspire to be, and now I and the homeworld must ask more of you. I wish you to join the Strongshield Task Forces, we could use a man of your compassion and drive out there, in the great dark taking the light with you. We could use a hero as your comrades say”

The Strongshields; a covert, almost mythical unit. An elite within an elite. There were many within the Astra Militarum who claimed they didn’t exist, just a fanciful battlefield story to inspire troops and scare the enemy. A band of heroic soldiers travelling the length and breadth of the Imperial Realm pushing back enemies wherever they found them, taking the most dangerous missions and tasks, and taking their orders form the Imperium's masters themselves. If the stories were to be believed of course.

But they did exist.

They were real.

And just like that, Creed had tasked Grieves with forming a new Task Force, the 642nd such unit Cadia had ever formed.

Grieves accepted without a second thought.

Grieves travelled the length and breadth of Cadia and the gate worlds forming his team, but they are tales for another time.

Maybe one day I shall tell you of them.

But for now, Grieves considered the drop ships with ill ease. He still did not know what the mission was, although he had his suspicions. All the communiqué from command had stated was that the 642nd was to muster and double time it to the waiting fleet above. Orders would follow when they arrived.

Grieves hated space travel, but he hated not knowing their purpose even more.

“You thinking what I’m thinking Boss?”

Grieves turned to his second in command, Corporal Candroth, who wore the knowing smirk that so infuriated the upper echelons but enamoured her to the rank and file. She was in her late twenties, wiry and tough, and every inch the Cadian Soldier. Her hair sat under a black bandana and her violet eyes burned furiously with mischief.

Grieves nodded.

“If you’re thinking that we’re in for a potential world of hurt wherever we are headed, then yes you are indeed.”

“It’ll be nothing we can’t handle sir, you know we can handle it.”

Grieves smiled at her confidence, confidence he needed to hear right now. He turned fully to his troops who had gathered in a staggered formation behind him, all packed and ready to leave.

There was Candroth, his second and trusted corporal, Private Buseer, the squad sniper and eternal pessimist, Private First-Class Chiasson, a joker and if bunk scuttlebutt was to be believed, a serial Casanova. Hulking behind him was Specialist Kay, the squad heavy weapons specialist, his heavy brow knitted in uneasiness and his uniform straining to hold his bulk.

Shadowing him was old tracker W’aitou, or Waitout as the squad had nicknamed him for his penchant of sleeping outdoors as often as possible. The elderly hunter was fgrom the Cadian outback, and was all wiry limbs and nervous twitches, ill at ease whenever not in the great outdoors. Nearby gathered troopers Ch’ild and Uhuine, good naturedly bickering over some bet that had gone awry the night before.

The squad chaplain, Preacher Tih shook his head like a bemused parent at their antics as Medic Vent checked his medical gear for the sixteenth time in the last hour.

A bunch of misfits to be sure, thought Grieves not for the first time, but some of the best soldiers that Grieves had ever served with.

He cleared his throat for their attention, which they gave without hesitation.

“Right you lot, into the ship. I want your gear stowed and your seats taken ready for dust-off in five! No shenanigans, no excuses! Get in and get stowed!”

Chiasson raised his hand, a sarcastic smirk marring his handsome features.

“We know the mission yet Sarge? I don’t much like this not knowing what’s going to be shooting at us.”

Grieves scowled at the private and smirked.

“Yes Chiasson, but I like that stupid look of confusion you get when you don’t know something. High Command thinks it’s funny.”

The squad laugh, even scowling Kay raises a smile. Chiasson raised his hands in good natured defeat.

“Now enough questions and get in the ships, orders are waiting for us up above.”

That and much, much more Grieves thought as he turned into the yawning mouth of the drop ship.

My god, it's back. How did I not know it was back.