Before we get started, yes, this is yet another attempt to intertwine a story I love with a few of my own innovations. The Ranger's Apprentice is in fact what set the course for the creation of the Shadow Guard from my other fanfictions, and a return to the roots has long since been overdue. If you are not at all enthused by the prospect of a return to the supernatural ideas prevalent across the first and second books, and the idea of aliens alongside the world of the Rangers, I understand and wish you luck in finding something of a more traditional taste.

But if not, then by all means continue. Please leave your thoughts in the review box: I'm always appreciative feedback :)

And without further ado, let us be on our merry way.

Not for the first time, Rawlings found himself dozing asleep, before the rough, uneven movements of the carriage threw him awake, sending his eyes into a panicked moment of dyslexia before he realised nothing had changed, and he settled back into his seat, resigned to fate he had chosen for his career.

It was not to say danger came inherently with an entry into Araluen mail service; if anything, it was danger's nemesis that had plagued Rawlings' life since the day he had stepped onto the precarious wooden frame that had become his home.

Boredom.

Boredom of the endless road; boredom of the endless pain in his backside as the elderly horse before him trampled over the mud encrusted ground, occasionally sprinkling his boots with an increasingly incessant pattern of wet earth; boredom of the endless road...

The straight paths were the worst, Rawlings knew. Paths on which there were only trees to either side of the beaten path, without the slightest change in elevation, leaving no indication to progress of one's unrelenting journey. Paths where there was naught to do but simply stare into the world's unchanging image, waiting for something to happen.

Rawlings was on the verge of suppressing another yawn when he felt something brushing against the hairs on his neck. Something cold with the morning dew, and undoubtedly sharp.

'Out of the wagon, mister,' an uncompromising voice cut through the air, 'or it won't end well for you.'

Half asleep as he was, Rawlings had yet to even grasp what had unfolded before the man who had given the command decided to complete it on his behalf, roughly clasping him by the shoulder of his jerkin before pulling hard.

Rawlings let out a brief shriek of shock before his entrance into the mud silenced him, and he plunged his hands into the sickening concoction of earth and water, trying to find some purchase on which he could expel himself from the bile of the world.

Above him, the highwayman simply laughed, as he gestured the rest of the party forward. There were a half dozen of them in number, and the carriage's sole occupant was hardly a man of fighting age. With his victim's greying hair, and the presence of five more men who could easily pick him up without breaking a sweat, the head of the brigands put away the dagger, only to untangle a short club from the leather webbing on his back. It was a heavy weapon; crafted with only the slightest idea of martial design from a fallen oak, and entirely unnecessary for the purpose of a robbery when one already had a sharp blade to intimidate any rider on the road, but regardless, the heavy set thug had long since decided there existed some innate paranoia associated with a weapon embodying brute force. There was nothing clean about a club; particularly a homemade one: there would be no brief and fleeting moment of pain as a blade slipped past one's ribs. A club would maim, but it most certainly would not kill on the first stroke, nor the second, unless the wielder was a man of such capacity that the skull would simply disintegrate on the first strike.

Whatever the reasoning, it certainly did the trick, as the elderly man at the brigand's feet cowered away from his gaze, backing away until he found his retreat blocked by one of the cart's four wheels, and he huddled there, quaking in fear at the looming weapon.

Behind him, his five compatriots overturned the cargo, ransacking it's contents with a vengeance as they moved amid its holdings. A few curses turned into a tirade, and Rawlings' fears were confirmed by a new voice emitting from somewhere above his head, from within the battered cart.

'There ain't anything, boss. Just a bunch of letters and other papers. Not much worth taking.'

Rawlings did not need to look up to confirm the rage in his tormentor's eyes. He could already see that savage tree trunk swinging down to separate his head from his shoulders in his mind's eye, as the man worked himself to a fury.

So it came to no small degree of a surprise to Rawlings that, when the dull thud of wood splintering, he felt no pain at all.

Terrified as he was, he parted a mud stained hand from his sight, glancing upwards to face his killer, before the sight stopped him cold.

The man stood there, his mouth hanging loosely like a fish that had just spotted it's dinner; his hand empty of any trace of the barbaric instrument that Rawlings had been certain would have sent him to Heaven's embrace. In the mud, maybe two or three meters away, lay the weapon.

And impaled at its center, lay a grey shafted arrow.

'King's Ranger. Step away from the cart. Now.'

The last command was entirely unnecessary, as the men hurriedly moved to comply, the terror of the moment all too evident across their eyes. It was remarkable, Rawlings noted, how quickly borne killers would move to follow another's orders, if they came from one of their number.

Then, everything went very wrong.

With their boots encrusted in mud, the carriage's floor was slick with the substance as the men filed out to face justice. But whilst the ground seemed to sink under their weight, gripping them at the ankles to prevent a fall, the mail cart's surface provided little in the way of such, as the last man out discovered. His boot caught a smear of the foul liquid too fast, and he promptly crashed down, taking one of his allies with him in his fall.

Needless to say, the sight of two of their number hitting the ground whilst an archer was in the immediate vicinity gave little confidence to those that remained standing.

'They'll kill us!' one man screamed, and that was enough. Faced with the choice of being torn apart by a hail of arrows upon their surrender, or taking their chances with the archer, the criminals bounded forward. In all actuality, only three of their number actually did so; two were still untangling themselves from the mud, whilst the third; ironically the one who had screamed the unintended rallying cry, hobbled off for the woods, desperate to place some distance between himself and that dreadful bow.

Twenty meters away, Will Treaty shrugged. He'd seen enough evidence of this particular band of criminals' handiwork to approach the matter with extreme prejudice.

He released the bowstring. He was already notching another broadhead when the first shaft reached it's target.

At this range, the flat trajectory left no room for mercy on Will's part, and the arrow sheared through the chainmail shirt, burying itself in the lead man's chest.

Will had selected him intentionally as the first target; not only was he the closest of the trio, but he was also the most heavily armed; wielding a shield in one hand, and an ax in the other. He could only assume the individual was the group's most competent fighter, for the other two were dressed in simple leather and short blades; a woefully inadequate choice when a Ranger was met.

Indeed, the second the first man went down, the battle rage seemed to depart his friends in a heartbeat. Their sprint slowed to a walk, as they gawked at the still body of their comrade, and then at the cloaked archer. That was seconds before the next arrow slammed into the next man's leg, and he collapsed into the mire, screaming in agony.

It was too much, and the final criminal threw his hands up in defeat, dropping the dagger into the dirt as he did so.

In the distance, the man who had elected to flee had not gotten past the treeline before his legs suddenly gave out from underneath him, and despite the distance that separated them, Will could clearly hear his groans of agony, as he gestured for the last of the stunned attackers to remain where he stood, under threat of the arrow still notching in Will's bow, unfired.

In the distance, another figure emerged from the woods, from a point not dissimilar to the one from which the would-be thieves had emerged for their prey. Only this one kept its signature bow slung across it's back, leaving no indication as to what had been used to bring the last perpetrator down, save for a leather thong that was bundled loosely into it's right palm.

Still trying to ascertain what had just driven into his ribs, Hartford; the leader of the most recent band of criminals looking to take advantage of the solitary mail service that ran the length of Araluen, felt the cold hand of fear as a shadow fell upon him, stifling any effort to place any more distance between himself and the Ranger. He could already feel the hangman's noose about his neck when the Ranger spoke.

'Put your hands behind your back, or you'll feel something a whole lot worse than a sling.'

Hartford did not hear the rest of the threat as he complied, and felt the hard leather thumb cuffs lock his hands as one. There was something absurd about the Ranger's voice. It was almost...

He stopped cold when he was pulled upright, to come face to face with the cowled figure. Dumbly, he realised that there were in fact two cloaked figures; the one who had called out the warning, and sent his entire operation into a shambles, was still off in the distance, securing the survivors of the ambush. But this one!

Over the years, Hartford had heard of whispered tales of the Rangers. He too had played his part in passing the tale on of the nearly mythical band of sorcerers; sharing them about the campfire as if he too had borne witness to the feats that had first been narrated by a man who in fact shared his ignorance of the Corps. After the years of exaggeration and legend, Hartford half expected to find a wild eyed black magician beneath the cloak. Or nothing at all: it was said Rangers could disappear into thin air, and it was not an uncommon rumor for their number to be thought of as shades: spirits of the shadow and night, who preyed upon the unwary.

He certainly had not expected a young girl beneath the green cowl.

That was the last thought that managed to crease his mind before Maddie struck him in the forehead, the full force of the striker laden in her palm ending Hartford's confusion in a flash of searing pain, followed by blissful unconsciousness.

'They don't talk much, do they?'

Not for the first time, Invictus turned a baleful eye on the newblood's presence, and the Guardsman shifted uncomfortably, sensing the irritated eye of the senior warrior.

'As much as you?' He asked, in a tone that clearly enunciated his unwillingness for a prolonged conversation, 'No.'

Pharus shifted uncomfortably where he stood, as his gaze flickered between the Hell Guardsman at his side, and the Shadow that sat only meters away.

'It's just,' he tried to revive the conversation, 'I haven't heard one of them talk. At all I mean. Over three weeks: is it even natural?'

'Not everyone's you,' Invictus sighed, checking the chronometer on his wrist as he allowed his boot to tap instinctively against the steel floor. Targus was late. Again. In all actuality, Invictus could hardly blame him.

The voyage was, comparatively, a short one. They had only been pulsing through deep space for nearly twenty days now, with only another thirty to go. More often than not, Invictus had dealt with journeys that, even with the Council's Storm Drives, could last up to a decade. It mattered not; under those circumstances, the crew was typically placed in cryosleep regardless, whilst automated auxiliaries watched over their inert forms, ready to awaken the dead if the slightest disturbance came to pass.

And on this occasion, auxiliaries were not sufficient security. Not with the cargo they held.

Glumly, he realised Pharus had begun talking again, and he found himself gravely envious of the Guardsman opposite his post, who continued to check his weapon, entirely unreactive to the incessant and mindless conversation that stemmed from a single idiot.

Probably switched his audio feeds off, Invictus thought with a flare of anger. It was not the first time he had asked himself why he; a Veteran of the Seventh Hell Guard, was forced to listen to the ravings of a newblood alone, whilst he in fact shared the small compartment with a second, if unfeeling, sentry.

Misery loved company, he decided, but in this case, it seemed to have contented itself with his suffering, and his suffering alone.

'Have you seen what lies beneath their helmets?'

'What?' Pharus' question had been phrased awkwardly, and it had taken several moments for the Veteran to in fact realise he had in fact been asked a genuine inquiry, instead of being fed a false line of ignorance when in fact his counterpart was simply awaiting the chance to prove his own competence. Oddly, Invictus found himself strangely wishing it had been the latter. He might have been tempted to tear the little ingrate's head from his shoulders when he finished, but only after he had finished the tale, for it was a piece of information he had long coveted.

Aside from a select few that typically involved the higher echelon of the Council, and their own number of course, it was quite impossible for an everyman to tell what lay beneath the steel plate of a Shadow Guard's helmet. When one entered the bio-forges, and emerged a Guardsman of the night, no one could say for certain what had become of the creature that had died on the night the Black Cloak had been accepted.

For all Invictus knew, the Guardsman before them no longer even breathed. Already, his mind had begun to weave the rich fantasy of what might have lain beneath the black helm when he realised the scarlet lenses of the weathered faceplate were turned upon him, blazing like twin suns.

'Have you two finished gawking?'

Invictus could have sworn that his partner's jaw had hit the deck of the shuttle. Truth be told, he was no stranger to the voices of Shadow Guardsmen, though it certainly could require getting used to. Their helmets, or perhaps it was their vocal cords themselves, contained a disruptor that would filter any sound that emitted beyond the throat of a Black Cloak, designed to mimic the voice of a demon perhaps; a terrifying prospect when it was coupled with the uncanny capacity of the Shadows to appear only meters away from their prey, with all manner of savage weapons hefted at their disposal. That was if the victim had not already been cut apart by a flurry of Hellfire shells, in which case, there was often far less to bury, and even less ended up in the correct grave, for the mess left little distinguishable feature between the fallen fools that had though to take up arms against the Council.

Victus, in many aspects, was no Shadow Guardsman. Where his equally irritated counterpart had donned a matted carapace of remarkably light nature to permit his capacity as a stalker, the two Hell Guardsmen were secured behind thick armored plate that continued to radiate its metallic nature upon the shimmer of light, though they were not sufficiently polished to produce a shine. Like any soldier in the Council, Invictus had the sense to adopt subtlety when the time called for it, but the thought of matching a Black Cloak was foreign at best. It would quite simply be a contest of stealth between an wolf and a bear: where one could easily outmatch the other in the open field, the odds quickly shifted when even the slimmest of shades had been produced upon the battleground. And whilst the Guardsman's features remained shrouded behind his veil of steel, Invictus' were kept open to the scrutiny of the world, though the question of if it was a wise choice was better left unanswered. The fur that lined the back of his neck was contorted by erratic features of bare, pink flesh, each a memory of a faded scar. And if one were to convince him to part his jaws sufficiently, they would find one fang within the Lupii's mouth failed to meet symmetrically with it's brother; twisted and broken from where he had sunk his jaws deep into a Xeno's armored plate, only to realise the idiocy of the act when he'd choked on the broken fragments of his fang.

He shuffled uncomfortably on his feet as the question loomed on his mind. His superiors had been remarkably vague on the chain of command on the present assignment, he thought, and he was not entirely certain as to how he was about to address the Guardsman before him.

There was no secret that despite the utopia the Council enjoyed as it's official image, contention between the differing regiments of the Guard were rife beneath the honor of battle. It was all very much a matter of pride, as it always was, Invictus sighed glumly. The Iron Guard; the frontline clones who cared as little for their lives as their Battlemasters did, as they were ordered to scale the bodies of their fallen time and time again, whilst the Shadow Guard elected more...discrete means to achieve the same ends. And neither was ready to surrender their argument: with generation after generation of Iron Guard accusing the Shadows of trickery and dishonor, whilst the Black Cloaks in turn cried madness at the ruthless calculus prevalent across the Iron Regiments, nobody could in fact remember who had actually thrown the first stone, and the tradition of disagreement had continued for as long as both factions had existed; a duty to uphold a natural distrust for one another passed down from Veteran to Veteran.

As a Hell Guardsman, he occupied the neutral waters of the Council's armed forces, for he dealt in neither direct action, or surgical attack.

And that left plenty to interpretation. On one hand, he did not dislike the Black Cloaks for their secrecy, though he certainly did feel unwelcome in their presence. It was almost as if they enjoyed war; an unhealthy pastime that Invictus had no intention of indulging in.

They were obviously chided, somewhat by the fact that Torvus; Invictus' commanding Warden, had requisitioned them for a routine escort duty, pulling them from the frontlines in the same act. Perhaps it was out of simple concern for the comrades they had left behind, Invictus conceded. But try as he might, he was running out of excuses for his escort. And Black Cloak or not, they were technically his to command. It was an operation entrusted to his echelon of the Council's forces after all.

But something in the Guardsman's steel gaze stopped him, and he dropped his own eyes once more. Whatever the Shadow was, Invictus had little doubt that the grim faced figure both detested his presence, and would easily snap his own spine in half at the drop of a needle.

Perhaps that was his problem, he decided. He'd spent too long fighting the dead; so much so that the living had lost all respect for his being.

It was a fairly easy trap to fall into: Invictus was, by all accounts, a demon hunter. And it was inherently due to his most recent success that the Seventh Company of the Eighty First Shadow Guard now found themselves dragging their heels homeward, carrying the spoils of a hunt.

'Well done.'

Maddie glanced up with the traces of a wide grin already forming at the edges of her mouth. It had been nearly a year since she had earned the bronze oakleaf, and although Will was always maintaining his path to recovery since the death of his beloved wife, he had made it a note to avoid blatant praise despite their relationship. Much like Halt's, it was refrained for times truly deserving.

They had dropped the surviving bandits off at Castle Redmont where they would undoubtedly soon be facing the wrath of Baron Arald, and now were back on the veranda of Will's small cabin. With the evidence Maddie had procured from the bandits' campsite earlier in the day after they had departed for the road, there was little doubt that none of the five men would be seeing the light of day for a good era of time. Attempted assault on a King's Ranger, let alone a pair of them, rarely ended well for those who could muster the courage for such defiance.

Truth be told, Arald had seemed a little surprised with the titanic bruise that was creasing John Hartford's forehead when he was brought into the castle. After all, Rangers rarely got close enough for fists to be struck. He was not quite certain as to which surprised him more; the fact Hartford had managed to close sufficiently with a Ranger, or the fact that the Ranger in question had managed to incapacitate a killer with a single clean blow to the head. Or, he added ruefully, the fact that the said Ranger had been Madelyn Altman.

When he'd voiced the thought to Will, the Ranger had remain straight faced.

'I've known a Princess who could set the fear of Gorlog himself in a cohort of Temjuai,' he replied evenly, with the traces of a smile. 'And then there's the courier who could turn the most fearsome man pale at the drop of a pin.'

The Baron's eyes had widened at that, and, to an extent, so had Will's. Halt's innate fear of Lady Pauline was not exactly the most well known fact, and despite his own status; the legendary Will Treaty who had journeyed across the known world; Will had experienced a fleeting moment of terror. Former apprentice or not, he still held his former mentor in no small degree of awe, and the thought of releasing a rather important piece of information into the hands of a man with a reputation to talk such as Baron Arald did not bode well.

It certainly had not helped Will's nerves that he had, just before mounting Tug on the way out of the castle, he thought he had spotted the flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, before it's shine had blinked out of existence before returning, as if someone had pulled a finger across it's width.

The oakleaf each Ranger wore was held at the neck.

Wisely, Will had neglected to check his rear as he led Maddie out of the castle, fearing the hostile gaze of the elderly Ranger. Hopefully, he thought with the slightest veneer of mischief that had resurfaced from his earliest days, Halt would have switched targets by now. Not for the first time, Will decided that, given a chance to exchange places with Arald, he would have declined without a second's notice, particularly given the fact that the poor man was restrained to the castle by paperwork.

Of course, in his hurry, Will seemed to neglect the both fact that his own house was only down the road from Wensley village, and the little detail that involved retired Rangers keeping their steeds. If the Ranger was about to tear his house down for the sly slip of the tongue, there was little Will could ever do to stop him.

But nothing transpired of it, leaving Will and his apprentice the rest of the day to enjoy. Or rather, the rest of the day for Will to enjoy. Maddie, as a second year apprentice, had yet to earn that right, and he watched her now with a critical eye as she practiced; the crucial phrase of a Ranger's life that separated the average warrior from the rightful terrors of warfare that no sane man would ever seek out in the middle of a fight.

She was currently practicing with the finer aspects of firing on the move; letting a select few broadheads with every stop as she reached a piece of cover, before moving on, darting forward at a low altitude before a sharp eyed shooter could bring a bolt to bear, though not so quickly that the motion immediately snapped an observer's eye to the spot. Once more, the cloak proved invaluable as she drilled herself time and time again.

Early on, she had made the common error of repeatedly leaning out from only a single select side of a piece of cover, at regular intervals, though the mistake had not been one to make it past Will's unfaltering gaze.

'Break up the pattern,' he told her, 'fire from the left side as well, and don't keep a rhythme to it; if you give an archer a pattern, they might be able to pre-empt your next shot, and you'll be dead before you know it.'

'Does that happen a lot?' Maddie had asked. Her question was a valid one; after all, few archers drilled to the same instinctive level as Rangers, but Will would not allow the possibility that the advice could fall unused. Memory of the accurate fire of the Kaijin beyond the outskirts of Hallasholm still haunted him, and another war with the archers from the steppes was always possible. Unlikely in the near future, but possible. The latest reports from Araluen's allies had reported a number of incursions into Toscano, but poor leadership on the invaders' part, and the stalwart legions of the Toscan empire had halted the invasion fairly early into the conflict. Of course, that may have also been in part due to the reinforcement of a detachment of Skandians, whose arrival on the Temujai flank effectively ended the invasion. Will had to smile at the thought, despite the grim realities that had first led him onto the topic. Erak was many things, but forgiving was not one of them, particularly when it came to the matter of his home being invaded. And if he was getting paid for it, Will could already imagine the sea wolf viewing it as an undoubtedly win-win scenario.

'On a day to day basis? Not often. But when you meet the next level up from an enlisted man, you might be surprised. Your father ever tell you of Skandia?'

She nodded. It was no secret that her parents had both earned their reputation on those bloodsoaked plains. And it was a tale Horace had told many a time, though his particular role seemed so very small with each telling. In fact, it seemed to dwindle with time, whilst Will's became that of legend, as her father described how his friend had coordinated a band of half trained slaves like an extension of his own body, raining barrage after barrage upon the advancing hordes, before he had emptied a dozen saddles himself in the space of several minutes.

'The Temujai used elite sharpshooters attached to each platoon, or Ulan, if I remember that correctly. Kaijin. They nearly turned me and your father into pincushions. If he hadn't been there with his shield, we probably wouldn't be having this conversation.'

'I see,' Maddie said, only partly registering Will's thoughts. It was uncanny, she thought, as to how their tales mirrored and opposed one another with such fluidity. How one's role shrank with his version of the past, and his friend's grew with each word.

'The point is,' Will continued, 'you won't always find yourself up against the average bandit. More often than not, we may be called upon to fight opponents who know one end of a sword from the other. And when that happens, I don't want to have to go telling your mother that I managed to get you run through with an arrow.'

Maddie was unable to suppress a snigger at the prospect. To the day, Will had yet to fully relate the circumstances behind his survival at Hawkshead bay to Horace and Cassandra. Of course, he had spared no detail in the heroics of her rescue, save for the one key fact that could explain the scar that ran the length of his apprentice's side. He was happy enough to indulge the fact she had pushed him out of the way, but the note that she had then taken the intended projectile?

Halt and Gilan knew. And maybe Lady Pauline as a result. But all were seasoned in the art of part-truths, and as a result, the truth continued to elude Maddie's parents.

'She'd probably mount your head on a stake,' Maddie added unhelpfully, before the smile faded with the same speed at which it had risen to the jibe, as a sharp cloud of mock rage creased Will's features.

'You wouldn't fare much better,' he returned, and Maddie could sense the truth in that statement. Her mother was not the most level headed of people when it came to those closest to her, and there was a definite danger of collateral damage in the event that little story came to light.

'We'll continue working on it tomorrow,' he told her, glancing over the mutilated targets with a critical eye before he grunted in satisfaction, 'remember...'

'I know,' Maddie finished for him, 'practice, practice, and practice.'

Tacitus did not even know why he bothered.

It was not as if the engines had somehow decided to cop it within the last hour since the last report had filtered up from the lower decks. If that had been the case, he would have long since been out of his chair; undoubtedly thrown across his cabin as the transport was wrenched out of it's graceful, and eternally torturous transit. In fact, even if they had given up and choked on their fumes in the middle of the void, he would have felt it; Storm drives were no small instruments, and despite the suppression fields that held them from tearing apart a ship with each pulse forward, that was not to say their motions had left the vessel entirely. The gentle shudder of the steel deck like a ghostly wind in the emptiness of space; all radiated from the core that kept them alive. Kept them moving across the abyss.

Letting out a sigh of hearty contempt, Tacitus roughly tossed the data sleave from his gauntleted hands, where it slid across his desk, and promptly disappeared over the opposing edge.

'I didn't know you were that fast a reader, Warden.'

'It's kept me alive so far.'

'Like on Manex?'

Cheeky flesh heap, Tacitus thought, as his eyes blazed beneath the scarlet lenses, awake from the slumber of boredom, if only to be replaced by a healthy fight. But Larx was all too aware of his superior's gaze, and like a sly dog, he quickly dropped his gaze, though the grin remained all to evident beneath his helmet.

It was that crooked angle of his neck that said it all; the little habits of each Guardsman all to distinguishable to another when time under the armored suit had turned it into a second skin rather than a means of war.

'I meant mentally.' Tacitus replied, reclining back into his seat, 'I have to read over one more report before we get back to the Front, and I'll toss that blasted twit Invictus out the damn airlock. And his pet.'

'Speaking of which,' his friend noted; the innocence in his voice too evident for it to be genuine, 'Vargus just sent up the Ravens' reports. I...' he paused, under certain of the humor's integrity, before he pushed on. One way or another, entertainment had to be found on these journeys, and irritating his CO seemed one of the most prudent.

'Well perhaps you could summarize it for me, if you'd be so kind, Larx.'

'I'm just a Veteran for a reason, Warden. I'm not qualified to read.'

'And I'm a Warden because they trusted me to lead,' Tacitus shot back evenly, 'and a good leader knows when to delegate. As such, I've chosen to delegate the most recent insatiable task to you, my friend.'

There was not much Larx could come up with to top that; he'd know the Warden to continue for days on end if it would deliver a verbal victory, so he dropped the affair.

Despite Invictus' impressions on his counterparts in the darker echelons of the Guard, the truth as somewhat distant from the image many saw. While it was certainly plenty of truth in that they were amongst the most feared warriors to grace the collection of worlds that formed the Council's territories; the little utopia amid a universe of madness, blood and chaos; they were still mortal. They might have been drilled uncompromisingly until they did not need to pay any conscious effort to the shadows amid their routine hunts, but they were not the mindless automatons some would have pictured to reside beneath those secretive masks of black steel.

And while they could remain silent for hours on end in wait for the hunted to pass the perfect ambush, it was not say that was a reputation that could be upheld on a daily basis.

Rather, as Tacitus had discovered when he had been promoted to the post of Warden of the Eighty First's Seventh Company, the largest issue was shutting them up.

But thankfully, his friendships with the rank and file had not endured the rigours of command. A hard transition at first, since he had in fact served with the company for many a year before Heronius; his predecessor, had been killed on Regelius. But a level of difference had to known between the commander and those that he held the duty to command, and he had quickly asserted his authority over old friends after learning of his new post, before discipline had slipped too far. Now, at least, he had commanded the unit for nearly five years, and the closeness of the old had been accepted once more, albeit, with a degree of respect that had faded amongst the constant stream of sarcasm that tinged the Eighty First.

Tacitus had to amend that thought, he felt. Somehow, respect did not seem to fit into his life, wherein he would be lucky if a day passed without a sly remark from at least one his squads. But would they follow his instructions to the order, even if they entailed marching off a sheer rock face without a high altitude deployment harness? There was his evidence of respect he could count on, even as the outwardly obstinate Veteran of the Second squad spun about to the file on his desk and began to list its contents in no particular order.

'Omens one through to three are all in the green; no irregularities...'

'Told you; reading ain't difficult. It's not a marathon.'

'...on engineering decks...blah blah blah, Great Father, Dravius can write quite a mouthful, can't he?'

Tacitus did not reply. He did not want to give the Veteran any evidence today's punishment was effectively the equivalent of his everyday life that did not consist of walking in the dark. As far as Larx could guess, he had just been handed an essay on Storm Drives, and he scanned through the piece, failing to find anything of true note, utterly convinced it was a once in a lifetime occurrence when in fact, it was a regular occurrence to haunt Tacitus' eyes. And part of the reason he now found himself relating a most horrific effort at storytelling, bereft of a fight or a decent romance. Perhaps Dravius' love of the ship could have amounted to something, but the Veteran was not reading another overly embellished word, so he continued onward.

All in all, it was simple murder. Another routine escort that would undoubtedly be more pleasing as a memory once it had come to it's swift and uncompromising conclusion.

Only several decks below the Warden's Cabin, however, the jovial mannerisms one would find on the upper decks disintegrated. It was much as if one could have traversed between two different worlds; one filled with life, whilst the other of deathly silence.

But it was only to be expected when one shared their quarters with a monster.

The cell was a simple design at best: hardened glass, interwoven with alloyed titanium fibres to retain its transparent properties, hung from the square frame of the cage, leaving the creature within to the free scrutiny of any passer by. And despite the chains and brands that had locked the occupant to it's place, they seemed suitably inept for the purpose of containment.

He, or rather it, was a tremendous figure. Like a hairless ape, it was doubled over uncomfortably for it's height, considering that, outside of the four foot structure, it usually measured nearly eight meters, towering over even the Council's finest. Parts of it's flesh were torn and rended by scarred tissue, whilst others had borne witness to horrific mutilation, where acids had broken down the unyielding coat, only to rebind it to the nearest item to the useless limb. In many cases, the prisoner had been adhered to the floor itself, or the chains that enveloped it's limbs, so that in the event of a security breach, each would have to be torn from the healed skin in order to properly enact an escape.

The only piece of the anatomy given free reign was it's eyes; flickering like distant stars with their yellowed irises, seething with fury at the occupants that occupied shared it's solitary quarters.

There were five of them in all, though one was rarely present: two Black Cloaks that stood with their backs to the door, awaiting their relief as they remained unmoving, whilst their commanding Veteran arrived through the steel doors on occasion to ensure no mishap had ensued in his absence. The other two though, were easily comparable to knights. Clad in solid plate that seemed to double the very size of their beings, the two Hell Guardsmen that stood beside the cage were monstrosities in their own right. Unlike their brothers above them, they seemed better compared to a bear, or a tree, than a man, with each clasping an ornate, silver shield that seemed to rattle with the power coursing through it's circuitry, and a heavy battle axe in the other.

The two watchmen were fearsome sights to behold, but the demon showed neither any difference, simply casting it's baleful eyes through their stalwart forms, assessing them without the slightest interest for it's own confinement.

Assessing the view before the observation port, and seeing the world of green and blue unravel before it's eyes.

As if on cue with the transport's passage past the planet, the doorway slid open to admit a new pair of soldiers. Their silvered plate easily marked them as the hunters who had brought the monster to it's knees, and they marched smartly to their own brethren, shouldering their arms so that they might take upon the duty of the next watch.

Gracefully, the sentries unlimbered their wargear, handling the shield and axe over with clean efficiency, save for one, additional, undrilled action. It was a minute falter; the fall of a gauntleted hand down to the belt of the sentry's waist, but it was all Lux Sicarius needed to know it was time.

Invictus was still opening his mouth to mutter the words necessary to discharge the Guardsman from his post when he felt the odd pain return to his ribs. For a moment, he pondered if the medication for his old wound had already failed, but then the barb of reality stung him like a thunderbolt, as he glimpsed downward, to find his comrade's blade buried within his flesh. The serrated edge tugged free, opening a river of blood from the Warden's hip before he could even question as to what had just ensued.

As he fell to the ground on his side, he heard shouting, disbelief, and above all, confusion, before two gunshots rang out, and a dull thud of some tremendous mass, such as a Guardsman clad in full plate, being propelled against the steel bulkhead of the containment cell.

Dimly, Invictus realised that he was in fact looking into Pharus' dead eyes. The Guardsman had fallen only moments after he had, clutching the gaping tear across his chestplate before he had lain still, strangely peaceful as he was; cloaked in blood and cheated the ordained right to vengeance by those he had trusted as brothers.

Something; a boot, perhaps, slammed into the Warden's shoulder, and he crashed upon his back, gasping for breath, before he registered the ring of metal that hung over his head; the end of a barrel.

Invictus still was not quite certain of which he was most disappointed in. The betrayal of those he had trusted as brothers in arms; those who had walked the blasted wastes of the Front to hunt his quarry at his side, or his own ineptitude to spot the seed of corruption.

He was still asking the question when the traitor pulled the trigger, and blackness fell.