StarDestroyer.Net BBS

If you liked 'By the Horns' (and I hope you did...) this is a short story much in the same vein. More crazy space marine action.

It was like being the last man in the world.

There was almost a perfection to it. Nothing above but darkness, nothing but more of the same to either side. If it hadn't been for the metal plate upon which he crouched, the steel handle to which he clung, it would have been easy for him to close his eyes and imagine himself in a realm of emptiness, a void more complete than the great vacuum of space.

Inside his suit, the silence was all but total. Only a distant hum and the occasional muted sound of metal broke through the quietude.

It was an odd experience - the stillness. It was not something often to be found in the life of a space marine. They were more used to cacophony - the roar of bolter and chainsword, the howl of daemons, the bellowed voices of command and the screams of death. It was rare, in the life of a space marine, to be presented with the sheer opposite.

It was, in the end, just another of the multitudinous demands expected of the superhuman Adeptus Astartes. Demands that would have overwhelmed a mortal - even a brave mortal - were to them just another part of life.

Unseen beneath his Corvus-pattern helm, Torin Firemane smiled slightly. It was amazing, upon reflection, the kind of things a man could come to accept as mundane when you exposed him to them long enough. Just part of the job.

Strap yourself into a conical shell of metal and be fired out a tube at an enemy vessel.

Throw yourself out of a transport flying at half the speed of sound, using a device essentially described as a rocket strapped to your back to slow your fall to marginally safe velocity.

Stare down creatures twice your size and strength and plant yourself in their path.

But that was the life of a space marine. To dare, where others would break. To persevere, where others would falter. Many looked upon the space marines - their great stature, their fine armor and weaponry, their genetic gifts that uplifted them so far beyond the remit of mortal men - and saw only their strength. What could not be seen by the critical eye was the mantle of duty, the prodigious expectations placed upon each and every man to were the great ceramite and bear the colors of the Astartes.

And so it was Torin Firemane found himself in a void of darkness, crouched nearly to one knee, his hand immovably clenched around the grip of the support handle. His mission clock read 29:33:52.

Getting there, he thought, and flexed his arm slightly.

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"Why don't you attack?" he asked softly.

The question was rhetorical, of course - the man to whom it was addressed stood many kilometers distant, well outside the range of his artillery's kill-zone. And even had they stood face-to-face, the Warsmith would have been more likely to recieve a swipe from the man's blade in lieu of any verbal answer. Even at the maximum magnification of his field glasses, the forces of the Imperium were more a series of hazy lights on the dark horizon rather than the distinct figures of humanity and their machines.

In truth the longer the Imperials sat on their hands and stared across the intervening space towards them, the better, and the Warsmith's question was born not out of impatience but rather curiosity. Patience the Warsmith had in plenty. Patience had seen him through the siege of Malbax and the fleet action in the Eleventh Black Crusade. Patience had seen him salvage his company during the infighting that had plagued the forces of Chaos following the Gothic War. And when his own Legion had called upon him and the remnants of his once-grand forces to undertake a suicidal action, patience had seen him prepare and execute a daring plan that had seen a mere handful of Iron Warriors strike with the effectiveness of a full chapter.

His task had been quite simple - distract the forces of the False Emperor from the greater thrust of the Legions as they stormed the Cadian Gate. Other commanders would have raged at the ignominy, but an Iron Warrior simply accepted the orders of his commanders with the same diligence and efficiency that had been their forte since the days of Crusade and Heresy ten thousand years ago.

And so they had set out from the Eye of Terror - two hundred Iron Warriors, the last survivors of the Grand Company of Warsmith Lokastro, supplemented by nearly a hundred thousand mortal soldiers. And they had performed their duties magnificently, their ships rapidly hopping from system to system to inflict as much damage as possible before departing for their next destination. The Imperials had been pathetically unprepared for the ferocity of the Iron Warriors and their servants and all had gone as planned at first.

But then, by some poor turn of luck or perhaps an act of fate, the Wolves had caught their scent.

Suddenly the game turned into a race, the Iron Warriors ever one step ahead of the baying Astartes. They had chased Lokastro's ships through another three systems, each time arriving only to find the wreckage left by the warband's rampage. But as certain as day and steadily as night the Wolves had slowly closed the gap between them, following the aetheric wake the Iron Warriors left in the warp with the grim determination of hounds on the blood trail.

And so the Iron Warriors had switched to the second phase of their strategem. Rather than continue the chase they had set upon the next world in their path, a subsector capitol named Katowice. The local defenders had been no match for the hard-bitten Chaos marines and their equally battle-tested troops. The landing had been swift, and the capture of the Iron Warriors' chosen fallback had been equally lightning fast.

The local name for the place, he'd since learned, was Skaladom.

Skaladom was a large citadel - not quite large enough by the standards of the Imperium to be a proper fortress - placed at the eastern edge of the world's second continent. It was, he'd been told, the seat of power for the House of Biernik, the planet's ruling family. At least until the day he and his forces had killed them all, of course. Level by level they had secured the citadel, the soldiers instructed to keep as many prisoners alive as possible. In the end, nearly half a million prisoners had been taken, chained in the bowels of the place by their captors.

And just in time - as the takeover of Skaladom was ending the Wolves arrived, beginning a fierce voidfight with Lokastro's ships. The Warsmith had been assured that his crews had acquitted themselves well, but the Wolves' strike cruisers and their attendant forces from the Imperial Navy had carried the day, sailing into orbit to despatch their dropships and troop carriers.

And that was when they had first seen the trap Lokastro had set for them.

Skaladom had been constructed in ages past upon a rocky peninsula that rose from the waves of Katowice's ocean like a pointing finger. The thought of the architects had been that this would make the place defensible in the event of a siege. Though the Iron Warriors had proved them far wrong, they now turned that advantage upon the Imperials. The first tentative attempts to probe Lokastro's holdings were met with fierce barrages from the artillery that the Iron Warriors and their pet army had brought with them. They bombarded the peninsula's neck mercilessly, annihilating the scouting forces sent to investigate them.

And then the Warsmith's gamble came into play. Skaladom had no great shields beneath which it could hide from the wrath of orbital bombardment. Instead, picts had been disseminated of the prisoners kept within the citadel's halls, and though they suffered they were also fed, watered, and living. Lokastro had effectively dared the Imperium to pull the trigger on the place, dared them to sit and siege Skaladom until the hostages' doom was certain.

Some Imperial commanders, he knew, would have blasted Skaladom off the map in a matter of hours - kill them all, and let the Corpse-God sort them out! But such extreme hard-liners were rare, and the Wolves did not disappoint. For days now they had dithered and hesitated. Attempts to quietly slip past the line were met with further punishment from the Iron Warrors' artillery, and aerial assault had been discouraged by the fire thrown up by the hydra tanks that accompanied the great cannons.

As more and more time elapsed, Lokastro found himself standing in the great throne room that he had taken as his command center, watching the Imperial forces through the western windows. Enough of them had gathered that the conquest of Skaladom was surely a moot point, but the defenses of the Iron Warriors made tremendous casualties a virtual certainty, atop the already-grim prospect of losing half a million Imperial lives. So they scurried to and fro in an attempt to look busy, while the Iron Warriors watched and waited for the moment that their nerve finally broke.

Lokastro shifted his grip upon his magnoculars, changing the enhanced image so that the Imperial forces were suddenly wreathed in pale green light, the lights of their vehicles sharp points of white. The Warsmith watched his distant foes, lips pursed as he tried to anticipate their next decision.

"What are you thinking?" he murmured.

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Again? By Russ this git needs to learn when to shut his yap, he thought sourly.

He'd hoped that for once the annoying gobshite would have taken the hint and buggered off back to his own company. But apparently the Fates were not in agreement with him, a fact made clear when he heard the all-too-familiar rasp call his name.

Alexei Frostborn stood atop the razorback that served as his mobile command center, watching the distant lights of the citadel with arms folded across his chest. The vehicle was parked close to the center of the Imperial forward line, just ahead of the makeshift command center through which the Wolves liased with their Imperial Guard allies. Even now, at the bottom of the night the place was well-lit and bustling with personnel, interspersed by the larger, more purposeful space marines.

The Wolf Lord was arrayed in his armor, his great sword sheathed at his shoulder. His helm was clipped to his belt, leaving the Space Wolf's face open to the night air. Unusual for a member of his chapter, his beard was short, his dark hair (greying now with age) bound back so that it did not interfere with his armor's interface. His left eye was blue, while the right had long ago been replaced by an augment when an orkish bolt round had struck the wall beside him and exploded. Scar tissue still marked the upper quarter of the Wolf Lord's face, lending his countenance a grim aspect. Coupled together with his size and the fangs that showed whenever he spoke, the Space Wolf did not often have to work hard to achieve intimidation.

Sadly, the effect was lost on the great bloody idiot that was now calling for his attention. Alexei kept his gaze upon the distant citadel for a moment longer, if for no other reason than to annoy his visitor that much more before he finally turned his head to look down upon his...guest.

Like Alexei himself, the interloper wore the armor of the Adeptus Astartes. In contrast to the Wolf Lord's finely crafted set however, the visitor's plate was of an earlier design, patched here and there by pieces of even older such suits. It had all been painted a shade of gunmetal grey, darker than that worn by the Space Wolves, with the insignia of an aquatic predator upon one shoulder guard. It was the symbol of the Carcharodons Astra - known in Low Gothic by the monicker 'Space Sharks.'

Alexei studied his opposite number for a moment. Captain Isurus had a narrow profile for a space marine, his flesh nearly as grey as the armor that contained him. His hair was jet black and his eyes were likewise so, with only the faintest hint of the sclerae at their edges. His mouth was permanently set in a sharp frown, and when he spoke his teeth were distinctly sharper than was norm. All in all he matched well the image of a shark given man's form.

Isurus and his Fifth Company had arrived on Katowice earlier in the day and already the Wolf Lord was sick of him. This was only the third time they'd met face to face, but the captain had made a nuisance of himself over the vox, demanding updates and querulously and insisting that the Imperial forces take action.

"Well?" the man hissed, his dark eyes fixed upon the Wolf Lord.

"I'm sorry," Alexei replied a moment later. "I couldn't hear you over the razorback." The vehicle, currently idling, made almost no sound at all - certainly not enough to smother the Wolf's sharp hearing.

Isurus scowled further at the insult, the lines in his forehead deepening. "Another hour goes by while we sit on our hands and threaten the Iron Warriors with our disapproving stares," he said, his words dripping venom.

"Ye got a hot date?" the Wolf Lord replied, unable to resist baiting the man. Although they were some distance from the activity of the command center, the meeting of the two captains had not gone without attracting attention - Isurus had brought a pair of Carcharadons that hung back behind their commanding officer, and Alexei's long fangs were scattered about the area, leaving the pair of them not quite out of earshot. The Wolf Lord heard a choking noise as someone bit back a laugh. Probably not one of Isurus' men.

The Carcharodon's expression soured still further. "Every moment we sit here is another for the greater forces of Chaos to throw themselves against the Cadian Gate."

"If ye believe the greater battle t'be there, then yer welcome to take yer forces and join in the fighting," the Wolf Lord replied calmly. "There's no doubt much glory to be had there."

Alexei could see his opposite number mulling it over. "No," he finally said aloud. "I swore my forces to this undertaking and I will see it done," he pronounced. Go on and say it, the Wolf Lord thought, and the Carcharodon did not disappoint- "but every moment lost sitting on our arses is one that could be spent clearing the traitors' forces from that nest."

The Wolf Lord uncrossed his arms and turned to jump down from the razorback, landing with a heavy thud not far from Isurus. The Carcharodon's men inched closer, but the captain waved them back, his dark eyes never leaving the Wolf. "So, let me see if I understand ye," Alexei said, his voice even. "You think that we should charge out through some hundred-odd klicks of artillery bombardment, ye, me, and all the forces we can muster, and when we reach the citadel with whatever doesn't get blown t'smithereens we storm the walls against the Iron Warriors and their forces, press on through the heavy fighting that's sure t'erupt in the halls, and while we're at all this risk the lives of half a million Imperial citizens, all while we press up to the throne toom and kill the Warsmith ourselves." Alexei paused briefly. "Issat about what ye had in mind?"

"Yes," Isurus replied flatly. "It is. Roughly."

The Space Wolf shook his head. "Ye'd have us spend the lives of the Allfather's people as if they were coin in some marketplace," he said, his tone laden with disappointment.

"Sacrifices must be sometimes made for the greater whole," Isurus countered. "A finger to save a hand, a hand to save an arm, an arm to save the whole. We cannot cower in fear of what must be done."

If there had been any doubt of their still being in earshot it was gone now as the activity at the command center - already slowing noticably as the conversation between the two men had developed - suddenly halted. Alexei turned his head to note the faces, Space Wolf and Imperial Guard alike that had been turned towards them. Most of the Wolves were angry, while the men, the mortals looked on in worry. "Is that what yer accusing me of, Captain Isurus?" he asked slowly, moderating his tone. "Cowardice?"

The Carcharodon's jaw worked subtly before he answered. "Two hours' bombardment from space would flatten Skaladom and end this standoff," he said.

"And kill half a million of the Imperium's people," Alexei growled.

"So we charge, instead. We get to the walls and carry them as quickly as we may, absorbing whatever casualties they inflict and take them by storm, cleansing the filth before they can slay their precious hostages." The Carcharodon's voice was level and iron-hard.

"That's a terrible risk," Alexei pointed out.

"We are the Adeptus Astartes," Isurus rejoined. "We are made for terrible risks, Wolf Lord. If I were in charge of this-"

"But yer not," Alexei cut him off sharply, taking a step towards his fellow captain. Once more Isurus' men edged closer. "I am," the Wolf Lord growled. That was as much lie as it was truth - technically Alexei Frostborn commanded only his company, while the officers of the Guard handled their own affairs. In practice, however, they had deferred to him from the moment the Wolves set foot upon Katowice, and he knew that they would not suddenly back the Carcharodon when the man preached such heavy losses amongst both fighting man and civilian. "So if ye want to take yer ninety-odd marines and see if ye can make that charge, Captain Isurus, yer welcome," Alexei growled with a nod towards the citadel.

"You shrink from what must be done, Wolf Lord," Isurus growled back.

"No, captain, you rush in too quickly rather than seek a better answer," Alexei shot back.

"There is no better answer!" Isurus snapped. "We attack, or we do not! What better answer is there, Alexei Frostborn?" he challenged.

In response, Alexei turned to face one of his long fangs, a man named Erik Icehowl. "What's the count?" he asked.

Icehold lifted a hand and touched the side of his helm. "Thirty one hours, forty six minutes," he replied.

Alexei quickly did the math in his head. "In seven hours, Captain Isurus, ye'll have yer answer," he said.

The Carcharodon looked at him suspiciously. "What happens in seven hours?"

But Alexei was already turning away to haul himself back up onto his razorback. "Ye'll see then," he replied. A part of him argued that he should explain, but the bloody git had pissed him off just enough that Alexei preferred to leave him in the dark. "Just be ready to move in seven hours. Now get back t'yer men."

The Carcharodon looked as if he wanted to argue further, but with lips pursed he turned and stalked away, his men following in his wake. As they left the activity in the command center slowly returned to normal while the Wolf Lord resumed his vigil, eyes fixed upon the distant lights of Skaladom.

"Friendly sort," Erik commented dryly, walking up beside the razorback.

"With guardians like him the Imperium hardly needs enemies," the Wolf Lord growled. Then he turned and spat. "Ye know which part really disappoints me?"

"What's that?" the long fang asked, lifting one shaggy brow.

"Ye'd think that a member of that chapter would be able t'see the obvious."

Erik laughed.

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Torin Firemane blinked his eyes, shaking off the torpor of false sleep. He'd maintained his position all through the intervening hours, gauntlet securely locked around the handle.

Around him, the near-total darkness had begun to subtly lighten towards a dull grey. He could faintly see more the steel plate in front of him and when he glanced upwards he could see a faint haze like some manner of fat stormcloud.

Almost there. Russ give me strength, he thought, flexing his hand around the handle.

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Another night had come and gone, giving way to bright morning.

In the throne room of Skaladom, Warsmith Lokastro happened to be looking in the right direction to catch the movement of his sensor specialist as the man lifted a hand and pressed his headphones to one ear, frowning.

"Report," the Warsmith demanded.

"I thought I had something," the mortal replied. "A small contact, south-southeast."

Several of the room's observers quickly moved to spy in the direction indicated. "A fighter?" the Warsmith questioned.

The sensor man shook his head. "Too small," he replied. "It's gone now- wait, I've got it. No," he corrected a moment later, scowling. "It's gone again."

"Nothing in the air, Warsmith," one of the men reported.

Lokastro frowned. "What about the sea?" he asked.

"Nothing there, sir," another of them responded.

"I see something!" a voice shouted. "South-southwest, about ten klicks out!" Attention all across the room was drawn in the direction indicated. All except for Lokastro's sensor man as the blood suddenly drained from his face.

"Picking up multiple returns, Warsmith!"

"Redirect the artillery!" the Iron Warrior boomed.

"They're coming in too fast!"

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Their arrival was heralded by sprays of foam jetting upwards from the surface of the sea.

They rose from beneath the waves, eight knife-hulled ships black as night, moving with the speed of torpedos as they cut through the waves.

Atop the lead ship, a space marine in Corvus-pattern armor, his appearance hunched by the large pack that was fixed to his bulk, released his death grip on the steel handle he'd been clutching for the past day and rose, already beginning to run forward along the top plate of the hull.

"GO!" Torin Firemane roared as he opened his vox. "ALL SKYCLAWS, GO!" The Space Wolf's jump pack cycled, spraying seawater that misted in the air around him. Then it fired, sputtering as the Wolf leapt forward several feet through the air. The Wolf snarled. He was running out of hull. A few more steps and he would drop unceremoniously into the sea. "C'mon, ye great bloody-"

The jump pack caught and roared to life. Torin felt the ship fall away as he leapt, towards the citadel that loomed before him, joined in his attack by nineteen other men in the armor and jump packs of the space marines. They left the attack subs far behind, roaring through the air as their arc carried them towards their objective.

"There!" he said aloud, as the gleaming steel barrels of the Iron Warriors' great guns came into view. "The artillery!"

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"Hydras!" Lokastro bellowed.

"They're too low-" his sensor man started to protest, and Lokastro's patience failed him. He lashed out with one great fist, his blow knocking the man from his chair as if struck by a bolt round, his head crushed.

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The first to make his landing was Gunnar Ironbrow. The Space Wolf came rocketing in low over the walls of Skaladom, swinging out his lower body to land heavily upon his feet at the side hull of one massive basilisk cannon.

His sudden arrival surprised an Iron Warrior who started to go for his bolter. With no time to draw his weapon Gunnar kicked out, catching the traitor marine in his gut and knocking him back a step. Acting on instinct, Iron Warrior put out his foot to catch himself - but found nothing awaiting him, and he pitched backwards over the side of the basilisk. That would only buy a moment, Gunnar knew, but a moment was all he needed as he plucked a blocky shape from his belt and slammed it against bottom of the great barrel, punching it into place with the heel of his armored hand.

Then he spun away and his jump pack roared to life. As he cleared the artillery cannon, a wash of heat and light followed close behind him.

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There was a snap of steel and a scream of electricity as Torin's power claws slid into place, the mismatched weapons humming with power. As the Space Wolf hit the metal decking he swung with his right arm, metal screeching as he tore through the vehicle's armor. His left joined the work, the Space Wolf ripping through the steel plate of the vindicator tank as if it were paper.

He heard screams of terror, and as he peeled back the tank's protective shell he couldn't resist poking his beaked helm into the opening. "Special delivery," he said through the external address.

The levity was lost as the crewmen inside struggled to get away from the intruder. One of them went for his pistol and Torn reacted instinctively, punching forward with his right hand. In contrast to the Space Wolf's pale grey armor, the grim power claw was black as night, decorated with a winged-skull motif. As old as the Imperium itself, the Shadowclaw had once served at the hand of a Night Lords captain before Torin had taken it for himsef, turning it once more to the service of the Emperor. The blades of the ancient weapon sliced through the vindicator like knives through butter, impaling the man before his pistol cleared its holster.

Torin pulled back his hand and punched out with his left. The power claw there was a more mundane weapon of the Space Wolves' own chapter, given to Torin as a gift by the Wolf Lord to "balance ye out." It nonetheless cut through the remaining crewmen, and Torin retracted his blades so that he could pluck one of the melta charges from his belt, setting the timer and flipping it casually into the blood-spattered compartment. "Man's gotta be careful with these things," he muttered as he turned and leapt away, already zeroing in on a new target.

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Ulli Ulricksson was a man with something to prove, and as he descended towards his chosen target he got a brilliant idea.

The basilisk was of the type to feature an open crew compartment - not a wise choice, he reflected as he landed, casually killing the pair of crewmen that manned the thing by crushing their heads together.

The Space Wolf could not linger long. Despite the battle that was erupting he knew it would not take the Iron Warriors long to pick him off, and so he was quick to haul back on the vehicle's control lever. With a whine of gears the great barrel of the earthshaker cannon began to depress, slowly coming down from its angled position. The Space Wolf pulled another lever and the tracks of the vehicle came to life, turning slowly to bring the big gun into line with the battery of hydra tanks that perched along the citadel's defensive walls.

The crews there spotted what he was doing. Some of them began to scatter, while one or two began to swing around towards him.

"Too late," the skyclaw gloated as he pressed the firing button. How nice of the Iron Warriros to keep their artillery loaded and ready.

The basilisk spoke.

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Alexei Frostborn was watching the distant shape of Skaladom through the visor of his helm when the first explosion blossomed amongst its walls, bright red fire giving way to a cloud of thick black smoke that rose into the air to be joined by a second and third.

The Wolf Lord didn't waste time watching the display. With the first blast he'd already dropped to one knee, slamming his fist into the metal of his razorback.

"GO! GO, GO, GO, GO, GO!" the Wolf Lord bellowed.

The razorback flung up twin sheets of mud as its driver slammed his foot down on the accelerator, the vehicle lurching as it jumped like a kicked dog, tearing out from the line to begin its run towards Skaladom. All along the Imperial line other vehicles made similar accerations, chasing after the razorback in a massive rush towards the citadel.

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"Your orders, Warsmith?"

Lokastro's lip curled. It was strange, to feel such emotions well within him. Iron Warriors were not used to such things, and it was hard to put his finger upon precisely what he felt. He eventually settled upon disgust. Disgust with himself. He had erred badly, seeing the massed Imperial army and waiting for their inevitable charge, when in fact they had been a mere distraction while they slipped a blade into his side from the sea.

Now there was nothing for it. It was time to fight. Time to make the Imperials bleed.

"Man the inner walls," he commanded, his voice cold. "And kill the hostages."

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The first of the eight subs ran around at one of the few sandy portions of Skaladom's rocky peninsula. As it did so, the sharp-edged bow split open, steel panels spreading wide as the armored figures of space marines charged out, joined by more of their comrades as the other subs made landfall one by one. Their shoulderguards were decorated with slashes of red paint, indicating them to be blood claws, the young and reckless assault troops of the Space Wolves.

The great citadel loomed overhead, but it deterred the blood claws not at all as they charged up the steep slopes of broken rock. Amongst their number, the tawny-haired rune priest Jorvar Twinspirit studied the walls with wide eyes, his head twitching back and forth in near-spastic fashion. "There!" he suddenly cried out, throwing up a hand. "And there! Make a hole!"

The Fenrisians planted melta charges at the places the rune priest indicated, their blasts opening holes in the citadel's defensive walls. Before the molten steel had even cooled they were rushing forth into the breeches. The bowels of Skaladom had been opened.

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Fierce fighting erupted all along the citadel's walls as the Imperials' charge brought them right to Skaladom's doorstop. Initial projections had predicted heavy casualties in the efforts to carry the great central gate, but as the armored forces approached the great tower that held one-half of the thick steel barrier suddenly exploded, and the door listed inwards. A shot from a Leman Russ tank finished the job, knocking the massive steel plate backwards and sending it crashing to the ground with a thunderous boom.

The Wolf Lord's razorback was the first vehicle into the breech, its heavy bolter opening up as it passed through the open gate. Within, Skaladom was filled with fire and smoke, the burning wreckage of the Iron Warriors' artillery testifying to the skyclaws' devastating effectiveness. Fighting still raged, of course, and as the razorback tore through the outer court its driver spun the wheel, nearly throwing the Wolf Lord from the vehicle as he bore down upon an Iron Warrior locked in combat with one of the skyclaws.

The Wolf saw them coming and ignited his jump pack, leaping away just as the treads of the vehicle crushed the Iron Warrior beneath its weight. As the razorback passed over the gunner swung around and fired the heavy bolter into the prone body, just to be sure of the kill.

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Dorothy Ziebianki clenched her hands until it felt like her nails would break the skin. Her heart was hammering in her chest. The weapons fire in the corridors outside was unmistakable now. Whatever was happening out there sounded big.

"Maybe the Imperials have finally come," Klavinski said. The man had an ugly bruise on the side of his face where one of the occupation soldiers had struck him with the butt of his lasgun.

"Maybe they've finally decided to kill us all," moaned another man.

"Sh!" Dorothy shushed them both. It was useless to debate. The bars that held them enclosed left no opportunity to rush their captors or even to think about escape. Whatever fate held for them was in the hands of the God-Emperor. "Someone's coming." The door to the outer chamber swung open and a man in grey fatigues stepped inside. His lasgun was out and someone cried a denial as he began to raise it.

Then a blast of light took the man in the head and he toppled, sprawling there. The prisoners looked on in shock, some of them spattered with the man's blood as another figure rushed into the room, wearing the faded brown and gold bars of a militia officer, his lasgun still smoking. "Nobody make a sound!" he hissed.

"Bierwitze, is that you?" Kavinski stage-whispered excitedly. "They didn't get you!"

"Of course not, now shut up and listen," the officer replied, keeping the door covered with his gun as he spoke to them with only half his attention. "I'm sorry I can't let you out, but there will be relief forces behind me. We can't have you running in the halls while we're fighting, understand?"

"How, Bierwitze?" someone asked. "The invaders are so powerful they took Skaladom in a day, how can we fight them?"

The officer grinned. "The Angels are here."

---------------------------------

Torin's jump pack carried him all the way to the upper balconies of the inner keep. The Wolf's claws were out once more, and he made short work of the troops that the Iron Warriors had stationed out on the platform to monitor the battle. He killed all but the last, the long blades sliding back into their sheaths as he grabbed at the man's grey fatigues and shook him. "Where is he? Yer Warsmith? Where?" the Fenrisian demanded.

The man spat at him.

"Wrong answer," Torin growled, and with a jerk of his arm he sent the mortal flying from the balcony with a shocked scream. The skyclaw started to turn towards the entrance to the keep, but the murder of the balcony crew had attracted some attention, and Torin bolted as the roar of an autocannon opened up, shattering one window after another in succession as it tracked the sprinting Space Wolf.

It stepped out onto the balcony, a mountain of steel and flesh. It had been a space marine once, thousands of years ago, before the powers of Chaos got ahold of it and transformed it into something hideous. In place of arms sprouted massive, multibarreled weapons with little rhyme or reason to their arrangement, accompanied by savage blades.

"Hold still, puppy," the obliterator barked, its voice distorted by electronic resonance. It leveled one massive arm in Torin's direction, jerking backwards as it fired a missile at the fleeing skyclaw. Acting on instinct the Space Wolf dove forwards, empty air beneath him as he leapt from the balcony, grabbing at the safety bar as he went. His weight tore the railing from its fastenings and he swung out to the side as the missile went screaming off into the distance, its target lost.

Torin hit his jump pack and the engine roared to life, vaulting the Space Wolf back upwards. A blast of superheated air passed beneath him as a meltagun nearly took the legs out from his form, but the obliterator was a touch slow as Torin arced over him, claws extending once more as he flipped himself about to come down behind the massive creature, stabbing out . Both power claws struck home, and flesh burned and power sizzled as the long blades tore through the obliterator.

It wasn't enough, though, and the massive Chaos marine turned about, swinging one gigantic arm, a great axe blade lashing out in an attempt to decapitate the Wolf. Torin pulled his arms back just in time, his claws intersecting the path of the oncoming blade. The skyclaw's feet screeched across the metal decking as the obliterator's strength pushed him backwards.

"Hah. Look at you," the Chaos marine said with a toothy grin. "Look more like a Raven than a Wolf."

"Ca-caw," Torin replied in a deadpan voice, lashing out with one claw.

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The fighting in the halls of Skaladom was fierce as the Iron Warriors rallied their strength to defend the central keep. Alexei Frostborn led the charge himself, his prize bolter out and booming as he and his veterans met the traitors blow for blow.

A Space Wolf was plucked from his feet by an Iron Warrior with a pair of servo arms mounted to his armor, howling as the Chaos marine's implacable limbs squeezed and snapped the arms from him. Thoran Alfkael the wolf priest charged into the fray to aid the crippled warrior, his great maul smashing into the Iron Warrior's head and knocking the traitor from his feet.

One of the long fangs leveled his lascannon at the foe only to be knocked aside as a massive terminator squad charged into the fray. A fierce and lethal brawl erupted, blood and scraps of metal flying as heavy weaponry was unleashed at close range to combat the terminators' strength.

"Make for the central hall!" Alexei roared.

"Slay the weaklings!" another voice bellowed over that of the Wolf Lord. From the central keep a new force joined the battle, a handful of towering Iron Warriors bearing ornate armor and great swords.

"Chosen!" someone called out in warning.

The word seemed to attract the attention of the group's leader, who rasied his arms as if in exaltation. "Many are called!" he boomed, "but few are Chosen!"

Out of the corner of his eye Alexei saw the nose of Erik's missile launcher as the long fang stepped forward and fired. The missile leapt across the battlefield and exploded against the champion's breastplate with an ear-piercing blast. As the smoke cleared, little was left but the warrior's greaves, blackened and smoking.

"You shoulda hung up," Erik growled.

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Beneath the ground level of Skaladom the battle to free the prisoners raged. As expected, a portion of the occupying force had descended into the holding areas to exterminate the men and women held captive there, but the Space Wolves' daring seaborne raid had caught them in the very first stages of the process. The elements of the Katowice planetary milita that had made the deep levels of Skaladom their primary target fought the Iron Warriors' servant troops tooth and nail, while the blood claws fought the traitor marines themselves.

Jorvar Twinspirit was supposed to be the closest thing the detachment had to a commander, but the spastic rune priest was in a full battle frenzy, fighting in close combat with his bearded axe and howling fit to raise the dead. Fortunately the more level-headed sergeants had anticipated as much and worked to keep some manner of organization to the battle, but even they found themselves all but sprinting to keep up with the trail of carnage the rune priest was leaving in his wake.

A knot of Iron Warriors attempted to hold the lifts to the ground level, bolters roaring as they laid down suppressive fire, but Jorvar simply ran through it as if it were nothing more consequential than a spring rain, splitting one traitor marine's skill in two with an overhanded blow.

"Iron within!" the commander of the subterranean forces snarled.

Jorvar flung out his hand, swinging his tawny mane about with a roll of his head and suddenly the Chaos marine was wreathed in crackling lightning, flesh roasting as if in a pressure cooker.

"Just makes you a fine lightning rod!" the rune priest screeched.

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The blade of the obliterator bit through steel decking and metal groaned as the Iron Warrior wrenched it free. By now the Chaos marine had been scored by a number of blade-strikes by the skyclaw, but the towering behemoth seemed no close to falling now than it had been when Torin had first laid eyes upon it. His patience running out the Wolf snarled "fall down, damn ye!"

"You first, little lost Raven," the Iron Warrior replied, swinging its other arm and the roaring chainsword mounted upon it. Torin threw out a hand to parry the blow, but without warning a spark lit and a tongue of fire erupted from a flamer weapon. Torin hit his jump pack's controls out of instinct, leaping above the superheated flame. A low-fuel warning sounded and he grimaced.

"Bloody hell, enough of this," the skyclaw growled to himself. The blades of the Shadowclaw retracted and the Space Wolf reached to his belt, withdrawing another of his melta charges with a snap of metal. "No," he said aloud as he felt back down towards the obliterator. "Ye first!" With that he slammed the melta charge him at the massive creature's shoulder, affixing it just beside its head. A moment later he leapt away, even as the obliterator vanished in a ball of white-hot fire. Ammunition began to cook off and the skyclaw was thrown backwards by the blast, his armor screeching as he slid across the balcony, thudding to a stop against the torn railing.

"Nevermore," he grunted as he worked to catch his breath. By Russ, everything hurt.

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As the Wolves pressed against the central keep and the lower halls, the fury of the Carcharodons was unleashed upon the inner walls. Here the majority of the Iron Warriors' strength had been gathered as they reacted to the Wolves' sudden aerial attack and the fighting was some of the fiercest that the battle-hardened veterans had seen since the bloody days of the Badab War. Chainswords roared, flesh tore and metal screamed until the hallways ran red with a crimson flood.

An Iron Warrior lay upon his back, his arm blown away and great holes shot through his torso. As he clung to life, his remaining arm clamped around his wound, he mustered the strength to spit one last epithet at his killers- "death...to the false Emp-"

Captain Isurus slammed an armored boot down on the Iron Warrior and blew apart his skull with a precision shot from his bolt pistol. "Enough of the catchphrases," he snarled.

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Alexei Frostborn was the first into the throne room, and the Wolf Lord stopped short as he found himself looking down the barrel of Warsmith Lokastro's bolter. The Warsmith stood before the ancestral throne of Katowice, his weapon held out in one hand as he kept his flank to the door, the better to present a more narrow profile.

The two commanders stared one another down for a long moment, neither speaking. Then Alexei straightened, his gaze never wavering from the Iron Warrior as he gently tossed his own smoking bolter to the floor. The thing was empty, anyway. As Lokastro watched he reached up with his left hand, taking hold the great sword that protruded over his shoulder and drawing it with a ringing sound of steel. The rune-marked blade responded to its master's touch, a soft hum growing in the air as the teeth began to spin, a chill aura developing as a blue glow formed around the weapon.

Alexei stepped forward in challenge, lifting the frostblade to ready it with both hands. Lokastro stared him down for another long moment. He could shoot the Wolf Lord, he reasoned, but as the armored forms of other Space Wolves followed Alexei into the chamber he began to reconsider. He could still possibly deprive the Wovles of their leader, but he would inevitably be shot to death the moment he pulled the trigger - an ignoble end either way.

Warsmith Lokastro of Olympia lowered his gun, casting it aside as he reached to his hip and drew his own leaf-bladed power sword, igniting it with a hiss and a glow of crimson energy.

The Space Wolf nodded as the Iron Warrior stepped down from the throne's plinth, setting himself to meet his challenger. "For Russ and the Allfather!" he roared, his voice filling the chamber as he came charging forward.

"Iron within, iron without!" Lokastro matched him.

The two slammed together with a scream of energy, pushing against one another with all their might. Lokastro won the match, shunting Alexei aside and putting the Space Wolf on his back foot as he battered at him. The exchange was fast and brutal, the energised weapons spitting and sparking every time they met.

The Wolf Lord's weapon was a great claymore, while Lokastro's weapon was more a bastard sword, giving the Iron Warrior speed against Alexei's reach. The two armored fighters swung and weaved and even leapt as if they wore not a scrap of metal upon them, their blades meeting twice and sometimes three times a second. It was an impressive, even beautiful display as the shimmering blades danced about.

Despite the skill and savagery of the fight it went on, and on, neither fighter able to strike the killing blow. A nick was put into Alexei's breastplate, while a chip was taken out of Lokastro's shoulder guard - near misses that warned of the power held within those humming weapons.

And then, of a moment, they were all but still once more as they fell a step apart, staring down one another once more. After the arc and screech of energy the near-silence was almost deafening. "Alexei!" one of the Wolves began to cheer.

"Shut up!" the Wolf Lord snarled without taking his gaze from the Chaos marine. His shoulders rocked slightly with his effort to breathe - the last thing he needed now was some damn chant distracting him. He moved forward a step and Lokastro calmly dropped back an equivalent distance. The Space Wolf altered his grip on the frostblade, pushing at the pommel with one hand and swinging it in a slow loop, beginning to weave the weapon through a hypnotic infinity circuit. Lokastro watched calmly, his own blade weaving subtle circles in the air.

Then the two suddenly clashed once more, their blades meeting near the hilt as they pushed against one another. This time it was Alexei who forced Lokastro to drop back, the Fenrisian coming after his opponent with all the savage ferocity for which his people were famed. The great frostblade battered at Lokastro's guard time and again, merciless overhead strikes that would cleave a man in half if they had hit home.

The two blades met and Lokastro worked his power sword in a circle, attempting to jerk the frostblade from Alexei's hands. The Wolf Lord moved against him, sparks sputtering in a frantic pattern as the two weapons swung about. With a roar the Iron Warrior shoved with all his might and the weight of the claymore was pushed to one side, staggering the Fenrisian. Taking his blade in a powerful two-handed grip Lokastro chopped out, seeking to cleave through the vulnerable point between his opponent's shoulder and his helm.

But Alexei Frostborn hadn't stopped spinning. In defiance of human instinct he turned on his heel, losing sight of his opponent as he ducked his head, tightening the muscles of his left arm as he pulled his frostblade into a tight arc. The maneuver took Alexei out of Lokastro's line of attack and the frostblade came up beneath the Warsmith's descending blade, slicing through armor, flesh and bone without pause, leaving behind it a patina of frost in a diagonal line across the Iron Warrior's chest and back as the chill power of the blade was unleashed.

Lokastro was stilled for a long moment, as if the understanding of his defeat had not yet occurred to him. Then, with a sound like a release of breath he crumpled forward, falling first onto one knee and then sprawling on the ground, his power blade deactivating as it slipped form his hand to clatter on the flagstones.

The Wolves raised a mighty cheer, and this time Alexei didn't stop them.

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The hours following the retaking of Skaladom were busy indeed. Reinforcements poured in, as did relief efforts. Priests and sanctioned psykers went to work cleansing the taint of Chaos - both real and percieved - from the ancient citadel. The throne room was once more the seat of power for the Imperial forces, though for the moment that power remained an offworld one as the Space Wolves managed the mopping up.

But that would soon change, and Katowice would be given back to her own people, something Alexei Frostborn intended to oversee himself. "I understand yer the closest relative to the old ruling family that yet lives," he was saying.

"That is correct, milord," replied Major Bierwitze. The milita officer's face was blackened from smoke and a cut on his cheek had been cleaned dressed - from a fall, he informed the Wolf Lord, a stupid fall that any fool might take during the course of a day.

"Ye just tell 'em first ye got it on the liberation day," the Fenrisian had replied with a fanged grin. "Then when ye tell 'em about the fall they'll think it the most heroic one ever." He reached out to touch the man's shoulder. "Yer gonna have a great bloody weight on yer shoulders now, lad. Ye think yer up t'it?"

"I hope so," the man replied with a wan smile. "I'll look quite poor in comparison after you've done most of the work getting me there."

Alexei Frostborn laughed once. "Aye, lad, but ye came along with us, brave as any Fenrisian son," he said. "I think ye've got what it takes."

Bierwitze's smile was replaced by a sobered expression and he nodded. "Thank you, lord."

A figure approached and Alexei turned to see the familiar features of Erik Icehold. The long fang's helm was clipped to his belt, his heavy missile launcher strapped in the carrying position. "Word on the captives," he said.

"Let's hear it," Alexei replied as both he and the major-cum-governor turned to face him.

"Ten thousand killed by the traitors," the long fang reported, his face grim. "Roughly twice that dead from the conditions they kept 'em in."

"Thirty thousand," Bierwitze murmured, drawing the attention of both the Wolves. "Still, that is a damn sight better than five hundred thousand. Will the survivors recover?"

"Aye, they ought," Erik replied.

The man nodded. "Good, then," he said softly. "Still," he said, managing a slight smile, "I'll have to start searching for replacements. I can well imagine few of them will want to staff Skaladom after this."

"Some of 'em may surprise ye yet, lad," Alexei said. But his sentiment was interrupted as Bierwitze turned to look past him, gesturing for the Wolf Lord to turn around. He did so and found standing at the entrance to the great hall a familiar figure in dark grey armor.

Captain Isurus reached up to remove his helm, his angular face still set in a frown as if he'd held the expression all through the night and the following battle. "Alexei Frostborn," he called out, and the sinister voice brought activity in the throne room to a halt.

"Captain Isurus," he replied, turning to face the Carcharodon more fully.

The Space Shark's jaw worked silently once more. "We do not see eye to eye in some ways," he said slowly. "Though we are both Adeptus Astartes, our chapters are of different natures."

He was building up to something, and so rather than a pithy reply Alexei simply prompted, "aye?"

Isurus was silent for another moment. "I accused you of cowardice in the face of the Archenemy. I accused you of shying from what needed to be done, when I myself was so eager to come to grips with our foe that I did not stop to consider alternative solutions as you did. I would have won the day," he said firmly, perhaps attempting to salvage some measure of pride, "but I would have spent many Imperial lives in doing so." The Carcharodon captain drew himself and squared his shoulders. "I have disgraced myself, and my chapter," he said, dark eyes boring into the Wolf Lord's own.

Alexei did not answer immediately, but rather stepped forward, crossing the distance between himself and his opposite number until they stood face to face. Once more he held the Shark's gaze, and some of those present thought he might strike the other Astartes. But then he spoke.

"Ye have."

The words were chill in the quiet of the throne room. Isurus' jaw tightened at the pronouncement, but Alexei held up a hand to forestall reply. He reached out towards the Carcharodon, his hand closing around the grip of Isurus' power sword and pulling it from the sheath with a rasp of metal. Isurus tensed, but at glance from Alexei he subsided and allowed the Space Wolf to take his weapon.

"The sons of Guilliman," Alexei said as he turned away, loud enough for all to hear as he slowly began to pace back down the length of the throne room, "have a phrase they like to bandy about. 'Noblesse oblige.' Effete words," he said, his tone momentarily mocking, "but a fine idea. It means any man that claims to be of noble blood must act nobly, or he is not deserving of the title."

Alexei spared a glance for the major, just long enough for it to register before he looked away. "The Adeptus Astartes are the most elite warriors to be found anywhere in the Imperium," he went on. "We are given many fine gifts that push us well above the realm of mortal man. Longevity, strength, quickness of mind, endurance of body, weapons and armor of quality men scarcely dare imagine. In return we are expected to perform the most demanding missions, the most dangerous operations, the kind of lives that would surely slay a lesser man hundreds of times over."

He stopped close to the great throne of Katowice and turned back to face the room. "The Emperor created us to be his finest warriors, to protect the stability of the Imperium and to vouchsafe all humanity against any threat the galaxy could muster, xenos...or domestic. Sometimes, it is true, that necessitates a grim sacrifice," he said with a nod towards Isurus. "But we are the space marines. As we are given the greatest gifts, so too are we expected to meet the most stringent standards. It is not enough that we destroy the enemy!" he suddenly barked. "When it is also our charge to protect the men and women of our race...for without them, the Imperium cannot endure."

The Space Wolf lifted the Carcharodon's sword, studying it. It was a fat-bladed weapon as logn as a standard chainsword, the Damascus steel forming a faint watery pattern along the face of it. The hilt had a steel guard, spiked for punching, the wicked metal still bearing hints of blood upon it. "This is a fine blade, Captain Isurus," he said. Without further explanation he turned and leaned the flat of the sword against the top corner of the throne of Katowice. Then the Space Wolf's armored fist crashed down upon it, snapping the steel blade two-thirds down the length.

There was a gasp of breath from throughout the room as the blade broke. Alexei pinched the broken fragment in his empty hand and turned to make his way back over to Isurus. The Carcharodon watched him with an expression more curious than angry, and as Alexei held out the ruined blade to him he reached out to take it. "Reforge it," the Wolf Lord said. "When ye think yerself worthy of it again."

Isurus quietly took the blade fragment from Alexei's hand, studying it for a moment. "Why do you trust that I will do so?" he questioned softly.

"That ye came here and admitted yer error before the Allfather and everyone is all I need," the Wolf Lord replied. "Yer not a man without honor, Isurus," he said, reaching out to lightly slap the Carcharodon's shoulderguard in salute. "Just remember it."

Isurus slid the broken blade back into its sheath. "I'd heard you Fenrisians were an odd sort," he said. He did not quite smile, but there was, perhaps, a brief lessening of his scowl.

"Ye heard right," Alexei Frostborn said with a grin.

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Evening was falling over Skaladom as the Wolf Lord shared a measure of good Fenrisian ale with few chosen comrades, a ritual in which they partook to reward the heroes of the day. Amongst them, Jorvar Twinspirit was present, his humors calmed in the wake of the battle. Erik Icehold was as well, as was the wolf priest Thoran Alfkael with his great maul. The skyclaws Torin, Gunnar, and Ulli attended, the latter for the first time.

Together they toasted their victory and the memory of the fallen, drinking deep.

"Ye know," Torin said aloud, pointing a finger at Alexei. With his beaked helm clipped to his belt to reveal his russet hair and ruddy features, the Fenrisian looked far more human. "I was hopin' to get the Warsmith myself."

Alexei reached out and smacked the back of Torin's head, mussing his namesake mane as the others laughed. "Ye got an obliterator, didn't ye?" the Wolf Lord chastised him. "Quit whinin'."

I'm pretty sure writing Space Wolves as anything but frothing at the mouth drunken savages is against GW policy. Good stuff, write more.

I take my Wolves as written by William King: bro-tier space vikings with an old-school honor code, a Valhalla complex, a flavoring of berserker rage and a hint of lycanthropy.

Eh....not really feeling the chapter characterization here. The Wolves...I'll be honest, I'm biased against them, because they're overdone tripe 95% of the time, but the Sharks are like...the definition of lateral thinking and surprise attacks. Sure, they're all about collateral damage; that part ran true, but 'no, frontal attack NOW!' is...very, very off for them.

And let's be honest, the Wolves are not known for subtlety. Or personal grooming. Or fucks given about collateral damage. Or discriminating target selection. Their capacities for brute-force violence and self-deception are impressive enough to make it in the traitor legions, however.

Well-written nonetheless, but it didn't ring true to me.

White Haven, that's the Wolves as seen through the old (biased) view of Vikings. Even in just the last few decades we've discovered that the Vikings were more than bloody-minded filthy savage barbarians. They fussed with their hair like women, they enjoyed dressing in fine clothing, they were literate in their own way via their Skalds and epics, and they were as likely to be merchants as raiders. So I like Kuja and King's ideas of how to write them

White Haven wrote:Eh....not really feeling the chapter characterization here. The Wolves...I'll be honest, I'm biased against them, because they're overdone tripe 95% of the time, but the Sharks are like...the definition of lateral thinking and surprise attacks. Sure, they're all about collateral damage; that part ran true, but 'no, frontal attack NOW!' is...very, very off for them.

I debated for a long time about which chapter I wanted to use as the Wolves' counterpoint. For a long time I considered the Excoriators, as a very hard-edged chapter that's also a member of the Adeptus Praeses (so they would be in the area of the eye of terror).

I decided on the Sharks becaise of their predilection for incredible brutality. These are the guys who, during the Badab War butchered civilian populations just for the purpose of goading the Mantis Warriors into a fight. Take a chapter like that, put them in a situation where they have a clear tactical advantage (although guaranteed casualties) with the added pressure of a ticking clock (putting Cadia under siege) and they'll look to just stomp the problem as quickly as possible and move on to the more important issue.

Also because I really wanted to make that joke.

And let's be honest, the Wolves are not known for subtlety. Or personal grooming. Or fucks given about collateral damage. Or discriminating target selection. Their capacities for brute-force violence and self-deception are impressive enough to make it in the traitor legions, however.

Okay...no. Just stop. The chapter you're describing here isn't the Wolves. At least, not the Wolves of M41. It's true the the Heresy-era Wolves have been painted as utter rampaging dicks with a heavy dose of extreme hypocracy, but the differences between the Wolves in 'Prospero Burns' and the ones in, say, 'Ragnar's Claw' are as different as night and day.

The M41 Wolves are goddamned serious about their code of honor - Logan Grimnar went toe-to-toe with the Inquisition over the mandated mass-sterilization and executions of soldiers in the aftermath of the First Amaggeddon War and dragged them to the brink of a civil war over it.

Hell, a quote from Leman Russ even goes as follows- "You strive for victory. That is obvious. What may be less obvious is the nature of victory. There are circumstances in which you can destroy the enemy utterly, without loss to your own forces, and yet the victory may be his. In all situations, you must first decide on the nature of victory, and then take steps to secure it. Avoid the instinct of fight first and think later."

Of course, this was before some of the more recent material started seeming interested in just shitting all over the loyalist forces and ripping out their good points while the traitors started all getting reimagined as misunderstood speshul snowflayks. I guess it's more GRIMDARKFUL that way or something, at least James Swallow's kept the Blood Angels badass. Prospero Burns was execrable and my first impressions of Angel Exterminatus and Betrayer have not been favorable.

I suppose I'll grant you the modern Wolves; I haven't read them very much just because I find them such an incredibly annoying chapter. As for the Sharks...this is the chapter that destroyed a planet by infiltration and sabotage. Yes, they're all about massive brutality and collateral damage, but they're also very definitively not about massive full frontal assaults and heavy casualties. It's a good piece, just with some chapter choices I wouldn't have made in your place.

White Haven wrote:I suppose I'll grant you the modern Wolves; I haven't read them very much just because I find them such an incredibly annoying chapter. As for the Sharks...this is the chapter that destroyed a planet by infiltration and sabotage. Yes, they're all about massive brutality and collateral damage, but they're also very definitively not about massive full frontal assaults and heavy casualties. It's a good piece, just with some chapter choices I wouldn't have made in your place.

I don't know. Somehow, that just makes it even BETTER.

The captain dishonor is doubled when he fails to consider tactics the rest of his chapter would have used, and of course, the joke about sharks becomes even doubly ironic if the Sharks aren't above infiltration and sabotage.