So I got to writing this, honestly, I don't know when. It's probably around 2-3 years old, and I was going about my files on my
PC, deleting stuff, and I found it. Its the start to a Raven Guard short story that I started writing. No idea where its going. But here's the first little bit. Needs a lot of refinement,
TBH, but thats okay. I haven't looked at it in 2-3 years
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The darkness never arrived soon enough for Chyron. The inevitable waiting that accompanied his deployments gave him too much time. Time to brood, time to second guess, time for his men to become restless—or as restless as any that had undergone the vigorous mental conditioning of the Asartes could be. Nevertheless, it was time in which Chyron’s scouts were not accomplishing their objectives.
They’d landed two days prior by drop ship, nearly 40 kilometres from their present location, their bikes deployed with them to help cover the distance. The first 30 had been easy. No resistance, no convoys or patrols to avoid. But that wasn’t surprising. The archenemy used infiltrators when necessary, but their arrogance and hubris wouldn’t require them here, where they were firmly entrenched and their fortifications strong. Despite this, Chyron wouldn’t chance being detected. Though the bikes were heavily modified to run near silently, their heat signatures would be easily identified by routine scanner sweeps this close to the stronghold. Thus, the bikes were stowed in hillside caves, and the remaining journey embarked on foot, slowly, cautiously, until they reached the crags in which they now hid, waiting for the night to come.
But now the twin suns had fallen far enough that dusk was settling upon the hills and the stark black armour Chyron wore melted into the long shadows being cast. His armour was light and fitted to his Astartes bulk, not the power armour worn by his many brethren. It made him agile and it made him silent. It perfectly suited his mission. His cameoline cloak, draped over his shoulders, was lined with ink-black feathers, the vestiges of his chapter, and shrouded him like wings. He was a spectre, a phantom, the only light betraying the darkness the pale green reflection from his optics, as even his face was concealed in a cameoline mask. The masks, an innovation by his chapter’s Techmarines, was a necessity for Raven Guard scouts; their pale features betrayed them in the night, their alabaster skin standing in stark contrast to the stealth required by their mission. And while it somewhat dulled the senses, the masks were nowhere as restrictive as a power armour helm, though it afforded many of the same benefits.
Chyron looked through the green lenses, noting his squad. Brothers Terryl and Layne on his right, their silenced bolters low-slung, stood waiting, their respective runes haloed by yellow in his sight, indicating communication over private vox. Brother Rykon sat on an outcropping pensive, his silenced shotgun on his lap, his heavy hands pressed to his temples. Behind, Brother Hykari lay on his stomach, cameoline cloak rendering him near invisible, adjusting the scope of his sniper rifle.
“Brothers,” Chyron voxed. Terryl and Layne snapped to attention, their bolters at hip height, the halo surrounding their runes vanished. Rykon stood, shotgun at the ready as Hykari froze, his finger tensing around the trigger of his rifle. “The night comes, there is work to do.”
Chyron’s gloved hand slid over the traitor Astartes’ mouth as he forced his scout claw between the first and second vertebrae of the Iron Warrior’s neck, severing his spinal column and collapsing the enemy into a heap. It was a cleaner death, a quicker death, than the enemy deserved; it was a mercy Chyron had granterd his traitor brothers many times over, and a mercy that never sat well with the Raven Guard sergeant. He wasn’t battle-crazed like his Space Wolf kin, nor did he long for the crimson warmth death brought as the Sons of Sanguinius did; rather, Chyron and his Raven Guard brothers sought retribution and absolution through every kill. As the Iron Warrior sentry slumped into Chyron’s arms, Ryyko appeared from the shadows and grabbed the traitor marine’s feet. Together, the two quickly hid the body amongst a stack of munitions canisters. It was a maneuver the squad had performed many times, and it was done quickly and silently. As Chyron and Ryyko disposed of the body, Terryl and Layne, bolters drawn and alert, approached the interior command structure of the sentry post. It was unlikely that a lone Astartes would be manning the position; however, the Iron Warriors were arrogant and believed their ability to secure fortifications was as proficient as their ability to break them.
In truth, their hubris was not unfounded. The sentry post was a fortress unto itself, and would probably withstand any siege directed at it. The walls were nearly five metres thick, rockcrete with adamantite stanchions, gargoyle-mouthed heavy-bolter emplacements panning the wall’s expanse. Were it attacked by the Sons of Russ, their berserker charges would have broken against the walls like the tide against a dam.
The Raven Guard were not the Sons of Russ.
Chyron’s scout armour was heavily modified. In addition to the mask that hid his pale countenance, his gloves were outfitted with smaller versions of the favored close combat weapon of the Raven Guard: lightning claws. Smaller in length and number, the scout claws were as much for infiltration as for close combat.
“Low and slow,” Chyron had intoned subvocally over the vox to his squad. “We have time, but one chance.”
The approach to the wall had been tedious, taking the better part of an hour. While the cameoline cloaks the scouts wore would mask their heat signature and blend them with their surroundings, it would do little to hide any rapid movement from the servitor-mounted gun drones lining the thick walls. As the four Raven Guard arrived at the base of the wall, they froze, a ping over the vox alerting their already heightened senses.
“Brother-Captain, servitor drones blind. Positioning stable.” Hykari’s voice was soft and understated, particularly so given his massive Astartes frame. “Tracking one heat signature, sentry, six-minute rotation from your position.”
“Acknowledged.” Their vox communication was brief, as it was on every mission. While they had time to spare, it was never a luxury they could depend on, and excessive vox-chatter could compromise any situation. Despite their secured channel, their close proximity always put them in danger of being discovered.
Chyron slowly rose from his prone position, unsheathing his scout claws. Igniting the power source was a risk, but was one he had to take. Though the monomolecular edge of the claws was sharp, they bit into the rockcrete wall only barely. With a flick of the actuator, the claws hissed alive, blue electricity dancing up and down their width, and the claws slid into the rockcrete as if it were xenos flesh.
“Status?” Chryon voxed.
“Clear, Brother-Sergeant.” Hykari replied. “Servitors remain blind. Position uncompromised.”
Contrasting his approach to the walls, Chyron’s ascent of the wall was quick. Short, powerful strikes with the scout claws propelled him upwards, leaving no debris as with each exit of the claws, their electric heat rapidly cauterized the scars in the rockcrete. Reaching the apex, Chyron clipped a heavy-fibre rope to his belt and dropped the other end to the base of the wall and his waiting squad. He then dismounted the wall, dug his scout claws into the interior rockcrete, and sat perched in waiting, a predator anticipating the kill.
Chyron and Rykko had stashed they body well enough to be hidden from plain view, but not well enough to be secreted from further scrutiny. They hadn’t the time, for fear that the sentry’s lack of communication would alert whomever awaited inside the command structure. Terryl and Layne had already secured the perimeter of the command building and were poised for entry, bolters raised, senses heightened. While Layne’s techmarine training would probably suffice in opening the door, Chyron couldn’t chance the Iron Warriors inside being alarmed to any unexpected intrusion though their network: the Raven Guard would have to enter through force.
It was a simple matter of placing shaped micro-melta charges on the hinges and lock mechanism of the door. Rykko had plenty in his kit. Not so simple was accounting for the thickness of the plasteel. If the rockcrete walls that surrounding the outpost were any indication, the charges would fail, the enemy would be alerted to their presence, and the likelyhood of success would nearly vanish.
“Charges, Brother-Sergeant?” Ryyko intoned, his voice low over the vox.
“Aye, Rykko. Four. Hinges and lock. Forced entry pattern Zephyr.”
Rykko pulled four micro-melta charges from his hip pouch, each the size of a human fist. He attached them to the indicated points and primed the charges, stepping away from the door and kneeling, his shotgun raised.
“Hykari, your mark.”
“Aye, Brother-Sergeant,” Hykari voiced his affirmative, a slim grin broaching his masked face, “Rykko, keep that head down. Mark.”
The primed charges hissed, the molten cores of the charges heating and imploding on themselves, creating four half metre holes in the door. The plasteel creaked and the door fell inwards with a crash.
And by the Emperor’s grace I smite my enemies.
Hykari whispered the litany as his finger closed on the trigger, the door to the command structure barely falling below his scope line, but far enough to reveal the interior of the command room.
The Deliverance-pattern sniper rifle made a muffled whine, the metre long barrel tipped in an oversized silencer, as the bullet left the chamber. Entry pattern Zephyr required Hykari to locate and eliminate the comms servitor within two seconds of the breach. The servitor’s head exploded outward in less than one.
“Comms down. Five contacts. Astartes. Full Power armour.”
