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Author's Notes
Inquisitor Benjamin Mordecai was a hard character to envision, especially given the fact that i've never read anything from an Inquisitor's point of view, so i have no idea how their minds work.
I gave it my best shot, though, and i think...hope...it turned out okay.
I wanted a Commissar Gaunt-esque figure, who cared about the men on the frontline and portrayed an honest figure.
This image is defiant of most Inquisitors, though, and it makes me wonder if i'm staying true to the image of the ruthless, efficient Inquisitor.
Anyway, i hope you guys enjoy the second installment of Treachery's Road, and please comment...

“Up! Aim!”
He clamped his hands over his ears as the Basalisk’s Earthshaker cannon thumped, throwing them all off balance whilst a hole was blown in the ground where a corrupted and debased Leman Russ had been seconds before.
Hands over ears, mouth open, wait ten seconds.
Inquisitor-General Benjamin Mordecai counted ten, then removed his hands from his ears, glancing at the Basalisk’s loader, who was busy lighting a Bac-stick.
Benjamin wasn’t the image of fear and retribution that most people expected an Inquisitor to be.
Tall and handsome, with dark-brown, close-cropped hair and striking, icy blue eyes, Benjamin was clad in standard Guardsman Flak armour and black breeches, over which he wore a Navy Blue stormcoat.
In a sling on his back, he carried a weapon which resembled a cross between an old Terra crossbow and a shotgun. Benjamin had designed the weapon himself, and called it the Brutal Bow. It took several different rounds; with ammo stocks mounted either side of the barrel, giving it its appearance and name.
He stood from his position on the Basalisk’s loading deck, looking out over the ice plains towards Maras’ seat of government, Galespire.
Before them lay the bulk of Bastion Medrogus, its mighty outer walls breached.
Even as he watched, Benjamin saw Guardsmen of the Jurdani Elites pouring in through the breech.
Jurdani had been Benjamin’s Homeworld, and the Elites were the only thing he had left of it.
Jurdani had once been a major space port and trading post, the entire planet covered in a vast ocean; all save for its one continent, a utopian thing with one large hive city engulfing it.
Until the metal monsters came.
Drilling for oil in the planet’s southern ice cap had disturbed a Necron tomb, and by the time Benjamin Mordecai returned to salvage his homeworld, the nightmare had engulfed most of Jurdani Hive.
He’d salvaged two thousand fighting men and women, the only remnants of Jurdani, the Elites.
“Sir?” The gruff, deep voice shook Benjamin Mordecai from his thoughts, as did the firm hand grasping his shoulder.
Rennard Osbourne, a veteran of the Jurdani Elites, was the Captain of Mordecai’s personal guard, the Blackwatch.
Muscular and compact, Osbourne’s shaven head was disfigured by a scar that tugged the right corner of his lips and ended just below the cheekbone.
His dark eyes always shone with a light-heartedness and humour that few soldiers could maintain in the thick of battle.
Clad in modified Astartes Scout armour the colour of polished silver, Osbourne was watching his master curiously.
“I wonder what goes on in your ‘ead half the time, Benj.” He uttered over the rumble of battle, his mouth tugged in a lopsided grin by the disfiguring scar.
“Thinking.” Benjamin replied firmly.
“Yeah, well, maybe best to think on the battle, eh?”
That was one thing Benjamin liked about Rennard Osbourne, he paid nearly no attention to rank whatsoever.
“Let’s go.” Leaping down from the Basalisk, he took his Brutal Bow from its sheath, flicking the safety and loading two ammo stocks.
Rennard slammed into the dirt behind him, arming his own Brutal Bow, and the two set off towards the breach, joining the Jurdani elites pouring through.
No-one needed to wear extra thermals this close to the city, the excess heat vents from the Manufactories ensured that the ice underfoot was little more than thick slush.
Keying in his vox-bead, Benjamin called up the rest of the Blackwatch and his retinue.
“Fall in, all on me. We’re on foot from here on in.”
Four more Blackwatch members fell in step behind him, and recognition from the rest of his retinue indicated they weren’t far away.
Weaving and dodging over the broken ground, the Inquisitor and his squad moved closer to the breach.
The constant hiss of lasfire and the crack of shot weapons were a constant background noise, and even as the Elites swarmed into the breach, chaos cultists clad in bronze, spiked armour poured out to repel them.
“Contact!” Osbourne cried, as a dozen cultists climbed the rim of the shell crater nearest them.
Raising the Brutal bow, Benjamin fired, smiling at the hard thud of the recoil as a frag shell detonated on the head of a cultist as he raised to fire.
The shell fragmented, and three more cultists hit the floor as the shrapnel sliced through flesh, muscle and arteries.
The Blackwatch opened fire, cutting down the cultists as more surged forward to meet them.
Not far away, a solid ridge of rock jutted out of the ice, providing natural cover to any who had the sense to use it.
“Flank pattern, sidewind.” He spoke into his vox bead, strafing towards the rock formation as he reloaded, racked and fired three more frag shells, downing seven cultists in total.
In the thick of the fighting, Benjamin could only focus on what was in front of him, trusting his squad to work like a well oiled machine, he continued strafing and firing, his icy calm a polar opposite to the shrieks and cries of the enemy cultists as they continued to fire.
A solid slug round panged off the plasteel of his shoulder guard, sheer luck dictating the fact it hadn’t exploded.
He knelt, loosing off shots from where he crouched by the jutting rock.
The satisfying crack of Jurdani Brutal bows sounded all around him, and Benjamin let out a savage cry as he saw the ranks finally beginning to thin.
Over the din of the Brutal bows, he heard a louder thud, and several of the bronze-armoured cultists dissolved in a blizzard of debris and fire.
He looked up, and saw, atop the slab of rock, a slim, wiry figure clad in Guard kit in the colours of the Maccabian Janissaries.
The most noticeable thing about the man was the extra arm protruding from his spine, which ended in a standard issue grenade launcher.
Darius Fitch unclipped his helmet and tossed it aside, revealing a prosthetic eye which served in place of his real one.
Hefting his Maccabia pattern Las-Rifle, he leapt from the rocky outcrop and landed next to the Inquisitor.
“I would have been at the original rendezvous point,” he explained over the crack of solid slug weapons and the satisfying recoil of the Brutal Bows, “But the Basalisk I hitched a ride with blew before we got close.”
“At least ya got ‘ere.” Rennard stated, holding his Brutal bow between his knees while he lit a Bac-stick.
The smell of nicotine soon added to the metallic tang of war, and Benjamin suddenly became aware of an absence of firepower in the immediate vicinity.
The distant thud of artillery was still a constant in the background, but it wasn’t the ordinary crump of Earthshaker rounds.
“Fitch, can you locate those guns?”
“Already done, Inquisitor.” Darius replied, his prosthetic eye whirring in its socket.
“And?”
“Most of the heavy stuff is located to the south of the city; General Elys of the Cadian 50th is trying to silence them. Down our end, I’d spec at least eight guns, spaced along the ramparts of the Bastion’s inner wall.” Darius shouldered his Las-Rifle, folding his arms smugly.
“Why ain’t they targetin’ us?” Rennard put in, the Bac-stick in his mouth wobbling as he spoke.
“Standard battle tac, you know I said my Basalisk got hit?”
“Ah.” Osbourne replied, racking his Brutal bow.
They looked up at the walls, as tall and impenetrable as a Reaver Titan.
“Priority is to recapture the Bastion,” Benjamin stated, “Best way for us to do that is by ensuring we have the ordnance to crack that inner wall.”
“That means taking out those guns.” Darius replied.
Benjamin’s Vox-bead crackled.
“Inquisitor-General?” The voice was that of Drevan Stubbs, the Admiral of Benjamin’s Armageddon class battle cruiser, the Lady Lucent.
“Admiral? What is it?”
“We ha-….” The rest of the transmission was laced with static, too much to hear.
“Admiral, say again?”
“We have a Deathwatch team inbound from Gaeis, designation Aramus.”
“Have them re-route, air drop onto the inner walls.”
“Aye, Inquisitor-General, re-routing now.”

***

The Thunderhawk rocked with turbulence as it descended through the crystal blue air of Maras. The vibrations that shook the troop compartment were barely felt by the six Space Marines who knelt in prayer, making final battle rites before they reached their designated drop zone.
Leading them in praise of the God Emperor was Deathwatch Captain Karel, a young but capable commander from the Crusade vessels of the Black Templars.
Kneeling directly before him were Veteran Sergeant Leondras of the Dark Angels, a steely and incorruptible man who had been Karel’s second for twenty years, and brother Gallus, an Apothecary of the Ultramarines, a quiet, reclusive man who was just as prepared to kill as he was to heal.
Behind them knelt Brothers Stephos, of the Blood Angels, and Tech-Marine Gheren of the Imperial Fists.
And kneeling at the back was a man who, though Karel knew he was faithful, still unnerved him.
His chapter markings had been erased, but nonetheless Sergeant Aramus was still a Blood Raven.
Aramus had led the Blood Raven forces during the first and second Aurelian Crusades, but the corruption of half his strike force had wounded the then-Captain so much that he had renounced his chapter and joined the Deathwatch permanently, becoming a Black Shield and erasing all iconography of his previous chapter.
“Thy Emperor, I am thy sword and thine shield, as thou art mine. Let thine will carry us into the heat of battle, that we may serve or die, and spill blood in thine glory. By the fathers, so let it be.”
Karel stood, his part done.
Leondras nodded his approval.
“Brother-Captain,” The pilot’s voice blared over the vox, “ETA to Bastion Medrogus, five minutes.”
Karel hefted one of the jump packs from where it sat in one of the wall alcoves that lined the Thunderhawk’s interior.
“Strap in,” he ordered, “Prepare for drop.”
After strapping on their jump packs, the Deathwatch Marines stood in file, in rows of two, waiting for the pilot’s indication that the drop zone had been reached.
Karel reached up and brushed a strand of black hair out of his eye.
He felt the familiar tightness that all warriors experience before a battle. That sense of waiting, of impatience, of wanting to be in the midst of the battle, of knowing that every delayed second would cost lives.
The light above the Thunderhawk’s frontal hatch flashed red, and Karel slammed the opening mechanism down.
The hatch opened with a smooth whirr of hydraulics, and the sounds of war far below drifted into the troop compartment like a sickly sweet symphony.
Karel clasped his helmet on, checking the seals before nodding to Leondras beside him.
As one, they leapt from the hatch, freefalling whilst observing the battlefield below them.
“Deploy.” Karel spoke into his vox bead, indicating to Stephos and Gheren that they were clear to drop.
With a short burst from the jump pack, Karel rolled and saw both in freefall above him; Gheren’s Servo arm was sucked neatly beneath the jump pack’s bulk.
Turning his attention back towards the ground, Karel opened his vox link again as Aramus and Gallus joined them.
“The missile silos, on the inner ramparts, we destroy them and rendezvous with the Inquisitor. Fire squad designation primus will consist of me, Gallus and Stephos, Secundus is Leondras, Gheren and Aramus.”
“Acknowledged.” Leondras replied, shouting over the roar of the wind.
Using another short burst from his jump pack, Karel swung his body around so that he was falling feet-first.
“Secundus breaking away,” Leondras barked, “we’ll take the south rampart.”
“Acknowledged,” Karel voxed back, “Primus taking the western ramparts, Emperor’s speed, Leondras.”
“May he grace you, Karel.”
As the ground rushed up to meet him, Karel jetted a fierce blast from his jump pack, slowing his descent before he slammed into the steel decking of the western ramparts.
Rolling to absorb the impact, he unclipped his jump pack mid-roll, unsheathing his power sword as he came up into a crouch.
This part of the ramparts was empty, but the enemy would have noticed six Astartes dropping on top of their fort.
Karel registered two metallic thuds as Gallus and Stephos landed behind him.
“I’ll take point.” Karel voxed, loading a clip into his wrist-mounted bolter.
He set off towards the nearest missile silo at a steady jog.

***

Leondras righted himself, ready for landing. In one arm, he cradled his Ryza variant Boltgun, in the other, a pair of melta charges.
He braced himself, shrugging off solid slug rounds as he coasted towards the missile silo.
He had to execute this perfectly, or he’d blow him and his men as well as the silo.
“Brace for detonation.” He ordered, skimming low over the silo and releasing both charges before slamming into the steel decking, crushing a pair of bronze-armoured cultists underfoot.
Leondras stood as the missile silo exploded in a violent plume of fire and smoke.
He didn’t even flinch as the rolling inferno washed outwards over him, cooking several cultists in their armour.
Those that weren’t cooked alive fell subject to Gheren’s bolter and Servo arm.
With a few well-placed shots, the two cleared an entire section of the southern ramparts.
“Where is Brother Aramus?” Gheren chimed in his artificial, monotone voice.
“Aramus?” Leondras called over the vox, in response, a high-pitched, static laced frequency forced him to switch channels.
“No response,” Leondras replied, “either Aramus’ vox bead is clipped, or he’s deceased.”
“Then we press on?” Gheren asked, though in his metallic, grating voice, it sounded more like a statement.
“Indeed.” Leondras responded, fixing a bayonet the size of a man’s arm onto his bolter.

***

From his vantage point on a raised platform in the Bastion’s enclosed parade square, Eliphas watched as Cultists of the Bronze Fist sect assembled by rank and file behind their Word Bearer masters.
Clad in his matt black, gold trimmed Terminator armour, Eliphas had to admire the tactical efficiency of his old Legion, even whilst technically belonging to the Black Legion.
No! He thought savagely, I do not belong to anyone!
Using his warp-tainted powers, Eliphas spoke to the army assembled before him, his voice magnified to a roar, echoing his usual icy-cold purr.
“Make ready, enlightened of Chaos, the true traitors are beyond those walls, seeking to enter and break us!”
There was a cacophony of angered cries and jeers from the assembled warriors, before he held up the massive, clawed Power Fist he wore over his left arm for silence.
“This Bastion is ours, it is ours by right, ever since Horus’ enlightenment, what the loyalists have the nerve to refer to as his ‘heresy’!”
Again, more cries for vengeance and blood.
Eliphas had been alive so long; he found it almost too easy to manipulate the simple minds of these creatures, these mortal men.
Most turned to Chaos out of desperation, jealousy or fear, and after that, it was all too easy to mould their minds until they faithfully believed their cause was just.
“What if we believe this Bastion should be ours and not yours, Chaos Marine!?” A muffled voice issued as a man stepped out of rank.
Eliphas looked the man over.
Though mortal, he was certainly intimidating, compact and muscular, he wore a tattered and faded guard uniform, with the right sleeve and shoulder guard ripped off, exposing several marks of chaos carved deep into his flesh.
His mouth was covered by a rebreather mask that Eliphas supposed the man wore for the sake of inducing fear, and atop his shaven head sat a Mohawk of blood-red hair.
On the man’s back were sheathed a power sword and a monstrously big chainsword.
Eliphas grinned coldly; he could crush this man easily, and yet…
“You are welcome to try, soldier, but first I shall know your name.”
“Fexus Ragon.” The man answered simply.
“The come,” Eliphas beckoned, removing the power fist and dropping his Daemon sword.
Fexus stood, facing Eliphas for a mere moment, before leaping forward, covering the ground between them in two easy strides, before somersaulting over Eliphas’ head, drawing and slicing down with his power sword in one smooth, split-second motion.
Eliphas caught the blade in one warp-corrupted gauntlet, slamming the man down into the ground, hard.
Fexus rolled to absorb the impact, before twisting and springing back towards Eliphas, dancing nimbly to the left and then slashing downwards towards the gap between Eliphas’ thigh and hip plates.
The chainsword grinded against the ceramite of Eliphas’ forearm, before a violent shove wrenched the weapon out of the man’s hand.
Tossing the weapon away, Eliphas watched with amusement as Fexus took a stance associated with most agility-based fighting forms, feet about a foot apart, hands in front of him, palms flat, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.
Eliphas lashed out, bringing the man down with a swift chop to the ribs.
The chaos lord was calculating, he knew just how much force to use to bring a man down without killing him.
He loomed over Fexus as he began to rise, pressing a foot against the man’s chest to keep him pinned.
He glanced at the nearest Word Bearer; the crimson-clad Space Marine cocked his helmeted head to one side.
“Take this man,” Eliphas stated, “Grant him the rank of Sergeant and assign him a squad.”
He allowed Fexus to stand, before turning to raise his hands to the assembled legions.
“Am I not merciful?!” He echoed, “Do I not reward those who show promise?!”
A vicious cry broke from the silent lips of the spectators, a chorus to the background symphony of war.
“Fight well for me today, and I will reward those who bring back for me the heads of those who seek to overthrow us!”
He was met with a cheer as he re-attached his power fist and picked up his daemon sword.
“Ready yourselves!” he roared as the inner wall began to shake under the firepower of the enemy guns.
“My lord,” Fexus muttered from nearby, “Why not meet them, instead of waiting like cowed sheep?”
“Small steps, my friend, let them take the first,” Eliphas purred, watching with feral anticipation.
“Small steps corrupt.” He muttered to himself, and smiled.