StarDestroyer.Net BBS

This is somewhat of a prequel to Heretic's Redemption. The Dreadnought Mattathias-- I pondered, what was his life like before he got sarcy'd?

Here are the results...

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It begins…

The sun shines bright above, and reflects off the fresh-sown spatters of sanguine red. My blade rises once again, and with a swift chop another greenskin falls. They clog my feet, the fetor of their bodies rising worse as the day warms. My muscles ache under the reinforced ceramite and electronic sinews of my armour; yet I lift my axe once again, and dispatch yet another ork as it charges at me, gibbering with its barbaric tongue.

They have been attacking me since I stepped out of the ruins of Fort Seventeen; they will continue attacking till I am dead, or they all fall before my blade. I will prevail, I will survive… with another blow of my axe, another greenskin falls. A bellow resounds nearby, and the rank and file fall back as a larger ork, wearing rough armour, charges at me.

I shout the Legion’s war-cry—“Lupercal!”—as I strike. The greenskin falls, bisected from shoulder to hip, its axe’s saw-teeth chattering to a halt. Holding my axe at the ready, I shift my feet upon the corpses beneath and look about, waiting for the next attack. They dare not advance further; I have cowed them… for now.

Sunlight shatters upon my silver fist at the butt of the axe-haft; I remember Bran Redmaw, the Wolf-Guard…

It was my first assignment as a young Lieutenant of the Luna Wolves. Commanding two squads, I was sent forth to support a Space Wolf detachment in their attack on the space hulk that had fallen upon the agri-world Demeter. We attacked it; many fell against the new xenos menace, the chitinious-bodied, razor-clawed genestealers. They hissed at us from the shadows… we responded not with our voices, but with bolter fire.

By the very skin of our teeth we escaped that hulk; leaping from the pinnacle of the wrecked starship upon the Stormbird transports, as Lord Russ’s new, bright Thunderhawk strafed the attacking genestealers, the harsh roar of its battle cannon loud against the blue sky. Bran was last to board, gripping his axe Orkbane in his silver gauntlet as he bellowed a malediction in his native Avallonian tongue at the xenos. His massive Terminator armour slowing him down, he still managed to struggle upright without assistance, to salute his Primarch as the Thunderhawk soared upward towards the Fafnir and Wotan.

Aboard Fafnir we made plans for another assault. Leman Russ’s yellow eyes rested intently upon me as I spoke. Assent was given, and as the sun swept up above the planet, our Stormbirds swept down once again. Battle was met; and we swept the genestealers before us, Bran’s silver fist shimmering in the harsh light of our bolter fire.

Yet they were too many, and we had to withdraw. Each one of us wounded, we dragged our dead along; for we would not leave them to be defiled. Bran stood before us, holding off the genestealers as they thronged the corridors, snarling and hissing, their claws clicking. His axe shone bright with the power running through it, and swept through them as though it was pure blue fire. When his stormbolter ran out of ammunition, he flung it into the press and simply began hacking, confident in the weight of his Terminator suit, and that Lord Russ would come.

The Thunderhawk hovered before the airlock, and we struggled aboard; I called out to Bran, and asked him to board, for we were going to destroy the hulk. He looked directly at me, and quietly said, “Mattathias, go. It is time for the Redmaw to meet Dagda, and I would that I am the only one there before him. My lord Russ, go and do what we spoke of!”

Leman Russ’s face was tense, but he nodded, and pressed the rune for the intervox and gave the command to ascend to the spire of the hulk. We shifted back, and soared upward. On our commbeads, we heard Bran begin chanting…

“I am Bran Redmaw, Wolf-Guard!
“I am Bran, Llaw Eraint, Silver Hand of Ynys Prydeinn!
“I am Bran, Elf-Slayer, Killer of the Dark Ones!
“I am Bran of Avallonne, a Lord of Ynys Sci, and I fight for honour!
“I am Bran, thrall of Leman Russ, son of the Emperor of Man!
“I am Bran, and I go before the great god Dagda with my soul cleansed!
“Llaw Eraint! Llaw Eraint! For Prydeinn and Russ!”

The commbead inside my ear went silent as the chittering of claws closed in. The beacon was fired into a cavern at the very top of the hulk, and our engines snarled as we spun about and roared downward to the airlock.

We leveled out, and the twin-linked bolters upon our sponsons bellowed as they fired upon the seething knot of genestealers before us. Uncaring for his safety, the Primarch leaped from the Thunderhawk’s ramp and charged forth, with myself behind him. We strained, lifted the massive hulk of Bran’s body in its armour, and struggled forward as the chittering of claws sounded behind us… Other Wolves leaped out from the Thunderhawk and helped us, and the transport spun in midair and jetted away once we had Bran aboard.

Behind us, the sky flashed, turning everything into shades of golden white and black for a moment; and then a column of incandescent flame vibrated, descending from the very sky to lance deep into the hulk’s body. A second matched it, and a third; with a deep, subsonic rumble, a fireball erupted upward slowly, spreading to consume the infestation utterly.

Bran struggled in our arms; blood covered his face and flowed from his mouth as he looked upward at Russ, and whispered something I could only make out as Fenrisian; the Primarch’s face tightened with grief and nodded, as Bran feebly reached out to me. With a twist and click, his gauntlet, silver engraved with ornate knotwork and spirals, fell from his hand into my armoured lap.

He motioned me closer with his bare hand; I leaned in to hear him whisper, “Mattathias… I name you… Llaw Eraint, Silver Hand. Fight… for honour. Fight… for your Primarch… and those… you love. You… will be… great one day…”

We built a massive barrow from the smouldering remains of the hulk. Within it, we laid to rest Bran Redmaw and the other Space Wolves. When I assented, they also placed the fallen Luna Wolves within, to rest with their battle-brothers. Lord Russ stood aside, silent in thought as the wind blew his fur cloak as the rune-priest chanted their feats and committed their souls to the gods of Fenris; for Bran Redmaw, I silently added, he would rest in the Dagda Samilach’s mead-hall until Ragnaroc.

As I clenched my fist, newly clothed in silver, Harald Bloodstorm, one of the Space Wolves, whispered into my ear, “Lord Russ vants you, Matti. Best go now, ja?”

We stepped up the ashy knoll; with a wave of his hand, the Primarch dismissed Harald, leaving me alone with him. He stood silent, leaning upon a massive power-axe that I recognized as Bran’s Orkbane, gazing upon the barrow with unseeing eyes. Eventually, he turned to me and in his Fenrisian-accented deep voice said quietly, “Lieutenant Istheyanu? Bran made me a last request. For your accomplishments, for fighting as you did beside your battle-brothers of another Legion, he wished you made a Wolf-Guard.”

I bowed my head and looked at my silver gauntlet; unclasping it, I held it out. “I do not deserve this honour, my lord. I have lost half my men, and we were unable to cleanse the hulk. Bran and the Blood Claws, Sergeant K’baoth and twelve of my Luna Wolves all dead… that is no honour. Take it, and name another more worthy Silver Hand. I will go back to my Luna Wolves to take what reprimands shall come of this.”

He looked at me with his yellow wolf’s eyes, piercing me through. Shaking his head, he took the gauntlet, gripped my wrist and slid it back upon my hand. As it clicked into place, he told me, “I have reviewed the pict-record that I was able to retrieve from the auspexes in Bran’s armour. You fought well, Lieutenant, and led your men as best as you were able. This was a new xenos menace which we had never faced before, but you came out of it shining.

“We all lost battle-brothers, Mattathias, but they went with honour, and we remember them. And we fight that no more shall die. We fight for life, and I would that you remember this. Be what Bran wanted you to be, Mattathias. Be the Silver Hand, a light in the darkness that is our galaxy.”

My gauntlet shines still, and as I strike once more with Orkbane, I bellow the name of the man, the fellow Astartes, the Space Marine that gave me this name, Bran Redmaw. I am Mattathias Istheyanu, Llaw Eraint, Silver Hand.

“For Bran Redmaw! The day shall come again!”

Aww shucks. I can't get enough of Matthias. He was such a man.

chills and shivers...

this is some great writing, keep it up!

Part Two proceeds...

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The battle pauses; it is high noon. Green corpses lay scattered before the walls of the fortress; inside, more green bodies, and those in the uniform of Lepidoptera IV’s militia. Power-armoured Astartes, their colours the same as mine, lay where they fell—the last men of my squads.

I stand in the breach, atop greenskin bodies, Orkbane hissing still in my grasp. I taste the iron of blood flowing from a cut in my brow, from slipping in a blood slick at the wrong moment. I am splattered thoroughly, but so far this is the only injury I have received. I hope there will be no more…

I think of my world. Iskandar, in Anatolus, near Cthonia. A quiet agri-world not unlike Demeter, in the fief of the local Cthonian star-empire that was built during the Age of Strife before the Great Crusade discovered the Primarch, before the Emperor found his son once more. But the greenskin came. Seeing a fruitful world before them, they attacked, uncaring of the nearness of the Imperium’s fleets. I was in the defence lines—I saw my brothers, my father, my uncles, and my cousins fall. It came down to myself, but a boy then, and a small group of militia, holding the last bastion of our battle line as the orks flooded about us. They closed in; and then the drop-pods impacted. Astartes of the Dark Angels Chapter flooded out, as did the first Luna Wolves. Before the week was out, they had swept the continent clean; before the month was done, the planet.

And the Warmaster descended unto Iskandar. He wished to meet the last defenders of the world. I was brought before him, and he held out his hand, offering me the honour of the Legiones Astartes. I accepted, and I became a battle-brother of the Luna Wolves.

A small group of orks bellow suddenly and charge forward, breaking from their lines facing me. I lift Orkbane, and my body twists as I swing, hacking through them with broad strokes of the axe. I feel hot blood upon my face, but I care not whether it is mine or theirs. Korai…

Oh, Korai… Korai ar-Gaidiar, the master of the Indefatigable, my ship’s commander… A true lady, a redoubtable woman who had mastered adversity and defeated the forces set against her. Beautiful, only needing a minimum of rejuvenat work as she aged. She had been married to the previous commander of the Indefatigable; he perished in battle against eldar pirates, and she took command of the ship at that moment. It was highly irregular and an utter breach of the chain of command—but she succeeded, and defeated the pirates.

They returned in triumph, and she turned herself over to the Imperial Admiralty for judgement. She, a civilian, had usurped command of a destroyer of the Emperor of Man’s Fleet, and for that there would be consequences.

Sentenced to the Naval Academy on Byblos, she studied, passed, and graduated second in her class of 43,528. Her eldest son, Ihvon, graduated this past year, I recall vividly—I attended in person, escorting Korai. She was so proud…

She reassumed command of the Indefatigable a few decades ago, and the crew welcomed her. Though it was highly irregular, she brought her children aboard. As she told me, “Mattathias, they’re not going to be without a mother if I can help it. And they need a father…”

Ihvon… Alambric… Ellisanda… Arianrhod… Winda… and little Ebenezer. It was not permitted—but I did what I could. If it had been found out, I would have suffered harsh penalties. But the children needed a father… I am Astartes; I cannot have children. But Korai…

O Korai, my captain, my lady! Why, why did I not listen to you?

My thoughts flash back to when I was last with them—was it only the past week? It seems so long ago…

Entering her quarters. Ebenezer looks up from his bound book, and smiles at me. Winda and Ellisanda look out from the kitchen area, and wave a welcome at me as I seat myself, carefully arranging my undress robes as I pet Greebo the felinoid. Miserable creature, but I can’t fault Korai’s affections for the beast—it managed to survive that fight with the eldar all those decades ago. I made small talk with Ebenezer; his studies were going well. He was considering putting in an application for Thracian Primaris’ xenoarchenon academy; that reminded me. I gave him the rune-collar that I had taken from an eldar, when they attacked the ship a few months ago and boarded. He was happy; the eldar are one of his favorites for studying…

I had dinner with Korai and her family. Ellisanda and Winda outdid themselves; and Arianrhod’s latest project was the centerpiece, a fascinatingly abstract carving in soft alabaster of the Imperial eagle. We laughed, we shared stories, many told before but none the less enjoyable for it. Korai shared the latest mail from Alambric; he is a tech-priest of the Mechanicus, stationed upon Gryphonne IV. He sent blessings from the Ominissiah, and a machine-codex for myself so I could learn how to operate the new model cogitators.

My face tightens; but I hold upon myself. I cannot allow myself to be distracted, for that is death. A cloud passes over the sun, and they charge once more. Leaping down, my blade swings high, and in an arch of blue fire they perish before me…

That is an interesting thought: An Astartes as a foster father.

Great job so far. I love it.
But honestly.. couldn't you have come up with something better than "Greebo" for the felinoid? Or did he live up (down?) to the name in the fight against the Eldar?

LadyTevar wrote:That is an interesting thought: An Astartes as a foster father.

Great job so far. I love it.
But honestly.. couldn't you have come up with something better than "Greebo" for the felinoid? Or did he live up (down?) to the name in the fight against the Eldar?

-grins- that's a tale that might have to wait for another time...

One eye, one ear, ragged mangy fur... and he's just a 'big softy'?

Until YOU got hold of him, that is (spoiler: Wintersmith)

LadyTevar wrote:One eye, one ear, ragged mangy fur... and he's just a 'big softy'?

Until YOU got hold of him, that is (spoiler: Wintersmith)

Indeed. I still haven't read that one but then there's a lot of Pterry I haven't read.

Interested in feedback on how he relates to his foster-family, though... and plausibility thereof as well...

"New fangled cogitators!"

Personally, I think it's reasonable. What are the Astartes if not the protectors of humanity?

Part Three below. Curse the Writer's Guild for the lateness in coming!

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The shadows are long. Night is coming, but the greenskins mill about yet, undaunted by the piles of their brethren about my feet. I tire. They see my arms droop, the axe lowers. Red eyes watch me, waiting, their reptilian gaze unblinking.

Behind me! Rocks falling—spin and raise my axe—and an arm of steel clamps about my neck, hot breath upon the side of my face as I stumble backwards from the sudden weight—

And I remember the time I encountered another who seized me thusly…

The Indefatigable, escorting the Fafnir and Wotan, rendezvoused with the Nostromo, Lord Curze of the Night Lords’ flagship. It had just pacified a system, brought it into the Emperor’s Light. But whispers ran about the ship, of just how the worlds had been pacified. Tremulous voices muttering of flaying alive, of people simply vanishing and then being found mutilated horrifically… True? Or simply overactive imaginations at work?

For my part I sternly refused to comment; the Night Lords’ methods were their own, and it was none of our business, as long as the worlds were brought into the beneficent embrace of the Imperium of Man. Yet there remained that niggle in the back of my mind, and I could feel the tension in the air as long as the Nostromo kept company with us.

A few evenings in our voyage, when we were in realspace together for periodic resupply stops or to inspect our conquests, Primarch Russ would invite myself and Korai to dinner aboard the Wotan along with the other captains and Space Marine officers; one night he invited Lord Curze as well. The meal was awkward that evening, Curze looming over the table in his midnight-blue and golden armour as his brother Russ tried to keep the conversation going on. His attempts ineffectual, Russ eventually dismissed us.

Late one night after that formal dinner, I was in the Indefatigable’s strategium, discussing the details of our next route when Njarl, one of Lord Russ’s Wolves, approached and plucked my elbow. He whispered, “Lieutenant? The Wolf wishes you to attend upon him immediately.”

“Now? Njarl, this is not a good time. If I can be of assistance at another time—“

“Now, Lieutenant Istheyanu.” And he held up Leman Russ’s personal seal. I had no choice.

The Stormbird took but a few minutes to land upon the Fafnir; I was met at the hatch by Lord Russ himself, clad in his armour and draped in a mighty wolf’s fur cloak. He jerked his head at the Marines guarding him, and they melted into the shadows; alone, we strode back towards his personal quarters.

Pausing at the door, he broke his silence and looked at me, brow furrowed, and asked quietly, “Lieutenant… do you have a family?”

Korai? Did he know…? I decided to be cautiously truthful. “In a sense. Why do you inquire, my lord?”

Clearing his throat and leaning his head against the wooden panels of the entrance door, he sighed and muttered, “Once on Fenris, when I was a child with the wolf-pack, I saw a brood of cubs. The mother had died early, leaving the father wolf to manage them. Most of them were okay, but there was this little one. Slightly touched in the head. Runt of the litter. He was always last to get a bite of flesh, always downtrodden, never won any scuffles. The big ones especially always lorded it over him. A few tried to be nice, help him, but in the end it was every one for themselves.”

I didn’t know what to make of that. I asked, “Lord Russ…? Why do you tell me of this?”

He looked at me, yellow eyes sad, and said, “You’ll understand. Inside now. And whatever you do, do not move hastily…”

Suspicious, I stepped in cautiously as he cracked open the door. Sheer blackness enveloped us as he closed the wooden panels behind us; and I began reaching out, trying to find the illuminator switch. My skin prickled as my nose plucked a tense tendril from the air, a pheremonal trace that evoked… Terror. Pure, unadulterated, soul-devouring, macabre horror. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

I stepped forward, my muscles tightening up as my feet spread and balanced myself light on my toes, beginning to reach upwards to Orkbane slung upon my back…

Suddenly drawing in breath, I struggled. Iron bands were clasped about my neck, tightening inexorably. A sibilant hiss sounded from behind me, and I knew I was dead as my feet lifted off the deck. Spots danced before my eyes as the musk of that soul-destroying terror filled the air, enveloping the chamber.

My fists, one ceramite-clad, the other engraved silver, clenched and struck backwards as I strove for breath. None came, but I struck steel flesh; and a voice hissed forth, its tones carrying only dread and death. It asked, and I could envision some beast of the night licking its lips as it contemplated its prey, “Leman… has he come to hurt you? He has an axe…”

Lord Russ’ armoured outline in the darkness held out his hands in supplication, and ever so cautiously asked, “Brother? Please… put Mattathias down. He means us no harm…”

It is said the Astartes know no fear. Would that it was so! A slow, icy trickle of horror began seeping down my spine, as I dimly began to realize who was strangling me. And in the voice of Leman Russ…

The spots before my eyes began expanding, closing in. My mouth worked, striving to draw breath, to no avail. He carefully reached out, hands going past my neck, to rest upon the arms of he who was gripping me. Gently, he said, “Konrad? You can put him down now, brother. Please.”

My feet clanked against the deck, and I fell to my knees, sucking in air as the blood pounded in my temples. Gasping and coughing, I looked behind myself, and saw only darkness. I stood, struggling to my feet, and backed to the door; gently, carefully, ever so slowly I reached up and unslung my axe, letting it drop to the deck.

It clattered upon a pile of armour; I looked downwards and saw the midnight blue paint, the engraved gold trim, the featureless helmet with its distinctive slashed T-visor… Primarch Curze’s armour. Turning my eyes back to where I could hear Lord Russ whispering, I dimly beheld him holding out his hands to a massive figure in the darkness, taller and larger than even the Primarch.

It knelt on the floor in the darkness and cradled its head in its hands; hissing in pain, Night Haunter looked upward and directly at me. Dark, black eyes utterly without life stared from dark sockets under a heavy, pale brow at me as his thin face betrayed no emotion, though the skin about his eyes tightened as if some pain had struck him. He spoke as though Leman Russ was not standing before him: “Mattathias Istheyanu, look to your family. One day, ye shall be there no longer for them. Make it so they remember you always.”

Lord Russ draped a robe about his shoulders as he stood; and without a backward gaze, Konrad Curze left, leaning upon his brother’s shoulder. Troubled, I departed and returned to the Indefatigable and Korai… and, too late, I remember—I never said a word to him about Korai. How did he know? Why was it Lord Russ asked for myself alone? Did the Night Haunter, somehow, desire my presence? I never learned the answers...

I ram my elbow backward, and feel bone crunch as it bellows and lets go; driving the butt of my axe backward sharply, I crush its chest and spin to decapitate. The greenskin commandos bellow as they leap from the walls toward me, and angrily I shout in response as my axe rises to meet them…

That was ... creepy.

Ford Prefect wrote:That was ... creepy.

In a good or bad sense?

No, it was good. I wouldn't call it creepy if it was badly written. Just that it was lame. Instead it happened to be mysterious and a little frightening at the same time, in the way it makes me worry for Matthias.

Ford Prefect wrote:No, it was good. I wouldn't call it creepy if it was badly written. Just that it was lame. Instead it happened to be mysterious and a little frightening at the same time, in the way it makes me worry for Matthias.

Indeed? Then it achieved the desired effect. Always good to know.

I fear this story won't have quite the happy ending one might desire... but hopefully it'll shed more light onto Mattathias' character, why he is the man he is in Heretics' Redemption.

It was extremely creepy.

MORE!!!

As requested!

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The nob charges at me, its rough-shaped metal armour clanking madly but drowned out by its war-cry. My axe flashes forth and severs its power-claw, then its head follows. I ram the butt into its chest, and with a clangor of plates it topples backward. Bellowing at the rest, I leap down and forward, waving my axe in a circle above my head as I grab an orkish choppa from one of the dead and fling it into the press.

The moon has risen, blood-red in the setting sun. I know I have little time left to live before the greenskins take advantage of the darkness and press in for the last blows; I should surely go down under the massive numbers facing me. But incredibly, they do not advance—they retreat, leaving the corpses of those killed upon the battlefield.

Greenskin are deceptive—but not this devious, surely? I look about; they are withdrawing beyond the walls of Fort Seventeen… why? Have I then cowed them so much?

Then I look down, and I understand.

From the walls of the fort to where I now stand, in a ragged semicircle, orkish bodies carpet the ground. Only a few bear the marks of bolter fire or the local militia’s slugthrowers; all the rest are either dead from the explosion that devastated the fort and breached its walls, or bear the marks of Orkbane. And the latter are what I see, the bloody muck my feet sinking into saying again as much.

About me the greenskin begin chanting, pounding the butts of their choppas upon the ground or waving them in the air; some foul babble about their Warlord. My commbead buzzes suddenly in my ear, and I flinch; I had thought the greenskin had swept over the rest of the line. But it is a tech-priest in Lepidoptera’s capital, who has just restored the vox-net for the battlefield; he is replaced by one of the local colonels, who updates me hurriedly.

It seems I have become the new centre of battle. Not only has the tide of the greenskin focused upon what was Fort 17, they are clustering about my location. And the main body about the ork boss in charge has shifted, approaching me… He urgently advises me to fall back to the secondary defense line behind the forts. I cut him off, order him to be silent, and look about me as I slowly step backward, up the heap of bodies at the main breach of the fort’s walls, till I am above the battlefield enough that I can see the advance of the Warlord’s crew.

Massive nobs in crude orkish mechanical armour clanking forward, swatting aside the other, smaller greenskins as they go; two enormous Warbosses, in even larger suits of crude powered armour; and, shrouded by darkness behind them, one massive eye glowing red from the greenskin shamans’ electrical augmentations, a truly massive figure dwarving the rank and file. Trophies clank upon his armour, as joints hiss and spit hydraulic fluid; the miniscule forms of gretchin scramble over it, keeping it constantly lubricated even as he steps forward. A massive smoke stack sticks out from its back, hissing out steam, and a dim glow at its base exposes the occasional glimpse of gretchin feeding the fire heating the suit’s power source. A massive power-claw, fully the size of a small human, is waved above the heads of the warbosses; and the greenskins part.

The memory flits to mind, of eldar doing the same as one of their sorcerers spoke…

Korai and I were discussing our plans for her daughters and Ebenezer when the ship’s conversion alarms began shrilling. A massive jerk signaled our exit from the warp, but by then we were already barreling down the corridors to the bridge. The doors slammed open and she shouted, “Status report, Karl!”

“It’s eldar pirates! They broke our journey through the warp for some reason and they seem to be preparing—look out!” He flung himself against her, knocking her down to the deck as the air distorted in the middle of the bridge.

A silver line tore its way through the air, and distorted blindingly; slim wraithbone-armoured figures leapt through, and opened fire the instant their light feet touched decking. Razor-edged shuriken screamed through the air and tore the hapless crew to pieces, scarring my armour; I jumped over to where Korai and her loyal second-in-command laid in cover behind a console.

Grabbing them, I called upon the augmentation of my power armour and leaped full twenty feet over the bridge. My feet hit the guard rail, and with a lean forward we tumbled over it, falling downward to the strategium beneath.

Landing softly, my armour taking the brunt of the impact, Korai rushed over to the intervox. She issued a general alert, and then turned to a weapons locker on the wall; keying her authorization into its rune-panel, she grabbed lasguns and threw one to Karl. As for myself, I unslung my bolter and drew my chainsword; I had come from combat drills to speak to Korai.

The air suddenly shimmered about us and heavy-carapaced eldar bearing powerful weapons landed upon the bridge with a pop! of displaced air. With an angry whir, their weapons spat forth razor-edged filaments that lanced deep gouges from my armour; and the strategium doors burst open, Harald and Njarl roaring as their bolters bellowed. And I thanked what gods there may be for Lord Russ’ foresight in allowing a liaison detachment of Space Wolves to remain aboard the Indefatigable…

Without warning, as Harald was leaping through the air bringing his chainsword up, the armoured eldar shimmered and vanished. Chips of deck plate flew as his chainsword gouged a groove before he could deactivate it, and Korai’s attention was beckoned by a flashing diode by the intervox. She pressed the speak rune and listened.

“Captain, we’ve got raiders down in the astropaths’ quarters! Trying to hold them off, but they’ve got Banshees—” and the speaker was cut off by a horrid screech that murdered the vox’s machine-spirit, for the panel exploded in sparks. Korai recoiled and I caught her, looked over her hand; unharmed. We all looked at each other and I spoke, “Lead the way, Captain.”

As we ran along, I stuck my commbead into my ear and called my sergeants, advising them of the new incursion and to find the strategium, use it to coordinate their assaults upon the eldar raiders…

The astropathicus, where the long-range faster-than-light messages were sent through the Warp and navigators were trained for their duties, was chaos. Red-maned female eldar with powered swords and pistols flashed about in blurs, their swords blue arcs occasionally tipped with red as blood sprayed from their prey. Above all they kept up a massive ululation, a screeching indescribable, for it struck us deaf and dazed us.

One charged at us; sluggishly in comparison, Harald, Njarl and I brought up our bolters and began firing. Incredibly, the Banshee, its hair swaying in time to its body, simply sidestepped the bolter fire, and eviscerated Karl before I had time to blink. The familiar shimmer, explosion of light, and pop resounded from the center of the astropathicus; in the tongue of the eldar, the black-armoured figure called forth. The murdering xenos halted with its blade scant inches from my eye; and then smoothly spun about on its toe and stepped away, hair waving. Beside me, Harald collapsed, blood flowing from his mouth and neck; the eldar had cut his throat instanteously before it would have killed me.

An astropath was kneeling before the eldar commander in the black armour, gibbering and trembling, his blind eye sockets weeping ichor. Silent black-armoured eldar guardians surrounded him, their weapons trained and ready to fire. I stepped forward—and could not move. The air solidified about me, and I hovered on the tip of my toe, lips parting for a nascent shout, chainblade humming to a halt.

Lightning arced about the eldar leader; it solidified into glowing sigils of light, and reaching out, it caressed various of the sigils. Eventually it selected one, and placed it upon the astropath’s forehead; immediately, the psyker keeled over and collapsed on the decking as the rune glowed and burned into his skin.

The eldar gestured; their forces came together in the middle of the astropathicus chamber as the black-armoured guardians lifted the astropath, hanging limply between them. The commander selected another sigil from those that remained orbiting about him, and suddenly my feet clanked upon the deck. I shouted, “Halt, xenos! Surrender the astropath to us now, or die in the name of Mankind!”

The commander turned its implacable blank visage upon me, and with glowing eyes that lanced deep into my soul, it whispered, ”And allow the enslavers to come into the galaxy again? I think not, mon-keigh. But one thing I shall tell you; if you go to Lepidoptera, you die. Heed your woman. That is all, human.”

A shimmer, a crackle, a flash of light, and they vanished, leaving only the dead of our crew and us mystified. How would the eldar know of our destination?

Korai was deeply disturbed. A few nights afterward, just before we were to arrive in orbit and my Marines to deploy, I was making my farewells of her. I always did so knowing that I might not return to her; but this was different.

She wrapped her arms about my armoured chest, and looking downward, I could see tears. Concerned, I asked, “What is it, my dear?”

“Matti… the eldar, they only tell the truth. The truth!” She looked up at me, eyes full of anguish. At a loss for words, I could say nothing but bring up my hands and embrace her. She mumbled ridiculous things against my chest—about not going, about staying and letting someone else lead on the ground—and I grasped her by the shoulders and stepped back.

Kneeling slightly so our faces were level, I told her sternly, “Korai, I must obey the Warmaster’s command. Such is my duty. I cannot abandon it so easily. I must do this, and then I will return to you. That—is a promise, Korai.”

She turned her face from me and twisted out of my grip. Over her shoulder, not looking at me, she quietly told me, “Go then, Mattathias. But… please… come back.”

Not knowing what more to say, I stood and turned away, and reluctantly stepped down the corridor, knowing ever more with each clank of my armoured feet against the deck plating that I should turn back…

The deployment went perfectly; our Stormbirds swept down and strafed the orks, driving them away from the primary defense line of forts, before landing at the main fortress and meeting General Kato, the Imperial commander on Lepidoptera. In short order I understood the greenskins’ attack plan (such as it was), where the main weak points were, and sent my squads forth accordingly. And I myself went to the weakest point of the line of forts—Seventeen.

Three days we fought, three nights we fought, and then on the fourth day a titanic detonation from beneath the fort erupted. Bodies were flung about like cordwood, and the walls were breached; and the orks charged. I had lost my bolter, but Orkbane hung faithful upon my back; and thus did I counterattack the horde.

Now, it is night. The orks' eyes shine about me, as though red coals were swept across the hills. Behind me, in the secondary line’s trenches, soldiers shuffle about and assemble hastily, knowing they cannot withstand the final assault but willing to give their lives nonetheless. And the greenskins’ endless chanting sounds still…

So... they were after the Astropath before he became a demon?

LadyTevar wrote:So... they were after the Astropath before he became a demon?

Before he became a conduit for the Enslaver plague, yes. Enslavers are Warp entities that make gateways through psychically sensitive persons that allow themselves to be corrupted; they've overtaken entire worlds many times, so they're definitely a threat. Hence the Eldar intervention...

More to the point, Enslavers have caused galactic level falls of civillisation, essentially.

Good as ever, El.

Ah, such memories.

Awww!

As much as I hate to admit it, I'm building a small collection of DoW shots dedicated to those guys. Assuming El doesn't mind, of course.

Vanas wrote:As much as I hate to admit it, I'm building a small collection of DoW shots dedicated to those guys. Assuming El doesn't mind, of course.

Not at all, as long as you provide us with the pictures!

Fine, but no more until the next chapter. :p

I've just realised that Mattathias has an Assault gun arm, so that'll be in the next lot.

As far as I understand, this story happens before Mattathias becomes a Dreadnaught. So he is just a Luna Wolf Space Marine at this moment.