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EDITED TO ADD: I am past half-way for posting all of the chapters. All of the named characters and squads are represented by miniatures in my collection (that dates back to 1995). I'd appreciate any feedback. I know that my lore isn't very orthodox. But that's the point; my figures, my game, my stories. I currently use 5th edition rules and have a pretty good collection of 5th edition rules and codices. No more chasing GW's latest update and newest model. I have over 6k points in Space Marines, and approximately 1-3k each of Tau, Space Wolves, Orks, Imperial Guard, and Eldar. When I have time, I will develop and write their stories. And I have built in opponents (my kids).


ISSTVAN V


Night had fallen on Isstvan V. The bright moons painted the war-savaged terrain with cold light and gray shadow. A cold wind whistled over the ragged and rocky ridgelines, pockmarked with craters and streaked with laser burns. Dust swirled around the charred to cinders that were all that remained of a once flourishing vista of trees and thick meadows.

Jacob Maccabee looked out over the desolate scene, scanning with his bolter at the ready, scanning for a flash of metal, a glow of light, or a hint of movement. His ears strained, within his helmet’s augmented hearing, to pick up any sound above keening wind.

The year was 006.M31. But since the battle at the drop site forty days earlier, when the traitor legions massacred those loyal to the Imperium, each day on Isstvan V seemed a year.

“There, brother,” a voice whispered from nearby. “At the front.”

Jacob followed the armored gauntlet of the marine next to him as it pointed. Jacob’s helmet enhanced and zoomed in. A shape materialized over a distant ridgeline; first the helmet and ponderous shoulders of marine armor, then another. And another. A patrol of World Eaters, the head of an advancing column of infantry, moving to assault. The traitorous space marines were seeking out their brothers for more murder.

Jacob was lying down along a low ridgeline along with a squad of black-clad space marines. In the dark, Jacob was indistinguishable from his Raven Guard brothers. But his armor was blue, Ultramarine-blue, albeit scarred and scorched by weeks of non-stop combat until it was marred almost beyond recognition. Jacob was there by chance, a courier from the Ultramarines who had been trapped along with the men of the Raven Guard, Salamanders, and Iron Hands when the traitor legions' treachery was made manifest. After the massacre, the survivors rallied under Primarch Corax and fought back with a relentless guerilla war, rescuing survivors and ambushing the enemy whenever possible in hit-and-run attacks.

But now they were trapped, and the World Eaters were launching their final assault.

A Raven Guard heavy bolter opened up the fire first, lacing the advancing World Eaters with streaks of bolts. Traitors fell, their armor pierced and shattered by the exploding bolts.

Jacob Maccabee joined his brothers and opened fire. Bolters chattered, and red tracers whizzed through the dark. The initial ambush threw the enemy back, but they had both numbers and a dark, driving will to destroy their brothers no matter the cost. More traitor marines appeared, firing as they advanced. Lumbering dreadnaughts joined the fray, swatting aside hapless marines as they charged through the thin line of the beleaguered defenders.

As the night wore on, bolter ammunition grew scarce. Fights in narrow ravines and over nameless ridgelines were settled with combat blades and armored fists. The perimeter of surviving loyalists grew smaller as night waned and the sun rose over the blasted land.

Primarch Corax seemed everywhere on the battlefield, a whirlwind of death to the traitors. He would land in a blast of dust and flash of lightning claws, tearing into the armored World Eaters, scattering bodies, and ripping even hulking dreadnaughts to pieces.

But it was a last stand, and everyone knew it. They were surrounded, outnumbered, outgunned, and exhausted. There was no hope of rescue, nowhere to escape to. The only thought on the minds of the surviving loyal Astartes was to sell their lives dearly. To die with honor.

Jacob lifted his eyes toward the skies and whispered a prayer. But not to the Emperor; Jacob had seen enough of Isstvan V to know that the man on the throne would not save them. His mind sought a higher power. Finishing his prayer of desperation, Jacob turned his attention back toward the advancing enemy. A traitor marine scrambled out of a ravine nearby, chainsword in hand. Jacob shot him through the faceplate of his helmet with a single bolt. But it was his last shot. Jacob’s bolter clicked on an empty chamber.

Then, the first promethium bomb exploded white-hot in the ranks of the World Eaters. Formations of Raven Guard dropships appeared in the sky, a miracle brought about by the initiative of Commander Nev Branne, who was left at home by the Raven Guard here against orders to rescue the survivors.

Weary and wounded Raven Guard, Salamanders, and Iron Fists struggled their way uphill and began to board the dropships. Jacob Maccabee fought each step backward, facing the World Eaters as they relentlessly advanced in the face of the ariel bombardment. Jacob picked up abandoned and fallen bolters as he went, fired them until they were empty, tossed them to the ground, and grabbed another. Finally, he reached the ramp of a drop ship and clambered aboard, still firing with his last bolter. It, too, ran dry, and Jacob threw it aside as the ground lurched from beneath him. The Thunderhawk lifted off in a cloud of dust and screaming thrusters.

“Brother!” a voice yelled in his ear, and a large, lightning-clawed gauntlet clamped down on his arm. Jacob turned to see the face of Corax himself, his pale face bloodied and bruised, but his dark eyes glittering with anger and hurt. “Remember this sight!” the primarch ordered him harshly. “Remember it!”

Jacob turned his attention to the ground as the battlefield fell away from the lifting dropship. Fallen warriors were sprawled everywhere, seemingly on a trail leading back to the battle at the drop site over a month ago. World Eaters fired their bolters at dropships in impotent rage.

“Remember it, brother!” Corax yelled. “Bring back the memories to your brothers of Ultramar! This is the price of power and betrayal!”

“My lord, I will,” Jacob answered solemnly. “I will remember.” I will remember it all, Jacob thought to himself. He looked at the insignia of the men around him: the Corvus of the Raven Guard, the dragon of the dark-skinned Salamanders, and the clenched gauntlet of the Iron Hands. Then he looked down at his livery, blue with the white “U” of the Ultramarines obscured by the weeks combat. Brothers all.

Jacob rose to the rank of captain in the Ultramarines, an experienced, savvy commander. But the days of Isstvan V never left him. And eventually, during the lost foundings, he left the Ultramarines.
]]> http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/preList/818818/11817759.page http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/preList/818818/11817759.page GMT
WEBB VII

It was the year 293.M38. Sergeant Hanz Wolf scratched his jaw absently before putting his helmet back on. Locking it in, he welcomed the cool air as his suit’s air system purged out the toxic atmosphere of Webb VII.

Hanz looked at his men, his last link to sanity and his only remaining mission. His squad was on their own. It seemed that the short time he had been in command of the squad was just one disaster after another. They had abandoned for lost by their chapter nearly five years earlier on the remote, desolate Webb VII in a system cut off from the Imperium by the magnetic storms that made interstellar navigation treacherous.

Now, Hanz and his squad had battled through countless campaigns as mercenaries, working for whatever forces of the Imperium needed the services of a squad of lost Ultramarines. And it was good service. Webb VII was a place of constant, small-scale warfare as bands of wandering xenos and the leftover forces of the Imperium were always clashing in the hectic skirmishes that Hanz Wolf had become so adept at.

Today, a platoon of Dark Angels had put Hanz and his squad back to work. The Dark Angel captain had deployed Hanz and his men to cover their flank while they pursued remnants of a traitor legion. Hanz was used to working with and for various chapters, and the Dark Angels, taciturn and dour, were relatively easy to get along with. The good ones he enjoyed working with, the stranger ones… well, Hanz was a survivor, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut. So far, though, none of the other chapters had shown any interest in reuniting Hanz and his squad with the Ultramarines.

Hanz scanned his sector and checked his troops’ deployment. They formed a rough skirmish line. His weapon team, marines equipped with a flamer and a rocket launcher, were the closest two him. Hanz liked to personally direct the heavy firepower whenever he could.

The landscape was barren in the half-light of nightfall, a wasteland of a once-promising colony on a half-terraformed world. Ruined buildings and stunted trees appeared like ghosts in the toxic mists. Movement caught his eye, and a motion alarm warbled in his helmet.

“Sector one,” he broadcast on his secure vox. He aimed his bolt gun in the direction of the movement. A figure in tattered robes materialized out of the mist, tottering toward the space marines.
“It is just a civilian, brother-sergeant,” one of his soldiers reported.

Hanz pulled the trigger. The super-heated bolts cored out the man in the tattered robes, his robe exploding out behind him like wings as a halo of gore burst from his ruined body.
“Cultists!” Hanz snarled as more figures emerged from the gloom, las-guns and slug guns firing. “Commence firing, brothers!” Of all the enemies Hanz faced, cultists were the most pitiful. They were men who had voluntarily given their lives to become mindless zombies for chaos cults, grotesque both inside and out.

The entire squad opened fire, and the harsh chatter of bolt guns filled the air. A bright flare of fire signaled that the marine’s flamer was engaged, and a stream of burning promethium turned anyone it touched into a very short-lived torch. The cultists kept coming, a wave of dead-eyed men emerging from the mist in tattered clothing, armed with corroded las-guns and rusty slug throwers.

A double boom, one coming after the other so fast that it was almost one sound, echoed across the battle. A frag missile tore a hole in the crowd of cultists, sending bodies flying like rag dolls. Still, they came on. With flame, missiles, and bolts, the space marines mowed down the cultists.

Lasers licked the armor of the space marines, and a few slugs ricocheted into the night when cultists scored lucky shots, but none pierced the space marine power armor. The marine’s returning fire was relentless, and their weapons glowed cherry red.

Finally, the shooting stopped. The remains of the cultists were scattered around the squad of marines in a bloody rainbow of broken and charred bodies.

Hanz lowered his bolt gun and looked to his left and right. Not a single marine was wounded. “Brothers,” he said calmly. “Check your weapons.” Disciplined to the core, the marines performed their well-rehearsed weapon drill without speaking; one marine would check his weapon, top off the load, and ready it before the next marine started, ensuring that only one marine was reloading at a time.

A directional alarm went off in Hanz’s helmet. He spun around, scanning the sky, trying to pierce the mist and gloom. Something large was approaching, fast. A low whine, growing now, was heard.
“Get ready, brothers,” Hanz called out. His squad moved alertly to face the threat, redeploying in the new direction, their weapons trained. A dark shape emerged from the mist, moving rapidly. It was a crenulated, sharp, vicious shape, its sleek design more than reminiscent of an ancient, sea-going galley. Fog curled sinuously in its wake. “Eldar,” Hanz hissed to himself. It was a raider transport hovercraft packed with warriors from the cursed race. The xenos were close enough that he could see the gleam of their eyes as they stared balefully at the space marines. Hanz felt a moment of disgust as he realized that his mission had failed. The cultists were only a distraction; the Eldar was the real threat. The aliens did not even raise their weapons. At their speed, they would be gone within seconds, swallowed by the night fog.

A blast startled Hanz. Carl Aurelius, his impetuous missile gunner, had fired a missile without orders. It was a waste of ammunition even to attempt to hit the speeding Eldar craft. But before he could open his mouth, Hanz saw the missile perfectly intercept the raider in flight, striking home in the craft’s middle. The blast slammed the raider onto one side, and it struck the ground, tumbling just once before bursting into flame and crumbling. Eldar bodies tumbled from the wreckage.

“Sorry, brother,” Carl said as he lowered his missile launcher, looking toward the singed marine that had been standing behind him. “I didn’t have time to warn you.”

Hanz waved him off. “No time for that; let’s move in, brothers, and make sure.” Single bolter shots punctuated the night air as the squad swept the wreckage for survivors. When they finished, there were none.

Hanz reported to the Dark Angel captain over the vox, who was both surprised and pleased with the outcome of their mission. “Well done, brother,” the captain told him. “We may call upon you yet again. Your payment will be posted immediately.” He signed off.

Hanz considered his options. It was back to the barracks again, a rented building in a local colonial town that was home to him and his marines. The town allowed it because the marines brought an element of security to them, and besides, how could they say no to space marines?

But it was an empty and pointless existence. The men, separated from their chapter, were growing dispirited; their equipment needed repairs, and their weapons needed more ammunition.

Once again, Hanz was alerted by his sensors. Someone was approaching on foot. But this person was walking confidently toward them. A space marine officer emerged from the evening shadow and approached. At first, Hanz thought it was one of the Dark Angels but quickly revised his thought. He did not recognize the livery. The officer wore olive green armor and had a gray shield with a red stripe for his chapter symbol. His head was bare, his face weather-beaten, and his gray hair was cut short in old-Earth military fashion.

“Brother,” the captain greeted him, stopping just a step short of him. “I commend you.”

“It was nothing, sir,” Hanz replied evenly. “A few cultists and a few Eldar.”

“Dark Eldar, to be precise,” the captain replied. “But it is not the battle that I speak of. Any of the Astartes could have handled such opponents. Rather, I congratulate you for keeping your men together and well-disciplined while separated from your unit for a long time. It is a credit to both your leadership and their discipline. Can I offer you passage back to your chapter?”

Hanz almost accepted immediately, but something made him pause. He looked back at his men, anonymous in their helmets. But he knew them, knew their fears, doubts, and despair. It had been a long road for them all. Moreover, he knew what they had learned in the face of adversity; he learned about the nature of good, evil, and themselves. They had been baptized in the searing light of knowledge.

Hanz faced a personal Rubicon. “I have no chapter, sir,” he replied, crossing without hesitation.

“No chapter? You and your men have no chapter? You wear the insignia of the Ultramarines.”

“We were abandoned, sir, five years ago. We have had many engagements since then. We would not fit in with our brothers anymore.”

“Changed?” The captain seemed cautious but inquisitive, too.

“I cannot go back to the ways of my chapter. Their rituals may serve them in battle, but I have found different truths. I have fought the xeno and found myself fighting alongside the xeno. I have crossed blades with the traitor legions and found comrades in their ranks. I cannot see the universe through the lens of the Imperium.”

“Interesting, sergeant. Are you saying that the lens of the Imperium is dirty?”

Hanz chose his words carefully. “It is less clear than I previously thought,” he finally answered.

The captain nodded. “I see.” He looked pensive for a moment. “I am Centurion Jacob Maccabee of the 13th Legion. The Warmasters.”

“The 13th Legion?” Hanz asked in surprise. The 13th Legion was the historical root of the Ultramarines before the coming of Horus. “I’ve never heard of the Warmasters.”

Centurion Maccabee nodded. “When the legions were disbanded, the heraldry lived on. You can consider us successors to the Ultramarines, but not in the traditional way. The Warmasters, for most of the Imperium, should and do not exist. As you might say, we seek a cleaner lens. Or at least to clean the one we are looking through. Our chapter is home to marines from many chapters that seek answers to the same questions you have. I would be honored if you would join us.” He held out a gauntlet-clad hand.

Hanz hesitated, then reached out and grasped the offered hand. He looked back at his men. “We accept,” he said solemnly.

“Excellent,” Captain Jacob Maccabee said. “Welcome to the Warmasters.”

Just what have I got myself into? Hanz asked himself as he settled into a Warmaster shuttle.  
]]> http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/preList/818818/11818024.page http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/preList/818818/11818024.page GMT Report from Adeptus Administratum census taker on the planet Verdan:

What follows is a report from my visit to Verdan, in the far spiral of the Galactic disc in the western quadrant. It is regarded as a peaceful sector, far from the blight of Xenos or the corruption of twisted men. However, it is also viewed as a potential soft target for invasion of the Imperium, relatively undefended by the Imperial Fleet, and with only a token garrison of Astra Militarum. The closest major system is Sabatine, many months’ travel in the best conditions, guarded by the Adeptus Astartes chapter White Consuls.

Verdan lives up to its name, a verdant, old Earth-like planet settled by unmodified humans of low technology. Muscle power and edged weapons are the primary movers in their feudal society. Warfare is common between factions and kingdoms, mostly to determine rights to agriculture fields or settle grudges. Stone castles and hill forts seem to be the locus of most settlements. The largest city, Highton, is a mere fortified camp of several thousands of men. Most citizens are only dimly aware of their membership in the Imperium. Their contact is tenuously maintained through the only modern facility on the planet, a spaceport near Highton capable of handling only the smallest lifters of the Imperial Fleet. Tithes to the Imperium are nearly negligible, as the planet has no industry to speak of.

Only the inadvertent word of a local farmer let me know what lived in the mountains of Verdan. At first, I thought I had misheard, or perhaps the locals recalled, a recent visit from a company of Adeptus Astartes. However, further investigation revealed that an obscure chapter of Space Marines did indeed live in the Virgmont Mountains, the highest range of the largest continent. I sought further word and was informed that reaching the chapter fortress would require an arduous hike. I declined and instead bribed a skimmer pilot at an exorbitant cost, as it was one of the few functional machines of high technology to be found. When I say functional, I mean it in the most austere sense of the word. It did not crash. The fortress was inaccessible by foot, a concrete growth sprouting from the side of a mountain face that concealed a deep underground city housing an Adeptus Astartes chapter known as the Warmasters, a chapter that I was unacquainted with previous to my visit.

I was met on a landing pad by Decanus (decanus is the ancient Latin for sergeant) Hanz Wolf of the 6th Century ‘Rapax,’ 1st Cohort of the XIII Legion Warmasters, apparently assigned as my host for the duration of the visit. He recognized my credentials and escorted me deep into the mountain to the council room, where some of the chapter officers waited upon me. The fortress's interior was well kept, and the Space Marines I saw were excellent examples of the Adeptus Astartes; their uniforms were Astartes standard, as was their discipline. I stayed with them for one week, living in a cell of the officer barracks.

The chapter's history, shall I say, was anything but standard. Their emblem is simple: a gray shield with a red stripe crossing diagonally. The history of the Chapter Warmasters is obscure and strange and I feel compelled to say that aspects of their codices are disturbing. They claim shared history with the Ultramarines through the Thirteenth Legion before the fall of Horus. Warmasters were allegedly founded during the 2nd Founding of the 36th Millennia, the years of the Dark Founding from which few records remain. Their records indicate that they were founded by an unknown primarch for “gathering the bright lights of Astartes to one hill,” an enigmatic mission to be sure. As far as I can tell, they are a successor chapter to the Ultramarines, but only in shared lineage and not shared tactics or traditions.

The Warmaster traditions are centered around their obscure religious teachings and the study of the art of war. The Warmasters have delved far into history, specifically the history of war and war captains. The chapter librarians are indeed historians who specialize in military tactics through the ages. Recruits trained in weapons of every military era and the accompanying tactics and strategies. I have seen companies of Warmaster recruits engaged in hoplite phalanx maneuvers, primitive drills with powder weapons, and pre-2nd Industrial Revolution combat simulations. Recruits are also required to choose a military leader of the past to study and emulate, drawing from our own Imperium and the elder days of mankind. It seems this was in keeping with the traditions of a finely trained Adeptus Astartes chapter.

Some background information was provided, and I was allowed to make my own observations. Their tactics rely on stealth, camouflage, and cover when maneuvering. In this regard, the Warmasters remind me greatly of the tactics employed by the Raven Guard. Even more disquieting, their use of small teams of infiltrators is reminiscent of the tactics attributed to the traitors of the Alpha Legion.

Their weapons and armor are standard for the Astartes, relatively unadorned and seemingly fitted for use on temperate worlds. They are organized into the above-mentioned “centuries” instead of companies, formations of about one hundred fighting soldiers, and support elements. Their rank structure borrows heavily from ancient tradition.

But other differences are more disquieting. The chaplain is not the familiar devoted figure of a space marine chaplain with unswerving loyalty to the Emperor. Rather, they seem to subscribe to a more ancient religion. I hesitate to say heretical. More on that later. But I found Chaplain Pitr Simonov of the 6th Century a very thoughtful and conscientious leader.

Nor do the Warmasters do not use servitors, weapons, or vehicles guided by servitor technology. Simon Tacitus, Techmarine of the 6th Century, stated that they did much of their own labor and augmented their weapons and vehicles without servitors' ‘barbaric’ use. When I further questioned their unwillingness to use servitors to guide their machines, I was told that the company kahfe machine was running slow that morning and asked if I was volunteering to provide a brain for it. I did not pursue that line of questioning any further.

However, the most disturbing discovery was uncovered during my investigations of their personnel service histories and gene-seed records. Despite their claim to be a successor to the Ultramarines, it is readily apparent that their lineage is convoluted and, in fact, not consistent at all. The ranks of the Warmasters include Space Marines recruited from other chapters. Most soldiers I encountered in the 6th Century Rapax were of Ultramarine stock. However, well over thirty percent of the dossiers I examined were of soldiers from chapters that included Raven Guard, Dark Angels, Blood Angels, Imperial Fists, and Black Templars. I was surprised to learn that the chief librarian of the 6th Century had studied the psyker art under Librarian Ezekiel of the Dark Angels. And, I almost hesitate to say there appear to be former members of the Gray Knights in the ranks. When I viewed the soldiers up close, I could detect the variations in the gene seed in the appearance of the individuals.

It seems the Warmasters are heretics in ways that no other chapter approaches. I caution my brothers and ask if this is something that the Imperium is aware of. The Warmasters are an ancient order of Adeptus Astartes that recruits from those soldiers that have adopted a heretical view of the divinity of the Emperor. They instead ascribe to a far more ancient religion that I shall not name. Yet they are as ready as any chapter, if not more so, to confront the forces of Chaos and other threats to the people of the Imperium.

When I asked what action they had seen, they showed me battle reports indicating that this sector was only quiet through their efforts. Rogues and xenos infiltrated in small bands and raiding parties more often than official reports suggest, most likely fooled by the apparent lack of Imperium forces in the locale. They were only allowed to be fooled once, as the Warmasters were brutally efficient in dealing with incursions if the reports were any indication.

I wonder if this chapter is not a secret for that reason, an unknown chapter that recruits soldiers disillusioned with the worship of the Emperor. Forgive me, but it's a dumping ground for ‘soft’ heretics that still serve the Imperium loyally. But even that explanation is too simple.

Centurion Jacob Maccabee granted me an interview. “We render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,” the centurion told me grimly, a quote I am unfamiliar with but can readily understand. My time with the Warmasters was far too short to investigate the origins of these strange Astartes as deeply as I would like. In my final days with the Warmasters, I was granted leave to witness a training event by the 6th Century. I watched as they maneuvered in an assault using live weapons and ammunition. I can only say that the Warmasters seem to know their trade.
]]> http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/preList/818818/11818027.page http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/preList/818818/11818027.page GMT

Back on Verdan, deep in the heart of Fortress Warmaster.

“Brother, you sent for me?”

Chapter Master Marcus Longinus looked up from his desk. “Enter, Centurion.”

Jacob Maccabee stepped in and let the door slide shut behind him. He arranged himself in front of the desk, loosely at attention. It was a familiar spot for Jacob, and his eyes briefly wandered over the battle armor, bolter, sword, and other accouterments of war that decorated the office of the Chapter Master. “For honor,” he finally said formally, saluting.

A look of irritation crossed Marcus’s weather-beaten and scarred face. “Relax, brother,” he said wearily.

Jacob relaxed minutely.

“Sit down!” Marcus exploded.

Jacob broke his military bearing and shrugged before sitting in one of the chairs before the desk. “As you command,” he said mildly.

Marcus studied his centurion for a moment. “How long have we been serving together, brother?” he asked quietly. “Yet here you are, still playing soldier. You should be sitting in my chair.”

“It doesn’t interest me,” Jacob replied. “It never has and never will. I am happy where I am now.”

“Well, Jacob, if you want to keep your century, you might want to pay attention. That census taker from our friends in the Adeptus Administratum can cause much trouble. Read this.” Marcus tossed a datapad to his senior and older centurion.

Jacob picked up the datapad and scanned it, his brow furrowed. “Oh, hell,” he finally said. “Heretics.”

“I don’t know what you said or showed that damn census agent, but yes, we are marked as heretics. Our secret is known but to a few in the Imperium, and the last thing we need is for some twerp from the Adeptus Administratum sounding the alarm to the Lords of Terra.”

“It says right here what I said,” Jacob replied, pointing at the datapad. “I told him-”

“I know what you told him,” Marcus cut him off.

“So, what’s the problem? The scabby inquisitors won’t dare show their faces here.”

Marcus sighed. “And if they do?”

“I would be happy to ‘talk’ to them,” Jacob said with a wicked grin.

Marcus glowered. “You shall do no such thing; if and when inquisitors arrive, I will do the talking. You will stay well away. And keep your mouth shut.” The two men stared at each other for a moment before Marcus broke the spell. “Jacob,” he finally said, “you have a talent for trouble. I had the report interdicted, and our Adeptus Arbites friend will take measures to ensure it stays interdicted. As for the census taker… he will be exploring uncharted realms of the galaxy for a long time.”

“Derek Sagan is still at his post?” Jacob asked.

“Yes,” replied Marcus, pushing back from his desk. “The Inquisitor is working hard to keep us known only to those who need it. Remember that.”

Jacob sighed. “I am a soldier, not a diplomat. I don’t get paid enough to smile and fawn. And not for those bloody monsters of the Inquisition. Damn them.”

“Pay you?” Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Do we even get paid out here?” He paused for a moment, then sighed. “Want a smoke?” He reached into his desk and pulled out a pack of tobacco sticks, handing one to Jacob. Both men pulled out their lighters, and smoke filled the room as they took a few puffs. “The Inquisition.” Marcus puffed meditatively. “We would do well to stay off their list of things to take care of.”

“As long as we have our alliances, I think they would be wise to leave us alone,” Jacob replied firmly. “I did see to that when this started. We still have our contacts within the Astartes. The combined might of the Raven Guard and Salamanders will be tough to tackle. And I do not expect the Space Wolves to be idle, either. Still, I would be best to avoid that particular confrontation until we are stronger yet.”

Marcus took a deep breath. “He did not inquire about the Alpha Omega Protocol?”

Jacob raised an eyebrow. “I may not be a diplomat, but I am not stupid. Not a word, or I would have flayed his guts before letting him leave.”

“Well, that’s something.”

Jacob sat up straighter. “Any word from your contact?”

“Yes, and we may have more recruits on the way, and I think I have just the place to put them.”

“With my century?” Jacob asked.

“They might fit in better than they should with your troops,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “You, among others, are best at taking them in.”

“They’ll fit in like everyone else because I will press them into molds and squeeze,” Jacob promised.

“You do that; you make them good soldiers. I want to build your century up, Jacob. There is rumor of war, and I need you at the forefront of battle.”

“Of course, brother.”

“I got more news,” Marcus said companionably. “We have scheduled a series of training maneuvers with a company from the Dark Angels.”

“Better them than the Black Templars. They’re worse than Inquisitors. They’ll call us heretics if we don’t dress all in black and say ‘In the name of the emperor!’ every five seconds.”

“Isn’t one of your men a former Black Templar?”

“A number of them. One of my captains, Senior Tribune Lucius Canus, was a Black Templar officer. He is a rough bastard but young.”

“Compared to us, they are all young,” Marcus said with a wry grin. “I recall Lucius. He is a good soldier. No sense of humor, as I recall.”

“Oh, he’s got one,” Jacob said warily. “But not one that makes me laugh.”

“I’ll drink to that, whatever it means,” Marcus said, pulling out a flask and taking a long swallow.

“And I’ll second it,” Jacob answered, holding out his hand.
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“Optio!” Jacob bellowed as he stepped out into the sunlight. In the ancient tradition, a centurion led a century, and an optio was his second-in-command.

“Centurion!” Optio Scipio Afrinius stood stiffly at attention. Behind him, the bare surface of the parade grounds stretched to the edge of a monstrous drop, perched high in the mountains as they were. In the distance and far below, the farms and towns of men dotted the valley floor, a tranquil and idyllic scene.

Jacob ignored the sights. “Where the hell are the men?”

“Drill, sir!”

“Drill?”

“Tribune Lucius Canus took them to the weapons range.”

Jacob stared at his optio bemusedly. “Is that what I had scheduled for today?”

“Uhm, not exactly, sir.”

“Not exactly? We had a light day, gear inspection.”

The optio privately and silently disagreed that gear inspections were light days. Laying out all of the century’s weapons and gear for formal inspection was an unmitigated pain in the rear… “The tribune wanted to keep the men fresh, sir,” Optio Afrinius replied aloud, squirming under his superior’s gaze. “So, he chose weapons drill.”

“Is this his century or mine?” Jacob snapped.

“Yours, sir,” Scipio said glumly.

“Lucius may be the commander of the watch, but he is not the centurion or the optio,” Jacob said angrily. He paused and exhaled. “Weapons drill. I suppose it could be worse. What kind of weapons drill?”

“Bolter,” Scipio answered.

“Good.”

“Training bolters, sir.”

Jacob rubbed his chin. Training bolters weighed double the weight of their issue weapons, making shooting accurately much more difficult and exhausting. Still, with power armor, they were not unbearable.

“Without armor,” Scipio continued tonelessly.

Jacob blinked. “What? No armor?”

“No, sir.”

Jacob thought about it, staring out over the broad valley. With power armor, issue bolters were a bear to handle. Without armor, the training bolters would be damn near impossible to handle. “And what, optio, kind of weapons drill are we having today?”

“Weapons qualification, sir.”

Jacob sighed. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was interested. Jacob wondered how effective the training would be and was curious as to what results his overeager tribune was getting. “And I take it the tribune is expecting the men to actually qualify?”

“Yessir.”

Weapons qual was grueling as it was, performed in combat armor and with issue bolters. Jacob wondered if it was even possible to complete the course stripped down and with training bolters.

“Lucius has done it, sir,” Scipio said with awe and pride.

Jacob studied his optio. Scipio Afrinius was an experienced Terminator captain, coming to the Warmasters from the Nova Marines after a personal revelation about the Emperor’s true nature. Yet Scipio had a streak of humility and politeness that sometimes caused Jacob to scratch his head. He just had to remember that Scipio kept the same easygoing, calm, and polite personality while in the thickest fighting. Scipio Afrinius was a warrior who would rip a xeno’s face off in battle while calmly reporting his status. Jacob could recall when Scipio was knee-deep in tyranids and called HQ for reinforcements. HQ flatly turned him down on the grounds that if he had been that calm, then he probably would not have needed reinforcements that badly. They were nearly overrun that day. “Scipio,” Jacob finally said. “The tribunes work for you. Try to remember that.”

“Yes, sir!”

Jacob took a moment to ponder the force of nature that was Senior Tribune Lucius Canus. The man was a terror and drove the men hard and unrelentingly. To be fair, Lucius drove himself twice as hard and was an accomplished warrior. Lucius was a three-time contestant in the Feast of Blades while serving with the Black Templars. The tribune was like a power armor-shaped rage machine. “Optio.”

“Sir?”

“When the tribune is done training, I would like him to report to me. In the sparring room.”

“I think he would enjoy that a lot, sir.”

Jacob grinned. “I think we both will.”



Optio Scipio Afrinius watched his centurion leave and frowned to himself. In so many words, Centurion Maccabee had made his point. He was losing control as a newly-minted optio, the centurion’s second-in-command. Scipio’s mind turned to his immediate problem, Senior Tribune Lucius Canus.

It was a tricky issue. Scipio and Lucius were relatively new to the 6th Century Rapax, cast among men who had fought together through many wars. Rumor had it that Centurion Maccabee was older than the Chapter Master. He was even older than the two retentus (Latin for recalled) soldiers in their Dreadnaught frames, far older.

And here was Lucius; he was brash, aggressive, and full of swagger in contrast to Scipio’s calm and quiet demeanor. Lucius Canus was the century’s tesserarius, the captain of the watch, third-in-command, and directed most of the drills. Most of the men were in awe of or were downright intimidated by the tribune.

Scipio made his way down a narrow path toward the sound of heavy gunfire. The rocky defile was shaded from the sun and echoed with the sound of bolters. Scipio emerged into a broad valley enclosed on three sides by towering mountains. Targets were arrayed staggered formations at various ranges, arranged in clusters to simulate enemy formations. Soldiers dressed in sweat-stained fatigues clumsily clambered over, through, and under obstacles; shooting targets as they advanced. Scipio moved toward a cluster of men who had just completed the course, sweat-soaked and gasping for air.

“Brothers,” Scipio greeted them. “A good workout?”

As one, they turned their heads to him and groaned. “He’s killing us,” one of them complained.

Scipio recognized them as members of the Iron Lance, former Ultramarines, and among the most experienced soldiers in the century. Their leader, Hanz Wolf, was another member of the century that went back to the beginning, brothers in arms with Centurion Maccabee from time immemorial. This partially explained their willingness to complain; a right typically reserved for the oldest and most experienced soldiers in any army. Les Grognards indeed.

“Buck up, boys!” Decanus Hanz Wolf cried as he walked up. Like his men, the leader of the Sternguard lance was drenched in sweat. Unlike his men, he was still upright and cheerful. “Bit of training to toughen you up; that’s what I like!” Hanz continued, a rough grin creasing his scarred face.

Scipio absorbed it all, pondering the man who could take the toughest men in the unit and run them into the ground. “Where is the tribune?” he asked Decanus Wolf.

“He just finished a run through the course, sir,” Hanz replied admiringly. “He did it twice like it was nothing. I can’t believe that man doesn’t have bionics.”

“He doesn’t,” Scipio stated flatly. “Now, where is he?”

“Sorry, sir.” Hanz pointed. “He is over there.”

Scipio saw the figure of Tribune Lucius Canus addressing some of the men as they prepared their weapons for a qualification run. “Thank you, decanus.” Leaving the gasping Sternguard in pools of sweat, Scipio moved down behind the firing line towards the tribune. To his left, a squad of men struggled through the course, lugging their overweight weapons. The sound of firing ripped through the air, but the rounds failed to hit the target. It was a pitiful showing. “Tribune!” he called as he approached.

“Sir!” Tribune Lucius Canus spun on a heel and saluted. He was an impressive specimen, even for a Space Marine. The tribune was not large but corded with bulging muscles and moved as if articulated by whips. But his face set him apart; his expression hinted of barely controlled madness, the gleam in his eye that only brightened when violence ensued, shining with the invincible aura of supreme confidence.

“May I have a moment of your time?” Scipio asked him as quietly as he could.

“Yes, sir!” Lucius turned toward the men, waiting to start. “You lads are heavy weapons; this should be like shooting orcs in a tunnel.” The men did not look convinced as they hefted their huge weapons, looking strangely naked and bereft without their armor.

Scipio moved away from the starting line so their conversation would be somewhat private and they could escape the noise. “Tribune, what were your orders for today?”

“Drill, brother!” Lucius answered promptly.

“Equipment inspection,” Scipio corrected, nonplussed by the younger man’s easy dismissal of his orders.

Tribune Canus blinked. “As commander of the watch, I thought it would be best for the men to get weapons training. We did a quick walkthrough of the gear this morning before light.”

“You thought? You had orders. It was for a full kit inspection.”

“The men needed some toughening. I took some initiative, sir.”

Scipio stared at his guileless subordinate. It had occurred to him that he had failed twice that day; first, he had failed to make sure his orders were understood, and second, he had failed to ensure they were carried out properly. Scipio had assumed the tribune would understand his orders and carry them out to the letter. Instead, Scipio’s orders were ignored. His over-aggressive subordinate had exploited the lapse and was now running the tired men even further into the ground. “The centurion wants a word with you,” Scipio finally said.

“Now, sir?”

Scipio mulled it over. It would be craven to let the centurion handle his business. The tribune was his direct subordinate and, therefore, his problem. “No, not now. Put one of the decani in charge and come with me, brother.”

“Yes, sir!” Lucius turned and signaled to the men assembled, waiting to go through the course. “Decanus Vespasian!”

Simon Vespasian, the senior Terminator decanus, stepped forward. He had the build of someone used to long hours in a terminator suit, hulking even in cotton fatigues. “Tribune, sir!”

“Take charge until I get back, decanus!”

“Yes, sir!” Decanus Vespasian saluted and stepped to the range overlook to watch the training.

Scipio waited patiently. “Ok, follow me.” He led the tribune out of the valley and up the rocky path to the fortress. The two officers returned the salutes of the duty sentries, who were probably glad they pulled guard duty that day, and made their way deep underground to the gymnasium complex. The walk was made in silence.

The two men stopped on the sparring mat. “Tribune,” Scipio began, “it has occurred to me that I have let you down.”

“Sir?”

“I have failed to properly motivate you, give you direction, and instill the discipline needed to be a tribune in this century.”

Tribune Canus was at a loss for words for a moment. “Because I made the men undergo weapons training, sir?” he finally said.

“No, tribune. Because you disobeyed my orders.”

“I did an inspection.”

“You misinterpreted my intent.”

Lucius Canus did not move or make an answer.

Scipio shrugged off his uniform jacket and unbuckled his gun belt. “Prepare to defend yourself.”

The tribune’s face lit up like a lantern, and a feral grin creased his face. Lucius quickly stripped down to his fatigues.

Scipio mentally prepared himself for the coming fight. Scipio knew he was taking a risk; Lucius was one of the most accomplished fighters in the chapter. The commander of the watch was a highly technical fighter and very fit, so Lucius gained an advantage every second the fight went on. But Scipio was bigger, heavier, and stronger. His best option was the quick kill.

Scipio had to teach his overeager subordinate some sense, or he would risk losing the men's respect and the centurion's trust.

“Tribune, I salute you,” Scipio said formally.

“Brother, I salute you,” Lucius responded.

Scipio charged in, feinting a takedown and counting on Lucius to react defensively. Lucius did, with ease, pulling back out of range, but Scipio continued his reckless charge. Lucius saw his intent too late and tried to slow him down with a straight right punch.

The punch glanced off Scipio’s thick skull, and light burst behind his eyes. But it did not slow Scipio down. His legs were driving like pistons, and he propelled Lucius back, enfolding him in a bear hug. Lucius struggled to stay on his feet, but Scipio kept pushing forward, and both men collapsed.

Lucius immediately gripped Scipio about the waist with his legs in a powerful lock, but Scipio ignored it. Pushing on Lucius’s chest with one hand, he began to throw punches with the other. It was an unorthodox, wild technique that would never work in most fights. But it was unexpected. And, just as unexpectedly, it was working.

Lucius wiggled, trying to dodge the worst of the damage. He gripped Scipio’s supporting hand and let go with his legs, trying to hook one leg around Scipio’s head in one fluid movement. If he succeeded, he would get Scipio in a crippling arm bar.

Scipio expected it and flattened himself when the move came, letting his full weight settle on Lucius before scrambling forward and sitting on the tribune’s chest. Now, he began to let punches fly with both hands.

Lucius cried out in rage and frustration and raised both hands to protect his head, but it was a futile gesture.

Scipio finally landed the shot he wanted, and Lucius went limp. Breathing heavily, Scipio clambered to his feet. “On your feet!” he bellowed.

With a groan, Lucius came to and looked around blearily.

“Get up, you, that’s an order,” Scipio growled.

Groggily, Lucius climbed to his feet and stood at attention, swaying slightly. His unfocused eyes found Scipio’s, and a grin split his bloodied face.

“Wipe that smile off your face,” Scipio ordered, coming to attention himself and spinning on one heel to face the gym entrance. “Present as ordered, sir!” he yelled. His timing was perfect; Centurion Maccabee had just entered.

Centurion Maccabee strode towards them. “Excellent. Optio, I would like a moment alone with the tribune, please.”

“Sir, I have already spoken to the tribune, sir!”

Jacob stopped and stared at Scipio for a moment. He flicked his gaze towards Lucius, standing behind the hulking optio. Jacob took in the bruises, blood, and winded breath of both men. “Yes, I can see that, optio. Carry on, then.”

“Yes, sir!” Scipio saluted.

Jacob returned the salute and turned on his heel to leave. Both men watched him until he was gone.

“Tribune,” Scipio growled.

“Sir?”

“Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir!” Lucius saluted and followed the centurion out the door, leaving Scipio alone.

Scipio waited until he was sure the tribune was gone and breathed a sigh of relief. He doubted Lucius would ever fall for that trick again, but it had worked when he needed it.



Jacob was in a good mood that evening. He sipped a cup of khafe in his spartan office, watching the sunset over the craggy mountain peaks. It seemed his optio would be up to keeping his subordinate officers in check after all. What remained to be seen was how well Lucius would handle the core of irascible decani, the backbone of the century, the ‘sergeants’ of old. After all, Jacob handpicked each decanus and rated them for their ability to lead and fight above all else. He considered each decanus with pride until he recalled his newly promoted commander of the Vanguard lance, the Raptors. Decanus Cato Severus was having trouble with his men. Seems like he was a bit of a prima-donna and the lads weren’t going for it. Jacob frowned and scratched his jaw.

Something would work out.
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“He called us fairies,” Decanus Cato Severus said heatedly. “Fairies. You heard him.” Raptor Lance was Rapax Century’s Vanguard squad, elite assault troops, and Cato Severus was proud of their status. The tribune’s words had stung him at morning formation.

The other decani shuffled around uncomfortably, exchanging looks. The century’s squad leaders were clustered together in a secluded corner of the fitness arena. Soldiers filled the gymnasium and engaged in various exercises, from weight lifting to impact sports. Still, the group of decani projected an almost visible aura that kept the men from approaching too closely.

“Tribune Canus?” Decanus Hanz Wolf broke the awkward silence. “He talks like that to everyone.” Hanz was the oldest squad leader in the century and felt compelled to calm his comrade’s ruffled feathers.

Cato did not appear to hear him. “Right in front of the centurion,” he continued. “Calling us ‘hopping and jumping fairies’ right in front of him!”

Decanus Nathan Meltzer grinned. No love was lost between the Devastator squad leader and the Vanguard troopers. “Maybe he meant ferries, as in the boatman over the River Styx. Ferries of Death.”

Cato glared at him. “Bolter Brains has something cute to say,” he sneered. “And he used words with multiple syllables. Mark this date down in Chapter Histories.”

Nathan’s grin grew wider. “Want a go, fairy boy?” He shrugged his shoulders and stretched his thick, muscular arms.

“With you?” Cato asked incredulously. “You wouldn’t last two seconds.”

“I’ve got my money on the big fellow,” said one of the scout decani, loud enough for all to hear.

Cato reddened. “What would you know, Joe?”

Decanus Joseph Sextus shrugged coolly. “I know that in a fight, the toughest one wins. And tougher don’t cry about a little name-calling.” There were murmurs of assent through the crowd of decani.

A heavy rubber ball that broke loose from one of the sporting events bounced through the crowd. As one, the decani swiveled their heads and riveted a soldier in place by the force of their stares.

“Uh, decanus, playing through?” the soldier stammered.

“One of yours, Fred?” Hanz Wolf asked.

Decanus Fredric Happ, leader of the Dog Lance, Tactical Squad, stepped toward the soldier. “Get your bloody ball and sod off; grownups are talking over here,” he growled.

“Yes, decanus!” The soldier retrieved the ball at a sprint, tracked by hostile eyes until he was well clear of them.

“Well,” Hanz said, looking around. “Where the hell did Cato go?”



“Fairies,” Cato said, his voice echoing in the heavy equipment garage. He was alone saving the hulking presence of one of the 6th Century’s dreadnoughts, Retentus Conrad Rubikon. “He called us fairies. The Vanguard. Fairies.”

Beside and above him, the vast machinery of the dreadnaught stirred with a whir of servos and the hiss of hydraulics. “Why?” asked the aged veteran, speaking through the dreadnaught’s mechanical speakers. Conrad’s voice was digitally flat and distorted.

“I don’t know,” Cato said pensively. “He seems to have it in for me. Every chance he gets.”

With a clang, the dreadnaught’s massive combat fist slammed shut, and its auto-cannon started spinning with a mechanical whoosh. Cato was used to it; it was a sign Conrad was thinking. It did not bother Cato that the dreadnaught’s weapons were fully loaded; the chapter’s dreadnaughts were always armed and ready, even in storage. It was unthinkable for the soldiers to disarm one of their own who was confined to a metal coffin to the end of his days. “Why does he have it in for you?” Conrad finally asked in his halting, robot-like voice.

“I don’t know,” Cato growled in frustration. “I think it might be because I am a Vanguard. He never was.”

“And?” Conrad prompted.

“I think he is jealous.”

“Hmmmm.” The humming was particularly weird coming from a vox speaker. “Jealous?”

“I can’t think of any other reason that he has it out for me. What else do I have to do to make that man happy? There are days when I really don’t like being a decanus…”

“Yes,” Conrad answered, his voice flat. “I was once the decanus, just like you.”

Cato had forgotten that little tidbit and started guiltily. Conrad had been a member of the XIII Legion almost as long as Jacob Maccabee. He had been interred in a dreadnaught centuries ago, before many of the current soldiers were born. Conrad had formerly led a Sternguard squad until injuries promoted him to a chapter dreadnought. “So, you do know,” Cato concluded.

“Yes, I know,” Conrad answered.

“So, what do I do?” Cato asked plaintively.

“Easy. You must have vengeance,” the robotic voice stated flatly.



“Vengeance?” Hanz Wolf mused. “Like what? Going to call him names next parade?”

Cato glared. “I don’t know,” he hissed. “Something to get him off my back!”

“Why don’t you try to be less sensitive?”

Cato gave Hanz a dirty look and pushed his chair back from the table. Looking around the dining area to ensure they were still alone, he leaned forward and spoke quietly and urgently. “Sensitive? You don’t know what you are talking about. You’ve got it easy because you’ve been around much longer than I have. He doesn’t mess with you. I have to prove myself every day to that bastard; you don’t. I know what they say; they say I’m too young and that I don’t have enough experience. All day, every day. I’m sick of it.”

“Vengeance,” Hanz repeated, mentally rolling his eyes at his compatriot’s tirade. “I think I know the trick. Let me talk to the scouts. And I’ll put in a request with Simon.”

“Tacitus?” Cato asked. Simon Tacitus was the century’s Techmarine and was very resourceful. The man could ‘find’ anything you asked him to procure.

“Yes, I got an idea.”



Decanus Joseph Sextus and his comrades were a unique bunch. The scout squad leaders were all veterans but the kind of veterans that were not earmarked for advancement to elite squads. They were the soldiers that made it up the ranks through years of reliable, but not flashy, service. As a reward for their steady progress, they were given one of the hardest jobs in the company, leading the handpicked scouts into battle without the protection or the advanced targeting arrays of power armor. They were often asked to do things other soldiers wouldn’t consider doing. It came as no surprise that they tended to be cynical and irreverent towards authority. They were perfect for Decanus Hanz Wolf’s needs.

As usual, hunting around the chapter fortress took some time, but Hanz eventually located the scouts in an out-of-the-way storage bunker. They sat around a large ammo crate that served as a table for their card game. “Scouts out,” he greeted them with their informal motto.

Decanus Joseph Sextus, the senior scout decanus, was surrounded by the rest of the scout decani, the nine of them sitting with mugs of amber liquid or smaller glasses of darker, stronger stuff and smoking tobacco twists. The air was blue with smoke, and they muttered curses. Joseph was dealing and did not look up, but the rest looked at Hanz warily.

Hector Titus, decanus of Dagger Lance, spoke up first. “We’re off duty, so what is it?” he asked curiously.

“I got a job for you,” Hanz replied with a smile. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Unless it involves sitting here and playing cards,” Victor Ryback started to say, pausing only to take a large gulp from a flask, “and drinking, I don’t think I will like it.”

“Share some of that,” Hanz said, holding a hand out. Victor frowned but handed him the flask. His scowl deepened as Hanz took a long pull. “Good stuff!” Hanz said, coughing a bit.

“Some of my boys have a still in the barracks,” Victor told him. “Or had one. I confiscated it.”

“Poor bastards, they must have put a lot of work into it.”

Victor shrugged. “I share with them if they are good.”

“Now,” Hanz said, handing back the flask, “I know you are going to like what I have for you because it has to do with helping Decanus Severus.”

The men exchanged glances. The Vanguard commander was less than popular these days. “We’ll pass,” Joseph said, the senior decanus and spokesman for the group.

“I haven’t got to the good part yet,” Hanz said, smiling. “Severus is going to get even with Tribune Canus.”

The scouts exchanged looks again. The tribune was also high on their list of people who needed to be taken down a few notches. A confrontation between the two men would make for an entertaining time. It was a win-win situation. “Sounds better,” Joseph admitted grudgingly. “What do we have to do?”

“You guys get the easy job; just make sure the tribune isn’t around his quarters after morning chow.”



“Are you sure he is occupied?” Decanus Cato Severus asked.

Behind him, Joseph Sextus rolled his eyes. “Yes. Get on with it before he isn’t.”

Cato looked up and down the corridor and took a deep breath then grinned manically. “Ok, here goes.” He entered a side passage into the senior officer area, stopping at a door. “I hope this code works,” he muttered as he furtively glanced around.

Joseph sighed. He knew where every Rapax officer was, thanks to the careful placement of Stalker Lance on unofficial recon duties. As it turned out, he especially knew where Tribune Lucius Canus was. “Hector is watching the tribune. You’re clear.”

Cato knelt and fished out the data pad that Simon Tacitus had given him. Quickly, he punched in a combination on the door to the tribune’s quarters. The door swung inward with a beep. “It worked,” Cato said with relief. Reaching into a box he had carried, he pulled out a square of folded rubber.

“Just activate it and toss it in,” Joseph said.

“You do it,” Cato answered, holding it out. “You’ve done it before.”

Joseph held up both hands. “No way, this is your show. I’m not even here. You just pull that tab and throw it in.”

“Here goes,” Cato said to himself. He pulled a red tab from the block and threw it into the tribune’s room. “Now what?”

“Just wait.”

A loud hiss emanated from the room, which turned into a sudden bang as the door slammed shut. Glass shattered, and something crunched in the room.

Cato’s manic grin widened. “Well, that will get a response.”

Joseph shrugged. “Probably. That is a pressurized remote sensor unit. Fully inflated, the lift balloon will more than fill that room. Try to open the door.”

Cato threw his weight against the door. It refused to budge. Cato tried again, digging his feet into the carpeted floor and straining. The door opened an inch, giving Cato a brief look at the bulging, black surface of the balloon. He stopped pushing with a gasp, and the door slammed close.

“Lock it, and let’s get out of here,” Joseph said.



Tribune Lucius Canus listened with satisfaction as the balloon hissed and then popped. From the room of Decanus Cato Severus, there was the sound of broken glass and some ominous crunching. “Ha, that’ll serve him,” Lucius said with a grin.

“That’s what he had planned for you,” Decanus Hector Titus told him loyally.

“Where is Decanus Severus now?” Lucius asked as they left the area.

“With Decanus Sextus. Joe will keep him busy.”

“Good,” Lucius said with satisfaction. “Maybe he will learn something from this.”



The scout squad leaders seemed unusually smug to Optio Scipio Afrinius. All day, they had been whispering and nudging each other. So, it was hardly a surprise when the Senior Tribune Lucius Canus stormed onto the parade ground. “Decanus Severus!” Lucius Canus bellowed. “Front and center, now!”

Most of the 6th Century men were standing around waiting for the final formation and turned to watch the show. Grins flashed in the afternoon sun.

“Reporting as ordered!” Cato roared as he saluted the tribune.

“Your bloody antics destroyed my trophy case, brother!” Lucius Canus accused him.

“You destroyed my weapon rack, brother!” Cato yelled back.

The two men stood toe to toe, eyeball to eyeball, hostility crackling between them like a live arc. “You’re through, decanus,” Lucius growled softly. “Soft, too soft to lead the Vanguard. Assault troops? More like insult troops. Hopping and dancing fairies.”

Cato clenched his fists. “Care to back that up in the pit?” Cato snarled without thinking.

“Really?” Lucius grinned. “Want to try me in the pit, brother?” The ‘pit’ was no more than a patch of grass to one side of the parade ground used by the troops to settle their differences.

Cato faltered for a second, and sweat beaded on his forehead. The tribune looked insane. The look he was giving Cato at that moment was the look of a rabid beast about to open a can of dog food with his teeth. And eat it. And the can. But Cato imagined the looks of scorn from the assembled men behind him, especially his squad. Much worse. Better to take his beating than back down. “In the pit, brother,” he hissed, feeling his resolve return. It was time to end this.

“Good, good,” the tribune said with a grin. “Let’s go.”

Optio Scipio Afrinius followed the men to the pit, content to let it play out. But deep down, he was worried about Decanus Cato Severus’ chances.

Behind him, the crowd of soldiers eased forward, cheerful and expectant. Someone would get a beating, and they had a front-row seat. “Tribune,” Scipio said in a low tone to Lucius Canus as he passed. “I need these men in formation in twenty minutes.”

“This won’t take that long, sir,” Lucius replied. He looked up and met Scipio’s eyes, his gaze suddenly lucid. “Trust me, sir.”

Scipio nodded slowly, and an understanding began to dawn. “Carry on.” He turned towards Cato. “Decanus. You have fifteen minutes.”

Lucius stripped off his uniform top. Cato followed suit. “Last chance,” Lucius said with a savage grin. “Go run to your fairy boys and save yourself a beating.”

Cato felt the blood rush to his head, and he flexed his arms menacingly. After all, he thought, I am the Vanguard commander. Lucius may not be as tough as he seems.

Both men stepped into the center of the pit. “I salute you, decanus,” Lucius said formally.

“I salute you, brother!” Cato roared. The men around the ring grew silent.

“Get on with it!” Scipio ordered from the crowd.

It was the only signal either man needed; the tribune rushed in immediately for a takedown, aiming at Cato’s hips. Cato jumped back, arcing away from the attack. It was a feint because Lucius flattened out his charge and launched an uppercut that could have ended the fight. Cato barely managed to slip the punch; instead of a flush hit, it merely glanced off. In the brief second afterward, Cato tried to take advantage of his opponent being off balance. He surged forward, trying to wrap his arms around Lucius and clinch. Somehow, Lucius pushed past and through him, and he barely managed to get one arm on him. Spinning, Cato regained his balance and put his guard up.

Lucius was watching him, crouched low, his eyes darting as he looked for an opening. Cato considered sitting back and sparring but quickly realized that was a losing proposition; Lucius was going for a quick end, and he was skilled enough to do it. The best plan for Cato was a fast attack, and hopefully, if he caught Lucius off guard, he would deal a debilitating blow. After all, if the rumors were true, that was how the optio had beaten Lucius only a week ago.

Mind made up; Cato launched a long punch. Lucius saw it easily enough and stepped back; Cato punched only air. But Cato expected to miss and used his momentum to carry him into a forward roll. It was a desperate move and wholly unexpected. Cato rolled into Lucius’s legs, and the tribune tumbled to the ground. Cato scrambled to all fours, frantically trying to locate his opponent before Lucius found his bearings.

It was too late. Lucius grasped Cato around the waist in a powerful scissor grip with his legs and grabbed Cato about the shoulders. Cato struggled, pushing his hands into Lucius’s stomach and digging his elbows into the tribune’s inner thighs. Lucius grunted in pain but did not let go, instead, he snapped a short punch to Cato’s face. Cato let go with one hand for an instant to block the next blow. It was a bad move; Lucius grabbed his remaining hand and pulled it straight while hooking one leg around Cato’s face. It was the same move he had failed to put on the optio earlier that week. This time, though, Lucius made no mistake. The tribune straightened his body out, wrenching Cato’s arm in a punishing arm bar. Cato grunted in pain.

With just a little more pressure, Cato’s arm would snap like a twig…



Decanus Hanz Wolf whistled to himself as he shut the lights off in his squad office. It had been a good day. No, make that a great day. Nobody would soon forget Lucius’s face when he stormed into the chow hall, roaring about his room being sabotaged. Sweet victory. Then, thanks to the devious scouts, those dirty bastards, Cato got a taste of his own medicine. Not so smart after all, eh? And then the fight, oh the glorious fight at the final formation. Hanz stopped and savored the memory. One for the ages. But now he was tired, and he needed to sleep. He walked to his quarters through the dim corridors, lights turned low for after-hours. Punching in his code, he waited for the door to beep before pushing it in.

It was stuck. Hanz pushed harder, but it was still stuck. With a mounting sense of anger and injustice, Hanz snarled in rage as he slammed his body weight into the door. It opened just a crack, just enough to see the dark rubber material within.

Hanz sighed and leaned heavily on the door. He was too old for this. Turning, he pulled out a tobacco twist and violated regulations by lighting it up indoors. Those dirty scouts, he thought to himself, are going to pay for this.



Early the next morning, Centurion Jacob Maccabee stepped into his office with a cup of khafe. The morning sun was just rising in the east, streaming over the mountain crests and illuminating his office with a soft orange glow. Jacob grunted, took a sip from his steaming mug, and mentally reviewed the day’s plans. Today would be slow as most of the men would be tied up with inventorying and cleaning weapons; this time, the optio had seen to it. It was a day to catch up on reports to the Imperium. Jacob took one last look at the mountains before turning to his desk. Jacob froze momentarily, stunned.

“Optio!” he bellowed. “Optio!” Jacob stuck his head out into the corridor. “Guard!”
“Sir!” The duty guard snapped to even more rigid attention.

“Find the optio and get him here on the double! On the double!” Jacob roared.

“Yes, sir!” The guard took off at a run without looking back, his weapon held at port arms.

Jacob paced in front of his desk, his khafe forgotten. He refused to look toward the window. He heard his optio before he saw him running down the hall at almost a full sprint.

Scipio Afrinius arrived in a rush, snapping to breathless attention. “Centurion, reporting as ordered… what the hell?” Scipio gaped.

“Indeed,” Jacob said wryly. “I thought maybe you could enlighten me as to why the tribune is bound and gagged and sitting in my chair!”

Senior Tribune Lucius Canus was a pathetic sight. He was bruised and battered, his hands and feet tightly bound, and his mouth taped shut. He sat there silently, his breathing calm, and his eyes, though bruised, alert and steady.

“Well, sir…” Scipio began to say.

“Dammit, man, save it for later. Help me get him out of there.” Both men drew their combat knives and began to cut the tribune free. “Lucius,” Jacob said. “This is going to hurt.” Jacob grabbed the tape from his face and ripped it off with a rough yank. Lucius didn’t even blink. “Now,” Jacob asked. “What the hell is going on?”

The last restraint fell away, and Scipio stepped back. Lucius bounced to his feet as if just awoken from a refreshing sleep. “Bit of team building, brother!” he informed Jacob.

“Team building? Who the hell did this?”

“Raptor Lance, sir!”

“Team building?” Jacob repeated. He looked questioningly at his optio, who merely shrugged.

“I saw it, sir, but I don’t understand it.”

“Tribune, explain yourself.”

“Yes, sir!” Tribune Canus answered cheerfully. “Decanus Severus was starting to get a bit of head about him, and the men didn’t like it. I picked on him until he pushed back. Then I fought him and almost had him beaten, but his men jumped in. Tied me up and left me here last night. A great team builder, sir.”

“What, beating up your superior officers?”

“Yes, sir!”

Jacob mulled it over. It was not very different from how he did things; only Jacob preferred to do the beating more than being the one getting beat. Still, if Raptor Lance was willing to tackle the tribune to save their decanus from the tribune…

“Right.” Jacob sat down in his recently vacated chair. “Fine. Now get out of here. Get cleaned up.” His two subordinates saluted and left. Jacob spun around in his chair and watched the sun rise above the mountains. It was, indeed, going to be a beautiful day.
 
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Scipio Afrinius felt a sense of satisfaction when he thought about the conclusion to his “discussion” with Tribune Lucius Canus. One subordinate down, one to go, he thought to himself. Unfortunately, it seemed another tough nut to crack.

Tribune Franz Kiesl was the century adjutant, senior librarian, and oldest psyker in the entire chapter. What was worse, Franz Kiesl was another scarred and grim veteran who had served alongside Centurion Jacob Maccabee from the chapter’s infancy.

“The tribune is not present, sir,” Scipio reported tersely to Centurion Maccabee. Both men watched as Tribune Canus handed out training assignments to the assembled troops. Conspicuously alone in the officer ranks, Tribune Timothy Pompeous stood at attention in the robes of a librarian. Even more conspicuously, the senior librarian was missing.

Jacob frowned and pursed his lips. “Franz probably had a good reason to be absent.”

“All the same, I am going to have to deal with it,” Scipio said stiffly.

Jacob looked at him coolly and cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose you will.” Jacob was unsure how that would play out and felt a little guilty on several counts. Franz Kiesl was a veteran of immense service and a comrade from his younger days. Jacob had always treated him as such. Its effect on the chain of command was something he had not considered. Jacob also felt the accusation that he was not supporting his optio in this. Chain of command was chain of command, and if Franz flaunted it, well, then I guess he should know better by now. “Indeed, optio,” Jacob said after reflection. “You should deal with it.” And good luck, Jacob thought.

“Thank you, sir,” Scipio answered. “Do you know where I might find the librarian?”

“I would check in his prayer room.”

“Disturb him there?” Scipio asked in a surprised voice.

“Yes,” Jacob said irritably. “He is supposed to be here. That is the point of this discussion. I want to know why the tribune skipped formation. Get on it, brother.” If anything, Jacob thought, it would give his optio a hell of a test. Franz Kiesl was not for the young.



“Enter!” Franz Kiesl barked, annoyed at the interruption. He leveraged himself up from his knees and faced the doorway to his chamber. The door slid open to admit Optio Afrinius.

“What is it, sir?” Franz asked gruffly.

“You missed formation,” Scipio said, his tone of voice matching his subordinate’s. He forced his eyes to meet the gaze of the librarian. It was not easy; the left half of Franz’s face was covered in cybernetic metal. One eye glowed red; the other was surrounded by scar tissue, his face aged and spotted by the light of a thousand stars. The librarian wore the brown robes of his order; a tall, rangy man that matched Scipio in height, if not mass.

“Formation, yes,” Franz growled. “I was given to understand that I was excused by the centurion. Is there anything else?”

Scipio hesitated. This was dangerous ground. “You were not excused,” he finally said, settling on a frontal attack.

“Oh, is that so, brother?” The tribune’s voice was flat, matching his stare.

“Yes, brother, and I ask you to report to the training floor now.”

“And why is that?” Franz’s voice hardened.

Scipio almost said, ‘Because I have ordered it,’ but that was something he had learned years ago that was a mistake. Another thought crossed his mind to tell Franz that the centurion ordered it. That would have been a cop-out. Scipio thought for a moment. “For accountability. You are a member of this century. Pompeous is up there, alone. You are his superior.”

“Superior?” Franz glared with his good eye. “I am not a commander of troops. There many that may fill that role, and few that fill mine. I have better use of my time, brother,” he snapped.

Once again, Scipio bit back the impulse to make it an order. He sensed that path would be a disaster; confronting the young and aggressive tribune was one thing, but tackling the century librarian was another. Librarian Franz had been slaying heretics and xenos for centuries before Scipio was born. Instead, Scipio asked, partly curious and partly to defuse the situation, “What is your role?”

The librarian stood silently for a moment, turmoil twisting his face. “I am the century adjutant,” he finally said. “And the century psyker.”

“And why does that excuse you from formation?”

Franz clenched his jaw before answering. “Walk with me, brother,” he said, his voice not inviting disagreement.

Scipio took the command from his subordinate in stride and silently acquiesced without challenge.

“Do you know where psykic powers come from?” Franz said without preamble as they entered his weapon storage unit. The librarian’s combat armor stood in a corner, hooked up to maintenance and power umbilicals. Various crates and containers were neatly stacked against the walls. Pistols, a bolter, and the librarian’s massive force sword were encased on a rack.

“The Emperor,” Scipio answered automatically. It was what they were all taught, though it was something that Scipio never really believed.

“Wrong,” Franz answered shortly. “And you know it, as we all do. The Warmasters are a unique chapter, and our brand of philosophy and ethics is ancient. More ancient than even the emperor. As old as time, really. Psykic powers are from within, granted to us at birth divinely.”

“You are saying that all men have it?” Scipio asked, perplexed and intrigued.

“To some degree,” Franz answered. “But it is manifested in many ways. It is our soul exercising its hold on the reality of creation. Proof that we are beings of more than flesh and blood. For some men, that hold can be made strong.”

“Men such as the Emperor?”

Franz shook his head. “The Emperor was powerful at his peak, and he recognized something few do. That inner power possessed by men, if unchecked and unguarded, is the most destructive thing in the universe. After all, it can do what no bolters, plasma, or lasers can do. It can destroy souls. That is why our chapter was created as a refuge for those not blinded by the Imperium’s propaganda and as keepers of the truth. We are the Emperor’s safeguard.”

Scipio digested this in silence, wondering where the librarian was going with it.

“Have you never wondered about where the Chaos Marines come from?”

“Well,” Scipio said, realizing he was just mouthing the standard lore. “They were corrupted by the Eye of Terror.”

“No,” Franz answered coldly, “they were corrupted from within. A man strong in virtue and truth can enter the Eye of Terror and emerge unscathed, for nothing can touch a man’s soul save what he chooses.” A look of revulsion crossed the librarian’s scarred face, and Scipio was suddenly horrified at the thought that Franz may be speaking from experience.

The librarian continued. “Furthermore, one does not have to enter the Eye to be corrupted. Consider that. That is what the Emperor knew, and that is his biggest fear. His own corruption and the corruption of those entrusted with his powers. The Eye of Terror is aptly named for what is within its boundaries, but it is the battle within a man’s soul that matters. Look about you, even in the wars of this planet, a paradise if there ever was one on this galactic plane. Corruption of the soul is found everywhere.”

Scipio nodded, his head spinning too much to answer. He knew that the Warmasters were a unique chapter, deemed heretical by many for their beliefs and teachings. Moreover, the chapter was founded in strange circumstances, pulling recruits from other chapters to form its initial thousands. Many of them, including Centurion Maccabee, were from the Ultramarines. He, himself, had been raised as a member of the Nova Marines, following the teachings of Roboute Guilliman, until one day, he had his own personal revelation that led him to the Warmasters. Other members were recruited from a hodgepodge, mostly from survivors from units that had been wiped out, abandoned, or lost. All had one thing in common—none would have fit in with their former chapter again, having renounced their old beliefs for the teachings and dogma of the Warmasters. Nobody in the Warmasters believed in the divinity of the Emperor, a creature immortal only as long as he was plugged into an electrical outlet. Their reverence was for a far higher authority.

“You wonder why I tell you this,” Franz continued. “I’ll tell you why. But first,” he said with a grin almost as hideous as his frown, a twisting of scar tissue and bionics, “I’ll have to tell you a story. Pull up a crate.” He seated himself on a weapons container, and Scipio followed suit.

“I’ll start by saying that I was once a Space Marine initiate, a scout with the Dark Angels. I believed all I was taught about the Emperor, the Eye, and humankind’s place among the stars. I was, in short, a space marine.” Franz paused for a moment and pulled out a cigar. “And young. My squad was assigned a mission to investigate the planet Terrantius IV. Heard of it?”

Scipio shook his head. “No.”

“It was a Death Watch mission. I was mixed in with Space Marines from other chapters, which was a first for me and not a pleasant experience for one steeped in the teachings of the Dark Angels. The planet itself was just a ball of dirt and iron and no more. The Imperium’s interest was only that it might have been used as a base for xeno incursion in our sector. It had no population to speak of, no industry, nothing. We landed by night and started looking for signs of the enemy. Instead of xenos we found Chaos Marines. They ambushed us. Two of my team went down right away, and the rest of us, just five of us, were pinned. But we had good cover, so we stayed low.” Franz stopped for a moment and lit his cigar. The orange ember glowed like the muzzle of a bolter in a pre-dawn firefight. Smoke billowed from it, pungent and thick; it soon enveloped the entire room. “We knew they would be maneuvering on us but we could not even stick our heads up to return fire. Their fire was deadly accurate. So, we got our blades ready. I was sure that it would be a Chaos assault squad. As good as we were, we would not have lasted long.”

Franz stood and paced back and forth, his face blank and eyes distant. “We heard the jump jets before we saw them, so we had a moment to get ready. But let me go back and tell you something.” He stopped and looked Scipio right in the eye.

Scipio suddenly felt Franz was looking through his eye and out the back of his head at some distant object. At times like this, Franz’s flesh-and-blood eye was far more intimidating than his bionic targeting eye, glowing softly with amber light. Scipio just managed to keep his gaze steady.

Franz resumed pacing, his robe swishing. “What I did not tell you is that while we were pinned, waiting for death, was that I was scared. Scared and angry. A cycle of fear drove unending anger; the more I was afraid, the angrier I got, and the angrier I got, the more my fear grew. It was as if my emotions were limitless and washing out all reason. It seemed comforting, the sense of release I had, free of all rational thought. When the enemy appeared, touching down, I did not hesitate. I jumped on the first one and killed him.” He stopped once more, stopped pacing, and stared at Scipio with his cold, piercing eye. “I killed him,” he repeated. “Want to know how?”

Scipio managed to indicate, that yes, he would with a helpless shrug.

“Previously,” Franz said, pacing again, “I had no experience with psykic powers save for witnessing a chapter librarian at work. Impressive, and of course, all through the Emperor, or so we were taught. That day, I found that I had those powers. I killed the man with my mind. And let me tell you, externally, it may look clean, a simple thought and the man is killed. In the mind, it is dirty, violent, and bitterly contested, as if I was strangling him with my bare hands. He resisted me, and I brushed his mind aside and throttled him. Before I could stop myself, I attacked another, once again using my mind. The enemy squad was dropping in its tracks. We would not survive, but that did not matter to me anymore. I was going to kill them, kill them all. I reached out with my new senses and found the ones shooting to keep us pinned and attacked them too, wrestling with their minds, wrestling and overthrowing them.”

Their eyes locked again, and Scipio suddenly wished he could crawl away from the librarian's half-bionic, half-feral stare.

“I wiped them out,” Franz said flatly. “We lived, after all. But I could not stop; my mind was still looking to kill.” Franz’s voice dropped. “Then I found another mind, one that reached out and touched mine. At first, I tried to kill him, too, but I could not. He just laughed at me, and I recognized a Chaos psyker. Instead of fighting me, he talked to me through the void. He told me that killing was my gift and that he could indulge me if I had just finished what I started. And I wanted to listen. Do you know what he told me to do?”

Scipio shook his head.

“He told me to kill my squad mates, and I could join him. Unreasonable as it was, the rage inside me that felt such release when I killed, I wanted to keep feeding it. I wanted to kill so badly, and here, right next to me, was my squad, the sniveling cowards who, moments ago, were hiding in fear and were now celebrating because I had rescued them. Ungrateful. I reached out for one of them, my decanus, ready to snap his little mind like a stick. He was an Ultramarine, everything that a Dark Angel was not: virtuous, dedicated, and professional in every little detail. He must have sensed it because he tackled me and knocked me out. When I woke up, the anger was gone. I had a massive headache, and I felt sick, sick in the stomach, sick in the head, and sick in the heart. I vomited, and it tasted like death. I realized then that I had nearly, if not totally for a moment, crossed the line into Chaos. I nearly became one of them. And now I had to live with the fact that, somehow, I was a psyker. It scared me. I swore I would never use my powers again, but it was an empty oath. You cannot imagine the temptation once you have tasted that power.”

Scipio finally interrupted. “But you use that power for good.”

Franz laughed, a hollow, barking laugh devoid of humor. “For good,” he said bitterly. “Who’s good? For the good of the Imperium? For the chapter? For mankind? Have you seen how most people live in the Imperium? Or do you know how the xenos live? How can you judge good versus evil? No, optio, it is not that simple. That is why I spend so much time in meditation, prayers, and fasting regimens. Our most difficult battle is fought here and now, the battle within that we must win before we pick up our guns and fight.”

“The battle within, librarian? I don’t understand.”

“The battle for our souls. Tell me, optio, how do you know you do something for good? Can you murder for justice? How do you fight without anger and kill without hate? Tell me that. If we fight with murder in our hearts, we will fall as far as the lowest worm of Chaos. And so, as a psyker, I am tasked with ensuring that our chapter is kept free of not only Chaos but the chaos within ourselves. And that includes me; I must atone for the murders I have committed. I grieve every day for them.”

“What murders, brother?” Scipio asked cautiously.

“Have you not listened? The soldiers of Chaos that I killed murdered in anger.”

“But surely they are only Chaos…”

“Optio, listen to what I say; yes, they were Chaos, and we won the battle on the outside, but in doing so, I lost the battle within. I became Chaos at that moment. And that is what I strive every day to overcome: the temptation to give in to those powers. I was only saved by my decanus that day, and he knew what I had done and become.”

“Your decanus? He knows?”

“Yes, Decanus Maccabee knew. And still knows.”

Scipio mused silently and thoughtfully. “And you have been with him ever since?”

“Yes, he brought me back and kept me sane as I discovered my abilities. He knows my fears. I left the Dark Angels to follow him all those years ago. Do you not wonder why you are the optio, second in command, and not I? I serve the chapter better in the background, guarding their souls and mine.”

“I see,” Scipio answered carefully.

“That is why I do not attend your formation.”

“Because you need the time to meditate.”

“Yes,” Franz answered with a nod. “Lest I lose control in the next battle. The temptation within is always there, like a hound at my heels.”

Scipio shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, now I know. I am sure we can come to an agreement somehow.”

“So, I am excused for today?”

“I would rather, if you are able librarian, that you come today.”

“I will come, optio,” Franz said with a frown. “For your sake. But in the future, I ask that you do not trouble me too much. I serve the century and the chapter much better when left to my own devices.”

“I think you are wrong there, librarian. Your own story proves it. Your battle is not yours to fight alone. So, join us, and let us carry some of your load. Did not Centurion Maccabee come through for you when you fell?”

Librarian Franz Kiesl frowned, and his good eye hardened into a glare. “I will think on it, optio.”
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Scipio tried to hide his surprise. “How many?” he asked.

Techmarine Simon Tactitus flexed his backpack-mounted servo-arm distractedly and consulted a datapad. “Three shuttles,” he reported briefly. “They arrived in orbit just a few hours ago and request permission to land.” He raised an eyebrow in disbelief, stretching the scar tissue around his bionic eye. “Reinforcements.”

“And they check out?”

Simon nodded. “It’s an older code but it checks out. I was about to clear them.”

Optio Scipio Afrinius mulled it over. Re-supply was always a double-edged sword; more equipment was welcome, but contact with the Imperium sometimes brought unexpected changes, not always for the better. The Warmasters enjoyed their privacy. Intrusions were not welcome. “Do they have a cargo manifest?” Let’s see what’s in the box, Scipio thought.

“Partial, sir,” Simon said. “The last shuttle has no manifest data; it just has a name.”

That sounded ominous. “What is it?”

“Alpha Omega Protocol,” Simon answered. “What’s that?”

“Let them land,” Scipio answered. “But, don’t unload that shuttle until ordered. I’ll notify the centurion.”


A deafening roar shook the mountains as the final shuttle settled onto a narrow landing strip, the pilot skillfully guiding the shuttle between the steep mountain walls. The large shuttles barely fit onto the landing pad and were squeezed bow to stern, squat, and sitting heavily on their hydraulic landing legs.

Optio Scipio Afrinius watched as the shuttles dropped their loading ramps with a hiss of steam. All except the last one remained motionless, hatches closed. A shuttle crewmember approached.

“For the Emperor! Your manifest, sir!” the navy man said with a salute.

Scipio returned the salute. “My men will come aboard and begin unloading.” He followed the shuttle crew member back to the lead shuttle. “Any trouble getting in?”

“Magnetic storms made it dicey, sir, but we made it. We do want to offload fast in case it worsens.”

“I will see to that.”

“Sir, that last load…”

Scipio stopped and looked at him, expectant. “The last shuttle?”

The man looked away, squirming. “Do you know what it is carrying?”

Scipio glared at him. “Do you?”

“No sir, it’s just that…”

“My commander is on the way to take charge of the cargo. Do not worry yourself about it,” Scipio reassured him.

“Yes, sir! With your permission?”

“Dismissed,” Scipio.

“Thank you, sir.” He exchanged a salute with Scipio and turned to jog up the ramp into the shuttle. Soldiers were already aboard, unmooring crates and moving heavy lift equipment to unload them. Scipio watched them, pleased with their efficiency.

Decanus Akron Farskar and the devastators from Hammer Lance were among those working. The decanus approached Scipio with a puzzled look. “Sir, none of these boxes are on the manifest. I have no idea what is in them.”

Scipio took a moment to examine the durasteel crates. “Open one up.”

The two men bent to the task, breaking the crate’s seal and levering the lid up.

“Damn and blast,” Farskar swore, forgetting himself for a moment. “Begging your pardon, sir.”

“No,” Scipio replied, “I think you got it right, brother. Open up another crate.”

A second and third unmarked crates were opened to show more of the same. Scipio grimaced. “We need spare parts, ammunition, new weapons, and armor, and we get this junk? Unbelievable. I wonder what servitor-brained Imperium clerk sent this.” Each crate they had opened contained skull-and-crossbones-motif armor plates for terminator armor.

Just then, Decanus Atticus Martelus, commander of the Taurus Lance, one of the century’s Terminator squads, came running up. “Found them!” he cried as he spotted the open crates. “Just what I ordered! Better than I imagined! I’ll take charge of these, sir.”

Scipio stared. “You ordered these, brother?”

“Latest and greatest, sir. Our old badges were getting worn out.”

Scipio ground his teeth. “Next engagement, you had better be wearing every single one of them,” he growled.

“Of course, sir!”

Decanus Farskar stared at the terminator decanus in disbelief.

Scipio shook his head and walked off in time to spot a strange figure strolling leisurely down the shuttle's ramp. Scipio had to do a double-take; the figure emerged from the shadow, and seemed to shimmer and blend in with the background as he threaded through the chaos of moving bodies and crates. The soldiers around noticed the figure and stopped working to stare.

“You there!” Scipio bellowed. He pointed. “Get over here, on the double!”

The figure turned and stared for a moment. He was lithe and muscular, dressed in a stealth suit and wearing an advanced targeting mask—a spy mask. After standing there for just long enough to be insubordinate, but before Scipio could draw another breath to yell, the Imperium assassin began walking toward Scipio.

Belatedly recognizing the assassin for what he was, Scipio stood his ground. But his voice was curiously moderated when he asked, “Who are you? Do you have orders?”

The assassin just stared.

Scipio snagged a passing shuttle crewmember. “You got any data on your passenger?”

“Passenger? We had no passengers!” the cargo specialist protested.

“Then who is he?” Scipio demanded, nodding toward the silent figure.

“Oh, xenos-take it,” the crewmember cursed, his face growing pale. “He was not on our manifest.”

The assassin calmly reached into his tactical vest, removed a small card, and proffered it to the optio. Scipio carefully took it. “The Stig,” he read. “Vindicare Assassin. Is that all?”

The assassin held his hand out, waiting for the card. Scipio returned the card. After a moment, the dark figure turned on a heel and walked away to retrieve a long case and rucksack. Picking them up, the assassin moved off through a group of shocked soldiers and took them to the side. He dropped his bags and began to blend in with the surrounding crates.

“Get back to work!” Scipio roared at the soldiers.

“Optio,” Jacob Maccabee said from behind him.

“Sir!” Scipio spun around without pause and saluted.

Jacob returned the salute. “How goes the unloading?”

“Sir, did you know there was a Vindicare on board?” Scipio asked.

“A Vindicare? Where?”

“There, sir,” Scipio said, pointing. “Next to that rucksack.”

Jacob had to stare for a bit, eyes searching, before he made out the slight, man-shaped distortion of light that was the only evidence of the assassin’s presence. “Huh,” he mused. “Optio?”

“No idea, sir.”

Jacob rubbed his chin. “Did he have orders?”

Scipio shook his head. “Just a card that said ‘The Stig.’”

“The Stig?” Jacob thought about it for a while. “I know him of old. Have one of the scouts take charge of him. Decanus Sextus and his marksman. Maybe the Vindicare can show them a few tricks.”

Optio Scipio Afrinius cleared his throat. “Are you sure, sir? What if the Vindicare is here for his own reasons? Or the Imperium’s, rather?”

“Then he would not have just walked off that ramp. Have him report to me tomorrow.”

“Yessir,” Scipio replied doubtfully. “If I can find him,” he muttered as an afterthought.

“Now,” said Jacob in a business-like manner. “Has the last shuttle been opened?”

“No, sir,” Scipio replied. “Waiting on your orders, sir.”

Jacob turned and summoned Tribune Lucius Canus. “Tribune, wrap up the unloading and get the men out of sight. Have the shuttle crews return to their ships. Optio, come with me.”

Centurion Maccabee waited until the first two shuttles were unloaded, and the area was clear of men. Then he and his optio strode through the stacks of crates to the base of the third shuttle’s ramp. A shuttle commander noted their presence and approached.

“Sir, are you ready?” the pilot asked.

“Drop the ramp, commander, and stay clear,” Jacob ordered.

“What is this, sir?” Scipio asked in a low voice.

“It is new recruits,” Jacob replied.

“New recruits! From where? And why the secrecy?”

“Optio, you are about to enter into one of the most closely guarded secrets of the Warmasters.”

Scipio paused. More secrets? “Do I want to know, sir?”

“You will understand, optio. You are one of us.”

The shuttle's ramp dropped slowly with a hiss of steam. In the shadows of the dimly lit shuttle bay, figures could be seen moving uncertainly.

“Disembark!” Jacob barked. Five men tentatively emerged from the gloom and descended the shuttle ramp to stand in front of the two officers. “Form up, men!” Jacob ordered.

The five men formed a line and straightened their spines, their eyes staring forward as if blind. They only wore trousers and sleeveless shirts, exposing scarred skin along their arms, shoulders, necks, and faces. The scar tissue seemed to cover them. Otherwise, the men fit the mold of modified Space Marines, large and muscular, with obvious enhancements. But they were strangely cowed and obeyed orders submissively.

Scipio looked closer and started. The scars were not from combat injuries, he realized. Instead, they looked like the pattern of scars that would result from being chaos space marines, marines that belonged to the legions that fell to heresy and treason a millennium ago. Scipio fought to keep calm; the secrets Centurion Maccabee alluded to would be considered the worst form of treason, the highest level of heresy in the Imperium, unthinkable for the Astartes. The Warmasters were dealing with chaos marines!

“Surprised, optio?” Jacob asked him. “The Warmasters do not just recruit from the Imperium’s Astartes. Many among the fallen legions seek a return. We work with Alpha Legion, covertly, to bring them home.”

Scipio could only nod, still struggling to comprehend the enormity of what he had been told. Alpha Legion was rehabilitating fallen space marines!

One of the men clutched a long bundle wrapped in ancient rags. Jacob stepped up to him. “What is your name, brother?” he asked quietly.

The man blinked and slowly focused his gaze on Jacob’s face. His voice was gravelly, his accent thick. “Ryven Tornac,” he slowly replied as if unused to speaking. “Sir,” he added belatedly.

“What is that you are holding, brother?” Jacob asked.

The man held the bundle up and then slowly unwrapped it. It was a power sword of ancient design.

Jacob examined it closely. It was unsullied, an ancient relic of the Imperium that showed great care. “Where did you get this?”

Ryven looked down at his bundle. He spoke slowly. “It was given to me to safeguard. It was hidden when our chapter fell. Space Marines passed it down from one to the other, never using it in battle in the service of our fallen masters. It was my mission to return it to the Imperium.” He held the sword up, offering it to Jacob.

Jacob Maccabee did not take the sword. Though his face did not betray it, Jacob was impressed. The sword had been passed down for thousands of years, quietly protected by fallen Space Marines. “Have you and your men trained in assault tactics?”

Ryven seemed surprised at the question. “We have.”

“Jump packs?”

“Yes,” Ryven answered, his voice a sibilant hiss.

“Well, Ryven, welcome to the 6th Century, the Rapax. I do not doubt your experience. And I can think of nobody worthier of that sword you guarded for so long. Keep it, brother. I require a second Vanguard Squad. You shall be your own lance, and you, Decanus Ryven Tornac, shall lead it.”

The men exchanged shocked and confused looks.

“Sir,” Ryven answered slowly, confused. “We are a lance?”

“Yes,” Jacob said briskly, almost impatiently. “Our word for squad. Being a member of a lance means that you are part of a brotherhood of warriors; each lance is responsible to itself for the training and conduct of its men. And you will earn a place as a Vanguard Squad. Let me warn you, it will not be easy. Later, you will meet Decanus Severus. He commands Raptor Lance, our first Vanguard Squad. You and he will be a team. He will show you our tactics and help sign out your equipment. And you will fight alongside him.”

Ryven Tornac, still short on words, nodded.

“Welcome to the Warmasters. And welcome home. Get your lance in order, decanus.”

Ryven Tornac raised a hand in salute. “Yes, brother.” He turned to the men behind him. “Form up, Alpha Lance,” he commanded, his voice hardening with resolve and confidence. The men lined up and came to attention, eyes unblinking. “Reporting, sir.”

Jacob returned the salute. “Optio, take charge of Alpha Lance and bring them to Tribune Kiesl for billeting.”

“Alpha Lance, sir?” Scipio muttered to Jacob. “Is that not cutting it close to the quick?”

“What of it, optio? You have your orders. Get them situated and report back to me.”

“Yes, brother. Alpha Lance, follow me.”
 
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Rumors of War- gaming against the Dark Angels

“Brother Maccabee, I salute you.” The Dark Angel captain bowed his head solemnly.

“Brother Caliphe, welcome to the Verdan.” Jacob Maccabee replied, acknowledging the salute. “It is a pleasure to host our brothers of the Lion.”

“Is it pleasure to practice the art of war, then?” Caliphe asked, eyebrow raised.

“With the right comrades, always.” Jacob led the Dark Angel captain and his two aides into the Century briefing room. The assembled senior officers of the 6th Century stood. “Be seated.”

Jacob waited until everyone was situated before bringing up a holographic briefing. “The situation in our sector,” he began without preamble, “is deteriorating. These worlds, here, here, and here, have all been reported or identified as having signs of tyranid cults. We fear that a hive fleet may be operating in the area. Librarian?”

Franz Kiesl stood, a gaunt, scarred visage, cybernetic eye glowing. His voice rasped as he began. “Brothers, let me turn your attention to Neu Port…” The holograph shifted, focusing on a single world, earthlike, industrial, and infected with xenos. It was just a few weeks away from Verdan in standard shuttles without having to resort to traversing the warp.

The briefings continued, sharp, clear, and concise. Chaplain Pitr Simonov followed Franz, discussing the makeup of the Neu Port population, mostly workers tied to the space docks. After him, Senior Tribune Atticus Gray reviewed the tyranids and tactics for combating them as learned by various chapters over the centuries. Lastly, Captain Caliphe discussed the logistics and deployment for the upcoming training exercise between the Warmasters and Dark Angels.

Jacob stood up at the conclusion of the briefings. “Today marks the beginning of Bladesong. We will come together as opponents on the field of battle so that both of us may profit from the lessons learned. This may be the last time we can train under such conditions and with worthy opponents. The next time we deploy will be in earnest. Use this opportunity well, brothers.”

Captain Caliphe nodded. “We, too, have had orders. The filthy xenos have come to our doorstep, and we must prepare them a cleansing welcome.”

“Then, let’s get to it, brothers. Return to your men and make your final preparations. Hostilities commence at dawn.”

Captain Caliphe saluted. “May the new dawn always find you watching.”

Jacob returned the salute. “May the honor of your chapter ever remain unstained.”


Decanus Hanz Wolf brushed the dirt from his eyes as some near misses sprayed clods of mud over his squad. “Come on, Iron Lance!” he bellowed, trying to be heard over the crack of gunfire. “For the legion! Bolter fire, sector alpha and bravo!”

The men of the Sternguard knew that they had a tough job today. The battle was still undecided, and it looked like the deciding engagement was right before them. Somewhere up ahead, Decanus Joseph Sextus and his scouts were hunkered down in the ruins of an Imperial administration building. The scouts had the unenviable task of slowing down the Dark Angel’s advance on the Warmaster’s left flank and were facing a Dark Angel tactical squad bolstered by their captain. If Iron Lance could not rescue them, they were doomed. And the left flank of the entire battalion would crumble.

Iron Lance kept up a steady rate of fire, their bolters roaring in a staccato of war.

“Decanus, enemy ahead, up and at ‘em!” Senior Tribune Lucius Canus bellowed.

Hanz bit back a retort. Tribune Canus was a good soldier but was too young to tell him how to run his squad. Ignoring the tribune momentarily, Hanz peered through the smoke and dust. The Dark Angel squad was nearly invisible, their dark green armor serving them well as camouflage among the trees. Only the ripple of bolter fire emerging from the tree line showed they were there.

But damn, this training is realistic, Hanz thought to himself. “Iron Lance, move by team! Give some cover fire! Those scouts need some help!” He leaped to his feet, intending to move forward under the withering fire to lead the way. “Follow me!”

He barely got the words out of his mouth when the smoke and dust parted. A Dark Angel contemptor dreadnaught swept out of the woods, charging right at him. The ancient mechanical monster towered over him, looking strange and alien. Hanz was used to the squat and slow dreadnaughts of the standard Astartes armory. The contemptor dreadnaught was a monster from the past: tall, long-legged, and fast. It bore down on him, massive power fist raised and auto-cannon tracking.

“Oh, zark,” he swore softly. There was no time to react, nowhere to run.

Before he could even get another word out, a massive blast rocked him, and two of his soldiers went flying backward, hitting the ground hard. The contemptor dreadnought stumbled, then stopped in its tracks, a clean hole blown in the front of its carapace and smoking debris shooting out from behind it in a shower of sparks.

“Dammit, Carl,” someone complained.

“Sorry, brothers,” Carl Aurelius said, lowering his missile launcher. “I didn’t have time to warn you.”

“You never do,” one of the soldiers on the ground said bitterly, the front of his armor charred by the backblast of the missile.

Hanz watched as the enemy dreadnaught toppled to the ground, smoke trailing from the hole in its front, its internals hopelessly wrecked. “Well,” he said after a moment. “Good shooting, Brother Aurelius.”


A week later…

Decanus Hanz shook his head. It was the last of their training skirmishes with the Dark Angel company. Once again, they were holding the left flank. Up ahead and to the right, the firing had started. Enemy scout marksmen were holed up in a building to his front, trading shots with scout Victor Ryback’s Commando Lance. So far, their sector was quiet.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” he warned his men, out of habit more than anything. A few of his men were checking their bolters, and the noise of them working the actions made him turn his head. “You should have done that before the fight started,” Hanz snarled testily. He turned back around and peered across the battlefield. They were stationed on a bridge that crossed a narrow river and charged with holding the strategic point.

Hanz heard some more crackling behind him. He spun around angrily. “I told you to belay that-” he began to say but stopped mid-sentence. A Dark Angel chaplain in terminator armor had deep-striked behind them and was charging forward, eyes glowing, weapons ready. “Oh no-” he started to say.

A massive blast slammed him to the ground. Hanz was momentarily stunned. He took a moment to catch his breath and collect his thoughts. The chaplain! He started to scramble to his feet.

“Easy, brother,” one of his men said, grabbing him by the arm.

“The chaplain! Where is he?” Hanz demanded.

“There.” The soldier pointed.

Hanz goggled for a moment. The chaplain was spread-eagled on the road in the middle of a spray of gore, arms flung out, a smoking hole carved through his chest cavity.

“Sorry, decanus,” Carl Aurelius said, lowering his smoking missile launcher. “I didn’t have time to warn you.”

“You never do,” Hanz said with a grimace.
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It was beginning to be a pattern, Hanz Wolf thought to himself, looking out at the decani as they gathered pre-morning formation. A few clusters of decani stood in the dawn twilight: the scout sergeants in their reserved, aloof group, the line sergeants, and Heaven help us, the elites that included Cato Severus. But four decani stood slightly apart in stony silence. Decanus Ryven Tornac of Alpha Lance and Decanus Peter Samsanov of Torch Lance stood together. And Decanus Brock Rendak stood alone, as far away from his mates as he could while staying in the group.

Decanus Phillip Drusus, the newest and most furtive soldier, was not even present. A recent transfer from the mysterious Blood Ravens, Phillip had developed the knack for showing up to formation just in time. And always left immediately after.

Ryven Tornac and Peter Samsanov were both repatriated from traitor legions through the Alpha Legion. Hanz knew that the other decani had a hard time warming up to them. Brock Rendak was a former Dark Angel who had not quite overcome his pathological hatred for all fallen space marines. And Phillip Drusus was just… well, a Blood Raven, whatever that meant.

“Decanus,” a voice spoke to Hanz from the morning gloom.

“Sir,” Hanz answered, stiffening up as he instantly recognized the voice of his former comrade-in-arms and current commander, Jacob Maccabee.

“At ease,” Jacob answered, sidling up to Hanz, unnoticed by the other decani. “What do you make of them?”

Hanz knew instantly that Jacob was asking about the discord in the ranks sewn by the newest lances, led by their aloof decani. “I was just thinking about that, sir.”

“I’d like to have them as part of the Rapax team,” Jacob answered pointedly. “They are trustworthy men.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir.”


“We are deploying soon,” Hanz Wolf said to the two former Alpha Legion soldiers as he slid into a seat across from them.

“According to whom, brother?” Decanus Peter Samsanov sneered. Peter was a picture of a rehabilitated Chaos marine; his face and body were scarred as badly as his soul. He led Torch Lance, a hard-bitten squad of devastators that had all seen time in the traitor legions.

Hanz ignored the sneer. From his observation of Peter, it was out of habit more than any ill will. “Rumor, brother.”

“Rumors, I find,” Decanus Ryven Tornac of Alpha Lance, “are as useful here as they were in the Eye of Terror.” Like Peter, Ryven was scarred all over but dark-haired and dark-eyed. Plus, he still possessed a sense of humor, though it tended to be a bit deranged.

“And how useful was that, brother?” Hanz asked, eyebrow raised questioningly.

“As useful as a chocolate thunder hammer,” Ryven said levelly, with a straight face.

Hanz kept a straight face, refusing to acknowledge Ryven’s off-brand joke. “Well, either way, I wanted to see if you boys were interested in an expedition.”

“Our orders do not come from you,” Peter said incredulously.

“No, not an official expedition,” Hanz clarified.

“Hmm,” Ryven said with a frown. “Clandestine or insubordinate?”

“Neither, you blockhead. Centurion’s orders. We are heading to Highton tomorrow after mid-formation,” Hanz told them flatly.

“Why?” Peter demanded.

“Because Centurion Maccabee would like you to be part of the team,” Hanz answered, standing up. “And not a couple of scarred, ugly, son-of-a-bitch, petulant pissants. Be there,” he said harshly.

Ryven fixed Hanz with a piercing stare. “We’ll be there, brother.”

And you better make it worth our while was unspoken, but Hanz heard it loud and clear.


“Why?” Decanus Brock Rendak demanded. “I prefer that my time is my time alone.”

“I prefer that you come along, brother,” Hanz retorted.

The two men were standing in an alcove of the chapter library. It was a huge stone building with high stone arches that met at the ceiling high overhead. Sunlight, tinted with warm color from the stain-glassed windows, glowed on the acres of plush red carpet and rows of gleaming hardwood shelves. Corners and reading alcoves were illuminated by the golden glow of hundreds of brass oil lamps. Grey-robed servants flitted about, ordering books and tending the lamps.

Brock was the leader of the Ranger Lance and emulated the namesake of his former chapter. Like the Dark Angels, Brock was dark: dark-haired and swarthy, dark-eyed, and with a dark and brooding personality. “I have reading to do,” Brock growled. “I am behind in the study of the Warmaster doctrines.”

“Save it for later,” Hanz said dismissively. “Doctrines won’t help you lead Warmaster soldiers in battle unless you have one more qualification.”

“What do I yet lack, brother?” Brock growled. “Tread carefully.”

“You must be a Warmaster first,” Hanz answered bluntly.

“I am a Warmaster,” Brock retorted, his eyes flashing with anger.

“Yet you spend day after day hiding from your fellow decani and looking up books to vindicate your former chapter and to vilify your comrades.”

“No member of Alpha Legion is my comrade!” Brock hissed, furious.

“You came to the Warmasters for a reason, did you not?” Hanz asked, leaning in. “Now it is you that must tread carefully, brother,” Hanz added.

Brock’s anger dissipated, and he looked momentarily uncertain. “Forgive me, brother. I have spent a lifetime pursuing truths that have tarnished in my eyes. Yet I struggle to replace them.”

Hanz likewise relaxed. “There is only one truth. And it is reflected in this. We’re all in it together. We can choose how we get along. Those boys are with us, Brock. They’ve seen the Eye of Terror from the backside. Trust me, they would be the last ones in this chapter to fall for it again.”

“Brother, I don’t know how to let go of it all,” Brock said mournfully, looking down. “The Dark Angels were my home… until they weren’t. Until I saw what they do to the Fallen. And how they became just like them.”

“Just like them?” Hanz asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Yes, they became fallen.”


“Enter,” Phillip Drusus’ voice flowed melodiously in response to Hanz’s rough request.

“Brother,” Hanz acknowledged as he stepped into Phillip’s personal quarters.

The former member of the enigmatic Blood Ravens had converted the spartan military quarters into a mini-library and art studio. Shelves of books lined the walls. More books and stacks of paper were tidily stacked on Phillip’s work desk. An easel stood in the corner with a half-finished painting. Hanz creased his brow as he studied it. It was either a picture of a radiant sunset over the ocean or a thermo-nuclear blast on the barren surface Isstvan V.

“That’s a nice sunset,” Hanz hazarded, looking at the painting.

“Sunset?” A frown creased Phillip’s face. Phillip was one of the soldiers who made people think that the Blood Ravens were successors to the Blood Angels. He was pale, fair-haired, and, despite his space marine physique, had an elegance about him. “That’s no sunset. I call that painting the ‘Parting Gift.’ It shows the detonation of a thermo-nuclear bomb when the Raven Guard escaped from Isstvan V.”

So much for guessing, Hanz mused. “Nice,” he said awkwardly. “So, what are you working on now?”

“Poetry,” Phillip replied, turning back toward his desk. It was covered in old-fashioned paper; he even had a quill dipped in ink. “By the way, what rhymes with ‘dead’?”

Hanz felt out of his depth. “Bread? Head?” he hazarded with a confused shrug. The conversation was rapidly slipping away from him and moving toward the horizon of the surreal.

“Hmmm, I was thinking of ‘aforesaid,’” Phillip replied, his quill scratching neat, flowing script across the paper.

“Anyway, I would like you to come out tomorrow,” Hanz said, wresting the conversation back on track.

“Whither will we go?” Phillip asked.

“Highton,” Hanz replied shortly. “The centurion has granted us a pass.”

“I will consider it.”

“The centurion has granted you a pass,” Hanz amended sharply.

“Ah, I see. In that case, I will be there,” Phillip answered without emotion. “Thank you for bringing me the invitation, brother.”


Highton was the nearest city to Fortress Warmaster. Still, it was a long, windy descent in an ancient hovercar piloted by a chapter servant, whizzing down the slopes, through steep valleys, and around switchbacks with lethal drops. The barren rock became thick with evergreens and then, gradually, leafy hardwoods. The engine was whining when the car arrived in the foothills, and the gauges were pegged in the red from making the perilous descent.

But not pegged into the red as far as the passengers, Hanz thought to himself. His fellow decani sat in the back, stony and silent as statues, dressed in the dark gray tunics of the chapter. There was none of the banter, mutterings between comrades, or recounting of battles that should characterize any gathering of noncommissioned officers.

“Almost there, brothers,” Hanz announced with forced cheerfulness.

“This aircar isn’t very airworthy,” Ret Valeriaus observed laconically. Ret, the Praetorian Lance apothecary, sat next to Godfrey Trask, the Crusader Lance apothecary. The two apothecaries were Hanz’s guests of honor.

Ret was an old hand and had served with Hanz for many years, even back to the days of the Ultramarines. Godfrey was part of the Crusader Lance, a mixed lance composed of former Black Templars and Gray Knights. Ret was business-like in his duties but had short, curly blonde hair and a ready grin. Godfrey was typical of his type, with a shaved head, a penchant for chivalry, and a readiness to wield a sword or a narthecium with equal ease.

Godfrey looked out of his window as the landscape swept by. The lush valley was dotted with farms and rolling forests. Stone-and-thatch huts passed in a blur. Occasionally, people, beasts of burden, and wagons were spotted in the field.

“Tis a veritable paradise, this Verdan,” Godfrey said, thinking of other planets that his time with the Black Templars and, more recently, the Warmasters had brought him. Back then, planetfalls were punctuations of violence and destruction between decades of silent cruising through space. Living on a green and flourishing planet after centuries of crusading in the steel and pipe-lined belly of a star cruiser was strange.

Hanz looked back over his shoulder. None of the decani seemed to have anything to add as they stared out of their windows, though Phillip seemed to be trying to write on a tablet he had brought. Hanz pursed his lips and turned around. What a crew.

Their destination was in the region of the spaceport of Highton. It was one of the few places on the planet where you could find any technology above the horse-pulled plow. Yet, it was still a dismal backwater port. Decrepit shuttles rusted on the tarmac. For some of them, it had been decades since they last flew. Smaller fliers and orbitals were crouched in rows along a cracked cement flightline, like a line of strange, desiccated, and flightless bugs. A small copter flew overhead noisily as they joined the traffic pattern before landing.

Like every spaceport, Highton Spaceport had a ‘row.’ The row was a collection of cheap, ramshackle, pre-fab mess of businesses, eating establishments, bars, and other seedy ventures designed to separate spacers from their credits. The seven Warmasters made their way through the muddy streets, taking in the sagging porches, rusty storefronts, and the eclectic mixture of local merchants mingling with spacers.

“Where are you bringing us?” Phillip asked as they stoically splashed through yet another brown puddle.

“A place I know,” Hanz replied shortly.

“You know this place?” Peter growled through his scarred lips. “Are Warmasters so grubby as to frequent this den of filth?”

“Just wait,” Hanz answered testily. His legendary patience was growing thin with his company. Hanz was looking forward to what was in store for them just that much more…

Hanz led them under a rotting wooden porch into a dimly lit café. Rotting straw was stuck to the scuffed hardwood by mud and spilt fluids; some beer, some not. The clientele was a who’s who of who did it and when. Locals didn’t dare stick their heads inside.

One table was filled by a crew from an orbiting freighter, their coveralls stained with grease. Another table had a collection of misshapen, hulking individuals that sent warning signals buzzing in the heads of the Warmaster decani. Some of them were bigger than space marines.

A positively huge man hulked behind the bar with polished, pale skin, a bulbous head, and bulging muscles. He was polishing a mug that looked minuscule in his long, bony hands.

“Where have you brought us, brother?” Brock Rendak asked, turning toward Hanz.

Hanz had somehow managed to disappear. As did the two apothecaries.

“Hey!” yelled one of the largest creatures from the table of giants. “We don’t allow your kind in here!”

“What are they?” Ryven Tornac hissed.

“They are ogryn,” Phillip Drusus replied calmly. “I have seen them in the regiments of the Astra Militarum.”

“Abhumans,” Brock Rendak sneered loudly. “What is this place? A zoo?”

Five ogryns stood noisily, their table and drinks overturned. “You’s can lick our boots, ‘startes scum,” one growled in response.

Brock Rendak stood up angrily, facing the ogryns. “Know your place, sub-human.”

Another one of the ogryns flexed his bulging muscles. “Dey’s just fo-ur of dem. ‘Ardly wot I’d call a fair fight.”

The largest of the monstrous creatures sniggered. “I’ll fight wif’ one arm behind me back,” he said with a grim chortle. Then, with surprising speed, he charged, plowing through an intervening table and converting it to flying matchsticks with a roar.

Brock Rendak ducked under the first wild swing but disappeared beneath a whirlwind of heavy fists delivered by the enraged ogryn.

“Methinks our Dark Angel brother is under duress,” Phillip Drusus calmly observed, still sitting at the table.

“Damn the Dark Angels,” Peter Samsanov growled.

“He is our brother,” Ryven Tornac said, standing up. “And he is a Warmaster, not a Dark Angel.” And he waded into the melee.

“Warmasters, aye,” Peter said wryly. “For the Emperor and all that.” And he launched himself at the nearest ogryn.

“The Emperor,” Phillip said, mostly to himself, “is a withered vine.” Picking up a wooden chair, he broke it in half by pulling the legs apart and, thus armed, joined the fray.


An hour later, the four bruised and battered decani sat calmly at a new table, mugs of beer in front of them. The ogryn, bearing their own wounds from the battle, were sitting nearby. Hanz Wolf and the two apothecaries had returned in time to make sure the fight did not get out of hand and to patch some of the more serious wounds.

“You spacies,” one of the ogryn said, “always the ‘ardest to take down.”

“You abhumans,” Phillip Drusus retorted mildly, lifting a mug to them, “are damn hard to take down yourselves.”

“It took you long enough to jump in,” Brock Rendak said sourly, eyeing his beer suspiciously. It had things floating in it.

“We thought a son of the Lion would have it well in hand by himself,” Ryven answered.

“Yes, brother,” Peter added. “We didn’t want to take your glory.”

“T’was glory to spare,” Brock said ruefully, rubbing his face. One side of it was purple with bruises. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked Phillip curiously. “I’ve never seen someone dual-wield a chair so effectively.”

“It’s my specialty,” Phillip answered. “I’ve served the last century in the fast attack ranks. I used to teach recruits how to fight two-handed.”

“And what about you, Hanz?” Peter asked the un-scuffed decani, who was contentedly smoking a tobacco twist. “You missed the fight.”

“Nah,” he answered. “I had a front-row seat. It’s Warmaster doctrine, you know. Send in the expendables first and keep the real troops in reserve. You guys handled it.”

The four combatants universally jeered his answer.

“I wish I could have helped,” Godrey Trask said wistfully. “Hanz kept us back.”

“Oh, the day we need apothecary help in a fight,” Peter sneered.

“You sure needed us after the fight, brother,” Ret Valeriaus answered him calmly.

The bartender returned with another round. He was nearly as large as an ogryn but had pale, smooth, hairless skin.

“You,” Brock said to him sharply, “you’re no ogryn.”

“No, mate,” the bartender answered with a grin with far too many needle-like teeth. “I ain’t!”

“Relax,” Hanz cut in. “This is Griff. He’s a friend. If you ask him nicely, he’ll tell you his story. You could learn from it.”

“He’s xeno-tainted, methinks,” Phillip Drusus said, eyes narrowing. “A friend, you say?”

“Aye,” Griff answered in a grave voice. “I’m xeno-tainted, as you say. I’m called a hybrid by the Inquisition.”

“You are tyranid-spawn?” Brock hissed, shoving back from the table.

“Relax,” Hanz cautioned him. “Listen to his story.”

The other Warmaster decani exchanged wary looks and settled in to hear Griff's tale. The two apothecaries just ordered more beer; they knew the story by heart and had worked many days studying Griff’s strange physiology.

“Yes,” Griff finally said, pulling up a chair. “I was born of tyranid-tainted parents. My world was infiltrated by tyranid cults. And then a splinter fleet showed up to harvest the world. I was young, but I remember the chaos as the cults attacked, when tyranids landed, and the bloody destruction of my home. I remember because I was part of it. And we tyranid-tainted lived for one thing: unification with the hive. A promise as empty as this mug,” said, draining his beer. “And when the tyranids finally turned on us, it was too late.” Griff clenched the mug in his hand so hard that it shattered. Ignoring the dark, blue blood that ran from between his fingers, he continued. “Friends and family, gone. Home, gone. The world gone. And now, all of those who had lived in expectation of joining the hive mind were turned on by the creatures we served. And devoured. I saw it all.”

“How did you escape?” Phillip asked curiously.

“I was captured by a company of space marines that were evacuating as many survivors off-planet as they could.”

“That was us,” Franz interjected. “We arrived at the world too late. All we could do was pluck as many people from the surface as possible. Griff, here, was captured to study. But we found out that he retained his sense of self. That we could undo the call of the tyranid.”

“But you could not purge my memories,” Griff answered darkly, staring at nothing.

“Why is he still alive?” Peter Samsanov asked Hanz. “He’s xeno filth!”

Griff stood suddenly, and the assembled men tensed for a fight. But the bartender just picked up the broken glass carefully. “I’ll leave you, gentlemen, now, have a good day.”

“Like I told you,” Hanz said angrily. “He is one of the few survivors of an infestation that could be brought back to himself. He has allowed us to study his body to look for ways to make humans immune to the tyranid genes. And he still has a tentative connection to the hive mind. Griff can sense when an attack is imminent, and sometimes, he can help us pinpoint where.” Hanz stood up, beer in hand. “Welcome to the Warmasters, brothers. We do business differently here. Wherever you came from, that is past. It doesn’t define you. But what you do from now on, moving forward, will.”
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Neu Port- First Contact

Senior Tribune Lucius Canus checked his nav charts once more. The planet of Neu Port was pleasantly similar to Verdan; earth-like vegetation and terrain. Foot-slogging was slow going, but they were getting there. Lucius always volunteered to lead foot patrols, it helped to immerse him in the new environment quickly, it kept him active, and if God willed it, he might find a fight.

Tribune Canus was leading a patrol consisting of two ten-man tactical squads and a five-man assault squad when a report came from a local militia stating that two of their vehicles had failed to return from that sector. Lucius and his patrol were sent to investigate. They had found two armored vehicles burning next to a colonial admin building, their hulls cracked open like rotten fruit. Oddly, there were no sign of bolter, laser, or cannon fire. Instead, there was dead and rotting vegetation around the two hulks and a pungent chemical smell.

The space marines entered into the shade of a small stand of trees. Beyond the trees, a narrow ribbon of water ran through a shallow bed. A bridge, on the other side of the woods, led to the plowed fields of a local farm. Pleasant, but then again, every tree could hide an enemy.

“Wolf Lance, prepare to clear the tree line, skirmish formation,” he instructed over his helmet vox.

“Wolf Lance acknowledges; prepare to clear the tree line.” Decanus Herman Tacitus was a stern, humorless, efficient leader. The men of Wolf Lance moved into the woods, spread out into a loose line.

The voice of Fredric Happ, Dog Lance, crackled through the vox. “Tesserarius, the wrecks are clear. Burning good, though. We are taking up positions in overwatch. The rooftop has clear fields of fire.”

Lucius acknowledged Dog Lance and picked up his speed to catch up with Wolf Lance.

“Approaching the river,” Decanus Tacitus reported. “Bridge to our front. The farm looks clear.”

Tribune Canus had now caught up with Wolf Lance and nodded in assent. “Hold the bridge,” he instructed Decanus Tacitus. “We’ll move the rest up before we cross.”

A fourth voice interjected as the last element of the patrol checked in. “We are standing by, jets primed,” Decanus Jacub Roski reported. Jacub Roski led the five-man Hawk Lance, jump pack-equipped assault troopers. Lucius was holding them in reserve.

“Enemy spotted!” One of the marines of Wolf Lance, near the edge of the tree line, pointed across the river. In the distance, a gray mass of limbs and claws had burst from a hedgerow and was swiftly advancing. The mystery was solved. “Tyranid hormagaunts.”

Lucius Canus wasn’t surprised. The attack on the vehicles had nearly convinced him. And reports from the locals, along with premonitions from Griff back at home, were why the Warmasters were on Neu Port.

“Form your lance in a battle line, brother, and prepare to meet the xenos on the bridge,” Tribune Canus told Decanus Tacitus. The tribune was already forming a plan to deal with the threat. Above all, he did not want to get into close quarters with the Xenos without doing some bloodletting at range. While the men settled into positions, Tribune Canus sent his first report to Centurion Maccabee.

“Do you need reinforcements?” was Centurion Maccabee’s first response.

“Not at this time, sir,” Tribune Canus replied. “I will attempt to engage the xenos and ascertain their numbers and their source.”

Jacob Maccabee signed off using the traditional benediction of the Warmasters. “Stomp their guts out.”

In position on a fortified rooftop behind the woods, Dog Lance had a better line of sight than Wolf Lance and Tribune Canus. “Tesserarius, I see two independent groups of hormagaunts,” Decanus Happ reported. “One is coming straight for the bridge. Another may flank to our right and cross the river downstream.”

“Is there a crossing there, brother?” Lucius asked him over the vox.

“It may be crossable downstream, where it narrows.”

“Can you cover that crossing?” Tribune Canus was not worried but did not relish the prospect of being caught between two groups of ravenous Tyranids.

“They will be out of bolter range and a hill on this side of the ford is blocking my line of sight. But I will have their range if they break out from behind the hill. Or I can move up and cover the ford. Would you like me to move up?”

“Hold your position.” The tribune watched as the tyranids advanced. A hormagaunt was not a fearsome opponent; it was simple-minded, weak, armed solely with slashing claws, and only threatening when in numbers. Yet these tyranids were organized in a fashion, one force going the long way around to flank the space marine patrol. “Be wary of other enemies, brothers,” Tribune Canus broadcast to his troops. The space marines checked their weapons and settled into their positions.

Decanus Fredric Happ broke the silence a minute later. “The flanking element is at the river’s edge. They are crossing, brother.”

Down the river, Tribune Canus could just make out the ford. It was out of bolter range.

Decanus Tacitus of Dog Lance watched the flood of gray bodies splash into the water from his rooftop position. They were out of bolter range but perfect range for heavy weapons. Decanus Tacitus tapped his heavy weapon marine on the shoulder. “Engage the xenos, brother.”

A crack followed by a muted CRUMP heralded the start of battle as a frag missile exploded amid the hormagaunts. Bodies and clawed limbs cartwheeled and splashed back into the river. Greenish-yellow ichor mixed with the clear waters and was washed downstream.

A loud SPLAT rang out on the other side of the battlefield, near the bridge guarded by Wolf Lance. The hiss of chemicals burning followed it. Wolf Lance ducked for cover, but it was too late. Tyranid slime coated the surrounding trees and ground. As Tribune Canus watched, leaves withered and tree bark curled up and smoked.

“Tyranid warriors,” Decanus Tacitus reported. “Hiding behind the hormagaunts.”

Tribune Canus saw them now, driving the hormagaunts forward toward the bridge. One was raising his deathspitter to fire again.

“Metellus is wounded,” Decanus Tacitus reported. “He is stabilized, but the apothecary must tend to him before the day is out.”

Tribune Canus waited until the next two death-spitter rounds impacted. “Wolf Lance, fall back with me. We will seek cover deeper in the woods.” He knew he was potentially ceding the bridge, the best place to contest the Tyranid advance. But the trees would shield them from the Tyranids’ bio-weapons.

“Bad news, brother,” Fredric Happ reported, his voice overlaid with static. “The flankers have warriors, too. They have crossed the river and are behind the hill.”

Tribune Canus had anticipated this. “Hawk Lance, refuse our right flank. Use the coordinates from Dog Lance to make your insertion.” Tribune Canus knew it would be a precarious position for the assault squad, but it was his only option.

Jacub Roski acknowledged tersely. The scream of jump jets soaring into battle echoed over the landscape. Hawk Lance landed perfectly, in a tight formation, and went into action immediately. When the tyranids rounded the far side of the hill, they were met by a hail of bolt and plasma pistol fire. Then Hawk Lance powered their way into a charge, the five soldiers skimming on jump jets into the advancing hormagaunts.

“Follow me, brothers!” Decanus Roski called as he plunged into the xeno horde, his ancient power sword leveled at the enemy. Hormagaunts threw themselves at the outnumbered space marines but were met with snarling chainswords. Yellow gore and chitin bits splattered the space marines' olive-green armor.

The furious melee was behind the hill and out of sight for Tribune Lucius Canus. Trusting that Hawk Lance would hold its own, he turned his attention to the Tyranids rapidly approaching the bridge.

“Now, Brother Tacitus,” he told the Wolf Lance commander.

“Wolf Lance, advance on the double!” Decanus Tacitus ran through the woods to the edge of the wood line, his troops right behind him, reoccupying their position on the near side of the bridge. The chatter and hissing of the hormagaunts was audible. Soon, their claws were clicking on the far side of the stone bridge, and the hormagaunts swept over the top and toward the space marines. They look like ants, Decanus Tacitus mused to himself.

The Wolf Lance special weapon marine stepped forward and braced himself. Triggering his flamer, the marine stood basking in an orange glow as white-hot flames crackled the length of the bridge. Tyranids shrieked as they blackened, first shriveling up, legs curling, then bursting like overripe fruit. The rest of the lance opened up with bolters, chopping down even more of the Xeno creatures as the bolts tore through their armored shells into the soft guts beneath.

Across the battlefield, Jacub Roski was facing the Tyranid warriors, bereft of their hormagaunt mob. The angry creatures, far larger and more lethal than the fallen hormagaunts, advanced with intelligent malevolence in their insectoid eyes and bone-white blades clutched in their claws. “With me, brothers,” Jacub Roski said. He charged again. This time, the battle was more than a match for the assault squad, and the space marines were tossed aside and thrown to the ground, wounded and stunned. It seems, Jacub thought to himself as he fell heavily to the ground, stunned, that his squad would be the first on the wall of honor for this campaign. A Tyranid warrior stepped toward him, it’s fleshless jaws dripping viscous saliva. The warrior screeched and raised a bone sword. Jacub watched with open eyes as his death approached. The Tyranid warrior exploded as a krak missile slammed into it, scarcely slowing as it emerged from the Xeno’s back in a fountain of yellow. Its ruined body shed limbs and green ichor as it slumped to the ground. A second missile quickly followed, and another Tyranid warrior was blasted into a spray of guts and shattered armor. The surviving tyranid warriors scattered, retreating behind the hill, leaving the broken Hawk Lance lying on the ground.

Up on the roof of the colonial administration building, Decanus Fredric Happ grimly acknowledged his heavy weapon marine. His two shots had saved the Hawk Lance from destruction. As it was, Decanus Roski and the men of Hawk Lance were looking at a long stay in the Medicus barracks.

The right flank was secured by the broken bodies of Hawk Lance and the firepower of Dog Lance. It was up to Tribune Canus and Wolf Lance to stop the enemy's final advance. He looked around; a few of Wolf Lance were still standing after a bombardment of deathspitter rounds from close range. As he watched, the forest floor smoked with acid, and trees wilted. “Decanus Tacitus, follow me,” Tribune Canus ordered. The remnants of Wolf Lance charged across the bridge to where the tyranid warriors waited.

Tribune Canus launched himself into the forefront of the charge, his power fist raised. Inspired by his example, the marines followed suit, overwhelming the outnumbered tyranids and bringing them to the ground. Combat blades were worked into chinks of the tyranid armor. The final warrior stood its ground, but Tribune Canus met it face to face; a single blow from his power fist decapitated the foe.

“Warmasters,” Tribune Canus broadcast. “The field is ours.” Down river, the remaining tyranid warriors were retreating.

“Moving to secure Hawk Lance,” Decanus Happ called as Dog Lance advanced. “We need the apothecary.”

Tribune Canus ordered both of his standing decani to move the wounded to the field. He switched channels on his vox to Rapax's command, and Jacob Maccabee’s voice immediately came on.

“Tesserarius, make your report,” Maccabee ordered.

“Two units of tyranids engaged; all destroyed save two warriors. Hawk Lance and Wolf Lance require immediate transport for aid,” Tribune Canus answered tersely.

“It’s on the way,” Centurion Maccabee replied. “I am sending Iron Lance and Ranger Lance. Make a sweep for egg clusters.”

Tribune Lucius Canus looked on as the remnants of Wolf Lance helped their lance-mates to the evacuation site. The sun shone down on what was once a pristine landscape. In a few short hours, it had been churned with mud and the blood of creatures that had traveled light years to spill their life fluids on this planet. Toxic bio-ooze projectiles still smoked in the woods, eating through trees and melting leaves. In the distance, the two armored vehicles continued to burn, their black smoke spiraling into the blue sky. It was a new day in an old, old war.
]]> http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/preList/818818/11818742.page http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/preList/818818/11818742.page GMT HQ, Tribune Atticus Gray (Space Marine Captain). It worked out surprisingly well.

Neu Port- Scouts Out!

The scouts were definitely out, Decanus Theo Mann thought to himself. Bugs whined and buzzed around his sweat-streaked face. The acrid smell of smoke occasionally whipped by. Theo pushed his sniper rifle past a branch and scanned the countryside, mostly wide open with rocky outcrops and stands of trees scattered about.

The fast-flowing Rhames River with a wide, ancient arched stone bridge crossed their movement directly to Theo’s front. The source of the smoke was a blackened armored personal carrier mired in mud next to the river. Muted-orange flames licked its charred hull as black smoke billowed out in waves. To the planetary south, Theo’s left, a broad, low plateau faced a rocky ford downstream from the bridge. The plateau was one of the only dry areas for miles. A bunker built and abandoned by the local militia and the ruins of their barracks building moldered on its crest.

Decanus Theo Mann, leader of Hunter Lance, armed with sniper rifles and a missile launcher, was on patrol to an abandoned military outpost along the Rhames River. The local militia evacuated it when they heard reports of the tyranid infestation. Hunter Lance, along with Vengeance Lance, Commando Lance, and Shadow Lance, all Warmaster scout lances, were tasked with ascertaining the threat level and, if possible, eradicating the threat.

Nearby, the sounds of crashing in the underbrush could be heard. Theo felt the intense urge to roll his eyes. It was not the sound of the enemy, but rather, their patrol leader, Senior Tribune Atticus Gray. Unlike the scouts in their light armor, he was dressed in full power armor, equipped with a jet pack, and armed with a pair of lightning claws. If the tribune’s pale skin and dark hair weren’t a dead giveaway, his loadout showed his heritage as a former Raven Guard officer. Theo personally thought that Tribune Gray would have made less noise had he used the jump pack to skim the trees instead of thrashing through the bush. However, Senior Tribune Atticus Gray was a solid leader who was respected by the men of the 6th Century Rapax, even if his choice of gear was not the best for accompanying scouts.

“River Rhames ahead, sir,” Theo quietly transmitted.

“Acknowledged,” Tribune Gray replied, his voice tinny and staticky over the radio. “Recommendations?”

That was one of the reasons that the men were always relieved when they found Tribune Gray on the patrol leader order; he asked for and listened to advice from the men.

“We’ve got good fields of fire from here,” Theo Mann answered. His lance was well concealed on a hilltop covered with trees with wide, palm-like fronds. “Vengeance Lance can cover the bridge, Commando and Shadow Lances can provide overwatch from the compound. We can hold here and watch over the river crossing.”

“Excellent suggestions, decanus,” Tribune Gray replied. “I’ll move to the compound with Commando and Shadow. Vengeance, acknowledge, and move to the bridge.”

Decanus Franc Reiver’s voice came on the radio. “Moving now,” the Vengeance Lance leader called, already pushing out ahead, pistol and chainsword ready. His men were equipped with shotguns and heavy bolters, giving them a good mix of close and far-range firepower. They would not make it easy for anyone to cross the bridge.

On the far left of the line, Tribune Gray led Commando Lance and Shadow Lance towards the dilapidated military post.

Commando Lance, led by Decanus Victor Ryback, was conventionally armed with bolters. They quickly occupied the decrepit bunker, hunkering down behind torn sandbags.

Decanus Henric Crassius led Shadow Lance to the ruined building and took positions overlooking the river crossing. Like Vengeance Lance, Shadow Lance was armed with a mix of shotguns and a heavy bolter.

“There’s another burning vehicle on the far side,” Decanus Reiver reported.

Theo turned to scan across the river with his sniper scope. He had seen the smoke plume earlier. Theo zoomed in on it. The disabled tank was shattered, and flames licked its hull. It was starting to sound familiar. He kept scanning… there. “Movement, beyond the tank, sector twelve. Distance… six hundred paces. Looks like we’ve found tyranids.” The yellow and gray carapaces mixed with a seething mass of insectoid legs and crab-like claws were unmistakable. “I see termagants,” Theo continued reporting as he scanned through his scope, detecting the vile creatures with their acid-spraying bioweapons. “Estimate ten to fifteen, led by a warrior.” The taller tyranid warrior had its bio-shooter along with a long, sword-like bone weapon. “And a carnifex.” Theo grimaced as he watched the massive creature thrust its way through the brush, crashing through trees that got in its way. “It’s a big one, but good news, it’s moving into the open.”

“Received, decanus,” Tribune Gray answered. “We have movement to our front as well. hormagaunts and a zoanthrope.”

Theo shared a look with one of his men. A carnifex and zoanthrope? The carnifex was a living tank that absorbed tons of damage and dealt out even more damage at close range. And the zoanthrope… it was a nightmare creature with unfathomable psykic powers, floating above the ground, tail hanging; a wingless, worm-like dragon with a bulbous, blind head. “We’ve got the heaviest firepower here,” Theo told his men as they crouched in the foliage. None of the other teams had any bigger weapons than a heavy bolter. “We’ll need that missile launcher.”

“Range is extreme, boss,” his gunner replied.

“Then aim really good,” Theo replied.

“Engage when in range,” Tribune Gray’s voice crackled in Theo’s ears.

“Engaging,” Theo replied tersely. He drew a bead on a termagant, knowing the range was extreme. He pulled the trigger, and his sniper rifle bucked, sending a hyper-velocity bolt down range. Hunter Lance opened up a steady fire. A loud boom and blast of air signaled that the missile launcher was now in play, sending a krak missile toward the carnifex.

“No effect,” Theo reported grimly, watching the missile corkscrew into the ground, well short of the target. “They are heading toward the bridge.”

A stuttering fire opened up from the rocky outcrop near the bridge as Franc Reiver’s Vengeance Lance opened up with a heavy bolter, sending high-caliber bolts crashing through the ranks of spidery Xenos. The termagants opened up with a brief, ineffective fire from their acid weapons but did not slow down their advance. Vile organic chemicals splashed around Vengeance Lance. Oily smoke hissed from the chemical-scorched rock.

“Holding steady,” Franc Reiver reported. “But I think they are heading for the ford.”

On the high ground, Tribune Atticus Gray watched as a second missile arced from Hunter Lance’s position and fell short of the carnifex. He repressed a surge of frustration; the range was long, and the scouts were firing without the benefit of power armor stability and targeting arrays. Tribune Gray turned his attention to the closer threat. The zoanthrope and its accompanying herd of hormagaunts were getting close to the ford. It was a creepy sight that he had seen but few times: the bulbous head with ravening jaws, the atrophied, lizard-like body, its tail twisting in the air, floating above the ground.

“When they get to the ford, they’ll be easy targets,” Decanus Victor Ryback radioed, his men still hunkered down in the bunker.

“Good thinking, decanus,” Tribune Gray replied. “Wait until they enter the river.”

It was easier said than done as the skittering creatures got closer, and their horrific jaws and grasping claws came into focus. They boiled through the high grass with one alien thought: get close to the humans and rip them apart. The men of Commando Lance looked at their leader, Decanus Ryback, and fingered the safety catches of their bolters.

“Hold steady, lads,” Victor Ryback said, suppressing his urge to ready his weapon early. He looked at his men coolly. “They’ll be here soon enough.”

Across the compound, in the crumbling building, Decanus Henric Crassius also readied the men of Shadow Lance. “Set your shotguns to maximum spread,” he ordered. “Wait until they start to come out of the water so we don’t waste shots when they are deep. Keep them from reaching the shore at all costs.” Then Henric Crassius grinned and revved up his chainsword for a second. “I’d like to keep this clean today.” His men grinned back and readied their weapons.

At the bottom of the hill, the first hormagaunt splashed tentatively into the shallow water, then surged confidently ahead, plunging into the fast-running river. The remaining hormagaunts followed, and the water was churned brown as the glistening insectoid legs surged ahead to deeper water.

“Now, brothers!” Tribune Gray called.

Decanus Ryback and the men of Commando Lance raced out from their position in the bunker to the edge of a ridge that overlooked the river. Perched above the ford, the Commando Lance poured bolter fire at point blank into the hapless Xenos. Yellow and green ichor mixed with the brown water as Tyranid guts were spilled from broken shells like so many cracked, rotten eggs.

Not to be left out, Decanus Henric Crassius leapt from the ruined building and led Shadow Lance down the hill to the river's edge. They stood on the shore, braced, and pumped shotgun shells into the enemy. The last of the homagaunts was swept down the river in a mass of green sludge, tangled legs, claws, and shattered chitin.

The towering zoanthrope was left alone, hissing with rage as it floated above the churning water. The men turned their combined fire on the massive creature. The zoanthrope writhed in pain as the powerful Astarte shotguns and bolts shattered its chitinous hide.

Decanus Crassius coolly leveled his bolt pistol one-handed and shot the zoanthrope in its massive head. The bolt bore through the bony shell and exploded. The creature’s skull shattered in a rainbow of bone shards and gore. Gobs of gelatinous brain rained down into the river.

Theo Mann watched helplessly as the battle was joined in the distance. His squad had yet to make an impact. Another missile arced away, and Theo held his breath, watching its path. The krak missile spiraled lazily, and then, like a living thing sniffing out its prey, drifted down and slammed into the carnifex’s side.

“A hit!” his jubilant gunner called.

Theo smiled but studied the carnifex through his scope. The missile had certainly damaged the creature, but not enough. Its many limbs moved it toward the ford like a giant spider. There wouldn’t be time for another shot.

Termagants flooded the already despoiled river, crossing the river over top of their fallen nestlings. The first ones met a similar fate as their kin as withering bolter and shotgun fire punched through their brittle armor shells and exploded within.

But when the carnifex entered the water, the tension ratcheted up. A bright trail of yellow oozed down one side from where the missile punched through its armored shell, but other than that, it looked unfazed. Bolter fire gouged its shell but did not penetrate, and shotgun pellets bounced harmlessly off the alien beast.

Tribune Atticus Gray watched the oncoming monster and took stock of his troops. This was not his normal mission. A former member of the elite fast attack companies of the Raven Guard, Atticus Gray was more at home leading vanguard and assault squads, leaping into hand-to-hand with jump packs screaming. But Centurion Maccabee had asked him to lead this patrol, and Tribune Gray was not one to say no to a challenge and certainly not one to say no to Jacob Maccabee.

The scouts were performing admirably despite their sometimes less-than-stellar reputation. Their decani were solid, dependable men, and their troops were fiercely loyal to their lances. Already, they had dispatched the zoanthrope and many termagants and hormagaunts.

But now, they faced a threat they could not overcome.

“With me, brothers!” Tribune Gray called, activating his jet pack. He took off with a thump as the jets fired and then screamed into full flight mode. Atticus Gray headed straight for the carnifex, lightning claws extended and crackling with power. This is what he lived for. He almost, just almost, wished he had a full flight of Vanguard troopers. Instead, he had Warmaster scouts, wading into the water after him, armed with chainswords and combat blades. And, Tribune Gray decided, it was enough.

Tribune Gray’s feet slammed into the muddy river, and he planted himself in front of the raging carnifex. The red-eyed monster swung its massive head toward him, jaws and claws wide open, its eyes glittering with primal hate. Looking at a carnifex, one would think it was slow and clumsy. And one would die.

Though Tribune Gray had no such misconceptions and knew how fast and deadly the carnifex was. It was not the first time that he had faced tyranids. Tribune Gray dodged the first lethal swipe of an enormous claw from the carnifex. The tribune moved in close, inside its reach, and punched both hands into its body. Lightning claws crackled and spat, charring the chitin as they slid through the hard shell into the soft guts. The carnifex reacted to the burning pain, convulsively jerking its massive body back in a spray of mud and water. Tribune Gray pressed the attack, swinging his arms fast as he carved more and more from the massive body. Chunks of blackened shell flew from the massive wound he was creating, and a cascade of yellow-green bile became an avalanche. The carnifex thrashed in agony, spinning to get its claws on to its much smaller antagonist.

The Commando and Shadow lances plunged into the combat, pairing up with the termagants in the shallow water. Splashes of water, blood, and ichor mixed with alien screams and men's cries.

The carnifex, mortally wounded, rolled onto its back, its legs clenching together in death. Tribune Gray pushed away from its body.

The Tyranid warrior, nearly senseless with rage, waded toward him, bonesword raised, screeching and hissing. Tribune Gray barely had time to register that the enraged xeno was on him before it leaped, swinging its sword and arcing its claws to land on the smaller armored figure.

“Tribune!” Decanus Victor Ryback called in warning, but it was too late. Decanus Ryback watched as the tribune delivered one swipe with a lightning claw before disappearing beneath the Tyranid warrior. “To me, men, and get him!” Combat blade in hand, Decanus Ryback charged forward. Those scouts still standing joined him, leaping onto the hard-shelled body of the warrior and plunging their blades deep. Chainswords rattled and buzzed, and the warrior fell under the combined assault, chopped into bits. Its head fell into the water with a splash.

Decanus Ryback took stock of the situation. Most of his men, as well as Shadow Lance, were down. “I’ll need backup,” he tersely radioed to Vengeance and Hunter lances.

“On our way,” came the reply.

The ford was a tangled mess of broken insectoid bodies and limbs and fallen men whose red blood mingled with the sickly yellow fluid of their enemy. Decanus Ryback began pulling his wounded men to the shore. The men of Vengeance Lance joined him, pulling the remaining wounded out together.

“Where’s the tribune?” Decanus Franc Reiver asked.

“Under there,” Ryback replied, wading back toward the fallen tyranid warrior. “Give me a hand.” Together, the men flipped over the tyrranid warrior’s body. It flailed, lifeless, its many legs curling back convulsively as it rolled into deeper water. The tribune’s wounded body was exposed.

“Cut loose the jump pack, or we’ll never lift him,” Ryback said.

“Did he kill the carnifex?” Franc Reiver asked.

“Single-handed,” Ryback answered.

The scouts that were still standing hauled the fallen tribune out of the water. They laid him on the beach next to the rest of the wounded men.

Hunter Lance joined them, setting up a position on the hill to cover them. No other threat was in sight.

The Warmaster command was signaled, and a rhino with a Praetorian Lance trundled up. The command squad disembarked, led by Decanus Claude Tellenius. Apothecary Ret Valeriaus immediately headed to the river's edge to tend to the wounded men.

Maximus Lucius, the century standard bearer, grinned at the wounded tribune as he was carried to the rhino transport’s waiting door. “Honor and glory, tribune. A carnifex felled at your hands, a zoanthrope cut down, and a warrior destroyed.”

“Indeed, brother,” Tribune Atticus Gray replied, his face gray from shock and blood loss. But his Astartes body, combined with treatment from the apothecary, was already starting to knit back together.

Decanus Claude Tellenius, one of the oldest members of the Warmasters, moved to greet the fallen tribune as he was laid in the back of the rhino.

“Well met, brother, Centurion Maccabee will be pleased with this action. Every tyranid flock culled is one less terrorizing the countryside. How did the men perform?”

“Scouts out,” murmured Tribune Atticus Gray. “It was their day.”

“Indeed, brother,” Decanus Tellenius replied, surprised to hear the scout’s motto come from the tribune normally attached to the fast attack and Vanguard squads.

“Indeed,” Tribune Gray repeated with a smile. “Scouts out.”
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