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From now on, all work I do on this story arc for Inquisitor Mordecai will be posted here.
Links to the previous stories below, please don't leave comments on them, leave your comments here if you have anything to say on my previous work.

(1) From The Memoirs of Inquisitor Havard Lamal http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/520410.page

(2) A Ticket To Anywhere http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/520562.page

(3) Merry Hell http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/520738.page

(4) Fear Of A Shadow http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/524910.page

(5) Aboard The Razor Descent http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/527885.page

Although this story arc got off to a shakey start, I've been reading Dan Abnett's Ravenor recently, and I think the plot devices and methods he uses are extraordinary.
Safe to say that I will be taking a leaf out of Mr. Abnett's book with my future work.
Keep your eyes peeled, watch this space...
Your's sincerely,

Castra Tanagra

Glad to see it all collected even though I've only been following one of the stories (yet it shows me that I've clicked three of the threads before).

Hopefully one day I'll be able to read all of his adventures!

The Thrall Sacrifice: Prologue - Break and Drive

The Razor Descent burst from the immaterium like a marine predator from water.
On the bridge, the Acolytes had all assembled to watch the final approach to Jurdani Tertius.
None of them would realistically be able to do anything, but each felt a strange sense of comfort at being able to see what lay ahead of them.
Pirates were in abundance this far away from the safety of Jurdani Primaris and Secundus, and the parasite ships fed on all sorts, regardless of class or authority.

"See the blockade up there?" Anton Gambit indicated with his cane, standing tall in his command pulpit, "Tertius PDF, tougher than those over-fed dogs you'll find near the sector's core. Out here, you fight for the right to live peacefully."
"Doesn't comfort me at all." Meera Shanton muttered to herself, a slight grimace creasing her youthful face as she considered the prospects of dying on a ship.
"Don't you worry, Mistress Shanton," Anton chuckled, "Once we're through that blockade, we've hit a safe zone."
"Will they not come to us if we're fired upon?" Benjamin Mordecai asked; the Inquisitor sat in his command throne, just behind Anton's pulpit, he seemed rather at ease, despite the possible danger.
"No," Anton replied flatly, "They're tough, not stupid. They don't break formation, and the scum of the universe don't get in. We're borderline Lucky Space here."

The bridge had fallen silent, even the staff were nervous; there were only five properly trained soldiers on board, after all.
The Razor Descent was a sturdy ship, but even she wouldn't be able to hold against a large, well-armoured vessel for long.
Anton stroked the surface of the command pulpit beside him, "You're a good girl..." he whispered softly.

The entire crew present on the bridge jumped as a slight thud rocked the ship.
"Shield Officer, report!" Anton ordered.
"Unidentified vessel off the port side, shields are holding!" one of his officers called back.
"Swing us around!" the grizzled Admiral barked, "I want to see who has the balls to take on my ship!"
The Razor Descent was faster than most vessels of it's size, and very soon the crew found themselves facing a colossal, bulky vessel bristling with weaponry.

"Identify!" Gambit ordered.
"Scavenger vessel, sir," one of the officers replied, "using standard components from several different Imperial class ships."
"I'll be damned if my girl's going to be a part of that monstrosity!" Anton bellowed, "Swing us ninety degrees to Starboard, roll out the Ordnance batteries and target the bridge!"

The deck suddenly erupted in activity as the officers got to work.
Anton Gambit was normally calm, but when his ship was endangered, no fury could match his.
The Inquisitor gripped the arms of his throne as the ship swung violently to the right, bringing the PDF blockade into view.
"Cruising speed towards the blockade," he said calmly, "Keep an eye on that scavenger, is it doing anything?"

"Sir," one of the deck officers called, "they're pulling up alongside us, trajectory and speed indicates they'll draw level before we reach the blockade!"
"Frig!" Anton spat, he couldn't speed up, and risk disarming the ship.
"Keep at cruising speed," he said, "open up the Fusion batteries, trace them!"
"They're opening up!" the ordnance officer cried, "Brace for impact!"

The shields absorbed a good deal of the damage.
Faint flashes of light showing where the projectiles hit, but still some got through.
"Batteries two and five are offline!" The Ordnance officer called.
"Return fire!" Anton demanded, "pepper them with the Ordnance cannons, and if they persist, use the Fusions, decimate their shields!"
He gave no ground when it came to his ship.

The deck thudded as more projectiles hit.
Brilliant points of light on the enemy vessel's hull indicated that their shots were landing too.
"We hit one of their Starboard batteries!" a deck officer exclaimed, "We land a hit like that on their tail, and they'll be limping!"
The blockade was drawing closer, but not quickly enough.

Anton's pulse began to race as the bulkier scavenger pulled alongside them and began to level out.
"They're preparing mag-clamps!" he shouted, "All barrels hot! I want them to think the heavens are falling on them!"
Small holes in the scavenger's side opened, revealing several cross-shaped devices, each magnetically charged to stick firmly to the hull of another ship.

If he didn't act quick, they'd be boarded.
"Sir, al batteries are prepared." the ordnance officer called.
Anton took a deep breath in, "Fire." he said, almost casually.
The side of the scavenger vessel lit up as explosions rippled across it's dirty, bulky side, most being absorbed by it's shields.
"Fusions!" Anton growled, "Now!"

The scavenger vessel lit up a magnificent blue hue as the Fusion cannons let fly, slamming into the shields with such ferocity it took them only a few seconds to break the ancient shields down.
Then the mag-clamps were fired, shooting out on thick metal cables.
The lights on some of the consoles winked and shimmered as the clamps discharged their pulse into the ship.
Only a few had made it, but those few had hit right near the Fusion batteries.
Without those batteries, they were sitting ducks.

Anton gritted his teeth.
He looked at the ship looming ever closer to their port side.
"Orders, sir?" A deck officer asked timidly.
He looked at the blockade ahead.
"Anton?" Benjamin leaned forward in his command throne.
He looked back to the scavenger ship.
Anton Gambit's eyes narrowed as he came to a decision.

"Bring us down at a forty-five degree angle!" he ordered, "disengage all batteries, and when I say, break and drive."
"But sir-" the senior deck officer began, but shut his mouth once he saw the look on Anton's face.
The ship began to angle down, the engines powering up as the guns disengaged.

The scavenger was taking it's time with boarding parties.
The Razor Descent began to creak as it dragged the larger ship with it.
They were gaining speed, but slowly, as the larger craft dragged above them.
"Sir, our trajectory will bring us into contact with-"
"I know," Anton held up a hand for silence, "Your duty, to Emperor and Imperium."
"Emperor and Imperium." the crew repeated in unison.

Anton lowered his hand, "Break and drive!"
The Razor Descent banked on a slight starboard turn, diving at a near-vertical angle.
Above, the Imperial blockade ships were still puzzling over the bizarre scene they'd just witness, before the scavenger ship slammed into one of their own, severely damaging both ships, and shearing the mag-clamp cables attaching the Rogue Trader vessel to the larger Scavenger vessel.

Immediately, the blockade ships converged on the scavenger, bombarding it with enough ordnance to make a demolitions expert blush.
Anton chuckled triumphantly as the Razor Descent leveled out.
"How about a victory toast?" he called, "bring out some of that vintage Calth Uskavar!"
If anyone wanted his precious sweetheart ship, they would have to step over his corpse first.
"You and your officers can celebrate," Inquisitor Mordecai said soberly, "Drop into low orbit, have a team prep the Valkyrie, this is where our part begins."

Author's notes
Okay, I don't usually do author's notes anymore, but I felt like it was important for this passage in particular.
You see, this is the first time I've given Anton any room to operate as something more than the man who speaks to the Acolytes through their vox sets.
I thought it was time for Anton to get a little proper "screen time", and that's why I did a prologue.

I think it's quite good. It really grasps the 40k feeling. A nice section with a good flow of action.

Ooooo noting like a bit of space battle to make the blood flow on a Saturday! Well done

I liked that, as Trondheim said, space battle was fun!

Showed the overconfidence of the pirates. Though, in future, I'd suggest you represent others learning from that mistake and only attacking when they have the advantage of surprise/numbers.

Pirates don't last long if they aren't careful to choose their targets wisely, after all, with all those Imperial fleets and blockades.

I'll definitely be giving Anton a little more prominence in the future.

But until then, it'll be focussing on ground operations, a good old-style Inquisitorial investigation.

The Thrall Sacrifice: Part 1 - The Bowels of Chirgon

Chirgon Hive, famous for it's massive power plants, which primarily produced various chemicals for explosives and grenades, was a planet just barely within the Jurdani sector.
Bordering Lucky Space and playing host to many of humanity's less welcoming kin, the planet of Jurdani Tertius looked from above like some kind of rotting fruit, the last vestiges of colour being drained by the infection that plagued it.

In this case, the infection was industry; despite the space around the planet being frequented by pirates, scavengers, Rogue Traders and other scum, it was a major manufacturer of explosives and grenades.
Any supply or shipping vessel entering or leaving Tertius' orbit was normally accompanied by more than one Imperial Navy vessel; those that weren't were usually picked dry, then left as corpses, derelict in their orbit of the planet.

In the bowels of Chirgon Hive, scum so low that even normal scum wouldn't touch them, lurked and even prospered in their own, putrid ways.
Among the putrid filth of Pit Town, where one could smell the misery and suffering in the air, two figures, each clad in hooded black longcoats to stave off the rain, splashed through the ankle-deep muck that passed for a road.

The Hab Blocks around them seemed desolate, empty, devoid of life, but the two knew better.
Shards of broken glass lay submerged in the muck around them, only noticeable by the dim light of floodlights high above in the upper Hive, the stench of human feces and urine lay heavily upon the air.
Truly, thought Fenton Muir as he trudged through the knee-deep mud, this was the lowest place a person could sink too.
And now he and Meera Shanton were both wading through it to reach one of two reliable leads who knew of the recent disappearances.

"There!" Meera shouted over the constant turmoil of rain pelting against her longcoat.
Fenton followed her outstretched finger, and saw what she was pointing at; on a rise, above the reach of whatever filth floated in the mucky water, sat a small, stone chapel, well maintained despite the abandoned nature of it's surroundings, though the ruined Hab Blocks rose menacingly on either side like a pair of Arbiters standing over a convict.

They trudged on through the muck, Meera's tall, slender figure leading a few steps ahead of the slightly shorter, broad-shouldered form of Fenton.
They reached the rise, hauling themselves up out of the depressing, sucking mass of mud, each with a sigh of relief, tempered only by the knowledge that they would almost certainly have to wade back through the grim stuff.
"Don't even want to think about what's been floating around our ankles." Fenton muttered gruffly; he could play sophisticated when the need arose, but right then he wasn't feeling in the mood for it.

Meera didn't reply; she had drawn her compact Laspistol.
Fenton could feel it too, the distinct feeling that he was being watched by an unknown, all-seeing presence, it unnerved him, but they couldn't afford to give away their position by making any hasty moves.
"Put it away." He murmured quietly, "Trust me."
She fixed him with an uncertain gaze, but did as instructed; together, they marched up the slippery pathway to the chapel, and knocked lightly on the rotting, wooden doors.

"Oi!" a voice from behind them called.
Both turned to see five thickly-muscled men wading towards them through the murk, all wearing flak vests and combats, each wielding an autogun.
The leader had a shaven head and a malicious grin, and as they clambered up the slope to where the two Acolytes stood, he began to speak again.
"Pit Town is my property, newbies," he flicked the safety off his gun, "And since you're here, you belong to me, so I'll be having your valuables."

Both Acolytes spurred into motion.
In less than a second, Meera's Laspistol was pointed at the Hive ganger's face, while Fenton's Hotshot Las aimed at the man's stomach.
The other gangers all aimed their weapons at the two.
"Ladies first?" Fenton offered.
"I wouldn't want to steal your glory." Meera retorted with a smirk.
"I was talking to him." Fenton nodded to the Hive ganger.

"You little Frig!" the leader raised his Autogun, before the doors of the chapel swinging open silenced him.
Standing within, silhouetted against the light, stood an imposing, lean figure clad in robes and wielding a staff topped with a growling, revving Chainsword.
"Brothers," the figure spoke softly, "surely you would not spill blood on such sacred ground?"
"N-no, father..." the Hive ganger stammered, fear weighing heavily in his voice.
All five turned and waded off back into the filthy night.

The Acolytes turned to their mysterious savior, and found themselves face to face with a man of gaunt complexion, appearing in his late forties, his lean face scarred and weathered from years on the battlefield, gazing upon them with a rather judgmental frown.
"I must request that you holster all ranged weapons before proceeding into the chapel." he announced.
His head was topped with a mohawk of black hair, as was the popular style in the Jurdani military.

This had to be Pious Anol; Fenton slid his Hotshot Las into the holster over his back and, after a moment's hesitation, Meera slid her Laspistol into her pocket.
"How did you do that?" Meera asked the man curiously, "they just...ran."
"I rather think my Eviscerator did that, rather than my standing as a holy man," he replied, his gaze softening and a warm smile crossing his face as he stood back and gestured inside, "The Emperor welcomes all those seeking shelter and enlightenment. Take refuge within these holy walls."

He switched off his Eviscerator, leaning it against the wall as it ground to a halt.
Meera smiled back and eagerly stepped in, yanking her hood off; Fenton stood still, gazing behind him.
The gangers had gone, but that distinct sense of being watched hadn't left him.
Someone else was watching, a different player in the game.
He shuddered, then stepped inside.
This operation might not be as smooth as planned.

***

He felt the warp suffuse him as he spoke the unspoken words within his mind; the irony of the contradiction did not escape him.
He knelt in front of an eight-pointed star, set into an alcove and dimly lit by the glow orbs overhead.
The voices were scraping at his mind; that was nothing new, several spoke of pacts he had made, others tried to feed off his insecurities, others tried to allure him with hteir false promises.

He silenced them.
He was the Black Summoner, and he was master, not these miscreants.
Above him rose the tall, bleak arches of the Hive's acid vat chambers; below him the seething, bubbling mass simmered and boiled constantly.
The gantry upon which he knelt was old, rusted, but solid.
"My Lord Ulath..." A voice spoke behind him.
He turned, his ancient power armour clinking as he rose to his full height, at which he towered over the kneeling cultist.

"What is it, whelp?" he demanded in his menacing, hissing voice, "Why do you interrupt my entropy?"
Like most of the cultists, this one wore the red overcoat of a Mechanicus laborer, all insignia and badges of office removed in favour of unholy icons and totems; a full-face respirator covered his hooded head, obscuring his identity.
He was just another nameless follower of the Dark Powers, amongst a tide of many.

"My Lord," he repeated, "They have arrived."
"As predicted," Ulath retorted irritably, "Seraphos is accurate, as are my visions. Are they being monitored?"
"Yes, Lord." The cultist replied curtly; it was all he was required to say, and several beatings had taught him not to say anything unless required or asked.
"Give me their locations," Ulath hissed, "I will establish direct mental contact with your spies. Nothing must go wrong!"
"Immediately, my Lord." The cultist stood.
"The Thrall Sacrifice is nearing completion," Ulath uttered softly, "and Lord Malal will find in my favour."
"For Malice, my Lord." the Cultist cried.
"For the Ruinous Powers." Ulath corrected him quietly.
Very soon, the whole of Jurdani Tertius would feel the shaking of the earth with his approach.

***

Chirgon's Red-Light district was a bustling center of activity during the nights; everywhere they looked, the two hooded figures saw Rogue Traders, Mercenaries, soldiers and other members of humanity's lower echelon all mingling with each other, as well as other, less familiar faces.

Eldar, their pointed ears and slanted eyes setting them apart from the rest, laughed and joked with the humans, Kroot carnivores, a mercenary race of the Tau, moved silently on long, slender limbs, most often seen as bodyguards to some important figure.
Even a few Tau were present, their black and silver armour indicating them to be members of the Ro'Yal sept which bordered the sector's space.

Most curious of all as they walked the streets was a strange, skeletal metallic creature browsing one of the many ancient tech stalls that often dotted the seedier districts; those vendors rarely sold actual old tech, and those that did didn't know it.
As they passed, Benjamin Mordecai heard the creature jabbering a little.
"Nye zebt ahk Cryptek!" it bellowed, pointing to itself.

Benjamin raised an eyebrow, but continued walking; he had to focus on the task ahead, not strange metal constructs.
The rain scarce reached this part of the Hive, overhung as it was by the upper districts, nevertheless him and Mon'Wern both kept the hoods of their longcoats up.
The Tau seemed uneasy, eyeing the Ro'Yal sept warriors with great unease.
"You okay?" the Inquisitor asked, placing a hand on Mon'Wern's shoulder.
"Yes," he replied curtly, "Just bad memories, let's press on."

They continued walking, until they came to a particular brothel set up in an old Hab Block, done up to be a vague mockery of the classy manses in the upper city above, the kind only a successful Rogue Trader or retired Imperial General could buy.
Benjamin examined the name, done in massive neon lettering above the doorway, which was guarded by two burly Kroot bouncers.

"The Twitching Leg," Mon'Wern mused, "very grim..."
"I'm sure there's a story behind it." the Inquisitor chuckled, stepping into the entrance arch and pulling back his hood.
He produced some papers from his coat pocket, showing them to the bouncers, "Angus Filcher, Rogue Trader, this is my companion." He indicated Mon'Wern with a wave of his hand.

"Face." one of the bouncers croaked, pointing a mottled-green finger at Mon'Wern; he hesitated, but at a nod from his master, pulled down his hood, revealing the flat, greyish face and red eyes.
"All good," the bouncer said, "You go through, both."
"My thanks." Benjamin stepped past the bouncers, opening the door and stepping through into the dimly-lit, musky interior.
Various patrons filled the brothel, chatting at tables or at the bar, watching the scantily-clad forms of the dancing girls as they plied their trade from the poles jutting from various stages around the room.

Benjamin stopped a waiter as he passed, turning the man around to face him.
"Quicksilver?" he questioned, a grin spread over the man's face.
"You a special guest?" he asked, "She's out the back, getting ready for her next performance, she might have twenty minutes or so to spare..."
"I don't- nevermind." Benjamin released his grip on the man, turning and making his way across the room to the service door at the other end.
One particularly rowdy group of Hive gangers jeered at them as they passed, obviously hammered out of their minds.
"Hey, frigger!" one of them called, grabbing Benjamin's wrist, "Keep yer pet on a leash, yeah?" he pointed to Mon'Wern, and the group started laughing.
Benjamin's eyes narrowed, and he ripped his arm free of the ganger's grip, and walked onward.

Backstage was nearly as packed as the main floor itself; dancers hurried to or from their rooms to the stages, some followed by makeup artists, again Benjamin stopped one as she hurried past.
"Quicksilver." he stated with a frown, he wouldn't be insulted again.
"That door down there," the girl pointed down the corridor, "Is she in trouble?"
"No," Benjamin let the girl go, "We just need to ask a few questions."
Something in Benjamin's eyes told the girl this wasn't something she wanted to get involved in, and she hurried on, letting the two continue down the hallway.

As they approached the door, they found the hallway suddenly empty, and a sense of unease overcame Benjamin's mind.
He felt as though he was being watched, but a quick glance around told him no-one else was in the corridor with them; still the feeling wouldn't go away.
"Ready?" he asked, Mon'Wern nodded.
He knocked on the door, and after a few minutes was greeted by a pale, beautiful woman opening the door.
She was slightly shorter than him, with an impressive bosom restricted only by the scant few clothes she wore, mostly a dancer's outfit, a headdress was clutched in one hand, decorated in sequins and feathers.

Her long, crimson hair hung down around her youthful face.
"I'm sorry," she said in a naturally soft, alluring voice, "I'm not doing visitors at the moment, I have a performance-"
She cut off as Benjamin held up the Inquisitorial rosette, "We only wish to ask a few questions." he said, she stood back and ushered them in.
Inside the room was a dressing table with a simple wooden chair, a sofa decorated with various cushions and a wardrobe.
A glow globe on the ceiling provided what little light there was in the small room.

She sat on the sofa, hands clasped in her lap as she watched them, Benjamin sat on the chair while Mon'Wern stood a little to one side, arms folded.
"This is about the kidnapping, isn't it?" she asked calmly, the Inquisitor nodded.
"My name is Inquisitor Mordecai, this is my associate, Mon'Wern'A." he spoke, as delicately as he could, so as not to alarm her, "I'd like you to tell us what happened."

***

"The attacks?" Pious Anol muttered as he poured Fenton a cup of caffeine, "Many take place in Pit Town, people here are easy to pick off, and the Arbiters don't give a frig about what happens to the scum down here."
"And you've seen one?" Fenton asked, looking around the small chapel; it was nice, homely, rows of wooden seats lined either side of a red carpet, leading up to an altar with a carved depiction of the sainted Emperor facing Horus over the body of fallen Sanguinius.

He could still hear the rain beating on the tiled roof, but it was pleasantly warm in the candle-lit chapel, and he'd gladly thank the Emperor for the warm cup of caffeine in his hands.
"I have," Pious replied, "Several, to be precise. They always strike on the hour, regardless of time of day or who is around."
"They?" Meera asked uncertainly, "what do 'they' look like?"
"Masked and hooded," the middle-aged priest replied, "usually wearing the red robes of the Mechanicus laborers, though all Imperial insignia have been discarded."

"How do they strike?" Fenton questioned, taking a sip of his caffeine; it tasted a little earthy, but it was warm and it was drinkable.
"They use gas canisters to mark their approach," Pious continued, "in the smoke, they look like specters, ghosts, it terrifies people, makes them easy to apprehend and drag away."
"And no-one has tried to stop them?" Fenton asked.
"If you were a simple-minded Pit dweller, would you?" Pious returned, "People here come from all walks of life, stranded on world, nobles in debt, children abandoned by parents who couldn't afford to put them into orphanages, but they all share something in common."
"They've lost faith," Meera said dejectedly, "They don't see the Emperor's light anymore, or if they do, it's not shining on them..."

The Priest nodded, "Which makes it important for me to remain here, to guide them, give them hope."
Fenton sighed, staring at the floor with a heavy gaze, finally he looked up and spoke, "Do they ever say anything when they attack?"
"Only one thing," Pious replied with a troubled look, "Souls for Malice, we bring flesh this day."
"Sir," Fenton started cautiously, "I don't believe it's wise for you to remain here..."
"And by who's reckoning do you come to that conclusion?" Pious said defensively.
"By that of the Holy Ordos," Fenton said, standing and producing an Inquisitorial rosette, "and the authority of Inquisitor Benjamin Mordecai!"

***

"They take people in the back alleys," she said, struggling to keep her voice under control, "they're always hooded and cloaked, laborer coats, gas masks, always appear in a cloud of smoke."
"Is there anything else?" Benjamin Mordecai asked, his brow furrowed in concentration, his face only half-illuminated by the dim light of the glow orb hanging above.
"They-..." Quicksilver swallowed, trying to hold back the tears, "They always shout something when they come, it scares people, makes them panic."
"And what's that?" Benjamin reached forward and placed a hand on her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, "Please, we must know."

"They always say something about Malice, and...and bringing flesh, I don't know what it means..." she clutched a wad of tissues in her hand, occasionally dabbing her eyes as she sniffed and stuttered almost uncontrollably.
"They...they took Suzie only a week ago," she wiped the fresh tears from her cheeks, "We were going for lunch, and..."
Fresh tears rolled down her face, and Benjamin knew they weren't going to get anything else out of her; gesturing to Mon'Wern, he stood and headed for the door.

"W-wait!" the girl called after them, "Can't I go with you?"
He stopped at the doorway, turning back with a sigh, "We really can't take civilians with-..." Benjamin looked at her again, piteous, a wreck, in need of help.
"Very well..." he conceded, completely unprepared for the hug she threw his way.
She was still sobbing openly; uncomfortably, Benjamin patted her back a couple of times, "It's okay..." he muttered.

As they crossed back through the main room of the brothel, one of the waiters stopped to confront them.
"Where are you taking her?" he demanded with folded arms; a flash of the Inquisitorial rosette reduced him to a dumbfounded stare.
The drunk Hiver gangers were still there, each throwing insults at the Tau; they ignored them, until one got up to confront Benjamin.
"Thought I told you to put that one on a leash," he jabbed a finger at Mon'Wern, "We don't like them kind here..."

"If you have a problem with him, you have a problem with me." Benjamin said adamantly.
"Maybe I do got a problem with you!" the Hive ganger retorted, producing a cudgel from a holster at his hip.

A solid slug round through the ganger's chest silenced him, and Benjamin stood swiftly to one side as he collapsed.
The brothel exploded in uproar, patrons and dancers alike scrambling for the exits.
Benjamin drew both Plasma pistols, kicking a table over for cover.
Three figures stood in the doorway, each cloaked in red Mechanicus laborer overcoats, hooded and masked.

They darted towards the bar, pursued by slug rounds as they went.
Quicksilver didn't seem panicked, she hadn't even screamed.
Benjamin ducked, shot ricocheting off the wall above him.
Glass smashed, bottles breaking, splinters of wood flying.

He rose, firing off three rapid bolts of plasma; the enemy found cover behind the clerk's desk near the entrance.
All three shots missed, he dropped back into cover as fire was returned.
Mon'Wern rose, firing off a quick shot with his Pulse Rifle, catching one of the kidnappers on the shoulder as he ducked back down; the man flopped over.
Another shot ensured he wouldn't get up again.

They both dropped back into cover as return fire peppered plaster, wood chippings and glass down on their heads.
Benjamin rose to return fire, but a stabbing pain in his flesh arm sent him stumbling back to the ground.
He dropped one of his Plasma Pistols.
Blood was seeping from his right shoulder; he bit his lip.

He looked over, saw the girl, Quicksilver, rising, undeterred by the solid slug rounds whipping the air around her.
"What are you doing?!" Benjamin shouted, she ignored him.
She took something from the folds of her dress, aimed it at the attackers.
They screamed, spasms racking their bodies as the pulse emitted by the weapon rolled over them.

Benjamin took advantage of this.
Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he rose, putting a plasma bolt through one of them.
Mon'Wern darted out to secure the other with a pair of mag-cuffs.
"What the hell was that?!" Benjamin turned to the dancer, eyeing the weapon, a Neural Shredder, "Where did you get one of those?!"
"I'll explain when we're somewhere safe," she said hurriedly, "You have a ship in orbit, yes?"
"Yes..." Benjamin said, surprised at this sudden turn of events; this was no simple dancing girl.

***

The rain hadn't relented while they were inside.
Fenton pulled his hood up, the putrid stink of Pit Town filling his nostrils once again, "Lovely." he muttered under his breath.
They started down the slope, three figures alone in the midnight rain.
"Wait!" Pious called a halt, pointing ahead.

"I see them." Fenton called back, unslinging his Hotshot Las.
Three figures approaching through the muck, red coats and masked, hooded faces.
All carried autoguns, and as Fenton loaded up, slug rounds filled the air around him.
He returned fire, and the sound of multiple Las shots told him Meera was doing the same.
"This way!" Pious exclaimed, revving up his staff-like Eviscerator as he led them down a backalley.

Meera and Fenton followed, firing from the hip.
More shots followed them.
The ground was higher here, water pooled around Fenton's feet.
He fired off another volley, and a scream from behind greeted him.
One down.
He looked ahead, smoke filled the alleyway ahead of them.

They charged into the smoke.
"This way!" Fenton called, darting down the alleyway to the right.
As he emerged from the smoke, he became aware that no-one was behind him.
In front of him, three hooded figures approached him through the rain, autoguns raised.
"Souls for Malice!" the one in the middle roared, "We bring flesh!"
"gak..." Fenton muttered under his breath.

Now this was a real gem, the sentences are a bit chopped up. But beside that I find it very good. Also that dancing girl...Is she for hire?

Afraid not, Trond...

There's a lot more to her than meets the eye, and not all good...

Aw dont be so greedy

And my title should say it all, my morals are very flexible

The Thrall Sacrifice: Part 2 - Ground Zero

She kicked open the door to an access shaft; above and below them, stairs led the entire way up the spire, a crude but manageable way for maintenance crews to get around.
"Down here." she said firmly, starting down the rusted staircase without waiting for the two to follow, the Inquisitor followed after, with Mon'Wern covering the rear and dragging the captive.

He gritted his teeth; who was this girl? She wasn't a dancer, and Benjamin had a sinking suspicion he knew exactly what she was.
"Wait." he told her, reaching out to place a hand firmly on her shoulder.
"Later," she told him, brushing the hand away, "Look."
He followed her gaze; three hooded figures were pursuing them down the stairs, autoguns cradled in their hands, respirator masks covering their faces.

"I won't be able to carry him quickly enough..." Mon'Wern began, but a burst of autofire stuttering over his head cut him off as he ducked.
"We make our stand here." Benjamin drew his remaining Plasma pistol, letting off two accurate shots as he strafed.
The pain in his right arm had dulled, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing.
One of the cultists went down, two holes burnt in his chest.

The remaining two carried on towards them, firing from the hip.
"Mon'Wern, get the hostage to the others," Benjamin ordered, "We'll hold here."
"Yes, Inquisitor." he replied.
Benjamin holstered his plasma pistol, drawing his combat knife as the two pulled brutally spiked cudgels from their belts.
They began to circle, Benjamin didn't give them a chance.

He struck out with his left foot, winding one of them with a kick to the chest while his knife slashed another across the shin.
He ducked a clumsy attack from the man with the bloody shin, straightening and lashing out with his bionic arm.
The man screamed as he tumbled over the rusted railing to his death far below.
The Inquisitor was then forced to drop his combat knife as the haft of a cudgel began to squeeze at his neck.

"Your flesh is as good as any other's, scion of the Emperor." the cultist whispered in his ear.
The pressure on his neck suddenly lifted as he heard a scream from behind.
Benjamin turned, and saw something, a flash of black and white, pick the man up, slam him against the railing before kicking him over.

"The time for subterfuge is over," the girl's face said as a sheer, black mask with two red eye slits slid over it, her hair twisted into a long ponytail, extending to her hips, going from deep red to white, she was clothed now in a skin-tight bodyglove.
"I am Zilvia, of the Callidus Temple." the Assassin said.

***

There were two options; fight, or flee.
The cultists expected him to go screaming like the rest.
Frig them, Fenton Muir didn't scream.
He pulled a Frag grenade from his belt, snagging the pin on one of the belt loops before tossing it.

He turned and ran, pursued by solid rounds as he went.
Pain lanced up his side as a slug round burrowed into his left side.
He ignored it, and continued running.
He heard the percussive thud of the frag grenade as it detonated, screams issued, and the sound of footsteps following him ceased.

He ran headlong into the smoke lingering at the junction, and paused.
They were coming from ahead, and the left.
He opted to go right, but there were more coming from that direction too.
Fenton counted seven masks glaring at him.
"Holy Throne!" he pointed past them, and as their heads turned, he unclipped and tossed another frag.
He darted left, bludgeoning one of the cultists with his Hotshot Las as he ran.

He could hear the others pursuing, hear the shots ringing in the air around him.
The rain got in his eyes, occasional flashes of light came from the spotlights above.
He continued running, the water lapping at his heels.
Fenton turned a corner, and hit a dead end.
"Frig!" he shouted, kicking the wall.

He turned, and saw five Autoguns pointed at him, five respirator masks watching him with glassy, emotionless eyes.
"Now boys," he stated, bringing his Hotshot Las to bear, "There are two ways we can do this..."
"You can't hope to walk away from this," One of the hooded assailants said, "You're outnumbered and outgunned, now don't make threats you can't carry through."
Fenton dropped the man with a Lasbolt through the chest.

He dived towards them as shots rained over his head.
Rolling, he got himself into a crouch, and tripped over an outstretched foot.
Face-first in the mud, his Hotshot Las skittered away over the street.
Fenton felt a boot press firmly into his back.
"Might as well shoot me now." Fenton growled, "I'm not going with you."
"Like we need your consent, loyalist." the masked man spat.

It didn't matter; the wound in his side ached, he could feel himself weakening, his vision going dull.
This would be how Fenton Muir died, slowly, half-drowned in the mud, alone in Pit Town.

He heard a low growl, like that of some great beast, then a grinding sound, before the man standing atop him toppled over, and a head landed in the muck beside him.
Autofire followed Pious Anol as he darted back around the corner, covered by Meera Shanton, the muzzle of her Laspistol flashing.

Fenton rolled, grabbing his Hotshot Las; his side still hurt, he gritted his teeth against the pain.
Meera had dropped another two by the time Fenton was ready.
He shot another as they advanced, and lashed a foot out to trip the other, spearing the man with his bayonet as he fell.
Fenton tried to shove the dying man to one side, but his arms gave out and he winced in pain as the heavy body landed on top of him.

Something lanced into his chest; the bayonet attached to the man's autogun.
He groaned, he was aware of someone standing over him, but his eyesight was too blurry.
Voices were speaking, he couldn't understand them.
The rain felt so cool on his face.
Then he couldn't hear anything at all, couldn't feel the rain on his face, couldn't see.
Fenton Muir embraced the warmth of unconsciousness.

***

Inquisitor Benjamin Mordecai watched silently as a pair of the crew's Medicae lifted Fenton up on a pallet, marching him into the Valkyrie.
He stood with his arms folded, sheltered beneath an overhanging parapet, a thick wad of bandages tied around his right arm.
This was one of many Valkyrie launch bays the local PDF used; cold, formal, depressing.
Morning had dawned, and the rain had abated, but still the gray clouds lingered, like some ominous omen, a forewarning of what was to come.

"I want answers." he said icily to the woman standing beside him.
Quicksilver, or Zilvia, her skin-tight suit soaked with rain, her long braid of snowy hair hanging behind her.
Her face mask was pulled back, exposing her painfully beautiful, pale face.
Her amber eyes stared intently at him, "He was a dear friend to you?" she asked, nodding to the Valkyrie.
"Don't change the subject." Benjamin growled, "You had the choice to lie, any excuse, you were honest."

She sighed, "I was sent by Inquisitor Hector Einhart, one of the Triumvirate, the three Inquisitors that watch over this sector."
"Who are the others?" Benjamin asked coldly.
"Inquisitor Havard Lamal, under investigation, and Inquisitor Isabelle Lucent, deceased." she replied simply, her eyes drifting downwards as she said the last name.
Benjamin looked away, his stomach knotting, "Why didn't Lucent tell me of such a thing?"
"Only Inquisitor Einhart could explain that." Zilvai replied softly, "I was sent to investigate the disappearances."

"You said Inquisitor Lamal was under investigation..." he frowned, staring directly at her, his curiosity getting the better of him, "Why?"
"Inquisitor Einhart suspects Lamal of having fallen to the ruinous powers..." she said slowly.
There was a long silence, the only sound was the water dripping from the overhang above them.
The first few deck crews were out now, scrubbing the grime off the Valkyries, or making repairs, or assisting the Engineseers in their blessings and rites; the low chatter of their quiet discussions was barely audible.

"What has led him to this conclusion?" Benjamin spoke softly, but the venom in his voice was evident.
"Lamal has visited Chirgon Hive several times in the past few years, has even visited the districts where the attackers strike," she paused, "Yet he never seems to find anything. The local Arbiters have found more than him in recent months, then there are his appalling attempts at negotiations with the Tau."
"Go on..." Benjamin growled, ignoring the stares they received from passing deck crews.
"Well, Inquisitor Einhart has concluded that either Inquisitor Lamal is senile, and it is time for him to retire, or he is in league with Chaos..."

"I can't believe that..." Benjamin stated, walking back towards Valkyrie seven, it's engines were revving up for takeoff, "Lamal has been a lifelong friend, he would never betray us..."
Zilvai followed, walking with a cat-like grace, her waist-length braid swinging from side to side as she walked.
"Don't you find it strange?" she asked, "That Lamal sent you to investigate a force that had swallowed up several supply convoys, and sent you alone?"
"He trusts in my abilities" Benjamin shrugged, his boots thudding dully on the boarding ramp, she followed behind, barely making a noise.

They both sat down as the hatch began to close.
"Work with me," she offered, "We'll take down this uprising together, then meet Inquisitor Einhart, and you can decide then."
"Pilot," Benjamin tapped his vox bead, "Drop me and Miss Zilvai at the Arbites Precinct."
That was where their prisoner was being held, under Benjamin's authority; the others were also there, recovering from their long night of fighting.
Benjamin turned to Zilvai, "I will work with you, but I promise nothing."

***

Pious Anol stood by the door to the prisoner's cell, both hands resting on the metal haft of his Eviscerator.
The hallway was long, dark, cold, lit only by a few glow spheres; inside each and every one of those doors was a criminal of some description, from petty thieves to Hive brawlers wanted for murder.
It sent a shiver up his spine; even after twenty two years of war, and another five in isolation.

He took small comfort in the trophies he kept from every regiment he'd served with, each one placed in a pocket on the inside of his robes.
He picked one at random, and examined it; An etched skull, with the number 134 done in the finest brass etching underneath, behind the skull were two crossed sabers.
He chuckled to himself, "Ah, woes to those who stray from his grace indeed."
"Pious?" He turned and saw Inquisitor Benjamin Mordecai striding along the hallway towards him, flanked by the young-seeming Callidus assassin and the Lord-Marshal of the precinct.

"My Lord." he greeted the Inquisitor with a bow, "How is our young friend doing?"
"Fenton is fine, the medicae are tending to him, though he'll be out of action for a good while." Benjamin clamped a hand to the old priest's shoulder and guided him over to a point further along the corridor.
"That pin, it's Ragnarok, is it not?" Benjamin eyed the pin with a little distrust.
"Aye," the priest replied proudly, "A strong lot, well-built for war, maybe a little to wary of outsiders...might I ask why you inquire?"

"The name keeps popping up," Benjamin frowned a little, "In some of the newer war texts, they're efficient."
"Their leader is a smart man." Pious replied simply, "but we should press on."
"Indeed," Benjamin replied, walking back towards the cell, "Lord-Marshal, if you please..."
The Arbiter nodded grimly and shoved a heavy brass key into the lock; turning it with a hefty grunt, he forced the solid metal door open.

A disconcerting giggle emanated from inside the small, dark room, the sound mutilated by the rebreather that, Benjamin saw by the light of the single, dim glow-orb, was stitched into the man's scalp.
The cultist sat, bound to a chair by a pair of manacles, his head lulling to one side, one foot tapping the cold floor.
Benjamin sat down in the chair opposite the man, his hands laced before him on the table which was the only thing separating them.

He opened a pitcher on the table, and poured himself some Uskavar, sipping the drink from a simple tin cup before addressing the prisoner.
"Care for a beverage?" he smiled sarcastically.
"Am I supposed to take that incentive, Inquisitor?" The cultist mocked, "Am I supposed to pour my heart out to you over a drink?!"

"It was your easy option," Benjamin slammed his bionic fist into the man's respirator, before ripping it off his face with an accompanying sound like tearing fabric, "I can still force you to talk."
The man screamed as large chunks of flesh came away with the mask; Benjamin tossed it away over the floor.
Either side of the door, Zilvai and Pious looked on with cold stares; this was professional work, and both knew not to interfere unless the Inquisitor said so.

"Shut up!" Benjamin ordered, smacking the man across his already bloody face; the cultist did as instructed.
"You are nothing special," Benjamin told him softly, "You are not a scion of dark powers, you are not a herald of coming doom, what you are is misguided from the Emperor's light."
"I am nothing now," the man said in a trembling voice, "Because I have been abandoned."
He giggled, "You can torture me all you like, Inquisitor, but I will not talk!" he practically broke into a frenzied scream, "You might as well kill me now!"

"Shut up." Benjamin ordered, but the man just kept screaming.
"The Church sees all! The Church knows all!"
"Shut up!" Benjamin picked the cultist up by the scruff of his coat, and with the sheer force of his bionic arm, threw cultist, chair and manacles across the room, where all three slammed into the far wall.
The chair shattered, the man lay dazed, bruised, maybe some bones were even broken, but alive.

Benjamin strode across to him, kneeling by his limp form.
"I don't need your consent to extract what I need to know..."
The Inquisitor's eyes began to glow, a deep, luminescent purple, and he smiled; the cultist knew exactly what was coming, but his feeble mind wouldn't be able to protect him, and the Inquisitor knew it.
Benjamin tore through the man's thoughts, his memories; he saw a child, raised by loving parents to be a military man, a young man who had failed his physical, and had instead sought work as a Mechanicus laborer in the Acid Plants beneath the city.

He saw a man who's parents had forsaken the child who had disappointed them so, he saw the man who's fiance had left him to travel the stars with a Rogue Trader.
He saw a man who's friends told him of a way to stand up to the corrupt and debased society of the Imperium.
He saw a man who had been led down a path by the bitter aftertaste of a life turned against him, and he saw where they now needed to go.

Benjamin withdrew from the man's mind, thin tendrils of ice now coated his uniform; he brushed them off, rising and turning, the cultist behind him was babbling incoherently.
"Inquisitor?" Pious asked cautiously, "Where are we due?"
"Ground Zero," Mordecai stated coldly, "At the heart of the city."

***

Ulath the Black Summoner stood at the railing before the main assembly hall; below him, workers, overseers, laborers, all stood, watching the corrupt Astartes in awe and fear.
"Your Imperium is a flase beacon of hope, ruled over by a blind corpse atop a throne of lies," he announced, "You have been subdued into servitude, in the hopes that this corpse will see favour in you. This too is a lie."
His followers filed down the steps to either side of him, hooded masks and red long-coats, the insignia of the Mechanicus torn off.
"I will give you a chance to redeem yourselves," he offered, "You will always fall to the darkness when you die, the most you feeble wretches can hope to do is appease the ruinous powers before you yourselves fall."

"You may do this," he intoned, "By joining the Thrall Sacrifice, whereupon your deaths will be overseen personally by me." He placed a ceramite-plated fist on his chest.
His lips curled into a cruel smile beneath his helmet, he knew that most would willingly acknowledge the ruinous powers if it meant elongating their lifespans by a few more pitiful hours.
"Raise your hands, if you wish the dark gods to embrace you when you fall, instead of tearing you asunder!" Around two thirds of the room raised their hands, Ulath shook his head at the others.
"A pity," he murmured, "Brothers, cut down the unfaithful."

A hail of autofire and desperate screams ensued, before the room fell back into silence again, this time with the bodies of massacred workers covering one half of the assembly room.
"Now, brothers," he chuckled, "strip the rest bare, prepare the vat chambers for the Thrall Sacrifice, for it happens today!"
Men and women screamed and begged as they were herded into one corner and had their clothes removed.
"This world will suffer under my iron gaze." Ulath growled, reaching a hand up to once again feel the insignia of the Dark Angels upon his right shoulder.
An insignia that ought to have died with Calth.

"Bring forth the host!" he ordered, and mere minutes later, a battered and beaten figure, once noble and regal of bearing, was dragged in, his lithe form looking rather pitiful and helpless.
Zil'Lath Fleet-Runner of Ulthwe wondered miserably to himself how it had all come to this.

I approve of this chapter! And when I get to see the name of a special regiment my heart tingles with joy. Well done!
Also gratzs on getting your lines longer, the story shines much better as of it.

Thank you.

I'll try to keep it that way in terms of sentence structure, though it appears once again that you are the only one commenting on my stories.

Ah, well, it can't be helped.

Don't take it personal, people are slow to give comments. I have three or four people commenting mine. Its just how the Dakka Fiction section works, the key is looking at the number of views your thread gets.

Interesting! I look forward to seeing the resolution of this... although if he discovers The Fallen then I could imagine the Inquisitor getting into a lot of trouble with a particular chapter...

Mhmm.

Unfortunately, I'm experiencing a minor case of writer's block, so I may not post anything for a couple of days.

Rest assured, though, I will continue.

The Thrall Sacrifice: Part 3 - The Raid

The air above the lower reaches of Chirgon Hive suddenly became awash with the throaty roar of engines as five matt-black Valkyries tore through the grim sky overhead, each skimming the lower hab-blocks before banking and descending slowly towards the acid vat factories near the city's core.
All bore the insignia of the Arbites Precinct, a power respected even amongst the more colourful masses of Chirgon Hive.

In the sixth Valkyrie, the Acolytes prepared for war under the leadership of their Inquisitor.
Mon'Wern was reloading and checking his Pulse Rifle for the fifth time during the journey, and beside him Meera Shanton sat, affixing one of her blades to the custom-made clamps built into the knuckles of her left glove.
On the opposite side of the compartment, Pious Anol murmured a prayer to the Emperor whilst clutching a silver Aquila that hung around his neck, and beside him, Zilvai was busy checking over her Neural Shredder.

Benjamin stood, despite the turbulence; tall, proud, intimidating, his hands clasped behind his back.
Not having Fenton around to make light of the situation had put a strain on the group, and Benjamin almost felt exposed without his second there.
"Anton," Benjamin muttered into his vox bead, "ETA?"
"About ten minutes," Anton replied, the Bridge-Admiral's voice seemed a little strained, "Master Fenton is holding up well, the Medicae report he is stable."
"Thank you, Mordecai out." he tapped the vox bead off.

"A sorcerer lord," Meera muttered to herself, "An Astartes at that, how do we combat such a threat?"
"We need to get in, first." Benjamin said, laying a hand on one of the struts either side of the Valkyrie's main hatch to steady himself; the interior was badly lit, and the thin window slits didn't let in much light, "That is where Miss Zilvai comes in. Her specialty is disguise."
"How many can we expect?" Mon'Wern questioned.
"Who knows." Benjamin said flatly, "That's why we have a hundred Arbiters with us."

"My Lord Inquisitor," a voice crackled over the vox.
"Pilot," Benjamin picked up the vox horn from its bracket on the wall, "report."
"Making ready to land, My Lord, we'll be on foot from here."
"Acknowledged." Benjamin replaced the vox horn, turning to his Acolytes.
"Nervous?" he inquired, they all shook their heads; not nervous, ready, each face set in grim determination.
"What about you?" Zilvai asked softly, "Are you nervous?"
"No," Benjamin told her quietly, "Not nervous, angry."

***

"My Lord Ulath."
Ulath turned from his vantage point over the acid vats, the gantry swayed slightly with his every movement, "Yes, brother?"
"Arbites aircraft have landed in the vent stacks near the complex," the cultist informed, "should we proceed?"
Ulath turned and looked out over the acid vats; above each one of them, scores of naked workers and civilians were strung up by their feet, attached by ropes to large cranes; each one was sobbing, or screaming, or begging to be cut down, the cries were music to the Chaos sorcerer's ears.

"If they come, then so be it," he said at last, "But the sacrifice must be moved ahead, then they will be able to do nothing by the time they are here."
He looked over the railing to the factory floor below; there, an eight-pointed star had been etched into the rockrete, and eight sacrifices surrounded it, one at each point, with the host in the middle, chained to the floor.
The Eldar Ranger simply lay there, his hands and feet bound; he had given up hope.

"Make the etchings deeper towards the middle!" Ulath ordered, "The blood must flow to the center!"
He could almost taste the Daemon's name on his tongue, "K'Vas S'sarok..."

***

It had started to rain again.
Lucen Scarvo had pretty much come to expect the rain when he least wanted it.
Let some other poor sod sit in a creaky fold-out chair atop Ground Zero complex's outer wall, sipping cold caffeine and awaiting an army that wouldn't come.
His respirator mask itched, made his face hot and sweaty, so he'd taken it off; he wasn't considered "important" enough to have it stitched into his scalp.
Well, they could keep their stitches, frig them.

Something caught the corner of his eye, a flash of movement, something black and sleek.
He looked in that direction, squinted through the rain, but it had gone.
He shook his head, relaxing into his misery, and then saw someone limping along the road towards the complex gate.
"Sorren?" he called, "that you?"
"Yeah," the man replied back in a gruff tone; he was in bad shape, one leg bent at the wrong angle, and his respirator had been torn out, a few chunks of flesh missing along with it, loose stitches hung around his face like a vague mockery of hair.
It was a wonder the man had made it here at all.

"Boss said you'd be dead by now," Lucen said, "Hold on, I'll open the gate."
He hurried down through the trapdoor and into the warmth of the wall's interior.
He slammed his fist into the gate's activation rune, and stumbled as the ground beneath him shuddered, the ancient gears grinding together as the colossal mechanism forced the gate open.
He hurried into the courtyard to meet his old friend, and saw to his horror at least five platoons of Arbiters jogging up the road behind Sorren as the beaten cultist limped through the gate.
"Sorren," he whispered in shock, "What have you done?!"

"Not Sorren," the man said in a female voice, grabbing Lucen's head and twisting it around 180 degrees, snapping the spine neatly.
"Sorry." Zilvai said as her flesh bubbled and melted back into the sheer black bodyglove.

***

At the head of the column, Benjamin clutched his Plasma pistol tightly in his flesh hand, ignoring the advice of the Medicae to stay out of combat.
He slowed them to a walk as they entered through the open gates; Zilvai was standing over the corpse of a young man, his neck hanging limply at the wrong angle.
"Guard?" Benjamin asked; she nodded.
He made a quick gesture with his hand, and was greeted by the sound of a hundred shotguns being racked behind him.

There was also the distinct sound of an Eviscerator revving up, and the whine of a Pulse rifle charging.
"Time to wage war!" he ordered, starting forward.
They crossed the near-empty courtyard swiftly, only a handful of cultists saw them, and were cut down as they ran to tell their superiors.
Before them stood a sturdy metal door, not by any means a bulk-door, but strong enough to stop a regular man.
Benjamin slammed his bionic arm through the door, grasped the handle and pulled it open.

"First rank, riot shields!" he ordered, "second rank, shotguns! I want the perimeter to spread out to allow the next platoon in!"
They obeyed, ten arbiters with riot shields charging through the door and hunkering down inside, forming a moving barrier.
A hail of autofire hammered the shields, but did little damage; they carried on moving.

Ten more ran in with shotguns, taking refuge behind the wall as it moved forwards slowly; there was a lapse in autofire from the cultists at the far end of the room, and the Arbiters pelted their makeshift barrier with fragmentation shells, downing five of the thirty cultists in the opening moments of the conflict.
The next shield line was in now, taking up position beside the first and allowing ten more Arbiters with shotguns to fall in behind them.

Benjamin took this moment to dart in, followed by Meera and Mon'Wern, their weapons blazing as they dodged enemy fire.
Benjamin had forced the layout of the complex out of the cultist's mind during the interrogation, and as more cultists poured in to aid the fight, he and his Acolytes slid silently down a side-passage, where they were joined by Pious.
Zilvai was nowhere to be seen, but Benjamin could only expect that from the assassin.

"We move into the main production area," he told them over the hail of gunfire, "there, we can stop the ritual before it reaches it's climax."

***

"They have breached the complex, Lord Ulath!"
Ulath turned to the cultist, quite calmly, lifting his hand; he clenched his fist, and the man began squirming as warp energies suffused him.
Ulath wrenched his arm back in a swift motion, and the cultist's spine tore out through his chest, spraying all those nearby in a coating of gore.
"Let this serve as an example," he declared, "You do not bother me while I am preparing the ritual. Stop them, however you see fit!"

He leered, before turning back to the eight-pointed star etched on the floor; His Daemon blade hung in the air in front of him, the eight sacrifices surrounding the circle with the host in the middle.
Slowly, carefully, he began to chant the summons, the star illuminating in brilliant, luminescent warp-light.
With a swift jerk of his hand, his Daemon blade flew straight into the chest of the nearest sacrifice, drinking up the woman's blood with an insatiable hunger.
His other hand rose, and then jerked downwards, and behind him, several Mechanicus laborers suspended over an acid vat were suddenly released, screaming as the corrosive fluid consumed them.

"They're here!" A voice called, accompanied by several bursts of autofire.

***

Meera Shanton was first into the room, Laspistol in one hand, blade in the other; autofire rained over her head.
She ducked low and darted forward, twisting and slashing one cultist across the knees, lashing out with her opposite leg and tripping another.
She rose, putting a las-bolt in both their heads before moving to engage another pair.

Pious Anol came next, screaming a litany of the Emperor as he tore savagely into a group with a wide swing, his Eviscerator goring chunks of flesh out of all three.
Two more came from behind with cudgels; he jabbed backwards with the staff-like haft of his Eviscerator, winding one of them.
He turned, twirling the Eviscerator overhead before bringing it down on the second attacker, carving through the cudgel's haft in a shower of sparks, and then gore as it split the man's skull.
The first cultist rose again, but Pious decapitated him with a swift blow.

Benjamin charged in next, several Arbiters with power mauls and riot shields behind him.
He saw the corrupt Astartes at the center of the chamber, which was now crawling with cultists, and set off towards him.
"Pious!" he called, "With me."
The priest came up to jog alongside him as two cultists stepped into their path.
Benjamin slammed his bionic arm into the face of the first with a resounding crack, putting a bolt of plasma through the chest of the second.

He carried on, closing the distance, but a few of the tide of cultists had started to turn on him.
He slammed his bionic arm into the chest of the first to reach him, kicking the man sideways into the waiting jaws of Pious' Eviscerator.
Another two approached with vicious, barbed blades; Benjamin didn't break stride, ducking the first blow before shoving his Plasma pistol up into the man's stomach and blowing a hole clean through it.

He heard the grind of metal against metal as the second Cultist's blade came down on his Bionic arm; he rose, forcing the blade away to the left before grabbing it by the tip and jerking it out of the Cultist's hands.
With a feral snarl, he lodged the blade into the cultist's neck before violently pushing him away.
He could hear autofire and the louder crack of Arbiter shotguns around him, but he paid it no heed; he had his target.

***

Mon'Wern grimaced, dropping into a roll as the Arbiter with the riot shield he'd been sheltering behind fell, blood seeping from two dozen bullet wounds in his chest; his shield had been shredded.
He was still in the entrance chamber, where his marksman skills could go to good use, but now the enemy had a tripod-mounted autocannon, and the situation seemed bleak.

He came up into a crouch, firing off two more quick bursts and downing the Autocannon's loader in a spray of red mist; another simply rose up to take the man's place.
Mon'Wern gritted his teeth and crouched down again; More Arbiters were falling and their numbers had dropped from seventy to about thirty, under half.
He counted the cultists at no more than thirty as well, from the few quick glances he could make, but they had found good cover, and the Autocannon was still chewing up riot shields and Arbiters alike.

He needed to get close.
"You." he barked over the hail of gunfire, grasping an Arbiter by the shoulder; the man lowered his shotgun.
"Gather three more with shields, and two with shotguns," he continued, "help me get close."

Three minutes later, a formation of Mon'Wern, surrounded by three shield-bearing Arbiters, made it's way out, slowly, towards the Autocannon, covered by three more Arbiters with shotguns, firing from behind.
Mon'Wern fired a few shots off through the gaps in the riot shields; another cultist went down, and a second sat back against the wall, his arm missing.

Then the Autocannon focused on them.
Several dozen shots raked the forward-facing Arbiter; he went down with a squeal, shield shredded, bullet wounds lacing his body.
Mon'Wern was now exposed, but near enough.
He fired another shot, and downed the gunner, before diving across the rockrete floor towards the Autocannon, unclipping one of the Imperial krak grenades mid-roll.
He came up, dropping his Pulse Rifle as he prepared to pull the grenade's pin.

A hand grasped his wrist, twisting violently and forcing Mon'Wern to his knees.
He hissed as a compact snub pistol pressed against his head.
"You won't stop our mighty lord, alien filth," the cultist murmured in his ear, "your blood will flow in Malice's name..."
Another cultist tapped Mon'Wern's captor on the shoulder, and he turned, only to find a C'tan Phase Blade jutting through his neck.
The man gagged as Zilvai phased back into her true form.
She nodded to Mon'Wern, turning and firing her Neural Shredder at some cultist hunkered behind a slab of rockrete; they fell, convulsing in agony on the floor, some already dead.

Mon'Wern nodded back, popping the grenade's pin and jamming it into the Autocannon's barrel.
He turned, darting away; Cultist fire was withering, but it was still a danger.
But the tide had definitely turned.

***

Ulath rammed his Daemon Blade into the seventh sacrifice now, the holy light of the warp, echoing from the eight-pointed star, had intensified, and unnatural screams echoed around the chamber.
The words tumbled out of his mouth now, hurried, but never wrong.
His pulse raced as he felt the thrill of the warp's sweet essence infusing him, shaping itself to him.

The Eldar sacrifice in the circle's center was squirming, screaming, tearing at his manacles.
Ulath made another jerking motion with his hand, and the fourth group of sacrifices tumbled into their respective acid vat, dying the oily substance a deep crimson.
He brought his Daemon Blade back to the circle's center, letting it bask in the glory of the bloodshed, before pointing it at the chest of the final sacrifice, a skinny, underfed man from Pit Town.
He sobbed, hands and feet bound, tears staining his dirty face.
Ulath drove the blade home, murmuring the final incantation; the sacrifice burst in a shower of blood, which spilled into the etching on the ground and seeped towards the center.

This was it, his plans were finally at an end, and to Ulath the Black Summoner, former Dark Angel Librarian, Sorcerer of Chaos, member of the Church of Malice, it felt glorious.

***

Another cultist charged, this one with a barbed club; Benjamin went low, wrapping his bionic arm around the man's legs and shoulder-tossing him so violently the man landed on his arm with a loud, wet snap.
His way was clear, he charged towards the Chaos sorcerer...
And stopped.

The room became bathed in an eerie, red light, one so unnatural it hurt to concentrate to hard on it.
Several cultists were on their knees, screaming; the rest were dead.
The Arbiters took this opportunity to slay the survivors and secure the room, though none dared approach the encasing bubble of Warp Light engulfing the room's center.
Benjamin Mordecai shuddered as he watched the figure in the room's center rise, a grin spreading over his elegant face; a face he knew from the time he recruited Mon'Wern'A on Jurdani Primaris.
Zil'Lath Fleet-Runner opened his mouth, cold, violet warplight seeping out through it.

Arbiters began screaming as the same violet warplight spilled from their eye sockets, some dying immediately, others rolling around on the floor, kicking wildly, and others even gouging at their own eyes.

"I've failed..." Benjamin murmured to himself.

***

Mon'Wern grinned as he heard the concussive bang of the Krak grenade doing it's work.
The Autocannon was now a smoking ruin, and they could press the assault.
A spike of pain drove through his upper back, and Mon'Wern went down, gasping as he felt the solid weight of the slug round burning into his flesh.
He tried to force himself up, but as he did something both miraculous and terrible happened; the room became bathed in violent warp energies, killing the cultists immediately and leaving the Arbiters screaming and writhing on the floor.

***

"Inquisitor!" Pious Anol ran towards Benjamin, unclipping a book tied into a binder at his waist, "It may not yet be too late..."
"The Daemon is unleashed, Pious..." Benjamin indicated the leering warp entity, black claws had ripped through the fabric of one boot, and now scraped the floor where toes should have been.
"But we can still bind it." Pious announced, opening the book, "Buy me time..."

"No!" hissed the sorcerer, swinging around to face them, "This is my victory, stripling, the day that people will remember with blackness in their hearts, and you will not stop it from occurring!"
Pious handed his Eviscerator to Benjamin, and he accepted, activating it and turning to face the Chaos Lord as he approached.
Pious began chanting, a strange, ominous language that seemed to stir the very essence of the warp, stirring up a faint breeze in the room.

Benjamin engaged, twirling the Eviscerator overhead before smacking it down against the Sorcerer's ceramite-plated shoulder; sparks flew, but the Sorcerer shrugged it away before swinging his Daemon blade.
The Inquisitor narrowly avoided the swing, dancing out of the way before darting back in with a second blow, which grinded against the chest plate and made the Sorcerer stumble.

He was about to press his attack, but a psychic barb struck at his mind; Benjamin tried to block it, and only barely succeeded.
He knew he wouldn't defend against another mental attack if it came, so he had to press his physical attack.
He stepped aside another vicious swing of the Daemon sword, before jabbing forward with the Eviscerator and burying it deep into the less armoured gap between the Sorcerer's arm and chest.

Ulath howled in pain, and Benjamin tried to yank the Eviscerator out; it stuck fast.
The sorcerer stabbed out wildly with his Daemon blade, gouging it across Benjamin's body from the left hip to the right shoulder.
The blade screamed in delight as it fed on his life essence, and Benjamin dropped to the floor, writhing in pain before going still.
He was still conscious, but his vision was pale.

"Fool boy," Ulath tore the Eviscerator from his body and threw it across the room, "My power is limitless, I saw Calth burn, and I have burnt countless worlds since!"
The sorcerer lifted his Daemon blade for the final stroke, "You are naught but a rat beneath my boot!"
Benjamin lay there; the blade had drawn most of his blood, and the rest was seeping out of the gaping wound in his stomach.
Somewhere behind him and to his right, Pious was still chanting.
The Daemon had broken free of one of it's hand shackles, and was straining at the other, reaching for the priest.

A flash of black and silver, and the Chaos sorcerer stumbled, blood pouring from a wound in his side.
He turned, lashing out madly as Zilvai retreated a short distance.
She rolled, leapt into a crouch behind him, and lunged again, her Phase sword sinking into Ulath's damaged arm, and with a deft flick, it came free, trailing wires, tubes and muscle as it thumped onto the ground.
The Daemon blade clattered away across the floor as Ulath roared his outrage.

The roar turned into a gurgle as Zilvai struck one final time, sliding her blade neatly through the back of the corrupted astartes' skull.
Ulath slumped, then fell forward, cracking the rockrete floor beneath him where he fell.
The assassin turned, her mask peeling back as she knelt beside Benjamin, genuine concern in her eyes, pity maybe, even sadness.
His eyes had closed by that time; she looked up, and saw Pious, still chanting away.

He was almost finished, she could see it on his face, he was almost there, the Daemon was almost bound.
The warplight dissipated, the Daemonhost screamed, and chains from the gantries and walkways above swung down to wrap around and bind the Daemon; Pious let the book go, and it floated up to the host's chest, where it seemed to sizzle and burn the flesh.
The screaming continued, the priest calmly raised a hand, and one of the many chains binding the host looped around his forearm.

He sighed, swaying, he was tired.
"Now," he breathed, "Now it is done..."

***

They convened in the main entrance; no more than twenty-six Arbiters out of the one hundred that had accompanied the Inquisitor.
Mon'Wern was with them, helping the dazed Arbiters to recover their wits.
Meera Shanton was the first to trudge back in, a large bruise made an ugly black mark on her forehead where she had been knocked out.

The next back was Pious, leading behind him the Daemonhost, straining at it's chains and howling; the Arbiters backed away, forming the sign of the Aquila across their chests, terror etched on their bloodied faces.

Pious took the Daemon to a more secluded corner of the room, shortly before Zilvai walked in, carrying the limp, bloody and beaten form of the Inquisitor in her slender arms.
"He's alive," she announced, "He needs a Medicae!"

Now this was indeed a grand finale I dare say. Well done

Oh no, there's more to come, but I'm glad you liked it.

More you say! Madness!

The Thrall Sacrifice: Part 4 - K'Vas S'sarok

Benjamin Mordecai woke up; his head hurt, so did his stomach.
He looked around; he was in a large, stark white room, shelves and cupboards lined the walls, as did several beds, one of which he was sitting in.
The Medical bay.
He noticed someone sitting at the end of his bed; It was Zilvai, the Callidus Assassin was watching him quietly, a slight smile on her face, she was clad in a red and black crew uniform, tailored to fit her slim form.

"I believe," she began, "That I owe you some answers..."
"Yeah, I suppose you do." Benjamin replied softly, reaching for a glass of water on the counter next to him.
"Well," she began, "ask and I'll explain as best I can."
"Who is Inquisitor Einheart?" Benjamin asked quietly.
"The most senior member of the Ordo Triumvirate, the body of three Inquisitors who watch over the Sector." She replied quickly.
"Why was the Ordo created?" Benjamin continued, and she replied.
"This Sector seem to have a knack for trouble, between the Tau, Orks, and the countless uprisings over the years," she paused, before continuing, "the Inquisition felt they needed a specialist force undedicated to any pre-existing Ordo that could watch over such a valuable area of space."

Benjamin nodded quietly, "How are my team?"
She smiled then, a beautiful smile that made Benjamin blush whenever the young Inquisitor looked her way, "They are well, Mon'Wern has been confined to his quarters for tampering with the Fusion Batteries, Mistress Shanton is playing Regicide with him, Bridge-Admiral Gambit is awaiting a chartered course, and Master Fenton is back on his feet."
Benjamin grinned, the universe suddenly seemed just a little less dim to him now.

"And what of Pious?" He asked, "Did he choose to stay behind?"
"Master Pious has chosen to come along, I think he misses the military life, though he'd never admit it." The Assassin replied softly, "He has been watching the Daemonhost for a long while in the holding cells, he has set up several holy wards down there."
Benjamin swung his feet over the side of the bed, getting to his feet unsteadily, "Time to get to the bottom of this."

***

The Holding Cells were a dark, secluded part of the ship, devoid of any crew members aside from the Acolytes and the occasional maintenance crew.
The corridor was long and dimly-lit, the walls were thick and sturdy, and a heavy bulk door sat at either end of the corridor, with several other thick doors leading onto the cells along the corridor.
Pious Anol sat outside one such cell, his Eviscerator leaning on the wall beside him; he'd lit a number of incense candles that smelt of lavender and placed them either side of the door, and he had scratched a large Aquila symbol into the floor outside the door, as well as several binding sigils on the door itself.

As Benjamin walked down the corridor, flanked by the Callidus Assassin, Pious got to his feet and snapped a smart salute.
"At ease, father," Benjamin said calmly, "A holy man need not salute."
"Very well," Pious dropped his hands to his sides, "I imagine you intend to visit our friend?"
"Indeed," Benjamin muttered, punching in the door code; the heavy bulk door made a whining sound, then began to slowly clank open on heavy, rusted gears.

Inside, the room was pitch-black, but Benjamin's psychic talents informed him of the darkness emanating from the center, the sheer wrongness, the horror of the warp.
He flicked the light switch; slowly, the lights blinked on, each one illuminating the foul creature that sat, or rather hovered, chained in the center of the room.
"Hello Benjamin," it said maliciously, it's voice a deep, ethereal tone, as if underlaid by several other voices, "I was expecting you."

"Were you, Daemon?" Benjamin inquired, his voice cold, "And tell me, how do you know my name?"
"I knew it even before I took shape in this miserable form," the creature replied, grinning, revealing sharp teeth that weren't those of it's host, "I have known for several years, and I have watched."
Pious growled, "You lie, Daemon!"
"I have not a use for such trivialities, nor do I owe you or anyone else the truth!" it countered sharply, before turning it's attention back to Benjamin, "A man approached me, years ago, under the name of Malal, though he was no Chaos God, he was devious, and a contract was made."

"What contract was this?" Benjamin asked cautiously.
"He found me, bound within the corrupt undercity of Chirgon Hive, bound within the Acid Vats, in ground Zero, and he promised me release on one condition,"
Benjamin frowned, fearing he knew what was coming, "What was the condition?"
"That I save his life," The Daemon replied, "I saved him from the destroying acid, and in time I would clad him anew in Daemon flesh, that he might be free of the restraints of the machine."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Benjamin questioned, the Daemon could easily be lying, and there would be no way to tell.
"Because, by not killing you, I have broken the contract." the creature said simply.
"I bent reality to my will, landed an agent of the Fallen, a powerful one, within his presence, and he used this to his advantage. From there, he organised the rest, allied himself with a Word Bearer called Seraphos."

"And who is this Malice that your followers speak so fondly of?"
Benjamin's teeth gritted, this Daemon was dangerous, and every second spent in it's presence could weaken his resolve and allow it into his head.
"The fifth Chaos God, Malal, he who can match all others, he who sews Anarchy throughout the universe."
"And who did you sign the contract with?"
The Daemon looked at him in silence for a long while, grinning maliciously before finally uttering three words, "Inquisitor Havard Lamal."

Benjamin's eyes narrowed, "You're lying to me..."
"Maybe," the Daemon replied, "But think on this, who sent you to fight a hopeless battle against forces who had taken entire convoys? Who has visited Chirgon for years without acting on the uprisings there? Who has close ties with the Sector Governor and yet prompts him to do nothing about the trade routes?"

"Havard Lamal." Benjamin conceded.
"Havard Lamal!" the Daemon roared.
Benjamin stalked out of the cell, accompanied by the assassin and the priest, leaving the Daemon laughing madly and straining at it's chains.
"I am K'Vas S'sarok!" It screamed, "You cannot hold me forever!"
"What will you do now?" Pious asked slowly as the door clanked shut.
"I will end this charade once and for all," Benjamin replied simply, "But first I will need assistance, to go in blind is foolish."

***

The Acolytes all stood assembled on the bridge, Admiral Gambit stood in his command pulpit, while Benjamin sat on the raised throne behind him.
"Ready?" Anton asked uncertainly.
"Ready." Benjamin replied.

In front of him, the large pict display projected an image into the air of a familiar teak-paneled desk with an inlay of gold, and sitting at the desk, clad in swaying green robes, a respirator clamped around his ruined face, sat Inquisitor Havard Lamal.
"Benjamin," he said cheerily, though now Mordecai could almost sense the false undertone within the older man's voice, "Your investigations are going well I trust?"

"Yes, my Lord," Benjamin replied, "The disappearances in Chirgon Hive have been routed out, A Chaos Sorcerer of the Fallen lies at the center of it."
The older Inquisitor paused for a long while, his eyes sliding to the left, then back to stare at Benjamin, "That is a great comfort to me, Inquisitor."

"I thought it might be," Benjamin smiled, "I have contacted a Dark Angels ship not a week's Warp Transit from here, it took a while to smooth matters over, but they understood that there was not enough time to contact them before events escalated, they will arrive in-sector within a week and a half."

"Benjamin," Lamal laughed, "You needn't have bothered, really, I could have taken care of it."
"I felt it my duty, my Lord," Benjamin replied, "After all, you are busy with...negotiations, yes?"
Another long pause, "Ah, yes, the Ro'Yal sept, things are becoming difficult, yet I am doing my best."
"I'm sure." Benjamin returned softly, "I will arrive back at Medrogus Lunaris within the month, I have a slight detour to make."
"Of course, Inquisitor, I look forward to hearing of your latest endeavors."
Lamal cut the link, and Benjamin sat back in his chair thoughtfully.

"Havard Lamal is a traitor," he concluded, "his body language, the way he talked, he was lying to us throughout the entire conversation, lying to me..."
"What do you wish to do?" Anton asked.
"We will first go to Galespire, on Jurdani Secundus, that is where Inquisitor Einheart is currently operating." Benjamin stated, "Also, send a transmission to General Tomasin of the Jurdani 1st on Primaris, ask him if the 12th are still on rotation, and if so, have them deployed to Medrogus Lunaris when possible."

"Yes, Inquisitor." Anton replied.
"And Anton, send a transmission to Sector Governor Karzan, tell him I will send a party to meet with him and discuss the situation."
"Yes, Inquisitor." Anton said again, turning to one of his consoles.
"Are you sure you're all ready for this?" Benjamin asked his Acolytes, "I can drop any of you at Galespire with enough Thrones to travel out of Sector if you wish."

The only sound on the bridge for a while was the constant muttering of the bridge crew conversing with each other, the Acolytes were silent.
"You showed me I can be a good person," Meera Shanton said, "I'm staying."
"Maybe one day I will stop," Mon'Wern'A pondered, staring out at the vastness of space, "But not today, I think."
Pious Anol coughed, before speaking up, "There is the slightest chance that I may be coming along because I miss the thrill of battle..."

"Is that a yes, then?" Benjamin questioned, the Priest nodded.
"And what about you?" Benjamin asked quietly to the man standing with his arms folded at the back of the room.
"Did you even need to ask?" Fenton Muir grinned, "I've known you since we were both lads, of course I'm coming."
Benjamin grinned back.
It was going to be a struggle, a hard fight, maybe even impossible, but he couldn't imagine any finer crew he'd rather have alongside him.

Your skill as a author keeps on improving, and this last chapter was a real joy to read. Also Dark Angels!!!!!!!

As a note to anyone who reads my stuff...

I am still writing, and I intend to finish Mordecai's current story arc, but things are keeping me bogged down and I'm struggling to get anything on paper.

So wait, watch, and I'll be back soon...

Castra

well take your time castra we know real life gets in the way man so no worries youw ill bring us a great story when life has settled down

The Fall : Prologue - Einhart

The Holding Cells of the Razor Descent were quiet, as per usual, with only a single guard-servitor on duty outside.
K'vas S'sarok could sense it, even with his mind and his abilities dulled by the incantations and rituals prepared by the priest.
Of course, 'he' was really an 'it', but he was in a male body and so the term applied.
Oh, how the Eldar male twitched and screamed, trapped in the back of his own mind, his soul slowly being sucked of all essence.

K'vas S'sarok heard the heavy 'clank clank clank' of the bulk door at the end of the long corridor outside his cell moving.
He heard footsteps, but thought little of it.
He thought about his mission, the reason he had been summoned...the contract that had been made.
Was that still achievable in his current state?
He reached out, gingerly touching the mind outside; the frail, tiny human mind.
For all the priest's wards, K'vas was still able to do this much...

Hello, Shanti, He thought, and felt the human mind twitch in response.
It was one of the maintenance crew, come to check the doors were still functioning and that the guard servitor wasn't malfunctioning.
+ Hello K'vas. + Shanti returned.
Shanti, please turn a full circle for me, in front of the door to my cell.
He waited, patiently, calmly, and before long he saw her head rotating in front of the narrow window-slit in the bulk door.
Very good, you can carry on now.
He looked at the twelve candles spaced around him, the ward, the glyph that prevented him from leaving his sitting position.

K'vas S'sarok reached out, gingerly touching one of them; it burnt, the pain was so terribly bad, it made him whine, and his finger began bubbling and dripping like wax.
But he persevered, he pushed, and the candle tilted slightly.
He grinned; it was out of place, and now it was merely a matter of time.
He would simply have to bide it.

***

The tall, gleaming structures of Galespire offered little protection from the biting winds that so often coursed their way over the surface of Jurdani Secundus.
Still, being able to stand above the clouds, see the sun reflect dazzlingly off them and see the moon still hanging in a crisp blue sky did have a feel of awe to it.

Lord Inquisitor Hector Einhart turned away from the sight to face the ice-sealed bulk door behind him.
"Captain Karel?" He inquired curtly.
The power armoured Deathwatch Captain stepped up, activating his long, broad power sword before cutting a swathe right through the door.
He kicked the two halves and watched silently as they slowly fell away.
"Done." He announced firmly.

Karel was a solid, stoic warrior of the Black Templars, and a giant of a man.
With close-cropped, light hazel hair and a stern but finely-cut face, he was the epitome of a noble Space Marine.
Hector waved two fingers in the direction of the door, and two others stepped through, Leondras of the Dark Angels, the stunning sunlight reflecting off his shaven head and metal-plated augmetic eye, and Kavan, a Tech-Marine of the Imperial Fists, a constant whir emitted from his servo-harness, the series of mechanical arms tipped with various tools twitching constantly.

Both panned their bolters from left to right, scanning for anything that could indicate resistance or a trap.
"Nothing." Leondras called back after a minute, and the rest of them entered.
First came Einhart and Karel, the black-and-silver clad giant took a step for every two steps the smaller figure clad in red and white took.

After them came Apothecary Gallus, of the Ultramarines, the black and silver of his Deathwatch Power Armour broken only by the white helmet that announced him as a healer.
And after him came the Blackshield.

Blackshields were entities known only to the Deathwatch, Space Marines who had foregone both rank and name to give themselves completely to the service of the Deathwatch, usually to repent some sin performed while with their respective Chapter.
The whole time Hector Einhart had known him, this particular Blackshield had never spoken a word, and used vox static signals to communicate with the rest of his squad.

He looked around; they stood in a long, sloping service hall, the sheer metal walls would offer no handholds if one were to slip on the frosted ground.
Not that such a slide would be perilous to anyone wearing Power Armour, but it would cost them their advantage; surprise.

"Target is three floors down." Kavan announced after glancing at his Auspex scanner, "Sheer idiocy of them not to place a guard..."
"From what I've seen of the nobility of this planet," Hector growled, "Idiocy is their forte."
With that, Hector Einhart drew his Power Sword and activated its energy field, the length of metal immediately became wreathed in a halo of light and crackling electricity.
"Onwards!" He ordered.

***

A world away, on the steel bulwark of Medrogus Lunaris, Lord-Inquisitor Havard Lamal stood quietly at the room-length window of the office.
He would have smiled, had his lower face not been horribly disfigured by the acid vats of Chirgon Hive years before.
As it was, he forced a mechanical chuckle through the respirator that allowed him to continue living, his emerald-green armour clinked slightly as he adjusted his position.
Five Valkyries came hurtling towards the building, bearing the colours of the Jurdani Twelfth Regiment.

Havard stepped away from the window, over to the Regicide board on the desk, casually picking up one of the white pieces and moving it forward a space.
"And so the first move is made, the game set, the wagers placed." He announced to the colossal warrior standing quietly in the corner.
Seraphos the Bloody, Black Apostle-to-be before he had left the Word Bearers traitor Space Marines with his most faithful, made no response save for a quiet nod of his head.

"Deploy your men, Seraphos, Benjamin Mordecai has been cunning in his first move."
"He knows you have the Commissariat and the Inquisitorial forces under your sway." Seraphos replied curtly.
"Indeed." Havard murmured, "I think it likely that he will go to Einhart, which means this will be more of a challenge than we anticipated."
"Shall I contact It?" Seraphos inquired, he spoke not of Einhart or Mordecai.
Lamal's lip would have trembled slightly, had he still had it, "No," He ordered, "We will wait until he draws nearer, we can't afford to ruin this, not now."

***

On the second floor down, they encountered the first enemy warriors they had seen since entering the Spire.
The combat was short and bloody, and by the end of it, the corpses of ten men lay on the floor, their bodies all but destroyed by bolter fire.
None of them were Deathwatch.
"The uniform," Karel said, kneeling down in front of a corpse, "Private militia, House Varre."
"I wonder how our Lord Sector Governor will react, to know that this corruption is rooted in his own house." Einhart wondered aloud.
"Unless," Leondras ventured, "He is the seat of this cult."
"No," Einhart spoke firmly, "I've met him, the man is a genuine idiot, his strings are being pulled by someone else, he's a puppet."

They continued on to the next staircase and, after clearing it, descended.
"The Auspex is picking up movement ahead, a lot of it." Kavan informed them.
"Aquila pattern," Einhart ordered, "Let's move up."
They approached along the wide corridor in a wedge-shaped formation, Einhart taking point; he would not order his men to do anything he himself would not do.

They emerged from the corridor into a wide, dimly-lit chamber, every possible surface coated in a thin layering of frost, steam rising from vents along the walls, and a blockade of dug-in Guardsmen bearing House Varre colours and bearing Heavy Stubbers and Las weaponry.
"Hold your position, Space Marines." A grizzled officer barked.
"By order of the Holy Ordos, and the authority of the Ordo Triumvirate Jurdani, lay down your weapons, Guardsmen." Einhart snarled.
"We answer to a higher power than your's, servant of the Corpse Emperor!" The officer countered, several of the Guardsmen echoed his last words.

Einhart wondered how idiotic they actually were.
A private force of House Guardsmen might be a threat to anyone else, but not to six Power Armour-clad giants bearing bolter weaponry and Power Swords.
"Into them." He ordered, quite calmly, and before the Guardsmen could open up their heavy Stubbers, the Deathwatch were in amongst them, carving a bloody path with Chainswords, Bolters and Power Swords.

Einhart cleaved an enemy soldier in two, watching the top half slide from the legs before he ducked low under incoming fire, spun and sheared another man's ankles from under him.
He came up into a guard stance, watching closely as three more Guardsmen approached cautiously.
Over to his right, Karel was spilling a gory mess onto the floor, his blade hacking left and right as he fired his bolter one-handed, any Guardsman that was not decapitated was pumped full of bolter rounds.

Einhart returned his attention to the three, the low-hanging red hood of his robes obscured his expression, making the Inquisitor all the more terrifying in his Power Armour.
To their credit, they did not flee.
One darted in from the right; Einhart grabbed the man by his head in one gauntleted hand, lifting the screaming man up.
As another charged him from the left, Einhart swung the body around and sent the first flying into the second.
Bone cracked and cries were raised.

Einhart was caught off guard as the last Guardsman charged in, swinging a spiked cudgel at Einhart's face.
The Inquisitor lifted his hand to block, too late.
The cudgel collided with his cheek and sent him stumbling, wrenching the cudgel from the man's grasp.
Einhart tore it from his face with a roar, feeling blood beginning to soak his cheek and run down his neck.

He flung the cudgel, putting all the force he could, bolstered by the Power Armour, into the throw.
It collided with the soldier's chest, the spiked tip impaling him and sending him hurtling back into the far wall.
He turned and beheaded another Guardsman who came at him from behind.
He dropped into a guard stance, but the battle was over.
The Deathwatch closed in around him, bolters still raised in anticipation.
"I have several antiseptic drugs, if you require them," Gallus ventured, but Einhart declined, deciding he'd fight through the pain.
They glanced over at the Bulk Door at the far end of the chamber, undoubtedly where the roots of this cultist movement were still plotting.

"Bring it down." Einhart ordered.

***

The Bulk Door was designed to hold against anything short of heavy ordnance, a tank shell or even an orbital strike could bring it down, but nothing less.
The locking mechanism was a different matter.
Kavan went to work, sliding off the panel at the side of the door, he began to rearrange the override cogitator within.
A minute, two minutes, five; the mechanism clicked, the door clanked open on ancient gears, sliding back into the wall to reveal the room's occupants.

Two Guardsman stood in either corner, both raised their rifles as the Deathwatch Marines entered, but got no chance to fire as a single bolter round silenced each.
The people they were guarding, seven nobles sitting at a wooden table in the center of the room, looked around in shock.
A snide-looking woman with a nasal voice stood, "What are you doing here? The Emperor's Inquisition has no right-"
"The Emperor's Inquisition has ever right to do whatever it wishes." Einhart rebuked her severely, stepping deliberately towards her.
The woman drew a belt dagger, three inches long with a curved tip, and charged.
Karel was there in a flash, going low, he shoulder-tossed the woman, who hit the metal decking with a loud thud.

The woman groaned, and now she was closer, Einhart realised it was Sibbi Varre, the Sector Governor's sister.
It came as no surprise; while her brother was an idiot who had been placed in power by someone higher, Sibbi was a schemer, who fed off her brother's power as much as any noble would.
"You cannot defy the Emperor's justice," Einhart sneered down at her, "Not now, not ever."

He gazed around mercilessly at the other nobles, the ones that cowered at the sight of the eight-foot-tall Space Marines.
"Secure them." He ordered, "We will take care of trials and court matters later."
His vox-bead blipped, he frowned, and then tapped the bead twice, an affirmation.
His assassin had returned with her charge in tow.

***

They emerged from the dim depths of the Valkyrie's belly, six figures clad in black and dark red, carrying themselves with the authority that only an Inquisitor's retinue could muster.
The one at the lead of the procession, a tall, slender, athletically-muscled man who appeared in his early thirties, with hazel hair, stopped in front of Einhart, his arms folded over his chest.
Einhart had left the rest of his men to take care of the misguided nobles, preferring only to bring Captain Karel to meet the young Inquisitor.

"Inquisitor Benjamin Mordecai." Einhart smiled, offering his hand, "I can see Isabelle's fierceness in your eyes, she raised you well."
Mordecai lifted his left hand, augmetic, Einhart noticed, and shook the proffered gauntlet.
"Inquisitor Hector Einhart." He nodded, returning the greeting.
They broke their handshake.
"I see you brought my assassin back for me." Einhart grinned as Zilvai left Mordecai's side to stand at Einhart's.

"Her skills were invaluable," Mordecai replied, "She saved my life on two separate occasions."
"She has a habit of doing that," Einhart glanced meaningfully at Zilvai, who flashed him a smile, he turned back to Mordecai, "So, what have you learned?"
"Your assumptions about Havard Lamal were right," Benjamin stated, "I contacted him en route, I could read it in his body language, his speech, Havard Lamal is a traitor."

"Isabelle Lucent did train you well..." Einhart murmured, "Tread cautiously, Lamal is a slippery eel."
"Will you not be joining the assault?" Benjamin asked, but Hector shook his head.
"No, considering we just arrested most of the planet's higher nobility, I will have to stay and ensure things are stabilised before leaving the planet."

Benjamin nodded, and looked up into the sky at the mighty bulwark of Medrogus Lunaris as it sat in the sky like a second sun, barely visible as a small shape in the sky.
"The best of luck, Inquisitor Mordecai, in this you shall have to go alone."
"Lord-Inquisitor," Benjamin began, I've been feeling that way for a long while now..."

***

The five Valkyries turned and descended in unison, the Guardsmen of the Twelfth Regiment spilling out and forming up in parade patterns as they awaited orders.
Captain Rennard Osbourne wandered down the lines, inspecting rank and file as the Tech-Priests prepared a line of Aegis defence bulwarks behind them.
Above, the tall, glass-plated spire that marked the center of the merchant district rose to almost brush through the grav field that protected the station from the vacuum of space.

It all looked good, his men were ready and serious.
Rennard slid a cigar into his mouth and racked his combat shotgun, turning as Commissar Zach Herse strode up to him, accompanied by Veteran Sergeant Drevan Stubbs.
"They know what they are about to deal with," Herse said slowly, "A rogue Inquisitor is going to be tough, I've done my best to bolster morale."

Osbourne nodded, turning to Stubbs; the Veteran Sergeant had been getting worse of late, his eyes were hooded, his face more pale than before, his arm was evidently paining him.
"Are you alright, Drev?" Osbourne asked.
"I'll feel better once this bastard is dead," Drevan nodded towards the spire, "Screw all Inquisitors."
"Let's just focus on holding our own for now." Rennard turned and walked up to the edge of the defensive line.
As the sergeants called their men to battle-ready positions, he fixed his eyes on the structure, and a sense of foreboding overtook him.
Somehow, it felt like the beginning of the end.

I'm back.
It took a while, but my life is once more sorted and back on-track, and I am ready to write and spin tales once more.

Glad to have you back comrade!

The Fall: Chapter 1 - A Thrown Stone

The lights on the bridge of the Razor Descent dimmed as the ship entered it's night cycle on the far side of Jurdani Secundus.
The vast, icy expanses of the planet's northern hemisphere were currently shrouded in a veil of darkness as night engulfed the planetary capital of Galespire.

Inquisitor Benjamin Mordecai sat alone in his command throne, scrolling through reports from the Jurdani 12th on their current state and the security of the premises.
It looked bad; The regiment had not been reigned in for their actions, as they had been employed by an agent of the Holy Ordos and the Ordo Triumvirate.
Yet neither had they been given any additional backup, or heavy support; their transports had been pulled out and precious few Tech-Priests remained to help tend to the Aegis bulwark defenses.
Those few that did remain did so under the guise of tending to any damage done to the Aegis defenses.

Benjamin drew a palm across his brow and sighed; there was no clue as to the full strength of Havard Lamal's forces.
For all they knew, the entire local Inquisitorial garrison was under Lamal's control, which meant hundreds of trained, battle-scarred and merciless Storm Troops pitched against a mere two-hundred Guardsmen.

Benjamin had the evidence to prove Lamal's guilt, but that made little difference as long as Lamal had the superior power and authority; Benjamin's only hope was to contain the rogue Inquisitor and then establish a defence and hold out long enough for Lord-Inquisitor Einhart to arrive.

"Feeling tired, son?" Anton's grizzled voice was strangely comforting, fatherly in a rough, crude kind of way.
"This is going to be a struggle," Benjamin conceded, "We may not come out of it in one piece."
"Inquisitor," the Bridge Admiral began, "One thing you need to understand about your position is that no matter what decisions you make, the stone you throw will no doubt turn into an avalanche, the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can come to terms with it."

The Inquisitor nodded silently, "I will need to deploy a small team to secure the Sector Governor."
"Will that not draw attention?" Anton wondered slowly, "Lamal will know something is wrong if your men deploy to the Governor's palace."
"We will use the pretence of an envoy to relay my findings," Benjamin stated shortly, "Lamal doesn't know that the Jurdani 12th are operating under my command, and from the reports, he has taken no hostile action thus far."

"Still, tread cautiously, lad," Anton moved closer, clapping a hand on Benjamin's shoulder, "The universe is not forgiving, and even those as intelligent as we can fall prey to it's designs."
Without further word, the grizzled Bridge-Admiral walked away to check the servitor stations, leaving Benjamin alone, bathed in the eerie blue light emanating from his data slate, to wonder just what cruel designs lay ahead of him.

***

The dream was a curious one; he stood clad in a light green robe, the fabric was soft, yet hung heavy around his frame.
As he drank in his surroundings, he saw something off in the distance; Children, playing amongst the ruins of what appeared to be an old Imperial Warhound Titan, it's husk long-forgotten, a good majority of it buried.
He was in a field of tall, brown grass, extending out before him in a great swathe before melting into the verdant depths of a nearby forest.
The air was clean, the evening bathed a peachy orange in the afterglow of a swift, setting sun.

A small wooden house, modest but sturdy, stood to his left; on it's porch sat an elderly man, frail and withering, a fragile innocent tucked away in this small sliver of tranquility within a universe hungry for conflict.

The old man noticed him, and beckoned with a liver-spotted hand.
He advanced closer, and the old man sat forward, his wooden chair creaking as his watery green eyes focused.
"Strapping young lad like you should be off dying for the corpse-throne," The old man laughed, the sound turning into a bitter cough before long.
"Where is this?" He asked the old man quietly, "Where am I?"

"Somewhere you can rest," The old man answered, "somewhere you don't need to fear, or grieve or weep."
When the frail, withered creature gave no other answer, the younger man took a seat on the step in front of the wooden chair, locking eyes with his elder.
Eventually, the old man's gaze shifted to the children playing amidst the distance, within the ruins of the Titan, "Beautiful, isn't it?"
The younger man's gaze follower that of the older, and his eyes softened, a shiver running up his spine.
"Why does it make me feel so sad?" He mused aloud.

"Because here, the life you know is gone," The strange man replied softly, "Because your life is not theirs, is not mine,"
He paused for breath, wheezing slightly, before continuing, "Because this is the universe you fight for, but you will never live to see the fruit of your labor, because we are two separate existences."
The younger man paused, running a hand through his messy crop of dark hair, "Why are you showing me this?"
The older man frowned, his wrinkled face becoming creased and folded, "It is not up to me what he chooses to show you."

The younger man shifted his gaze, and saw another man watching them; clad in a robe of pure white, tall and strong, the newcomer's long, waist-length hair flowed out behind him, his elegant, regal features accented by his intelligent, all-knowing eyes.
A golden halo of light seemed to surround him.

"Should I go to him?" The younger man asked.
"No." His elder replied, "It isn't time for you to go to him yet, and he'll not speak back."
As the young man gazed at the newcomer, a sense of tranquility, of peace, overtook him; but also a sense of loss, those who would never be remembered for their sacrifice, those who's souls had been consumed by the darkness for this world, one that would never know those horrors, to exist.

In that instant, he felt more mortal and insignificant than any of the Daemons of the warp could make him feel; for this beauty to exist, he and so many others would have to cast themselves into damnation for something new to rise up on the pillar of their sacrifices.
"Ah," the older man said solemnly, "Now you understand..."

And he did.
He understood that this, what every warrior fought for, bled for, died for, was something completely alien in itself.
He did not belong to this, his mind would not even be able to comprehend a world of peace, when so much of his life had been a constant battle.
It would be the same for so many others, though they would never realise the futility, not of their struggle, but of time, and their place in it.

Tears streaked down his face, he stood, but could not find balance as the sheer impossibility of this vision of his hope come true crashed down on him, excluded him, cast him into the role of silent onlooker.
A world he desired so much was now to be denied to him, instead given to ignorant children who would never know of the struggle it took to make it.

The old man gazed upon his younger companion with sympathy, "It is difficult to accept, I know," he spoke tiredly, as if he had told himself the same thing many times, "But your struggle will make a better world for others, not for you."
The old man's gaze turned to the silent onlooker garbed in white, "He was forced to accept the same thing when he chose to bathe himself in gold for eternity, yet shut himself away from the daylight."

"He wept?" the young man asked, wiping away the tear tracks from his cheeks.
"I am sure he would have," the old man frowned, drumming his fingers against the wooden arm of his chair, "His sacrifice was the first of many in the war against the Four, and your's certainly won't be the last."

"Is there no rest?" The younger man sobbed.
"There is always a final rest, boy," the elderly gentleman murmured kindly as he shifted in his seat, "But your's will not be this one."
The younger man at last found his footing, "What must I do?"
"Fight, and die," the elderly man said simply, "And hold hope in your heart, and be content that your blood will flow to forge something else, something better than you and your wars."

The younger man nodded; he knew now that it must be so, and he knew it would be soon.

Fenton Muir woke up in a cold sweat.
Untangling himself from the covers and crossing over to the washbasin to clean his face, he noticed the lights beginning to glow their usual bright hue, signaling the end of the ship's night cycle.
He knew he had dreamed last night, but whatever the dream was, he couldn't recall.
Still, he knew that it had made him sad, and something about it lay heavy upon his heart, like a great decision finally realised.
"Fenton Muir, report to bridge," the vox speakers crackled, shaking Fenton out of his reverie.
"Fenton Muir, report to bridge, get your lazy arse up here!"

Anton Gambit's gruff voice brought a smile to Fenton's face as he reached for his crimson crew uniform.

***

The bridge was quiet as they observed the giant bulk of Medrogus Lunaris slide into view in it's slow, monotone orbit.
The Acolytes stood in a line before the Inquisitor's command chair, alert, observant.
Their master was nervous, even if his outward appearance told of a calm, cold confidence, they all knew Benjamin Mordecai enough to know when he was on-edge.

"We will be dividing into two groups for the first part of this mission," He began, "Mon'Wern and Meera will be sent to the Imperial Palace in Royal quarter, where they will secure Sector Governor Varre before bringing him back to the ship."

Both nodded their assent and agreement.
"Myself, Pious and Fenton will go to the Merchant District to direct the assault on Lamal's headquarters."
"Actually, Benj..." Fenton began hesitantly, "I want to go with they envoy..."
The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow at his life-long friend, but Fenton stood firm.

"I can't explain it, sir, it feels like the right thing to do..." He explained meekly.
Benjamin sat quietly for a long while, before nodding, "As you wish, old friend."
Both men nodded, there was something in that nod, an assent by both men that one or both of them might not come back.

***

K'Vas S'Sarok felt a shifting in the warp; the immaterium flexed, writhed and bent around him, before a voice, grating and metallic, spoke in a chilling monotone.
"The day beckons, ready yourself."

K'Vas complied, flicking one of the candles with a single finger.
The finger began to warp and melt, but the candle flew across the room, shattering into brittle pieces against the cell wall.

K'Vas smiled; Nearly time to be rid of this imprisoning flesh.

***

The Valkyrie swooped low over the pristene white towers of the sector Governor's palace; the magnificent bulwark was a stark contrast to the blackness of space that lay just outside the thin bubble that encompassed Medrogus Lunaris.

Fenton tore his eyes away from the window slit, glancing between his two comrades.
Both were preoccupied with tending to their weapons.
Both expected a fight; Fenton expected a lot of procedure and protocol.

As much as he wanted too, Fenton couldn't shake the feeling of finality the dream had left him with.
He couldn't quite remember it, but he knew it had been something sad, something that spoke of a finality that he couldn't avoid.
Meera Shanton looked up, seeing the look on his face.
She reached out slowly, taking his hand in her's, "Don't be afraid..." she said soothingly, as if it were that simple.

Fenton smiled nonetheless, thinking of the moments he would never share with this woman.
Mon'Wern looked up from his Pulse Rifle, his facial expression obscured by the domed helmet; Yet the way he cocked his head slightly, he seemed almost curious.
"Final approach." The pilot voxed.

The Valkyrie swooped low over one of the palace's numerous landing pads, banked, came in again, and turned on it's axis before landing, the wash of the jets kicking up a cloud of dust that the waiting figures were forced to shield their eyes from.

As the Valkyrie's rear hatch slammed down onto the decking with a metallic clang, one of the waiting men stepped forward to greet the three disembarking figures.
He was clad in the green and burnished steel of the Jurdani, the gold rimming suggested the first regiment.

"You don't have permission to dock there," he barked irritably, "You're lucky we didn't simply shoot you out of the sky the moment you entered-"
Fenton held up his rosette, and smirked slightly as the man's face paled.
"We're here for the Sector Governor," he said firmly, "We believe his security may be compromised, and we've been ordered to escort him to our Lord's ship."
"Right this way, sir." The Guardsman turned, his subordinates falling in beside him.

***

Rennard Osbourne was not a man prone to doubt, and yet, here he was doubting the orders of a man who had proven so evenly-minded and cool-headed not so long ago.
There had been no movement from inside the glass-fronted building, not even a hint of enemy activity.
The men of 12th were restless, unnerved, almost to the point of paranoia.
They had never been in a stakeout before where the enemy hadn't thrown something back.

He turned to Commissar Herse, allowing the man to glimpse his uncertainty for only a moment.
"Captain?" He inquired cautiously.
"Do you think this was wise, Zach?"
Herse's brow creased in a frown as he replied, "It is never unwise to follow the orders of a power such as the Inquisition, Captain."
"You know what I mean." Rennard shot Herse a grave look.
The Lord-Commissar sighed heavily before replying, "I do not doubt Inquisitor Mordecai's intellect or his heart, only his experience."

Rennard nodded, pressing a hand to his forehead.
"Any conflict can age a person," a voice spoke from behind him; Veteran Sergeant Drevan Stubbs stepped up to stand beside Osbourne, "I think the Inquisitor may be wiser than you credit him to be."
"You'd have us wait this out, Veteran Sergeant?" Herse inquired, "For how long?"

Rennard glanced between the two men, one was his trusted right hand, upholder of the Imperial law and a level-headed tactician, the other an old friend, an even older mentor, and a veteran of countless campaigns.
Rennard Osbourne sighed heavily, before replying, "We hold out another half a day, if there is no development come sundown, we'll slog our way back to the billets without shame."

Herse studied his Captain for a long time, then nodded, "I'll spread the word to the men."
That would give them at least some ease, though Osbourne doubted they would ever truly calm down until either blood had been shed, or they had left the battlefield without a fight.
It was a Guardsman's unease, and they all felt it.

***

The Sector Governor's quarters stood behind a large, ornate oak door, with four Guardsmen of the 1st Jurdani regiment standing guard outside, their Hotshot Lasguns shouldered as they watched the newcomers silently.

The corridor was lavishly decorated, with red draperies hanging from the walls, an expensive-looking green rug stretching down the hallway, and various expensive vases and pottery pieces adorning alcoves along both walls.
As soon as they drew near, the Guardsmen lowered their Lasguns into firing positions.
"Inquisition." Fenton's guide announced hastily; The Guardsmen did not shift until Fenton flashed the Inquisitorial rosette, only then did they reluctantly shoulder their weapons and allow the group to pass.

They entered, ignoring the rich tapestries and hangings adorning the walls, the racks of ornate weapons that would never see use.
Instead they walked straight over to the wooden desk, behind which a figure sat in a recliner, his back to them, looking out of the window.
"Governor Varre?" Fenton queried cautiously, "You're in danger, we need to get you off world."

The recliner turned slowly, to reveal the gory remains of what was once a human being, the ribcage opened, the insides bared to the open air, the face stripped of flesh.
"Such a shame your envoy arrived too late..." The grating, metallic monotone echoed throughout the room as Lord-Inquisitor Havard Lamal stepped into the room from a side-chamber.

Fenton felt a sharp pain in his back, his body spasmed before hitting the floor; he became dimly aware of the four Guardsmen who had previously been outside standing over him, they had shed their helmets in favour of hoods and full-face respirators.

Lamal was clad in emerald-green Power Armour, a power fist radiating waves of lightning adorned his left hand, while his right carried a deadly Power Sword, the blade at least four feet long; a red cloak hung down behind him.
Lamal's respirator seemed to snarl as he paced closer, each footstep came with a loud thud.

Fenton also saw Mon'Wern'A lying on the floor beside him; Meera had disappeared altogether.
Lamal stooped, laying his Power Sword on the ground and grasping Fenton by his hair before yanking him up.
"Did you think I was so blind, scum?" he spat, "Did you think I would not see your master's pitiful attempts to play me?"

Fenton hissed, but could do little more as his body refused to obey him.
Lamal chuckled cruelly, his monotone voice grating, mutilating the sound, "My designs have been in play since before you set your cards on the table!"
Fenton's eyes watered as the iron grip tightened on his hair, Lamal continued.
"There is a curious futility to all this, is there not? A perfect world, one never realised, the universe exists in anarchy, and my lord Malal thrives in it."

The Inquisitor threw Fenton to the floor, stepping around to face him, "I will summon him, soon; I shall make the Lord Anarchist material, and bid him spread the power that only he possesses!"

Fenton fought desperately to suppress the panic that was building inside him.
He spoke a silent prayer in his head that Meera was listening, and that she could contact Benjamin.
He didn't dare abandon hope yet.

Oh dear......Well this certainly dont look good. And good to see you back on form

 Trondheim wrote:
Oh dear......Well this certainly dont look good. And good to see you back on form

Ah, it feels good, battle-brother!

I am ready again to dive into the fray, my thunder hammer in hand, dealing swift death with every swing, each blow a taste of the Emperor's justice!

And each blow is a killing one...