# Age of Apostasy - Part One



## Dusty Warrior (Apr 16, 2010)

This is something I was posting on the old BL forums (some of you may remember this), its basically a massive epic following the events of the Age of Apostasy. This is the part one of six. I'll be putting them up a chapter every other day, till I get to where I am currently writing. 

Just to let you all know this is pretty long. 

Hope you all enjoy...



THE AGE OF APOSTASY 

_It is the 35th millennium.

Since the Emperor’s accession to the Golden Throne, the Ecclesiarchy has ruled the Imperium in His name. With vast fleets of warships, and the might of the ruthless Frateris Templar, none could stand before them.

Or so it seemed. 

For three millenia, their power and reach went unquestioned and unchallenged, until in the dying days of the 34th millennium, the combined might of the Adeptus Astartes, the Adeptus Mechanicum, and the Administratum were finally able to check power that had gone unchecked for too long.

For six hundred years the Ecclesiarchy languished, powerless on Terra, under the ever-vigilant eye of the Adminstratum. It was not until Benedin IV brought the Ecclesiarchy to the third richest planet in the Imperium, the Cardinal world of Ophelia VIII that they were able to reclaim their former glory. Once again the tithe fleets went forth into the galaxy, carrying the Emperor’s Word.

It is a time of civil unrest, of toil and strife, of fanatical zealots, of brave heroes and bloodthirsty tyrants. It is a time of cold-hearted slaughter; a time when the Imperium was brought to its knees by those who had turned their backs on the Emperor’s light.

This is the Age of Apostasy._

PROLOUGE 

852 M35 
Grand Palace
Ophelia VII​ 
The bright morning sun shone on the hundreds of colossal towers that made up the Ecclesiarch’s Wing of the Grand Palace. The massive spires and minarets climbed miles into the sky, their tops hidden in the clouds. 

The Great Square was already full to bursting point; over four million citizens were packed into its vast space. The statues of thousands of former Ecclesiarchs stared down at the gathered masses. Many of the pilgrims had been waiting for weeks now, they had come from all over the planet, many had come from off world, and some had even come from other sectors. Millions waited for the first speech of the new Ecclesiarch.

Three miles above the unwashed masses of Ophelia VII the man they awaited was eating his breakfast. His huge chambers were possibly the most luxurious in the Imperium, maybe even more so then the Emperors had once been. Dozens of glided servitors stood in place, many filling the room with the sweet cloying smell of incense, several reciting devotional litanies, and two were reading the Ecclesiarch’s speech to him. 

There was a sharp knock at the door, the two red and gold armoured Frateris Templars pulled the massive gilded doors open. Several priests and cardinals passed through the towering arch and entered the presence of the Ecclesiarch. They immediately prostrated themselves before him. With a small grin their leader graciously bid them to stand. 

The new Ecclesiarch was an unremarkable man, considering his position, he had little augmetic enhancement, other than a small data slate built into his left hand. He was clean shaven with light brown hair, cut close to his scalp. The most impressive feature was his size, he towered over the Cardinals, and was larger even then his Templar bodyguards. His red and white robes were made of the finest silks and embroidered with gold thread. Jewels and precious stones studded his vestments. 

“Your holiness,” one of the Cardinals began “I trust you are finding your new quarters satisfactory?” 

The Ecclesiarch looked around at his surroundings, “They are acceptable.” He said. Several of the cardinals laughed sycophantically. “Silence, I am not here to amuse you. The quarters are fine, the location is not.” He snapped.

“Holiness?” enquired one of the Priests. 

“You’ll understand soon enough.” The Ecclesiarch responded. The assembled group looked confused, this was not how they had expected their first meeting to go. 

A Cardinal broke the awkward silence, 

“It may interest your Holiness to know that after examining the records we can confirm that at the age of forty seven, your Holiness is the youngest 
Ecclesiarch in Imperial history.”

“Do you think that’s what I shall be remembered for?” he asked, the Cardinals were silent, “Do you remember the Ecclesiarch who was youngest before me? Of course not, I shall be remembered for something far greater.”

No one spoke; the only sounds were the drone of the servitors reciting, and the dull roar of the gathered millions, three miles below. 

A clock chimed gently, the Cardinals jumped at the sudden sound. 

“Gentlemen, it is time for my first address.” Said Greigor XI Lord of the Ecclesiarchy, Speaker of the Emperors Word, and holiest man in the Imperium. The glass doors to the balcony were opened by two servitors. Greigor moved into the sunlight, Templar bodyguards behind him, servo skulls hovering around him, and servitors before him.

The noise that greeted him was immense, four million voices raised in unison. Greigor stopped in the doorway, almost knocked back by the sheer force of the sound. Three miles up and it was deafening. 

He walked to the edge of the balcony, and climbed the steps to the solid pulpit. The crowd roared, the Ecclesiarch raised his arms, the noise increased. 

“CHILDERN!” he bellowed his voice amplified by the servitors and carried to the enormous bronze speaker horns all around the Great Square. 

“Hush my children.” The noise of the crowd died down. “May the light of the Emperor shine upon you all, as it does upon me. By His Grace, I am Ecclesiarch the bearer of His Word.” The crowd screamed in praise.

“I am proud to be able to lead the Imperial Cult, to be closer to the Emperor then any man, but do you not wish to be as close to the Emperor as I?” The roared again, Greigor didn’t know if they were agreeing or even answering; he didn’t care. 

“For three hundred years this great and loyal Cardinal World has been the home of the Ecclesiarchy. Ophelia VII has served us well, but it is time for change. Too long has this palace and the men of the Ecclesiarchy been separated from the Emperor, too long have we lived in darkness... Well no longer, my first act as Ecclesiarch will be to return us to the divine light of the Emperor... I will pilgrimage, and the Ecclesiarchy will accompany me... I will return to Terra!” 

The crowd went mad, the noise reached the level of pain. In the Great Square glass shattered, and thousands were rendered deaf.

“THE EMPEROR PROTECTS!” Bellowed Greigor, “THE EMPEROR PORTECTS!” 

The Ecclesiarch left the pulpit, and walked back into his chambers. He was shaking with excitement, he could only hear the roar of the crowd. His Cardinals looked at him expectantly. He seemed to be in a daze, his eyes looking past them.

“You heard what needs to be done.” He said whispered hoarsely. “Do it.” 
The Cardinals began to protest, but Greigor didn’t hear them, all could hear was the praise of the crowd, and all he could see where the golden spires of Terra, and the beauty of the mighty Imperial Palace.

All shall be well now he thought The Ecclesiarchy is going home.


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## Nikolai (Mar 16, 2010)

This looks pretty interesting, I don't actually know a hell of a lot about the Age of Apostasy except for little bits and pieces. Looking forward to following this.

There are only a couple of things I will CC:

Speech, I am assuming English UK is your first language, if not I apologise.

Full stops are only used immediately before closing speech-marks if the utterance is at the end of a paragraph. Otherwise it is typically either a comma, a question mark or an exclamation mark.

I will use two examples to illustrate my point:



> “It may interest your Holiness to know that after examining the records we can confirm that at the age of forty seven, your Holiness is the youngest Ecclesiarch in Imperial history.”


This speech is grammatically correct. The full stop is used because in this case the utterance is a stand alone paragraph, it would be the same if there were some form of non-spoken text before the utterance.



> The Ecclesiarch looked around at his surroundings, “They are acceptable.” He said. Several of the cardinals laughed sycophantically. “Silence, I am not here to amuse you. The quarters are fine, the location is not.” He snapped.


The full stops marked in red should be replaced with commas and therefore both "He"'s should use lower case h. The yellow on "He snapped." This adjectival phrase used to describe the speech and the speaker is unnecessary, unless you wish to make the second utterance into a new paragraph. However it would be easier and more standard to simply remove "He snapped." and have the second full stop remain to close the paragraph.

Other than that there is a single spelling error...



> “I am proud to be able to lead the Imperial Cult, to be closer to the Emperor then any man, but do you not wish to be as close to the Emperor as I?” The roared again, Greigor didn’t know if they were agreeing or even answering; he didn’t care.


They.

Anyway I really like the idea and I will be following it.k:


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

I remember reading this! One of the stories I was actually set upon reading all the way through, have some rep!:victory: on a side note, the "new" Black Library Forums are here; http://z6.invisionfree.com/bljunkies/index.php?act=idx if you do not know


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## Legio Custode (May 20, 2009)

loved it loved it loved it!! More please!!!!


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## Dusty Warrior (Apr 16, 2010)

Though I said I'd post once every two days, the sheer number of Chapters I have to get up means I'm going to be posting once a day. So heres the Chapter One Part One.


Part One
Chaos, Damnation and Death
865 M35 – 958 M36



I
869 M35
Thermion 
Flavia III​


The chapel lay in the bottom of a valley alongside the river Therm, the valley floor was covered in forests. At the other end of the valley was the small village of Thermion, many of the houses were at the end of the valley bordering the large ocra fields. Every day the village’s fifteen large families would attend mass and pray to the Emperor.
Father Malachi was happy here, he had been born and raised in the hellish urban sprawl of Flavia IV, it was incredible the peaceful lives these people led when compared to the short brutal and painful lives of those on his world. He had chosen a career in the church mostly due to his low chance of survival in the gang culture of the cities. He was too small and weak to last in such an environment, a wasting disease in his youth had left his body fragile and his bones weak. At thirty nine he already looked like a man in his eighties. So for the last sixteen years he had been tending to the spiritual needs of his parish in this quiet and secluded corner of the Imperium. 
However the message that the battered old servitor was reciting to him threatened to change all that. The message had come from the Ecclesiarch on Terra commanding that planetary tithes must be raised once again. 
The people here were poor and the what little money they had left after buying ocra crops, food, and paying their taxes was often spent on farming goods, or donated to those less fortunate then themselves. 
A sixty percent rise. Malachi thought they can’t afford that, and I’m the one that has to take it from them.
Malachi sighed, there was little he could do about it, and even if he had the ability to it would take years for the request to reach anyone of importance. Suddenly the servitor began to beep that it was time for mass. Malachi lifted himself out of his old wooden chair, his joints creaking in protest, and made his way over to the churches bell pull.
Gradually the gentle peals of the bell began to ring around the valley, and the citizens began to make their way towards the chapel.

The Johansson family were the first to arrive, a young couple with twin baby daughters. Malachi greeted them at the entrance, they chattered briefly before the family went to their pew. Next Diminar Trask and his teenage son Mtan entered, Diminar’s wife had died last year during a storm. They went their pew. Gradually the whole of the village trooped in. Malachi had a word with each of them. He got on well with these simple folk, they were so much quieter and more polite then those he grew up with. 
Malachi moved to the front of the church and stood at his lectern, 
“We’ll start with hymn fourteen, Emperor deliver us from the tempest.” Organ music began to grind out of the servitors vox unit as the congregation began to sing the familiar words. 
As the hymn came to a close Malachi went back to his lectern and opened his prayer book, and began to recite the mass. 
Twenty minutes later the congregation finished singing the closing hymn Death is our sweet deliverance. 
“Before you return to your homes I have an announcement to make.” Began Malachi “I am afraid to say that his Holiness Ecclesiarch Benedin VIII has decided that it is necessary for tithes to be raised once again.” 
There was a groan of dismay from the gathered villagers. 
“In two weeks time I will be collecting the current tithe... with a rise of sixty percent.” 
“We can’t afford that!” protested Diminar “The current tithe is bad enough.”
“My children I understand your frustration, but there is nothing I can do about it. I am afraid that in two weeks I will need the money.”
Several more families voiced their opinions on the matter, and Malachi only gave the same response. Finally the congregation began to file out; Malachi could not make eye contact with any of them.


Mtagard, Flavia III’s capital was not like the majestic cities of Imperial worlds, it lacked any mighty spires, or triumphal arches. It was instead comprised mostly of two or three story, grey, prefab buildings, which housed the many thousands of adepts necessary to run a planet. The only exception was the Ecclesiarchy Cathedral, a massive building of gleaming black metal, with all the usual gothic towers, and gargoyles. The Governors palace was a modest stone building, set in pleasant country grounds, some way outside the city. It had been the seat of Flavian government since before the coming of the Imperium and was believed to be one of the oldest buildings in the system. 
Governor Monroe looked at the document in front of him, then back at his cabinet ministers,
“Sixty percent?” he said “Can we afford that?” he asked Gaston Ibanez his minister of finance.
“Not even close, we’d have to get rid of the PDF, and probably shut down most of the state run hospitals.”
“So what do we do?” asked General Modine “We can’t demobilise the PDF, and we can’t just not pay... can we?” 
“It does seem to be our only option.” Said the Governor “It takes years for anything to be processed by the Administratum, they probably won’t even notice we’re not paying.”
“It’s the fourth raise in the last six years, how much longer can this go on for?” asked the General 
“The Ecclesiarchy can’t stay this way forever, it’s in chaos.” Said Ibanez “Ever since Greigor moved back to Terra it’s been nothing but trouble. We’ve had three Ecclesiarchs in four years.”
“That’s the trouble” said the Governor “One starts a huge project, a massive cathedral or a monument or whatever then he dies, so the next one has to finish it and then go one better.”
“So do we pay or not?” asked the General “Clearly we can’t afford it, but this planets crawling with priests, they’d soon tell their masters we weren’t paying.”
“We can’t pay.” Decided the Governor “But we still need away to deal with the priests, not to mention the Templars that guard the Cathedrals.” 
“We could kill them?” suggested Modine.
“No.” Said the Minister of the Interior “That would quite quickly get back to Terra, and that would certainly not help the situation. We just need to keep them quiet till all this sorts itself out.”
“Prison.” Said Ibanez, “We round them all up, and just keep them away from any means of contacting their masters on Terra.” 
“That can’t be simple,” said the Governor “We’d have to find them all, and their Templars are bound to put up a fight.”
“My PDF can deal with the obvious places, the Cathedral and garrison here and in Mtakador, and I imagine that the population will have more than a few words to say about this.” Said Modine. 
“So when do we take them?” asked the Minister of the Interior 
“The tithes due to go to Terra three weeks, I expect that the people will pay the first time, we act after that.” Said the Governor.


Malachi smoothed down his old red and white robes, and tried to flatten his hair, in an attempt to look presentable. It was two weeks since his announcement at mass, and the mood of the village had not been good since then. Both the Hanidin family and Diminar Trask and stopped attending mass, whenever Malachi tried to speak with them he was turned away at their doors. He was now finding that the rest of the village shared their view of the Ecclesiarchy, even if they did continue to attend mass. He had been to three of the villages small stone and thatch cottages so far, and twice had the door slammed on his face. The Johansson family had protested that they simply couldn’t pay, even if they wanted to. 
Malachi approached the door of Diminar Trask’s home. One of the larger in the village, the Trask family had once been wealthy, before the tithes began to chip away at their wealth. After the death of his wife Diminar had given up trying to take care of his home, now large sections of the thatch were rotten or collapsing. Malachi took a deep breath the rapped sharply on the rough wooden door. There was no answer, Malachi knocked again louder this time. From inside the house came the sound of cursing, followed by the crash of a heavy object hitting the stone floor, accompanied by the smash of glass breaking. Suddenly the doors shutter was wrenched open, to revel a pair of angry bloodshot eyes. 
“What do you want priest?” barked Diminar
“Ahh... Mr Trask I am here to collect the tithe. It amounts to...” Malachi checked his data-slate “Three thousand six hundred Imperial credits.”
There was a pause a Diminar processed this information,
“Get off my property, you blood sucking scum!” he growled. Malachi was taken aback, he had been treated rudely today, but he expected that. Trask was being outright hostile.
“Mr Trask I really must insist that you pay the necessary amount.” Malachi stammered nervously. Diminar’s eyes moved away from the shutter, Malachi heard the sound of a bottle opening, followed by the noise of Diminar drinking greedily. 
“Mr Trask are you... Drunk?” asked Malachi nervously. The answer became clear when the barrel of a laspistol was pushed through the open shutter.
“I ain’t paying that money, now get out of here before something unfortunate happens.” Malachi took a step backwards in shock,
“Mr Trask... Am I to believe that you are threatening a member of the Holy Ecclesiarchy with a weapon?” 
“I’ll do more than threaten.” Trask growled “No get out of here!” he roared, putting a shot into the ground between Malachi’s legs. The priest yelped and scampered away as fast as his weak body could carry him.
Malachi stopped in the small village square, he caught his breath and tired to regain his composure. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. After having lived amongst these people for sixteen years he would have counted them as his friends, to see a hard working friendly man like Diminar Trask reduced to that made him worry. If good man like him were acting like that, Malachi hated to think what would be happening in the urban jungles of Flavia IV.
Suddenly movement in the corner of the square caught his eye. Assuming it was Diminar he dived behind the small statue of Saint Fibulas in an attempt to hide. 
“Father?” a voice called out “Father?” It wasn’t Diminar Malachi could tell that much. He poked his head around the side of the statue, and was surprised to see Mtan Trask.
Oh Emperor he’s here to finish what his father started. 
“Ahh Mtan, I was just on my way back to the chapel, there’s really no need to do whatever your father told you...” Malachi babbled nervously. 
“No father,” Mtan said “You’ve got it wrong, I’m here to apologise for my father’s behaviour, and to offer my assistance in collecting the tithe.” Malachi nodded his head not really listening. The enormity of recent events had only just hit home. A man he considered a friend had threatened to kill him. 
Throne he thought I’m not safe here, and I certainly can’t try and collect the tithe alone. I need help.
“Mtan.” Malachi said grabbing the young man’s shoulders “I’m not safe here; the actions of your father prove that. I need help, and I need it fast.” He pulled a sheet of parchment and a quill out of his satchel and quickly scribbled a message on it. Mtan took sheet the priest forced at him. 
“Take this to the Ecclesiarchy Convent in Mtakador. It requests the assistance of the bishop. If he decides to send Frateris Templars then return with them. Bring them directly to the chapel. Do not let the villagers see them. Do you understand?” 
“Yes father.” Said Mtan nodding. 
“Very well.” Said Malachi, he reached into his robes and took out several coins, he passed them to Mtan “That should be enough to see you to Mtakador. Now go.” 
Mtan ran out of the village square, and Malachi began to make his way nervously back to the chapel. 


The inside of the chapel was dark. Malachi was hunched in a corner with the alter blanket wrapped round him. It was three days since Mtan had left for Mtakador, Malachi hadn’t seen anyone since then. The villagers had stopped coming to mass. 
Suddenly there was a sharp knock on the door. Malachi’s hand tightened around the wooden chair leg he was holding. He nodded to the servitor which lurched to the door and opened it slowly. 
Standing outside was Mtan, he was filthy and looked as if he had been running, but that wasn’t what Malachi cared about, as behind the boy stood four figures, clad in red and black armour. Three carried autoguns and the fourth held a chainsword and a bolt pistol. 
“Emperor be praised.” Sighed Malachi as he got to his feet. The Templar with the chainsword nodded to Malachi,
“Sergeant Frazen,” he introduced himself “We hear that the villagers refuse to pay the tithe?”
Malachi nodded, 
“Yes, they won’t even attend mass any more. One of them threatened me with a weapon.” 
“Very well father, you will accompany us to the villages meeting point. We’ll gather everyone there and see if they won’t pay then.” 
“We must take the boy,” Malachi said indicating Mtan “The villagers may be hostile towards him.”
The Templars closed around the two civilians and began to march into the village. 

As they passed the first of cottages Sergeant Frazen activated his vox horn, 
“CITZENS OF THE IMPERIUM” he boomed “BY ORDER OF THE FRATERIS TEMPLAR AND THE MOST HOLY ECCLESIARCHY, YOU SHALL GATHER IN THE VILLAGE SQUARE AND PAY YOUR TITHE.” The villages poked their heads out of doors and windows to see what was happening. Drake Hanidin slammed his door after seeing what was outside. Sergeant Frazen pointed his chainsword at the building.
“YOU PEOPLE REPORT AS ORDERED... THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE.” Nothing happened. The Sergeant nodded towards the cottage, one of his men pulled a sliver orb out of his webbing, he fiddled with it briefly, and then hurled it onto the thatch. There was bright flash, and the cottage began to burn. Soon smoke was pouring out of the house. Drake ran out a child in each arm, his wife followed, leading their eldest daughter. They looked at their burning home, then at the towering Templars. 
“YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. DO NOT DISOBEY, DO NOT RUN, DO NOT HIDE, REPORT TO THE SQUARE AT ONCE.”
By the time Malachi, Mtan and the Templars reached the village square all of the people had gathered, waiting to see what was going to happen. They all looked hostile, even the children were scowling at the priest and his guards. Mtan was greeted by shouts of abuse, he cowered behind the Templars. 
“Citizens!” began Malachi, his thin reedy voice barely heard in commotion “I implored you to pay your tithe, I was abused and threatened. You forced my hand in this.” There was an angry murmur. The Templars closed around Malachi. 
“FORM A LINE,” the Sergeant boomed “YOU WILL PAY YOUR TITHE, WHICH YOU OWE AS A DEBT TO THE EMPEROR!” 
“The Ecclesiarchy doesn’t speak for the Emperor anymore!” Someone shouted in the crowed 
“WHO SPOKE?” Growled Frazen “WHO DARES TO DENOUNCE THE ECCLESIARCHY?” Diminar Trask stepped forward.
“I do.” He said firmly. Frazen clicked off his vox horn.
“Father” he said to Malachi “Is this the man who threatened you?” Malachi nodded. Frazen reactivated his vox horn, and drew his bolt pistol.
“YOU THREATENED A HOLY MAN OF THE ECCLESIARCHY WITH A WEAPON.” He thumbed back the pistols hammer “YOU WILL PAY THE PRICE.” The bolt pistol cracked. The round smashed into Diminar’s face, spraying blood everywhere, his neck cracked as his head shot backward. Then the round detonated. Diminar’s head burst, showering the crowed with pulped brain matter, blood and scraps of bone. 
As his body fell to the ground an old laspistol slid out from under his shirt. The Templars looked at it then back to the crowed. Suddenly Drake Hanidin dived for, two autoguns fired off a burst, Drakes body twitched under the sustained fire. A bottle flew out of the crowd trailing smoke. It smashed against one of the Templars wreathing him in flames. 
“OPEN FIRE!” Bellowed Frazen as the crowed surged forward, “FATHER RUN!” Malachi grabbed Mtan and turned to leave. He saw Frazen driving his whirring chainsword into Isa Johansson’s belly tearing her open. 
Malachi lead Mtan out of the square, they both ran down the empty streets towards the chapel. Then a rock crashed down behind them, followed by more. Malachi turned to see several of the older children pursuing them. A rock smashed into the priest’s leg, knocking him to the ground.
“Father!” yelled Mtan trying to lift the priest, 
“Run Mtan, get to Mtakador, tell them what happened.” Mtan paused, looking between the priest and the pursuing mob. Then he jumped up and sprinted down the street. Malachi pulled himself to his feet.
“Children.” He shouted “I am a Priest of the Emperor, if you harm me your soul is forfeit.” He was still shouting when they knocked him to the ground, he only stopped when they cracked his head open, spilling his brain onto the dirt.

Sergeant Frazen came too in a daze. He opened his eyes slowly. His right eyelid was glued shut from the crusted blood. What he saw wasn’t good. He was about two feet off the ground standing on top of a pile of logs and thatch. When he tried to move he found he was strapped to a wooden pole thrust into the ground. Around him the surviving villagers were wearing bits of Templar armour, some held weapons. Some held flaming torches. 
“Release me at once, and you may die swiftly!” he commanded “I am a soldier of the Ecclesiarchy, as were my men, you cannot even begin to consider the punishment this village will suffer.”
They ignored him and pushed the torches into the thatch below him. The Sergeant struggled with the ropes and tried to get free, but it was no use. The flames spread, their heat was beginning to scorch his legs now. He looked down to see his skin begin to blister.
“Emperor deliver me!” He began “Let Your light shine done upon me, and Your Grace guide me to Your side...” He screamed as his flesh began to burn and contract, his skin tore as it blistered and shrunk. He screamed again as the meat of his legs began to fall off and hiss in the fire. At last his hair ignited and his face began to burn. Frazen threw back his head and tried to scream, the fire filled his mouth and lungs. It was only as his eyes burst from the heat that he slipped into unconsciousness and died.
The villagers watched until the fire had died down to embers. Then they burned down the chapel. Smoke filled the once pleasant Therm Valley.


The massive battleship hung alone in orbit around Flavia III. It measured over five miles from stern to bow, and was serviced by over ninety thousand crew. Its huge towers and spires hide massive deadly cannons cable of reducing a rival ship to nothing or levelling a planet from orbit. The name Greigor XI was written in massive gold letters on its red hull. 
On its bridge Templar Captain Gatakar began the preparations for his mission. 
“Target?” 
“Flavia III” an Ensign replied “Agri world forty million citizens.”
“Cause?”
“Refusal to pay tithe and murder of Ecclesiarchal personal.”
The Captain tapped his fingers absent mindedly, 
“How long ago was this?” he asked 
“Three weeks since the tithe was refused.” 
The Captain sighed, life in the Templar navy was very repetitive, in the last six weeks he had obliterated four planets for similar reasons. He was sure that he would do the work of the Ecclesiarch on many more yet. 
“Let’s have a change.” He announced “Ready the virus bombs.” The ensign nodded nervously, 
“Aye sir. I will need you to enter the deployment code.” The Captain did so. 

Three hours later the ship left orbit. Leaving a barren lifeless rock, that had once been a lush verdant agri-world. 
“Ensign?” asked the Captain “How many worlds relied on that planets food production?” 
“Seventeen sir. Twelve in the system. Five in the sub-sector.” 
“Do they have the equipment to produce their own food?”
“Unlikely sir.”
“Oh.” Said the Captain “Never mind.” 
The massive Frateris Templar ship jumped into the warp to its next destination.


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## Sniper (Mar 9, 2008)

interesting so far Dusty....  little spelling and grammer but thats already been mentioned... great second last line from the captain  

Sniper


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## Dusty Warrior (Apr 16, 2010)

Cheers Sniper, heres chapter 2


II
891 M35
Verevya District 
Sanctus Lys [Shrine World]​


Franz watched grimly as Karl landed another punch on Bishop Harmon’s jaw. The man cried out in pain, his ruined face already a mask of blood. Next to him, Dieter grunted, though whether in empathy or satisfaction, he didn’t know. Frankly, he didn’t care.
“Enough,” he said. Karl drew up straight, wringing the knuckles of his right hand in the palm of his left, and then deftly caught the laspistol Franz tossed. He pressed it into the side of the bishop’s head, grinning as the old man thrashed and screamed; but the ropes held him tight. 
“Pathetic,” Franz spat, and nodded to Karl. The man turned his head away from the bishop and pulled the trigger. The single shot echoed dully in the confined space of the basement. 
“Alright,” Franz muttered, “finish up.” 
Dieter moved forward, drawing a scalpel, and Karl lit a small blow torch. Then they began the grim task of mutilating the corpse’s face. 
“Why do we do this?” asked Dieter resignedly, as he dug the scalpel into the bishop’s right eye. 
“Because we want the Cardinal to think we’re heartless, bloodthirsty murderers,” replied Franz, not looking up from his chrono. 
“So why don’t we do it before we kill them?” Dieter asked again, moving onto Harmon’s cheek.
“Because we aren’t heartless or bloodthirsty,” answered Karl, putting down his blowtorch to draw a pair of pliers and set to work on the corpse’s teeth.
“But we are murderers,” pressed Dieter. 
“Pretty much,” said Franz. They both moved away so he could see the result. 
“That’s fine,” said Franz, nodding. “Dieter?” 
Dieter nodded, and drew a hefty knife with a serrated back blade and started hacking and stabbing at the corpse’s neck. After several minutes’ work the head came away with a sickening crunch of snapping bone and tearing flesh. Karl took the head and dropped it in a black box marked with the winged skull of the Ecclesiarchy, with an X of the bishop’s blood smeared over it. 
“Konrad?” said Franz looking around the room. One of the shadows in the corner slid towards the group. It crept up behind Franz and whispered something. 
“Throne!” exclaimed Franz in shock. “Don’t do that.”
Konrad grinned, and stepped into the light. 
“Best to stay in practice,” he smirked. 
“Well good, I’ve got more practice for you,” said Franz, as Karl passed Konrad the box. “Outside the Cardinal’s private chambers. I want it given to him while he has his breakfast, clear?” 
Konrad nodded, took the box and disappeared up the basement’s stairs.
“I’m glad he’s on our side,” said Karl. 
No one disagreed. 


Master-Steward Dolan walked through the massive golden doors, trailed by two servants; the doors swung open automatically as he approached. He strode into the Cardinal’s dinning chamber. As usual he was momentarily in awe of the massive room, the arched ceiling more than a mile overhead, the walls decorated with colossal frescos of the Emperor and past Ecclesiarchs. However it was the gigantic hjavawood table that dominated the space that caught his eye, over two thousand chairs on each side, all empty at this hour. At the table’s end, sat in a huge high backed platinum chair decorated with diamonds, and covered in carved jade, was his Holiness Cardinal Bordelon. Who was currently eating his breakfast, two servitors stood on each side of him, both with multiple arms. They held, trays laden with food, decanters of the finest wine and spirits, and data slates with the mornings news displayed on them. 
Dolan walked to the Cardinals side and coughed loudly try to be heard over the choir of thousands of young children in the near corner of the room.
“What is it Dolan?” Asked Bordelon testily, “I was enjoying my breakfast.” 
“Holiness I am afraid that we received bad news concerning the whereabouts of your close friend Bishop Harmon.” 
“What’s that fool done how? I do not wish to have to go all the effort of having a family burnt for heresy merely to cover up another of his sordid affairs.”
“Unfortunately it’s rather worse than that...” The Master Steward clicked his fingers and the two servants behind him moved forward and gently put red clothe covered objet on the table. The Cardinal eyed it suspiciously, before he whipped the red cover off. Revealing a black box, with a defaced Ecclesiarchy symbol on it; the symbol of the resistance.
“Is it safe?” he asked nervously 
“It has been searched, and run through numerous scanners and it contains no explosive, or gas.
Bordelon motioned to the servants with a wave of his hand. They slowly undid the clasps and removed the lid. The Cardinal craned his neck to see inside, he recoiled with a look of horror and disgust. 
Dolan reached into the box, and withdrew the mutilated head of Bishop Harmon.
“We thought it best you saw this yourself Holiness.” Said Dolan as he saw the Cardinals shocked expression. 
“Who left it?” Bordelon gasped
“The resistance, other than that, we don’t know. It was at the entrance to your personal chambers, there was a guard on the door all night, as well as constant surveillance from four skull drones.”
“This is, I believe, the fourth such incident in the last seven weeks?”
“That is correct Holiness, Bishops Jason, Pius and now Harmon, and of course Templar Marshal Constantine.” 
The Cardinal was silent as he considered his next move. Dolan slowly put the head down on his plate. 
“Triple the guards on my quarters increase the surveillance of all districts, have them all burnt, publicly.” He said waving a hand at the choir, which continued to sing. Dolan turned to go, “Oh and Dolan send Templar Marshal Kozak to me immediately.” 


The room was dark, six figures sat around a small wooden table, on which rested a single candle. 
“So, we go tomorrow.” Said Franz. 
“Correct.” Replied Wolfgang, sat opposite him “I’ve had my team priming the Templar barracks for the last eight weeks, the charges are to go off at twenty one hundred.” 
“Right, I have the ground plan for the Palace and the Cardinal’s chambers.” Added Manfred, the resistance’s head of intelligence, dropping a sheaf of papers onto the table “These were not easy to get; I had to break into the Palace just to find out where there kept.”
Konrad picked them up off the table and began to leaf through them. 
“My teams ready, I’ve got twenty men, all of whom are more than capable. As soon as the barracks go, we’ll be moving.”
“Right the drop-off point is back here,” said Franz “If you mange to reach the target, get him back to us ASAP. Clear?” Konrad nodded. “Herman, is your team ready to get him out of here and back to the safe house?”
“I’ve got three speeders, all prepped for a long ride, and enough men to deal with any pursuit.” Answered Herman
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Otto “If your being pursued it means something’s gone very wrong, and we’re probably all dead anyway.” 
“Thank you Otto,” said Franz “Is the ship ready for take-off if we need it?”
“I’ve got the crew on standby, the second you give the word I’ll have it ready to go.”
“Where from?” asked Franz, Otto chuckled.
“You know I won’t tell you that Franz. What if you get captured, I don’t think any of us could last long under the blades of Ecclesiarchy. If you need to get off world make then the call, then and only then will I tell you where to go.” 
Franz grinned, 
“Ok, get to your positions. Konrad, after the barracks blow, you need to be fast. That’ll take most of the Templars out, but some won’t be in there at the time, and you’ll still have the Palace guard to deal with.”
Konrad nodded.
“We’ll manage.” He said grimly. 


The explosion tore through the Templar barracks. The massive eight story structure sprawled for over two miles in all directions. It housed the Verevya Districts entire Templar strength, over forty thousand men, as well as the Cardinal’s personal guards. But most importantly it was the headquarters for all Templar actions in the sector. 
The colossal explosion ripped the whole building to pieces, the massive munitions stores detonating added to the force of the blast. Buildings all around were knocked down by the sheer power of the explosion. 
Then as the fires still raged around the ruins and the District was recovering from the shock of the attack, the resistance struck. The small group of highly trained commandos began the process of infiltrating the Cardinal’s Palace, with only one aim in mind. 



Konrad pumped the rest of his clip down the corridor; he was reward with a thump as a round hit flesh, followed by a scream. He ducked back behind the marble statue of Greigor I, threw his spent magazine onto the growing pile on the floor and slammed his last clip home. 
“Very last one!” he bellowed to Lukas, who was huddled behind a fallen chair.
“Take these!” he shouted back, rummaging in Karl’s webbing and pulling out a pair of magazines bound with tape. Konrad caught it neatly and blasted another two rounds into the defenders
A few palace guards, they said, a few. There must be a whole unit of Templars up there.
“HERETICS!” Boomed an officer “YOU ARE TRAITORS TO THE EMPEROR AND THE ECCLESIARCH, AND WILL BURN IN HOLY FLAME!” 
“Dieter!” Yelled Lukas “Kill that idiot.” Dieter rolled out from behind a plinth, and blazed away with his two bolt pistols, before ducking under a table on the opposite side of the corridor. The officers furious bellowing was abruptly cut off. 
Konrad looked around him, three left from twenty. They had got into the Palace then had to fight running battles with heavily armed guardsmen; they had finally gone to ground in the corridor outside the Cardinal’s chambers, when a massive rush of Frateris Templars forced them to halt.
We were betrayed thought Konrad there’s no way this many Templars were in the Palace by coincidence, someone tipped them off. 
“Konrad!” screamed Lukas “We have to fall back!” a grenade went off on next to Konrad’s cover,
“How the hell do we do that?!” he bellowed coughing in the smoke. 
“You go I’ll hold them!” Dieter yelled.
“No!” replied Konrad “We don’t leave a man behind.” 
“We don’t have much choice here Konrad, you need to find out who betrayed us, and warn the rest of the cell.” Konrad looked over at Lukas, who was blasting away the rest of his ammo. 
“Ok!” yelled Konrad “Dieter gives some cover, Lukas let’s go!” The two of them broke cover, as Dieter began to open up on automatic into the mass of Templars.
“THEIR RUNNING” One of them boomed “AFTER THEM!” The Templars surged forward, Konrad and Lukas dashed out of the corridor, and away from the fire-fight. Dieter emptied his ammo into the charging red and black horde. A round clipped his shoulder knocking him down, then another cracked into his kneecap. He hooked his fingers into all his grenade pins and pulled. 
Konrad and Lukas both paused briefly when they heard the blast then continued running.


Cardinal Bordelon walked down the corridor, the corpses of several Templars still littered the floor, many fine statues and tapestries had been destroyed. The explosion which ended the attack had destroyed a huge portrait of Bordelon himself. He scowled at the damage,
“Dolan!” he snapped, to the steward as he picked his way around the bodies, “I shall retire momentarily, when I wake in the morning I expect this area to be restored to its usual condition. Do I make myself clear?” 
“Its original condition?” gasped Dolan “But of course Holiness.” 
“Thank you Dolan, I would hate to have you burnt.” Said the Cardinal absent mindedly 
“Well... thank you Holiness.” The Master Steward turned to leave, 
“I include my portrait in that.” Added the Cardinal. 
Marshal Kozak walked towards Bordelon from the other end of the corridor. His red and gold armour was still scarred and dented, and he had yet to holster his autopistol.
“Holin...”
“Spare the honorific’s and get to the point.” Snapped the Cardinal “Tell me how they managed to escape?!” He shrieked, going red in the face, and spraying spittle onto the Marshals face. 
“Holiness I assure you, only a small number of heretics have evaded my forces, two or three at most.”
“What about the three speeders, seen leaving the Verevya District during the attack, at some speed?” The Marshal turned white, then opened and closed his mouth,
“Holiness... I... that is...” 
“Don’t bother with excuses; you and your family will need them when questioned by my finest flesh smiths.” The two Templars flanking Kozak grabbed him. 
“Holiness, please, I... I beg you spare my family.”
“How noble of you. Very well you may conclude this ugly business. You will be killed at the end of course. If you’re successful though I shall spare your family.” The Marshal fell to his knees and kissed the Cardinals offered hand. 
“Is our man still with the heretics?” asked the Cardinal, 
“Yes Holiness Serpent remains in position.” 


Thirty miles away, in the back of the lead speeder, Otto clicked off his receiver. 
“Thank the Emperor those idiots didn’t think to check Karl’s body for his radio.” said Lukas “And that Herman got to us in time. What happened?”
“They got everywhere at once, most the cells were just waiting for the news, I’ve got word from one or two survivors. Wolfgang held them off for almost an hour at the plants before they got him. Most got slaughtered.” 
“So we were betrayed.” Said Konrad disbelieving 
“We can get to the bottom of this later,” Otto said firmly “Right now we need to get the emergency safe-house.” 
Lukas nodded in agreement, Konrad slide his magazine from the handle of his autopistol.
“One round left.” He said grimly “One left from that fight. I’m keeping it for Serpent, whoever the hell he is.” Otto nodded in agreement. The three speeders shot off into the sunrise to the safe point. 

Franz’s hand smashed down on the table,
“How dare you accuse me of this!” he bellowed, 
“No one else knew the schematics of the mission!” Otto bellowed back even louder. He stood on opposite side of the table to Franz. Konrad, Lukas, Herman and the twenty or so survivors stood around him.
“You all planned it!” Franz screamed with a wave of his hand. 
“We only planned our own areas, only you knew the whole plan before last night!” 
“Anyone could have got hold of the plans, anyone!” countered Franz “What other evidence do you have?!” 
Konrad leant across the table and smashed his fist into Franz’s jaw, within seconds Lukas and Rudi, had him pinned to the table. 
“This.” Konrad said, ripping the struggling mans shirt open. 
“You scum!” Herman boomed as he saw the black coiled serpent tattooed on Franz’s chest
“It proves nothing.” Argued Franz still struggling “Konrad for the Emperor’s sake you surely don’t believe this?” he asked with fear in his voice.
“I lost good men in that fight, and good friends. Do you now that Dieter died to save us?”
“Konrad... please.” Franz cried desperately “You know I wouldn’t betray you.”
“It’s no good Franz” snarled Otto, “Konrad you do it.” He ordered. Konrad raised his pistol to Franz’s head. 
“No, Throne! It isn’t me... you’ve got the wrong man.” He protested as Konrad wrenched back the weapons cocking handle. 
“One round left from the fight.” He said “One for the Serpent!”
“It isn’t me!” Bellowed Franz “It is...” The shot sounded loud in the small room. Lukas and Rudi released Franz, his body slide of the table and thumped on the stone floor. 
Otto nodded to Konrad. 
“Well done.” He said “Now back to the speeders. Its time you found out where the ship is kept.”


After a two hour flight the three speeders landed in a run-down and mostly abandoned area of the neighbouring Orlanda District. Otto leapt out of the lead speeder and rushed to a doorway, he pulled the door open and gestured for the others to follow him. 
The quickly made their through a network of corridors, all in half darkness, with pipes running along them and condensation dripping from the ceilings. They reached a dead end.
“Otto, where the hell are we?” asked Lukas. Otto replied by pulling a panel off the wall, to show a small keypad. He tapped seven digits into it, and the wall next to the rebels began to swing up. 
Light poured into the dark corridor. Facing the rebels was a large landing bay, with a decent sized long range craft on its supports ready for take-off. But it was not that the rebels were staring at. 
Dozens of Frateris Templars had their weapons ready and pointed at the rebels. Konrad turned quickly to see more Templars coming out the corridor behind them. Trapped.
“YOU ARE HERETICS,” boomed an officer’s vox horn “YOU WILL PAY THE PRICE!” The Templars readied their weapons.
“Wait! Wait!” cried a thin, reedy voice from the Templars. A small bishop pushed to the front of the crowd “Serpent?” he said 
“I’m here.” Said a voice behind Konrad. The rebles all tunred to see Otto pushing his way out of their ranks and walk to the Bishops side. 
“You!” Exclaimed Lukas “All along it was you.”
“What about Franz’s tattoo?” Asked Herman. Otto shrugged,
“It was just a tattoo.” He said grinning,
“Why?” growled Konrad “Why did you turn?” 
“I didn’t, I’ve been working for them all along.” Konrad looked at the faces of the rebels, maybe half held rifles, some had pistols, and a few had nothing.
“I had a round for you.” He said “I killed Franz on your orders.” He pulled out his autopistol. 
“Empty.” Sneered Otto, Konrad smiled. He sprung at Otto before anyone had a chance to react; he smashed the pistol into the traitors head, caving his skull in with a single blow. Otto slumped to the ground, the pistol still lodged in his skull. Seconds later around smacked into Konrad’s head flinging him backwards. 
Then the docking bay burst into life, fire from both sides cut down the small Bishop. Herman flicked his weapon to full auto and managed to fire over twenty rounds before a volley of Templar fire tore him to pieces. 
One by one the rebels were brought down, the overwhelming fire of the Templars devastating their ranks. 

Lukas lay on the cold, hard floor of the docking bay. His breathing was slow and difficult, he had a red, glistening wound in this stomach. Two Templars cast their shadow’s over him. One of them pressed a foot onto his wound, he closed his eyes against the pain. 
“Take him to the Marshal.” He heard one of them say. 


Cardinal Bordelon watched as the rebel twitched and trashed on the end of the rope. 
“Your sure that’s the last of them?” he asked Templar Marshal Decessio 
“Yes Holiness.” Replied the Marshal, who look uncomfortable in his new uniform.
“And Kozak?” 
“Scheduled to hang as soon as the rebel is done.”
“Good. Before you hang him, make sure he knows I had his family burnt yesterday.” Decessio nodded,
“Yes Holiness.” He said nervously. 
The Cardinal watched Kozak screaming and struggling on the platform before he was hung. Then he summoned Dolan, and enjoyed his lunch.


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## Keen4e (Apr 19, 2010)

Glad I've found you Dusty  . I really liked your work when you published it on Black Library forum and i was a bit worried I'd never get the opportunity to read it again.


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## Dusty Warrior (Apr 16, 2010)

Cheers Keen4e, glad to see people from BL are still posting stuff. Hope you enjoy the next chapters.

III
901 M35
District 12
Jagga (Ork World)​


“Come on,” whispered Captain Stratton Archer. Very slowly the six strong team of snipers inched over the edge of the sand dune. As they reached the ridge they saw the lights and cooking fires of the massive ork settlement laid out below them. 
Captain Archer pointed two fingers at Danny Hendrick, and Josia Thaba, the darkness, combined with their cam-cream and ghillie suits made them almost invisible. 
“You two, go left,” he said pointing further down the dune. “Mik, you’re with me. Jess, Kim, go right.” The two female snipers nodded and began to crawl on their bellies to a good spot. 
Captain Archer watched his team disperse, and then slowly settled down into a comfy position. He pulled his ghillie clock round him, to even the sharpest eyed ork he was now just another patch of sand. Mik did the same. 
“Alright Mik,” whispered Archer, as he nestled his long las into his shoulder, “find me some targets.” 

On the far right of the dune Jess very slowly panned her binoculars across the ork positions. Suddenly she stopped and a wicked grin spread across her cam-cream smeared face, 
“got one.” Kim took her eye away from the long las’ scope.
“Where?” she whispered. 
“One o ‘clock, from us. Range eight hundred...” Kim fixed her eye back to the scope. 
“Got him, big fellow, red armour, banner pole?” 
“That’s the one.” Said Jess
“Right,” said Kim slowing her breathing and letting the rifle’s sight fall naturally onto the massive orks head. 
“Wind?” She asked 
“Minimal.” 
“Ok bro,” Kim said to the ork, “this one’s from the Emperor.” She breathed out, and then gently squeezed the trigger. 

Right down the other end of the ridge, Danny lifted his head as he heard the shot, 
“was that the girl’s or the boss?” he asked Josia.
“Who cares bro, we ain’t goin’ see no kills here.” He was right. This far left there was very little of the ork camp in site. Only the odd grot running to and fro on some errand, nothing worth revealing their position for. 
“I hate this place,” announced Danny, “it’s damn too hot in the day, too damn cold at night.” 
“Will you stop complaining and find me something to kill.” 
“Eight weeks we’ve been here bro, how much longer this gonna take, eh?”
“I don’t know Danny, I’m not the CO. There’s still half a frigging planet left to conquer, its gonna take a while.” 
“I know bro, it’s just...” Suddenly the two of them were bathed in light. They both dropped their heads to the sand and stayed still, 
“They spotted us?” asked Danny, on his vox bead. There was a low drone as the ork deffkopta passed overhead. 
“I think it’s just a patrol bro.” The light moved off and the two snipers raised their heads, just in time to see the muzzle flashes from an artillery battery.
“Emperor!” exclaimed Danny “Run bro!” The two of them jumped up, looking like two running pillars of sand. A series of huge explosions behind them lit up the night, and hurled tons of sand into the air.
“Call for the extract!” bellowed Josia “Get the frigging chimera here now!” Danny tuned in his vox as they ran, 
“Zero alpha, zero alpha, this is Charlie two alpha, we need to extract. Coordinates follow.” As he gave the extract point a second round of explosions echoed on the dune, this time further away from the original spot. The deffkopta’s were still circling round the camp trying to find the snipers, fortunately they didn’t go near the other two teams. 
“Lucky escape, eh bro?” said Josia, Danny nodded in agreement.


Captain Archer swore viciously into his vox bead, as he saw his targets head explode in a shower of blood and gore. Mik flinched at the language,
“cheer up sir, we’ll get the next one.” 
“Those damn girls! They always take the best kills. That was a boss, I’m the damned Captain, I should have those.” He blew the head off a grot in anger. 
“Their pretty good, eh sir?” 
“Their damn good, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t get those kills.” It was then they heard the deffkopta and saw the artillery landing on Josia and Danny’s position.
“Idiots,” sighed the Captain. “Where are those guns Mik?”
“Eleven o ‘clock, on us.” Archer found the artillery park and picked out a large Ork commanding a battery of mortars. 
“Wait for it,” he whispered “wait for it.” as the grots dropped a shell down one of the tubes, the Captain fired his rifle. The lasbolt blew the ork’s head clean off. The body fell forward onto the gun barrel, knocking it over as it fired. The shell crashed into the batteries stock of munitions, the whole area suddenly lit up, and the noise was deafening even to the snipers. 
“I think that’s enough chaos for one night eh?” Mik nodded. The two of them slipped back over the dunes ridge, and began to run towards the extract point. 


The whole team sat in the back of the chimera. As they were still in enemy territory they were still running silent, and the cabin was lit by dull green lights. Mik lit an iho stick. 
“I can’t believe you idiots get spotted,” he said to Danny, and Josia
“They didn’t spot us bro,” protested Danny. 
“The what where they shooting at, eh?” asked Jess, stealing Mik’s iho stick. 
“I don’t know,” said Josia “target practice.” 
“Target practice!” said Kim “You frigging idiots were the targets.” 
“Alright, shut up,” said the Captain “You are idiots,” he said the Danny and Josia “but you did us a favour by making them reveal their artillery.”
“Exactly!” said Danny clicking his fingers, “we did it on purpose.” The six of them burst out laughing. 


The heat in the tent was stifling, the eighteen officers, were all sitting on camp chairs, or perched on the edge of the map table. Colonel Vanclure took off his bush hat and wiped the seat out of his eyes. 
“So as things stand, we’ve reached a stalemate?” he asked. 
“Afraid so boss,” said Major Henrik pointing at the map. “We’ve got over six hundred kilometres of front to patrol and only six thousand troops to do it with.” 
“We can hold them, no problem,” said Major Mamello, “but we can’t try and take any ground.” 
“Frigging orks, frigging Jagga, frigging Guard!” swore the Colonel. He took deep breath, “how are the other regiments doing?”
“Not so good boss,” said Captain Nombecko, regimental intelligence officer “the Kentoki have been beaten back in the third District, and those frigging Narmans can’t hold onto anything their assault teams capture.” 
“So what you’re saying is that in the last six weeks we’ve made no gains at all.” 
“We had speed and surprise on our side after we landed,” said Captain Elko. “It took the green bastards two weeks to get their act together; then they hit back.”
“Alright enough of this, it’s depressing us all,” said Colonel Vanclure. “Captain Archer how did your recce go?” 
“Not too bad sir, no casualties, thank the throne. One boss, confirmed kill; sniper Kim Lodewijk. An artillery park destroyed, leading to considerable chaos and loss of life in the enemy camp.” 
“Well done bro,” said Captain Elko. 
“Yes thank you Captain, make sure to thank your squad from me, eh.” 
“I will Colonel, I’m sure they’ll appreciate that.”
“Good. I’ve got another job for you Stratton, there’s rumours of an ork Gargant somewhere in the mountains, something like that could easily tip the war in their favour.” Archer nodded, and began to speak, when a young Lieutenant burst into the tent. 
“What do want boy?” asked the Colonel. 
“Sir, there’s an Ecclesiarchy delegation here,” the young man said breathlessly.
“Frigging priests,” one of the officers muttered. 
“Watch your tongue Captain,” warned Vanclure “Alright boy, we’ll come out to meet them.” 
The Colonel led his officers out of the tent, into the painfully bright sunshine. 


The group of officers abruptly stopped as they saw what was outside the tent. Three huge landing craft were sitting on the camps landing pads, each one jet black with the winged skull of the Ecclesiarchy picked out in red on the nose. Standing on front of them was an entire Frateris Templar regiment, over eight hundred black and red troopers stood to attention in company groups. 
“What the hell’s this?!” asked Colonel Vanclure “who’s in charge here?”
The ranks of Templars parted to allow a group of priest and other Ecclesiarchy personal to the Colonel. Their leader was dressed in Bishops robes; he had a massive grey bread, and a mane of hair the same colour. The priests and confessors around him carried a mixture of holy icons, artefacts and weapons, servo skulls and servitors surrounded them and the sickly-sweet smell of incense hung in the air around. 
“Are you our reinforcements?” asked Major Mamello soundly slightly puzzled. The bishop ignored him and turned straight to Vanclure.
“Colonel I am Bishop Jasone.” One of the priests handed the Bishop a scroll which he unrolled, “The Ecclesiarchy formally accuses you and the entire of the 101st Dolumar Rangers of heresy most foul.”
There as a stunned silence, the Rangers looked more confused than afraid at the accusation. 
“Are you frigging joking!” said Captain Elko.
“Be quite Captain!” snapped Vanclure, “Perhaps we can discuss this in private?” he said to the bishop. 
“Very well.”
“Major Mamello, Major Hendrick can you both accompany us to the HQ tent, the rest of you return to your units.”
The Colonel led his two majors back into the tent followed by the bishop and his retinue. The Templars remained unmoving outside. 

“Ok, so what exactly is my regiment being accused of?” Vanclure asked.
“You are accused of heresy mos...” began Bishop Jasone.
“Yes I know that part, why are we accused?” The Bishop snapped his fingers and a priest handed him another scroll. 
“By order of his Holiness Ecclesiarch Alexis XXI,” he read “all units of the Imperial Guard, Adeptus Arbites and Imperial Navy, must have a serving Ecclesiarchy contingent of no less than thirty.” 
“Go on,” 
“This Decree was issued four standard years ago, when His Holiness Alexis XXI was pronounced Ecclesiarch. Upon recent examination of your regiment it became clear that you do not have a single priest, confessor, or bishop serving with you. That is why you are accused.” 
“Do even know what this regiments role is?” Hendrick asked, the Bishop glared at him for his interruption.
“I have not been given that information.” He said icily. 
“We’re a scout/sniper unit,” said Mamello “that means recon, it means stealth.” 
“What is the point of this?” asked the Bishop.
“The point is,” replied Vanclure “that we mainly work by infiltrating enemy positions, and we have to be quiet to do that. Priests are not quiet. I have been a soldier of the Imperium for thirty years, I have been a devote follower of the Emperor for fifty six years, and I have kept my regiment alive time and time again by putting soldiering over prayer!” The priests looked shocked at this. 
“That is why you are accused. Nothing can be put before the Emperor, nothing.” One of the tent flaps was pushed aside and a Templar strode in. 
“This is Templar Colonel Isaac Angevin,” said the Bishop “he is your senior you for the duration of this investigation.” Vanclure scowled at the red and black armoured warrior.
“I know about the Decree, alright,” said Vanclure “I spoke to Lord General Militant Patraeus myself on the issue, he assu...”
“You are clearly not aware that the General was charged of heresy six days ago and burnt at the stake.” 
“That doesn’t change anything,” said Vanclure quickly getting over the news of his Commanders death. “This regiment cannot operate with an Ecclesiarchy unit attached to it.” 
“Your units combat efficiency, which given the state of this campaign is clearly lacking, is not my concern. The spiritual welfare of your men and officers is.”
“Fine. Begin your investigations, but right now I have an attack to plan.” 
“I’m afraid not Colonel,” said the Bishop, as more Templars entered the tent. “Corruption often comes from above, you and your command staff will be interrogated at once.” The tent flaps were swung closed. 


Captain Archer ignored the salute of the two Templar Guards as he walked into Intelligence tent. They were posted all over the base at present to ensure that none of the Rangers tried to interfere with the Ecclesiarchy’s ‘processing’ of suspects. 
Captain Nombecko looked up from the maps covering his table. His eyes were red from lack of sleep and stubble covered his jaw, an iho stick hung limply from his mouth.
“Alright bro.” He said to Archer “Close the flap.” Archer unhooked the flaps bindings and let it fall over the tents entrance. 
“You sent for me?” asked Archer. Nombecko gestured towards two camp chairs next to the table, Archer sat down. Nombecko passed him a glass of amesac and an iho stick.
“Remember what the boss said about the Gargant?” he asked, Archer nodded. “Well since these Templar scum have arrived the chain of command has fallen apart.” 
“I know that bro, things are looking bad. I haven’t taken my team out on a hunt in days now.” Nombecko nodded, and took a drag on his iho stick. 
“So I’m the only man in the regiment not under interrogation that has access to the necessary information.” Archer nodded,
“Go on,”
“Right, it seems that this frigging Gargant is real, it’s defiantly there. District 14, 227 West. I need you to get rid of it.”
There was a brief pause, Archer stubbed his iho stick out in an ash tray and knocked back his amesac. 
“A Gargant?” 
“That’s right, and there’ll be guards, lots of them, but you’re the unit’s best bro.”
“Ha, I know it,” said Archer smirking.
“As there’s no one who can officially give you the orders, this missions going to stay quiet. I don’t want anyone outside your unit to know about it.” Said Nombecko “Also the Templars don’t like the idea of anyone leaving the base so we have to make sure they don’t find out.”
“They won’t let us conduct missions?” 
“Not a thing, the forces already off base aren’t being allowed back on and we aren’t allowed out.”
“So not only do I have to get past ork lines and cripple a Gargant, but I also have to get past hundreds of Templar Guards.”
“I’m afraid so bro.” 
“When do I go?” 
“Right now. Put a team together, brief them and go.”


Mik, Danny, Jess, and Kim all nodded in agreement as they finished listening to the Captain’s brief. They were all too well aware as too the threat of the Templars after Josia had been dragged off for interrogation. In his absence Chad Tarik would take over as Danny’s shooter. 
“Alright guys, you’ve got twenty minutes to get all our kit, get cammed-up and get back here.” Said Captain Archer “And remember, don’t let anyone else know about this, if someone asks tell them you’ve get a kit inspection, or your having gear replaced, but try and stay quiet.” 
The team nodded and set off to prepare their gear. 
By midnight the whole of the six strong unit was assembled in the bases far West corner. Captain Archer noted the professional application of cam-cream, and the excellent use of ghillie suits. Had he not known they were there, his team would have been invisible; even to him. 
“Ok,” he whispered “let’s do this.” 


The Templar smashed his armoured fist into Nombecko’s face again. The intelligence officer grunted in pain, through his cracked lips and shattered teeth. 
“Speak! Damn you!” roared the Confessor. Nombecko spat a stream of blood and bits of tooth at the two Templars and the Confessor, spraying them all. More fists crashed into his face, he had stopped trying to avoid the blows, and struggling against the ropes tying him to the chair. Now all he was doing was keeping his mouth firmly shut.
“We know that Captain Archer and five others left the camp.” Said the Confessor “We know they did this on your order, where are they?!” 
“Even if I wanted to tell you I couldn’t,” said Nombecko wearily, “Stratton Archer is the best sniper commander in the this unit, if he doesn’t want to be found you won’t be able to find him.”
Keep them talking, he thought keep them watching my face. His fingers were almost free of the ropes and he would soon have his hands free. He kept his gaze away from the Templars autogun propped on the table less than twenty centimetres from him.
“He left five days ago, his target was a Gargant, located in District 14, 227 West.” The Confessor said smugly “We have received reports that the Gargant has been crippled, but we have had no word from the Captain or any of his unit.”
Nombecko was silent, looking at the ground, the Confessor nodded once and the Templars once again set into his face.
“Where is he?!” roared the Confessor, Nombecko was silent for a second. Then he raised his head, 
“Alright,” he said “I’ll tell you.” The two Templars stood back to allow the Confessor space to get close to Nombecko.
“So where is he?” Nombecko grinned, 
“He’s coming back, and he’ll kill all of you!” The Captain pulled his hands free and grabbed the autogun. With his feet still tied to chair he couldn’t go anywhere, but he still managed to empty the weapons clip into the priest and the two Templars. The three bodies slumped to the ground trailing blood.
Nombecko quickly began to work on freeing his feet, suddenly the tent flap opened and two more Templars rushed in, Nombecko swung up the autogun and pulled the trigger. A dry click came from the weapons barrel.
“Frigging thing...” he said as the two Templars emptied their weapons into him.


The Ecclesiarchy forced the whole base to watch, as the Colonel and his two Majors were burned at the stake, along with several of the senior Captains. The Templars formed a ring of red armour around the pyres as the smoke climbed into the sky. Not a single one of the Rangers burned that day made a sound. The Priests and Confessors called to them, saying that if they admitted to being heretics, if they begged for forgiveness then they would be freed. The gathered Rangers watched with anger, in two weeks their entire senior staff had been decimated, many NCO’s had also been executed less publicly, as had several soldiers. The mood of the men was rebellious, and the Templars were constantly on alert. It was only as the ashes from the pyres cooled and the smoke began to blow away that the regiment was dispersed and ordered to return to their duties. By then however there was no one left on the base to give them orders. 


Captain Archer and the four remaining members of his team cautiously edged towards the top of the dune. After seven days away from bases they were all tired and haggard. Having to leave a badly wounded Danny behind to as the Ork guards chased after them was still upsetting the squad. When the chimera failed to meet them at their pick-up point two days ago they had began to worry about the situation at the camp. An hour ago as they made their way back they began to hear gunfire, since then they had quickened their pace, and now they were finally back they were beginning to slowly put together an idea as to what was happening in the base. 
The rows of tents and pre-fab buildings were lit up by the full moon and also by the roaring flames that engulfed the southern section of the camp. The rattle of autoguns and the snap-hiss of lasrifles was clear from their position. All over the camp figures were engaged in close quarter fire-fights, running battles, or stand up shoot outs. As they watched a petrol bomb arced up into the air, trailing flames. 
“What the frig is going on?” Asked Kim in shock. 
“Are the orks attacking?” said Chad.
“No,” said Jess as she took her eye away from her binoculars, “we’re fighting the Templars.” They all jumped as Captain Archer’s rifle cracked, 
“Who was that boss?” asked Mik 
“A Priest who was about to take off the RSM’s head.” 
“Emperors teeth,” breathed Jess “look over at the parade square.” As one all scopes and binoculars moved to where Jess was indicating. Chad was sick loudly. Over two hundred Rangers, officers, and NCO’s were in the square, each impaled on a long iron pole, blood and faeces was crusted at the bottom of each pole. As the team watched they saw several of the bodies twitching and moving.
“Oh Emperor...” said Kim, as Chad was sick again. 
“What do we do boss?” asked Mik. Archer said nothing, his face gave away nothing but his eyes showed the rage he felt. 
“Boss?” prompted Kim 
“Jess, how many Rangers can you see over the rank of Corporeal down there?” he asked.
“The RSM, two or three CSM’s no officers anywhere.”
“That’s what I thought,” Archer said “We need to get down there, the Rangers will fight to the death but right now what they need is leadership, someone to coordinate the fight.” 
The snipers all readied their weapons. 
“Let’s do this.” Said Jess. Captain Archer nodded, and the team began to run towards the camp. 


“Hold the scum!” bellowed the RSM as he swung his lasrifle by the barrel, crashing the butt into the face of a Templar. The Rangers around him fought like demons, most were out of ammo, and were using bayonets, rifle butts or their bare heads. After being forced to watch so many of the Rangers brutally executed on the parade square the regiment had cracked. The RSM himself had fired the first shot, putting a round between the eyes of Templar Colonel Angevin, since then the fighting had been none stop. The Rangers lacked numbers, ammunition, and most importantly coordination. The RSM and the few remaining Sergeants had tried to gather men around them to regain control, but the situation had rapidly got out of hand and now small groups of Rangers were fighting separate, desperate battles all over the camp. 
“SURRENDER NOW AND YOU SHALL DIE SWIFTLY!” bellowed a Templar officer, on the far side of the vehicle park. The Rangers roared in anger and refusal. 
“Here they come again!” shouted a soldier. The red armoured Templars poured around the Chimeras and Salamanders. 
“Get at ‘em lads!” screamed the RSM. The two masses of men charged each other, sprinting between the big transports. Petrol bombs, rocks, and grenades flew from both sides crashing down in the midst of the soldiers. Weapons raised, both sides smashed together, within seconds dozens of men on each side lay dead. 
The vox amplifiers of the Templar officers boomed over the carnage, the Priests and Confessors howled prayers and devotional chants as they fought. The Rangers screamed in defiance and rage. The RSM swung his weapon into a Templars groin, then smashed the butt into his head as he fell, snatching up a fallen autogun he sprayed it’s ammunition into the Templars. 
A massive Confessor jabbed his war hammer at the RSM, who blocked it deftly with his stolen weapon, the two exchanged blows while the battle raged around them. The RSM slammed his fist into the Confessors nose with a satisfying crunch, knocking him to the ground, the man’s hammer swung in an arc across the ground hitting the RSM in the ankle knocking him down. The two of them grappled together of the sandy earth, punching, kicking and biting. The Confessor brought a knee up into the RSM’s groin. He jumped up and raised his war hammer over his head,
“HERETIC, I CAST THEE OUT!” he boomed as he brought the war hammer down onto the RSM’s head, cracking his skull open. When the Rangers saw their RSM’s death they let out a cry of dismay. Sensing the advantage the Templars pressed forward with a roar of victory. 
Suddenly the Confessors head exploded in a shower of gore. 
“Rangers!” Captain Archer screamed “Straight at ‘em!” Before the headless corpse had even reached the floor the Rangers surged towards the Templars, butchering dozen’s who stood in shock.

After a further hour of close combat slaughter, the Templars were pushed out of the vehicle park and the Rangers took back the munitions shed, allowing them to re-arm. Captain Archer gathered the highest ranking survivors around him. Four sergeants, twelve corporals, and one terrified supplies Lieutenant. 
“This it?” he asked “This is it, from over five hundred officers and one thousand NCO’s this is it?” 
“I’m afraid so sir,” said one of the sergeants “Apart from the companies with the Narmans on the front line, were all that’s left.” 
“And how many men have we got?”
“Just over two hundred,” said the young Lieutenant “and many of them are wounded and have been fighting none stop for two days...”
An explosion behind them followed by a brief exchange of gunfire reminded them that the fighting was still going on. 
“Ok, we’ll form a perimeter here, we’ve got the supplies and munitions stores with us, so we should be able to hold for some time.”
“Then what sir?” asked a Corporal. Captain Archer opened his mouth to answer when several dull thuds sounded from outside the base.
“What the frig was that?!” asked someone.
“Do they have artillery?” asked Archer, the NCO’s shook their heads, “Then it must be...” they all worked it out at once, and those that didn’t soon recognised the high pitched squeal of Ork shells, and the coughing roar of their rockets.
“Find some cover!” shouted Archer, the Rangers around him dived under pre-fab buildings or merely dropped to the ground, hands wrapped around their heads. 
Then the shells landed. Explosions tore into the southern side of the base, the orks firing into the flames. The noise was deafening, the heat unbearable, and the flames lit up the night as if it was day. 
After what felt like hours the bombardment ceased. 
“Up!” shouted Archer “Get up!” He could hear the same command coming from the Templar lines. Then he heard the familiar roar of the orks, in the darkness it was only possible to see the path of their advance due to their muzzle flashes. The unstoppable green tide burst right through the camp’s low sandbagged wall, the Templars roared and charged the Orks, and the Rangers did the same. The three armies crashed together.


When the sun rose the next day the camp was still caught up in the heat of battle, the fires had spread from the southern side, until they covered most areas, smoke filled the air making it impossible for combatants to tell friend from foe. The fires had cut groups off from each other, so now small desperate battles were being fought, with fires raging round the combat. 
Captain Archer had seen little of the orks since the first charge. His unit of around sixty men had been pushed out of the battle by a group of ork dreadnoughts and heavy armoured warriors, forcing them back away from the rest of the Rangers. They had ended up trapped in the Templar controlled section of the camp, and for several hours had been fighting off near constant attacks. Only Jess was left from the sniper team, Mik and been decapitated by an ork dreadnought, Chad had dived on a grenade that landed next to Archer while he was unconscious, and Kim had been shot in the stomach in the last Templar attack of the night. 
Jess’s rifle crack off three shots in rapid succession, three Templars dropped dead, as they charged. The female sniper calmly changed clips. The rest of the Rangers blazed away unconcerned about ammunition conservation. Archer stood by an open window and threw grenades one by ones from a wooden box containing over forty. 
They had turned the munitions shed into a fortress, the Templar’s had been beaten back time and time again, and their dead lay thick outside the walls. The Rangers positions meant that the Templars had been unable to use, rockets, grenades, or flamers. So all their attacks had to be straight charges. 
“There can’t be many left now, eh boss?” asked Jess. 
“I frigging hope not.” Archer replied firing an autopistol on full auto into the charging crowd of Templars. 
Suddenly a commotion on the left flank caught his attention. The Templars were turning to fight something also coming out of the flames. A huge scorched and blackened ork dreadnought burst out of the wall of fire and smashed into the panicking Templars. It spun around wildly, its huge buzz saw blades tearing off limbs and opening up the stomachs of the Templars. From behind it came more orks.
“Emperors teeth!” yelled Jess, “they must have broken the Templar lines.” 
“Target the Orks!” ordered Archer “Kill the orks.” The dreadnought made short work of the Templars and began to lurch across the open ground towards the Rangers.
“Bring that frigging thing down!” boomed Archer. A barrage of rockets whooshed out of the ammunition shed and crashed into the charging dreadnought. 
The orks responded in kind. The first two missiles shot over the top of the ammunition shed. Then a stick bomb smashed through a window and landed between Captain Archer and Jess. 
“Oh fu...” breathed Archer. 
The world turned white. The camp was incinerated.


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## warmaster isaan (Sep 18, 2008)

Great book hope to keep reading!:goodpost:
Have you asked anyone in BL or GW what they think about it and if they could maybe see about producing your short story for a BL book?


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## Dusty Warrior (Apr 16, 2010)

Glad you like it Warmaster, theres plenty more to come believe me. I haven't asked anyone about that, its not even finished yet, and I still have a lot of work to do on parts 5 and 6. Heres Chapter 4.


IV
926 M35
Navigators Guild 
Terra​


The room was dark, cut into the solid rock deep under the Guild headquarters thousands of years ago. Powerful and ancient machines made it impossible for anyone to see or hear the occupants’ conversation electronically, five deaf, dumb and blind untouchables made it impossible for even the most powerful psyker to infiltrate the meetings, and the many heavily armed guards would prevent anyone from entering by more conventional means. There was only way in and one way out, a long, snaking tunnel protected by automated defence systems and a great number locks and passwords. 
In the centre of the room was a circular stone table. Resting on it were several candles that lit the room with flickering light, creating shadows on the walls, and surrounding it were ten stone benches, each one currently occupied.
The ten occupants were dressed in a variety of outfits, ranging from turbans and flowing robes, to dark cloaks and gothic hoods. The youngest man lounged on his bench, wearing simple black fatigues not unlike those one would see on an Imperial Guardsman. The only unifying factor was that all ten men had their foreheads covered. 
These were ten of the most powerful men in the Imperium, in one sense having complete control over the whole of Imperial space. They were the rulers of the Navis Nobilite, the Patriarchs of their Houses. It was they who allowed the millions of Imperial ships to travel through the warp.
The oldest of the Navigators banged his hand on the table and slowly stood the gentle hum, and quiet whirr of servo-motors the only sign of his comprehensive augmetic enhancements. He wore the blue and green robes, and gold turban of House Ulysses, his name was Glaucus Perseus, he was the Paternova, and the ruler of all Navigators.
“Brothers,” he began “We have entered a dark chapter of Imperial history. Not since the Heresy has the realm of mankind been threatened by so many dangers.”
The assembled navigators murmured their agreement.
“Orks attack and take planets almost daily, raiders pour from the Eye to ravage and despoil, and foul xenos travel through Imperial space unchallenged. And yet this is not the worst of our worries, for just like the Heresy the true danger comes from within. The power of the Ecclesiarchy has grown once again, they demand tithes even from our noble houses, and they use their brutal Templars to crush any who oppose their will.” Glaucus paused, allowing this information to sink in. The Navigators were silent, nervous that one of their number had finally dared to denounce the Ecclesiarchy.
“But worst of all, far more dangerous and terrifying then the chaos raiders, the xenos filth, or the massed ranks of the Ecclesiarch, the Astronomican is failing.” The chamber burst into uproar.
“The Emperor is deserting us!” wailed the Paternova, as he slumped back onto his seat.
The navigators began to argue frantically, each man trying to shout his views over the voices of the others. 
“SILENCE!” one man bellowed over the noise. The speaker was wrapped in a black robes, his hood hung low over his eyes, covering his face in shadow, leaving only his mouth visible.
“My lord,” the black robed man said, “what do you mean the Astronomican is failing?” 
The Paternova stood up again,
“What I mean Mattin Xanti is that warp storms are steadily growing all over the Imperium, that once a ship leaves the Segmentum Solar the light of Astronomican is faded and weak. In the last six months we have lost contact with over two hundred systems, and three entire sectors. If it continues to diminish at this rate then in just fifty years it will vanish completely. The Imperium is falling apart...” 
Xanti sat down quietly, no one spoke for some time. Finally the Patriarch of House Pryderi cleared his throat and slowly stood,
“Why, and how?” 
“We don’t know,” said the Paternova. “I have personally spoken to the Master of the Astronomican, he said he can find little fault with any of the machines, and his subordinates say that nothing is wrong with any of the psykers who operate it.”
“So what is wrong?” asked Renard Cezar.
“Isn’t it obvious?” said the youngest man in black fatigues. “It’s not a problem with the Astronomican, that wouldn’t explain the warp storms.”
“So what is it then Ceaser?” sneered Xanti, his contempt for the young man clear. Javed Ceaser sighed, at thirty seven he was the youngest ever Patriarch, the early death of his father and three older brothers thrusting him into the position less than a year ago.
“It’s not a problem with the Astronomican,” he repeated, “it’s a problem with the Emperor...”
“HERESY!” screamed Judas Itamar, Patriarch of House Mytilene. 
“Silence Judas,” snapped Renard, “we ten allow open discussion free from the dogmatic bindings of the Ecclesiarchy.”
“How dare you speak of the Ecclesiarchy in such way,” said Judas, “they speak for the Emperor!” 
“Perhaps they do not anymore...” said the Paternova quietly. All of the Patriarchs turned to look at him, 
“Perhaps that is the cause of these problems.” 
“Exactly,” said Javed. “The omnipresent Emperor has been watching the atrocities committed by the Ecclesiarchy in his name. He is displeased, and how can he halt the actions of the Ecclesiarchy?” The Navigators said nothing waiting for the young man to go on.
“He can’t very well order them to stop, the Ecclesiarch claims to speak his word so even if He could influence someone to stand against the Templars the Ecclesiarchy would merely denounce them as a heretic. So He stops the Ecclesiarchy from travelling with warp storms, and with the Astronomican fading the ships of the Ministorum are unable to gather their tithes, spread their false word, or punish those who stand before them.” Javed sat back down, pleased with his speech.
“Are you saying that the Ecclesiarchy is to blame for the current strife?” asked Rutendo Kgosi, a frail old man, and Patriarch of the Mwenye House. Javed sighed.
These old fools will never grasp the situation he thought.
“Yes Rutendo, it is the actions of the Ecclesiarchy in the past one hundred years that have provoked this.” 
“So what can we do?” asked Xanti, his voice betraying his nerves.
“We must do all we can to stop the actions of the Ecclesiarchy, and attempt to lessen their power.” said the Paternova 
“You speak of open rebellion,” hissed Judas, “I will have no part in this, I understand that the actions of the Ecclesiarchy are extreme, but we are Navis Nobilites not some back water secessionists, we are supposed to be neutral.”
“That time has passed,” said Renard. “We cannot do nothing in these difficult times, we must act on behalf of the Emperor and his subjects.” 
There was a stunned silence round the table, as the Navigators grasped what Renard was saying. Javed finally spoke breaking the quiet.
“We can’t fight, our household retainers wouldn’t be able to match the hardened veterans of Frateris Templar, and we can’t publicly denounce the Ecclesiarch, we’ve seen what happens to those who do that.”
“We have only one option then,” said the Paternova.
“What’s that?” asked Rutendo nervously. “How do we respond to such aggression?”
“We use what we have,” said Xanti. “We are the commanders of the Navigators, at our word all the houses will cease activity. If we refuse our service to the Imperium it will collapse in a matter of weeks.”
“We can’t do that, we would doom billions to the slow death from isolation!” gasped Rutendo.
“No we can’t,” said Javed, “but we can make life difficult for the Ecclesiarchy, we can avoid guiding their fleets, or refuse to take them to certain areas. After all they aren’t able to see the warp so they will be unable to prove us wrong.” 
“Why don’t we just destroy the hierarchy of the Ecclesiarchy?” asked Renard. Judas opened his mouth to protest, but he was cut off by Xanti.
“How?”
“The Officio Assassinorum, that’s they’re for.” The Paternova nodded in agreement.
“We can’t do that,” said Javed.
“Why not?” snapped Xanti contempt replacing the fear in his voice.
“Firstly because even if we killed the Ecclesiarch and every Cardinal, more would be appointed and the chaos caused by their deaths would only worsen the situation. Secondly, because once a new Ecclesiarch was appointed he would not hesitate to find out who slaughtered his predecessors.”
“But the Assassins are forbidden to reveal who they work for,” said Rutendo.
“True, but after years of torture and murder and possibly even war between the Ministorum and the Officio Assassinorum, the truth would come out, and we would be killed and our House’s destroyed by the vengeful soldiers of the Ecclesiarchy.” 
“So,” said Glaucus, “our course is set.” The gathered Patriarchs rose and bowed to the Paternova. 
“Brothers, until we meet again, I wish you and your House’s well. The Emperor Protects.”
“The Emperor Protects,” echoed the others.
“Let’s hope so,” muttered Javed, “as no one else will.”
One by one the navigators left and began the walk back up the stone passageway. After some time, only the Paternova and Javed remained in the dark chamber.
“Was there something else Ceaser?” the Paternova asked.
“No my Lord,” said Javed, “I am merely waiting till I have the chambers to myself; I need to make use of the untouchables.” 
“Very well,” said the Paternova as he turned to leave. The second his back was turned Javed drew an autopistol from his pocket and thumbed back the hammer. Glaucus tunred around as he heard the click. 
“Javed, what are doing?” he asked.
“You are too old and set in your ways to try and steer the Navis Nobilite through such turbulent times. With one death I can take your place as Paternova.” The old man glared at him, with a look of disdain in his eyes. Javed pulled the weapons trigger.
The barrel coughed dryly, then the pistol exploded in his hand. He fell to the ground in pain, his left hand clutching the shattered stump of his right. 
“Ahh!” he cried “Emperors teeth!” the Paternova lowered his face to Javed’s.
“I have not retained my position for forty years by ignoring the plotting of youngsters like you,” he whispered. “It was hardly difficult to have my retainers plug your pistol.” Javed moaned in agony. 
“Get your hand seen to,” Glaucus ordered. “We will need your energy in the coming days.”


Bishop Joseph, the Ecclesiarchy Palace head of security, poured more amesac into the cut crystal glass in the nervous man’s sweaty hands.
“You understand,” he began, “that I need your guarantees that this information is genuine.”
“You have them,” said the man nervously knocking back his amesac and wiping the sweat from his brow.
“I also need your solemn promise that if we are successful in our... operations, we will have the support of you and your entire House?”
Renard Cezar nodded, 
“I swear that once you have removed the Navis Nobilites my House will offer its full backing to the Ecclesiarchy.”
The Bishop smiled and refilled both glasses. 
“You understand the danger of this undertaking?” he asked. “Wiping out nine noble Houses and killing their Patriarchs’ is a risky business.”
“Yes, yes, I understand the danger of the situation.” 
“Good, as if this were to go wrong things could go very badly very fast for the Ecclesiarchy. I have not informed any Cardinals, or the Ecclesiarch himself. It is best for them to remain removed from such situations; if they don’t know then they can’t be blamed.”
Renard nodded frantically as he drained his third glass. 
“Of course you realise that if things do go wrong you will be blamed entirely, I will most likely have to have you executed, possibly tortured first, to ensure that the Adeptus Mechanicum and the Administratum don’t suspect our involvement.”
Renard turned pale, and made a quiet choking noise. Very slowly he took the bottle of amesac and raised it to his lips. He took several large gulps, spilling some down his chin. 
“I understand,” he gasped. “I will do my part.”
“Your part is almost done; giving me the names of these plotters and their plans was a fine service to the Emperor.”
“I am a servant of the Emperor,” muttered Renard. 
“Good and you shall be rewarded. After this ugly business is concluded we shall require a new Paternova, a loyal Paternova...” The Bishop let the words hang in the air, while Renard slowly processed them.
“Paternova...” he whispered. “Me?” 
“The Emperor rewards those who serve the Ecclesiarchy.”
Renard nodded, a smile slowly spreading over his red, sweat covered face, he took another swig from the amesac bottle, worry being replaced by ambition. 
“What I need to know now,” began the Bishop, “are the locations, and schedules of all the other Patriarchs. I need to know if they carry weapons, I need to know if they have augmetic implants, and I need to know if they have guards. I need to know everything but them.”
Renard nodded desperately, and began the process of betraying his fellow navigators. 


Javed flexed his right hand slowly. It was two days since the incident with the Paternova and the new augmetic was painful and very hard to control. In the quiet surroundings of his home on Terra Javed had been taking time to get used to the new hand, it was his first augmetic and he was still having trouble controlling it. 
Very carefully he closed the black metal fingers around a small antique vase, resting on a pedestal. His hand tightened around it suddenly, smashing it in his grip,
“Damn it!” he cried. He took a deep breath to calm himself.
That’s enough for now he thought to himself. He pulled a black glove on over the augmetic so as to hide the ugly, pink scar tissues that sat around the base where it met his arm. He wandered out of his study and into his chamber, gazing out of the massive windows into the Terran night. Smog clouded all below him, most likely going all the way down to the planets ancient surface, spires and minarets poked out of the thick, oily coloured haze, looking up Javed could see the lights of the thousands of craft that guarded, and supplied the holy world. 
Suddenly a noise in a dark corner of the room made Javed spin round. He cast his eyes over the marble floors and priceless ancient oak furniture, nothing. 
Ever since the meeting in the Guild Javeds’ senses had been heightened, he was jumping at shadows, expecting the vengeful blades of the Ministorum at all times. 
“Servitors!” he barked, “attend to me.” Several of the wall panels slid aside and gold plated guard servitors lurched out of the hidden alcoves. Each one stood three metres high, most had four servo arms, wielding a variety of ranged and close combat weapons.
“Clear the room,” Javed ordered. A small plate opened on each guards’ chest, and a tiny sweeper drone emerged, wires connecting them to their parents’ bodies. The little drones buzzed around the huge room, darting around the precious furniture, and diving into the darkness in the corners. 
After a short while the drones all returned to the servitors, nestling into the hatches which clicked closed. 
“Area cleared.” Intoned seven voices. Javed breathed a sigh of relief...
Seven voices he thought but there are eight servitors. He spun to face the lifeless guards one at a time, 
“Servitors identify!” he said his voice breaking slightly. 
“One present.”
“Two present.”
“Four present.” 
“Three,” snapped Javed turning to face three. “Identify... identify now!” 
The servitor answered with a strangled groan of machine gibberish; suddenly it arched its back, pushing its chest forward. A long slim sword burst from its stomach, slicing downward to open a long gash. With a final wail of mechanical agony a mass of oily guts and wires spilled out onto the polished floor. 
Javed’s face turned pale as he saw what was happening. Slowly yet gracefully a tall, slim women clad in a black bodysuit emerged from within the collapsed servitor. 
An assassin he thought unbelieving, a Death Cult assassin. 
The women slowly rose from the servitor’s entrails, bringing her up blade to point at Javed.
“Servitors!” he screamed, “attack!” 
“AT YOUR WILL!” they boomed as one, their battle functions engaged by the command. As Javed turned to run, he saw the women leap into the air, landing on the shoulders of servitor two, plunging her blade into the top of its skull.
Sprinting down the corridor Javed could hear the boom of gunfire and the clashing of metal. 
He burst into the guard room at the foot of the giant gold staircase leading to his private floor. He ran through the door without being automatically scanned, which should have warned him. 
He stopped suddenly as he saw the inside of the room, and then he vomited over himself. Every surface was dripping blood, unrecognisable piles of meat sat on the floor or in chairs. Intestines looped round the consoles and screens like sick decorations. A guards helmet lay on the floor in the middle of the room, Javed peered into it, and wretched violently, yellow bile spewing from his mouth. The helmet was full of blood, and what could only be the guards’ genitals.
Javed slipped on a pool of blood and crashed onto the floor, knocking the contents of the helmet over his face. He screamed and jumped up franticly trying to wipe the disgusting mess off himself. 
The he saw his saviour, the handle of a pistol sticking out from under a lump of flesh; he grabbed it in his right hand. It was sticky from blood, and the working parts were crusted in filth. Using his left had he quickly cocked it confirming it was loaded. 
He was not a moment too soon. Barely a second later the door swung open slowly. The assassin stood in the entrance, silhouetted by the light from the hall. Her sword hung in one hand, its point resting on the ground. She walked forward towards Javed.
She leapt forward, Javed ducked under the blade, but she barged into him, knocking the pistol from his hand. A second swing of the blade sliced a deep wound in his left shoulder. Javed staggered back, spotting the pistol laying on a pile of guts not a metre from him. The assassin raised a leg and smashed her foot into his chest knocking him to the ground. 
He looked up at her as she reversed her blade to stab downwards; she paused then pushed the point toward Javed.
He could almost have laughed at the look on her face, when he caught the sword in his right hand, with the point inches from his face. Javed grabbed the pistol and levelled at the assassins face.
He could have sworn there was actually a look of grudging respect on her face as emptied the clip into her head. 


Javed shoved the Paternova’s guards out his way without even breaking step, they rushed after him as he strode into the huge entrance hall of the navigators mansion.
“Glaucus!” he bellowed. “Where are you?” 
Behind him he could hear the guards speaking quickly into their vox links. 
“My lord,” one of them said. “My lord,” he repeated when Javed ignored him. 
“What?” growled Javed angrily as he turned to face the three armoured men behind him. 
“The Paternova asks you to come to his study, and speak to him in person. We will escort you.”
Javed nodded, and fell into step with one of the guards as the other two returned to their post. 
It was three hours since he had fled his home, he had sent several of his surviving retainers to the homes of the other Navis Nobilites, all had reported the houses deserted or had found the bodies of the men and their retainers, all except one. 
Javed was lead down a long, sparse corridor, at the end he was shown through a pair of massive doors, which appeared to be made of solid platinum. As he entered the huge vaulted study, Javed saw the Paternova standing with his back to him, looking out the window.
“So Ceaser,” he began, still not turning round. “Are you here to try again, another attempt on my life?” He turned and noticed Javed’s filthy clothes and nervous expression.
“Throne! What happened to you?” he asked genuine concern in his voice.
“My lord, less than three hours ago, an assassin entered my home, slaughtered my guards and servitors and attempted to kill me, I’ll spare you the details of how I survived.”
“Well you shall of course have the protection the Guild until you feel safe again.” 
“That is not the worst of it,” Glaucus motioned for him to go on. “I have sent my surviving retainers to the homes of the other eight, only one man remains, alive.”
“Who?” asked the Paternova.
“Renard Cezar.”
“He betrayed us,”
“It would seem so my lord.” There was a pause as the Paternova thought about this.
“They will know that we survive... we must flee.”
“My thoughts also” said Javed.
“But where, the Ecclesiarchy have control of the Arbites, they can overrule the Imperial Guard, the Mechanicus care little for anything other than their forge worlds and the Administratum is too weak.” 
“I have considered this my lord and I believe that the Adeptus Astartes will offer us the best protection.” Glaucus nodded liking the idea. 
“Yes... yes good, Posul is I believe the closet Astartes homeworld, and the Mortificator’s are no friends of the Ecclesiarchy.” 
“So be it, we must flee and hope that the Astartes will help us in this time of need.”
“Captain,” Glaucus said to the guard. “Ready my ship.” 


The small, blue ship slid out of the warp. The world below it was barren and almost lifeless. The few inhabitants were blood thirsty cannibals, who worshiped the Emperor as a god of death. Javed shuddered at the idea of such savagery.
It had taken them three weeks to reach Posul from Terra, most of the voyage had been spent in fear, as they waited to see if the Ecclesiarchy had tampered with the ships drives, or if they had sent craft in pursuit.
However as they crept into orbit around the Mortificator’s homeworld Javed was able to relax for the first time since in meeting in the heart of the Guild, over a month ago. 
“Sir,” said the Captain, “we have two frigates approaching.”
“Identify us to them,” said Glaucus. “Let them know who I am.” 
Suddenly the bridge’s small comms screen flickered into life, both Javed and Glaucus were shocked by the man they saw on it,
“Who are you to approach Posul?!” boomed the massive bone and black armoured giant. Glaucus cleared his throat,
“I am the Paternova, head of all Navigators’ this is Javed Ceaser, Patriarch of that House.”
“I am Captain Valairion, commander of the Mortificator’s Third Company. Speak your business, Lord of Navigators.” 
“Captain, my companion and I are fleeing Terra, attempts were made on our lives by the Ecclesiarchy, and seven other Patriarchs were murdered. We beg that provided us with protection from the Frateris Templars.” 
“Very well,” grunted Valairion. “You may land and remain here as long as you need.”
“Thank you Cap...” Glaucus got no further as sirens and warning lights began to come to life all over his ship.
“Vessel re-entering just off us sir.” Said the ship’s Captain. A rift in space opened, and a gigantic red and gold battleship glided through, it was bristling weapons and could destroy all three of the other ships with ease. 
“Are these your allies?!” asked Valairion. Before Javed or Glaucus could answer the comms screen split into two, on one half appeared a wild bearded old man,
“These heretics belong to the Ecclesiarchy,” he said, “and must be dealt with.” 
“How dare you enter orbit round this world unannounced!” barked Valairion. “What authority do you have!”
“I am Cardinal Paulus, and I have the authority of the Ecclesiarchy and the God-Emperor!” 
The huge marines face twisted with distaste. 
“What if I refuse to give up these Navigators?” he asked. The Cardinal smiled,
“Then I shall destroy your ships, your fortress will be levelled from orbit, your world laid waste to, all Mortificators will be hunted down, you shall be declared Excommunicate Traitors, and your names shall be forever wiped from the annuls of Imperial history.” 
The screen flickered again, as Javed and Glaucus stood in shock and horror. The image of the Cardinal froze and faded slightly.
“This is a secure transmission,” said Valairion, his voice softer and calmer. “I can’t afford to doom my Chapter and my Battle-Brothers for your sakes, and my frigates cannot hope to challenge that ship...” Javed realised what was going to happen.
“But you Astartes, you fear nothing, no man can stand before you...”
“Times have changed Navigator, even we must bow to the wishes of the Ecclesiarchy, I am truly sorry.” The link cut off and the screen turned black. 
No one on the bridge spoke.

It only took one shot for the Ecclesiarchy battleship His Will to destroy Glaucus’ small craft. After the giant red vessel had left, nothing remained of the small ship.


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## shaantitus (Aug 3, 2009)

Very cool. I look forward to more.


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## Dusty Warrior (Apr 16, 2010)

And here is some more. This is the last chapter of Part One, after this its going to be Age of Apostasy Part Two.


V
958 M35
Ghadra Hive
Lastrati​


“Childern!” roared the Preacher over the sound of the massive crowd and constant background noise of the hive. “We are truly doomed.” The crowd wailed in horror. The fierce looking red-haired man had been preaching for over an hour now, standing on an overturned vehicle. The crowd were captivated, he had them right where he wanted. 
“We are wretched sinners, and the Emperor is punishing us for our lives of blasphemy. We live in this paradise only by His grace.” Looking around the main square of the underhive it was hard to see the paradise the preacher spoke of. This far from the surface it was dark and humid all the time, foetid, stinking pools of filth covered the roads, ramshackle houses were dripping in condensation, mould and fungi grew in the damp streets, rats and other vermin scurried everywhere, and the stench was almost unbearable. 
“For two years now the Emperor’s light has not shined on us, for two years we have been in the darkness.” The crowd groaned in misery, there were thousands gathered to hear the preacher speak, most of them underhive scum, some worked in the massive munitions factories higher in the hive, all were clad in filthy rags, all were dirty from a life spent in filth, many had missing limbs, many had weeping oozing sores and ulcers. These were truly the lowest of the low.
“We have no food, no fuel, and no water. Lastrati has been abandoned by the Emperor; He has cut our world off, surrounding us with chaos and damnation. For two years we have suffered away from His light, away from His mercy.” More cries from the crowd, 
“Save us!” one man cried.
“Lead us back to the light.” The Preacher raised his hands to silence the mob. 
“Why is this, why are we being punished in this way?” he let the question hang in the air, the mob straining to hear the answer.
“We have only ourselves to blame children, we are sinners, we are selfish, we care for none but ourselves, the Emperor is our Lord and Saviour yet we have turned our backs on him, we think only of ourselves.” The crowd was wailing and crying in anguish, people were tearing at their clothes, or cutting themselves with small blades, several were on their knees with only the whites of their eyes showing, roaring and screeching incoherent nonsense. 
“We see heresy and blasphemy everywhere yet we do nothing, we are too afraid to punish those who would renounce the Emperor.” 
“Who are they?” a man cried. 
“We will punish them!” yelled another. 
“There are many, the Emperor’s light only shines on some, we were blessed, now we must earn that blessing back by serving Him.” The Preacher smiled, he had this crowd in the palm of his hand.
“So who is that threatens the Emperor, who denounces his divinity?” he asked. “It is not the foul Xenos, it is those within the Imperium, those who swore to serve and protect the Emperor.” 
“They must die!” roared the crowd “Kill them!” 
“The Adeptus Astartes, bloodthirsty warriors who take good servants of the Emperor and corrupt them, they worship their own leaders and they reject the Emperor claiming he is nothing but a man!”
The crowd screamed its rage and hatred, desperate to spill blood.
“The Imperial Guard who care only for their own glory... heretics! Filth!” he spat. “The Administratum who wish only to rule the Imperium, they believe themselves to be Emperors!”
The crowd was wild now; if the Preacher said the wrong thing they would tear him to pieces. If he said what they wanted to hear, he would lead them on a blood soaked crusade through the hive, killing all before them.
“Yet these sinners are not the worst,” he continued. “The worst are those who scar the holy human form, they believe that they can improve the Emperor’s perfect design, they ignore the struggles of true believers, and they do not even kneel before the Emperor but worship their own heretic god.”
The crowd was silent, waiting to hear the preacher’s next words.
“I speak of the Adeptus Mechanicus! Machine worshiping filth! It is they and their kind that are the cause of our suffering, we must destroy them all, and we must obliterate the heretic priesthood of Mars!” 
The mob screamed their approval.
“Gather men and weapons, we must fight! Only war can save the Emperor and only our deaths can save your souls! We are His chosen, we are His Divine Army!”


Outpost TwoTwelve/Epsilon was the Adeptus Mechanicus’ only stronghold in Ghadra Hive. A large building cube shaped building; it sat below the main spire, but was not in the squalor of the underhive. It was positioned in the middle of Ullanor Square, replacing a statue of the Emperor that had long since fallen down. Four streets lead into the square each entering on different sides. The outpost had no windows and only one door; a huge circular portal embossed with the skull of the Priesthood. 
Deep in the heart of the outpost Genitor Ka’Shak carefully lowered his new weapon onto its stand. Two of his four servo-arms began to make the final intricate adjustments to attune the massive axe perfectly for his use. The other two started to sharpen the blade, and fill the promethium tanks. His own arms plugged the bundle of wires trailing from the end the of the handle into the ports on the back of his skull. 
For a second his whole body tensed, then he relaxed again as he began to interface with the weapons machine-spirit.
-FUNCTION?- It asked 
-OBIDENCE/DEFENCE/DEATH- Ka’Shak replied 
-CREATOR?-
-GENITOR KA’SHAK-
-MASTER?-
-GENITOR KA’SHAK-
-SYSTEMS INTERFACING- There was brief pause, then the Ka’Shak disengaged the weapon and allowed his thoughts to return to reality. With a slight wince he slid the three inch long needle plugs out of the sockets in the back of his head. He felt the machine-spirit depart and return to the weapon. He looked around his cluttered, untidy workshop for anointing oil, finding it behind a pile of skulls; awaiting the machine spirits.
He gently flicked the scared oil onto the weapon, while reciting holy oaths in binary, the language of the machine.
A fine machine he thought. Since he lost his last weapon while attached to the Imperial Guard he had felt the need to replace it. His current posting didn’t really need him armed, he had a guard unit of thirty Skitarii to do that, but he still felt naked without a weapon. The new axe was over a metre long, the head was crafted from electrum and the haft was solid steel. It had two re-active grips with would alter to suit his hands, but the weapons crowning glory was the flamer nozzle behind the blade, with a simple thought Genitor Ka’Shak could direct a searing blast of burning promethium at his targets. 
He looked up from his work as he heard his two Acolytes enter the room. 
“I see your weapon is completed master.” Said Acolyte Misha. Before joining the Priesthood she had been what base humans called beautiful, know her hair was gone replaced by a bundle of wires and cables protruding from her scalp that connected to the attachment port replacing her left arm. Currently a servo arm was attached, but Ka’Shak had seen her with drill points, buzz saw blades and laser cutters. From the waist down she was purely mechanical, her once long slender legs replaced by a large tracked chassis making her lower half resemble a Leman Russ tank. 
“Yes, I felt as if I could go back onto the battlefields of Jura XIV once again.” Acolyte Zanian glanced at the weapon and nodded taking in all the details in a single glance. Zanian was in many was Mishas opposite. His face was so heavily augmented it was impossible to tell what he once looked like, rather than eyes he had a cluster of optic receivers which were able to see in several different spectrums, his mouth and nose had been replaced by a heavy wire grill, making his speech harsh and mechanical. His right arm remained totally unaugmented, unusual even for a relatively young adept. His left arm however was a marvel and had impressed Ka’Shak immensely when he first saw it, at the elbow it split into four separate servo arms, each one able to act independently of the others. His legs had been replaced by eight arachnid like limbs, allowing him to scale walls and even cling to ceilings. Ka’Shak was unsure what purpose this served, but if Zanian was ever attached to a combat unit he would be an excellent fighter. 
In comparison Genitor Ka’Shak was hardly augmented at all, especially considering his high rank, other than mechanical eyes and the four servo arms he had no major implants. He disliked waste and refused to replace his organic body until it was damaged.
“Certainly a fine weapon sir,” said Zanian. “Let us hope that you never have to use it.” 
“I will always have need for weapons, Acolyte. The Omnissah gives us much but it is to yourselves we must look for protection.” Zanian nodded. 
“What projects are you both working on?” Ka’Shak asked
“I have finished my security updates,” said Misha. “The automated defences can now function without direct supervision; they have improved motion trackers, self-destruct units, and a variety of new ammunition.” 
“Zanian?” asked Ka’Shak
“I am still trying to find a way to get a message through the warp storms. I am afraid I have yet to find a way.” 
The Genitor opened his mouth to reply when the workshops door burst open, Captain Gadrak head of the Skitarii guard strode into the workshop.
“Genitor, I have bad news.”


Ka’Shak stared at the screens in silence, the Skitarii in the room were wired into the defences allowing them better accuracy and targeting, they would only disengage if the outpost was breached and hand to hand fighting became necessary, the images on the screens looked as though it might. 
Thousands of underhivers filled the streets, each of the four entrances to the square was packed with people. They stood utterly still and silent. Most had some kind of weapon, rifles, blades, piping. Many carried flaming torches cast pools of light in the darkness of the hive. Many had scraps of paper nailed to their skin, Ka’Shak couldn’t read what was written on them. Lots wore various item of torture, but reversed so as to cause pain to the wearer. 
At the front of the mob stood a huge man, he wore an a suit of Arbites armour (as did many in the crowd) he had long red hair that was bound up in a topknot, on each of his shoulders was mounted a vox horn, the receiver attached to the neck of his armour. In his hands he carried a massive mace, the head of which was emitting a fine white smoke.
“Who are they?” asked Ka’Shak
“We don’t know sir,” replied Gadrak “They attack the Arbites Precincts two days ago, before that they torched Administratum buildings further up hive.”
“Why in the Omnissah’s name was I not informed!” barked Ka’Shak.
“We didn’t think it would escalate this badly,” stammered the captain “and we never expected them to challenge us.”
Suddenly the large red-haired man strode forward, 
“You are heretics, and traitors.” They heard him say over the monitor, “Your blasphemies will be tolerated by God-fearing men of the Imperium no longer!” 
There was a pause. Then with a huge roar, the thousands of underhivers charged. 


“Forward!” Boomed the preacher, the massive vox horns on his shoulders amplifying his voice to almost painful levels, but even so he was hardly heard above the roaring of the mob.
The thousands of underhivers surged across the square towards the squat armoured cube of the Mechanicus. All manner of weapons were fired as they charged, from lasrifles and shotguns, to crossbows and simple slingshots.
“Kill the Heretics!” he shouted again. All around him were this devotees, thousands of underhivers dedicated to the Emperor, ready to kill for him; ready to die for him. His Divine Army.
The barrage of shots sparked and cracked off the Tech Priest’s building, the mob’s weapons having no effect. 
The preacher stopped carried forward slightly by the rushing mass of men. He looked around, he saw sub-humans whip themselves viciously, and he saw men and women adorned with hideous torture implements, chastising themselves with pain. All around him the underhivers screamed devotional chants and psalms, many seemed almost completely insane, gibbering and screeching wildly as they charged. A woman tripped and fell next to him, only to be crushed beneath the rush of those behind her.
The Preacher smiled they would be upon the outpost in minutes, then it was just a matter of fighting their way inside. Suddenly he heard screaming over the roar the mob. Looking up at the walls of the outpost he noticed small panels slid away and weapons protrude out on the end of servo arms. 
He thought of shouting a warning, but decided against it. it was unlikely anyone would pay attention and those who did may flee, beside even if he warned the mob it would change nothing, they had nowhere to take cover.
The first of the weapons began to fire. 


“Get them all firing,” ordered Ka’Shak. “I don’t want any of this scum to defile this scared building.” 
“Yes sir.” Said Gadrak. More Skitarii entered the room and plug themselves into the consoles. Outside the fire of the guns increased and their accuracy improved as they were taken over by Skitarii gunners.


The outposts’ defences fired a bewildering array of ammunition. The Preacher saw men cut down by hails of tiny needles; he saw a group of women sprayed with liquid which dissolved them before his eyes. 
But his followers kept going, they ignored the casualties, even the wounded tried to drag themselves forward on shattered limbs. 
Then they reached the walls. 
The first two ranks were cut down by the heavily concentrated fire. The third rank was crushed between the wall and those behind. But by then the constant volleys of fire from the mob had brought down enough of the outposts defences to allow them to get close.
“Cutters!” boomed the Preacher. Several big men shouldered through the crowd, they had retained their composure and sanity during the wild charge, and now they made their way to massive embossed door. Each man carrying a huge mining laser, designed to shear through solid rock.
“Open it!” he yelled, pointing to the door. 
With the mob still howling and shrieking for blood, the cutting teams set to work. 


“To the doors!” ordered Gadrak. Ka’Shak nodded in agreement,
“Captain, send a man to my workshop, fetch my weapons.” Gadrak quickly detailed two men to get the Genitor’s weaponry. 
“The rest of you, with me,” the Captain said to his Skitarii.
The Genitor, his acolyte and the outposts’ Skitarii guards ran through the maze of tunnels, towards the entrance. Misha’s tank chassis allowed her extra speed, and by the time the main group reached the entrance hall, she was already there using a laser to weld sheets of metal over the door for extra armour. She was just in time, the doors hinges were already beginning to glow from the mobs laser cutters. 
“Acolyte!” barked Ka’Shak. “That’s enough, arm yourself.” Misha nodded and hurried to the armoury, Zanian followed her. As they left the remaining Skitarii entered carrying the Genitors flame-axe, and four light bolters. 
“Captain,” he said. Gadrak nodded and began to attach the bolters to the Genitor’s servo arms. Ka’Shak flexed the servo arms, nodding in satisfaction.
“Good Now the axe,” he said. The Skitarii Captain passed him the axe almost reverentially. Moments later Misha and Zanian returned, she had attached a heavy bolter to the socket on her left arm; and she carried a large buzz saw in her right hand. Zanian held a short stabbing sword in each of his left hands, and a six barrelled pepper pot gun in his right.
Ka’Shak waited as the Skitarii plugged themselves into their own weapons, and prepared to fight. 
“Sons of the Omnissah!” the Genitor began. “We stand here, on this scared ground. Outnumbered, and surrounded, but we stand ready, nothing can defeat us while the light of the Machine God shines upon us. Out there is a vast force numbering many thousands. Many of you may fall this day, but none of you shall turn and flee. Trust your weapons, trust their machine spirits, and we shall prevail!” 
There were no cheers, only grim nods and quiet prayers in binary.
“Their coming through!” warned one of the Skitarii. The centre of the door was glowing white hot, as the soldiers of the Machine God watched they saw a gap open in the centre of the heat. It grew larger until they could hear the shouts and screams of the mob. A chunk of molten metal dropped slowly from the door opening the hole even wider. 
Ka’Shak trained his bolters on the spot and released a sustained burst of fire, they heard screaming from outside. Then the door slowly fell open. 
The mob poured through even before the door had cooled the first few combusting as they touched the white hot metal.
“FIRE!” boomed Ka’Shak, as he mowed down the first rank with his bolters, Misha’s heavy weapon smashed large calibre rounds into the mob knocking dozens back. The Skitarii’s autoguns tore bloody holes into the head of the charging mass of men.
But it wasn’t enough.
Many of those rushing into the outpost didn’t even have a weapon, they just surged forward charging at the Mechanicus troops dying on their guns. 
Ka’Shak switched his servo arms to independent fire allowing him to focus on using the axe. He swung it in a great arc swiping the head of the man before him, with a quick spin he changed its direction to carve a women’s head open, blood sprayed over him. A club caught him round the side of the head knocking him to the ground, his vision blurred and he saw the mob surge forward to finish him. Then he heard a huge boom and saw Zanian scuttle into the mass of men around the Genitor, his pepper pot pistol pushing them back from Ka’Shak. He grabbed the Genitor’s collar and tugged him back. 
“Form a line!” bellowed Captain Gadrak, but it was too late. The mob overran the Skitarii, tearing many to pieces with their bare hands. Zanian, Ka’Shak, Misha and three Skitarii survived to reach the corridor, wrenching the door shut behind them.
“The power core...” gasped Ka’Shak. “We can hold them there.” 
Suddenly the flimsy door smashed open and the mob poured in. Misha blazed away the rest of her ammo as she rushed forward to cover the others, once the crowd reached her she was torn apart in seconds. 
The three Skitarii dropped to one knee and began to fire into the crowd, forcing them back, creating a mound of dead in the narrow tunnel. 
“Fall back lord,” yelled one. “We’ll hold them.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his head exploded, then more solid rounds smashed into the other Skitarii. Zanian gave a mechanical howl and dived into the mob, his left arms a blur, hacking a stabbing.
“Zanian!” boomed Ka’Shak, launching himself after his Acolyte. Then he saw the red haired man. He was locked in combat with Zanian. As Ka’Shak cut a path toward the two he saw Zanian knocked over by red haired man. Ka’Shak barged his way through the mob, clearing a path with huge swings of his axe, and the occasional burst of flame. He reached the combat just in time to see the red haired man bring his mace down on Zanian’s heavily augmented head, crushing it with ease.
The man only just blocked Ka’Shak’s axe as it swung at his head. 
“I will enjoy your death heretic,” he hissed. Ka’Shak ignored him as he tried to remove his arm. 
“I am the Preacher, commander of the Divine Army,” the man went on, “and I do the Emperors work.” Ka’Shak winced as the mace knocked off two of his servo arms in one swing. 
The two trade blows, the mob around them baying for blood, many of the devotees had run into the outpost to desecrate the home of the Machine God.
Ka’Shak blocked killing blow, then another. The Preacher forced the Genitor back, until he was against the wall. Suddenly Ka’Shak fired a jet of flame at the Preacher, he fell back screaming as his skin blistered, and Ka’Shak savoured the smell of roasting flesh. The Preacher screamed again as the skin on the left of his face fell away leaving weeping pink flesh. Ka’Shak attacked again, raising his axe high over his head then bringing it straight down. The Preacher blocked it, just. Ka’Shak kicked the man in the neck forcing him to the ground. The Preacher swung his mace weakly at Ka’Shak’s ankles’; he deflected the blow with ease. 
The Preacher looked up into Ka’Shak’s face, as he raised his axe high for the killing blow.
“If you kill me, they will tear you apart,” he said, gesturing to the mob. “You may defeat me, but in doing so you will die.”
“You have defiled a holy place, you have killed my students and my guards. You have driven this hive insane, you must die, if my life is the price of that, then so be it.” Ka’Shak swept the axe down, carving the Preacher’s head in two. 
The mob surged over him. He screamed as they bit and clawed at him, he felt fingers raking over his face; he felt them tear out his servo eyes. He felt them rip him to shreds.
He felt everything, until his head was torn from his body. Even after that the mob still clawed and hacked at his corpse. 





***

It was one of the most terrible times in Imperial history, a time of civil war and strife which threatened to rip the realm of man apart. Millions died, whole sectors were lost to xenos invaders, or worse. Warp storms split the Imperium making travel and even communications impossible, many worlds suffered terribly, unable to sustain themselves and without the power of the Imperial Guard to protect them. For almost two hundred years brother fought brother, and the puritanical madness of the Ecclesiarchy devastated humanity. The hysteria reached even the highest echelons of Imperial society; the Senatorium Imperialis was rife with blackmail, threats and assassination, the High Lords squabbled and bickered caring only for their own gains. Many claimed mankind was being punished for its sins, some believed that Emperor was now truly dead. At the height of the terror, as the Imperium looked set to implode in an orgy of destruction, one man was able to bring the Ecclesiarchy to heel. The 361st Lord of the Administratum; a man whose name would one day be cursed on a million worlds, a man who would be hailed as a saviour, then denounced as a heretic, a man who would be betrayed by those closest to him, the man who brought the Imperium to the very edge of the abyss; Goge Vandire.
The Age of Apostasy by Ecclesiarch Deacis IX​


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## Templar Marshal (Feb 7, 2010)

This is an interesting read as I don't know very much about the Age of Apostasy or does anyone for that matter (except for GW maybe lol). Hope to read part two soon:victory:.btw +rep


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## Dusty Warrior (Apr 16, 2010)

Glad you enjoyed it, Part Two is up now. I'll be posting a chapter a day till its all up.


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