# Deathshead



## Brother Emund

*DEATHSHEAD*
*These being the Trials and Tribulations of Johan Sebastian Dietz *


*PROLOUGE*​

Hail and well met… friend? 
That is, as I most dearly hope, that you are indeed a friend and not one of the many agents and spies that have plagued my life for what seems to be an eternity.
If you are a friend, then you are most welcome here in this hidden place. Please, I beg of you, make yourself comfortable, Sit back and relax, for I have an epic tale to tell… and you might be here for some time.

If you are my enemy, the zealot’s of the Inquisition, a Witch-finder or worse, then my words on these pages are wasted and no one will ever know the truth. My memories will forever be assigned to oblivion and these pages erased, deemed _Vexillum Lectio_. 
I can only assume that if you are of the Ordo Hereticus, and you have made it here, then all of those that have helped me, have been eliminated or imprisoned and awaiting a fate worse than death? 
It also means that I have failed to spread my words to the people, and the truth will never be known. 

I am happy that my journey finally came to an end, and in the manner that I desired; at peace, and surrounded by the one‘s that I loved. 
I am dead now and my life at this moment of time is over… if death really is the end. 
No one can hunt me any more, I am free. 
To the Ordo I say this, _“Ego Contemno vos, Vomica vos... your ways are wrong“_. The more you try to control things by tightening your grip, the more things slip through your long and immoveable fingers. Your great Crusades have tried to crush our beliefs, they have tried to make us trust in YOUR ways and your ways alone. 
But know this; as you read these words, I sit with great honour and reverence in the Halls of my Ancestors, and I am in mighty fine company indeed. Despite your refusal to accept it, I can assure that there is life beyond the physical world, and spirit’s and ghosts DO exist. There are worlds and dimensions beyond the Imperium of Mankind and you will never control them all.
My heart, which has so often been broken, is renewed again, and I am happy once more. I am now in a place of light, of joy, spirit and love, and a far cry from my grey, often perilous life in the world that you exist in.
Friend, or enemy, it was not my choice to live the life I lived, sentient’s before me made that decision, and long before I was born.
If I could chose to change the past and rewrite my history and walk a different path, lead a different life; would I do it? Would I make things different or easier for me? Would I have erased those things that turned me from a small boy into a mortal enemy of Mankind?​_*“Paeniteo”*_ 
No I would not!​
This then, is my story, and it is the truth for I never lie... 
I have skipped over my early years, which were a period of loneliness and uncertainty, though some small parts do crop up now and again, pleasant memories that I cherish. I swiftly turn to the beginning of my transition from a youth into a man, and it begins with my arrival on a tiny planet in a far away star system. A planet that is imploding, turning in on itself, on the brink of extinction. 
There was a rebellion, and a minor one at that; a small episode that would not warrant a single line in the Annuals of Mankind’s history. But the rebellion is on a planet that belongs to the Imperium of Man… and as he exists only to wage war, there can be only one outcome, retribution… swift and absolute.
The planet was called Handshaar, a small desert world flanked by twin suns. A trading world, owned and run by great commerce guilds, who dealt in precious stones and rare metals. It was also a place of religious significance, and was the burial place of a Holy Martyr. 
No one understood why the citizens of this world rose up against its masters, it just happened. 
They, that is, the mighty Imperium, blamed the planetary leaders, who were a strict quasi-religious hierarchy and rich beyond belief. They said that these elders had become drunk with power and their own self-importance. Their gluttonous greed started the rebellion, and their greed would destroy them.
But many others, out of earshot of the ever-present Inquisition, blamed hidden forces, forces that had yet to reveal themselves.…

When I arrived, I came with the Imperial Guard. I was one insignificant soldier in an Army of two hundred thousand men whose sole purpose was to crush this tiny rebellious insurrection and bring the planet and its people, back into the Imperial fold. I marched alongside my own people, the feared Jirmanic’s from the Ultimata Segmentum, and we were joined by regiments of warriors who were all skilled in the art of war. Hardened fighters from feral worlds stood side by side with base brutes from gothic hives, and we brought death and destruction with us. 
We were utterly ruthless because we were utterly loyal to our God, the Emperor of Mankind… and we came in droves to punish these rebels who dared to turn their backs on the Imperium. 
We would send a message out to the far corners of space… Live in harmony, Live in peace. Love your Divine Emperor, because the Imperium will not tolerate dissent.​
_*"Imporata Gratias”*_ 
“Thanks be to the Emperor”​
When I think how young and naïve I was back then… ha! Happily marching along in perfect cadence with four thousand men of my regiment at my side, our heads rigidly over to the right, our weapons of war stuck to our shoulders like extension of our bodies, arms swinging in flawless unison. I remember the dust that was churned up by our shining boots, forming a perfect grey haze around us. The hypnotic crunch of our steel-shod boots, even at the end of my life, still sent tingles down my spine and a smile to my face. I remember shouting the raucous marching songs until I could shout no more, and I grinned at the joyous crowds who cheered their warriors onto war. 
What an adventure it would be. 
Like billions of others before me, I was off to fight the Emperor’s enemies. I was part of a well-oiled machine whose sole purpose was death and destruction. I was made of Iridium Diamond, and immortal, and all would fall before me.

I am sorry, but I was but a boy after all and I was full of wild dreams and caprice! 
Within a few short weeks, I would be forced to kill my first enemy. It was not to be a green-skinned Ork, a Tyranid warrior, an Eldar or a Chaos beast… 

It was to be another man..​


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## Brother Emund

*Adrian*, I sort of see what you mean? What I am trying to get over to the reader is that this story, in whatever form, has just been found. Whether this story is a book, dataslate, video/holo, it has remained hidden (somewhere) and finally been discovered. I have a vision of a very old man, hurridly taking down his memoirs before he dies, desperate to finish before he draws his last breath,and hidden away in some secret place.

Dietz does not know if the finder is a friend or foe. Does that make sense? He just wants to tell everyone (anyone) about his life.

I value your input, so feel free to comment!


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## Ambush Beast

*I see.*

Now that you explane it I do see the story in a new light. I am smiling as the puzzle opens its secrets to me. 


Is you boy going top get more of his story on?


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## Brother Emund

*Part 2*

_When you’re wounded out on Handshaar’s plains
And the Beddo’s come out to cut up what remains
Then just roll to your Lasgun and blow out your brains
And die like a good Little Guardsman_

Attributed to an unknown soldier during the Handshaar Rebellion


*THE HANDSHAAR REBELLION
PART ONE
Outskirts of Nabulûs City
Imperial Time: 0200hrs*​
TODAY I THINK I BECAME A WARRIOR. 

Please persevere; it will all become very clear.

This was an important time for me. I say ‘I think’, which implies that I am not quite sure if I actually did become a warrior, which probably confuses the hell out of you!. It was all to do with that damn planet and its never-ending days, and brief periods of night. If I went by Imperial time, I was a failure, if it was Handshaar time, then I became a warrior. So, technically I suppose I was a failure, but I failed because I was very young and killing is not easy you know. 
I must point out, that even the mightiest Space Marines, the feared Astartes, had to make their first kill once, so I was one amongst Legions of failures. 
It all sounds pretty morbid I know; talking about killing like this, but it was important then, to me. I actually took no pleasure in it, unlike many of my compatriots; and if I could get away with taking the life of another, I would have. Unfortunately, I had to make a point, and I had to kill someone or some thing with my bare hands, or I could never walk alongside my comrades, and look them in the eye…. _It was a Jirmanic thing_.

I remember taking a deep breathe and holding it as I slowly unsheathed the knife from my combat boot. It slid out easily, almost falling into the palm of my hand, as if it anticipated the act that was soon to come. I held it in my gloved hand and looked at it for what seemed like an eternity. 
Then, as blood pounded in my temples and stars flittered before my eyes, I quietly exhaled. The enemy soldier was closing, and was probably no more than ten metres to my front. It would be all over in the next few seconds. 
I had temporarily lost sight of him among the thick undergrowth, but I could hear his laboured breathing and sense his soft footfalls on the gravely ground beneath us. I could also perceive faint metallic taps from a badly secured mess tin, and the scrape, scrape, scrape of an entrenching tool. 
Then he suddenly appeared, crouching low and moving purposely towards my position. 

At that point, in space and time, everything seemed to stop. I was able to study my enemy and take in every facet of his face and body. 

He was concentrating hard and his dark face was twisted and cruel. Small beads of sweat lined his creased brow, and his lips were greasy and almost opaque. He was studying the ground before him, looking for a sign, a mark on the ground that would lead him to his prey, lead him to me. He appeared to be blissfully unaware of the mortal danger that he faced. 
My enemy was a scout, a native of the deep deserts called a Beddo. His black skin identified him as one of the fierce nomadic tribesmen, the vicious mercenaries who were used as soldiers by the Handshaar elite. He was tall and slim and moved cautiously, the way their hunters moved when tracking an elusive quarry. 
The Beddo had a reputation for savagery and barbaric cruelty, and were said to be the masters of ambush and lightning raids. They killed out of hand and cared little for life, which to them was an endless game of survival on the hot, scorched plains. 
They had certainly been giving our patrols and convoys, a rough time over the last few weeks, striking silently and quickly at will, and killing everyone, they could find, before fading away into the harsh desert. 
Once, this man might even have been an Imperial Guardsman, the Handshaari‘s, as the population were known, preferred to use these natural fighters rather than their own. 
His uniform was certainly the standard-issue desert garb issued to Imperial Guard units operating in such climates; and to all intents and purposes, he appeared to be one of us. Perhaps if we had met on better terms, we might have shared a bottle of _Pilsner*_ or dabbled in a game of cards. We might even have been brothers-in-arms.

But not today, not here…. When this dark warrior and thousands like him followed the path of his opulent leaders, and rose up against the one true Emperor, he, and the rest of the Beddo’s lost the right to fellowship, to my comradeship or my respect… for now he was a rebel and a traitor.

And here, in the early hours of the morning, on this hellhole of a planet with its heat, driving winds and clinging dust… he was about to die.

We, that is, the reconnaissance platoon, had been tracking this scout for the best part of an hour, following him slowly through the long shadows and tall grass of the valley floor. He appeared to be young and inexperienced, and did not exhibit the sighs of a true Beddo warrior, he was making too many mistakes. His lack of basic skills would cost him his life today. 
We had come across him, as he watched a track further down the basin. He was observing our traffic moving along a raised highway in the hazy distance. We watched him scribble notes onto a data-slate, and watched him raise his Magnocular’s and count off the number of vehicles in a convoy and smile smugly. We even watched him smoke and take a pee. 

At first we were going to leave him be and give him a wide birth, but when he suddenly broke cover and began to make his way back to his own lines, we had no other choice but to take him out.
He had made a deadly mistake, and today he would join his ancestors. 

I flexed the muscles in my right arm, and re-adjusted my centre of balance with a slight shift of my right boot. The burning cramp in my calves slowly began to dissipate. Now came the prickly sensation one feels when blood begins to flow back into the veins. My feet were numb and cold, but they would still function when the time came to strike. I also had a dull throbbing pain in my lower back, which had been with me since the day we arrived on this planet. The medic told me that it was probably due to my first taste of warp travel or change in the gravitational spectrum. It would go he assured me, eventually, when I got used to it. I hadn’t the heart to tell him about a rather rickety camp bed, or a slip I had in the shower block. He meant well…

I was ready, well, as ready as I could be. My mind was on autopilot and hopefully all those months of training would see me through the next few seconds.
It was like a narcotic, a mind-altering narcotic. Pure, unadulterated adrenaline pumping through my veins like a warm stream of silver. My senses were super-sensitive, heightened; I had never felt this aware before, never felt so alive. I began to sense the little things that were taken for granted, like my heart pounding against the ceramic plate inside my flak jacket, and the sound of rushing blood being pumped around my body. A pulse throbbed in my right temple, so hard that it almost hurt. My heart was beating so fast and powerfully, that I was convinced that the noise I imagined it was making, would give my position away.
Sight, smell, hearing were at optimum. I was a powerful animal, ready for the kill. 
_Concentrate…. Hard! _ 

There was little time left, a second maybe two, no more than that, but the strange sensation that time appeared to have slowed down was still with me.
I gripped the handle of my combat knife a little tighter, and, as if standing apart as an observer, I found myself studying the deadly blade. I found myself marvelling at the knife’s sleek and efficient design, its perfect balance, and its deadly cutting edge. I could even make out the shapes of small gothic letters that had been etched along one side of the blade. 

*Ruder Metal Works, Jirmania Prime Jmbh. *​
Jirmania, my home, my beloved Jirmania Prime. What would I give to be there right now, lying on soft grass in the cool shade of a _Schwartzvillow*, _watching forest swifts dancing in the canopy high above? What would I give for a glass of cool wheat ale?
The tip of the blade appeared to wobble in the hot, dry desert air. I tensed up, and tried to concentrate on keeping it steady. Despite all my efforts, it continued to make small concentric circles. 
Beneath my gloves, my palms were flushed with oily sweat, which felt quite uncomfortable. I felt heaviness in the pit of my stomach like the empty sensation you get when you are hungry. Acid burnt the back of my throat.
It suddenly dawned on me, that the only thing that I had ever killed with my knife was a small, hairy forest mammal, a grass hog I think, and maybe a black-skinned fur rat. The hog was killed for food during basic survival training and the rat… well, it was just a rat! 
Today this blade, issued to me at my passing out parade back on Jirmania Prime, was about to be used for the first time to kill a human being. 
I suddenly began to doubt myself; I began to question what I had been told to do. I began to feel dread and anxiety, fear and uncertainty. Part of my mind was telling me to let the Beddo go by, but another part of me said that I had no choice. I had to carry out my orders. I had to do it now; to cold-bloodily, and without pity, kill this lone scout.

The instructors said it would be easy. The Jirmanic‘s were bred to kill, it was in our blood. All I had to do was get in close behind him, pull him in against my chest. My left hand would clamp around his face, taking care to pull the nose into the left shoulder. _Watch out for the mouth, and the teeth, because he will try to bite you._ Just below the right ear, there is a small soft spot. _Plunge the blade in there_. A quick strike, straight into the brain. Instant death and no noise. _Do it quickly and do it hard!_
Instant death, it sounded so simple. 

Perhaps I should attack him from the front, face-to-face and personal. A rabbit punch to his throat should do it. A quick blow to his trachea. As he reels back choking, stab the blade hard into the centre of the chest, puncturing his heart. Remember to cover the mouth as he goes down and do not forget to catch him before he hits the deck. Always remember to retrieve the knife from his still-warm body.
So quick, so easy, so simple. 

But what if my enemy is wearing one of the ornate necklaces that the nomadic tribes tended to wear? What if he was wearing body armour under his jacket? Both of which would turn my blade, and then what?
I felt around to my rear and found the wooden handle of my entrenching tool attached to my utility belt. I considered unhitching it and using that instead of the knife. Some of the veterans had told me that the blade on the shovel made an excellent close-quarter weapon and some of the experts could even cleave a man in two with one of them. 
But it was too late for that now; it would take too much time and effort to remove it from its cover. The scout was an arms length away.
I cursed the position I had been put in, and cursed my platoon commander who put me forward for this. I cursed the Non-com who put me up front, at the head of the company, but most of all, I cursed my youth and my total lack of experience as a soldier. This was a job for a seasoned Guardsman, not a fresh recruit straight out of _the factory*._I tried to clam myself down by controlling my breathing and focussing my mind. 
Concentrate. 

I tried to kid myself that I could do it. I had after all, I had been through similar scenarios a dozen times during combat simulations back in training, and this should be no different. I had breezed it back then and got top marks for the scouting phase. 
But that was training, and all the exercises had been against my fellow recruits, my barrack buddies, and no one ever got intentionally killed on the training fields. It had all been treated as a bit of a laugh, and a game…
But now, here, on a remote outpost of the Imperium, a young Guardsman, a Trooper of the Imperial Guard, was about to put some of that knowledge he had learnt, to good use. This was reality and not a carefully monitored combat simulation. The raw recruit was going head-to-head with another human being. This would be a trail of bravery, guile and skill. My breath against warm human skin, my trembling boot knife against his soft rebel flesh.
I summoned up every ounce of the courage I had within me and prayed to my ancestors to guide me here today.

* * *​
_*Pilsner_... Famous Jirmanic beer
_*Schwartzvillow_... gigantic oak-like trees, native to Jirmania Prime
_*The factory_... recruit training


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## Brother Emund

*S*O, WHO AM I exactly?

_Dear readers forgive me for my lack of forethought and my discourtesy. Before we continue my tale, I must tell you who I started out as, and describe myself to you exactly how I was, several life times ago…_ 

My name is Johan Sebastian Dietz.

When my tale began, I was a fresh-faced, snot-nosed, eighteen year old and greener than the greenest rock moss. 
I was tall and slight of build, though muscular and agile, and by a design of genetics, I was blessed with dark hair which marked me out from the rest of my compatriots, who were all invariably fair. 
A good diet, _“.. and plenty of fresh air“, _as my Grandpa Willi oft said, made me into a gifted athlete with the ability to run forever! 
I believed that it was my frugal life style that made me the way I was, but then I was only starting out in life, the truth would come later.

The Jirmanic’s, my people, are a fair-haired and light-skinned race and are either very tall and slim or squat and stocky. I was atypical because I had coal-black hair, which to a Jirmanic, is very rare.
My other unusual features are my eyes, which were deep and almost a luminous green in colour. Some would say they were almost feline. Was it genetics, a throw back, who knows? But I know that some people were un-nerved by them, and avoided my stare. The superstitious types believed that I could look into a mans soul, and they avoided me whenever they could. But the girls… 
The girls, the beautiful, slender Jirmanic girls… well they loved my eyes and I loved them back… ohh the joys of adolescence! 

I had spent my short life, living and working with my grandfather in a small wood mill in the Brücker Forest District, on the banks of the Odoor River. 
It was a modest existence, but it paid the bills. I knew that I was only biding my time, waiting for the call to come, as millions of my compatriots had done before, waiting for the call to march off to war.
Jirmania Prime, my beloved homeworld, a green globe in a dark sky. 
Ours was a Mu Class world, in a system of thirteen planets that abutted the outer rim of unexplored space. We were the last outpost to the void beyond.
When our ancestors arrived, they were a highly cultured and technically advanced race, a race of machine builders and scientists.
When the Great Heresy came, everything would change forever. The endless wars and natural catastrophes annihilated our population and destroyed our beautiful cities and towns until we were forced back into the great forests to survive. Extinction stared us in the face. But, the eye’s of our Ancestors were upon us and when, at the very end when all seemed lost, we turned on our enemies and smote them down and against all the odds we survived.
Never again would we possess the skills of our fathers, our past lives were lost to us and we reverted back to a pre-history civilisation and started out all over again.
When the Imperium came and the darkness was peeled away, we happily sided with the magnificent armour-clad warriors from the heavens, and readily accepted the Emperor as our one true leader. We lived, as we had always lived, amongst our tribes and families with our chieftains looking over us, and we were content. 
The Administratum, that vast army of bureaucracy, was happy to oblige and left us alone, by design or not, to live our warrior existence. 
Most of the able-bodied men on Jirmania were of the warrior-caste or linked directly to it. The weak and the feeble, the cowards and the shirkers, served the soldiers as best they could, and they in turn, were under our protection. That was the way it was, and always had been, would always be…
As a warrior you were free to do what you did best; to train and hone your skills so that one day, you would be ready to fight the God-Emperor’s enemies and join his Angels in the sky. 
Jirmania Prime and the rest of what was our Jirmanic Empire, provided a rich harvest of tough fighting men bred for war, and the Administratum was pleased.

I was from a long line of warriors, that stretched back over the Millennia, back, so it was said, to the original tribes. My future was already laid out before me. 

When I came of age, I would enlist in the Imperial Guard or the Planetary Defence Forces and I would earn my right to live in the Imperium of Man. 
My best friend, Emperor protect him, Adolphus Kretchmeyer, had left three years earlier and had joined a prestigious armoured unit… the fighting third I think? He was off battling someone or something, on a far-away front with a name I could not understand, and he was earning his passage to enlightenment. 
I envied him so much and longed to join him.
He sent word now-and-again, telling me epic tales of gargantuan battles against a vicious foe. He spoke of wondrous sights and riches to behold, and he told me what a great warrior he had become.
But after a while, the letters became less and less frequent, and when they did come, they had turned dull and melancholy, and seemed to be almost scripted and without his customary heart or passion. Soon, too soon, the letters stopped coming and I lost contact with my childhood friend. It left me sad and empty with a longing to leave the thick forests where I was brought up, and to travel in his footsteps. One day I would find him and we would be united once more.
“Don’t take it to heart my lad’, said Grandpa Willi ‘War gets to you like that. After a while, you forget about your past and the luxuries of home and it all pales into insignificance. The Guard, your regiment, your _Kompanie*_ or your _Züg*_ becomes your family and after that, nothing else seems to matter”. 

Grandpa Willi, the old campaigner, the unassuming warrior and my beloved mentor. 

On cold nights when the _Waldwolves*_ were circling our house, we would sit and gaze into the open fire and put the Universe to rights. Sometimes, he would sit back and put his feet up and then fade away into a trance to recall his own experiences in the Imperial Guard. He would puff manically on an incredibly old pipe that was intricately carved with strange words and pictures, and then grin.
I would try to quiz him about his military service, but he never gave much away and was always obscure and awkward, as if the memories were too hard for him to recall. 
Perhaps it was better left unsaid. 
“Glory or death’, the old man would mutter sometimes ‘Glory to the God Emperor”, and his eyes would cloud over and his face would turn ashen. He would puff vigorously on his pipe and then turn to me his face lined and wan.
“You’ll find out soon enough young man’, he would say in his serious voice, and then his face would break into a smile and we would both laugh about nothing in particular.
Grandpa Willi, the tattooed warrior with a hundred warrior rings plaited into his ragged grey beard. The hoary veteran with his long white scars. He had served in the Imperial Guard for forty five years, nearly half a century of war, death and destruction and somehow he had survived. What glories had he seen?
And then I would think about my father and that was where the mystery began. 
I never knew him, he disappeared when I was just a babe, but I had an overwhelming urge to find out more about him. 
I had a vague picture of him in my mind, a blurry vision of a tall man with a beard the colour of fresh straw and a broad smile, white-toothed smile. 
But that was all I could remember, the smile and a glint in a pair of deep blue eyes. There were no pictures, no records or anything of his around the house to help me remember, to help me put together the pieces. It was as if he had never existed.
“Your father was a very brave warrior Johan’, said Grandpa Willi, ‘the bravest of the brave, and loyal until the end’, and his voice would trail off into a whisper. The old man would lean forward and lower his voice. ‘But your father fell’ he hesitated ‘and has not been heard of since”

Missing in Action - Presumed Dead 
Honour Your Emperor​
That is what the official report said. Missing in Action. No date, no place or circumstances, nothing. 

Missing presumed dead. 

It left me with a lot of un-answered questions and an aching feeling in my heart that got worse as I grew older. It felt like a far away voice was crying out to me… crying out to me for the truth.
I had determined then that when the time was right, I would find out what had really happened to my father, and if I had the means at my disposal, and if he was still alive, I would bring him home.
“You will find your answers’ said Grandpa Willi ‘I am sure of it. But it is not up to this decrepit warrior to tell you what you must find out for yourself”.
Riddles and clues. 
What are they hiding? 
“Always riddles Grandpa” and then I would add… ‘And what of my mother. Please tell me about her again?” 
The old man would smile and sit back in his chair, clasping his hands in his lap, “Ahhh, your mother’ he would sigh ‘she was so beautiful, so fragile. She loved you dearly Johan”.
“But what became of her Grandpa?” 
The old man would wince and shake his head. I remember seeing tears well up in the old warriors eyes, and he would shake his head time and time again. The pain he was hiding was clear to see.
“I only need to say one word lad, Orks, the filthy green skins got her, when your father was far, far away’, he looked about him again. ‘When he… Your father found out, his anger showed no bounds’, and Grandpa Willi shook his head again and held up a hand ‘and that’s all I will say about it. All you need to know is that your mother and father loved you with all their hearts and that’s all that matters. And you, you little bundle of bones; you were given to me, to be held under my protection”.
“Protection? Protection from what, from whom?”
“From those who would seek to hurt you or take you away”
Riddles and clues.
“You are very cagey Grandpa”
The old man smiled “And you are very inquisitive, just like your mother. Now come lad, let’s go kill us something for dinner. A spot of hunting methinks. Are you up for it?”
I would wring my hands and shake my head with frustration. So many unanswered questions, so many riddles.
“Yes alright Grandpa I know your tricks. Let’s go out and hunt and then when we get back we will eat and drink and drink some more and perhaps, when you have drunk too much, I can quiz you about the Eldar and the Tau, and all the other things I want to know about, and you can change the subject again like you always do!”
“Of course’, the old warrior would chuckle ‘you would not have it any other way”

***​_*Kompanie.._ about a hundred and twenty men (a Company)
_*Züg.._ a section (8-10 men)
_*Waldwolves.._ literally, forest wolves


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## Brother Emund

WE WOULD PICK up our weapons and trek up into the upper forest and hunt down the animals that dwelt there in abundance. Since childhood, I had been tracking and hunting with Grandpa Willi, and I had become a backwoodsman or a Waldjäger in our tongue. I became a first-rate shot and could hit a thumb-sized rodent at a hundred metres. I used my favourite hunting rifle, an antique weapon with a large optical sight and a battered, scratched butt. Grandpa Willi had given it to me on my sixteenth birthday. He had brought it back as a souvenir from some distant battlefield, a long time ago.
“It belonged to a sniper from a rebel tribe called the Grad’, started the old man. ‘They were experts, I mean, first-rate shots. Imagine it, an entire race of snipers”.
“Were they Imperial Guard?”
“No, unfortunately not. They were misguided rebels that turned their backs on the Emperor. They were human of course, and thankfully not tainted, but they wanted to go it alone, and, as you know, once you are in the club’ he coughed ‘the Imperium that is, you are in for good.
This particular sniper singled my unit out and hunted us day and night
Hunted. We were his prey you see. We may just as well been deer or grox, that is how the Grad saw us’, Grandpa would then curse and spit, ‘This bastard used to leave the enlisted men and kill only our officers. He became a real problem to us, a real thorn in our side”.
I remembered that I stared at the battered weapon and wondered about its violent history.
“So how did you come by this weapon, Grandpa?”
The old man grinned and wagged a bony finger.
“I was much better than him in the end. I went out one day, tracked him down and then laid a trap for him. I gave him a nice juicy target that he would not be able to resist”.
“A target?”
“Yes, I gave him a lovely _Oberst*_ to shoot at”
I had frowned at this, “I’m not with you. You gave him an officer to shoot. A traitor Oberst?”
“No, a serving Imperial Guard Oberst. A real hard bastard, who was as tough as old boots’, Grandpa Willi chuckled to himself ‘A tough bastard like me!”
“You?”
Grandpa Willi stood up and pulled open his over garment to reveal a red welt across one shoulder.
“Me, lad. The rebel shot me, and gave away his position and that was when I finished him off’, he paused and shook his head. ‘You are particularly slow today young Johan. I was the officer and I drew him out. It was me who killed that damned sniper”.

* * *​
WHEN I CAME of age, I took the path of the warrior and immediately signed up for service in the Imperial Guard.
“You are from a long line of warriors’, Grandpa Willi would often say ’…And there is a Dietz on every muster roll throughout Jirmania’s history. I know you will do your best to uphold our name and not fail your ancestors”.

I had already decided to join Grandpa Willi’s old regiment, the 3rd Jirmania Infantry Regiment, a unit that had a fearsome reputation for savagery, but steadfastness on the battlefield.

They were known as the _“Deathshead Regiment”_ and had earned their title through hard, brutal fighting over the millennia. I remembered that they looked like a bunch of wild-eyed savages, with their beards and warrior rings, and carrying axes and blades that looked decidedly out of place in the Imperial Guard. They were born soldiers who walked with a quiet, confident swagger that instantly appealed to me. This would, I decided, be my life and the dice had been cast.

As I was young, fit and gifted with unlimited energy I breezed through the ritualized and almost barbaric recruit training. After twenty weeks, I was relieved and proud to remove the white-striped helmet of a recruit, and begin my career as an Imperial Guardsman. 

Immediately, and without a pause to sit on my laurels, I was whisked away to begin my new life in the service of the Golden Throne. Ignorance and youth buoyed me along; it seemed like a great adventure. But the truth, the stark reality of it all, was that most of these eager, young men who surrounded me would never return home. Their rotting flesh and bones would be left, mostly forgotten, to fade away on some far-flung battlefield on a far-flung planet. 

Welcome to the meat grinder that is the Imperial Guard… 

All in the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind.​ 
Fate or perhaps unseen hands were at work. I found himself in the First Platoon, of the First Company, First battalion, the _“Kopftjägers”_ in our native dialect, and in Imperial Gothic, the _Headhunters_. This small unit of dedicated warriors was made up of the crème of the regiment, the toughest warriors and all of them fanatical champions in their own right. Each and every one of them had survived numerous battles and assigned great swathes of the Emperor’s enemies to oblivion. They were indestructible statues that were born to kill.

Fate… or not? 

It had taken one of these veteran’s deaths to secure my place within the unit, and a very rare opportunity presented itself. 
The future had been set for me. I was now amongst some of the very best troops the Imperium had to offer, and it was an excellent training ground if I wanted to survive my twenty-five years service.

“Don’t you disappoint me lad’, said my commanding officer, a dour, serious Colonel called Frederick von Eicke, ‘you foul up and you are out on your arse with my boot wedged firmly between your buttocks. Fail me just once, and you’ll be out of 1st _Truppe*_ before you can yell ‘Emperor Protect Me‘. You‘ll be out of the Truppe, the Kompanie, and out of my beloved regiment. Do you understand young man? One Fic up and that’s it. From this point onwards, you are on probation. Do not fail me… do not fail us, any of us. 
The _Kopftjägers_ are usually chosen from the finest warriors in the regiment. Men who have earned their place through blood, sweat, toil and above all, loyalty to me, their commanding officer and warlord. 
Loyalty young Dietz. I demand it, and with your loyalty comes my generosity and my respect”. 
I remembered that he had stared long and hard into my eyes as if he was trying to delve into my soul. As I stood in front of him at the position of attention, I found myself shaking, and felt sweat meandering down the joints in my spine.
“Your position amongst the rest of the men will cause you untold misery,and hardship, and some, if not all of them will hate you. Tough, I don’t care. Your discomfort does not concern me; you will face far greater tasks in the future. You keep your head down, you learn from the men around you, and above all, you do as you are told. 
One day, when you think you are worthy, you will offer yourself into my service as a warrior, and from that point on, you will become my brother. If you survive everything that is thrown at you, and make it, I know that I did the right thing in letting you enter the _Kopftjägers_. If you die, I can always find another man to replace you. It is as simple as that”.
The colonel paused and picked up a crystal decanter that was sitting on the corner of his desk. It contained an amber liquid that bubbled and hissed. Eicke raised it to his nose and took a deep breath, taking in a mixture of air and vapour. He sighed and then smiled to himself.
“I am only doing this out of respect for your family name’ he continued, placing the decanter down reverently ‘and especially for your grandfather, who has long been a close comrade of mine. He believes that you, young man, are destined for greater things, so do not let him or me down. 
I expect, above and beyond the call of duty from you from now on… and nothing less”.

* * *​_Oberst*_.. Colonel
_Truppe*_... Platoon


----------



## Brother Emund

SO THERE I was, the youngest Trooper in the entire regiment, and thrown straight in at the deep end, as the saying goes.
The regiment, designated the 3rd Imperial Guard Regiment (Jirmania Prime), the _“Deathshead”_ Regiment, had a history stretching back into the mists of time. Its roll of honour was long and prestigious; a veteran regiment ruthlessly forged in the crucible of battle.

But I was just a _Jungen_, a derogatory Jirmanic term for a child, and straight out of training; a fact that I was reminded of on a daily basis, with insults and thrashings. I imagined that they did; indeed, loath me, and I beleive that the first few weeks of my arrival were deliberately made intolerable. After the tenth beating for some minor infringement, I felt at my lowest ebb, lonely, miserable and a long way from home.

“This is nothing to what its like on the battlefield, you filth”, a veteran cursed one day ‘get used to it; you don’t get a second chance out there”.

But during those darkest hours, when I lay in my bunk at night, I would think of my Grandpa Willi, and even the myth of my father, and I would feel a new strength building up inside me, a hidden power that could not be defeated. I would shake myself out of my melancholy, and grit my teeth. I would stand tall, and I knew that I would make it. I would show them all. I would see it through to the end, and make Grandpa Willi, and my father, wherever he may be, proud of me. 
To do that, I knew that I had to prove myself worthy to wear the uniform, the cuff-titles and the medals, and the only things the grizzled warriors around him respected were other warriors, and a warriors fighting prowess and creed. I would have to become a master of both. 
I was a _Kopftjäger_ now but only in name. The _Kopftjägers[/I always lead from the front and the whole regiment looked to them for guidance and example. 

For now, I was nothing more than a snivelling wet-nosed Untermench* and I knew that if I was on my own and in trouble, none of the men around me would lift a finger to help. When the brown stuff hit the fan, I would be very much on my own. 
When I stood in their ranks, I was always mindful of this. I stood out from the others, but not just because of my youthfulness, because there were young warriors in other units who were not much older than I ... it was the beards. 
In war-like Jirmanic society, a warrior was distinguished by his beard. Only a soldier who had proved his worth in battle was deemed worthy to grow one. I was un-blooded, fresh, and had yet to prove myself. As the weeks passed by, it gnawed at my bones. 

A Warrior.

On Jirmania, a mans ultimate goal was to become one, to fight and die for the God-Emperor. Warriors occupied the positions of power, protected the weak and looked after the poor, it was the Jirmanic way.
In order to fulfil his life, a Jirmanic warrior would achieve victory, unflinching in the face of adversity, whatever the odds, whether injured, infirm or aged. A glorious death was the only fitting end to a glorious life.
I became consumed by the desire to walk tall amongst them, but I knew, that to get there, I would have to kill, and I would have to kill the Emperor’s enemies in large numbers.
I knew that out there in the vastness of space, they were waiting for me…. And I, Trooper Dietz of the Emperor’s loyal Imperial Guard, would have plenty of opportunities to achieve my goal…….

* * *​ SO HERE I am, crouching in soft white silica, hot, sweaty, and thoroughly peeved off, on a planet, billions of light years from home. 
This planet, this hostile lump of rock with its twin suns, its unbearable heat, and persistent, driving winds. It was a hot sticky hell-of-a-place that spawned swarms of biting insects and was host to a myriad of strange creatures, which had adapted to the harsh desert environment, creatures that would fill me with wonder… and dread.
It was roughly two in the morning, adjusted Terra time but it felt like the middle of the afternoon. The suns were just over the horizon. The temperature was already rising and it was beginning to get uncomfortable in all my combat gear. Soon it would be in the high forties and topping fifty degrees and then it would be unbearable. 
Distant birds began to call out; eagerly greeting the new dawn in a crescendo of high pitch squawks and shrills. 

I was now bent almost double, with my senses strained to breaking point. I had slung my Lasgun over my back and I could feel its reassuring weight against my shoulders. The Lasgun was a fearsome weapon with a simple but sturdy design. It pumped out rounds at a high rate of fire but was not known for its accuracy. It mattered not, it was designed solely to kill, and it did that job very well.
I had never fired it in action yet, despite being on the planet Handshaar these past two months. The enemy always filtered away when we approached, or they hit us from a long distance away before we could return fire. I was a frustrated wannabe-warrior who longed to feel the weapons heavy pulse in my shoulder. I could think of nothing better than taking the fight to my elusive enemy.
But I was not going to be using it today, not yet at least. Today I would use the age-old favourite, a weapon used by billions of soldiers throughout history… the good-old fashioned boot knife… and I could not afford to fail.

I had found a large clump of tall spiky desert grass, known locally as Flyfax. It stood about two metres high with long pale-green stems with bulky, red-pettled flowers at their ends. A ragged bush of meter-long spikes surrounded its base. The spikes were razor-sharp with serrated edges, and quite capable of piercing our uniforms and even the soles of our boots. My arms and legs were already sticky with blood, from a hundred lacerations.
Some, like Warren Cholitz from third squad, known with affection as ‘The Professor’, would describe the flowers of the Flyfax as beautiful. But he was a well-educated ex-teacher, who appreciated just about everything. 
But their deep red flowers did not disguise the odour that they gave off. They stank of what one wag described as a combination of rotting flesh and mouldy cheese. This odour attracted a multitude of white-eyed, thumb-sized carrion flies who were mesmerized by its smell. The flower’s pollen carried its own hazards. The small yellow grains were highly corrosive, and if a few of them got onto exposed skin, blistering and open wounds would result. The pain was supposed to be excruciating. I did not have the slightest inclination to test out this theory. Most of the troopers wore gloves in this climate and were ordered to wear their helmets, with the visors down, to protect their faces. But in the unendurable heat, the head and brain could literally boil, so most of the men discarded them for simple sand-coloured field caps. 
Unfortunately, I could not afford to be so blasé. I was not in a position to do anything off my own back. I had not earned the right. I continued to wear the Tri-dome, the standard-issue Imperial Guard helmet, but when I moved into the grass, I dared to flip the visor up. It helped slightly, but the heat still sapped away my energy. I avoided the spikes and pollen but could not avoid the flies. One of them, a big, flat-headed monster with a long probing labium
hovered just above my head, watching me with what appeared to be curiosity, through large compound eyes. 
I had something that it wanted, a commodity so precious on this planet that it was worth more than gold… liquid, but to be more precise, the saline solution protecting my eyes. 
At first, I tried to ignore the fly, but it was persistent, languidly hovering just out of my reach, and waiting for its opportunity to strike. Every now and again, it would dart forward and flick my cheeks with a pair of tiny silver wings. It appeared to be taunting me. I blinked rapidly and even tried to blow the creature away, but it kept coming back for more, until it would not leave at all. Eventually, it landed on my right cheek and closely observed me.
I could do nothing now, the Beddo scout was too close and any sudden movement was sure to be detected. My enemy had moved to within arms reach but was oblivious to the danger he faced, lurking in the Flyfax. I was so close, that I could literally blow on the mans face. 
The fly shuffled forwards another couple of centimetres.

Please, you disgusting creature, just leave me alone for a 
few more seconds, and when this is all over, hell, you can drink my whole canteen… but please, just for the time being, leave me alone.

* * *​
Untermench*... (literally) sub-human_


----------



## Brother Emund

THIS PLANET, THIS lump of bleached sand and rock, was known as Handshaar. It was the Shining planet, a glowing beacon of civilisation in a far corner of known space. 
To the thousands of Imperial Guard Trooper’s stationed around its surface, it was described somewhat differently. Milder metaphors listed were; ‘The Hated Hell-Hole‘, “The Orks Armpit” and the “rear-end of the world”, depending on your point of view. 
It was a land of tall jagged mountains, rolling sand dunes and endless open desert. It was also a place of mythical monsters, vast salt plains, and shifting sands. A man could also become very rich harvesting the planets unlimited natural resources of minerals and precious metals.
Handshaar was the only inhabited planet in a small sub-system made up of three planets and three moons. Handshaar itself was caught in the gravitational pull of a huge blue gas giant made from hydrogen and helium called Ukodus. It was twenty times the size of Handshaar and was circled by a ring of floating ice particles and rocks. The ring was a thousand miles wide and lethal to the unwary traveller. Ukodus had its own moon made of water and rock with clouds of methane. A quarter the size of Handshaar and uninhabited, MX302 was believed to house the remains of an ancient xenos civilisation. A Munitorum space station with its population of Adepts and servitors scoured the moon for any signs of life and try to discover the secrets it held. They braved the low temperatures, the wind and icy rain, and many died in the bitter cold storms.
Ukodus’s shadow never fell on Handshaar, locked as it was in its endless orbit. It sat high up in the heavens, a great globe of blue and grey. It was so large and close, that you only had to stretch out your arm to feel its cool embrace.

The other planet and moons circling above us were classified as Death worlds, planets deemed too dangerous to inhabit, and were either barren balls of rock or primitive environments, with poisoned atmospheres or surfaces of molten rock, metal or ice. 
Life, that is life as we know it, existed in numbers, only here on Handshaar.

The planet had been colonised over ten thousand years ago, but only had a small population, numbering a few million, perhaps no more than ten. It was hard to carry out a consensus when a great chunk of the population was nomadic and never remained in the same place for very long.
It also had a long and ancient culture based on religion and trade.

People travelled through the asteroid belts, the dust clouds and pirate fleets, to get to Handshaar’s vast reserves of
minerals, precious metals and stones. They also came to the shrines and holy places on Handshaar, to give homage to 
The God-Emperor. Everyone visited its capital, Nabulûs City, a religious centre of some significance, where many miracles had occurred and valuable Holy relics were stored. 

Life was very hard here, with an almost blast furnace heat during the day, and when the suns crossed over the horizon, a bright, hot night Living on the planets surface was hard and uncompromising, and to be caught away from habitation, shade or water meant certain death.
There was no precipitation here, no rain to ease a parched throat, or precious water to grow crops, to bring life… There was just the raw heat, dust, windstorms and never-ending daylight. 
Vast water conveyors, the size of large cities, shuttled in and out of the atmosphere all day and all night, bringing in the precious lifeblood, without which all life would cease.

However, despite everything, indigenous life did exist on this sun-scorched rock and the Flyfax and flies were a testament to that. 
Handshaar had not always been as dry or arid as it was now. Millions of years ago, if you had walked upon its surface, you would have found flowing rivers here, with lakes and vast oceans. Green trees and life forms in their billions roaming lush and fertile lands. 
Then it all disappeared, some catastrophe had struck the planet, and turned it into the lump of rock it was today. 
However, due to a freak of geology, any water that remained, remained so underground, hidden and out of sight. In places, small springs did manage to reach the surface, and when it did, it brought precious life to the deserts.
An eco-system evolved around these small water fissures. Flies and insects lived off plants; small reptiles lived off the flies, and so on, all the way up the food chain to the huge mythical monsters that roamed the deep deserts, which was the stuff of local legend.
The Handshaari lived in small airy cities or shaded encampments, which were linked by wide high ways or caravan tracks. Small-scattered outposts dotted the surface, where the hard men lived, trading with any who paid the fair price. In the deep desert, there were the Beddo … and rumours, quiet rumours of horrors beyond comprehension that no one ever talked about. Outsiders never explored the vast wastes, and if they did venture out, few, if any, ever came back.

Handshaar was a valuable outpost of the Imperium, and Imperial forces had been fighting the illusive rebels for nine weeks now, tracking them down in the vast featureless wildernesses. The small cities and towns had virtually fallen without a fight, and the rebel forces were driven ever backwards, ever retreating. Now, all that remained was the capital city itself, and it was here that the rebels had decided to draw a line in the sand.

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

SIX MONTHS AGO, a holy man, and a member of the Ecclesiarch, a small-time preacher called Nabu-Amin, had a vision. 
In the Holy Temple of the Immaculate Birth in the capital city of Nabulûs, an angel had visited him whilst he prayed. The angel showed him the future and the future was bleak and full of death, destruction and untold misery. The Emperor, whose light guides us through the void, was going to be struck down by a daemon God of Chaos, so powerful that the very foundations of the great palaces of Terra, would crumble to dust and trillions would die in the internecine war that followed. The Emperor would fall amongst his loyal servants and the ruinous powers would finally devour the dynasty of Mankind.
With his dying breath, the God-Emperor ordered ’The Enlightened Ones’ to save his people and hide them away until the Emperor‘s second coming. These chosen people would lead the way to a new beginning. He, Nabu-Amin had been selected. He would be one of the Emperor’s elite cadre, a chosen leader, and he would save Humanity.
Blessed by the Emperor, and with the guidance of his angels, the Holy man persuaded his fellow believers to join him on this great journey across the stars.
The people, mainly poor serfs, ignorant but forever hopeful, followed him, and believed in his tales of foreboding. He would be the one who would lead them from the coming darkness and into the dawn of a new era.
He named himself; Nabu-Handshaar-Usar, The King of Handshaar and his followers travelled far and wide to spread his holy words.
Imperial interests, the finite tools of government were brushed aside in a wave of religious zeal and euphoria. 

For he had been chosen…. 

But the Emperor was not going to fall… at least not yet. The skies did not blacken, and the suns snuff out. The dread Gods of Chaos did not venture forth to regurgitate their foulness and corruption. The Emperor of Mankind was safe on Holy Terra, controlling the Imperium from his vast palace, and surrounded by thousands of loyal space marines with the most powerful defence systems in the history of the galaxy.
The Emperor blinked and the High Lords of Terra studied their charts to find this planet on the outer reaches. They did not share the king’s visions, nor were they impressed by his disloyalty to their God.
So they sent forth emissaries with orders to bring the king’s head back to Terra, but when the corpses of the emissaries returned instead of the Kings head, all notions of a peaceful settlement were over. The rebellion would be dealt with as it is always dealt with.

The Imperial Guard came…. 

THE SCOUT STOPPED and began moving his head slowly, cocking it to one side and making sniffing sounds. He was almost invisible, clad in the traditional sand-coloured _Throbe_ the Beddo’s wore, which covered the upper part of his body, secured at the waist with a crimson cumber band made of silk. His legs were covered in lose-fitting desert-style combat trousers, tucked into heavy-duty boots. As a desert dweller, he also wore the white cloth _Shemag_ over his head, a traditional covering used by desert-types to protect them from the heat. He wore black eye-protectors, which made him look almost machine-like. A curved dagger with an ornately decorated sheath and a water canteen finished him off.
The only thing that I recognised on the scout, was a standard-issue Imperial Guard Lasgun, and that was pointing in my direction. The Beddo had wrapped a piece of white cloth around its barrel, which was a rudimentary attempt at camouflage.
The scout stood upright, placed the palm of his right hand against his chest, and began murmuring a prayer or chant. 

Three things now happened simultaneously, catching me completely by surprise… 

There was a snap, like the sound of a dry twig, which caused the Beddo to swing around to his left, bringing his Lasgun up into his shoulder in one swift movement…

My right eye exploded in a stab of white-hot pain… 

The rebel scout crashed forward into the Flyfax with a low grunt, stirring up a great cloud of dust and flies… 

A second or two of complete silence and then a sudden movement. 
“Fic, Fic, and Fic to the heavens’, came a gruff voice ’I cannot bloody believe it! I knew it, I bloody knew it. Stand up you bog-trotting _Jüngen_, or by the God Emperor himself, I’ll kick you ‘til you bleed”.
I found myself on my knees, with my knife laying in the dust a couple of metres in front of me. I was holding my face, which had exploded in a crescendo of white-hot pain. 
A shadow passed over me, momentarily blocking out the planet’s twin suns. It was another _Kopftjäger_, a short man with the bold numerals ‘*111*’ on his left shoulder guard. The three ‘one’s’ of first squad, first platoon, first company… my squad. The man was not wearing a standard helmet but wore a tatty, grey forage cap instead.

I dared to glance up, and then realised who it was. I was numb, speechless and could do nothing but clutch at my face, which throbbed with waves of stabbing pain.
“_Unteroffizier*…._’ I managed to groan pathetically, ’I don’t know what happened”. 
The blow came from nowhere, hitting the left side of my head, and knocking me sideways into the sand. I momentarily blacked out. A legion of small crickets descended upon me as soon as he hit the hard ground, and invaded every nook and cranny of my uniform.
“Shut your stinking hole boy, especially when I am in full flow’ reproved my attacker, who actually wore the two white chevrons of a junior Non-com, _’Verdammpt!_ (common curse)’ he cursed, ‘what have I done to deserve this?”.
With stars and slivers of white light bouncing in front of my eyes and my face, throbbing like a bastard, I struggled into the sitting position and sat there, forlorn, like a dejected child, with my legs splayed out in front of me. I did not know what else to do, I felt useless. 
Now I became aware of other figures moving up and around me. There were sets of dusty boots, kicking up small 
clouds as they passed by. I could hear sniggering and the odd low curse. A small globule of spittle landed on the toe of one of my boots. 
I looked up and met the corporal’s glare. The mans eyes were wide, almost manic, and his mouth was closed tightly. Long furrows creased his tanned brow. There was a dribble of white spittle at the corner of his mouth and his left cheek twitched uncontrollably.
He was an ugly brute with a flat, broken nose. His slim face had the texture of leather and was criss-crossed 
with scars. A particularly long slash ran from his left ear to 
the corner of his mouth. 
His chin was covered with a long shaggy, unkempt beard, which was dark-brown in colour. Grey had begun to invade its edges. What stood out most were the rings. The beard was interlaced with dozens of them and some of them were magnificently crafted. A lot of the Emperor’s enemies had died to produce such a magnificent display.

He leant down, looked into my face, and then let out a great sigh, slowly shaking his head. I could smell liquor on the mans breath and the faint smell of smoke on his uniform. 
Now the tell-tale battered field cap , with its grinning skull on the front, hove into view and realised who it was…. 

Corporal Dormagen, my section commander and Dormagen was not a happy man. 
The corporal had slung his own Lasgun across his back, and was leaning on his _Schlactaxe*_ like a walking stick. The blade was stained with fresh blood.
“He could have given the whole game away boy, and the smelly brown stuff would have been flying through the air, thick and fast’. The old veteran frowned at me, a last minute addition to the platoon. He could see the look of utter despair and helplessness on my face. 
“What am I to do with you?’ he muttered to himself ‘what am I to do? Why me? What have I done to deserve this?” 
I was beaten. I dropped my head, and tried to avoid the mans piercing stare. The corporal lifted my head back up with an extended finger.
“It’s Deeze, isn’t it?” he asked in a curiously high-pitched voice, with a heavy accent. 
“T.t.t.trooper Dietz, Herr Unteroffizier, Sir”, I replied solemnly, using the civilian title of ‘Herr’ and the even grander title of ‘Sir’, though I did not know why. I suddenly felt very stupid. Dormagen grinned, revealing a row of dirty brown teeth.
“Less of the ‘Sir’, boy, I’m no officer, I work for a living. Plain Unteroffizier will do fine”.
The grizzled corporal held out his hand, and with surprising gentleness, helped me get slowly to my feet. He held my gaze for a while longer and then shook his head. He then placed what I believed to be, a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
“You have not got the makings of a scout lad, that’s for sure’, he said, in a much calmer voice, ‘you are far too slow and lack combat experience… I told them that, but they wouldn‘t listen. The leutnant insisted that you take point. I told them you would Fic it all up, and you did not let me down. You hesitated at the point of attack, and utterly failed. If you don’t catch on very quickly, you’ll be dead before you ever become a warrior. You will remain a _Beardless one*_ and dishonour your family”.
I tried to brush some of the dust off my uniform and then gingerly felt my right cheek. I could feel a large swelling and knew that my face was probably bright red. 
Although I had tried to hide it, I knew that there were the telltale signs of juvenile tears. 
The flat-headed fly, my pesky nemesis, had actually stung me in the end. To this day, I believed that the creature had done it out of spite. 
“I’m sorry…” I muttered and lowered my head again.

Dormagen suddenly grabbed me by the scruff of my collar and shook me hard several times. It was vicious and unprovoked and took me completely by surprise.
“Shut the Fic up and listen to me if you want to survive all this _Shisse _(common curse). Shut the fic up and listen. 
I am here today because I watched and listened to men who knew what it was all about. I watched, listened, and kept my ficking hole shut, and I learnt. 
There are people and things out there who desperately want to kill you. They want to rip your heart out, drink your blood, and even take your soul. They want to rid this universe of Mankind’s existence, exterminate us all. Million’s of deaf bastards are lying dead all over the cosmos because they did not listen, and if you do not shake up, you’ll be just another statistic’. The corporal let me go, and then, surprisingly, he attempted to smooth the creases he had made in my jacket. His face became calmer and brightened a little. He stared directly into my eyes.
“Look’, he said calmly ‘Make sure that you DO learn something from this experience, even if it’s just to remember my shagging rank”. 
He then glanced over to the corpse of the dead Beddo and grimaced. He turned back to me, his face serious again “The job of a scout is simple; you must see every thing but not be seen yourself. You must be silent and deadly. You must kill quick and quietly, and move like the wind, like a shadow. Eliminate the opposition, and show us the way”.
He rummaged around inside one of his many pockets and produced an old rag. Slowly, and with reverence, he wiped the blood away from the blade of his axe. He then looked at me and smiled. 
“Sort yourself out lad, straighten up. You’ll be fine. Now, let’s find the rest of this rebels mates’, he continued matter-of-factly ‘and line them up beside him. Then we’ll clear up the rest of this Emperor-forsaken planet and bring its rebellious population back into the fold”.

DORMAGEN SHRUGGED AND then pushed me roughly to one side. He squatted down next to the dead Beddo and stared at the corpse for a few seconds. He looked up suddenly and scanned the Flyfax around him. Him seemed to satisfy himself that everything was alright before he leant forward and rifled the dead Beddo’s pockets and canvas food bag.
Looting the dead was a flogging offence and could even land you in a penal battalion if you were caught. However, looting was a particular skill that the Deathshead Regiment excelled in, after all, it was all part of the warrior culture. The fact that no man had actually been caught and disciplined for such a crime, was a testament to their skill and expertise.
Dormagen had discovered some old coins, a jewelled ring, a lump of local brown bread, and a small green bottle, which he eyed suspiciously. He looked around him one more time, just for safety’s sake, before putting the loot into his own haversack. He would study his stash later and then work out what it was worth. A man could get rich in the Guard, if you knew the ways. He held up the rebels jewelled dagger and smiled before tucking it into his utility belt. He would trade it later with some of the rear-echelon troops, something like that could get him quite a few credits. He sensed me watching him and shot me a smile.
“Spoils of war’, he grinned and then added almost matter-of-factly ‘he, after all, had no further use for the stuff”, he guffawed loudly.
The grizzled corporal then sat astride the body and pulled out his own boot knife. Then, and much to my revulsion, and after several grunts and groans, the corporal cut off the scouts head with a series of expert strokes. 
I found myself stepping forward to watch, though I do not know why. I had never seen a dead man up close like this. Something inside was telling me to get in and study the unfortunate rebel. Study it and learn from the act of death. Dormagen seemed oblivious to my presence at his shoulder, or did not care. He unravelled the Beddo’s Shemag, a local wrapping that covered the head, to reveal a dark, handsome man, about twenty years of age. The corporal held the head up by its long oiled black hair and gazed into its clouded eyes. The boy looked back, his face still locked in shock and surprise, a small trickle of blood meandering down his face from the scalp to his cheekbone.
I studied the rebel’s features and searched myself for some sort of feeling, some sort of emotion, but I felt nothing, nothing at all. It was if a switch in my head had been turned off and my normal emotions had been locked away.
Dormagen broke my concentration.
“Hansom' chap, don’t you think?”. I looked at his grizzled face and then down at the Beddo’s corpse. Swarms of sand flies began gathering around it and had in vast legions, onto and the pool of sticky, congealed blood, that had formed around it. A real scrum had formed between the flies and crickets, and all of them vying for the best feeding spots.
“I-I-I don’t know what to say….”, I stuttered.
“Verdammpt traitor’, Dormagen suddenly hissed, and then, as if it was the most natural thing to do in the world, and using the scouts long hair, he tied the bloody head to his belt, and let the grisly trophy hang on his left hip.
He turned to me, “He would have skinned you alive if he had got hold of you. Tough Bastards these Beddo’s’, he winked at me and smiled again ‘learn from this Jungen, learn and live”.
“Heads up!’ came a warning from one of the other troopers, ‘the Spiess* is coming”.

* * *​_Unteroffizier*…._ Senior Corporal
_Schlactaxe*..._ Jirmanian War axe
_Beardless one*..._ Only warriors are permitted to wear beards. To not have a beard is a great dishonour to the Jirmanic's


----------



## Brother Emund

STABSFELDWEBEL ROLPH SCHAEFFER, First Sergeant of the _Kopftjägers_, and the most senior sergeant in the regiment, and known with affection as “the Spiess“.
To those who knew him, he was a living legend, a hero to the common soldier, but a constant thorn in the side of the officer class. To me, he was a terrifying figure, a hard-arsed 
veteran of a thousand battles, who was also my protector, and, if the stories were true, the best-goddamned rough-and-ready Non-com in the whole Imperial Guard.

Schaeffer. The name has been heard before. But this was not the Schaeffer, the Peoples Hero that was the stuff of legends. When people think of Schaeffer, they think of Colonel Schaeffer, the bloodthirsty leader of the 13th Penal Legion, known as “Schaeffer’s Last Chancer’s”.
This Schaeffer, Rolph Schaeffer, was from a small village on the banks of the Sorperzee Lake on Jirmania Prime, and he was something else all together. He was a soldier’s soldier and leagues apart from Colonel Schaeffer, his namesake. He was as tough as steel spikes and twice as sharp. He was a rare and dangerous breed, a professional soldier through-and-through, a warrior from legends who walked the worlds today. He had an impeccable fighting record, unmatched, and second only to an Astartes.
The two Schaeffer’s did share many physical characteristics, in both height and build, and had probably shared similar experiences serving the God Emperor. 

Nevertheless, Colonel Schaeffer would happily sacrifice a thousand lost souls in the blink of an eye, if it meant final victory. Rolph Schaeffer would do everything humanly possible to keep his men alive.

He was six feet tall, and very slim and gaunt looking. He had a drawn forlorn face that had seen too much war. He was the wrong side of forty, but looked far older, the twenty-five years service in the Imperial Guard, had clearly taken its toll on him. His skin was grey and had a leathery look, hardened by harsh weather and climate extremes. 
You were immediately drawn to the black patch he wore over his right eye.
Schaeffer would not have an augmentic fitted and preferred wearing an old-fashioned eye-patch, which became his trademark. 
He had lost his eye during a vicious close quarter fight with a Tyranid Hormaugaunt on Aspen 432. Schaeffer had killed the Tyranid warrior, but at a heavy cost. He lost the eye, and received multiple wounds during the encounter, which would have killed lesser men. His body was now a mass of scar tissue and metal plates.
Schaeffer wore the fallen Hormaugaunts teeth on a necklace made from some of its leg sinews. A priceless trophy and an obvious reminder to all, as to just how tough and lethal the man was.

He was an incomparable warrior, and a soldier of renown, but unlike other Jirmanic soldiers of the warrior caste, he refused to wear a beard or display any warrior rings to signify his status. He was always clean-shaven and immaculate in every way, the very epitome of a regular NCO. He remained aloof from most of the Jirmanic ways. 

He never removed the heads of his fallen enemies, and never robbed the dead. He always treated his enemies with the utmost respect, even the xenos breeds. By leading by example, he tried to encourage his men to do likewise.
He was highly decorated and his dress tunic was adorned with medals and honours that he had earned from across the universe. Schaffer would barely give them a second glance, but a casual observer would be impressed, very impressed.
The Close-combat clasp in gold for 150 days of hand-to-hand fighting, the Jirmania-issued Infantry assault badge, the Wound Badge in gold, five Tank-Hunter badges in silver for the destruction of twenty-five armoured vehicles without the use of rockets or flamers. The _Eban Emaal*_ and _Kuban Primus* _Campaign Shields along with the Lax System Triumph cuff title. Above these, and rare achievements in themselves, he wore the _Ultimata Honorifica_ and the _Medallion Crimson_ for the horrific injuries he had received. In battle, he only wore the Tyranid necklace and the Eban Emaal Shield on his arm. 
The senior sergeant also carried a small, intricately carved hammer on his belt, an alien weapon that was produced on the Squat Homeworld’s. No one, except Dormagen perhaps, knew why he carried it. The hammer was another mystery that surrounded this living legend.
As far as anyone was aware, he had no kinfolk, and no family to mention. He hailed from the lake region in central Jirmania, but did not have a home, a place where his roots were. No one where he came from, a ghost. 
He was one of the Teutons, the tribe-less mercenaries who roamed the planet, selling their services to the highest bidder. Men with no allegiance to any chieftain, clan or tribe.

His leaders, his officers, they all recognised his worth, and was offered a position in the _Bodyguard Regiment_, the personal escort, to the Great War chief and the Imperial Commander, Adolph Haussar on Jirmania Prime. This was a great honour, and any warrior from the Bodyguard was held in great esteem in Jirmanian society. Schaeffer had subtlety declined the invitation, preferring to fight in a line-infantry regiment like thousands of others. When they offered him a commission, he turned that down without hesitation.
“I am my own man’, he would tell them ’and subject to no one except the God Emperor himself. Besides, I hate all officers”.
They never pushed it any further. They accepted him, and respected him for who he was… they could not do otherwise.
Schaeffer was a warrior-knight in the classic sense. His men loved him, and they would follow him through the Eye of Terror, if he led the way.

_Eban Emaal*..._ A 653 day siege, that finally lead to an Imperial victory
_Kuban Primus*... _ Epic land battle between Ork's and the Guard

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

TROOPER RUDOLPH KERN, another member of the Kopftjägers, was an even uglier-looking beast than Dormagen and that was saying something. He was kneeling next to the dead scout, going through the mans pockets. He shook his head with disappointment when he realised that Dormagen had already beaten him to it. Kern was a dull-eyed bruiser who had lost both his ears during some long-forgotten battle. When Schaeffer appeared, he waved the senior sergeant over and nodded at the corpse.
“Rolph, look at that”. 

The Handshaari’s sand-coloured cloak had fallen open to reveal flak armour underneath. On the man’s right shoulder pad was an embossed Imperial eagle. Schaeffer looked at the headless corpse for a few seconds and then prodded it with the toe of his boot. A swarm of insects angrily took to the air and buzzed his face. The Spiess shook his head and then looked up at the men gathering around him.

“Remember this‘, he said in a low, uncompromising voice ‘and remember this good. If any of you are having any doubts about who we are fighting here, I’ll remind you. 
As soon as this man decided to follow his deluded leaders, and break away from the Imperium, he lost the right to wear our uniform. He is not Imperial Guard; he is just an enemy wearing an Imperial Guard uniform. He is no better than a Greenskin or a Grübeln. 
We are the power around here, the legitimate power and authority. We are the word of the Emperor.
We will show these rebels no mercy, and we will give them no quarter. Is that understood?’ there was some low muttering from those that had gathered. ‘Rest assured Kameraden, he will show you none. He has everything to lose right now, and he will take as many of you with him as he can”.

I remember that I stared long and hard at the Spiess and for the first time since joining the regiment, I saw the hidden light within that crusty veteran, and I saw total loyalty to the cause and the God-Emperor of Mankind. I also sensed a tremendous strength and a hidden might and rage, which lay just beneath the surface of the senior sergeant, and I knew why the men revered him so much. I was glad that I would never have to meet him face-to-face on the field of battle. I also pitied those who did.

We were at the tip of a long valley that ran up a seam of tall ragged teeth-like rocks. To our right stretched the endless desert, disappearing into a heat haze in the distance. 
To our left stood a tall wall of smooth granite, two hundred metres high. On top of that, and barely visible in the half-light, were the outer walls of the city. We knew that sentries were patrolling above us and servitor-guns lined its rim. One mistake and the whole city would come down on us.
The valley had been carved out by a long dead river and the constant wind and cut it into almost complete tube. We were hidden from above by the walls of the riverbed, which formed a roof above us. 
Dormagen had discovered the valley two days ago, and we had been watching it carefully for any signs of the enemy.
It became obvious after a while, that the Beddo’s used it to get in and out of the city to attack our convoys, without the need of emerging from the main gate.
Now we would use it to our advantage and break in. It was an audacious plan, the way would be heavily defended, but the stakes were high. That was why the Deathshead Regiment were chosen, one; because we were good at infiltration techniques and two; because we were expendable.

“Where’s the entrance?” Schaeffer asked quietly, turning his back on the cadaver. Dormagen nodded towards a rocky outcrop about one hundred metres further on. A sea of Flyfax surrounded its base.
“The other side of that grass. There are a couple of trenches covered by a camouflaged bunker. There’s a heavy weapon inside the bunker and maybe half a dozen rebels manning the trenches. A camouflaged ladder leads up to the tunnel in the city wall”.
“The secret way in eh?”, smirked Kern ‘I like that”. Him and Dormagen exchanged grins.
“Communications?” queried Schaeffer.
“This was the last of their scouts‘, said Dormagen . ‘We’ve mopped up the rest and cut any power lines in and out. We’ve got our very own Adept jamming all their vox traffic. They are on their own, and don’t even know it yet”. The corporal grinned, revealing his brown-stained teeth.

MORE OF THE first platoon began to form up around me, appearing out of the haze like shimmering spectres. 
Being Jirmanic, they were invariably tall, well built and fair. They all sported beards in one form or another. Some had been dyed different colours, some were braided, and some were even forked. All were immaculately cared for (except Dormagen’s!). Most of them had silver or gold rings intertwined into them, signifying personal kills. A few broad, swarthy types, had blue spiral tattoos on their faces, these were the tribal markings of the Berl tribe, hardened Hive dwellers, tough and uncompromising street fighters…
All of the men wore desert camouflage fatigues with olive green equipment and webbing. They all sported the black silk cuff-title on the bottom of their left sleeves, bearing the word _Kopftjäger _in silver gothic script.
They were heavily armed and looked ready for action. Those of them who still wore the standard-issue Tri-dome helmets, were struggling with the heat. I noticed immediately that the Imperial eagle insignia on the front of their helmets had been altered.. The Imperial wings had been removed leaving only the skull. This was the unique, and totally unofficial badge of the 3rd Jirmania. It smacked of heresy and had been noted by the Commissars. This blatant vandalism was tolerated…. Just.
I also studied their quiet confident swagger, born about from years of campaigning. This was one of things that drew me to the regiment. As I watched them, my stomach knotted and found that I was jealous of these veterans, and knew that I desperately wanted to be one of them.
The vast majority of them filed by and did not give me a second glance. A couple sneered at me and one even directed a boot towards my head, but for the most part, I was invisible to them. 
I retreated back into myself, tried to disappear and hide from their accusing gazes. Just as I did so, a crusty old Guardsman winked at me and gave a slight nod. I suddenly felt a flush of relief welling inside and realised that I was not entirely alone within the regiment. Suddenly my spirits lifted.
_Obertrooper*_ Glowna, my section number two, punched me on the arm and pointed in the direction ahead. He left me no doubt that he was in charge here, and from his rough look, I could tell he was not happy with me. He cradled a wicked-looking non-standard chain gun in his arms. The weapon was heavy and cumbersome, but looked like a Jungen‘s toy in his large, muscled arms.
“Move it you little _Shisse_. You made the Zug look bad today, you ficking amateur. I won’t forget it in a hurry, believe me. Now shift your arse”.
I clambered slowly to my feet, retrieved my knife and tagged on behind.
It would seem that I was back in the real world again…

A YOUNG OFFICER wearing a crumpled peaked hat strode past me, barely noticing my presence or choosing to ignore me. He had a strikingly fair beard that had been plated into two spikes. The officer sought out Schaeffer and when he found him, he placed a friendly arm around his shoulders.
It was First Lieutenant Meyer, my platoon commander, and about the only officer in the entire Imperial Guard, that Schaeffer had any time for.
I saw him look down at the corpse, shrug a shoulder and turn away without a second thought. The officer had probably seen it a thousand times before… human, Ork, Eldar, they were probably all the same to him. He waved a couple of Kopftjägers over and ordered them to dispose of the body.
“And if he’s got identity tags‘ he said casually ‘bring them to me. When we take the city, the Arbites can pay his family a visit”.

The unmistakable shapes of three Commissar’s followed up the rear of the group. Their leader was a tall, dark-skinned, grim-faced man with a face that looked as if it had been carved out of granite. He was in a deep conversation with another Kopftjäger, a _Feldwebel*, _Sergeant Fisher, my platoon leader. Fisher used to be a regimental pugilist and had a face that had seen countless bouts in the ring. His nose was completely flattened, and the cartilage almost non-existent. His large nostrils became his prominent feature, and were almost comical to look at… but you would never say that to his face, not if you valued your life! 

The leading commissar was carrying an ornately decorated power sword over his right shoulder, and gripped the guard of an equally impressive sheath, with a gold-plated power glove. He was sweating heavily, and every so often, he would curse out loud, and look up to the sky, his white teeth standing out against his dark features. At one point he let out a string of curses and looked about him like a predatory animal. The Kopftjäger’s around him gave him a wide birth. One of the men did not move quick enough and was smacked over the head with the flat of the Commissar’s sword for his trouble.
The pair of Commissar’s to his rear looked young and smelt of barracks and training fields. Their long blue Commissar coats and tall-visored hats, were immaculate and did not bear the signs of hard campaigning. Their leader looked positively ragged alongside them. They were cadet Commissar’s and fresh out of _Schola Progenium_. 
They moved with a quiet confidence, knowing that they were virtually untouchable. They glanced cautiously about, watching everything, but saying nothing.
The veteran Commissar saw Meyer, Schaeffer and the small group of NCOs gathered in conference. They were standing in the shade of a large overhanging boulder. The Commissar‘s face broke from the sneer and into a smile. 

“How goes it Schaeffer?”, he asked in a deep baritone voice as he moved in close behind the group. Schaeffer looked up and nodded and then narrowed his eyes, at the two Commissars hovering to the rear.
“Commissar Rabe, what an unexpected pleasure‘, he smiled ‘I did not expect to see you out here in the heat and flies”.
Rabe raised his sword’s pommel to his chin in mock salute.
“I got fed up hanging around up at headquarters‘ he shrugged ‘the air-conditioning was giving me a head ache. Besides, sometimes I like to rough it with the minions, and get my hands dirty, especially when I get to administer the last rites to traitors. I trust your boys are up to the task?”
Schaeffer’s face broke into a broad smile. Him and Rabe went back a long way and had fought side by side on many battlefields. They had a grudging respect for one another, a respect born in the hot crucible of war.
Schaeffer tilted his head at Rabe’s companions. The Commissar shrugged his shoulders and turned slightly towards the two men.
“Sorry, my apologies’, he coughed ‘may I introduce Cadet Commissar Xafinity and Nectaar. They are here to replace the other unfortunates that got fried during your last scrap on Utruv Two”.
The taller of the two Commissar’s stepped forward and gave a curt bow towards Schaeffer. He was no more than twenty years old with a fresh olive face ,with piercing blue eyes. A duelling scar ran down the left side of his face, which split the corner of his mouth. Schaeffer wondered how he had achieved such a wound at his tender age, as duelling was expressly forbidden in the Commissariat.
“Sergeant-major Schaeffer I presume?. I have heard so much about you. It will be a pleasure’, he paused for a second, thinking about his words ‘it will be a pleasure to serve with you”.
Schaeffer did not move, and did not make any sign or a signal that he had heard the young Commissar or even acknowledged his existence. Xafinity was about to say something else but Rabe stepped in and placed his gloved hand on the young Commissar’s shoulder.
“The Spiess is rather busy at the moment…. Xafinity, the pleasantries can wait until after this is all over”.
Nectaar, the second Commissar, a thickset man with grey, cloudy eyes and a cropped head, gave Schaeffer a nod and a barely hidden smile. Schaeffer nodded back.

“Well, Feldwebel Fisher‘ asked Meyer ‘are the boys ready?”. 
Fisher placed the butt of his Lasgun onto the ground and then proceeded to vigorously scratch the remains of his nose. Several Kopftjägers sniggered at the sight but turned away when Fisher looked for the culprits.
“Aren’t they always, Leutnant?”, he said slowly.
“Right then’, said Schaeffer, turning back to the group, ‘the entrance we have been looking for is just over there. It looks like some sort of ventilation shaft or maybe a sewerage outlet that leads directly into the city. Its been bored through solid rock and the actual walls are a further fifty or so metres up. We should be hidden from the sentry’s above it by a series of overhangs and local brush wood’, he pointed to a line in the sand ‘There is a ladder leading up to the pipe which is camouflaged from the air”.
“It’s very pretty”, added Dormagen.
Schaffer looked up “Either way, it’s our way in to the city. It is guarded of course, but the rebels are few and, Emperor Protect Us, they are still oblivious to our presence”.
Meyer gave the senior sergeants shoulder a light slap.

“_Just like Lippestadt Wanderattes*_ caught in a barrel, eh Rolph? Rows of rebels ripe for the slaughter. Shall we get this show on the road then?”

Schaeffer nodded and then unsung his Lasgun. He checked its power cell carefully and adjusted the fire output switch to FULL.
“For the Emperor, sir?”, he said in a firm voice, and then winked at Rabe near by.
“Yes of course Spiess,’ replied Meyer ‘For the Emperor’, and he smiled and then wiped his brow with the back of his hand, ‘..And also to get out of this Verdammpt heat and into some decent shade. I should not be here, I’m a temperate, fair-skinned person and not used to this kind of heat”. He nodded at Schaeffer, who brought himself rigidly to attention.

“Abteilung!“, “Attention!”, he hissed ‘Bluteid!“. The assault group, numbering about fifty, roughly half of the First Company, immediately went down onto one knee, heads bowed and removed their helmets and caps. The men placed their weapons out in front of them at arms length. 

I tucked down behind two large Kopftjäger’s hoping to disappear from view from the men around me. I had never been privy to this before, I‘d only heard about it from Grandpa Willi. Meyer had called for a blood-oath. 

Used by the famed Space Marines, the oath or the ’Oath of Moment’ was a sacred vow, sworn in the Emperor‘s name. Each Astartes warrior would vow to succeed in the task set before him, and would swear before Holy and significant banners to fulfil this oath. His comrades or commander would stand in the place of the Emperor and it would bond him. To fail the Oath of Moment, was to fail as a warrior.

When the original Jirmanic tribes had seen the exalted Astartes swear their Oaths before battle, it greatly impressed them, and sat well with the cult of the warrior. From that point forward, Jirmanic warriors emulated the mighty Space marines, and also swore their own oaths. To a warrior, to fail to fulfil a blood-oath was tantamount to utter failure as a warrior, and with it came shame and the contempt of your brethren. 
Blood Oaths were not taken lightly. Entire Jirmanic regiments had been utterly destroyed on the battlefield after swearing an oath, rather than give in to failure. Commanders had to use it wisely. The fact that Meyer had called an oath, showed the importance and brevity of our mission. We would break open the city, or die trying.

The Company colour of 1st Kompanie was brought forward by a massive Kopftjäger with bare arms covered in hive-gang tattoos. He still wore his Tri-dome helmet with a black visor pulled down over the upper half of his face. A bright red beard hung down to the man’s chest, which was intertwined with warrior rings and gold lace. 
The banner, a black rectangle of unknown material, bore a silver grinning skull in its centre. Around this was a green laurel leaf, entwined with gold and silver thread. The word Kopftjäger was sewn in black gothic letters on a silver banner below the skull. Faded Names and distant battlefields were painted in white on either side, places where the Company had fought and died, names that were forever etched in the minds of the men around it. 
The colour was an unassuming thing, a hanging that was discoloured and worn, ripped at the edges and stained with dark blood and ochre.

Meyer drew his own power sword and drove its tip into the sandy ground. With an almost theatrical reverence, he delicately took a hand full of the standard with his left hand and held up the palm of his right.
“For the Emperor‘ he began in a sombre voice, ‘who sits upon the Golden Throne on Terra. 
Today we renew our allegiance to you and make our sacred oath‘, he paused, letting the words fade away ‘We will not fail in the task that is before us, and we shall carry forth victory whatever the cost. 
If we do not succeed, then our lives are forfeit, if we run, our names will be stricken from the records. 
To those of us who are about to die, have no fear. The path that lies before you has already been foreseen and the Emperor has willed it”

The gathered men responded quietly, 
“_Imperator mos is_”​“….and I will hold you to your oath. 
Today we will cleave a path to victory and destroy our enemies utterly. 
Failure is not an option. 
Give Death, Take Death!“​
And we replied quietly, resisting the urge to shout out our battle cry and make our enemies quiver with terror.

“Give Death, Take Death!“​
We all began to bang our weapons against our chests and punch our fists into the air.
I watched some of the older men embrace each other and smile, and then overheard Schaeffer and Dormagen talking in low voices.
“I’ll see on the other side, you old war-hound”, smiled Schaeffer.
“Across the _Bridge of Swords*_”, replied Dormagen almost like a chant.
“And to the Hall of our Ancestors”
“ Where we can drink and make merry until the light in the sky dims and the Emperor himself, sits by our sides”.
I then realised that they were both looking at me, staring at me, almost daring me to say something. I made a hasty retreat.
What the two old soldiers said confused me. I could not put my finger on it, but knew that something they whispered did not seem quite right. I put my thoughts away, when the company began to form up.
Dormagen smiled as if nothing was untoward. Sergeant Fisher gave me a slight nudge and I moved into position. 
I nodded at my squad leader and tried to smile back, but trepidation had crept in and I realised that there was not much to smile at. I was about to go to war…….

* * *​
_Obertrooper*_ … Lance Corporal
_Lippestadt Wanderattes*_ … A native rodent in the space docks on Jirmania Prime. When attacked, the rodents form a protective circle, and all die en masse!
_Bridge of Swords*… _A mythical bridge that the warriors must cross to find peace in death


----------



## Brother Emund

SCHAEFFER, FISHER, ALONG with Dormagen and the other squad leaders from the first and second Platoons gathered in front of the Lieutenant. Meyer was the senior officer here, so tradition stated that he would naturally lead the attack. The other platoon leaders, Leutnant’s Müller and Hilferding, would play supporting roles.
Meyer swung his power sword from side to side with practiced strokes, flexing his arm muscles, duelling with imaginary enemies. He nodded, and Schaeffer knelt down and drew a quick battle plan in the sand using a small piece of wood.
“First Zug will move around to the left‘, he began ‘and take out the trenches there. Schnurrbart and his boys with me, Feldwebel Fisher and the OberLeutnant will move around by the right. Kiesal’, he nodded at the third section’s corporal ‘the rest of you will protect us as we go in.
Leutnant Hilferding and his Truppe will sweep behind us and protect our rear. We don’t want the Beddo’s sneaking up on us, you know what they are like. I want Fiel up front with us, in case we take casualties. Any questions?”. Schaeffer looked directly at Dormagen, who shrugged his shoulders. The rest of the group shook their heads. 
Meyer interceded.
“Listen, we don‘t want any shooting, not unless it is absolutely necessary. Close quarter weapons only… and the flamers at a push. Is everyone clear on that? No noise for goodness sake”. There was a sputtering of affirmations and a few grins.
“Right‘, said Schaeffer matter-of-factly ‘we are here to do a job that no one else would take on. The eyes of the Army are on us so let’s get it right“.
“Here we go again’, growled Dormagen struggling to his feet. He patted the bloody trophy on his hip and stared into its dead eyes, ’..You’ll be having some company soon my rebellious friend. I think a lot of your mates will be joining you very shortly”. 
He then pointed at a small group of _Kopftjägers_, who got to their feet and formed a ragged battle line. Without any further orders, they then went down on one knee and prepared for the attack.

Corporal Schnurrbart, was a happy-go-lucky, ex-hive-ganger and a member of the Berl tribe. The Berl’s were known for extreme savagery, and the Jirmanic High Command, decided that it was prudent to separate them from one another, as they could not really be really trusted together as a group. There were usually one or two members per platoon, which was fine for the status quo. He wore two tank destruction badges on his sleeve and was a well-liked, and well-respected NCO. Schnurrbart, Schaeffer and Dormagen were inseparable and had fought together for decades. 
He smiled at Schaeffer and then rummaged inside his jacket. He found two large Havana’s and offered one to the senior sergeant. They placed the cigars in their mouths simultaneously and then nodded at each other.
“Across the Bridge of Swords”


* * *



*'I'*​
THE BROWN-ROBED Adept walked slowly through the habitation deck, its head down low and hidden under a baggy hood. It muttered to itself as it made its way along the steel decks of the Imperial Mass Conveyance the _Polio Pugio. _ 
As he went on its way, he kept a weary eye on the Imperial Guard troopers who thronged the deck. When they were not drilling, they were resting, and on the long journeys through the warp, the men had a lot of time to relax, and there was nothing worse than a bored Guardsman with spare time on his hands.
Before entering the barrack areas, the Adept had checked the troop rosters. This sector housed men who hailed from the Europa Four System, a conglomeration of thirty-six planets on the outer edge of the Imperium. For some reason, this system meant something to the servant of Mars, but he could not quite put his finger on it.. He would study their history in more detail, once he got back to his dormitory. 
This particular batch of ragged miscreants were Caledonians, and wore the horned stag badge of the _174th Caledonian Highlanders_. They were broad red-haired, heavily tattooed monsters from a far-off feral world. They spoke Low Gothic with a strange accent and looked like Hive gangers.
The Adept passed them by, still muttering incantations. A casual observer would have noticed that there were cables coming from its forehead that lead to a box on its back. The box was inscribed with ancient runes and the cog symbol of the Mechanicus. 

The box made whirring sounds and every-so-often lights would flash. 
The Adept walked with a pronounced limp, and had what appeared to be a twisted spine. The creature also gave off an unpleasant, musty smell, so People tended to give it a wide birth.
It stopped for a few seconds and watched the troopers. The habitation deck was a vast cavern of steel and pipes, and a row either side of canvas bunks stacked four high. Down the middle of the aisle were tables and around the tables were Guardsmen playing cards and dice. There was frantic activity at and around the tables. A scuffle broke out and fists were thrown. Guardsmen, the same the universe over. The long periods spent between battles, tested the hardiest souls and boredom was the main enemy here.
This single deck housed an entire regiment, over four thousand men, and there were five more decks identical to this one. Below the Adept’s feet, almost fifty metres down, was a vast tank deck housing hundreds of vehicles of every kind and description. The _Polio Pugio. _was only one of ten such vessels in the fleet of a hundred ships of all sizes. A small Armada en route to the next battle zone. Taskforce Halutz, was one of a dozen Imperial Fleets in this particular region of deep space. Each fleet with its own particular problems, and each fleet with hundreds of thousands of bored Guardsmen.

The Adept watched the troopers for a while longer before turning. As it did so, and unlike any normal servitor, it muttered “Brute scum” under its breath.
One of the troopers sitting nearby quickly turned and eyed the figure with suspicion. He stood up and with a nimble leap, he managed to position himself in front of the Imperial servant. The Adept grunted and then shuffled, first to the right and then to the left and when the thug, with a shaven head and gang tattoos, refused to let him pass, he stopped and dropped his shoulders in a sign of desperation.
“And where do ye think you’se is-a-going?”, asked the Guardsman, placing his well-muscled arms on his hips and his legs spread apart. 
The Adept broke into the _Litany of Forgiveness _and bobbed up and down, his voice an almost inaudible squeaking sound. It tried to get past the Caledonian again, but the brute stood a good foot and a half higher and was twice as wide. 
He bent down and tried to look under the Adept’s hood, using thick stubby fingers that looked huge next to the servitor‘s head. The Adept’s incantations got louder, and his movements became more frantic. He let out a loud trump, as his anal gland released a cloud of noxious gas. The brute stepped back, grimaced and wafted his considerable hands in front of his face like a fan.
“Emperor’s Throne…..“

A voice rang out from a group of troopers nearby.
“Hamish, you low-life bog-trotter, leave the poor thing alone, let it be. If a provost or Commissar catches you preventing an Imperial servant from going about its business, you‘ll be flogged”.
The bully turned to his mates and then pointed at the hunched figure before him.
“Och, away with you man. I’m only having a wee joke with him, so I am. It’s lost its way, methinks’ and he spun the Adept around in a circle.
“Leave it man’, said the other Trooper, a hint of warning in his voice ‘come over and join us in a glass of the hard stuff and see if you can‘t beat these bloody heathens from the Munitorum at cards”. The man waved a large bottle of an amber liquid in Hamish’s direction. The man turned and eyed the precious liquid with relish.
The Adept took advantage of the pause and backed away. Hamish saw him moved and blocked him again. 
If he had got in close again and managed to look under the hood, he would have discovered something quite unexpected. Instead of the drawn, augmented face of a servant of the Mechanicum of Mars, he would have found the hansom chiselled features of a young man with piercing green eyes. The Caledonian would have been confused, he would have backed away and then probably counter-attacked with a reign of fists and boots.

UNBENOWN TO THE Caledonians, the ‘Adept’ was not what it seemed to be. The whole thing was an elaborate act and the clothes, a wily disguise. Under the hood and the robes was a man, a tall man, who could walk and talk like the rest of them. The Adept was actually a very dangerous, high-ranking Imperial Inquisitor, who went by the name of Verdant Schell. He was on his way to receive orders from a contact on board the vessel, a mission that was of no concern to anyone, least of all these Caledonians and especially, the errant rouge, Hamish. 
The Inquisitor could have arrived on board the vessel with the full pomp and ceremony befitting a person of such high rank and position, with a large entourage and bodyguards. But Schell liked to move in the shadows, remain hidden, until he could reveal himself when he wanted to reveal himself.
Sometimes his very life depended on it. By taking on the disguise of a servant of Mars, he believed that he would be able to pass by un-noticed as the decks were always full of servitors going about their business. He would have got away with it if it was not for an irksome, bored Highlander called Hamish. 
Schell could have revealed himself to them there and then, or he could have killed the man in an instant by liquefying his bones and turning his skin to dust. He was very capable of these things, and his powers were legendary.
But all the elaborate secrecy that had shrouded his arrival on board this vessel would have be lost, and people would have wondered why, Verdant Schell, Imperial Inquisitor of the _Ordo Hereticus_, who hunted down the servants of Chaos, the unclean mutant, heretics and xenos filth, was here aboard an Imperial vessel, bound for a far-away system.

Hamish moved in closer until he was at arms length. He was itching for trouble and determined to get the better of this ‘lowly‘ Imperial servant. Schell had to act quickly.
“Now then, let’s see your face under that hood laddy”, he said as he tried for the hood again. 
The Inquisitor Schell was an accomplished psyker, but used his powers sparingly. Weak men, wounded men and men befuddled by alcohol, were no match for his powerful will and he would often turn them to his devices. This troublesome Guardsman was interfering with Inquisition work and expediency was paramount.

_Go back to your friends_ 

The Guardsman stopped suddenly and his eyes appeared to glaze over. He nodded slowly.
“Aye‘ he said in a low monotone voice ‘Aye, I’ll be going back to my friends then?”

_Good. Let me go on my way_ 
“No problems.. I.. will..”

The Highlander stumbled back to a canvas-backed chair nearby, and then sat down heavily.

_ Sleep my burly friend_

Hamish began to nod and his eyes rolled back into his skull. A second later his head slumped forward and he began to snore.

The rest of the Highlander’s broke in to raucous laughter.
“Look like Hamish has had too much to drink”
“Defeated by a lowly Adept!”

Then, from a bunk nearby, a hideous ear-splitting screeching sound started which caused Hamish to look up and shake his head.
A small trooper jumped down onto the deck and began playing an odd-looking instrument that squealed every time he squeezed it under his arm and ran his fingers over a long slender pipe. Hamish was beaming, but Schell thought the sound was possibly the worst thing that he had ever heard in his long life. It was savage music from a savage race.

“Play Caledonia the Brave”, shouted one of the highlanders, and the tune turned into something like martial music. The highlanders loved it and began jumping up and down and clapping their hands. Hamish nodded in appreciation.

Schell opened up his pace and made it to the exit way without any further problems. He found a connecting corridor and began to run, the hideous sound of the Caledonian pipes ringing in his ears.

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

HE FOUND THE spinal lift which took him upwards, and away from the habitation decks, up into the command areas where the rank-and-file were restricted. Access to these levels was for senior military and Munitorum personnel only, but when Schell was confronted by a steel door and a security key pad, he tapped a few runes, and the lift took him to the deck he wanted. 
He had actually used the code of a high-ranking armaments officer who was responsible for one of the numerous batteries of guns that protected this huge vessel. The officer was blissfully unaware that his clearance code had just been used.
Schell reached the required level, and as the doors opened, he hunched up his shoulders and assumed the disguise of a Adept again.
A grey-uniformed naval trooper carrying a long shock baton on his belt eyed him with little interest. With a nod of his head, he let Schell by. The Inquisitor had hoped this would be the case, he knew that it was shift change over and the guard would be waiting to be relieved and not particularly vigilant. The trooper did not disappoint him.

He moved swiftly along corridors and walkways, through tunnels and tubes, guided on his way by directions programmed into a data-slate. The device was marked with the seal of the Inquisition and a single ‘*X*’ rune, one that he had seen before. He came to a small corridor that branched off a main concourse. It was poorly lit and smelt musky. It reminded Schell of a mortuary, that dank, throaty smell, of death. He stepped into the corridor and ducked beneath an archway. Something moved in the shadows to his left, there was figure there. He flicked his bolt pistol, from its holster on his arm, into his hand. It was already armed and ready to fire. There was another archway, and then he saw them, two large figures standing either side. He approached with caution. His first shot would be into the right hand mans groin, then….
Two very tall, heavily built sentries, wearing black carapace armour with unusual markings, moved out of the dark and barred his way. Each was carrying a Hellgun at high port.

_Imperial Stormtrooper’s_, thought Schell, _by the Golden Throne, what are Stormtrooper’s doing here? _ 

“I am here on the express orders….” he rasped. One of the soldiers held up a hand.
“It is alright, sir’, he interrupted in an electronic voice ’we were told to expect you. If you would like to go in, He will be with you shortly”. 
The door slid silently open revealing a room that was black as the void. 

_He? The sentry said He, as if the Emperor himself was in attendance. _ He straightened up and stepped into the room.

HE ENTERED A dark and dank dormitory. It was poorly lit but Schell felt that it had been turned into a chapel or a place of worship. There was a smell of must of incense in the air. The room was free of any decorations or drapes or any sign that would give him he clue who, or what he was dealing with. It was made up of three plain metallic walls with the forth facing him, a large arched window of many colours. In front of it was a small plinth with a large opened book stretched out across it.

Schell remained by the door for a few more seconds as his eyes got used to poor light. He the looked up at the window in front of him and traced its outline. He realised that it was open to the warp beyond and only an invisible shield protected the interior of the room from the dangers that lurked beyond. Only the stout-hearted and those trained in the secret arts, could look upon the warp without fear and not go mad with its canopy of colour and patterns.

Who ever HE was, he was capable of confronting the void and had no fear of what was beyond. 
Schell stared out once more and took into miasma and grinned to himself. He cared little for the warp, and cared less about its workings. He had faced it many times and fought the entities out there. Entities that he had spent his lifetime tracking down and destroying.

Schell noticed that there was a small table at the far end of the room, with a plain wooden chair behind it. He swore that it had not been there when he entered. He should be cautious.
Behind the table was a magnificent frame of gold and silver thread, containing a large oil painting, at least ten feet high. Shell’s heart skipped a beat, like it always did when he saw the Holy vision it contained. Sitting astride a great winged beast was a depiction of the God Emperor himself, surrounded by a legion of ancient warriors in full battle armour. Schell instinctively gave the Sign of the Aquilla, crossing his arms across his chest and bowing his head in reverence to the one true God. 
Hundreds of tiny candles encircled the chair, and lined the far wall. They gave off a cream glow, which felt almost warm. The Emperor of mankind seemed to move on his charger, and appeared to acknowledge the Inquisitor’s presence. Schell felt a tingling throughout his body, starting at the extremities and moving like a slow tide, towards the rest of his body. He felt warm and almost contented. He went down onto both his knees and prayed to his exulted Lord.

“Welcome my friend”. 

Schell sprang to his feet and turned around quickly. His senses were super- enhanced. He recognised that accent and he had heard it several times before. The last time he met the man behind that voice, he was dying. 
Now he knew who’s presence he was in, and knew why he a been summoned to this rat-infested transport barge, a billion miles from home and away from his beloved job hunting the Emperor’s enemies. He began to sweat in voluntary. 

Standing by the entrance was the figure of a tall man wearing crimson robes and a hood like Schell’s, covering his features. He was leaning on a staff of black mahogany with a large silver Imperial eagle at its head.
There were other figures behind him hidden in the shadows, a silent group, four maybe five people and others lined up in a hidden passageway that had suddenly opened up. He had not heard any of them arrive and that worried him greatly. He could usually sense things long before they happened. He gripped his bolt pistol a little tighter and concentrated. 

He felt the static glow of his psykic power as it began to flow through his veins like a living thing. His hair began to stand on end as hidden power pulsed through his body. 
Schell’s senses were heightened. He could hear, smell and see everything. He could feel the life forces in the room with and his mind began a mental target acquisition programme, categorising the signatures of each form and filing them in order of danger. The thin figure in the middle of the room posed the greatest t threat.
Now he could perceive the sound of their slow laboured breathing, the creaking of equipment, the sniffs and muffled coughs. He could smell gun oil, leather, caffeine and body odours, incense and the faint smell of decay. He also felt fear from the shadows, some of the group were frightened of him, and that made Schell breath a little easier.

Schell has sensed eleven targets in the room, and maybe more in the corridor. They were all nicely packed together and their body heat was giving each of them a distinctive form.
There were two more armoured Stormtrooper’s standing, silent and foreboding with their arms at high port. An Imperial Guard officer was in front of them wearing an insignia that Schell did not recognise. He had the mark of a veteran, very calm and cool with an arsenal of weapons about his body.
To his rear were three black-robed humans who looked and felt like scribes or servants. Behind them was something else, something very large and very powerful that he had never come across before. It certainly had a human signature, but it was far larger, and more powerfully built. When Schell probed its mind, he found it to be blank, almost empty, as if the figure only ran on instinct. Its brutal face was passive and its eyes were covered by dark eye-protectors. 
Standing off to one side were two others human, a small, thickset figure wearing civilian clothing, brandishing what looked like a double-headed battle-axe, and standing at his shoulder was a slim female in a tight-fitting body suit. She had the look and feel of an operative of the _Officio Assassinorum_.

_ A Squat, an assassin and some heavy-duty muscle. This HIM has power, but we shall see…_

Schell knew he was outmatched. The soldiers, the scribes and even the assassin he could deal with, but their leader was something else. Schell’s raw power and his hidden psykic energy could not come close to the potential that emanated from the robed figure. Schell sensed, that beneath the crimson robes, was an awesome power and energy, far greater than his own…

The figure stepped forward into the pale light of the candles and Schell felt his adrenaline race. The mans crimson robes began to take on other colours, gold and silver, and now there were runes and ancient script interwoven into the material. Around his neck, hanging from a fine chain of an unknown metal, was a large silver Imperial eagle. Schell caught sight of the broach he was wearing, a golden disc surrounded by a crimson rosette. In its centre was a large gothic ‘*I*’. The man was a fellow Inquisitor, but not just any Inquisitor. Schell took a deep breath.
The other man raised his head and began sniffing the air, and then a long claw-like hand moved up the staff and rested under the eagle at its end. Schell could see that his skin was blotchy and discoloured, and almost opaque. On one of the fingers was a large golden ring, just like the one Schell wore, a badge of office, and a badge of rank. Schell knew now that he had been right all along. He went down onto one knee and lowered his head.

“Lord Francisco Ximénes’, he whispered reverently, ’we meet again”.

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

*Part 2*

PART TWO*

At the walls of Nabulûs City
Imperial Time 0315hrs​*
THE REBEL SENTRY stuck his head above the parapet and scanned the area to the front of him. 
_Sand_ he thought, _nothing but sand…. And rocks_ 
He thoroughly checked the positions either side of him, watching for any movement, and any sign of an approaching Non-Com. He would have to be particularly careful, he thought, as this new sergeant was an ex-regular Guard and very keen. The son of a mule had already had him cleaning out the latrines, when he failed to address him properly.

_May the fleas of a thousand desert horses lodge in his crotch. That was lowly work. I am a Beddo, a warrior, curse him!_ 
When he was satisfied that he was alone and was not about to be interrupted, he dropped down to the bottom of his trench where it was relatively cool and in the shade.
He was manning an outpost, one of many that ringed Nabulûs City, Handshaar’s capital. Sentries like him were the eyes and ears of the rebel army, and they were there to give warning when the Imperials came. The sentry and his companion, were at point 170/A, a ventilation pipe that lead to one of the work bays deep below the city. Huge fans sucked out the stale air from the lower levels of the city and then drew in fresh air from a tunnel above. The rebel’s had been using 170/A to mount patrols ever since the Imperials arrived.
The pipe was somewhere above him, bored into the solid rock my the City’s Municipal Department. A rickety ladder lead up to it, which was camouflaged from above by sheets of torn, sand-coloured netting. 
The sentry glanced up and even from this close, he could not see the covered way.
The capital city had so far been untouched from attack. Most of the big battles had been raging far to the west and to the north, in or around the outlying settlements. Sketchy reports had been reaching the rebels all the time. The Emperor’s army was coming … This or that outpost had been overrun … Convoy’s destroyed … Heavy casualties inflicted on the invaders ... So-an-so unit fought gallantly here or so-and-so general did well there.

Soon the Imperials would arrive like a creeping storm, an unstoppable wall of metal and death. Or so they believed, the Imperials that is.
Here, in the capital city, home of the Tombs of the Kings, the rebel forces loyal to their King, would make their stand. The king had foreseen it; an angel had visited him and said it was so. Here, against the high walls of Nabulûsûs the Imperials would strike and be smashed like brittle wood against rocks. Here, every metre, every second, they would pay in blood and destruction, and when they could no longer sustain the heavy casualties, they would be forced to the table and negotiate a conditional peace.

_A Cornelian Bantam should not cluck until it has lain_

A two-man battle trench had been dug in front of the ladder and this had been reinforced with boulders and sandbags. The suns deadly rays had been blocked out by sheets of old flakboard and camouflaged with more of the netting. It was completely invisible from above, but from the ground. 

But the Kopftjägers had found them…

The second sentry had decided to take a leak, and was off hunting for a suitable spot amongst the rocks. He had left his buddy alone, with a few minutes to himself.
A sand lizard clicked loudly and then scampered for cover when he saw the man approach. The sentry eyed the creature suspiciously and then scanned the surrounding area with an optic sight. Rocks, boulders and dust… same, same, nothing ever changes. He scanned the distant horizon and traced a line of dunes. A great cloud of dust hung high above them and was moving towards the city. 

_Another dust storm on the way. It will get very hairy soon._

He reached inside his cloak, dug deep, and found a small box bound in white linen. He opened it up with mock reverence. Inside were illegal Lho-sticks, and he had decided that now was as good a time as any to have a smoke.
He stuck the narcotic into his mouth and lit the end with a _Lucifer* _and took a long pull on it, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. He held his breath for a few seconds, to let the smoke take its effect, and then exhaled loudly. His face broke into a grin as he began to feel the warmth flow through his veins. He felt his muscles begin to relax. Soon he will see the visions.
Caution crept in. He decided to check the area once more, just to make sure that he was still alone. 
He stuck his head up again, the Lho-stick balanced on his lower lip. He looked over to the right and then the left and smiled, it was all quiet. He took another long drag and felt himself going giddy, a feeling of well-being and light-headedness began to take hold.
He felt so good in fact, that he was totally unaware of what was happening to him at that point in time and space… 

As the narcotic’s smoke filled his lungs, a super-heated titanium bolt had entered his left ear, pierced the eardrum and bone, and was passing through his skull. 

The shock of it took out the side of his head, his brains and the illegal Lho-stick with it. The rebel never even knew he was dead. He dropped like a heavy stone, banging up
against the side of the trench wall before crumpling up at the bottom. He never made a sound as he died, looking up at the blue sky above him, a juvenile grin still on his face.

Trooper Kohl, known affectionally as the Bear, because of his vast size, and abundance of hair, was hidden in a small 
cleft in the rocks, about three hundred metres to the north of the enemy position. He had been watching the movements around the trenches and the ladder leading up to the ventilation pipe for the last hour or so, after climbing up into the rocks and finding a suitable firing point. He was in the first squad, but was used mainly as a scout sniper of which he excelled. He was not the brightest man to have by your side, but as a sniper, he was the best and in a close-quarter scrap… well he was The Bear and make of that as you wish. 
When he saw the sentry light up the Lho-stick and look around, Kohl zeroed in on him. A few seconds later, the head stuck up again, and that was good enough for him. The Bear was the company’s best shot, and he rarely missed.
He quickly chambered another round and re-adjusted his aim, moving his heavy-barrelled Jirmania-manufactured sniper rifle a fraction to the left. The second rebel, evidently satisfied with himself, had appeared, blissfully unaware that a couple of metres behind him, his companion lay dead with his head torn apart.

The rebel brushed himself down, turned to go back….

Kohl’s second round travelling at a thousand metres a second, could penetrate two inches of steel and three feet of brickwork. It made a mess if anything made of flesh. 
The round hit the sentry in the centre of his face, exploding his skull into a hundred gore fragments and knocking him heavily backwards. He hit the side of the trench wall, kicking up a small cloud of dust, before slumping spastically, to the bottom of the trench.

Then the assault went in……… 

_Lucifer*_ … a match

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

HE WAS A Handshaari, a native of the city, and most likely a member of the militia or PDF. He was also only a boy, and no more than seventeen. He had not lived a full life, sampled its delicacies, breathed its infinite odours, he had not even felt the soft, warm caress of a woman yet, or experience the thrill of her body. 

He was far too young to die. 

A shadow blotted out the twin suns and he looked up suddenly. There was a man in front of him, a large broad-shouldered man, who had come from nowhere. The boy struggled to his feet but it was already too late. A heavy blade, the sharpened edge of a standard-issue entrenching tool crashed down, splitting his shoulder open and slicing down through his ribs before shuddering to a halt against his sternum. The boy made a feeble gasp. He looked up with, his eyes wide, almost white, and almost pleading. 
_Why?_ 

It was a mercifully quick death. 

Trooper Hochbaum, a short, stocky ex-hive ganger and another of the Berl’s, grunted as he tore his weapon free. He looked back down the trench and gave a thumbs up sign to the Kopftjäger behind him. Several heads appeared above the parapet and began to move towards him. 

There was a high-pitched scream, followed by a curse in Jirmanic then a dull clump from inside the main bunker. 
A jet of flame, twice the length of a man belched out of its firing aperture, with the whoosh sound of super-heated gases, quickly followed by the figure of a burning man.
Heads suddenly dotted up from the trenches all around me.
I had been held back in the rear whilst the rest of the platoon went in. They had almost cleared out the enemy positions with their knives and bayonets, when someone used a Flamer. 
Many of the reserve sections got to their feet to watch the Spectacle, as if it was a sight they had never seen before. They watched with mild curiosity and grinned as the writhing, burning blob, which had once been one of the Beddo heavy weapons crew, met his grisly end. 
Even Commissar Rabe paused from despatching a wounded rebel, to look at the scene unfolding before them. As he turned to look, Xafinity finished off the unfortunate rebel, with a round through the head from his Laspistol.

I found myself behind two other troopers moving silently along one of the communication trenches. I had my Lasgun out in front of me with its bayonet attached and was carefully avoiding the man in front of me who staggered and rocked like an old man. 
What I would do if I came up against another enemy soldier was another question? After my little escapade in the Flyfax, I was not sure that I had it in me. 
_To kill a man in cold blood, up front and personal._ 

My companions rolled their eyes at me, held their combat knives up, and grunted. One of them passed the blade close to his neck and then stuck his tongue out and closed his eyes. They both sniggered as if it was the funniest thing in the world. 
I think I had been partnered with two of the most despicable men I had ever met. To this day, I never remembered their names, but I know they died in combat… they all died. 

When the bunker erupted with a jet of bright fire and smoke, my companions stopped abruptly and leant on rim of the trench staring on in morbid fascination. 
I found myself transfixed and unable to take my eyes off the scene, I had never seen anything like it before.

The rebel, or what was left of him, was a burning torch, performing an alien dance before them. He, it, fell to its knees and then quickly got up again, dropped once more and then began to swat from side to side. Its arms were flaying above its head, beating at the white-hot flames that stood up like spikes from the surface of his scalp. A high-pitched in-human scream came from the remains of its mouth, which was now only a black hole. The scream was loud and frantic at first and then slowly petered out to a long gurgle. The fireball jumped up in one final act of desperation and ran in the direction of one of the Kopftjägers Its arms were outstretched, beckoning to him to end the misery that wracked his body. The trooper backed away in disgust, sidestepping to one side to avoid the flickering flames. He pushed the flaming thing away from him with the barrel of his Lasgun and shouted a curse. I watched the remains of the man put its finger-less hands to its face, feeling for features that were not there.

“Shoot it!” someone shouted at last.
“No! No! No firing _Verdammpt_!” scolded sergeant Fisher, knocking down the barrel of one of the Lasgun’s. 
He gave Xafinity a look that would kill and lowered his voice.
“No shooting. The orders were no shooting‘ he turned back to Xafinity ‘and that meant even you… Commissar”. He turned abruptly towards the bunker ‘and who used his flamer… let me guess, that Shisse Nowka”.

The burning rebels’ cries seemed to reach into a mans very soul, and I found that I could not bare it any more and turned away.
My companions smiled, nodded knowingly and sneered at me, cursing me in low Gothic.

From his position up in the rocks, Kohl shook his head and picked his rifle back up again.
“That’s not right’, he said, in his slow baritone voice, ‘me no like dat. No one deserves to die dat way, even a stinking rebel. It ain’t right to let ‘im suffer”. He targeted the ball of fire, and pulled the trigger. A split-second later, the enemy soldier collapsed with a well-aimed shot through what remained of his mouth. 
Death, that glorious release had come at last….

A DEATHLY SILENCE followed, with only a hint of wind sighing through the rocks. In the far distance, a carrion bird called out in anticipation, followed by a low grunting sound of a desert predator.
Schaeffer appeared from behind the bunker and signalled to the other troops to gather on him. Corporal Schnurrbart ordered his squad to spread out and form a defensive perimeter. 
We had cleared the area of the enemy, but we could not afford to let our guard drop for one minute. Many Guard units had learnt the hard way, after being overrun and butchered by Beddo counter-attacks. If there were still Beddo‘s about, then we had to be careful. They were the masters here, this was their turf and we, were merely visitors..

After a while, I overcame my feelings of revulsion at what I had witnessed and got to my feet. I tagged on behind my companions, who were now moving forward with Lasgun’s ready and their heads and eyes scanning for trouble. 
There were several bodies lying at the bottom of the trench, stretched and butchered like animals. I gingerly stepped over them and avoided their glassy stares. 
Without any further orders, I made my way up to the bunker. I was hoping I would find Corporal Dormagen up there, and await further instructions. I was far too green to think for myself at the moment, and I understood that. I moved awkwardly and without purpose, and did not think to take up a fire position or cover a particular arc of fire. I was a tiny cog in a very big machine, a tiny insignificant cog with no real function or purpose.
I found the low entrance to the bunker which was covered by a lose curtain of rough hessian. There was a sign above it, a small rectangle with scribbles in the local tongue, which I did not understand.

“It says Mind your bleedin’ head Jungen”, said a heavily armed _Kopftjäger_ in adjoining trench. He laughed as another equally attired trooper joined him. 
“It says mind your head or you’ll get it knocked off!“ They both guffawed, clearly enjoying the experience. I smiled gingerly back at them and both of them went suddenly serious and their smiling faces turned to snarls. The first trooper spat in my direction and the other threw a stone.

I ducked into the bunker and almost stumbled into Schaeffer who was bent over directly in front of the entrance. He glanced up and them went about his business of rifling through the discarded equipment and personal belongings that littered the floor. The position smelt of accelerants and fire, and something else that I had smelt before when I used to go hunting with Grandpa Willi, the coppery smell of blood and the repugnant odour of faeces and guts. 

Schaeffer appeared to be oblivious to the four bodies that were lying around him, the remains of what were once fellow human beings. They had been badly mutilated by the shrapnel and prosperous from a grenade. A large pool of fresh blood had pooled in the centre of the room and was rapidly coagulating. A swarm of flat-head flies had found their way in and were now gorging themselves on the precious liquid. A veritable scrap was going on over who could gain mastery of the bodies.
Schaeffer bent down near an overturned cooking stove and picked up a metallic object. It was a small, rounded receptacle with a handle and spout. Its base had been blackened with soot. 

Schaeffer threw the object across to me and I caught it with both hands. “There’s a Verdammpt war on and these bloody rebels were sitting around and enjoying afternoon tea!!”. 
Some of the brown liquid inside, spilled out, scolding my hands. I dropped the container to the floor and glared at the senior sergeant. I then looked down at the brown liquid the enemy soldiers had been drinking.
“Tea, what is tea Stabsfeldwebel?”, I asked innocently. I had no idea what the man was talking about. In fact, this was the first time I had ever been on my own with the Spiess, let alone talk to him. 
A couple of _Kopftjägers_ scrambled in and smiled at me. They grinned at Schaeffer, and after a nod from him, they began the serious task of looting the dead bodies.

Schaeffer had found a small book with a leather binder. He flicked over a few pages, raised an eyebrow and then put the book inside his jacket. He looked up at me through hooded, bloodshot eyes.
“Tea, young Dietz, is a foul liquid made from the leaves of a certain type of plant found in hot climes. These Handshaari’s love it and drink litres of the stuff every day. The Britannic’s are the same, always drinking the foul brew and talking about its qualities and attributes. Wars have even been fought over the damn stuff”. 

The senior sergeant stood up, stared at me for what seemed an eternity before leaving me alone with the other two. I left them to it. I had no desire to loot the dead, even if I was allowed to and did not want to be left alone to whatever devices these Kopftjägers might do to me. I followed Schaeffer out and followed behind like a lost canine.
The officers and NCOs had begun to gather for the final task, the assault on Nabulûs City, and ultimately, the re-occupation and liberation of Handshaar itself.

Men were congratulating one another on a job well done, giving each other smiles and pats on the backs, telling each other how brave they fought and how many enemies they has slain. By my reckoning, after listening to all trooper’s stories, I calculated that there must have been at least a hundred Beddo rebels killed here in this small patch of desert. I had personally only counted a dozen dead. But, as was to find out, Jirmanic’s did like telling tall stories… it was a tradition.
Some of the men were comparing trophies they had found, weapons, money, and personal effects… the spoils of war. Most Guard units did not tolerate the looting of the dead, but to the Jirmanic’s, it was all part of the way. Even the officers joined in.

“Anselm!’, Schaeffer shouted to a tall fair-haired trooper carrying a Vox-caster on his back.
‘Get on to headquarters and tell them we have found the way in. All units prepare to attack”.

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

*‘I’​*
“IT HAS BEEN a while Verdant’, said the Lord Inquisitor in a low grating voice, ’… and relax, you can put away your weapon, you are amongst friends here”. 
Schell loosened slightly, releasing his grip on the bolter and letting his shoulders drop a little. He had been in enough tight spots to know that danger lurked everywhere like a hidden virus. He had lasted so long because he was cautious, and because he always carried extra weapons.
He let the psykic energy within him dissipate, and soon the tingling in his fingers disappeared. He remained watchful, brushing the minds of all the figures in the room, looking for a sign or signal, anything that would give him a clue as to their intentions.
He watched his fellow Inquisitor shuffle forward a few steps and then come to a rickety standstill. 

Schell had always hated being called by his first name. Only his mother was allowed to do that, but that was years ago, when he was a mere child…. before the xenos came, before the Ork‘s came. 
His beautiful, beautiful mother, his light, his world. When the brutes came, she had given up her life to protect him, her little Verdant, her little soldier. She took the brunt of the Ork’s weapons fire and the slashing blades, absorbing the shot and impacts so that he could get away, so that he could escape. Her last words to him were of love and pride and then she had died.
From that day on, he would devote every gram of his being to revenge her death. He would hunt down and destroy the Emperor‘s enemies until he could kill no more. No one ever called him Verdant, ever earned the right to call him that… until now.

“Dear me, such anger, such hate…” muttered the old man, and then gestured to the chair at the head of the table. “Please my friend, sit down, and rest, for we have a great deal to discuss”.
Schell sat down on the antique Moorsman Oval back, but never took his eyes off his fellow Inquisitor. He would show the Lord Inquisitor that he was at ease, untroubled and unfazed. He sat back and stretched out his legs out in front of him, showing the room his stout Guards-issue boots. He let his own robes open to reveal a tight uniform of a black, almost metallic material that shimmered in the candle light. His sword hung innocently at its side, its golden scabbard a pale yellow in the half-light. 
The Inquisitor Lord stopped a few feet away and then bent down and stared hard at him.

“You look… interesting”, he said and then chuckled to himself. Ximénes voice was being filtered through some sort of electronic baffler, which also aided his respiration judging by the laboured breathing sounds he made.
“Today, I am an Imperial Adept’, replied Schell, opening his arms wide, ‘it is a crude disguise I know, but I did the best with the materials I had available. It is, however, quite easy to fool Naval troopers and bone-headed Guardsmen. They are so shallow and so easy to manipulate”. 
He removed the cables that were attached to his head and tossed them to the floor, next to his discarded backpack.
“Can I offer you a drink perhaps?” said Ximénes. He clicked his fingers and a small, pale-skinned servitor shuffled up bearing a silver tray with a large crystal glass containing a clear liquid. He held it out to Schell, his head bowed low in reverence. Schell waved the tray away but the servant was persistent.
“It is your favourite, Verdant’, said the Lord Inquisitor, seeing Schell’s reluctance, ‘a vintage Char-Musél, from the valleys of your own Homeworld’, he checked himself. ’I managed to procure a large quantity of the wine, before its… unfortunate…”
“Destruction?’ Schell added, ’before the _Exterminatus_”. 
Ximénes grunted and then turned away. 
“It is fine my Lord‘ Schell continued, ‘you can talk about it, it bothers me not. My links to that planet were severed long ago, when my mother was murdered by the xenos filth. What happened after that is of no concern of mine, my life from that point on, was devoted solely to the Emperor, and blessed may he rein over us”.

* * *​
*Fifty Years Earlier
Planet Bagehot
The Nantes System​*
LORD INQUISITOR FRANCISCO Ximénes, Grand Master of the _Ordos Nantes_, walked through the makeshift infirmary and frowned. 
The building had once been a library, a magnificent palace with high ceilings covered in ancient murals and scenes depicting the Emperors victories over the alien Hordes. It was a revered place of learning and culture and contained many rare and priceless books, some of which were thousands of years old. 
Now the intricately carved wooden tables that were once used by avid scholars and the great and learned, had been cleared and were being used as beds for the wounded and dying. Many of the precious tomes were being used as fuel to heat up water for the chirsugeons who were working night and day, to stem the tide of misery. 
There were hundreds of citizens and soldiers crammed into the large study rooms. Every space had been utilised.

Outside, in the streets and surrounding the building, were stretchers lined up side by side, as far as the eye could see. A large mass of wounded sat or stood staring into nothingness, their minds were inwards on their own suffering, barely noticing the scene of carnage around them. The streets ran with blood, the injured died in their hundreds; the grim reaper was working hard today. 

The Inquisitor stopped next to a Guardsman who had lost most of his right leg. The remains of his bloody stump were covered in strips of skin and tissue. The soldier had a waxen look and muttered incoherently. Ximénes watched the mans eyes roll back and his lips split as he desperately struggled with the agony of his wounds.
A doctor, his uniform and arms stained with dry blood, tried desperately to clean the wound and steam the loss of blood. A large dark red puddle was slowly growing on the marble floor below him. The wound was already infected and the extremities were beginning to turn black. 
Members of the Inquisitors entourage, high-ranking military officers, civilian dignitaries and Departmento Munitorum officials gazed down at the tortured soldier. Most of them reeled back in disgust.
Even from five metres away, Ximénes could smell the man’s flesh rotting away and that sweet sickly smell of death. The doctor stopped what he was doing and stood upright. He stretched his back, relieving the ache in his lower spine. He handed the thick dressing to a waiting servitor who took over from him, dabbing at the wound with little finesse or decorum…

“Bloody hopeless, we’re wasting our time’ the doctor muttered to himself ‘the infection is already too far advanced“. 
He eyed the group with suspicion, but when he saw the Inquisitor, the blood drained from his face. He quickly bowed and gave a rudimentary salute with a blood-covered hand.
“My… Lord… I”. 
“How long has this man been like this? “, Ximénes interrupted. 
“Not long, maybe half an hour or so, but already…“, “Yes? “, said Ximénes. 
“The wounds are already badly infected and I cannot stop the spread’, he moved a short distance away from the unconscious Guardsman, ‘he will be dead within the hour”. 
Ximénes looked at the soldiers pale face and shook his head. The soldier was quiet now, and almost a corpse. He looked like he was asleep and at peace with the world.

A dozen fat, black flies with large luminous green eyes began to hover above him rubbing their front legs together in anticipation.

“..and the flies’ said the doctor, a hint of desperation in his voice ‘the damn flies are everywhere. It‘s as if they know he‘s already had it”.
“Indeed‘, replied the Inquisitor, ‘this rot, are all the wounded like this? “. 
“Yes my Lord, it is quite disturbing. We cannot seem to counteract the malaise‘. He looked about him and then muttered in a low voice, ‘but there are worse than this, we have… other casualties, and we do not know what do to with them”.
“Show me”, whispered Ximénes.

* * *​
THE LAST freestanding walls of the _Amplus Crumena _folded in on themselves like a balloon in the vacuum of space. Bagehot’s main bank, a vast expanse of white spikes and tall spires that had stood for a millennia, disappeared into an immense plume of grey dust and fluttering pieces of small paper credit slips. 
The space marines manning the foremost trenches ducked instinctively as masonry and lethal shards of metal rained down on their heads.

+ And thus, it begins + hissed a voice over their vox-link. 
+ PREPARE FOR CLOSE COMBAT + 

They began to move like well-oiled automatons. Years of training and combat had honed their skills and every movement was made on instinct. They took up fire positions, and set their weapons at the ready. Magazines were checked, grenades were primed and close-quarter weapons were set loose on utility belts. Eyes stared out from behind visored helmets, and gauntlet covered hands gripped weapons a little tighter. Some of the armoured giants wiped slime and dirt from the breaches of their bolters; some of them muttered prayers, most remained silent and threatening.

The billowing wall of dust began to dissipate and now, in the distance, shapes began to immerge, appearing to materialise out of the ground like ragged zombies. There was a low humming sound that got louder and louder as the figures moved closer. A black blob of churning matter rose up from the ground and hovered above them. The black mass was organic in nature and spoke of unnatural horrors and death.

+ Check your arcs brothers, the enemy is here + 

Wherever the dead lay, there were flies and on this battlefield, the flies were multiplying in vast numbers. These were abnormal, because they were not of this world or even of this dimension. They came from that place that is hidden in the dark recesses of your mind and haunted your darkest dreams. They were the foul creatures of the Warp who craved the life force of the living. 
A dense, swirling, raw mass of this pestilence came flooding in over the violated field and flowed around the marine positions like an unstoppable tide of filth. Their chitinous bodies quickly covered everything with a pulsating carpet of legs and wings. Respirators became plugged and weapon ejection ports oozed a black living mass. These were big, bloated plague flies that had been regurgitated from the bowels of Chaos. They were excreting yellow filth, and producing a low base droning sound that hurt unprotected ears. The ground below them began to bubble and the earth and rockrete slowly began to split open, like a contaminated wound. Faecal matter and pus oozed out of the broken ground like a thick sweat. The sky above turned a pale yellow, and then a dull green. The stink of decay enveloped everything.

Then the cultists came. 

+ Attack pattern Maxim. Firing by squad, one through to seven. On my mark +

The Space Marines were well disciplined and masters in the arts of war. Attack pattern Maxim was named after an ancient weapon that was used during pre-history on Terra to annihilate enemy troops in large numbers. The Marines had their own form of a Maxim, but these were heavy-bolters that had been positioned on the marine flanks and covered the front of the trenches. They would hit an enemy assault with enfilade fire and reduce them to a ragged mob.

+ ENGAGE! + 

The heavy-bolters began barking their deep throaty roar as the first shapes of the enemy came into range. A second later, the trenches erupted in bursts of flame working from left to right, first squad through to seven with a three-second pause between each squad. Using this method, the Marines would present a continuous wall of fire without any breaks to reload. Over seventy Bolters opened fire as one, sweeping the area to the front clean of every living thing. 
The cultists advanced in a swaying line, straight into the eye of fire and never faltered. The zombies, the enemy, the workers and citizens of the city, died before they even saw the agents of the false God. As they fell and their life fluids leaked from their veins, they cursed the Emperor of Mankind in an uncouth tongue. 
The cultists had been soiled beyond recognition, and only a mere hint of their humanity remained. A tainted artist had been at work here, an artist that could turn beauty into distortion. They were obscene mannequins that mimicked the worst in man, and they mocked him. Their heads and faces, if they could be called that now, had been doubled in size, unnaturally bloated with poisons, sickness and disease. Pale skin was stretched over distorted skulls, which were rent in places, revealing horns and spikes. Jaws had been extended exposing rows of ragged fangs that opened and closed like rabid beasts. Long, green forked tongues licked the air; longing for the taste of blood, warm human blood. A prolonged hissing sound came from their open mouths, no words, just a long high-pitched hiss.
Eyes had been turned into running sores of green slime, which bubbled down faces of boils and open, maggot-ridden wounds. 
They wore a uniform made from human skin, strips of human skin and tissue, which bore grotesque hieroglyphics and shapes that turned men’s stomachs. 
The cultists were mown down in their thousands, torn to bloody shreds by round after round from the combined firepower and interlocking arcs of the Space Marines facing them.

But this was not glory. This was not a victory to be proud of; this was the destruction of humanity on a vast scale. 

The vanguard, at least five to six ranks deep, disappeared in an eruption of blood and gore, spraying the Imperial troops with their festering remains The killing zone became a carnal house, an obscene area of dust and stone twitching with piles of distended corpses. 
Still they came on as if their very existence depended on it. They fell dying and hissing but were quickly replaced by rank upon rank of willing followers. In places, they reached the trenches but were cut down with swords and bayonets. The marines stood on the parapets and met them head-on.

The cultists staggered and then stopped. More ranks formed up behind them, dark and grim figures bearing black banners displaying the sign of the Unclean One. They were carrying arms. Lasgun’s, Bolters, and edged weapons were pulled into diseased shoulders, weapons taken from the Imperial dead, or looted from Imperial armouries.

+Prepare to advance brothers+ 

As the Emperor’s elite warriors formed up, the remaining unarmed cultists yelled a defiant curse and then attacked with renewed vigour. They threw themselves onto the blades and bayonets of the marines, and began driving them back with sheer weight of numbers. 
Then the armed cultists opened fire, mowing down the cultists to the front in an unbelievable act of base barbarism. 

+Forward for the Emperor! + 

The marines slammed their heavy boots into the mud, pushed their shoulders forward as one… and charged. 

Any onlooker, who had the strength of will to watch the dreadful scene unfolding before them, would have stared at the charging marines in awe. They wore unadorned, unassuming, matt black power armour, which did not reflect the light. They bore a white disc on their right shoulder guards with three red skulls in a triangular pattern. 
They were the Emperor’s Vengeance Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, Space Marines that could trace their geneseed to the White Scars Legion and the great Khan himself. His fiery blood flowed through their veins. 

Today, the Vengeance marines were the Kings of the battlefield. 

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

XMÉNES WAS LEAD down the aisle of the dead and dying, to a barred door. PDF with grimy shell-shocked faces and dirty, worn-out uniforms, stood guard with weapons at the ready. They stood wide-eyed and looked nervous as the party approached.
A sandbagged position had been built housing a heavy-bolter manned by an edgy crew. Ximénes noted that the weapon was facing the door and not the other way where the enemy was expected to attack. 

_Was the enemy already inside? _

An officer and a Commissar were standing nearby. They were in deep discussion. The officer was shaking his head and gesticulating towards the door. The Commissar had a bloody shell dressing covering one eye and had his Las pistol drawn. He looked like he meant business. Ximénes turned to one of his followers, a tall dark-haired Marine bearing the rank insignia of a Captain. They exchanged glances. And the marine shook his head.

“Report, Commissar!” barked Ximénes and the Imperial Commissar swung around, his Las pistol held low. He stared at the assembled group, and was about to reprimand the intrusion until he saw who it was.

_This place reeks of defeat_ thought Ximénes. 

“My Lord‘, the commissar hesitated, ‘I cannot let you enter that room… with the greatest respect… sir”. 
“I asked for your report, not what I can and cannot do” said the Inquisitor quietly. The commissar began to visibly wilt. Half-trained PDF and rebels he could deal with… but an Inquisitor, well that was something else all together.
The PDF Officer stepped forward and waved a hand in the direction of the barred door. 
“My men are in there Lord‘ he said wearily ‘wounded men”. 
“And you are…?”, Ximénes asked, looking the officer up and down and studying the remains of his uniform. The officer shuffled to attention.
“Colonel Hasha Sir, 127th Bagehot Infantry. PDF, my Lord… Inquisitor”. 
“His men have failed in their duty’, interrupted the Commissar ’they have deserted their posts, and let themselves be overrun. They have failed the Emperor. The punishment can only be… death”.
“But my Lord…’, whispered the officer, a hint of desperation in his voice ‘there are some of my best men in there. They are good soldiers and totally loyal. They have fought the invasion since the beginning; they have faced the horrors with fortitude and determination. But now… they are … not themselves….“, he trailed off. Ximénes set his piercing eyes into the officer.
“Explain”. 
“Lord’, the officer continued ‘it is happening everywhere we meet the enemy. My men are overcome, they throw down their weapons, rip off their clothes.. It is a madness. They are…”
“Go on colonel”. 

“They are possessed”.

* * *​
THE VENGENCE MARINES butchered thousands of cultists that fateful day, a day that would go down in the Chapter’s Annuals of Glory. The defiled ground was littered with the ripped and torn bodies of the enemy, the trenches were filled with their corrupted bodies and rivers of tainted blood flowed freely, pooling in steaming puddles. 

The cultists broke. 

The Marines advanced in an unyielding black line of ceramite and steel, hacking and stabbing at anything that still had the audacity to cling on to life. As they crossed the tangled landscape, they picked off survivors and flamer teams assigned the corrupted to a ball of flaming dust. 

Expediency was paramount. The planet had to be purged of the Chaos taint. The planet had to be taken back in the name of the Emperor. 

They crossed the empty space between the front lines, an area that had once been a municipal park with trees, flowerbeds and caged exotic animals. It was a place where children once played amongst the Alpinia’s and Gardenia’s, where scholars studied rare orchids or sat behind tables playing games of strategy, or gossiped about the state of the economy. It was also where young couples frolicked or made love. 
A place of happiness and hope.

Now it was all gone; now the park was a blackened stain of death, horror, carrion and blood. 
The marines pressed on until contact with the cultists petered out and then finally stopped all together. The flies, plague flies that were gathering in even greater numbers, replaced the bodies. They swooped and dived, covering every surface and blotting out the sky. They swarmed over the armoured giants and covered them in a thick black, writhing mass. 

+ I am impeded by the xenos filth + 
+ I cannot see anything + 
+ My Sensors are down. My Breathing is constrained + 
+ We are the Swords of Retribution and we will not waver, we are close to the source. Nothing will hinder our advance. We bear the title of the one upon the Golden Throne, we will never fail him, and we will never falter. Advance brothers, advance to victory +
+ To Victory! + 

And despite the flies, and despite the horrors all around them, they pushed on across the detritus of the battlefield, past the carcasses of rare herd beasts and winged bipeds with magnificent feathers and quills. They passed the compounds, passed the fountains and streams, until they reached a commercial area beyond. They had found a vast stretch of faceless office blocks where the citizens of Bagehot had flocked day in and day out, to sit behind desks to stare at data screens. They were _Administratum_ buildings, great gothic-style blocks, with rows of arched windows, grey and inconspicuous.

+ I can feel them + 
+ Brothers be wary + 
+ Squads Thoraf and Emund will hold this sector, Thorsten, Ragnar and Hagbard with me+ 
+ Ad Victoriam! + 
+ To Victory! + 

Standing nearly a kilometre high, and made of black granite and quartz, the building was an imposing sight. Is façade was there to intimidate, to awe, to subjugate the minds of the population.
As the marines approached, they found that their advance began to slow, as if unseen hands or unseen forces were holding them back. In the windows above, unseen eyes looked down on them, thousands and thousands of blank, translucent eyes.

+ Sensors are picking up a colossal apparition inside, something huge + 
+ Be more specific, brother, what do you mean huge? + 
+ There is a presence here, my sensors are confused + 
+ By the Emperor, it is a daemon + 
+ All units close in on me + 

The first assault squad was lead by Brother sergeant Thorsten, a veteran marine armed with a power sword and bolter. Thorsten carried a yellow and red back banner with the heraldry of the Chapter in bold white and gold. His red helmet was adorned with a green laureatus, the mark of an exceptional leader. 
He led his men up to the main entrance, an archway five meters high. Two bronze statues of yawning carnivores stood either side of the opening. They watched the marines approach and grinned in anticipation; violence and death awaited those who dared to enter their domain. A brass plate affixed to the wall told the Marines that they were entering a department store of renown, but the goods and wares that this building housed would never grace their tables or decorate the walls of the living. Only death and disease was sold here.
Thorsten halted for a few seconds. He checked that his men were with him and then pushed open the large wooden doors.

+ What the…? + 
+ What heresy is this? + 
+ Maintain vox protocol, I want precise reports, what have you found? + 
+ Forgive my lapse of concentration battle Captain. We have entered the main building and the… + 
+ Brother Thorsten? + 
+ The ground is moving Captain, we are under attack + 

The marines had found the core, the living heart of Chaos on the planet, the realm of a monster so large that it covered five floors of the building.

Here festered Foulbane, a herald of Nurgle, a prince of putrefaction, and a creature so hideously deformed and rotten, that the very sight of it would freeze the bones and destroy the mind of a mortal man. 
It had watched the black-armoured Marines approach, and it had ordered its followers to fall back. Now it had these mortals exactly where it wanted them. Today he would feast on their flesh.
The floor and stairs were moving, a perfect carpet of wriggling maggots, insects and other nameless creatures. All of them were marked with the dread signs of Chaos and all of them stank. 
The Marines walked slowly on, and the insects crunched beneath their heavy boots. 

The first attack came. 

Pouring out of every nook and cranny, out of every hole, out of every door and window, ventilation shaft and recess, came the daemons of Nurgle. Thousands of pink or plague-green, knee-high Nurglings, carriers of disease and death. They were multi-limbed and multi-fanged gangly creatures that screamed obscenities in a guttural tongue. All of them were smaller images of the greater God, the Great Unclean One, and all of them moved with a single purpose. To kill everything they saw. 
Like a green pulsating tide, they poured over the marines, scratching, biting and regurgitating puss and foul-smelling acid onto the visors of the marine helmets. They screamed and howled their curses, and they died for their God.

The Vengeance marines, born in the steaming jungles of a death world and bred to survive in the harshest of environments, were immune to the sight of monsters and foul beasts around them, for they had killed many during their rise through to manhood. They brushed aside the Nurgling ranks as if they were walking through silken webs. They continued the advance and never faltered for a second. By the time they had reached the far end of the main entrance hall, their black armour was green and fetid and running with brown and green gore. 
They pushed on, stepping over the refuse of Chaos, ignoring their scrabbling limbs and frantic attacks until they came to a flight of wide stairs, which lead up to the next floor. 

The second attack came from nowhere. 

A mass of bi-peds with flaying arms, crude blades and razor-shape claws came up out of the floor, ripping through the vinyl and carpet coverings and toppling several of the marines. Like the Nurglings before them, they swarmed over the marines, a mass of filth-creatures with large bulbous heads, which harboured a large single eye in its centre. The floor and carpets spontaneously erupted into a river of bile.

+ Plague bearers + 
+ Stand fast brothers. Send them back to the abyss + 

Battle sergeant Thorsten dispatched four; five, six of the creatures with one sweep of his power sword, and blew the head off a seventh. The other members of his squad cleaved a path through the wriggling tide, driving the plague-bearers back, until the entire level was purged. Thorsten was the first to reach the next staircase, dispatching a horned monstrosity with a head butt from his Mk 7 helmet. He turned around to survey the scene.

+ The Emperor has blessed us with his divine strength today + 
+ Hail the Emperor for he is the protector of humanity + 

The men cheered and punched their fists into the air. It truly was a magnificent victory. 

But it was not over yet. Thorsten shuddered from multiple impacts. His legs suddenly buckled beneath him and with a sickening crunch, he hit the floor face down. 

+ I have a traitor, a traitor to the front. Sergeant Thorsten is down + 
+ The abomination is mine, guide my fire + 

Standing above them, at the top of the flight of stairs was another Space Marine, a giant even by their standards. Helmet-less and oblivious to the poisonous air around it was a man, or not quite a man, as its head was just a skull with the merest hint of flesh and muscle. Its power armour was stained green and brown and had a dull, cratered sheen. Where its shoulder guards should have been, there were now large fanged skulls of an unknown creature that made the skin crawl when you gazed upon them. Attached to its own back banner pole was a ravaged flag made from strips of human flesh, and the eyeless skulls of fallen Imperials. Foul Chaos signs had been cut into them, which screamed of unimaginable torture and violation. 

It was a Nurgle plague marine, a traitor, and it cradled a heavy bolter in its arms. 

+ I am the guardian here and you cannot pass + it gurgled in a phlegm heavy voice. 

It placed a heavy boot on Thorsten’s chest and levelled his weapon at the sergeant’s head.

+ I claim your soul in the name of Nurgle, the one true god + 

Thorsten was gravely wounded but not dead yet. The solid shell of his rib case had been punctured in several places and his internal organs were beginning to shut down, but he still clung on to life. He brought up his bolter, and fired point blank, shattering the traitor’s knee and deflecting its weapon away. The traitor screamed releasing a long burst of heavy rounds into the ceiling. There was an ear-splitting shriek and a large slab of the ceiling came crashing down on the rest of the Vengeance marines who had gathered at the base of the staircase. 

The plague marine let out a triumphant cry; he had scored a great victory here. He cursed the remaining Imperial’s below and let fly a jet of hot phlegm. He fired again, a thundering stitch of heavy las rounds that punched through the walls and banisters all around, taking the head off another loyalist and eviscerating a second. 
The traitor laughed again, a deep belly laugh that caused the ground to vibrate. Thorsten broke free of the rubble that was covering him, emerging like a grey ghost. The Nurgle marine was still laughing, as the veteran sergeant brought his blade around in a wide arc. It glowed with hidden energy and spikes of electricity stabbed out from it in all directions.
The plague marine stepped backwards and blocked the attack with his own weapon, a large metal claw that had just sprouted out of the end of its arm. Dark blood and flesh still hung to the daemon weapon, where it had formed from the plague marine’s blood and matter.
There was a high-pitched metal ring and an explosion of sparks and the hideous claw was sent flying to one side. The traitor howled in its bestial tongue and spat green filth onto the sergeant’s visor. The liquid began to steam as is it ate through the ceramite and plasteel plates. The traitor counter-attacked, bringing the heavy-bolter around like a large primitive club, smashing Thorsten backwards into a wall, which shattered the plaster and fittings and brought down an ornate glass chandelier. The shade popped into a million fragments of crystal as it hit the stone floor. The traitor swung again, bringing its club down a second time shattering Thorsten’s left shoulder pad, and snapping his scapula like a dry twig. A jet of bright red arterial blood escaped from the marine’s ruptured shoulder, spraying the walls like a crazed mans fresco. 

Then it was all over… 

Thorsten rolled to one side as the remains of the ceiling came crashing down engulfing the traitor and whitening out the sky. 
As the brick, rockcrete, plaster and metal beams fell; Thorsten finally struggled to his feet using a brass banister for support. Pain wracked his body and his sight was failing, but today, he would not be denied what was his.
The traitor’s head broke free from the debris and he looked up at the wounded marine. It sniggered to itself, black liquid oozing out either side of its mouth. Then it realised its doom. Thorsten’s sword came down hard, piercing the traitor’s skull mid way between the eyes. With an unstoppable force that could have smashed through the hardest metal plate or slice through the toughest armour, Thorsten’s blade crunched down with a dull thud of indescribable gore.

+ The Emperor assigns you to oblivion, traitor scum + 

A marine from the Devastator squad, armed with a cumbersome missile launcher, stepped in beside the veteran sergeant and reverently moved him to one side. He unleashed a Krak missile into the remains of the Chaos Marine. The explosion brought about a green cloud of flesh, bone and metal, showering all of those around it. A deep, distant cry came from within. A cloud of ubiquitous flies mushroomed upwards, as the Plague Marine’s screamed his last curse and was assigned to the void.

Thorsten nodded to his fellow marine. No words passed between them, but the gesture meant everything. Another traitor marine, once a brother but now only a conniver of evil, was dead. The loyalist’s everlasting quest for vengeance would go on, until every last one of them was put to death. 

The flies gathered and the insects swarmed, and the Nurgle prince watched them enter his domain and licked his lips with a bloated, rasping tongue. They were coming and his trap was set…

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

THE DOUBLE-BOLTS on the doors to the room were pulled back and the guards cautiously pushed them to. 

An acrid smell, like a hard fist, immediately hit those that had gathered outside. The stench was almost physical, a contaminated wall of bile, human excrement and other bodily fluids.
“By the Gods”, scowled one of Bagehot’s city elders, unwittingly muttering the banned curse. Ximénes immediately swung around.
“By that remark, I assume you mean the God Emperor, by the God Emperor?“ The elder blushed, wrung his hands and bowed low.
“Of course my Lord, forgive me”. 

_Defeatists_ thought Ximénes, _when the going gets tough they forget their beloved savoir and refer to ancient deities. This whole place is permeated with defeat._ 

The guarded room was lit with oil burners and incense hung heavy in the air. But the perfume could not hide the underlying stench. There were many men inside, PDF troopers for the most part with a few citizens here and there. They were all milling around aimlessly and muttering in a strange guttural tongue. Several members of the inquisitors group put their hands to their ears. The words made them feel sick, and some of them began to buckle and throw up.

“What are they saying?“, asked Ximénes to a black-robed astropath who was studying the group as a farmer would study a prize heifer or sheep. He waved a hand in their direction.
“It is hard to concentrate my Lord, it makes me want to vomit…“ 
“What do they say?“, asked Ximénes quietly. The Astropath stalled and then shrugged his shoulders. 
“Blasphemy and Heresy, my Lord Inquisitor, exulting the lesser daemon Prince Foulbane”. Ximénes turned to the Imperial servant.
“Foulbane, here on this planet?“. 
“It is difficult to interpret my Lord, their speech is drooled and nonsensical, but basically they are chanting…“ 
“Go on, my impatience grows” 

“Blessed is the unclean one, for he shall engulf Humanity….“. 

Ximénes studied the possessed. Most of them appeared to be physically capable. Some had minor wounds, others appeared to have nothing at all. One or two were clearly beyond help. It was the wide-eyed blank stares that disturbed Ximénes the most. It was as if their minds had been erased. 
The soldiers amongst them were not wearing their helmets, and to the horror of the Inquisitors entourage, the men had disfigured their heads and faces, cutting open their flesh and ripping at their eyes. Some had inserted metal spikes through their cheeks or noses, others had cut obscene signs on their skin. The pain must have been extreme but they appeared not to notice.. They drooled and constantly muttered their chants, and they walked in never-ending circles, bumping into each other as the walked.

Ximénes grabbed hold of the nearest figure and stared into his face, holding him by the shoulders. The man looked at the Inquisitor with grey, bleeding eyes. He offered no resistance, hanging limply in the Inquisitors grip, a bloated tongue bobbing inside his mouth.
Ximénes closed his own eyes and placed his palms either side of the mans head. 

“Whom do you serve?“, he hissed, and to those standing around him, the room began to get noticeably cooler. The trooper stared back, his eyes were now slits of white. The mutterings abruptly stopped.

“Whom do you serve?“, Ximénes repeated. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

The men around him moved well back, sensing danger. The temperature dropped very low and a fine cloud of breath could be seen as they breathed out. The atmosphere was electric, the tension extreme. Two of the Bagehot officials turned and ran for the door but were stopped by two large soldiers wearing black carapace armour and the insignia of Stormtrooper’s of the Inquisition. They carried heavy flamers, and long stun poles on their hips.
The soldier sagged and then began to shake. He began muttering again, gibberish at first, and then after a few seconds, words began to form in low Gothic. The mans voice changed to a deep baritone but seemed to come from far away.
“I..I..I am a servant….”, Ximénes concentrated harder, his face a hard scowl, his temples throbbing and the hint of static electricity in the air.

“I am a servant of Chaos’, he then gurgled, what appeared to be laughing ’I am Chaos, and we will bathe in your blood and suck out your souls….”

“You will leave this vessel’, said Ximenes ‘leave him now. I am more of a match for you”. The soldier laughed again, green spittle at the corners of his mouth.

“I will turn you into my play thing, I will…”

“Be silent!’ roared the Inquisitor ‘you will leave this vessel and fight me instead”, but before the man could say any more, his eyes bulged out of their sockets and tainted blood shot out in jets from his nose and ears. There was a low crack as Ximénes crushed his skull and jellified the mans brain. The trooper’s body went limp and he fell heavily to the ground.

Ximenes turned abruptly and then pushed his way through the group to the leader of the Extreme Council on Bagehot. The elder, a well-groomed man with a white tonsure and a large bulbous nose, made the sign of the Aquilla and bowed low. Ximénes stared at him long and hard, and the man glanced up hesitantly through bushy eyebrows. His hands flopped to his side as he wilted under the Inquisitor’s penetrating stare.

“You knew all about this malaise, yet you did nothing” 
“But my Lord…” 
“Silence while I speak!’, roared the Inquisitor, ’you did nothing though the sign s were there, and now this…’. He turned to the other dignitaries. ’blasphemy’, he sighed and straightened up.

“For such incompetence, such malpractice, for your utter blindness to the obvious, I hereby sentence you all to death, each and every one of you. As your soldiers die, so shall you”.

A loud commotion came from the group of officials followed by pleading and protests. The leader of the council fell to his knees and pawed at the Inquisitors cloak.
“But my Lord, we are loyal servants…. “. Ximenes struck the man hard with his mailed fist and the elder spun in the air like a rag doll, a yet of bright red blood spurting out from his broken nose. 
Ximénes stepped over him, and made his way to the exit. Pleading hands and faces were knocked to one side. His retainers followed, barely acknowledging the men around them. After he stepped over the threshold, the door was closed behind him with a clang. When the officials tried to follow, the two black-armoured Stormtrooper’s blocked their way and pushed them backwards. 

Outside, the PDF troopers had been replaced by more Stormtrooper’s and several huge Guardsmen, incredibly large beasts brandishing fearsome-looking multi-barrelled guns. Commissars and other military types, wearing a cross-section of uniforms from all arms of the service had gathered in a large group.
The was the sound of high-pressure air being released and then the smell of burning meat. The purging of Bagehot continued…

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

THE GENERAL WAS regular Imperial Guard. He was a veteran of several campaigns and had seen his fair share of action. But this… this was something else. 
He sat slumped over his chart desk and scanned the small, battered data-slate in front of him. He stared down through blood-shot eyes, stained with tears. A Lho-stick hung lazily from the corner of his mouth, its end glowing hot. An empty glass tumbler lay on its side next to a loaded laspistol. 

_Dear Isabella_… he used the stylis to erase the words.. _My Darling Isabella… my love for you is strong… remember me, us… and little Toby. .._ 
An aid hovered to his front clutching a sheath of papers in a gloved hand.
“Sir…” 
“Shut the bloody hell up Tyson!’, screamed the general ‘shut that scrawny mouth of yours or by all that is sacred, I’ll ram my fist down it”.

_Know this that I did my duty to the end… they come for me now… await my fate._ 

The door at the far end of the room slammed open and the general looked up. He raised an eyebrow and then glanced furtively at his loaded side arm. A Commissar wearing an immaculate uniform with full ceremonial braid marched in. Behind him stood four Emperor’s Vengeance marines with Bolters at high port.
The bustle and hubbub of the command centre went deathly quiet as junior rank officers and Adepts of the Departmentum Munitorium looked up at the new arrivals. The Commissar reached the centre of the room and placed his hands behind his back.

“You are all relieved of command. Pick up your field gear and join your troops at the front”. 
Tyson, the General's _aide-de-camp_, stepped forward a pace.
“I must protest. On who’s authority…”, the Commissar swung on him, staring out beneath the peak of his hat. 
“If it is any concern of yours, I speak on behalf of the Commissariat, who’s power is absolute, and by the leave of the Holy Inquisition itself’, he closed on the junior officer and grinned a deaths head grin ‘I shall leave you in no doubt… lieutenant, we are the only official power left on this Emperor-forsaken planet’, he turned to the others .
‘You have precisely ten seconds to vacate this room before our erstwhile brothers from the venerable Chapter of the Emperor’s Vengeance, start shooting”.
The general sat back in his chair and watched his staff scramble for the exit in a most undignified manner. A grin spread across his face.

_ Well here it comes_

With great reverence he stubbed out his Lho-stick in an old ration tin and then scooped up a bottle that was on the floor beneath him. The Commissar stood ten paces away, still smiling.
“Hail to the glorious Inquisition”, chirped the general, raising his glass that was now full with a dark brown liquid. He knocked it back and slammed the glass back down on the chart desk.

The room was now empty of his staff and he suddenly felt terribly alone. The Commissar never took his eyes off him. The room went cold. 
A dark shadow loomed in the doorway, but the general could not see who it was. He looked the Commissar up and down.
“Are you here to arrest me?”. The Commissar gave a snort and leant over, placing his hands on the desk. 
“If only… general. Now that would be easy would it not?’ he stood back up and pulled out a small book from a deep pocket in his jacket.

“Under Article 8055/14v: Any soldier who, in the face of the enemy, runs away, or shamefully abandons his post or guard, or induces others to do the like, or casts away his arms or ammunition, or attempts to take his own life shall be shot on the spot. You have been found wanting and are hereby sentenced to death”. 

The general smiled for the first time and then stood up. He subconsciously patted himself down and brushed away imaginary creases in his tunic. He ran his fingers along the row of medals on his left breast and fingered the Cross of Devotion at his throat.

“Though my memory sometimes fails me at critical moments’, the General said matter-of-factly ‘at no stage can I ever remember abandoning my post or telling others to do likewise”
“Details are irrelevant’, replied the Commissar in a dangerous tone ‘you have not shown the same fortitude and courage that many loyal soldiers have. Those that have already given their lives for the Emperor”.
“So where is it to be then?”. 
The Commissar leant forward and pushed the generals loaded pistol across to him. 
“The Lord Inquisitor has seen it in himself, to offer you the chance to at least die with what dignity you have left” 
“So the Lord Inquisitor runs the show now?” 
“He has assumed responsibility for the defence of Bageholt. Please make it quick… we are, so to speak, extremely busy”. 

The Commissar turned on his heel and marched off, leaving the general alone with the four Space Marines. He eyed them wearily and then leant down to retrieve his bottle. It was empty and he turned it in his hand with a sad look on his face. He turned to the Space Marines.
“Am I allowed a last request?”. The foremost marine slowly shook his head and the General smiled. 
“You know, I’ve always wanted to say this before but have never had the opportunity’, he picked up his pistol and held the heavy piece in his hand, feeling its balance, its coolness. 
“You Astartes have no sense of humour, do you know that… you are boring and make lousy companions at dinner parties”

* * *​

XIMENES WALKED slowly up to the desk and studied the body slumped before him. The general had done a good job on his head. The heavy pistol round had taken the top half of his skull off, revealing a grey mass of gluey brain matter. He gave a slight nod and two servitors stepped forward and unceremoniously bundled the officer into a large hessian sack, before dragging him back out of the room. A third servitor edged forward and cleaned away the Generals remains. When it was satisfied, it bowed low and scuttled after its companions.

The Lord Inquisitor slumped down in the general’s chair and let out a long sigh. An elderly aide wearing white robes and a stethoscope around his neck, tutted and opened up his medicae box.
Ximenes picked up a blood-stained data-slate and studied it for a moment.
_ Darling Isabella…_

He passed his eyes over the lines before him and for a split second he felt a heave of remorse. It was the general’s final words to his wife.. Wherever she might be. It was personal, not for his eyes so the Inquisitor placed the data-slate down, subconsciously wiping away some of the Generals blood from its facia.

_ I think you are probably better off General. At least you died honourably. As for the rest…_

He sat perfectly still, as his personal Apothecary removed the last of the shell fragments from his right arm. There was very little bleeding, the Inquisitors metabolism was so enhanced that wounds tended to heal very quickly. Soon there would be only faint scars to mark the injury. The break to his fibula however, would take a little longer.

A large figure entered the command room, and Ximénes waved his physician away. 
“Leave now Diames, gather the rest of your staff”, he said calmly, and the man quickly gathered together his equipment and hurried to a far door.

The a Marine captain blocked out the light from the burning city outside, completely dominating the room. He had been with the Lord Inquisitor when they inspected the infirmaries. Now, his black cloak was torn and dusty and scorched in places. His dull black armour showed the signs of heavy combat, and was scored in a hundred places and covered in gore and blood.

“Your report Captain Gunnbjorn”, asked Ximénes softly. 
The Emperor’s Vengeance commander paused for a moment as a loud explosion erupted outside. He then removed his helmet to reveal his pale rounded face with his long black hair. A large scar ran down his right cheek, which stood out a brilliant red. He ran a gloved hand through his hair and then sighed.
“We have purged sectors five through to fifteen. No cultist activity remains. My losses are acceptable, six dead and fifteen wounded. However…”
“Do go on, Captain” 
“The Guard and the PDF have failed in sectors four and seventeen and have been driven back onto our lines of communications”.
“And their Casualties?”, asked Ximénes, almost as an after thought. 
Extreme, my Lord”. 
“..And the daemon?“. 
“No, my Lord… ‘, and the captain went down onto one knee and lowered his head ‘we, I, have failed you, failed our sworn oath. I could not match the beast, I could not stop it”.
“It escaped?” 
“Yes my Lord”

The Inquisitor stood to his full height, as high as the Space Marine, and flexed his injured arm. He looked down at the captain and frowned.
“This thing is beyond us. You did your best, you did superbly. I cannot fault the fighting prowess of your men. Most of the xenos filth have been purged, except for him. 
I must go and face the fiend again, and try to rally what remains of the troops. I must bring some iron back into their spines. I must help them”.
“My Lord… they are abandoning their posts in their thousands, they are fleeing everywhere… they have failed”. 
“Failed?” 
“This is the last bastion, the last citadel of resistance. Everywhere else has fallen. We do not have the numbers or the sheer hate the enemy forces have.….. They are intent on devouring everything, and to destroy all that humanity has strived to achieve. If we do attain victory here, it will be at a very high cost, and at the end, there will be nothing left but wilderness and pestilence.”

Ximénes placed his hands on the captains shoulder guards and raised him to his feet. 
“I will think of a suitable penitence when this thing is over captain, but for now, I need you back at the front to await my orders”. 
The marine slowly nodded and then turned to leave.

Ximénes twisted away and looked out of what was once an great arched window. The remains of stained glass still clung to the frame like small coloured teeth. This was the Praetorium, the garrison commanders own residence, and one of the last strongholds held by Imperial forces on Bagehot.

This was the rock in a sea of Chaos.

The Lord Inquisitor stared down at the rubble and the shattered shells of the buildings and shook his head. 
“We will hold out, Captain”. 
“Yes my Lord, WE will hold this place until the end of time, but the common soldiery, the Guard and the citizens, they are not like us. They cannot face such horrors”.
The Lord Inquisitor looked at the marine and grinned, “Everyone will do there duty to the Emperor, even if it means their death” 

Something fluttered past the window outside, a small winged creature, a bird perhaps? The Inquisitor leant forward and placed his hands on the sill and tried to locate the animal. He stepped away from the window as the creature came back and forced its way through a small hole. There was a flurry of wings and a high-pitched squeal when Ximénes grabbed it quickly. The creature screamed and flapped its wings frantically. The Inquisitors face changed to that of disgust as the bird-creature was revealed to him.

A bird? A bat? Perhaps, but not of this world. Its long reptilian wings , almost like a bats, ended in a three-fingered claw with razor-sharp spikes at their ends. The body was small and compact, black in colour with a sheen, as if covered in oil. But it was the head of the creature that confirmed Ximénes suspicion. Evil hands had been at work here. The head was that of a human baby, or what was left of one. The eyes were streaming sores and the mouth harboured rows of black fangs that snapped at the Inquisitors face. A green forked-tongue flicked out, tasting for human blood, his blood. It was strong and it tried to pull away from him. But the Lord Inquisitors grip was firm, like iron. Ximénes tensed his arm and the creature ruptured in a mass of green and black gore. A gasp escaped its blistered lips, a sigh that sounded like relief. Ximénes dropped it to the floor and then kicked it heavily across the room.

He looked at the captain in his black, Mark Eight Imperator Armour and his slim noble face. He was one of the emperor’s finest warriors, the Emperor’s Vengeance, the warriors from the dark. They would hold out against the Chaos spawn, but weak-willed, mortal man would not, could not.

_ Give me a Chapter of these men and I will break this plague daemon and purge this planet _

“Do you know, captain Gunnbjorn.. .’, Ximenes said with a hint of sadness in his voice, ’do you know anything about this planet that we are fighting for?”. He turned to face the Captain, who had stopped near the far door where a group of other marines patiently waited. One of them towered over the others and Ximénes realised that it was a Marine in ancient Terminator armour.

“My Lord?” 
“This planet, Bagehot, beautiful Bagehot. Do you know anything about it, why we fight for it?”. The captain muttered something to his men, who then disappeared from view. He stared at the Inquisitor.
“Not a thing, my Lord, and I don’t want to know. It makes it a lot easier, if you remain aloof from it all, if you know what I mean? I go where I am sent and I do what I am ordered to do”.
Ximénes chuckled. 

“I like that Captain, do what I am ordered to do, I like that, so simple, and so easy. 
Well captain, Bagehot was once a wondrous planet of forests, lakes, rivers and oceans, and above all, vineyards”. 
“Vineyards, Lord, now I like the sound of that”. 
Ximénes smiled at the soldier. 
“Yes, I have heard of your victory rituals, captain. Perhaps, one day, we will drink together from the cup of victory?”
“It would be an honour, Lord” 
“Bagehot produces the finest wines. Some bottles, especially the Char-Musél variety, are exquisite’, his face then changed ashen and sad, ’and now they will be no more”.
“My Lord?”, asked the Marine. 

Ximénes returned to the window and watched lines of grey infantry streaming back from the front. Most were wounded, many had lost their weapons and equipment, but to a man, they all had the look of beaten men on their faces. Even the field police and a few Commissars were trudging along side them, their duty to the Emperor forgotten, and their only thought, to get away from the vile tide that threatened to overwhelm them all.

A building toppled and Ximénes saw the towering shape of a battle Titan appear. It was moving slowly backwards with its prime weapons firing in all directions. It was slick from head to toe in green slime and surrounded by a pulsating cloud of even more flies.
_A Mark 3 Warlord Titan, the Nex Necis, retreating… now it really is over_

“Captain Gunnbjorn,‘ he clipped abruptly ‘order the evacuation of our surviving forces with immediate effect”. 
“Yes, my Lord… I will place The Dark Blades Terminator Squad under Brother Hagbaard, at your disposal. They will be your personal escort and will guide you to your ship”.
“Thank you Captain” 
“My Lord… what about the rest of the people” 
“The citizens of Bagehot have failed the task that was set for them. They have failed the Imperium and worse of all, they have failed our beloved Emperor.
_Exterminatus_, Captain, this world must be purged..”



* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

IT HAS BEEN a long time since I tasted anything from home‘, Schell pondered. The word ‘home’, was almost inaudible, ‘and I know that you mean well, so I will try and enjoy it”. Ximénes coughed and then turned back to face him again.
“Unfortunately, I cannot join you, Verdant. I am prevented from enjoying earthly pleasures any more. Wine, good food and other’, he coughed ‘pleasures, are all but a memory to me now. Ever since… the last attempt on my life”.

Schell looked up from the glass and eyed the robed figure. He had heard of all the failed assassinations on the Lord Inquisitors life, especially the last attack that came so very close to succeeding. He did not know the full details, but he knew that whoever struck was close, very close, and it had rocked the very foundations of the Inquisition.

“I see you have been busy Verdant’, the Lord Inquisitor glanced at a Data-slate ‘eight Chaos cults in the last six months, and the burning of the Gorgon witch Assilius-the-Cruel. Not to mention the purging of Mahneh Five on Anastasia Prime of those filth, the Genestealers. Good, Good’, he looked up ‘I hope that Assilius’s interrogation was thorough?”.

Schell nodded “Fourteen weeks, my Lord, fourteen long weeks before he renounced his foul sponsor and begged the Emperor’s forgiveness. May I just name one of my interrogators…?”
Ximénes raised a hand “I have noted his name and will watch him closely in the future”. Schell gave a small bow of the head.
“Thank you, my Lord”. Ximénes handed the Data-slate to a small servitor wrapped in a black shawl and wearing a gilded helmet, moulded into the image of a sea creature.
“I have a new assignment for you my friend”, Ximénes continued after a pause to catch his breath ‘if you will permit me?”
“Good, excellent, at long last’, grinned Schell ‘… And if I know you, my Lord… it will be a worthy assignment indeed”. He sat back in the chair and stared at his glass. The wine was beginning to have an effect on his senses, a calming effect, calming and warm. It loosened his tongue, loosened his inhibitions. Ximénes eyed him through artificial eyes and smiled.
“I heard about the last attempt on your life‘, Schell continued matter-of-factly ‘I trust your retribution was swift and deadly?”. 
Ximénes chuckled again, and then broke into a long period of coughing. Several corpse-like servitors fussed around him until he waved them away.
“Yes, my revenge was suitably efficient. Nevertheless, they nearly got me that time, Verdant, me of all people. Lord Inquisitor Francisco Ximénes, Grand Master of the Ordo Hereticus, destroyer of planets, and Grand Exterminator of Chaos’ he paused, casting his mind back to the rivers of blood that had flowed in the name of the God-Emperor. 
’Ten thousand corrupted cultists paid for their heresy that day. The extermination teams worked day and night’, he stopped and looked at Schell, ’I do envy you. I miss such simple pleasures like wine”.

Schell held the glass up and looked at the clear liquid it contained. He held it up in toast.
“Lord Inquisitor, it is an honour to be at your side once more. Your service to the Imperium is legendary”. 
Ximénes grunted and moved back to the window.
“Indeed’, he said in a low voice ’but we will not be fighting side-by-side this time my eager friend, I am too old and frail for all that now. Though my mind is perfect, my body is a weak shell and too badly damaged to do any serious work any more. I am beyond all healing, and only kept alive by machines. 
My best work was done before the….’ he swept his arms in a wide curve.
’Now I rely on my servants and let younger Inquisitors like yourself do the Emperors work”. He appeared to sag and lean heavily on his staff. A servitor rushed forward and supported his left arm. Ximénes nodded gratefully and held up a hand. The servitor backed a few paces away. Schell watched the scene with mild curiosity.

“I am the Grand Master of the Ordos Nantes and Lord Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus’, continued the old man, ’and it has been my life’s work hunting down xenos filth, the unclean, the heretics and the witches. As a Monodominant, a puritan, like you, I believe that it is Mankind’s true destiny to rule the Galaxy, even if it means the death of every other creature or race.

Chaos, Verdant, its reek permeates everything around us, these floors, these walls. It is in the very air we breathe, it disgusts me. It is out there in the void, it is out there on Imperial worlds. The servants of the Chaos Gods are everywhere’, he sighed .
’I have judged many people and put even more to death. I have destroyed planets, purged entire star systems, all in the name of the divine Emperor’. Schell was enjoying the spectacle, the wine was definitely something else. He was feeling quite merry.
’Chaos is even here on this ship my friend”. 
Schell looked up from his glass.
“On an Imperial vessel, Lord?”, he quizzed. Ximénes laughed, a sound like that of a child gurgling.
“But of course it is. You should know that, you are well travelled yourself, you know how Chaos operates. Why do you seemed so surprised? 
Men are weak, Verdant. They are weak and feeble creatures that are easy to corrupt. Chaos looks for their weaknesses, plays on them and then corrupts them. It is our job as Inquisitors, to hunt it down and destroy it”.


* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

*Part 3*

*The Assault Begins
Imperial Time: 0435hrs*​

DORMAGEN MOVED SWIFTLY along the ventilation pipe, a dark shape, silent and swift. Despite being just short of fifty, he moved like a feline, a well-oiled machine. He stooped low, scanning the soft sand that lined the base of the tunnel. He was looking for fresh spore, anything that showed signs of the enemy. The path was already marked out for him; it was obvious that the route had been well used by Handshaari sentries, men who now lay dead at the base of the city walls, their flesh rotting and play things to hungrey flies and reptiles. The tracks would lead the way into the city and hopefully, complete surprise. 
I could hear a low drone from deep inside the walls and after a while, I could feel warm, almost humid air touching my face. A distant fan was blowing the stale air out from the city’s underground system. It had a slight taint of lubricants, fuel oil and musty dampness.

The rest of the assault group followed in close behind, a dark mass of silent, brooding men. It was difficult to see inside the confines of the tunnel, but we could still find their way. There was an algae growing there, or some form of insect life, which gave off a faint luminous glow. The route was clearly marked up for us, so the going was good.

I found myself tucked in amongst the first squad. I had been told to partner up with Braus, who was a miserable ex-convict from the Kieler State Penitentiary. The ten-year veteran could barely tolerate my presence and constantly cursed me and shoved me with his large gloved hands. He stared at me through his one good eye, an augmentic metal optic, stitched into the left side of his face. His right eye was dead, white, and seeped constantly. He spat and stared down at me with contempt.

“You muck up with me boy‘, he growled when Dormagen assigned him the job of looking after me, ‘and I’ll kick your arse ‘til it bleeds. Verdammpt Dormagen, why do I have to wet nose this baby?”
“Because the others were busy’, replied the senior corporal ’and its Unteroffizier when you address me, you filth. I worked hard for this bloody rank”.

So that was the end of that. I was stuck with a trooper who clearly despised me, and considered me a small child. He was grumpy and miserable and held little respect for authority or rank. An ex-con who had always lived in and out of trouble. I figured that he would probably leave me at the first opportunity that came his way. He might even do it himself just looking at him. I said a silent prayer to the God Emperor, and begged him to watch over me through my first action. As an afterthought, I added… preferably unscathed.

As we moved forward, I looked at the _Kopftjägers _that surrounded me. They stared back with grim, bearded faces and serious looks. These stalwarts, these warriors that were hardened in battle meant business. I had no right to be there alongside them, I had not earned my place. I felt lousey.
I could hear their laboured breathing, and feel the heat and sweat from their bodies. They had all secured their weapons and equipment with tape and ties, so that nothing would make a noise, anything that would give them away. 
For the time being, we still had the element of surprise, but the sentries outside would soon be missed and then, using the words of some forgotten prophet “There would be hell to pay“. We might still make it. I could but hope.

The Handshaari were not a backward enemy, and the Beddo’s who fought for them were natural warriors. They were a sophisticated and able people who had the same equipment and weapons as we did. They would soon discover that their communications were being jammed and their men had not logged in. Then they would know that the time for waiting was over and the Imperials were finally here. 

And my fate awaited me.

Trooper Maag, a wiry man with the incredible ability of being able to see in the dark, and an uncanny sixth-sense that verged on psykic power, was a dozen paces ahead of Dormagen. He held a Sweeper out in front of him, and was checking for booby-traps or any other ‘nasties’ that might have been left for the unwary. He was a natural and the best scout in the regiment. He could almost taste the enemy, feel their presence, read their thoughts.
Covering him and almost on his shoulder was his best friend and drinking buddy, Trougott Glowna. His task was to protect his mate and he did this using a non-standard chain gun. This was a primitive multi-barrelled weapon, which spat out solid rounds at an incredible rate of fire. It was cumbersome and heavy to handle, but Glowna was a large man, and one of the only men in the regiment capable of handling it. 
He carried a bulky pack on his back, which housed the large quantity of ammunition the chain gun required.
Rumour had it, that Glowna had murdered his wife’s lover with his bare hands, and had only joined the Guard to avoid a lengthy prison sentence. He was a hard man, as hard as they came. I avoided him whenever I could.

Dormagen returned, dragging a large, heavy item behind him. 
“I found this’, he smiled, ‘I don’t know what it is”. 
It was difficult to see in the half-light, but I could make out the shape of a man, or an approximate of a man. 
“Is it a Beddo?” asked Meyer, moving in close. The figure appeared to stagger backwards but was roughly pushed back by unseen hands. It gave out a high-pitched mew and then broke into a fast litany in a mixture of high and low gothic.
Dormagen pulled back its baggy hood to reveal an incredibly old face with its right eye replaced by a large compound eye encased in brass. The skull was devoid of any hair and instead, the pallid surface was dotted with tubes and wires that lead down into slots in the creature’s neck or into a large machine that was strapped to its back. Scraps of flesh hung like lose linen from the remains of its arms that had mostly been replaced by dull ebony-coloured metal. Its left arm ended in an ancient-looking flamer whose end glowed with a blue flame. The right arm was finished off with a large rotating claw. The forms mouth had been stitched closed with metal staples and replaced by a long corrugated tube. Even from where I was standing, far to the rear, I could smell the creature.

“Is it human?” queried Hochbaum, scrunching up his face. 
Meyer stared into the creature’s good eye and winced as yellow pus formed at its edges and dribbled down its cheek.
“It’s some sort of cleaning servitor”. 
“It’s a vermin controller,” said Dormagen smiling. 
“A kindred spirit Dormagen, eh?” added Hochbaum grinning. 
“Can you talk?” said Schaeffer standing at arms length and screwing up his nose ‘you were muttering a litany, can you speak?”
The servitor gazed at the dark faces around him and vigorously shook his head and grunted back down the tunnel, raising his claw. 
Several troopers straightened up readying their Lasgun’s. Silhouetted against the ambient light from the tunnel algae, was a small shuffling figure. A light bobbed in front of him, a flashlight or a guidance drone.
“Arwa, Arwa’, the figure growled ‘Arwa, you malingering dung beetle, where be thee?” There was a clump followed by a quiet moan and then a small scrawny figure came hurtling down the tunnel like a subway locomotive. The new arrival landed squarely at Meyer’s feet. There was a brief glint and I saw the knife, just as Schaeffer’s boot came crashing down, shattering the mans phalanges and metacarpals and rendering his hand useless.
“Ah, ah, ah”, tutted the Spiess ‘we’ll have none of that nonsense here”, and in one fluid movement he had scooped the man up into a standing position. 

The newcomer was half the size of the vermin servitor and was lithe and sinewy. He had long grey hair that reached almost to the ground, and had a black face scarred with boils and lesions, caused by the filth and pollution that accumulated under the city. He was in an all-body suit of unknown animal skin. He was grimacing and rubbing his injured hand. Hochbaum pushed him roughly against the tunnels wall and Braus kicked him hard on the chin, dropping him instantly.
“A regular get together”, Dormagen smiled a brown-tooth smile. 
“Are there any more of you?” asked Meyer calmly. The smaller man, the vermin controller, shook his head eagerly. 
“Yes, yes, many of us there are. Imperials had it big time”, he sniggered just before Braus kicked him again. This time the little man let out a cry of pain.
“I’ll ask you again’, said Meyer, throwing my soon-to-be companion an annoyed look. ‘How many rebels are up there. How many men are waiting for us?”
The small man moaned lightly and rocked from side to side. When Braus raised his boot again, the man shook his head. 
“Arwa and Shazi. We hunt muris, muris, stinking vermin. We simple, we know nothing’, he glanced at Schaeffer ‘but Beddo’s they are here yes, lots of Beddo’s”, he smiled, revealing a set of ragged teeth that made Dormagen’s look like works of fine art.
“Heavy weapons’, added Meyer ‘what about heavy weapons?” The small man shrugged his shoulders. 
“All weapons heavy to simple folk like Arwa and Shazi”. 
Schaeffer rolled his eyes. 
“Open up their gizzards‘ growled Maag ‘I guarantee they‘ll talk then“. 
Meyer shook his head. “We are here to liberate our misguided brothers Obertrooper Maag, not kill them”.
“Pointless’, Schaeffer added. He pointed to a trooper to my left ‘take these jokers to the rear and well-away from here. Unteroffizier Dormagen smells like a rosary compared to these two”.
The servitors were manhandled to the rear and fresh air. The tunnel went deathly quiet. 
“They might be expecting us”, Meyer broke in. 
“We can’t help that”, said Schaeffer and nodded at Dormagen ‘alright Mauritz, take your men and do your stuff”.

The draft from the fan was becoming increasingly stronger and the smells more potent. The heat and the air were making movement difficult as it became stronger and stronger as we neared the end of the shaft. Men began to bunch up and scrabble for cleaner air. The ex-Hive city dwellers were used to the cramp conditions, but for those, like me, who came from the forests, these cramped conditions were hell. Fists flew and curses were abound, but order was quickly restored with butts from the NCO‘s. The noise from the fan caused the pipe and the air around us to vibrate. It was a deep throbbing sensation that made you feel nauseous. After about a hundred metres, we could see light ahead and the all of a sudden we were faced with a large rotating ventilator blade, twice the height of a man. The pipe opened up either side of it and we filtered around and out into a large concrete basin, about fifty metres in diameter. To the left and right were corridors with similar fans placed at regular intervals stretching off into the distance. 
Schaeffer signalled for second and fifth platoons to cover the left, whilst third and forth would be responsible for the right. A heavy weapons team was brought up to add some extra firepower.
The rest of the assault group went down on one knee, and sat there, silent and brooding.

Ahead of us was an arched wall with a metallic grate cut into it. Air from the room beyond was being sucked in through here and back down the ventilation tunnel. Dust lay thickly on every horizontal surface. I remembered a lesson once, when I was at school, that my science teacher told me that consists of human cells, plant pollen, hair, fibres and particles from the outside world. This dust looked greasy, unclean somehow, the detritus of a whole city.
Over to our right was a large double door with a small table next to it. A few metal chairs stood forlornly in front of it. They looked incredibly old and appeared to be relics of a bygone day. There was a bank of controls on one of the intervening walls. Amber and red lights blinked lazily.
Dormagen went forward with Maag and Glowna to his rear. The wily corporal crawled up to the grate and peered out into the space beyond. He turned back and signalled that we should stay low. Maag and Glowna checked the doors and Dormagen listened at the join for any signs of movement. Glowna slowly removed his combat knife from his boot and held it low.
The corporal turned again.

_Left hand cupped to his left ear - left thumb and forefinger circling left wrist - right hand in a ‘C’ twice - two fingers left hand on the right shoulder guard_

“I hear the enemy, at least twenty of them, send over Meyer”
Schaeffer and Lieutenant Meyer moved over to him. They were inexplicably croached low. Schaeffer could see that Dormagen was struggling in the heat and offered him his canteen. The corporal took a long drag and passed it to Meyer. The old corporal knelt down and gathered a pile of sand from the floor. 
He quickly sketched a plan.

“What have we got?” asked Meyer in a raised whisper. Although the noise from the fan offered some cover, they could not be sure what was directly behind the doors.
“Ahead of us is a large vehicle service bay, two storeys high. It’s at least two hundred, maybe two fifty metres across. It is well lit. There are a lot of vehicles in there, earthmovers, diggers, cranes and the odd automobile, that sort of thing. I saw some military vehicles but they were people movers, not armour. There were tech-priests milling about but I did not see any uniforms”.
“You say that they are there never-the-less“, said Meyer.
“Yeah, they are. I can smell them, gun oil and bullshit and they are right outside that door”.
“Maybe they’ll pay us a visit very soon”, grinned Commissar Rabe, who had moved up front with Captain Pauli, the Company commander, who had finally got to them after being delayed to the rear. They squatted down next to Schaeffer.
“They could be forming up to counter-attack us as we speak’, Dormagen replied, ‘we are going to have to get moving very quickly”.
“Did you see a way out of that vehicle bay? “, Schaeffer interrupted.
“There’s an exit tube over to the left, and maybe one to the right. The light was poor, it’s hard to tell and I can‘t read their bleedin‘ signs. The words are all squiggles and loops”.
“Good work, Unteroffizier“, said Meyer. Pauli turned to the right and then looked to the left. He pointed at a nearby Trooper and waved him over. The Kopftjäger gave a feeble two-fingered salute.
“Get Oberleutnant’s Müller and Hilferding up here at the double and find me Lob and his mob from support Truppe”. 
“How many rebels… in the vehicle bay?”, quizzed Schaeffer.
“Experience tells me that it’s a guard detail, maybe twenty plus. However, if they are operating all these ventilation shafts, there could be ten times that. I just don’t know. There might be.. could be whole stinking battalion for all I know. They are definitely out there though, I could smell them… that stinking Beddo smell”, he patted the severed head still hanging from his belt. Schaeffer frowned. Dormagen was not noted for his own personal hygiene, and describing the Beddo’s as ‘stinking’, was like calling the kettle black.
“They are expecting us”, said Meyer.
“Just waiting for us to stick our heads out of those doors”, sighed Schaeffer.
“Only one way to find out’, smiled the Dormagen’ and that is to get out there and see for ourselves. If they are; then as soon as we enter the bay, we are in for one a hell of a party”. Schaeffer sat back on his haunches and ran his hands through his hair.
“Party is hardly the word I would use, Unteroffizier”, grinned Pauli ‘but I understand what you mean”
“We have no choice’ said Rabe ‘time is running out. It’s time to start earning our pay”
“I agree“, said Meyer. Lieutenant’s Müller and Hilferding came up followed by two Vox-officers. They were in charge of second and third platoons and would be guarding the flanks. Pauli shook their offered hands.

“Müller, take your Truppe left and clear the shaft. If you find a way back into the vehicle bay, take it and give us support. Hilferding, the same goes for you’, Pauli placed a reassuring hand on Müller‘s shoulder ‘I’m afraid there is no plan to this so we make it up as we go along. Clear?“
“Clear!“, replied the gathered officers.
“Any sign of Lob and his support Truppe yet?”
“Jammed up at the rear it would seem”, sighed Schaeffer. Pauli scratched his head.
“Their heavy weapons would probably be no good down here anyway”. The other men glanced at each other knowingly.
“Too bloody noisy in these confined spaces’, added Dormagen ‘today it’s going to be knife work”. Pauli smiled.
“Right’, said Meyer ’let’s get them moving Rolph”.

Using a series of hand signals, Schaeffer got the troopers up and in position. There were probably a couple of hundred of them in the room already, and masses more were clogging the ventilation pipe to the rear. They moved with a slick professionalism that I soon began to love. They were like silent ghosts, deadly shadows. They gathered in their pre-determined positions, went down on one knee… and waited.

“Get those two rebels up front’, ordered Pauli ’Wilmholt, Bayermann, remove your helmets”.

There was some cursing and muttering and then two men were pushed forward. They were Handshaari’s, survivors from the earlier attack who had been saved from Rabe’s sword for a final mission. One of them had a bandage over his left eye and looked in bad shape; he was young and probably a conscript or militia, he shook uncontrollably and had soiled his combat trousers. The second rebel awaited his fate with a grim stoicism. He stood facing the Imperials around him with a hidden fire behind his eyes. He was much older than the first man was and his brown arms were criss-crossed with pale scars and patches of grafted skin. This man was no newcomer to combat and had seen the face of war. We would have to watch this one. 
Dormagen told them to put on the Tri-domes and then gave each of them a Lasgun. The younger of the two held it at arms length as if it was a poison chalice, the veteran gave it the once over and an almost imperceptible smile crossed his face.
“Don’t even think about it’, growled Dormagen ’we are not totally stupid, they are not loaded”. The rebels looked at each other confused and the boy with the bandage began to sob. Meyer pushed them back against the wall and pointed his power sword at their chests. Pauli joined him at his shoulder.
“This will be the last time you ever wear that uniform’, said the captain calmly. ’I am going to give you one last chance to redeem yourselves, though the Emperor only knows why. You can live, or you can die, the choice is yours”. He nodded at the older rebel.
“You’ve seen action before, what unit were you with?”. The older man scanned the stern faces around him and shrugged his shoulders.
“Here and there….”
Pauli punched him squarely in the face, smashing the man’s head back into the wall. He cried out and tried to pull up his weapon. Dormagen was much quicker, pushing his Schlactaxe against the rebel’s throat. The rebel sagged, coughed once and then sighed.
“When you address me, you say sir”, said Pauli, his choler rising and he flexed his hand before rolling it back up into a fist. “I’ll start again. What unit did you serve in?”. The older rebel rubbed his chin and his eyes dropped.
“The 424th Hebron Volunteers‘ he hesitated for a second ‘Planetary Defence Force…. Sir”
“And where is your unit now?”,
“Sir…?”, the rebel hesitated. Pauli waved his arm in the direction of the vehicle park beyond the walls.
“Who’s out there to greet us?” 
“Sir, I respectably decline to answer that question…. Sir”.
“Good answer“, grinned Pauli. Dormagen pushed his axe a little further into the rebel’s neck. A thin line of blood began to well up around the blade as the razor sharp edge severed a patch of capillaries. The older rebel did not flinch and stared defiantly back at the old corporal.
“Shall I kill him now Oberst?” he hissed, his face almost touching the rebel. Pauli gently moved the blade away and stared long and hard at the older man.
“No Unteroffizier, I have a better idea’, he turned his head slightly so the men behind could hear ‘bring Nowka and his flamer up. If anyone can make this old sweat talk, it’s a tickle from Nowka’s flamethrower”. He got the rebels attention. Beads of sweat immediately stood out on his forehead.
“Alright, alright, I’ll talk”, he groaned.
“Excellent”, smiled Pauli.
“A genius”, added Dormagen.
The veteran shrugged his shoulders and eyed the gathered faces around him.
“We knew you were coming, we have known for a long time. We just did not know how you were going to get in here“, he spat contentiously. Dormagen placed his axe blade against the mans chin.
“Easy does it my rebel friend, our patience is not unlimited”.

The veteran looked at Schaeffer who nodded slightly. The veteran nodded back. He knew it was hopeless, he knew he had no chance. If he rebelled, these savages would kill him and his head would end up on one of their belts. If he co-operated he might well live.
“We expected an aerial bombardment, but this was discounted because this city is too precious to the Imperium’, he snarled. ‘We did not expect you to come scurrying through the sewers like muris. We are spread thin everywhere, but you know that. Our forces are few compared to the mighty army of the Emperor”.

Captain Pauli punched the man in the solar plexus just as Dormagen brought his knee up into the rebel’s groin. There was a sickening clump and the veteran howled in agony. Meyer stepped forward and clamped his hand over the mans mouth and pushed him up against the wall of the control room. At least three knives were pressed against the rebel’s throat.
“Listen to me you traitorous bastard’ hissed Pauli ‘one more quip like that and you will be dancing to Nowka’s flamer. Do I make my self clear?”. The traitor nodded eagerly.
“Now answer the question”, said Meyer.
The veteran groaned quietly.
“They are expecting you, there’s at least a company of Beddo assault troops right behind that door’, he shook his head and looked up through bloodshot eyes, seeking out the Spiess ‘that’s all I know, please believe me”.
Commissar Rabe stepped in.
 “We must make a decision now. Time is almost up”.
Pauli removed the blades from the man‘s throat and stared deep into the veteran eyes. 
“I am going to give you a chance because I like your spirit. You might well live yet. Put these helmets on and when I give you the signal, you will open the far doors and run to the left. Both of you that is. You will run left and you will run as fast as you can. We will not shoot you in the back, for that is not the Jirmanic way. If you run fast enough, you might live to fight another day and tell your children how the dreaded head-hunters let you live. The alternative is this…’ he nodded at Dormagen and trooper Schultz who stepped forward, each holding up an enemy’s head.
“Chose now, but chose quickly”. 
The rebels stared at their dead comrades and then nodded vigorously at Pauli.


----------



## Brother Emund

“GO!” MEYER SHOUTED, and the two prisoners, ably assisted by a prod from a bayonet and a swing of Dormagen’s axe, opened the door and, because the next few seconds meant everything to them, they ran for their lives.
Dormagen and the rest of us followed close behind. 

Time stood still.

As we entered the vehicle park we knew that things were about to go very bad indeed. To the right, up against the wall and no more than a few metres away, was a large six-wheeled armoured command vehicle, bristling with Vox-links and cables. In front of the cab was a table covered in charts and data-slates with two Handshaari officers studying scribbles and marks with optical lenses. A tall rebel stood nearby watching them with lidded eyes, and a heavy-stubber cradled in his arms. Standing to the right of the command vehicle was a row of heavily armed Beddo soldiery, still wearing their desert garb, and all ready to move out. Beyond them were at least a dozen canvas tents where more of the nomadic warriors milled about in various stages of dress.

A Tarantula sentry gun sat facing the door.

One of the Handshaari officers stood up, a piece of fruit falling from his mouth, his eyes wide open and a vision of disbelief. The second one, a thin be-speckled man, immediately dived to the ground and scrambled under the table.
Dormagen caught the first officer under the chin with his Schlactaxe and then leapt after it, bringing the deadly weapon down hard into the second officer’s spine, killing him instantly. The rebel with the heavy-stubber began to open his mouth just as an entrenching tool struck him on the left shoulder and split open his clavicle and embedding itself in his ribcage. He dropped instantly to the ground, a look of shock on his face.

It was silent for what seemed an eternity. 

Suddenly half a dozen Lasgun’s opened up followed by the whoosh of a missile. The Tarantula was blown off its supports and was flung down the centre of the vehicle bay like a discarded child’s toy.
More high-pitched spluttering started as more and more Lasgun’s came into the fray, followed by the Thump-Thump-Thump of a heavy bolter. A grenade-launcher plopped a round into one of the tents, quickly followed by a superheated jet from a flamer. The thin canvas of the tent ignited n a white fireball that engulfed several Beddo’s inside. Their ear-splitting screams brought a chill to my bones.
The Beddo platoon reacted quickly and managed to fire off a few rounds before they were overwhelmed by our own weapons including the hideous slashes of blades.
First platoon immediately went right, and I found myself being carried along amongst a crowd of maddened Kopftjäger’s who were firing and stabbing in all directions. I saw Brennecke from forth squad go down, quickly followed by a trooper I knew as Hozzel, as return fire punched through our ranks.
I suddenly stumbled into the rear of the command vehicle and struck my chins against the base of some metallic steps. I brought my Lasgun into my shoulder and fired several rounds into the door, but they rebounded harmlessly off and I was forced to ingloriously duck.
A large hand pushed my roughly to one side and a Trooper moved passed me.
“Cretin”, he growled and I recognised Kastein from corporal Schnurrbart’s squad. He had slung his plasma gun over his back and held his entrenching tool in his left hand. He pulled a grenade from his belt and pushed it through the crack in the door. When he ducked, I rolled to the ground and the explosive went off inside. A second later, Kanstein had kicked open the door and incinerated the interior with a jet of star-hot plasma.

I remained at the base of the stairs until he emerged, bloody and blackened from within. He stood at the top with a glazed look and then wiped some blood from his hand onto his fatigues. He saw me cowering at the bottom and grinned. 
I was totally frozen to the ground and could not move. As the battle raged around me, I was stricken with terror and had lost all the movement in my muscles. Kanstein went back inside the command vehicle, which had now begun to catch fire, and then came back out a few seconds later. He threw something at me and then leapt back down onto the hard ground next to me. In a flash, he was gone.
I suddenly released my grip on the metal railing, my knuckles white with the effort. I looked around me for whatever it was that Kanstein had thrown. 
Tucked in beside one of the vehicles six wheels was a bloody hand, neatly cut at the wrist. The hand still gripped onto the Vox-horn that the unfortunate operator was still holding when Kanstein attacked. I reeled back in disgust and fought back the taste of bile in my throat.
When a hard round struck the vehicle above my head, I was knocked back into reality and remembered the first rule of combat.

_ Never, ever remain in the same place in a combat zone, even for a few seconds… it attracts the enemy. _

We had entered a vast parking bay with a high ceiling supported by rough beams of plasteel. It appeared to be a municipal vehicle storage area as there were slots marked on the ground in thick white paint. Many of the bays had what seemed to be the call sign or registration number of the vehicle, stencilled out in the middle. The bay was lit up by lines of flouro-lights and direction signs, which all seemed to lead to two large entrances or exit way’s in the distance. 
Around the outer walls, like the door we had just come out of, were at least a dozen more of the metal grates where the ventilation fans were positioned. There were doors, offices and storerooms at regular intervals and stacks upon stacks of crates and barrels. 
There appeared to be more rooms and offices lining the outer walls on another tier above. The vehicle park contained dozens of yellow-painted municipal vehicles of every sort, and in between them were a few civilian automobiles and a handful of military type personnel carriers. 
Luckily, there were no armoured vehicles.

First platoon had engaged the relief guard and slaughtered them to a man. Meyer and Schaeffer now re-directed our squads up the centre and try to make it to the far end. Second platoon had come through unscathed from the left and third on the right. I found myself caught up with troopers who I did not know and being carried along to the right. Rough hands, blades and the barrels of Lasgun’s were shoving me, prodding me, and digging into my exposed body. Curses rasped in my ear and someone punched the side of my helmet. I was soon discarded and thrown to the side like a rejected child. I fell heavily on my face and took the skin off the palms of my hands when they hit hard ground. A long strip of lights had been blown out here and I was now bathed in an eerie dull light.

Caught off-guard when the first reports came in, the local rebel sector commander now threw everything he had into the vehicle park and the surrounding area. Workers, citizens, traders, and half-trained militia were thrown in alongside a single company of regulars. They would be the plug and would be bled dry until the reserves could be brought up.
They began streaming into the underground park like angry insects and seemingly oblivious to the danger that faced them. They were either high on narcotics, or fuelled by an unreasoning hate for the Imperials. Whatever drove them on caused them to ignore our fire and missiles and forced them onto the points of our bayonets and axes.

Second platoon was almost overwhelmed by the ferocity of the first wave attack, and only held on because sergeant Setz from the support platoon arrived with two of his heavy-bolter teams. His intervention tipped the balance and the enemy attack was stopped dead in its tracks.

Third platoon fared a little better. After destroying the remaining militia inside the vehicle bay, they regrouped and prepared to push the remaining rebels out into the city‘s streets. As they secured their equipment and took count of their surroundings, they began to be attacked by hidden snipers and small groups of armed men who had somehow managed to infiltrate the ventilation tunnels. For third platoon, the next two hours they were engaged in a cat and mouse hunt through the tunnels and dimly lit shafts, rooting out stay-behinds and saboteurs. Vox communication with the unit was lost as the thick granite walls blocked out all means of contact. 

Our two Handshaari prisoners actually made it out of the vehicle bay and out into the street. Their obvious elation of having escaped was lost on the military police who discovered them and then shot them for deserting their posts. 

_One small postscript during a very long day…_

The centre was a different story all together.

More Beddo warriors began arriving under the cover of smoke and fire, and immediately made their presence known inside the vehicle bay. They were obviously commanded by someone with a reasonable knowledge of tactics and the sand-coloured soldiers soon began bringing in accurate fire on our troops. The Beddo’s began to infiltrate themselves amongst the vehicles and the crates, or tunnelled into the rooms and offices all around us. It was going to be a hard fight and time was against us
They had the advantage of position and inexhaustible reserves. Our audacious plan was beginning to come apart as the bay filled with the deep chants of the enemy soldiers. 
However, the Beddo’s and Handshaari’s were not fighting Eldar pirates, mercenary clans or bandits, their usual foe. They faced the Head-hunters, the Deathshead regiment and the dreaded Kopftjägers who had all made a blood oath to fight until their mission was done, or they died trying. These rebels were not schooled in the same art of warfare as these tall, wild men from Jirmania whose sole purpose in life was to become a warrior. 

The rebels did not know it yet, but this battle was already lost.


----------



## Brother Emund

The whole company was strung out in a rough line across the vehicle park. The support platoon under Lieutenant Lob had finally battled through the ventilation pipe and out into the underground areas. Several companies of Deathshead troops were still stuck far to the rear. 

Numbers.
We had to keep pouring troops in faster than the enemy.


The rebels were recovering fast. They had already begun to move some of the vehicles out of the main bay and into the two tunnels in the distance. If they could block these routes, the battle would be lost. Snipers and heavy weapon platforms began to strafe the _Kopftjägers _positions with an unrelenting determination.

Pauli had seen the danger. 
Three or four smoke grenades went off several metres beyond the leading positions followed by rounds from several missile-launchers.
There was a series of ripping explosions as the first of the support platoon’s missiles found their targets. One of sergeant Lammering’s Heavy-bolters now opened up, tearing into the enemy positions and causing absolute panic amongst the raw natives that had positioned themselves alongside the regulars. Within seconds, most of the rebel gun positions that had been identified by Dormagen, were destroyed and their crew lay dead.

“NOW!” Pauli roared, and the _Kopftjäger _line stormed forward, firing in all directions.

Without any thought about my well-being, I now found myself charging past a row of brand-new refuge vehicles and on towards the centre. I was no longer thinking but acting on some sort of instinct. My fear was suddenly gone, only to be replaced by a recklessness that was most unlike me.
The rebels had been totally outclassed and outgunned and began to move back towards the exits. The odd one or two did return fire, but the majority of them made their way either out of the bay or into the many offices and storerooms. 
A solitary heavy-stubber suddenly opened up bringing accurate fire down onto us from the floor above. I heard the dull thud of rounds hitting what I know now to be flesh and bone, and several of the rounds ricocheted off the walls behind me. A stitch of heavy slugs peppered the ground around my feet and one hit the stock of my Lasgun, knocking the weapon out of my hands and under one of the vehicles. 

I went down onto one knee and when a round clipped the front of my helmet, I knew I was dead if I did not move quickly. I leapt heavily to the right just as the trooper who had been standing alongside me was hit and fell face down into the hard rockcrete. The man began whimpering and clutching at his stomach. 
I grabbed his weapon and got back to my feet, keeping my eyes off the pool of blood that was growing beneath him. My legs felt unusually heavy and seemed reluctant to move. Cramp began to set in as lactic acid raced through my bloodstream to shut down my muscles.
I managed a quick glance at the trooper but did not recognise him. I saw the wound, and even with my scant knowledge, I knew that he was going to die. I felt helpless, but I could do nothing for him. Commissar Rabe had made it very clear during the briefing before the attack.

_ “When the assault starts, nothing will stop it, unless we or the rebels are all dead. Anyone who stops to do up his laces, pick up the wounded or generally bugger about… will be shot on the spot; you have my word on it”_ 

I straightened up and pulled the stock of my newly acquired Lasgun, hard into my shoulder.
There was a flash and another trooper exploded into a million particles just ahead of me. I felt warm liquid and matter on my face and neck and realised that it was the remains of a human being after being hit by a missile. I retched and then pawed frantically at my face, trying to wipe the debris away.
I looked for some guidance to my left, to find some sort of emotional response in this confusion of fire and noise that was all around me. I saw Dormagen just slightly ahead of me, yelling like a feral beast, and firing his Lasgun in one hand and throwing grenades with the other. He was like some epic hero from the old tales, totally unfazed by the fighting around him. 

As if in a dream world, I saw troopers charging forwards on their own or in small groups darting between the support pillars and parked vehicles. I saw weapons fire coming down from the walkway above, and I could clearly see more and more Beddo’s and local troops joining in the fray from the tunnels at the far end. Hot rounds and las bolts criss-crossed the air like small red and green hornets. A missile streaked across the void leaving a long white tail behind it. A long section of the walkway collapsed, bringing down tones of metal and rubble.
I dropped to one knee again and found that I could not move, my legs had frozen, and I was suddenly scared shitless.
“Dietz you _Untermench!_’ shouted Sergeant Fisher, who had also dropped to one knee to reload. He pointed his Lasgun in the direction of the tunnel, ‘fire at the muzzle-flashes, put some rounds down you idiot!”.

I stared at my platoon commander through a heat haze of noise and confusion. He was quickly back on his feet, loosening off rounds and yelling in our own tongue. He moved with a fluid, confident motion borne from countless battles. 
He had turned towards me. I saw him coming, but everything seemed to be in slow motion. I could see his wide-open mouth and its rotten teeth and I could hear his shouted obscenities. I could distinguish with absolute clarity, every joint, bolt and hinge on his standard-issue Lasgun with its long bayonet attached to its barrel. I watched his legs pumping up and down, and then saw the heavy boot coming towards my head.

“Verdammpt Dietz!” and I could see the size 10 combat boot as clear as the day. 
Before it hit me in the face, I rolled deftly to the right, striking the hard ground with my shoulder. A line of heavy-bolter rounds struck the area where I had just been kneeling a split second before. I watched in awe as the stitch of small explosions tore up the ragged ground. I saw the sergeant laughing hysterically.
“Don’t watch me boy, watch the shaggin’ front!” There was ripping explosion and a blinding flash and Fisher disappeared from view.

It did the trick.

Adrenaline began to pump through my veins and my head and vision cleared. In another second, I would be dead. I scrambled to my feet and began running as fast as I could. I glanced back to where my sergeant had been standing, but all he saw was darkness and drifting smoke.
A line of red tracer rounds swept towards me in a wide arc. A hidden gunner had zeroed in on me and if I did not find cover soon, my illustrious career in the Imperial Guard would be over. There was a large black silhouette ahead of me, which turned out to be another vehicle of some sorts. I headed directly for that. 
I know I should have zigzagged or something, like I had been taught; but I had no time for the intricacies of infantry manoeuvres just at the moment. 
It was flee or die.
Tracer rounds, like small angry red bees, shot left and right of me, kicking up more puffs of grit and dust on the road surface.
I finally reached the vehicle, which was a large earthmover with a long scooping blade attached to his front. I could not have picked a better spot. I ducked down behind the blade just as several rounds hit the metal above my head causing an almighty din but missing me completely. I am sure a round had gone through my helmet. I would check later.

Now I was trapped, but relatively safe. 

I sat back against the blade, took a deep breath, and clicked a new power cell into my Lasgun. I was already exhausted, and had not gone more that a hundred metres. Adrenaline does that to you. It is great at the time, but as soon as you have time to think, the effects wear off and fatigue kicks in.
I chanced a glace to my right, between the tracks of the earthmover, and got a good view of the rest of the vehicle bay. 
A monumental firefight was going on in and around the vehicles. The gaps were full of hundreds of tracer lines, missile trails and explosions, which lit up the area. A loud rapid-fire gun opened up. I figured that it was probably Glowna‘s chain gun by the noise it made. Whoever it was deliberately targeted the line of flouro-lights, which marked the centre aisle of the bay. The white strips of light exploded in clouds of white powder, showering everyone around and turning some of the figures white. The bay suddenly went dark, lit up only by the tracer rounds and exploding munitions.
A couple of the vehicles had begun to burn, with strange blue-green flames. The furthest one exploded and I instinctively ducked. 
The noise from the battle was horrendous, an absolute crescendo of bangs and cracks, intermingled with the screams of the dead and the dying, amplified tenfold in the confined space of the vehicle bay. To those above on the surface, it must have felt as if the very bowels of the earth were erupting.
I began to take stock of my situation, sitting in the comparative safety offered by the metal blade. I know I was on my own. The rest of the platoon was further forward and probably fighting in hand-to-hand. I did consider remaining where I was, and to sit it out for a while. I could wait until it was all over and no one would be the wiser. I would survive my first battle and that would take me a little closer to becoming a warrior.

However, a voice of conscience rang in my head, and I swear it sounded like my Grandpa Willi. Although I barely knew any of these rough men and I knew that they all despised me, I felt that I owed my loyalty to the _Kopftjägers_ and the regiment I had joined. They were, after all, supposed to be my comrades and whilst I sat it out, some of them were dying out there.
My eyes had now become accustomed to the poor light, so I made up my mind to carry on and link up with the others. 
I slowly lifted my head above the scoop and scanned the walkway above me. I prayed that my unseen enemy was not waiting and watching me right now. 
There were muzzle flashes over to the far left and return fire, rounds from Lasguns peppering the metal railings. A dark-skinned Beddo fell, and as he did, he was hit several more times before he hit the deck with a stomach-churning crunch. A flamer bracketed the area where the man had fallen from and two more Beddo’s could be seen running away, their clothes on fire. A figure leapt onto the cab of a bulldozer and swung up onto the walkway. It was a Kopftjägers with flowing yellow hair. I was impressed; it was a truly athletic feat. The figure then pole-vaulted the handrail and went after the enemy swinging a Schlactaxe.


----------



## Brother Emund

I sat back down again and looked up at the vehicle that I was using as cover. It was an old, antiquated dirt-mover with large caterpillar tracks. It had a small armoured cab, with two large blackened exhaust pipes either side. The armoured cab had not protected the driver. For whatever reason, the Nabûlus City Sanitation Company worker, had remained in his cab when the fighting had started. He had paid heavily for that decision. He now lay slumped forward over its wheel with both his legs missing. A missile had severed them above the knees and he had bled to death within seconds.

I traced a line of dark blood to a large pool on the rockcrete beneath the vehicle, and wondered where the mans his legs had gone?
Steam was hissing from the damaged engine compartment, and highly volatile fuel was dripping slowly from a ruptured pipe.
A stray round hit the cab and disappeared up into the ceiling above.

_ Another shot like that, and I’m dead. It’s time to move…_

I took a deep breath, brought my weapon up into my shoulder and jumped deftly to one side. I then got to one knee and scanned the area ahead of me.

I was totally alone, but a fierce battle was going in the centre and over to the far left. The sound of weapons fire was almost constant and blended into a loud crashing sound. Missile‘s were still streaking out from our rear which was comforting. It meant that support platoon were still there and we had not been cut off. 
There were muffled explosions and balls of flame, and I was relieved that it was not me over there on the receiving end. I observed the familiar silhouettes of Guardsmen in the half light, and could hear the familiar sound of Lasgun’s. The fighting appeared to be the most fiercest over to the left, near one of the entrances. I could clearly see enemy soldiers running down the slope into the bay, and saw many of them fall, only to be replaced by many, many more.

_We could be fighting a whole Army up there…._ 

To the right, where the various offices were, rebel fighters were gathering. I could see some of their officers shouting orders and then saw what appeared to be some sort of heavy weapons on a tripod mount. I wondered what had happened to third platoon, Lieutenant Hilferding and his one hundred men, they seemed to have been absorbed into the foundations of this city. It appeared that I was the right flank. 

_“Fire and manoeuvre! Fire and manoeuvre!”, _came a familiar voice as clear as day. I looked around for the source but then realised that I was having a waking dream. A dream in the middle of all this!. It was Klinger, my brutal instructor from the Senne Training Camp back on Jirmania.

_ “Verdammpt Dietz! Never, ever remain stationary in a killing zone, even for a few seconds. Get the hell out of there or you are dead meat!”. _

I blinked and then instinctively dived further to the right, away from the burning vehicle.

_ Dash, down, crawl, fire, I began muttering, and watch your arcs, chose your targets carefully… _ 
I found myself next to a large pile of tyres stacked up against a support beam. 

_ Avoid standing next to walls and beams they attract missiles. Got to find the others._

I took a quick look around the side of the support. 
_ Clear._

In the near distance I caught a glimpse of other Guardsmen, storming through a line of Handshaar militia as if they did not exist. The flash of blades could be clearly seen in the light of the numerous fires. There was close quarter killing going on and men were earning warrior rings this day. 
Then I saw the familiar figure of Schaeffer, lit up by flares, and totally exposed to enemy fire. He was leading from the front as usual, spraying white-hot jets of plasma into the rebels from his pistol, and swinging his power sword from side to side. The weapon sparked whenever it hit a target.
I also noticed many bodies lying in grotesque angles, littering the ground. This was the currency of battle, the dead from both sides.

The blow smashed me to the ground and knocked all the breath out of my lungs. It had come from nowhere. There was a grunt and a sigh and six or seven rounds thudded into the tyres by my head. I frantically scrambled for my Lasgun but I felt a strong hand holding my arm down.

“Scared you Jungen, didn’t I?’. Came a low voice. The grip on my arm relaxed as the man sat back against the tyres and rummaged inside his tunic. 
‘Now your man Krüger there’, he continued ‘said I was to look after you, so he did. So now, here I am wet nursing a bloody child, _Schisse!”. _

Braus, the ex-con, went down on one knee and clunked off a round from his grenade-launcher, which blew a large hole through a wall to an office, about thirty metres from our position. A heavy-bolter replied with a deadly burst itself, ripping a great hole through our cover, forcing Braus to duck low. The trooper laughed and then looked down at me with a big grin on his face. He had a small Lho-stick stuck in the side of his mouth.
“You ain’t gonner kill no rebs down there Jungen. By the Emperor, what have I done to deserve this”. He pushed my discarded weapon over to me with his boot. I grabbed it quickly and then checked it over with a hint of suspicion.
“T’aint broken Jungen, it’s Jirmania made”. I was irritated now and fed up with the ex-cons condescending attitude.

I managed to mutter, “What do you want with me?”, before Braus shifted to the left and fired off another grenade. Up to ten different weapons fired back, whipping away even more of the tyres and striking the support pillar with ear-splitting clangs. Lumps of fist-sized rockcrete showed down on us.

“Can’t wait for the others, we’ve got to move’, he looked down at me lying face down on the ground, ’can you walk, Jungen?”. I shuffled over onto my back and quickly checked myself over.
“I think so… I”.
“Good. We’ve got to do something about those rooms over there, and there’s only you and me here to do it. You up for it?”. 
I chanced a glance over Braus’s shoulder. A round zipped past my face and embedded itself in a pile of wooden storage boxes behind me. The burly ex-con laughed.
“Schisse! Mind how you go jungen, those rebs are handy shots”. He fumbled inside his battle blouse and brought out a small cylindrical grenade.
“When the smoke goes off, we’ll cut around to the right behind those low-loaders over there. We‘ll get around their flank. Hopefully, some of second Truppe have made through those tunnels, and will link up with us.. Otherwise..“
“Otherwise.. What?“ I gasped.
“Otherwise, they’ll turn our flank and you and me will join the glorious dead. You ready?”. I stared at the trooper through slits , then nodded my head vigorously.
“I think so….”, there was a pop followed by a fizzing sound and Braus threw the grenade as hard as he could in the direction of the enemy. The rebels opened up with everything they had.

Braus was on his feet and running. He was bent forward almost double, hugging the ground like some primeval rodent. I sprang to my feet and followed, oblivious to the buzzing rounds that went past my face. One nicked my helmet, and another went through the sleeve of my tunic. It was a miracle I wasn’t hit.

_The Emperor Protects​_


----------



## Brother Emund

We reached the first room, which appeared to be a lubricant store by the dull smell of it. Its heavy iron door had been shot off its hinges and was lying forlornly to one side. The next door was about five metres away. As we stood there a Beddo soldier stuck his head out and Braus blew it clean off with a snap shot from his Lasgun. The grenade went off a fraction later, vaporising the remains of the unfortunate rebel. There was a shout and another Beddo appeared in the same doorway. I immediately went down on one knee and took aim at the mans torso. I was too slow, there was a crack behind me and the rebel was punched backwards by another round from Braus.
“Schisse! Bloody Jungen. If I ever get out of here alive, I swear…. “. 

A rocket struck the side of the wall by the ex-cons head and disappeared up into the ceiling. It exploded bringing down a shower of metal grates, rubble and the ubiquitous dust. I dived quickly into the lubricant store with Braus landing heavily on top of me. I cursed, screaming, until my throat was hoarse.
Braus pushed me roughly to one side and pushed the barrel of his grenade-launcher into my face “Shut the fic up you baby!”. 
I struggled free and brushed myself down. The white dust made me look like a spectre. I froze for about a tenth of a second. A cylindrical grenade had rolled in behind us and was sitting fizzing between Braus’s splayed legs. The veteran was trying to clear his weapon and was oblivious to the danger.
“G-g-grenade!”, I squealed and leapt further into the room hitting a stack of shelves heavily and managing to bring down a row of large oil containers and machine tools, which pummelled me into the ground. Braus was airborne when the grenade went off and inside the blinding flash and flame 
I heard him scream.

THE ROOM WAS filled with foggy smoke and heavy dust and any sound seemed distant and muffled. Small bits of masonry rained down with black flakes of molten plastic. I gingerly lifted my head and realised that a heap of containers weighed me down. I stank of lubricants and sulphur and could feel the viscose liquid all over my face and hands. The grenade had gone off only a couple of seconds ago, but it felt like hours had passed.

_ Schisse, Braus_

I struggled to my feet and saw a dark shape outlined in the doorway. I had no time to think whether it was friend or foe. I fired a long burst into the centre of the body mass and the shape disappeared with a gasp. There was a metallic clang and I looked to the left to see another grenade. It had bounced off a sidewall and landed with a thud a few feet away. 
To this day, I never knew why I did it, but without thinking I swept it up with one hand and scooped it back out the door, as yet another grenade bounced back in, striking the front of my helmet. The first grenade went off outside with a loud bang followed by a sheet of splinters and white sparks. The one that hit my helmet lay on the floor next to the prostrate body of Braus. I found myself diving for this one, but managed to miss it completely and wedging it beneath a fallen support. I was looking directly into Braus’s eyes, and then we both stared at the grenade.

“Schisse! “, we both roared and grabbed each others shoulders and tried to roll away. I waited for the bang followed by the concussion and then the deadly slivers of death. 
But it never came. The God Emperor himself was watching us that day.

_ A dud!_ 

“Watch out’, I cried ‘there’s someone there! “. A Handshaari militiaman had appeared at the doorway brandishing a long-barrelled weapon of some kind. He stuck his head forward and then turned to his left and muttered something in his own tongue. The smoke began to clear.
Braus checked himself over. He appeared to be in one piece.
“Fic this for a game of Guardsmen”, he whispered quietly and then sprang to his feet. He caught the Handshaari off guard. With practiced moves, learned in the tunnels of the gothic hives, and a hundred close-quarter battles, Braus whipped out his combat knife and passed it quickly across the front of the rebel’s throat. It was so quick that the rebel did not even know he was dead. There was a hiss followed by a low gurgling sound and the rebel dropped instantly to his knees and then fell forward onto his face. Braus brought up his grenade-launcher and fired a round in the direction of the other rebel. There was a dull crump followed by a long drawn out squeal. Then, to my amazement, the ex-con charged, screaming a war cry in the old tongue.

I got slowly to my feet and checked myself over. My helmet had gone along with my webbing and equipment. My tunic and trousers were torn and frayed from a thousand different cuts. Blood flowed freely underneath and I knew that I was riddled with shrapnel. I stamped my legs down hard and they worked without any problems. I was still alive, but the Emperor-only-knows how? 

_A Miracle?_

I spotted movement over to the left from where Braus and I had first laid up. I saw the familiar shapes of tri-domes. Third platoon, finally. They were moving up slowly through the haze and debris, just as Braus hoped they would. I was about to wave at them, to attract their attention when something else caught my eye. 
At the base of a burning generator was a large, battered tarpaulin, and it was moving. I ducked down in the doorway, glanced over to my comrades and then back to the generator.
Two heads appeared out of the ground, beside the tarpaulin. More Beddo warriors. They hefted something out from their hidden position, which must have been an inspection pit. My blood froze, I could see it clearly now despite the swirling dust, a heavy Flamer, and it was pointing in the direction of the approaching _Kopftjägers_ .

The Beddo’s were clearly struggling with the weapon and something appeared to be wrong with it. One of the crew was striking the breach with a large hammer.
The lead section from third platoon had reached the pillar where I had rested earlier. I could see them examining the area where Braus and I had teamed up. They did not appear to realise the danger they were in. 
The Beddo’s had seen the group too, and worked on the breach with renewed vigour, until there was a jubilant nodding of heads and patting of shoulders. The Heavy Flamer was ready and the firer pulled the flamer into his shoulder and aimed.
I knew that I had to act now, I had no choice, a second maybe two, and my comrades would be incinerated. I stood up and propped myself against an old fuel barrel. I took careful aim. 
_ I have the strength of the Waldwolf* my aim is true…_

I squeezed the trigger and my Lasgun banged reassuringly into my shoulder. The rebel gunner, his face fixed in a big grin, slumped forward over the breach and then slowly disappeared into the inspection pit. I adjusted my aim and silhouetted the second Beddo in my sights. He was looking down at his companion, his eyes wide in wonder. I fired again and the round hit the man in the lower jaw taking away the bottom half of his face, before spinning him around like a rag-doll. He flopped down behind the flamer, he eyes gazing empty at the high ceiling above.

_I have just killed my first man…_ 

I did not have time to dwell on it, my first kill.

_I have killed._ 

To my horror, another group of five or six heavily armed rebels rose up either side of the heavy flamer . One of them, a bearded non-com with three red chevrons on his sleeve, was pointing in my direction. Several ragged shots immediately came my way, chipping away rockcrete over to my left. I tried to ignore them and fired at the group on full automatic. Las rounds peppered their position, but most of the rounds went harmlessly over their heads. The Beddo’s remained standing and unharmed, but one of the rounds did hit the Heavy flamer’s barrel, which knocked it around on its tripod until it came to a stop and facing me!

One of the Beddo’s jumped down behind the weapon and began fumbling with its firing mechanism. He was joined by a second rebel, who seemed to know what he was doing. I watched as if mesmerized, as the barrel moved slightly upwards. Soon, within seconds, jets of super-heated petrochemicals would engulf my position and I would surely be incinerated. I fired off another long burst and then dived to the right and scrambled away on all fours like some feral hound.

I lay still for a few seconds, catching my breath and listened to my blood pounding in my head. The flames deadly kiss did not come; the heat of a small star did not turn my position into a living hell.
I found myself grinning.

_Not bad for a snot-nosed kid. _

I got slowly to my feet, and into a semi-crouch. I found my Tri-dome and quickly slammed it on my head. 
As I did so a shadow appeared in front of me and my Lasgun was sent flying from my hands. A huge Beddo warrior had appeared, a brute beast that was stripped to the waist, with black oiled skin covered in long golden chains. He was a tower of muscle and sinew and he was holding a snub gun with a long slender bayonet on its end. The blade was pointing directly at me. The Beddo lunged forward smashing the bayonet into my chest, which knocked me backwards like a thunderbolt. I hit the ground with a bone-crunching jolt, which knocked the wind out of my lungs. 
The bayonet had stuck firm in the armoured plate inside my flak jacket and the Beddo could not pull it free. I stared up at him, helpless, terrified, with a dull pain where the deadly weapon had struck. I never saw the second attack. A boot suddenly struck my helmet, jarring my head back against solid rock. I was disorientated and temporally blinded, and I screamed out piteously like a frightened child. 

With much grunting and pulling from side to side, the Beddo finally managed to rip the bayonet free of the armour plate. He held his Lasgun out in front of him as if he was on bayonet practice and then moved so he stood above me. A broad smile spread across his face and he said something in a tongue that I could not understand. I got the general gist. 

I was about to die.

Then I saw Dormagen’s ugly face staring down at me, as clear as day. He smiled a broad smile and then winked, _“Come on lad, take him out. He’s nothing but a big pussy cat”. _ 

I have no idea where I got the strength or will from, to this day it perplexes me, but I immediately sprang to my feet, which caught the Beddo off-guard. 
All I could see was the tip of the long bayonet and the Beddo’s perfectly white teeth. The rebel was twice my size, very broad and heavily muscled. I was no real match for him.
He recovered quickly and cursed me, and with lightning speed, he brought the bayonet around in a wide arc. I instinctively ducked and the blade went harmlessly over my head making a swishing sound as it passed over. My helmet was loose and the chinstrap had snapped so I whisked it off and swung it as hard as he could at my enemy. The Tri-dome struck flesh and bone, breaking the Beddo’s nose and forcing the big man to stagger backwards.
I went back down into a crouch and then looked around him for my Lasgun. It was too dark, and the weapon was lost amongst the rubble and masonry. The Beddo screamed at me, with his features distorted with hate and rage. Blood was smeared across his face like some ancient tribal war paint. He blew heavily through his nose and great globules of congealed blood and matter splattered out towards me.
The rebel swung his snub gun again, using the weapon as a club. He would smash his enemy into the ground; break him apart with brute strength alone. The snub gun came down with terrific force, striking one of my exposed shoulder guards, and forcing my right knee to buckle. The Beddo then swung it back around and caught me across the face with the bayonet. I felt the blade dig deep, ripping open flesh and scraping the bone. Blood flowed quickly and white-hot pain ripped through my body as my nerves exploded on agony. I found myself clutching desperately at the wound and the fell backwards onto the hard ground.

My enemy was triumphant, and he sensed victory. He stood once more above me grinning and talking in a strange tongue. It was the end.
He raised his bayonet once more. He would finish me off with a strike to my exposed heart. He would put all his weight behind it and he would impale his enemy.

The Beddo brought the weapon down for the last time… but as he did so, and at the point he lunged, he realised that the Guardsman was no longer there and he felt himself going forward into thin air. He hit the hard ground and the snub gun shattered under his own weight. Pain exploded in his arms, just above the wrists and as he looked down at them he could see blood spurting out in two long bright red fountains. The Beddo warrior could not understand what was happening, his enemy should have died. He looked at his bloody arms and wailed. Frantically, like a possessed thing, he looked about him for this elusive enemy, this snivelling, Imperial who had dared to defile his city. He must, he would find him and then kill him once and for all. Yes, he would destroy his enemy and stand tall amongst his brothers.
But all he saw was the flash, the glint off another blade and he could do nothing to stop it. He was hit once, twice, three times, into his side, and into his exposed kidneys. He felt no pain, just numbness and then an overall feeling of relief.

Stars appeared before his eyes, and he began to die.

_I will kill my enemy_, he said, I will eat his liver and with a superhuman effort, he managed to struggle to his knees. He stared in fascination at a growing pool of dark liquid between his legs, and realised that it was his own blood. He knew that he was getting weaker, but he could not fall now, he was about to die, but he would take the enemy soldier with him.

The Beddo pulled out his ceremonial dagger, which was tucked into his waistband. He unsheathed the intricately carved blade and looked at it for the last time. His tribal chief had given him this knife after winning a tournament, and he would finally seal the blade with blood. He would not let his tribe down. He would cut his enemies throat and add his blood to the beloved sands of Handshaar.
Pain was reaching him now, throbbing unbearable pain in his arms and sides, but he managed to crawl desperately slowly, towards the prone Guardsman. When he reached the body he smiled. He raised his blade…

There was a flash… and the Beddo warrior saw no more.


* * *​
_Waldwolf*... _Huge Jirmanian Wolf


----------



## Brother Emund

*'I'*​
I SEE YOU have met the Highlanders”, said the Lord Inquisitor matter-of-factly. Schell left his chair and joined Ximénes in the observation dome.
“I have had the dubious pleasure of their company, yes”.
“They hail from the Europa Four System, Ultimata Segmentum, from a system on the edge of the Maelstrom”. As if on cue, several servitors appeared and set up a chart desk nearby. One of them plugged cables from its forehead and fingers, into the back of the machine and it whirred into life. The other servitors began a low harmonious chant. After a couple of seconds a hololithic flickered to life showing a system of stars. Shell moved over to the chart desk to get a closer look.

“There are thirty habitable planets in the system, and numerous moons. They rotate around a single star. Our problem is not the Caledonians; though they will be investigated in due course. Our information concerns several Mu-class planets that make up what’s known locally, as the Jirmanic Empire’. The hololithic changed to a group of planets, each with a name and description. Ximénes seemed to nod and the picture zoomed in on a large green planet with a small orbiting moon.
‘Jirmania Prime is the capital planet. From initial colonisation here, they spread to the other sixteen, stretching out towards the outer rim. The system is of a high strategic importance to the Imperium. Beyond their furthest planet is deep space, uncharted and unknown.
Jirmania Prime itself is covered in dense forests and mountains. These are criss-crossed with rivers and lakes. Although technically adept, the people have retained a system of government ruled by a warrior class. The planetary governors are all heads of the leading tribes’. The hololithic changed to short film depicting hazy battles and blurred images of soldiers advancing across open plains, and large war machines.

'After the Age of Strife, when the system was rediscovered, the Jirmanic’s readily accepted the God-Emperor as a great warrior-lord. They happily adjusted to Imperial ways and we accepted this war-like race. Instead of fighting amongst themselves, their warriors joined the Guard and went off to fight everybody else'

Ximénes picked up a Data-slate and read over it.

‘The tithe placed upon the sixteen planets that make up the system, is sixty-six regiments of infantry, armour and rough-riders. Well over a quarter of a million men. So you can see how important they are to us’. 
The picture now showed a tall Guardsman wearing a black uniform. The title stated ‘Elite Praetorian, 1st Jirmania _“Hesse”_ Regiment’.

“They make excellent Imperial Guardsmen because they are fearless in battle, and never deviate from the orders they are given. They are totally loyal to their officers, their regiments and of course, the beloved Emperor, who they hold sacred above all else’.

Several picts came up showing Jirmanic soldiers in heroic poses.
‘Their whole life revolves around battle and a warrior code. To die in combat for the Emperor is a great honour’, he shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, being only several generations further up the chain from feral’s, they retain a lot of their primitive habits. Collecting enemy heads is just one of them“, he gurgled. 
Schell believed that the old man was laughing.

“What are we looking at the Jirmanic’s in particular?” he interjected. The hololithic changed to a Pact of a large horned animal with snakes at its feet.
“Chaos?” 
Ximénes shook his head. “Perhaps. Are you familiar with the feral cult of _Mitharas_?”. 
Schell ran a hand through his hair and looked up.
“Yes, despite being banned by the Imperium, and despite the best efforts of the Inquisition, they still thrive on many worlds. I have heard rumours of this particular cult, a warrior cult that can be found on many feral worlds.”
“That is correct. Most cults are harmless and do not cause concern. However, as we well know, mant are corrupted, which is why the Inquisition eradicates them whenever we find them. History has taught us, that cults are far too dangerous to be allowed to remain in place for too long’. He handed a data-slate to Schell.
‘Read this; there is everything you need to know about its origins and history. It was written by a great historian called S’aladin an age ago. You must make yourself familiar with his works”.
Schell took the information device and sat back down in the chair. He sipped some more wine. Ximénes turned towards him and then slowly and with deliberation, pulled back his hood. Schell dropped the data-slate and drew a breath.

Lord Inquisitor Francisco Ximénes was one of the most prolific followers of the Inquisition. He was flawless in his methods, ruthless, and utterly dedicated to rooting out enemies of the Imperium.
One winter, many years ago, the he was investigating a possession on a planet called Organicus 13, when he discovered a conspiracy. The entire planetary government had been corrupted by the forces of Chaos. From the lowly office clerks to the Planetary Governor himself. As Inquisitional troops and the Adeptus Arbites began to round up the conspirators, like a cornered rat, they struck. Sixteen assassination attempts on his life followed, and sixteen attempts were thwarted. 
Ximénes was good. He was a master of the dark arts of the Inquisition, and a man of exquisite intellect. 
He surrounded himself with a dedicated cadre of loyal followers who protected him night and day. His web of informants was legendary.


The seventeenth attempt got through.

It was a booby-trapped data-slate that nearly finished him, a small, and non-descript file, marked with the sign of the Inquisition. It exploded in his face as he accessed it, releasing a spray of molten hot plasma. 
Lesser men would have died, the wound was horrific. In fact Ximénes did die, three times his body gave up on the operating table and each time he went to the brink and came back. He had survived, but his body was virtually destroyed.

The Organicus conspirators would pay for this heresy.

He was once a handsome and energetic Inquisitor with chiselled, highborn features. His deep blue eyes were like glowing jewels against pure white skin. 
Now, all of that had gone forever. His features had all but disappeared. The man had gone. What remained of his flesh was held together with pins and sutures. His dark eye sockets were now filled with whirring augmentics, and bionic lungs pumped pure oxygen through tubes to his heart. The bottom part of his face was a titanium mask, and his mouth was replaced by a talking grid. He survived on nutrients that were pumped into his body via a large hovering machine attached to the inquisitor by corrugated plastic pipes.
He stared back at Schell, through mechanical eyes.

“My spies have confirmed that the _Mitharas_ cult is flourishing on Jirmania Prime and most of the other planets in that system. You can also be certain that most of the warrior-class rank amongst its members… right to the very top of their hierarchy. 
We have managed to turn one of these cult members, and now he works for us. He has provided us with the signs and words these ‘cultists‘ used to recognise each other”.

Schell had recovered quickly from seeing the Lord Inquisitors injuries for the first time, for he remembered what he was like before. He now watched Ximénes with added interest.
“But why them in particular, most feral or pre-black powder societies have some form of cult or another?”
“That is true’, said the Lord Inquisitor ‘very true. It is but one of thousands that practice the archaic rituals and rules that bind so-called warriors together. However, if what I have heard is right, then this particular cult could possibly threaten the power of the Imperium itself, and all of this’, he swept his arm in a wide arc, ‘all the blood Humanity has spilt over the Millennia could well count for nothing. This cult has become, ummm, corrupted”. 
“Chaos?”, asked Schell, hesitantly.
“There are other forces at work in the universe that abhor Mankind, and would do anything to see it fall. If they cannot beat us by feat of arms, they will use other means to bring us down”
“From within?”
“From within, using the slow spread of corruption”
“Like Chaos?”, said Schell.
“Not the dark powers exactly, but just as dangerous. The malaise has already set in, and if it spreads, and with the Jirmanic’s so close to the Outer Rim, well… my friend, a confirmed infiltration could have catastrophic implications”. 

Schell relaxed a little and walked back over to the Observation dome. He watched the multi-coloured scene of the void, but not really seeing anything.
“What do you want me to do, my Lord?”
“What I am about to tell you is Vermillion clearance level only…. On pain of death” 


* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

I OPENED MY eyes but found it hard to focus. I saw stars and mini galaxies, whirling shapes and splashes of different coloured light. It felt like that point you experience before you faint, like standing on the edge of a cliff at the point of balance before you fall into the abyss. 
I could smell blood, my own blood, and then tasted its coppery tang on my lips. It was flowing freely down my face and pooling in the small hollow on my neck below my larynx.
_
I’ve got to get up; I’ve got to get help._ 

I tried to call out but my throat was restricted, it felt as though something was stuck at the back, a numbness that brought me to the edge of panic. When I tried to put my hand to the wound to my face, my arms and hands refused to function and remained dead at my sides. I tried tensing the muscles in my legs but I could feel nothing but an unnatural cold feeling.

_Please no, I cannot be paralysed, not that._ 

I took control of the rising panic I could feel, welling up like water in from a geyser. The sheer terror of it all, threatened to overrun my senses.

_They have machines that will make me walk, it won‘t all be bad… will it?._ 

I found myself relaxing slightly. I focussed on bringing my senses back on line. Like a programmed machine, I concentrated first on bringing my vision back to normality. At first, the scene was like a vision of madness, but as I relaxed,the dots and swirls began to fade, and black and white forms began to appear. 
Blood was pumping back to my extremities and the feeling of faintness resided.
I think I could see. It was still very dark, but after a while I could see what I thought was a faint yellow glow in the distance. I could just about make out my surroundings. I could see the ceiling of the vehicle park, several metres above me, lights, pipes and great clumps of cables.

_ I’m on my back and still in the vehicle park and .. Still alive._ 

Some of my other senses began to return and soon I could smell fuels and lubricants, burning rubber… and something much worse. I also realised that I was surrounded by what appeared to be walls and the realised that I was in some sort of enclosure, which was rectangular in shape. Three small rungs from a ladder lead upwards towards the ceiling high above.

_ An inspection pit. I’ve fallen into some sort of inspection pit. That’s a bit of bad luck._

I wondered if anyone had seen me go down, if anyone knew I was there. Did anyone care for the Jungen?

_Where is Braus. Did he survive the grenades?_

There was a distant crump that made me start. It sounded like a mortar round going off in a confined space. That meant that the battle was still raging somewhere up there but it sounded so distant, like a remote storm raging.

_Take a grip of your situation, what has happened? _ 
I remembered the vicious fight with the big Beddo warrior, a monumental struggle that no one ever saw. I remembered the blow to my face, and then falling backwards.

_Verdammpt! I had lost my weapon in that fall. I must find my Lasgun. Dormagen will string me up if I go back without it. _ 
There was that coppery smell again, a smell that I was becoming disturbingly used to in my extremely short career as an Imperial Guardsman, the smell of human blood. There was also something else, the other smells, vague pungent odours, found around the latrines. Human excrement and other bodily smells, the harsh results of war. 

_ Verdammpt, I wish I could move my arms._

I suddenly sensed movement, a slight change in the air pressure around me. I strained my eye muscles left and right, trying to get a fix on whatever it was. I was not sure where or what it was at first and willed all my senses to find the source. I held my breath, the blood thumping in my ears. 
Something was being dragged very slowly, cautiously. Perhaps it was a sliding sound, a dull grind, like a stone being pulled across a hard surface. It was behind me a few metres from my head. I now felt an almost cool flush of air, as if a door had been opened. From the outside.

Someone or something was in the pit with me. 
Now there was a dull thud, some shuffling and then a clear clicking sound. I turned my head slowly from side to side to locate its source, but I could see nothing but the walls of the inspection pit and the dark shadows in its corners. 
Now there appeared to be a reply from the other side of him, more of the clicking followed by a low hum. I thought I could hear the sound of metal sliding over metal. Quiet, but not quiet enough. My senses appeared to be enhanced and I could hear and feel everything.

_ Shisse, what the hell is that?_ 
Adrenaline surged through my veins once more as my body prepared itself for action. I was not sure if my limbs would function when the need arose, but I was determined to give a good account of myself. 
I found myself thinking about one of the briefings that Schaeffer had given the troops on the journey to Handshaar. 
I remembered it quite clearly, the lesson on *‘Handshaar’s Flora and Fauna - A beginner’s guide’. * 
I had been fascinated when the planets eco-system was explained to us, and even more fascinated by the stories about legendary creatures that inhabited the deep deserts that devoured everything in their paths.

_Shisse!_ 
They were terrible stories, stories of death and mystery. In addition, the predators, the blood sucking sand mites the size of large dogs, the flying lizards that swooped down and impaled you with great spiked beaks, and other dark brooding creatures…... 

I was sweating profusely.

I could feel my arms now, as if the paralysis had momentarily disappeared. I put all my efforts and strength into reaching down for my boot knife, but the pain and struggle were too great and I gave up with a gasp. Numbness began creeping back again, slowly working up my limbs, like frost on metal. Breathing became difficult. 
I felt something cold, a long metallic item, a discarded tool perhaps, and ran a thumb over a flat edge and clasped it tightly in his palm.

_ The bastards will pay for it, I swear._
I had the feeling that there were two of them, possibly more, and they were behind me, either side of my head. I could hear their slow, measured breathing as if they were in an amplifier. There were more clicks, and I realised that they were not artificial sounds, they were organic. The ground beneath me felt suddenly cooler and I could now make out every bump and edge. I tensed up, gripped the tool in my hand a little firmer, and then prepared to attack.

_In the name of the Emperor, if I am to die today, here in this rat-hole, I will take at least one of you with me._

I could feel the gentle caress of warm breath on my neck. 

_Now, now is the time _

And then, at that very point in time and space, my life changed forever. 

As I tensed up and prepared to plunge my weapon into whoever or whatever it was, a shape appeared, and it was the last thing that I ever expected… it was a woman. 

But it was not just a woman, she was a vision of loveliness, a striking creature with a slim defined face, soft pale skin and large luminous green eyes. If a Goddess ever walked the world that day, then it was she… and my heart became a hammering machine, fit to explode.

I felt the electric charge of soft skin on my hand and my fingers were gently pulled apart. The metal tool, my useless weapon, was delicately removed and put to one side. 
I also felt something else; I felt an overwhelming feeling of release and calm and I found my body slowly relaxing. A warm sensation began to spread through my paralysied limbs.

“Schhhh’, she whispered quietly into my ear ’Schhh, you are sorely wounded and close to death. I mean you no harm and I will not hurt you”. 
She spoke to me in impeccable High Gothic with a hint of an accent. She was not a native of Handshaar, an off-worlder perhaps?.

I watched as if I was separate from the scene, as several figures rose up either side of her. They were silent, brooding figures, tall and slim like her and armed with long-barrelled rifles. They were all dark-haired and sallow and wore cloaks of a colour that blended into the background. One of the group knelt down beside the female. A scarf of shimmering material hid the bottom of his face. His eyes shone like black diamonds in the light of the burning vehicles.
I felt his hand on the side of my face as he turned my head. He placed a gloved hand on the females shoulder. 

“_Mani naa iie umien, Larna?” _(What are you doing, Larna?). _Taur'ohtar Taur'amandil,_ we have our orders. Forget about this… mon-keigh, leave him to die. His people will come looking for him, but they must not see us”.

The female, Larna, turned from the leader and looked deep into my eyes for a few more seconds. I felt her open palm as it crossed my face and lay gently over my eyes. Her touch was deliciously stimulating. My skin began to tingle, and my hairs stood on end as static floated across its surface. I did not panic, and felt no fear. I could almost feel her studying me, probing my mind. I felt her hand begin to tremble and I heard her take in a deep breath. I opened my eyes just as she turned back to the leader. The air around me buzzed in invisible anticipation.

“This cannot be’, she said, her voice wild with excitement ‘This cannot be. All this time, and now here, in this place… I know it in my heart’ she beamed at the leader ‘_Ehen ashen heten arcme _(He has the mark)”. 
Her companion leant forward and I felt his hands on my face and neck again. He hissed and shook his head.

“_Hatti annótca eben_. This cannot be”. 
She replied excitedly “You see it, tell me you see it? “. 
The male sat back on his haunches and rocked slightly from side to side. He placed a hand on the females shoulder. 
“Forget this nonsense, forget it Larna. This is beyond us, beyond everything. Leave him be. Let his own kind help him”. 
The female pushed the mans hand away, “Own kind? “, she challenged, and there was a hint of sadness in her tone ‘I have waited for this day and believed that it would never come “

The leader spat and then shook her shoulders vigorously “Listen to me Larna. Listen. We must leave him. You are filled with a malaise of the mind. This dream of yours has gone on far too long “.

One of the other figures stepped between them. He cradled a strange weapon in his arms, a carbine of some sort with a circular magazine on top.
“They are coming’, he growled and pointed away towards the distance. The rest of the group crouched and shouldered their weapons.

Larna knelt down again and looked into my eyes. She placed a hand on each of my temples and then hummed quietly to herself. I felt something touch my lips and a warm liquid dribbled in and across my parched tongue. I instantly felt an electric tingling sensation spread throughout my body and my muscles began to tremble. She stroked my forehead tenderly

‘_Esta, Findecáno Anárion_” (Rest, Johan Dietz)…. 

And I slept like I have never slept before, and when I awoke; my life would never be the same again……….


* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

WHEN I DID wake up again, I realised that I was no longer in the vehicle park, or the inspection pit. In fact. I was out of the fighting all together.
My eyes began to quickly focus, adjusting to what was obviously artificial lighting. Now I could see a row of bright, humming fluro-lights, paced out at regular intervals I blinked rapidly clearing the last of the swirls and flashes that were still swimming before my eyes. 
I was in a pre-fab element, probably a mobile medical facility. 
_ What has happened to me? _ 
I remembered the face, a vision of beauty, the girl.
_ What was her name?_ 
“Larna’, I muttered. 
_How did I end up here?_ 
My hearing was coming slowly back now, along with my sense of smell and the dull aches of injuries yet to be realised. I retched involuntarily, as the Counterseptic was almost overpowering. 
There were low murmurings all around me, and sporadic moans. I could hear the clatter of metallic surgical tools against plates, the sound of a drill, and then a distant cry from a man in pain. Almost as an after thought, I could even hear the ominous sounds of heavy fighting in the distance.

_ Fick, how badly injured am I?_ 
I tensed one of my arms and found that I could move it now, though it still felt cold. Slowly, and with great trepidation, I put my hand to the wound on my face and found a large field dressing in place. I looked at my arm and saw a clear tube coming out of a vein and up into a bag of clear liquid in a bag suspended from a metal hook in the ceiling.

“Hello there trooper’, came a voice, startling me, ’are you feeling better now?” 
A grizzled face appeared above me, a Jirmanic soldier with a beard full of warrior rings. I recognised his face, and realised it was Busch, the medic from 3rd squad. 
He was still wearing his white armour that had seen some heavy-duty action by the look of it. His shoulder pads were scorched and scratched and a small-blackened patch was still smouldering. The medic shone a flashlight into my eyes and then turned away to study a data-slate attached to the headboard. He smiled at me and then prodded the dressing on my face. A stab of white-hot pain shot through my body, making my back arch and causing me to involuntarily gasp. The medic smiled again.
“Your senses have fully returned I see. I thought you might not make it for a while”. He must have seen me frowned.
“We found traces of a neurotoxin in that wound of yours; filthy Beddo dung if I‘m right. Luckily, someone got to you before the real damage set in and it went terminal. You’ve got yourself a good scar there lad. One to show the _Damen_*”. 
I struggled into a sitting position, “Terminal, what do you mean? The medic put the data slate down and shook his head.
“Someone had administered an anti-neurotoxin. A knife wound with a poisoned blade caused the injury to your face. Someone counteracted its effects”.
“It must have been the woman I saw’, I said quietly ‘the one who called herself Larna “. The medic smiled again, passing a hand through his long red hair that had been tied back with a blue ribbon.
“Steady lad, you’ve had a bad experience. You are in the forward Aid station, and there are no females here as far as I am aware. In fact’, he put a stubby finger to his temple, ‘I can’t even remember when I last saw a woman”. 
“There was a woman with me’, I stuttered ’…she was called Larna. She was with another man with me in the service pit in the garage complex. They spoke a strange tongue”. 
The medic placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
“You were picked up after the assembly area was cleared. You were found lying between some vehicles or something. They said that you looked like you had been in a fair scrap”. 
I closed my eyes, and went back to my personal battle with the black warrior amongst the rubble.
“The Beddo warrior, the one with all the gold’, I added ’I think I killed him”.
“Good’, replied the medic, turning to check the plasma bag, ’…Otherwise you would not be talking to me now would you?”
“I killed him with my knife’ I stuttered excitedly ‘I cut him wide open”. The medic looked down at the data-slate again and frowned.
“I believe you lad, but according to this, you were on your own… no enemy dead recovered anywhere near you’. He stared down at the young trooper.
’Listen son, try to relax. You are just very lucky that our sweeper teams found you when they did, otherwise you would be in a world of _Shisse_. If you did kill the Beddo, we did not find his body. And as for the woman, well, what can I say?”

I sighed, and dropped my chin to his chest.

I closed my eyes and cast my mind back to the battle with the big warrior. Yes, I remembered being hit in the face with the rebel’s blade, how could anyone forget that? 
I had lost my weapon so, remembering my training, I had gone for my boot knife. I also remembered a slightly unorthodox method of taking out an enemy soldier using my helmet. I chuckled.
_ Grandpa Willi would be proud…_

Then I had found the will to slash the Beddo’s wrists, and I could still feel the man’s warm blood on my hands. I had twisted to the right and left and then I had plunged the blade into my enemy’s side, right into the kidney area, once, twice, maybe three times. 

A good kill? 

I could see the Beddo kneeling in front of me, clutching his side, his face distorted with terror and rage.
The bright light, there was a bright light, what was that? Then the Beddo dropped forward… and I saw him die.
“_Verdammpt_!’ he cursed ’There was someone else there, that was the flash of a Lasgun. 
I did not kill him. _Shisse_, I’m still a bloody _Beardless-one_*….”

“Is that you jungen?”’, came a voice from the next stretcher. I recognised the voice immediately and felt my shoulders drop involuntarily. I leant over to see a large bearded man with half his head and face swathed in bandages.
“Braus?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. How you doing boy? We got into a bit of a scrap up there, didn‘t we?” The ex-con, sat upright and then folded his combat jacket up to make an improvised pillow. He tucked it behind his neck to make himself more comfortable. I thought that he looked quite comical, his face covered like it was. Whoever had put his bandages on had done so in haste, and tufts of Braus’s beard stuck out through small gaps in the material. He looked like one of the funny men at one of the travelling circuses back on Jirmania. Only his right eye, his mouth and the lower jaw were visible.
“Are you alright?” I ventured, hoping they were the right words under the circumstances. Braus chuckled to himself and placed a large hand to his wounds.
“I suppose so, I caught a grenade in the face just after I slotted that big black bastard that was about to slice your head off”
“The Beddo warrior with all the gold?” I asked matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, that’s him. I put a round right through his forehead. He dropped like a stone’, Braus scratched his face under the bandage ‘Pity I got taken out myself, those chains and rings would have made me a packet”.
I slumped heavily back and lay staring up at the ceiling. I glanced at Braus again, and then folded my arms under my head.
“You killed him then”, I asked, or more or less stated.
“’fraid so jungen. So now you owe me one, a death pact, and I will hold you to it”. I sat slowly up, as my wound began throbbing.
“Death pact?”
“_Verdammpt_, jungen, don’t you know anything? I saved your life and now you must save mine… or’, he scratched again ‘…You’ll struggle to get into the _Otherworld_*”.
I lay back again and listened to Braus chuckling beside me.
Shisse that is all I need….

*. . .*​
_Damen_*... one of the ladies 
_Beardless-one_ ... An unbloodied soldier. Only warriors can grow a beard, not having one is a sign that the person has never killed in battle
_Otherworld_ ... The mythical afterlife


----------



## Serpion5

Bumped as the current Featured Fiction. 

Great work mate! :victory:


----------



## Brother Emund

*The Nabûlus City Sanitation Corporation 
Vehicle Park 
(Number 2)
Imperial Time: 0707hrs*​
AS THE POISON from the knife filled my veins and I faded into unconsciousness, the battle for the city of Nâbulus continued.

With the divine intervention of the God-Emperor himself, a rogue missile hit the bunker that housed the Handshaari commander and his Beddo counterpart, and all his staff and high-ranking Munitorium officials, ripping the heart out of the rebel defences. Secondary explosions ensured that no one survived within fifty metres of the impact.
The rebels and militia, brave and loyal to the end, but pitifully outmatched, were hamstringed, and were suddenly leaderless. The Handshaari officer-class were a group on their own, who owed their position by right of birth, rather than military competence. All the top families of Handshaar sent their sons to either the Commerce Guilds or Officer Etiquette School. 
Officer training was the poor relation, where those of slightly lower intellect were sent, and the Commerce Guilds to the more adept. Actual Military thinking and tactics were second to manners and socialising. The standing PDF was hopelessly amateur and the officers next to useless.

Individual thought or action was not encouraged, and the officer class remained aloof from the lower ranks. The grunts had no allegiance to these in-bred aristocrats, and would run at the first hint of trouble. 
The Beddo nomads were better fighters, but were individual warriors who had sworn their lives to their tribal leaders. They did not fight well as organised units, being more adapt to un-conventional warfare.

When the command structure disappeared, the rebel forces in the service area collapsed.
Leaderless and demoralised, the Handshaari soldiers stood around shocked in mute disbelief and prayed for guidance from others. 
Their vox-boxes played nothing but static, and their orders never came. The Beddo’s fled to the surface to find solace in the sun and fresh air. This sort of fighting did not suit them. They would move into the city and fight the Imperials the way they liked to fight, by ambush and guile.
The enemy troops looked out from their remaining positions in wide-eyed terror, as hundreds of screaming, bearded maniacs swarmed towards them. They watched, almost paralyzed, as position after position was stormed in rapid succession. They saw their friends and comrades being mown down, or hacked to pieces without mercy.

They ran…

At first, there were the odd one or two, but after a few more minutes, sections began to throw down their weapons, then by platoon, until the whole defence line collapsed.

_“A man does not die for something which he himself does not believe in”_
*General Kodakus*
Navarra Salient​

MEYER WAS THE first to reach the shattered command position and called Schaeffer over. There was not much left of it, a roughly made sandbagged bunker that had been reinforced with flack board and metal beams. The missile had done its job well. 
When Schaeffer joined him, the Lieutenant was standing over the bloody remains of a rebel captain, who was still wearing his Guard insignia. 
“What do you think of that?” he said matter-of-factly, pointing at the mans smashed chest.
Schaeffer prodded the cadaver with his boot.
“Another dead Beddo, just like all the rest”. Meyer leant down and pulled open the sand-covered cloak the rebel was wearing.
“His dagger, in his waistband, look at it and tell me what you see”. Schaeffer pulled the ornately decorated weapon out of the bloody gore, and, after wiping away some matter, examined it more closely. He raised an eyebrow, and frowned at the officer.
“Not Imperial made, that‘s for sure. It is too delicate. Definitely not a standard Beddo weapon either”. He studied the strange runes that decorated the curved blade, runes that he had seen before on a few fields of battle.
“Eldar”, said Meyer quietly. Schaeffer looked up nodding.
“A trophy do you think?”
“Probably, but this man is nomadic type, how the hell did he get hold of one of these on this hell-hole, he’s probably never been off planet?” 
Schaeffer handed the knife to the officer who tucked it inside his tunic.
“You are probably right, Rolph‘ Meyer agreed ‘he probably traded for it with an off-worlder”. 
Schaeffer frowned.
“Can you remember Anastasia Omrikon?”
“How can I forget that one Rolph”
“Bloody Eldar!”
“BLOODY ELDAR!”

Dormagen strolled up with his section. He was smoking from head to toe and now had two bloody heads hanging from his belt. He was carrying a bulging sack over his left shoulder and an antique rifle was slung over his right. He nodded at his friends and then spat at the dead Beddo.
“Sorry to break up such a touching moment’, he said in a sarcastic tone, ‘but this thing is not over yet”. Meyer nodded at Schaeffer.
“The rest of the Kompanie are here”
“Let’s open this place up then”.


* * *​
NÂBULUS CITY WAS a place of religious importance. Its holy structures, its monuments and places of worship were spread over a vast area of desert surrounded by low hills. The scorched, hostile land had been transformed into an oasis of pure beauty, a place of culture and learning. 
From the main gate in the city walls ran a tree-line avenue, four thousand metres long. Fountains and plazas lined the route along with small parks and gardens where the citizens could rest in the shade. The avenue lead to the Concourse of the Kings, which was another stretch of road, made of white marble. Either side of the road were the tombs of lesser Kings, yellow pyramids standing fifty metres high, twelve on either side. The road changed to black marble and went through a gate of large crossed swords, towering one hundred metres above the ground. A tall wall stopped you entering the Forbidden City and the tombs of the Great Kings and ultimately, the Kings Palace itself. 
A visitor would marvel at the eight silver pyramids that lined the route and the statues of exotic animals and monsters. However, your eye would be drawn ahead to the great dome of the Royal Palace that towered before you, and behind that, the Great Golden Pyramid of the ancient Handshaar God, Sadom. One would also notice that if you looked at the Great Pyramid, you would see that a double-headed Imperial had been set into its side for all to see.

There were no ancient Gods any more, only the one true God, the God-Emperor of Terra.

_May he guide us through the void​_
Towering high above the great Pyramid was a tall obelisk made of white stone, forty stories high. An Imperial flag once flew here, but it had gone long ago. From this tower, an observer could see to the distant horizons. From this tower a watcher could see the Imperials approaching. It was also here where the source of the protective shield that enveloped the city could be found, linked to twenty other lesser towers. Air assault or aerial bombardment was out of the question.

Surrounding the Forbidden City were the holy shrines, the centres of learning, the libraries, the forums, theatres and the numerous meeting places. There were hanging gardens and fountains, statues and monuments. Flags and drapes transformed the city into a sea of colour. Children played amongst the stalls and flower sellers.

There was the colourful merchant quarter, street upon street of luxurious barter houses, domed tents and fancy establishments. It was said that one could buy anything in Nâbulus City, you were restricted only by your imagination.

The citizens, the merchants, and the people lived in rows of bleached white two-story houses with large windows and airy rooms. The poor, they did exist in this prosperous city just like every other city, inhabited the underground quarters, vast habitation areas that went down hundreds of metres or more. They were linked by their own streets and boulevards that stretched for miles underground in all directions. Below them, much deeper, were the underground lakes and caverns that supplied the precious water.
Ancient artisans had surrounded the city with a wall of yellow diamond granite, fifteen metres high and five metres thick. The surface of the walls was as smooth as glass and nothing, mechanical or otherwise could take hold upon it.
Every twenty metres there was a tall conical turret with a coned spire on top, topped with the green flag of Nâbulus City.
A walkway ran along the top of the wall linking the towers. It was wide enough for four men to walk abreast. They had protected apertures to fire from, a cauldrons of lethal plasma, to pour onto the heads of assaulting infantry.
Every road, path or landing area in front of the walls were covered by beam weapons and cutting rays, technology obtained from the Emperor-only-knows-where.
There was only the one road into the city, the Royal Road, which linked the capital with the rest of the world. From the main gate, it passed over a bridge, fifty metres long, and out into the hot desert.
Around the wall was a moat of thick, glutinous tar that was extremely caustic. It welled up from an unknown source and was said to contain the remains of prehistoric animals. The tar would melt flesh and burn through metal. It shone like black glass… a deadly defence that would stop any foe.

The defences were old, ancient, and built thousands of years ago to keep out marauding pirates and lawless bandits. But it had also been designed for a far more important purpose, to protect the citizens from the horrors beyond their safe city. Stories had been passed down of legendary creatures that inhabited the deep desert. Creatures that consumed entire trade caravans and turned villages to dust. They were monsters of enormous size, the stuff of nightmares. Old wives tales? The ancients did not think so. 
The defences were formidable.

Nâbulus City was going to be a hard nut to crack, and to exasperate matters, High Command wanted minimal ‘collateral damage’. The city was to be saved from heavy bombardment or aerial assault. The walls would be taken using the blood of the Imperial Guard.


* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

*Bahas and Al-Jadeeda
Taajir Feriq (Merchants Quarter)
Imperial Time: 0816hrs*​
A SCRUM Of bearded devils suddenly appeared, menacing black shapes that rose up out of the wreck of a row of market stalls. The 10th Nâbulus Light Company, made up of conscripts and old men, immediately scattered. The small alleyways and passages that ran off the main Pretoria became quickly clogged-up with surging, frantic men, who were all trying to escape the screaming Imperials. For their treachery, they expected no mercy. 

The Emperor was unforgiving.

A few, those men who still held onto hope, formed a ragged rear-guard. They dug into the soft flowerbeds, or sought cover behind the shattered stalls and abandoned motor vehicles and waited. They put a long barricade up along the entire width of _Bahas Boulevard _that protected the _Aliskan District_, where the rich and famous lived in wonderful mansions and palaces. They would hold until relieved or otherwise.
They were two block’s away from the main gate.

The Inquisition had done their job well.

The interrogation teams had managed to find a way to the main gate, bypassing any serious opposition. 

_I pray that the unfortunate Handshaari’s, who furnished us with this information, did not suffer for long at their hands.​_
Most of the regiment had now entered the city through that single pipeline, and other units would soon follow on. 
So far we had met little serious, or organised resistance since we erupted out of the lower levels and into the city itself. The Imperial Guard faced militia, who fought back with worn snub guns or industrial tools. It was a costly, one-sided affair, as the rebel lines withered under sustained assaults by well-trained and highly motivated loyalist troops. Most of the defenders simply gave up when they saw our troops coming, and either faded away into the warren of alleyways, or threw down their weapons and pleaded for mercy.

Commissar Rabe and his two junior Commissar’s, had their hands full. At first Rabe simply shot anyone not wearing a Guard uniform. But as time passed and the numbers of rebels surrendering grew, he had to find an alternative to the executions.
He commandeered fifth and sixth Platoons, from second Company and formed them into a Special Kommando. He had decided not to execute them any more, but to take them into captivity and worry about their crimes later.

It was a grievous loss; our assault force was reduced by about a hundred and thirty men.

“Their time will come‘, the Commissar was heard to mutter, ’God-damned, treacherous peasants!’ he ranted and then kicked a Handshaari officer in the crutch, when he refused to hand over his pistol, ‘And this bloody heat, this bloody, bloody heat!”.

* * *​ 
HIMMELWITT MOVED HIS scope slowly from left to right, searching the buildings and streets ahead of him. He grunted and then shuffled backwards away from the window. The rest of his squad were sitting in the middle of a large, richly decorated living room. They were talking quietly, passing around bread and biscuits they had just ‘liberated’ from a kitchen downstairs.

“There are twenty-two rebels manning the barricades, and a heavy weapons team covering them from a second -floor window to their rear… It’s an old-fashioned belt-fed autogun, I think”. He knelt down and took a large chunk of bread from a small man with a plaited beard that was secured with a black ribbon. The man had a red star tattoo below his right eye.
“That’s it, just a couple of dozen defenders you say?” asked Oldberg, the squad leader.
Himmelwitt sat back, chewing slowly. Crumbs fell on his neatly trimmed goatee.
“Some cavalry as well”
“Cavalry?”
“Two-legged mounts. Big shaggy bastards with lots of hair and bastard hard-looking Beddo‘s with them”

There was a commotion downstairs followed by the sound of heavy boots. Only Diller reacted, bringing his Lasgun up into his shoulder. A head appeared from below, smiling.
“Spooked Diller?” grinned a large the brute of a man. He wore a sleeveless tunic that showed of his bulky well-muscled arms. These were also covered in tattoos, mainly patterns and swirls. He bore many scars that stood out against his tanned skin.
“Fic you! “, replied Diller sharply, sitting back against the wall. The brute grunted and then threw down a Schlactaxe and a bandolier of grenades.
“That’s Fic you Unteroffizier, if you don’t mind you pimp, I earned my stripes”.
“Volker’, barked Oldberg, ‘about bleedin’ time too. Get your boys into position, and we’ll join up with Meyer”.
Troy Volker was sixth squad’s corporal. He watched his section come up and position themselves in fire positions over-looking the street. Fiel, one of the Company medics, followed up at the rear. His uniform was splattered with blood and dirt. He sat down heavily and took a long drag from his canteen.
“Kaltenbach and Reilinger have had it“, he said in a tired voice to no one in particular. A couple of the men looked up.
“How?” asked Fritz, looking up from his flamer, which was lying in his lap leaking fuel all over his combat trousers.
“Kaltenbach took a round to the head and Reilinger was gut-shot”
“Bad luck”
“Damn bad luck’, replied the medic ‘Kaltenbach was up for promotion. Wittmann from the third lost a finger, and I dunno what happened to Thiele, he just disappeared. Dietz got hit in the face”.
“Dietz?” asked Oldberg.
“The new boy in first squad”.
The corporal nodded, “Oh him, tough break on your first action. Is he going to make it?”
“Fic Dietz, or whatever his name is’, Volker interrupted in a menacing voice, ‘you’ve got work to do”. He kicked out at the medic, ‘If you have any more cheerful news, please feel free to Fic off. Now on your feet, Schaeffer’s going in”.


----------



## Brother Emund

THE HEAVY-BOLTERS opened up from left to right, spraying the flimsy barricade with a concentrated volley of heavy slugs. 
Four or five of the defenders were killed instantly. One of them howled as a round went through his shoulder and ricocheted back down through his right thigh. His arteries were severed and bright red blood sprayed out over his comrades. 
A rebel officer stuck his head up and saw the tracer round that killed him. His head vaporised in a small cloud of grey gore and skull fragments. 
The rebels broke….

Lieutenant Meyer lead the assault on the barricade, and it was swiftly overrun without further loss of life.
Himmelwitt had been right, there were cavalry there, at least a platoon of them, formed up and ready to counter-attack. The Kopftjägers found them huddled together, all dead, with their bodies intertwined with their black-skinned Beddo riders. The strange two-legged mounts were almost bird-like with long heads with a metre-long trunk hanging below two small red eyes. 
Ederbach found a survivor, an officer of such noble bearing that the Kopftjäger gave him a salute.

“Bring him along’, gasped Gunther Stillkrauth, the fifth squad’s leader, a grey-skinned man who was the wrong side of forty. He was out of breath and panting rapidly like a canine. He leant up against a doorframe for support and casually wiped blood off his face and cheeks. Ederbach, a squat Silesian mercenary and cold-blooded killer, pushed the Handshaari officer on at the point of a bayonet.

Schaeffer and Meyer were studying a crumpled map spread across an ornate table made of black wood. They were joined by Captain Pauli, along with most of his staff. They talked in low voices, glancing every-so-often towards the sound of heavy guns in the distance.
“The rest of the regiment are moving up behind us but we are still spread out over two blocks’, said Lieutenant Trebig, his painfully thin, almost corpse-like Executive officer. ’The rebels have brought up armour and artillery support and are counter-attacking all along the line. Vox reports suggest infantry assaults at regimental strength”.

Pauli sat down at the table and placed his peaked hat down in front of him. He studied a data-slate and then motioned towards one of two vox-officers who were standing nearby.
“Kluge, my compliments to Colonel Eicke, and tell him that we are in the right position, but reiterate that we are not at full strength. The reinforcements …’ he leant over to Trebig, ’who are they again?”
“The 46th Paeonian Rangers, Sir”
“The 46th whatever their name is, were supposed to be here by now. They are moving far too slow. At this rate we will be hard pushed to take target Alpha and the whole bloody line might collapse”. He rubbed his chin. Like Schaeffer, he did not have a beard, but that was not his choice. On Badahof Four Seven Seven, he had been hit in the face by an Ork plasma grenade, which had taken most of it away. His skin was very pale and almost opaque. He had an augmentic right eye, encased in a brass plate. He could never smile any more and was always grim.

He stared long and hard at Meyer, and then banged a fist down onto the table.
“Take what you can from here and get up that road. Second and Third Kompanie’s will follow up behind. When the rest of the regiment are here, I’ll move them up. When the Oberst arrives, we’ll push up that highway and link up with you’, he gripped Meyers wrist.
“You must take Alpha and hold it until we can get to you, do you hear me? Whatever the cost”.
Meyer nodded, a brief smile flitting across his face.
“Consider it done Hauptman”.
Pauli noticed Ederbach standing awkwardly at the far end of the room.
“Trooper, what have you there?”
“A rebel prisoner, Sir. Stillkrauth, I mean, Unteroffizier Stillkrauth told me to…”
“Rolph’, the captain interrupted nodding at Schaeffer ’…See what you can get out of him and then send him over to Rabe’s mob”.


----------



## Brother Emund

*The Star Tower*

*The Star Tower
Imperial Time: 1600hrs*​
THE BATTLE FOR the city had been raging for fourteen hours. 

+ Heavy fighting throughout the taajir and aliskah districts. Enemy units halted on bahas boulevard junction al-suez street. Heavy fighting around the museum of the Imperium, municipal library and the husam al din stadium. We have been driven back from 1st, 6th AND 22nd streets. Skirmishes on al-hurat +

_What are these damn Imperials up to?_

Brigadier-General Mubarat, _Poshtilban-Salaar_, commander of the Royal Guard, and a veteran Imperial Guard officer, placed down the data-slate and slowly shook his head. He looked up to the ceiling and clasped his hands tightly together. To those around him, he looked like he was praying, but the General knew that there would be no divine intervention here. 
They were on their own.

He walked over to his tactical map, which covered one of the walls of his command centre. His aides had been marking up troop positions with coloured crayon. Blue for his forces and red for the enemy. There were considerably more blue marks than red.

_ Skirmishes on Al-Hurat, that’s two blocks from the Meridian Gate._

“Captain Hussain, if you please…” His adjutant was immaculately dressed wearing white trousers, with a dark-blue tunic covered with a crimson cloak. He was talking to a group of Handshaari PDF officers who were the complete opposite. In their dusty and torn combat fatigues, and haunted looks, they looked like feral tramps compared to the aristocrat. 
A Beddo officer stood apart from them, a look of disgust on his face. The Handshaari officers looked furtively at the general. The Adjutant waved them away with a flick if his hand. 
He walked over to the map, removed his white gloves and pointed to a small cluster of arrows and dashes.

“General, we have managed to retake some ground here, here and here. But no sooner as we secure them, the enemy counter-attacks and throws our troops back again. 
I can confirm though, that the Spaceport is well and truly in our hands. An entire legion of our _Kushan Zealots _are holding it. The _Clibabarii _battalion are supporting them with their armour.
We have also found out how the Imperials got into the city and are, at this moment, striking to plug the gap“.
Mubarat held up his hand, his face stern.
“I want every single officer that has deserted his post to be shot immediately. Is that clear Captain Hussein?”
The Adjutant nodded slowly and then glanced towards a figure that was sitting in the corner of the room.
“Yes Sir, it will be done”. Mubarat pointed at the map again and then leant over to get a closer look.
“The Spaceport. Why have you concentrated troops here? The shields are up, the place is safe”. 
Hussein waved towards the door and a figure glided in. It wore the robes and insignia of an _Ars Consuasor_, a military advisor. The adjutant pointed at the new arrival.
“Sir’, Hussein lowered his voice slightly ‘we have studied the Imperial’s attack pattern. There may be a problem”. Mubarat slowly looked up.
“Explain”
The robed figure spoke. It was an amplified voice, electronic, as if it was being passed through a vox unit.
“General. The Imperials got in through a ventilation shaft, which was presumed safe. We do not know how many there are of them, but they seem to be heading for one thing…”
“Yes, yes’, Mubarat interrupted ‘where? What are they up to?” The robed figure pointed a bony hand at the map.
“The Main gate…..”
“Audacious, but impossible’, said the General ‘it’s one of the most heavily-defended positions”.
“Yes indeed’, the Ars Consuasor continued ‘but it offers the highest prize”.
“You speak in riddles”
“The main control terminuses for the shield generators are there. If they manage to destroy them, then the shields….”
“Will be useless”
The Adjutant motioned the advisor to leave, and he glided silently away. He glanced once more at the figure in the corner and placed an item on the map.
“There is more General. Some of the Imperial bodies were recovered and intelligence is working out who we are up against. One of them’, the adjutant paused, unsure if the General was really listening to him ‘… one of the bodies had this on his uniform”. He pushed the strip of black material with silver script woven into it across to the General. Mubarat looked at it and then squinted.

“Kopft… Jagers, what does this mean?”
“Trouble”. , came a voice from the man who had been sitting patiently in the corner. He was wearing a non-descript body suit with a black cloak over his shoulders, which covered a tall, thin frame. He wore a dull-black kettle helmet and his face was hidden behind a silver visor. He took the strip of material out of the general’s hand and studied the cuff -title with interest.
“Explain”, said Mubarat slowly, watching the dark figure and a barely disguised sneer crossed his face. There was no love lost between these two men. The cloaked figure walked over to the observation dome that gave a panoramic view of the city below. The Great Pyramid gleamed in the evening sun. and the sixteen lesser Pyramids of the Kings.

“It’s a regimental title, a unit designation. Many Imperial Guard units wear them”
“Quickly Emissary, my patience is not infinite”
“Literally translated, Kopftjager means ‘Head hunter’. These troops are Jirmanic’s. I have fought them before… but many years ago. If they are inside the city… well”
“Well what?”
“You are already too late…..”

* * *​
A LOUD EXPLOSION ripped the heart out of the rebel anti-tank position, scattering its remains into the air like black confetti. 
A few shocked and stunned rebels, some with their uniforms scorched or blown off, came out of the cloud of debris, like staggering zombies. Dormagen laughed out loud and smacked his fellow corporal on the back with a gloved hand. Schnurrbart grimaced and then handed him a small bottle and then turned away.
“Good old Lowitch, he never fails me’, Dormagen gloated, rocking gently back and forth on his haunches, ‘you can keep your heavy weapons. Stealth and good old fashioned demolitions plastic, that’s what you need”.
“Are you finished?” said Schnurrbart, irritated. The second squad corporal was in a dreadfully bad mood. He wore a large dressing at the back of his head, which was a gift from a Beddo warrior’s sword. The corporal had lost a large chunk of his scalp and was in intense pain. He had refused morphite, as he wanted to be sharp and clear for the coming battle.
Dormagen peered over the lip of the crater and saw Glowna moving through the rubble over to the right. The big Trooper was sweeping the area ahead with his Chaingun. He ducked slightly and then let rip with a three second burst. 

The Emperor save whoever was at the other end of it.

He whistled loudly and waved an open hand to them. Dormagen turned about, facing the front façade of what was once a rich merchant’s house. He placed the open fingers of his right hand on the top of his head. ‘On Me’, the signal.
The rest of what remained of first and second squads appeared, grey ghosts against the dark red bricks of the Nabûlus building.
“Kluge, tell the Hauptman that the gates are just around the corner. Tell Meyer, we need everyone here with us right now”. 
The Company’s number one vox-officer sat down on a large fallen statue of a naked woman, and began talking into the set. Dormagen checked the power cell on his Lasgun and signalled to the rest to follow his example. 
“Gather up all the power packs you can and redistribute any grenades that are left. Things are about to get very heavy”. He watched his old friend Schnurrbart giving orders to some of his section, and noticed that the dressing on his head was soaked with fresh blood. He shook his head sadly and then called Kluge over to him.

“Listen’, he said, lowering his voice. ‘get Liese up here as well, as quickly as his stubby legs can carry him. Schnurrbart needs a medic on the hurry up, before he has a ficking Bleed Out”.

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

SIXTH SQUAD UNDER the command of corporal Volker secured the barricades and then set up a perimeter defence. If the rebels mounted a counter-attack, they would be ready for them.
Meyer led a ad-hoc group on towards the main gates. His assault force was pitifully small. Forty able-bodied Guard against the Emperor-only-knew-what? They were supposed to be reinforced by second and third platoons, but they had met stiff resistance from a fanatical group of Beddo’s called the Amrtaka, and were being held at a small crossroads, a hair width away.

+ Send me what you’ve got Müller, we will be hard pushed to take the gates, One One Over + 

Meyer shouted into the vox-caster, as yet another explosive round hit the building above his head. They were only two streets away from the main gate, but had come up against enemy armour. Two Leman Russ battle-tanks and a Chimera with a Quad-mount on its roof had suddenly appeared. Three _Kopftjägers_ had already died trying to take them out with small arms and explosives.

+ Ampt is here with me with his tubes. I’ll send them up as quickly as I can. Setz from second Kompanie has lost two missile teams, and as for third or forth Kompanie’s, who knows where they are. It’s bloody chaos down here. These fanatics are coming at us from all directions, most of them are suicide troops so watch out, One Two Over +

+ Okay Müller, do your best, we’ll see you when we see you. One One, Out + 

Meyer threw down the hand set, much to Anselm’s annoyance. He had only just got that one replaced after Meyer’s last tantrum.
“Schaeffer!” he roared. The Spiess appeared from behind an overturned four-wheeled all-terrain vehicle. He was covered in dust and looked like a ghost.

“The other two Kompanie’s are bogged down. We’ll have to try to take the target out with what we’ve got”. Schaeffer removed his cap and ran his fingers through his grey hair.
“With what, Oberleutnant? We have the equivalent of four Zügs left. We are meeting stiff resistance here and the gate is still a block away”. 
Meyer smiled and then patted Schaeffer on the shoulder.
“You’ll find a way Rolph, you always do”. Schaeffer shook his head, stared long and hard at the officer and grinned.
“I do have my limitations you know”.

* * *​
A SAND-COLOURED half-track rattled up to Bastion One and stopped with a heavy jerk and screeching of gears. A large cloud of black, acrid smoke billowed from its twin exhausts, partially concealing it from the men on the walls. A small flag of Handshaar fluttered from an aerial on its turret. Leaning out of the back of it were at least ten Handshaar PDF troopers, heavily armed and wearing ragged and war-ravaged uniforms.
Their route was blocked, two grim-faced military policemen stood in front of a barrier made of razor wire and metal girders. They carried red and white striped poles and heavy combat shotguns. They looked like they meant business.

An officer, standing in the doorway of one of the two rock-crete bunkers that stood either side of the main gate shook his head and nodded at a seated figure behind a large vox-box.
“More stragglers, or the first of the reinforcements we were promised”. His companion stood up and then stuck his head out of the firing slit. He frowned in annoyance.
“I need to stretch my legs. I’ll go down and get them moved. You man the vox. If they are deserters, I’ll shoot them here and now; if they are genuine help, I’ll send them south to back up Hazi’s mob on the barriers. They could do with some armour support”. 
He stepped out of the bunker and climbed down a small ladder into a waist-high trench that was camouflaged with crude netting. Two Handshaari regulars manning a heavy-autogun immediately leapt to attention. 
He was a political officer, a former Imperial Guard Commissar, who had gone rogue. Known as the _Shakoosh Kabir _- The sledgehammer, he ruled by terror and an iron fist.

He followed the trench until it came out into the open and was immediately hit by the blistering heat of the twin suns. Still unfamiliar or acclimatised to the conditions, he found the going hard. Energy was being leached from his body at an incredible rate. 

_Oh how he wished for the cool strato-plains of his Home world, Zoshchenko._ 

Pushing his weariness aside, he dropped down into a short support trench, which led to the barrier. Handshaari troopers moved out of his way as he approached. Any that did not move quickly enough received a blow from the hilt of his power sword
His title may have changed, but underneath he was still a Commissar, who had once been a loyal servant of the Emperor, and the men feared him.
That is, until he heard the words of his new King, and then, as if under a strange spell, he turned against the system he had served so diligently…
A rebel.

The trench came out onto Sharq Gharbn Shara -The East~West Highway, a road that ran parallel with the main gate and adjoining walls. An anti-tank barrier made up two municipal trams, turned over onto their sides, and blocked the road here. It was manned by one of the only regular infantry units on Handshaar. They were the 4th Khafju Guards, grim-faced, regular heavy infantry-types with a no-nonsense approach to fighting.

A wide strip of well-maintained gardens had been dug up into a defensive position. Sandbagged and flakboard bunkers were dotted at intervals between the fountains and marble statues that lined its route. An outsized three-tiered fountain containing a golden statue of some forgotten hero had been drained off and now housed a quad-mounted anti-aircraft gun. Ornamental shrubs and bushes that had stood for hundreds of years had been ruthlessly cut down to make clear areas of fire. 
The Sappers had also been busy, criss-crossing the empty spaces with razor wire and explosives, especially lethal anti-personnel mines strung up amongst the heleconias and orchids.

The political officer stopped in front of the silent, foreboding shape of a Leman Russ battle tank. Its main guns were facing away from the gates and dominated the wide-open spaces and approach. The crew had stencilled _‘Amineh’ _on its turret, which meant ‘Faithful’ in the local tongue. A second tank sat opposite with the name _‘Jamilah’ _- ‘Beautiful’. 
The officer grinned and thought about the irony of it all, such lovely names for such terrible weapons of destruction.

He turned back and looked at the main gates, the key to the city.

The Meridian Gate.

It was a mini-fortress in its own right, a formidable obstacle that would take a supreme effort to crack open. Standing twenty metres high and made of titanium, the gates were set in osmium, which was harder than diamond. They were two metres thick and protected by scatterguns, vicious rapid-firing weapons that spurted fletchette rounds down onto the heads of attacking infantry.
A huge drum tower stood either side, towering a further forty metres above. They contained large calibre guns and missile systems, as well as anti-aircraft mounts and projection beam weapons.
The six-lane highway that lead to the gate was reduced down to two, which crossed over a drawbridge that could be raised in an instant. The deadly moat would prevent an amphibious assault
These gun, missile and mechanical defences would protect the gates, but the real defences could not be really seen. The protective shield… a great dome of power that encased the city and made it impervious to any form of aerial attack.

Impressive…

On top of the towers, perched on top of their conical roofs were tall masts and these were the key. They were linked to others dotted along the walls and all linked to the main tower behind the Great Pyramid. While these remained standing, no army in the galaxy could take the city…

The crew of the half-track watched on in silence, as the political officer marched up.
“Where have you just come from? Who’s in charge here?”
The men on the half-track shook their heads and pointed back down the road. One of them was standing up and placed three fingers on his shoulder, indicating the rank of captain. He then pointed vigorously in the same direction. The Commissar shook his head.
“Move this heap down there and look sharpish, there are Imperial commando’s in the city”. The Sledgehammer was a man who always got his way; it was the natural order of things. He spoke and men ran. He relished in his nickname and enforced his will on a daily basis… He turned on his heel and began to make his way back to the bunker. After a few metres, he realised that the vehicle had not moved as ordered. He turned around and saw that the vehicle was still in the same place and had not moved. It sat there like a yellow beetle with its engine rattling, and its black exhaust smoke forming a haze around it. The two military policemen, who had been manning the barricade, were nowhere to be seen. 
He pointed his sword at one of the crew of the half-track.
His voice was loud and two octaves higher than usual. “Didn’t you hear me you piece of rats filth, I said move your vehicle down the road and link up with colonel Haziz’s unit on 18th Street. Do as you are told or several of you will be Found wanting. Is that clear? “

A gaggle of Handshaar militia had marched up, and had now halted, waiting patiently for the ex-commissar to get out of the way so they could get on with their job. Most of them were sappers, but the provosts had pressed a few ’volunteers’ to join them in their dangerous work. They were all worn out, and exhausted by heavy work and the sapping heat from the twin-suns. 
They were all carrying anti-tank mines, spades and picks. They had a savage, mutinous look in their eyes. The political officer turned his attention to them.
“Was I speaking the same language as those dotards, did they not hear me?’ some of the rebels sniggered. 
There was a shout from one of the bunkers by the gate and a Handshaari officer began waving frantically at him. He pointed at the group of sappers and singled out a fat NCO at the front wearing a faded uniform. 
‘You there, sergeant what’s-your-name…?”
The NCO came slowly to attention. “Sergeant Dhakwan, sir, 25th Ad-hoc Pioneer platoon, 213th Infantry…” The Sledgehammer held up his hand, a signal to cease.
“Wonderful, you’ll do. Get that mob in the vehicle moving. If they don’t move sharpish, come and get me. I will confine them all to a penal regiment, and send them outside the walls and face the Imperials. See how they like that”.


----------



## Brother Emund

SERGEANT DHAKWAN CURSED under his breath. He cursed the ex-Commissar, he cursed the incompetent officers that had put him here in this place, and he cursed the damn war for taking him away from the quiet life he had grown accustomed to.

“I’m far too old for all this marching around nonsense. I should not even be here, Curse the Eye _(of Terror). _I’m exempt combat“.
He rolled off a string of explanatives to no one in particular and scratched his long nose.

_ I’ve done my time. I Served the Emperor with distinction. These youngsters and zealots are the ones who should be doing the fighting, not Abdullah Dhakwan, ex-sergeant of the Imperial Guard and now the fairly famous Abdullah the Merchant, purveyor of fine fruit… Block 8, Merchant Quarter._

He gave a half-hearted salute in the direction of the political officer and then sauntered over to the offending vehicle. He tried to straighten up and bring back some of the military bearing that he once had. He failed miserably. Ten years of good living had turned the ex-Guardsman into a picture of sloth. 
Not exactly, a picture of what a non-com should look like.

All he wanted to do was to get back to the Munitorum area, a heavily sandbagged bunker across from the ornamental gardens, and well away from the gate. It was nice and cool there, and he would be safe. Unless a stray round hit it and then… well. 
He did not have much time left. According to unofficial reports, the Imperials had already infiltrated some of the lower levels of the city and there was a fierce fight going on. They could already hear the dull crump of explosions in the distance.

When Dhakwan was given his orders to report for duty at the barracks to _‘Drive out the Imperialists‘, _he had had no choice. He had to fight and defend his beloved city, despite the odds stacked against them. 
Unfortunately, civilian life had been very kind to him and he had put on several kilos in weight. He could not find a uniform big enough to fit him until his brother-in-law, the curator at the army museum, had managed to ‘procure’ him a rather threadbare uniform of the Handshaari Irregulars. He wore it badly, and to top it off, his sergeant chevrons were lopsided and badly stitched on. 

_ It’s not fair…_

He was aware of the Beddo’s reputation for savagery and their dislike of city-dwellers, but he had no choice. If he failed to carry out his orders, the Commissar would probably shoot him out of hand. 
He would sum up all his courage and confront the ragged nomads.
He reached the half-track and shouted to the men leaning out of its open top. He had to make himself heard over the badly tuned engine. A fact, which infuriated him.

“You, you there, the big one with the whiskers on your face, didn’t you hear the Commissar‘ he checked himself ‘the political officer?’ he continued, ‘move this piece of scrap over there. We are about to seal this place up and I don‘t want you in the way”. 
The crew did not move and stared back at him, shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads. The man standing behind the weapons shield remained immobile. He gripped the butt of a vicious-looking multi-barrelled gun, which was pointing directly ahead, at the Meridian Gate. 
If Dhakwan had looked carefully, he would have noticed that the barrel was moving ever so slightly, following the ex-political officer.

“I said, move this heap you ignorant swine, MOVE IT!”
There was still no response. Dhakwan spat, and then walked around to the rear doors. The men on top watched him with interest but did nothing. 

_Ignorant Peasants_

The sergeant banged his fist against the doors, making a dull sound against the metal.
“If there is someone in there with some sort of authority, get out here and speak to me”. 
He banged on the rear doors again.
“Go away, we don‘t want to talk to you”, came a muffled voice from inside. Dhakwan was sure that he could also hear laughing. He stepped back his face red and fit to burst. 

Now he noticed other vehicles approaching.

He turned around and saw two more rattling up towards him. They both had poorly tuned engines, just like the half-track. One of them was a green and sand painted Griffon siege tank, and the other was a small two-man tracked utility vehicle towing a wheeled Lascannon.

It gets better, Dhakwan sighed 

The Griffon was an open-backed siege tank. It was basically a large mortar bolted onto a Chimera chassis. Its large calibre gun could reduce defences to rubble and dust in a matter of minutes.

The vehicle stopped abruptly, causing its eight-man crew, which was unusually large for a Griffon, to lurch heavily forward. The large dozer blade on its front, dug into the cobbled road ripping up a section of the bulky, round stones that had probably lain undisturbed, for a thousand years. 
Dhakwan shook his head in exasperation.

One of the crew stepped down off the back and dusted himself down with gloved hands. He was quickly followed by two others brandishing Imperial-issue Lasguns. 
Dhakwan straightened himself up, pulled back his shoulders and stormed towards this new target. He took out his Autopistol and waved it out in front of him and trying to look menacing.
“Has everyone gone totally stupid around here?’ he yelled at the crew, ’didn’t you hear the orders, No vehicular movement in the area of the Meridian Gates, on express orders from the General himself. 
You and that bloody great gun, are supposed to be in the main plaza. Who’s in charge there, I want his name?”

The gloved figure turned to face the angry sergeant. He was very tall, and was wearing a white cloak that flapped about his shoulders. The cloak was richly embroidered with gold lace. He wore a white shemag with a gold Ogal around his head. He had thin features and wore a tatty eye-patch. A scar ran across his forehead and onto his cheek.
However, what the sergeant noticed right away was the row of medals and the gold epaulettes, the epaulettes of a high-ranking, senior officer.
“Blood of the Emperor!” Dhakwan spluttered, using the common explanative that was clearly forgetting what side he was on.

The bloody general is here, now.

“G-g-general, Sir. A pleasure, Sir”, he said in an unnaturally high voice. 
“Who’s in charge here?” the general barked, pushing the fat sergeant to one side to let the rest of his men pass. Dhakwan wilted, his shoulders dropping and his weapon hung limp at his side. He pointed towards the bunker to the right of the gate.
“Yes I did give the order for all heavy munitions to relocate to the main Plaza’, the general continued ‘and thank you for reminding me… sergeant”. The General looked at the fat NCO with a barely disguised sneer. “These are my latest orders. Remove the mines and obstacles from around the gates. There is an armoured column coming in from the outer cities, and we are about to launch a counter-attack”. 
“Yes, yes, sir… I will get my boy‘s on to it right away, Sir!”.
The general smiled, the smile of the deaths head, and then marched off in the direction of the bunker. As if on cue, the crew on top and inside the half-tracked formed up and followed him.

Dhakwan barked out some orders and his sappers began to of remove the mines. 
He then sat down on a white traffic bollard and dabbed his forehead with a large white handkerchief. Sweat was pouring from him and his tattered uniform was soaking wet.
“May the sand flies of a thousand desert mounts lodge in your armpit‘, he cursed ‘dung-damned officers! “. He spat in the generals’ direction for good measure and then kicked angrily at the dust.
His men were working diligently, and had already removed a line of bar-mines that spanned the entrance to the gates. Dhakwan leant forward. He noticed a red and white traffic pole by his feet, the type used by military police. He kicked out, launching it towards the Griffon.
It was still chugging away with the crew positioned around its mortar. The Lascannon had been unloaded and was in the middle of the road. The track had been unceremoniously tipped into a drainage ditch. One of the Beddo’s was checking the weapons breach while the other one remained stationary, staring directly at Dhakwan.
I just can’t put my finger on it. Thought the sergeant, it’s the Griffon, there’s something about that Griffon. 

The sappers were doing well, scurrying around like yellow ants. They had begun to dig up saucer-shaped anti-tank mines from the flowerbeds and were placing them in neat rows beside the road. 
Dhakwan got up and walked over to the siege tank. Its crew immediately straightened up as he approached, and one or two of them shook each other, to make them aware that he was approaching. He gave them a friendly nod, but they did not acknowledge him. One of their NCO’s jumped down and smiled back at him, revealing a set of brown-stained teeth.
“Everything correct, _Kameraden_?” asked the grizzled arrival. Dhakwan waved him off.
“I’m just interested in old vehicles such as these. It’s a sort of hobby of mine”. The other NCO stared back, still grinning.
Dhakwan noticed that the Griffon was a Mark 3, an old variant, reliant and robust.
“I haven’t seen one of these for years’; he said questioningly ‘it’s almost an antique. How come you boys are still using it?” The other NCO shrugged his shoulders. He still grinned menacingly.
Painted on one side was the red scimitar emblem of the 22nd Al-Jazair Heavy Artillery.
“The 22nd? Your boys fought at the Dmitrienko Pass, if I remember rightly. You crushed the Ork vanguard of Zulbash the Cruel… Yes that’s right“. He was talking to himself now, as the other NCO had disappeared. 
The half-track with the non-standard chain gun, and bore the white fist badge of the 190th Yan’an Infantry.

_ Decimated in the Reynoso Salient, no survivors…_

He stopped dead in his tracks. He was not an intelligent man, more the hands on type. Things took a while to sink in. However, he did know a bit about military history, especially Handshaar’s glorious past. His heart missed a beat and he felt himself go cold. 
He had seen these regimental insignia recently… at the Army Museum where his brother Tariq worked, and where he had got his uniform from. Dhakwan almost tripped and then looked quickly down. Protruding from between the tracks of the Griffon were a set of booted feet and a silver object. It was the silver gorget of a military policeman.

“Emperor’s throne…“

The man with the brown teeth was standing in front of him, still smiling that infuriating smile. Dhakwan felt a blow to his chest and then watched as the grinning man held out his arms to stop him from falling. He was gently placed down onto the hard ground and the grinning man muttered something in a strange tongue. Dhakwan was confused and frightened. He felt his head swimming and small stars began dancing in front of his eyes. His heart pounded hard and there was a strange throbbing sensation in his chest.
Dhakwan, Abdullah Dhakwan, purveyor of fine fruits and ex-sergeant in the Imperial Guard felt pleasantly cool as he lay on the ancient cobbles in front of the gate. He turned his head slightly and watched the grinning man running away from him, followed by more of the Beddo’s. He thought he could hear shots, an explosion maybe, but his hearing was beginning to fade. 
As he slowly died, he looked up once more at the beautiful blue sky of his home world and saw that the sky was filled with long white streaks, the vapour trails from high altitude aircraft, lots of aircraft.

_ I am definitely having a bad day…._

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

DORMAGEN RIPPED OFF the Beddo cloak and threw away the shemag he was wearing. He then reached inside his tunic and found his battered cap. When he placed it on his unkempt bush of hair, he gave a contented sigh.
Two of the Griffon’s crew joined him, Kastein, with his plasma gun, and Mühlenkamp, both from second squad.

“When you get the signal, start on the left hand tower“. As if on cue, the siege mortar rumbled forward, and positioned itself in the centre of the road facing the gates. Its crew began working feverishly to load up. 

Time was very short. There was an air of uncertainty. Shots had been heard and the sound of an explosion. Handshaari soldiers began appearing from everywhere; on the battlements, from buildings and trenches. Craning their necks to see what was happening. Orders and counter-orders were barked by angry NCO’s. 

Dormagen ran through a group of sappers and sprinted towards the left hand bunker. There was a quad anti-aircraft gun on its roof protected by sandbags and covered in camouflaged netting. The crew were shouting to him and pointing at the Griffon. A PDF officer stuck his head out of the door and watched the new arrival. _The Sledgehammer _joined him by his side.
“Who the hell is that? “, he asked as Dormagen reached the base of the bunker and scaled a ladder that lead to the roof.
“Did you hear shots? “ asked the officer, shaking his head from side to side to get a better look. _The Sledgehammer _could see that the vehicles that were supposed to have been moved on, were still sitting there in front of the gate.

He cursed. “I told that fat sergeant to get that lot moving. Bloody imbeciles, I’ll string him up for that”. He shouted at the new arrival, who had been joined by a small squad of heavily armed Beddo’s’. “What is going on there?” he yelled, pointing back towards the vehicles. He squinted, then his eyes widened as he focussed on the body of Dhakwan. Even from this distance he could see that a large pool of blood had pooled around him. He looked up into the face of death .
“What the….”

* * *​
“ANY OFFICERS IN here?” barked the general as he entered the bunker. A dozen troopers jumped to their feet and several servitors, momentarily stopped what they were doing to observe their new guests. A gangly lieutenant, an ensign of about eighteen threw up a quick salute.
“I…” he stuttered. ’I am in command here, Sir. Lieutenant …” The general moved to the centre of the room allowing his bodyguards to join him.
“Great’, the senior officer interrupted, ‘now open up the gates if you please”. 
A red-robed Enginseer with cables running from his forehead and plugged into a control panel turned slowly around. He had the wheel symbol of the Mechanicum tattooed on each cheek.
“On whose authority?” he croaked his voice box unused to using human speech. The general smiled at him and waved one of his soldiers over.
“Now it’s funny you should say that…” The bodyguard stuck the end of a Lasgun into the Enginseer’s mouth and pushed him back against the panels. The Enginseer gagged, and yellow fluid began running from either side of the barrel.
A shot rang out and the young Lieutenant dropped to the floor banging his head on a table and upending it. Data-slates, cups and papers were scattered all over the floor. One of the Handshaari soldiers went to one knee and brought up his own Laspistol. Two more shots rang out and he fell forward and remained in an obscene kneeling position. There were two large holes in his back; cauterized wounds from Lasgun fire. The rest of the rebel’s froze.
“Are there any more heroes amongst you?’ asked the general matter-of-factly. He pointed a plasma pistol in their direction. There was a flurry of shaking heads and the surviving members of the bunker placed their hands above their heads. The general put away his weapon and removed his shemag and ogal. He dropped them to the floor along with his cumbersome cloak. Underneath was the uniform of the Imperial Guard.
“We are taking over here in the name of the Emperor. Zoll’, he smiled ’time to get those gates open”.

* * *​
The Griffon fired, rocking back on its suspension, and sending up a great cloud of dust and debris. To the casual observer, everything seemed to move in slow motion. The short stubby mortar recoiled, ejecting the spent case onto the road surface with a loud clang that reverberated across the square.
The first round hit the left hand tower about twenty metres from its base. It immediately erupted into a massive fireball of smashed rockcrete and deadly fragments. Troops dived for cover as debris exploded outwards like lethal confetti.
The mortar settled back on its carriage and another projectile was slammed into the breach. There was a splattering of return fire from the walls as some of the Beddo’s began to recover, realising what was happening. The Las rounds and hard slugs, peppered the Griffons thick armour plate, or missed and made small dust clouds on the road surface.
The Griffon fired three more rounds, striking the tower at various heights and causing absolute pandemonium. Panic reigned, as orders and counter-orders rang out between the various units on the walls and in the towers.

When the Griffon fired for the forth time there was a terrific detonation as a hot round ignited in its breach. The crusty old museum piece, a veteran of countless conflicts, had finally had its day. It was destroyed by the very people who had built it, and not by a xenos enemy. 
The Griffon and its crew were vaporised in an instant as the remaining rounds went off as one. All that remained was a crater ten metres across, a black, smoking stain. The four-man crew were never seen again.
A hesitant cheer went up from the walls, and then several militia got to their feet and fired their weapons into the air in a victory salute. 

But their triumph was short lived.

There was a loud crack followed by a high-pitched squeal of metal grinding against metal. The ground began to shake like a small earthquake and a deep roar could be heard above them. 
Bastion One began to move; slowly at first and then, as if it was driven by unseen forces, it began to shake and rattle. Rocks and strips of metal began to fall from it. A spider web of cracks quickly appeared at the towers base and spread quickly to the very top. The mast, with its green Handshaar flag flying proudly above it, seemed to flutter down like a child’s toy. Thousands of tonnes of rubble and steel followed it.
The noise was overwhelming, the sight, and a scene from a picture of hell. Bastion One was falling and taking everything and everyone with it. It demolished the bunkers and trenches in a deadly rain of destruction. An immense cloud spread out engulfing everything in a fine yellow film. Men fell choking, clutching their throats, staggering like drunken men. Blood, traumatic amputations and death. Panic spread like a virus.

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

THE BODIES OF the bunkers occupants were unceremoniously dragged to one side and stacked in the far corner. The two sentries that had been standing guard outside lay trussed up like prized trophies, against a drinks dispenser. Only the Enginseer remained standing, still plugged into his machine and gasping like a fish out of water. 
“Good thinking Warren‘, said Schaeffer with a smile, ‘thank goodness for that Museum. The generals’ uniform worked a treat”. He adjusted his eye-patch and moved over to the door.
Hollenbeck and Behlendorf from second squad were lying prone in front of the opening, desperately seeking cover behind a flimsy barricade made up of desks and chairs. Behlendorf had a clumsy-looking belt-fed heavy-stubber which was beloved by the Jirmanic troops. He opened and closed the upper breach cover and checked the brass rounds time and time again. Hollenbeck, Waldo Hollenbeck the company comedian, had laid out a row of grenades in front of him. He had also removed his entrenching tool and had it near at hand. If it came to close quarter fighting, he would use his spade as a brutal blade, which could slice through the flimsy rebel body armour.

The shock wave from the Griffon exploding hit the three of them hard, throwing Schaeffer across the room and knocking the other two troopers against the walls. Behlendorf’s Tri-dome went spinning off down the street like a discarded children’s toy. 
The unfortunate Enginseer was knocked unconscious and lay slumped over one of the terminals. A thick cloud of choking dust meandered through the room, covering everything and turning the whole place into an eerie white tomb.

There was a rumbling sound.
“What the fic….! “. 
A figure dived in through the entrance and landed heavily next to Schaeffer. He groaned softly to himself, appearing to be oblivious of his surroundings. A heavy object followed him, sliding across the floor and hitting the man in the head. He let out a yelp and then struggled to his knees. The box that had struck him was a large vox-set and the kneeling figure was Anselm with his thick mop of fair hair. He moved slowly onto his front and surveyed the scene. His white eyes shone out from a blackened face. 
Warren Cholitz, a trooper from third Züg, patted him on the shoulder.
“Nice of you to turn up Kurt”. Anselm stroked his head and looked at his palm. It was smeared with blood. He saw Schaeffer in the corner.
“The tower has gone but we lost the crew of the Griffon. Kupfer and Bidermann are dead. It’s like a bloody abattoir out there”.
“Anselm’, grinned Schaeffer ‘it’s good to see you too” He shook the vox-operators hand and patted him on his back. “Get on that box and rustle up some bloody reinforcements for us before the rebels get their act together”.

Cholitz moved over to the door and peered out just as another figure came smashing through the doorway. He was tossed to one side and lashed out with both feet. Hollenbeck, still dazed from the concussion wave, struggled to retrieve his Lasgun but managed to aim it at the new arrival. Behlendorf sat forlournly to one side, unable to react and holding a hand to his nose, which had been neatly sliced down the middle by a piece of shrapnel. 
The stranger avoided the kicks and stood up and dusted himself down. He looked up at the other _Kopftjägers_ and grinned. 

“More bloody bodies’, groaned Hollenbeck ‘_Fic_ off will you, it’s getting too crowded in here”. The new arrival threw two long tubes onto the floor of the room. They were some sort of locally-manufactured rocket-propelled grenade.
“Thought you might find these handy, just in case…”
“Löwitch, where the hell did you come from?” asked Schaeffer calmly.
“Dormagen sent me, he’s spotted some armour approaching”.
“More armour, what about those two bastards outside? “
“Don’t worry about them, they’ve been taken care of, but I think the rebels have finally recovered and we are in for one nightmare of a party”
“Great’, said Schaeffer, shaking his head and turning to Anselm. ‘Get Oberst Eicke on that thing. Tell him that we are not sure if the shields are down yet, but we will have the gates open shortly‘, and then as an afterthought, ‘and tell him to expect some heavy duty action”.
“Right away Rolph’, smiled the Vox-officer, ’now all of hell will break lose, eh?”
Schaeffer smiled,
“You better believe it….”

* * *​


----------



## Brother Emund

THE SIX HANDSHAARI militia manning the heavy stubber did not even know they were dead. Meyer had crawled up to the lip of the trench and flipped two plasma grenades in when their backs were turned. They disappeared in a splash of super-heated liquid before they could even cry out. 
The Lieutenant did not enjoy killing men like this, quick and easy and without mercy. He had no choice. The attack was stalling and he had to move on. There was no time for niceties whilst his own men were dying.

He saw the Griffon fire its last round and watched in awe as Bastion One fell.
Suddenly, like a great window opening up, it went deathly quiet and the blue sky lit up eye burning bright. A slight breeze brushed his chin and he smiled. He waved towards the building opposite and a large group of _Kopftjägers_ appeared and began running towards him.

Dormagen split the PDF officer’s head open like a ripe fruit. The blade of the Schlactaxe was so sharp that it only stopped when it struck the mans sternum. Brains and body fluid sprayed the Sledgehammer who made an undignified retreat before the blade struck again.
The senior corporal winced and struggled to free his weapon. A hard slug ripped through his sleeve and a second clipped his right ear. 
Muhlenkamp opened up from his side and filled the interior of the bunker with las-fire.
A Beddo warrior, resplendent in traditional warrior dress, lunged forward, passing his bayonet through the dead officers’ arm and into Dormagen’s shoulder pad. The corporal was quick, far too quick for the desert nomad. With a lighting flick of the wrist, he released a small silver star that struck the hapless warrior in the forehead. He made a pathetic gasp as he fell.

“Whores boots’, stuttered Dormagen ’I can’t get my bleedin’ axe free”. 
Another Beddo screamed nearby and someone gasped “The shield is down! The shield is down!” 
Krüger smiled at Mühlenkamp.
“That’s music to my ears”.
His burly companion shifted slightly and shaded his eyes with his free hand.
“There’s that bastard in black. I swear he’s a Commissar“. He fired off several shots from his Lasgun and then shook his head when he missed.
“Alarm!” roared the Sledgehammer as he ducked out of the far side of the bunker. He manhandled a squad of five or six terrified militia and pushed them back at gunpoint. He smacked the squad leader across the face with the hilt of his sword.
“There are Imperials in there. Hold this entrance and I will send reinforcements up“. He jumped into a connecting trench and grabbed a vox-piece from a startled comms officer and began barking orders.
“I will regain control of this mess”.

A slow wailing siren blared out from hidden speakers on the walls. Seconds later, lines of Handshaari infantry, bolstered by squads of Beddo’s, were streaming out of doorways and buildings spurred on by their officers and NCOs. They looked in dismay at the scene of utter devastation.
A line of three explosions engulfed a group of them as they struggled to bring a long-barrelled mortar to bear. A couple of seconds later, a string of three more clouds of grey dust and debris, reduced their sandbagged position to a ragged pile of metal and human debris…
The Beddo in the half-track manning the multi-barrelled gun opened fire with a long burst of snub-nosed rounds. He raked a long line of rebels who had just filed out in front of the gate. They were cut down one after the other without firing a shot, cut down like fresh grass in a field.

No quarter.

“Good old Amdt!’ screamed a soldier from a small slit-trench nearby. It was Maag, making his way to the mine dump and the stock of munitions it contained. He frantically waved at the man in the half-track. ‘Glowna! Glowna you untermench, take those filthy rags off and join the program will you’, he pointed vigorously to a point beyond “turn that ficking thing left, there’s a whole Truppe of the bastards moving up over there, hurry man, hurry!” 
He chopped his arm in the direction of a series of entrances near the gate. The Chaingun opened up again, sweeping left across the face of the gate, pummelling the guardhouse‘s doorway, and then across the open area on the East~West Highway. The rebel infantry unit was hit heavily and melted back into the buildings under Glowna’s withering fire.

A sniper secreted somewhere above, fired off a succession of shots and dropped six Handshaari officers one after the other. Glowna whistled and gave thumbs up sign to a group of Kopftjägers who had scuttled over during the confusion. 

The basic Handshaari soldier needs leadership. They are not trained to think for themselves, not given the responsibility to command or take the initiative. Jirmanic soldiers on the other hand, were trained to a much higher standard, and each man had to be able to operate at least one rank above him. It was a good system. When NCO’s or officers went down; there was always someone to take their place.

Glowna had dropped at least twenty of the rebels before they began running in all directions. His chaingun tore great holes in their ranks, turning the dusty cobbles red with their blood. The screams of the wounded and dying reverberated around the square in front of the gate.
A group of five or six militia piled out of the guardroom, forced out by the curses and threats of the black-uniformed political officer. The first man blew apart in a cloud of pink mist, when he received a direct hit from one of Ampt’s hidden mortars. Three of the group instinctively ducked. The boldest rebel, a silver-haired veteran, with bright white teeth, set into a black face, opened up on full auto with his archaic snub gun. The rounds struck the half-tracks armour and riquoshaded harmlessly upwards and away. Trooper Stransky went down on one knee, his Lasgun in his shoulder. Hochbaum dropped down besides him and shouldered his own weapon. They fired a short burst of las fire that ripped into the lone gunman, forcing the others to scramble to their feet. They were killed almost instantaneously, riddled with las fire which tore small chunks out of them, knocking them back into the rubble around the gatehouse. Two more mortar rounds hit the wall around the doorway to the guardroom, shattering the rockcrete and sending hundreds of small rock fragments into the Sledgehammers face and shoulders. He squealed in a most undignified manner, for an ex-Imperial Commissar, and leapt backwards into safety. The rest of the rebels remained inside.

The _‘Amineh’ _and the _Jamilah’_ were burning, their crews were lying around their bases like broken rag dolls. A Lascannon fired again, putting a round into the driver’s aperture of a Chimera troop carrier, popping open like a ripe fruit. The crew inside were reduced to a grisly shower of gore, as the vehicles magazine exploded. 

A missile streaked from the left and took out a small, domed-shaped cupola above the gate, reducing the auto-guns it housed, to twisted scrap metal. Two more missiles hit an anti-aircraft gun on a ledge above. Las fire peppered off the stone walls making low pops as they hit.
Another Krak missile took the main turret off another Leman Russ battle tank. No one had realised it was there until the crew jumped up onto it when the fighting started. It had been well-hidden under tarpaulins and could have caused some serious problems, had it got going. The main armament was gone, but the remaining crew continued to fire the secondary weapon, a hull-mounted Lascannon, with deadly efficiency. Its Heavy-bolters were also keeping marauding tank-hunters at bay. A lone _Kopftjäger_ lay in front of it, still clutching a circular anti-tank mine in his long-dead hand.

Schnurrbart finally reached it, after negotiating the city’s sewer system and coming up a few metres to its rear. He looked like a strange mutant with the back of his head bandaged up like an obscene growth. The veteran corporal, cautiously lifted the metal drain cover and peered out. From his position he was blind to the crew of the tank and could approach the rear engine louvers without exposing himself to the deadly slugs from the twin heavy-bolters.
He slid the cover to one side and heaved a anti-tank mine out in front of him. With uncharacteristic caution, he scanned the entire area with his Magnocular’s before crawling forward and placing the mine under the rear of the hull. He set the fuse to timer and then retraced his steps. A few seconds later, he dropped out of sight, replacing the drainage cover above him.
The eruption lifted up the rear of the tank and slammed it down with a ground-shaking thump. The cast plasteel hull, ripped open like a fruit, engulfing everything within ten metres in a blast of superheated air. Fierce flames then bellowed out of it in all directions.
Two of the crew had somehow survived and scrambled out of tits wrecked turret, their uniform smouldering. Their chances of survival were slim to near impossible. 
The first crewman fell, his head exploding in a cloud of pink mist and bone fragments. The second man hesitate for a fraction of a second, staring in bewilderment at his comrade. The second round punched through his heart and out through his spine.

“Amateurs’, Kohl growled. He fired again, a long shot at a target high above the gate. He had seen a rebel NCO berating a squad of terrified militia. One of the unfortunate men had already been thrown from the battlements. 
Kohl’s last round hit the NCO in the shoulder, spinning him around and toppling him over the edge. The Beddo screamed piteously as he spiralled lazily through the air until he hit the road with a dull thud, thirty metres below.

* * *​


----------



## jonileth

Something I've noticed with your writing, when you have dialogue, you don't put any spacing between it. I.E:



> “Whores boots’, stuttered Dormagen ’I can’t get my bleedin’ axe free”.
> Another Beddo screamed nearby and someone gasped “The shield is down! The shield is down!”
> Krüger smiled at Mühlenkamp.
> “That’s music to my ears”.
> His burly companion shifted slightly and shaded his eyes with his free hand.


This just runs on in my eyes. Given that most stories are separated by indentation, this usually isn't an issue, but the forums don't readily recognize indents and this leads to things being smashed together. For readability's sake, perhaps if you would space dialogue, it wouldn't look nearly as cramped in places like the example above and it would flow more smoothly.


----------



## Brother Emund

jonileth said:


> Something I've noticed with your writing, when you have dialogue, you don't put any spacing between it. I.E:
> 
> 
> 
> This just runs on in my eyes. Given that most stories are separated by indentation, this usually isn't an issue, but the forums don't readily recognize indents and this leads to things being smashed together. For readability's sake, perhaps if you would space dialogue, it wouldn't look nearly as cramped in places like the example above and it would flow more smoothly.


I value the feedback. However, I do not understand what you mean? Could you elaborate? :grin:


----------



## jonileth

I would be happy to. See below, you 'wall o' text' dialogue section;



> “Whores boots’, stuttered Dormagen 'I can’t get my bleedin’ axe free”.
> Another Beddo screamed nearby and someone gasped “The shield is down! The shield is down!”
> Krüger smiled at Mühlenkamp.
> “That’s music to my ears”.
> His burly companion shifted slightly and shaded his eyes with his free hand.
> “There’s that bastard in black. I swear he’s a Commissar“. He fired off several shots from his Lasgun and then shook his head when he missed.
> “Alarm!” roared the Sledgehammer as he ducked out of the far side of the bunker. He manhandled a squad of five or six terrified militia and pushed them back at gunpoint. He smacked the squad leader across the face with the hilt of his sword.
> “There are Imperials in there. Hold this entrance and I will send reinforcements up“. He jumped into a connecting trench and grabbed a vox-piece from a startled comms officer and began barking orders.
> “I will regain control of this mess”.


What I was getting at with my comment was that this "wall" is hard to read and distinguish between characters speaking. I would propose that it look more like this in the forum atmosphere; (I will change the color of grammar corrections to this as I make them as well)



> “Whores boots," stuttered Dormagen, "I can’t get my bleedin’ axe free.”
> 
> Another Beddo screamed nearby and someone gasped, “The shield is down! The shield is down!”
> 
> Krüger smiled at Mühlenkamp.
> 
> “That’s music to my ears”.
> 
> His burly companion shifted slightly and shaded his eyes with his free hand,“There’s that bastard in black. I swear he’s a Commissar." He fired off several shots from his Lasgun and then shook his head when he missed.
> 
> “Alarm!” roared the Sledgehammer as he ducked out of the far side of the bunker. He manhandled a squad of five or six terrified militia and pushed them back at gunpoint. He smacked the squad leader across the face with the hilt of his sword.
> 
> “There are Imperials in there. Hold this entrance and I will send reinforcements up."
> 
> He jumped into a connecting trench and grabbed a vox-piece from a startled comms officer and began barking orders.
> 
> “I will regain control of this mess”.


While at first it may look like you have a lot of space here you don't need, it helps to break up the mass of text since you are shifting from person to person, action to action in a short space of time rather than describing something in one continuous flow like with the rest of your paragraphs. Make sense?


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## Brother Emund

I see what you mean. I will follow your advice and open it up a bit. Thanx :victory:


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## Brother Emund

*Whooops!*

I have been away a while so forgive me. Unfortunately, the 100's of pages I have written have... gone. My PC swallowed them up and made them disappear. :angry:
I will be carrying on as soon as I can (oh no, please don't.. I hear you shout).
I might start from scratch with a different thread/ theme :read:

We shall see


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