Maledicti Venator

905.M41

The dank jungle was close and humid, thick with hanging vines and the buzz of insects, everywhere small animals went about their daily lives. The air was still and hushed, pregnant with tension as the feeling of a million, million eyes watching from the dark. In a small clearing brittle branches shook in strange ways that had nothing to do with the slight breeze, and the thick leaf mould stirred with the creep of beetles.

Abruptly the insects swirled and scattered as the sound of a large form crashing through the branches approached. Among the vines and branches were flashes of blue and grey growing larger and larger as the intruder charged forwards and then exploded into the clearing. It was a hulking figure well over two metres tall, wrapped head to toe in thick ceramite plates and fibre motive bundles. His armour was shaded deep sea blue across his body but the pauldrons were the grey of an oncoming storm chased with gold finish.

His plate was fresh and clean-cut, uncluttered by honours or laurels. The giant looked like he could charge across a minefield and take on a horde of foes single-handed. Just a glance at him inspired awe and terror, involuntary feelings of veneration and dread, for he was that most legendary of warriors: a Space Marine.

The Space Marine thundered across the clearing then turned back to face the jungle, bolter raised before him. From the treeline came more crashing and deep booming roars of anger, then the canopy exploded outwards as a massive shape tore its way through the unresisting trunks.

It was a nightmarish fusion of machine and living flesh, with six hydraulic legs supporting a boxy hull, welded shut and bound with icon-carved chains. From its body spewed a profusion of barrels and whip-like tendrils that lashed at the air and constantly churned almost as if hungry to grasp something warm and living in its cruel embrace. Towering over all rose a horned head with an animalistic face that gnashed and snarled at the air in a lifelike manner that mere metal had no right to emulate. There was a stench around it that went beyond the mere physical, an otherworldly presence that hung over it. For it was an abomination in every sense of the word, an entity from the nightmare dimension of Warp space bound in physical form: a Chaos Defiler.

The Defiler surveyed the clearing and saw the lone Space Marine standing proudly at the far end of the clearing, brandishing his bolter in a futile gesture of defiance. For a long second the two foes eyed each other, then with a whir of pistons the Defiler elevated its barrels up and away. Instead of obliterating the lone Astartes with a shot from its battle cannon it flexed its whips and took a step forward, clearing wanting the pleasure of the kill to be close and personal.

The Astartes stood firm against the approach of the daemon-machine, bolter seeking out weak joints and pistons, despite the minuscule chance of actually inflicting harm. One step closer the Defiler came then another and another in quick succession but then the game changed. Almost as if it had crossed an invisible trip line several things happened at once; the ground gave way beneath it dropping it several feet, a wave of dirt and debris was thrown up into the air by concussive blasts of fire and seismic booms along with a burst of light and energy.

Confused and blinded by the trap sprung around it the Defiler entirely missed the emergence of new warriors into the fight. From under piles of dirt and debris, they arose in a circle around the monster, each a ceramite giant matching the first Astartes in every way, save that in their hands they carried the bulky forms of ancient relic weapons: Combi-Meltas.

It took three seconds to free themselves from concealment and two more to train their weapons, then in a searing burst of heat and radiation they fired their weapons. Plasteel and ceramite liquefied in the furnace of Melta fire, layers of armour melting away like liquid to reveal pulsing black organs where only gears and pistons had any right to be. The Defiler screamed in pain as its internal organs broiled, then something vital gave way and the monster fell to the dirt convulsing and spewing foul ichors into the air.

The circle of Astartes stood vigil until the monster had finally grown still but their wariness did not lessen, they kept their weapons trained for long minutes until they were convinced that it would stir no more. Finally one with the markings of a sergeant held up his fist and the squad fell into a Codex-pattern overwatch formation. Then he turned and called out, "Toran, attend me." The first marine turned and ran across the clearing, pulling free his helm to reveal a youthful unscarred visage before falling to one knee in deference to his sergeant.

The Sergeant sighed, "Toran, how many times must I tell you not to do that. You are not a scout-novice anymore but an Initiate-Brother of the Storm Heralds Ninth Company, stand tall and proud as an equal."

Young Toran stood sheepishly, if that was possible in full battle plate, "Sorry Sergeant Deparas, old habits die hard. I was merely paying respects to you for saving my life… again."

Sergeant Deparas looked him up and down then growled, "Do not give obeisance to those who merely perform their duty to Terra. The only being worthy of worship in this galaxy is the Divine Emperor on Terra."

As a flush of embarrassment spread across Toran's face the sergeant suddenly grunted with a hint of amusement that let him know he was being teased. "Come on," the sergeant chuckled from under his helm, "Walk with me and perhaps you can know your squad better."

In the dark jungle, something was given pause, a mind that was not mind beheld a most unexpected scene: one of its kin laid low. There was no thought but some primal instinct held it back, cunning and stealth would win where rage and fury had failed. It just needed to find its moment.