1
'From those who have seen the raging hordes
From those who heard the warped ones whisper
From those who have screamed the wild cry of battle
From those who have snarled hatred into hell's flames
From those who have lost all, yet remain true
From these few we come.
We are the Hounds and we are born from the maelstrom of battle.
Emperor, Send us home'
(Battle-Litany of the Imperial Hounds)
Onosun Pratel stepped onto the ramp and paused. Behind him, a squad of tall, powerful warriors stood patiently, their tough ceramite armour framing them with a sheath of power that served to magnify the truth of what they were. They were Adeptus Astartes. Immortal warriors of mankind, born from the very blood of the Emperor himself. They were more legend than warrior – more myths than men.
Pratel had seen them fight. They were unstoppable.
And they wanted him.
He reached behind him and grasped the hilt of his sword. There was no reaction from the men around him. It was unlikely that his weapon could even come close to harming them, even if he had wished it to do so. No, the touch of the weapon was to reassure him – to make him believe that this was really happening. Cold steel reaffirmed the reality of the situation. He was to be claimed by the Imperial Hounds Chapter – to face, he was told, trials and challenges that would wrack his body and alter his mind irreversibly - to be transformed, over a long, arduous process, into a superhuman Space Marine. The Chaplain had explained all this, even telling him that he could always turn down the offer, and stay here, on his home planet. Such an offer seemed a rare privilege from the inhuman warrior-gods.
The sword Onosun held was a primitive, brutal thing, but it had seen its share of blood and death here, on his homeworld. It wasn't even worth hesitating. He took one last look at the ground of his home planet, and stepped into the gunship, footsteps echoing hollowly.
The 10-man squad lead by Chaplain Hyndasin followed him aboard, their grey-brown armour, deep bronze trim and dark green shoulderpads complimenting the scheme of the gunship. Onosun's keen eyes saw that the wolfhound design emblazoned on the Hound's shoulders was repeated within the gunship. They weren't the only occupants of the gunship, though. Aside from the servitor-pilots that Onosun knew must fly the Thunderhawk, there were two other individuals on board. They were roughly the same age as Onosun, but he would have placed them both as being slightly older than him. Pratel quickly realised that they had the same fate as him. They were initiates. One of them had a jagged scar running down his face, with the twisted look of freshly-healed tissue, broken in places. He broke into a nervous grin as Pratel sat beside him.
"Nail-biting, eh?" asked the young man, his friendly manner dissipating some of the tension that the Space Marines' presence brought.
"Yeah…" replied Pratel, his attention distracted by what was going on around them. Imperial Hounds were strapping themselves in via harnesses on the walls. There were metallic thuds as the warriors' power-armour banged against the ship's gun-metal. No-one made any move to strap the unarmoured recruits in, or even indicated that they should do so. He gestured at the straps behind him.
"Do you think that-" the ship suddenly lurched upwards, throwing Pratel off-balance. He staggered to his feet and saw that the recruit beside him was hanging on to one of the harnesses, grinning sheepishly. The other recruit was doing the same, albeit with a more refined smile.
"Not quick enough, mate" chastised Pratel's neighbour, humour apparent in his voice. "Don't worry, they got us with it too, when we came here- we can't figure out how to work the damn harnesses" - he demonstrated by tugging sharply on the belt behind him.
"Didn't ...they tell you?" asked Pratel, mimicking the method the other recruits used to secure himself. He immediately realised it was a stupid question. It was clear that the testing process began straight away – if recruits couldn't figure out how to survive gunship takeoff, they would never be Space Marines.
"Nah" came the reply "And we didn't ask"
Pratel nodded silently, sliding his glance over the dust-brown armour of the Hounds strapped to the wall. He understood that. His companions were like him, of course. That made sense, if you thought about it. Certain types would naturally gravitate to these sorts of positions. Sliding his gaze around, he noticed the other recruit eyeing him up from the far wall, measuring, observing and thinking. It suddenly struck him that he was doing exactly the same thing. He saw the thought reach the mind of his opposite, too. A brief smile passed between them, humour at the realised similarity. Certain types indeed.
"But it's not so bad as long as you don't mind a bit of strain on the bumpy bits" continued the scarred recruit, apparently unaware of the exchange. Pratel nodded and turned to examine his harness. He couldn't make any kind of guess as to what the harnesses fibres were made out of, but he made an attempt at figuring out the catch that kept it locked. The others watched impassively. If he knew their minds, they would expect no less. Eventually, Pratel let it be – he had some idea of how to work the first release, but not the second, and it wouldn't be done to try too hard and fail now.
He looked at his two associates.
"So" he said, falling back on the quiet confidence that had got him this far. "Who are you?"
The gunship ride was mercifully brief, for all its bumps and turbulence, but Pratel managed to learn that his companions were Geravus and Rydel, and that they had served alongside the Hounds in the siege of Editun – he had been right in assuming they were older than him, they were eighteen and nineteen Sol standard respectively. Oddly, they had heard of him. Pratel was surprised to learn that his guerrilla band had been discussed as far afield as Editun, but brushed off their compliments. He was a killer, not a hero.
As the gunship came to a halt, the Space Marines, who had remained silent and near-motionless up until this point, disengaged their harnesses and stepped down in perfect harmony. The Thunderhawk lowered its ramp and they all filed past the recruits and disembarked, except for the black-armoured form of Chaplain Hyndasin, who strode over and regarded the recruits impassively through his skull-pattern mask.
" I have spoken to you all before" He stated, the harsh gravelly voice echoing in the gunship's hold. "And I have told you all that this journey will be arduous"
"I know you think you have faced much already, that you have seen horror, but you are wrong – what you have faced pales into insignificance next to the tests we shall put you through" The skull mask swept from side to side, taking in the young men, who suddenly seemed weak and frail in comparison to his intimidating power-armour. The skull stopped, the deep gaze resting on Pratel.
"But I give you one more chance now"
"This will be the most torturous time of your life – you shall be tested to destruction and expected to prevail over suffering unimaginable" He switched his gaze to Geravus' scarred features.
"Only the strongest of you will survive- if any of you at all" Straightening up, he stood squarely, his armour highlighted by the glow of the lights above him "And so, I ask you all for the last time – do you want to be Astartes? Do you really think you should be here?"
It wasn't a leading question, or a rhetorical one. The Chaplain was genuinely offering them the choice. Pratel could stand up right now and turn down the offer. He could bow his head and go back to his homeland and rebuild his life, and never see war again. He genuinely could.
He couldn't, though.
The answer came from deep within him, but it didn't take long for him to realise he had known this for a long time. Ever since the Ork invasion, Onosun Pratel had come into his own. He had learnt to fight, to kill, to lead men into desperate situations and lead them out again. Something within him felt at home on the battlefield. Just as he felt at home here, aboard a ship full of these godlike warriors pledged blindly in service to the will of the Emperor. As ridiculous as it sounded, it just felt right somehow. He couldn't leave now. The Chaplain's offer of release offered him precisely nothing. Here was his future – however it would play out.
The recruits sat in silence, not daring to move in case their movements were misinterpreted by Hyndasin, or worse- their fellows. All three of them had faced snarling ork opponents twice their size without a shudder, but right now, in the company of allies, they were afraid to move, lest some subtle sign of weakness be shown by it.
"Very well" nodded Hyndasin, some trace of emotion in his booming voice that might well have been relief. "Head out onto the flight deck"
With this, he turned and left, leaving the recruits warily eyeing each other in the bowels of the ship. One after another, they stood up and filed out after him.
***
Pack Master Culdor was glad to see that all three of the potential recruits had taken up the offer. As always, Hyndasin's skull-mask had revealed nothing as he stepped off the gunship, so Culdor had been forced to wait until he could see the recruits themselves. How small they looked next to Hyndasin's bodyguard, who saluted him quickly as they headed on to their quarters. Culdor still occasionally found himself surprised by the diminutive size of regular humans next to Space Marines – they sometimes looked like a completely separate race. Which it could be argued was true – certain traits of humanity were lost to a Space Marine. The recruits had formed up in a line in front of him. No-one had asked them to, or even indicated that he was in charge. This was a good omen – the recruits had picked him out by his mere presence of authority, and now stood patiently awaiting instruction. They were nervous, though. He could smell it.
"You have decided to accept our offer, and join us" he stated, letting that sink in while he looked them over.
"You are strong on the world you came from, but here you are weak – here you are as children"
He paused, staring into the eyes of each. Two were known to him personally. The other he had heard of from Sergeant Myrtah. The tough scout-sergeant had surprised him with the grudging endorsement. Myrtah was not easily impressed. Of course, the recruit himself could not know that anything he had done was at all remarkable to an Imperial Hound – that would spoil him, lead him to think he was above the others. No, they needed to spend their initiation in each other's company, suffering together as the lowest of curs. Pride was corrisive and destructive in a recruit.
"You will have to be tested, before we continue" he announced. "Report to the Apothecary"
They made to move, then paused, nervous. Culdor smiled a little at their discomfort – he hadn't told them where the Apothecary was. Snapping a stern look back across his features, he pointed them down the appropriate corridor.
"Go!" he commanded, and they shot off as if their lives depended on it, attempting to move quickly while holding some degree of discipline and managing neither.
He watched them out of sight and then permitted himself a smile, broader than before. They seemed like promising recruits. He would have to keep an eye on them. He set off for the bridge, strolling at a leisurely pace.
The conflict on Entaris 3 had been successfully resolved. It hadn't been the most pressing of dangers, but the Hounds had heard a call for help from Imperial authorities and responded. Doubly so, in fact, because Culdor had lead his 7th Reserve Company in support of Pack Master Jalthin's 4th Battle Company. The whole operation had been a resounding success for the Imperial Hounds, and, of course, provided them with some necessary recruits. The Ork threat had been dealt with too, obviously, to the benefit of the inhabitants of Entaris 3.
Culdor strode onto his bridge and sharply saluted his bridge crew, signalling them to continue with their work.
"Transmission from 4th Company" stated Sergeant Kullon, his gruff voice resounding around the bridge. Culdor nodded.
"Show me" he ordered, settling down in his command chair. There was a short pause and then Pack Master Jalthin appeared on the view-screen.
"Greetings, Culdor" he said informally, a gentle camaraderie evident in his tone "I apologise for being out of contact for so long"
"No need to apologise, Jalthin" Culdor responded, smiling "I expect you've been busy mopping up the xenos"
Jalthin grinned heavily at that "Well I've got to have some fun, Culdor – I have a very stressful position, you know"
Culdor laughed "Sure, Jalthin, sure – how's it gone?"
Jalthin shrugged dismissively "A couple of bolter turrets are out of action and a few of the boys need a bit of patching up – aside from that, nothing worth reporting – how about you?"
Culdor cocked his head, mock suspicion playing across his features "We didn't come up against that much opposition down here, Jalthin, all we lost were bolter rounds and artillery shells"
Jalthin grinned again, disarmingly "Well I'd say the greenskins make better use of them, eh?"
Culdor grinned back "As decoration for inside their xenos guts, I'd agree"
Jalthin nodded, still smiling "Well, we've got a bit of a cleanup to do here in the north – got to get the bolter turrets back aboard the ship, burn carcasses and all that – there's still ragged bands of greenskins running around up here, you know – if you wanted to come hunt with me"
Culdor raised an eyebrow at the offer "I swear you positioned me in the south just so you could get all the action, Jalthin"
Jalthin raised his hands non-committedly "I'm saying nothing, Culdor, but remember you did agree to the deployment"
Culdor shook his head "Well next time I'm going to review the enemy concentration a bit more thoroughly before i agree to anything, you sly dog"
Jalthin tutted "Hound, Culdor, not dog – check your terminal if you keep forgetting" he winked to highlight the fact that he was joking "Anyway – when will I next be seeing you?"
Culdor shrugged "The Gathering, most likely – aboard the Kennel"
"I'll look forward to it" said Jalthin, a genuine note in his voice. Imperial Hounds loved the company of their fellows. That was what the Gathering was all about.
"Me too" said Culdor "I'll seek you out so we can go over this deployment again"
They both laughed, and ended the transmission.
Culdor spent a few minutes sat in his chair, drumming his gauntleted fingers on the arm-rest as he dwelled happily on the conversation, then rose himself. He needed to see to his power-armour – to clean it and make sure it was well-maintained. But before he could settle down to the peaceful, familiar ceremony, he would have to make sure his company was in order and the battle-barge was functioning without him. Thankfully, his Marines were competent enough to handle most of that without him. Some tasks, however, required his personal attention.
"Kullon, tell Myrtah to meet me in my quarters" he ordered "And patch me through to the Jistaran PDF"
The blame for the sorry state of Entaris 3's defensive ability lay with its mis-matched system of government. There were three separate nations on the planet, which was somewhat abnormal to start with. All were pledged loyally to the Imperium, and the intention seemed to be that they worked together to benefit the whole planet, with a governing council of sorts made up of representatives from the different nations, with the planet's appointed governor sitting as the head of the council. The system had worked relatively well for some time, but had completely failed to deal with the crisis posed by the Ork invasion. They had dithered and argued to no effect while the greenskins tore into their system, and when the Orks had landed in the territory of Jistaran Union, it had been left to the Jistaran PDF alone to deal with the ensuing land-battle.
Which they had done quite well, reflected Culdor. They had contained the threat as best they could for as long as they could, and when it looked like their position was becoming untenable, they had struck a great blow by attacking the greenskins in their own camp and slaying the Warboss. More than most Planetary Defence Forces would have been able to manage under the circumstances.
Culdor and his Imperial Hounds 7th Company had fought alongside those same brave men in their relief of Editun, a besieged city the PDF had eventually been forced back to. Under tremendous pressure from the Ork force, the PDF had held strong and rallied the defence. They were good men. Despite his protests to Jalthin, he was glad he had been given the opportunity to fight alongside them.
"Lieutenant Tremman here" came a slightly hoarse voice. There was no vid-link this time, just vox.
Culdor winced. The PDF had taken a battering, but if all they could spare to talk with him was a lieutenant, then it had been worse than he had thought. The Imperial Hounds were somewhat less arrogant than most Space Marine Chapters, but it was still difficult to bear in mind how normal humans held up in comparison.
"Greetings, Lieutenant Tremman, this is Pack Master Culdor of the Imperial Hounds – how goes it on the ground?"
There was a pause as the lowly lieutenant grappled with the stature of the man he was talking to, then he responded, some strain evident in his voice.
"Well sir, the Bularni and Angali are moving in to take up the slack, now, – we're trying to find the extent of the remaining threat so we can pen them in. We have scout teams out patrolling, trying to judge how far the Greenies have spread" "Burn teams are being drawn up from those we have left"
"Sounds good, Tremman, Ah-" Culdor hesitated, not knowing how to phrase his question, then decided the best thing was to push ahead bluntly. He was no politician of the Administratum, after all, and he had a certain familiarity with the Jistaran forces.
"Tremman" he said "Are you the highest ranking Jistaran officer left?"
Another pause.
Culdor wondered if he might have offended the lieutenant with his question. Then the vox crackled in response.
"I'm sorry sir, I'm not sure. I saw Captain Blackthorn yesterday, but we've not formed up properly yet, and there's teams still out on patrol. I'm not even completely sure what situation we're in with the Bularni and Angali forces, sir, - I apologise for the lack of order here, sir, but I don't know how much I can help you"
Culdor knew what the man meant. It didn't sound like there was going to be much information for him from the planet's militia. He sighed inwardly. It would have been comforting to be sure that this conflict was going to be mopped up efficiently, but you couldn't have everything.
"Quite alright, Tremman, I know how hard your force was hit. Just relay to the Bularni and Angali that 7th Company will be moving out-system. I don't doubt that our fellows in 4th Company will soon follow, so you may want to bear in mind that the Imperial Hounds are withdrawing from Entaris"
Culdor glanced around his bridge and saw the look of understanding on Kullon's scarred face. There was no need for them here any more – the greenskin menace was minor now, but they would take longer to completely eradicate than the Hounds were willing to wait around – they would be needed much more urgently elsewhere.
"Oh, and stress to them the importance of following your direction on your turf, Tremman. They stayed out of this conflict for too long to swoop in and claim glory" That was true. Culdor had toyed with the idea of mentioning the lack of zeal Entaris 3's other nations had displayed for resisting the Ork incursion to some contacts of his in the Inquisition. He still wasn't completely decided about that.
"Understood, sir" crackled Tremman "And we thank you for your aid"
"No need" Culdor replied "It was our honour"
The vox-link terminated, Culdor swept to his feet, his power-armour adjusting perfectly to his movements.
"Kullon, bring us about and prepare for warp travel – we're heading Sol-central on the patrol route"
"Aye sir, Myrtah awaits you in your quarters, sir"
Culdor nodded his appreciation and left the bridge without ceremony as Kullon began barking orders at the servitors. He had served with the sergeant for twenty years, and he had been his bridge officer for the past seven – he knew Kullon could get the craft prepared for the arduous task of warp-travel on time, and without problems.
His quarters were a short trek from the bridge, and he took the time in transit to review the Entaris campaign as he had experienced it.
They had been inserted into Editun via drop-pod, and, according to the reports received later, right on time, as the greenskins had just overwhelmed the outer defences. Automated Deathwind drop-pods had provided covering fire as the Hounds rallied the defenders and pushed the Orks back. The next few weeks had been spent repulsing Ork attacks on the city with dreadful force, wearing away the Ork numbers while Myrtah and his recruits spotted out potential threats further away. It was at this point they had first heard of Pratel and his guerilla band – Myrtah and his squad had linked up with them to deal with an Ork concentration. Culdor wasn't sure on the details of what they had got up to – he had been busy with the defence of Editun and repulsing the Ork force there, and Myrtah had requested comms silence several times. He did know that the mix of Hounds initiates and guerillas had come up against a significant threat, however, as he had lead the relief force himself, storming across the country to rain fire and death on the hated xenos.
Culdor reached his quarters. The reinforced door opened automatically, sliding aside so he could enter without breaking his pace. The chambers within were sparse and looked mostly like those his Hounds had – a medium-sized square room full of his trophies and personal weapons, arranged and stored in neat order, with two chambers leading out – one a washroom, the other his bed-chamber, where a flat rug awaited him when he eventually decided to turn in. In his main chamber, however, stood Myrtah, who had been unobtrusively admiring some of Culdor's trophies. The sergeant turned as Culdor entered.
"You collect any while you were here, sir?" he asked, casually indicating a preserved Ork-head. Culdor smiled at the man's casual attitude to his superior, but made no mention of it. Myrtah had trained most of the Marines in 7th Company, including Culdor, and he still held the ancient Scout Sergeant in a great deal of respect.
"Nothing worth taking" he replied, wandering over to stand by the old scout. "I believe you got something though, Myrtah?"
Myrtah cocked his head dismissively "I've got a new paperweight, if that's what you mean, sir – didn't take much though – just had to remove a piece of solid bone from it's overly muscled stand"
He turned around and faced the Pack Master with an expression that took Culdor back to his time in the Scouts.
"But you didn't call me here to discuss ork heads, Culdor – what is it?"
Culdor smiled at his old tutor. He still respected the man, but he was long past fearing him or his rough attitude.
"We've got some new recruits, Myrtah – three of them"
Myrtah nodded, a thoughtful look appearing on his face. He took a great deal of pleasure in educating recruits, Culdor knew that. It was probably why he was so good at it.
"You get Hyndasin to pick up that one I told you about?"
Culdor nodded.
"Yes, and two I singled out from the siege – they look a good bunch"
Myrtah scratted uncomfortably behind his ear.
"Aye, well don't get your hopes up – I've seen better lads fail, y'know"
Culdor nodded again.
"I know, but you should begin prepping some of your current lads to initiate – we want to get as many through as possible, and I know you don't like a Scout pack getting too big"
"Aye, well it's hard to move an army of novices silently, lad" came the ususal response. Myrtah looked thoughtful, though. No doubt he was evaluating which of his current Scouts had the potential to take on the final test of initiation. By now he would know them better than they knew themselves.
Culdor waited for a moment, until the Scout Sergeant's attention swung back to him.
"Well I'd best start drilling the pups then, Culdor – you need anything else from me?" Culdor almost laughed. He could see the prospect of evaluating the young Scouts was like an itch to Myrtah, and one the Scout Sergeant was desperate to scratch. He stifled his amusement, though, not wanting to give offense.
"No, nothing else, sergeant"
"Alright then, Pack Master – I'll be seeing you"
The tough Space Marine left without further ceremony, the door sliding shut behind him. The 'pups' would be facing a brutal regimen of training over the next few days, no doubt. Culdor didn't envy them. Myrtah specialised in tough love.
Making sure his quarters were sealed, Culdor began to remove his artificer armour and started to run his mind through the familiar prayers. Time to relax, for a short while. Then he had work to do.