Half a mile below the surface hatches the grand cathedral of the Schola Psychicae stands at the heart of the city. It had been carefully carved into the soul of the mountain, as had every other structure down here. This structure however, unlike its dirty, rough edged and haphazard neighbours was a sight to behold. Colossal columns run down either side of a doorway that stretched twenty foot high, each engraved with countless runes and names of heroes gone by. Precious minerals and gems lay set deep into the stone, polished so clear that they reflect the little light that reached these depths in an array of colors that the rest of mankind could only dream of experiencing. Behind the five foot thick Ashoak wooden doors lay a marble floor that gleamed so bright it would feel like a sin to place your foot upon it.
Father Dorecketh did place his foot upon it, and did so again and again as he paced the huge worshipping hall, his ornamental blue robes effortlessly flowing behind him like full mast flags. Every ten paces he passed a column holding a statue of one of his forefathers, and each time he peered up into their grey empty eyes, seeking support, guidance, inspiration… anything. He shook his head in disbelief. His peers had now gathered by the altar and were arguing amongst themselves. Running his hands through his long greying hair he tried to block out the sound to focus on his thoughts, but all he could focus on were the thoughts of his fellow Psykers. He knew their fears, and they in turn knew his, that was what it was to be in the Schola Psychicae. As if on que the hall fell silent.
"Enough!" Dorecketh bellowed, his deep voice amplifying through the entire cathedral.
"We do not have the luxury of time, nor I the patience for this childish squabbling. It is in this moment that we must come together, to lead our people, to do or to die."
"To do or to die" the room echoed.
Commander Mortiz was late, and he hated being late, especially if it was due to no fault of his own. He rushed around his quarters searching for everything he needed. It was a miracle he could find anything the mess he had left it in. He cursed, why was it today he chose to patrol the abandoned mines, sure he had his duties, but why did it have to be today. He hurriedly pulled on his dark blue regimental coat of the Planetary Defence force, his aide clasping the bronze buttons into place. Before he could ask he was passed his hat, the crimson red fabric matching the las pistol that had already been holstered and attached to the metal belt he never realised was already around his waist.
"Wait, when did you…" He began, his husky voice sounding rather perplexed.
"Just now sir, your data slates are in your missions folder, and your escort are awaiting outside." The reply came before Mortiz had a chance to finish his question. He grabbed his mission folder from his unmade bunk and began to pace out of the room and down the hall lighting a cigar, shouting back "You know Cleeton, lad, sometimes i think i would forget my own head if you were not here."
"Yes sir, your boots sir." Cleeton cried out.
The view from atop mount Vivus was always an enchanting one, a three sixty panoramic view of sheer emptiness. The sun rise would slowly illuminate the vast deserts that stretched as far as a man's eye could see, picking out the small farming towns that from this height looked like nothing more than random tiny black ink splats on a very large blank red canvas. The Vivus cliff divers would start their calls, the faded blue birds swooping at breakneck speeds down the mountain side catching insects before returning to their nests to feed the crying chicks. Occasionally a black mountain hawk would intercept, twisting and turning as it hunted its prey, the spectacle unfolding reminiscent of the bitter dog fights that raged in the skies during the Green Wars that ended a mere century before.
Sergeant Kratz sat back to the wall in the corner of his guard bunker, a small outpost at the peak of the mountain with rock walls six foot thick. He took in a deep breath, choosing to take in the crisp cold clean mountain air rather than use his oxygen aid. Not many men could survive these heights without an oxygen aid, but then if you could not survive then you had no place up the mountain and you definitely had no place in the Zenith Corps. That's what Kratz believed, that is what Kratz preached. Brokkus sat opposite him, his tall muscular frame perched on an upturned supply crate. He was cracking sparrow eggs into an empty ammo tin that sat being heated on top of a slightly charged plasma cell. He closed his eyes as he wafted the steam into his face, picturing his grandfather, remembering the smells, the tastes. "It needs more rock thyme" he muttered in his coarse voice slurping a spoon full of the stew.
"Starving Brok just give us a chug" Rudd exclaimed holding out his tin ration mug.
"Yeh, Smells just right Brok come on" Declo seconded shoving his mug forward.
The two short and stocky brothers still dressed in full patrol gear had been waiting over an hour since Brokkus had started cooking, their tired white eyes standing out on their blackened dirt painted faces like stars in a night sky. It had been over twenty hours since they last ate, and 30 hours since they slept, patience was a world away.
"Get me some rock thyme and we will be good to go, trust me it'll be worth it" Brokkus gestured towards the doorway slotting his spoon back into the top pocket of his greasy white vest top.
"Don't send Slippy..." Kratz urged "he'll chuck himself off the edge and we will never get our tucker"
The room filled with laughter, Slippy, a scrawny baby faced lad better known as Hatem was the newest recruit to Kratz's squad. He gave a wry smile and headed out the door after gesturing his displeasure with a flick of the fingers.
A short minute passed before Hatem burst back through the way he left.
"Sarge the convoys are on the move!" he struggled through wheezing lungs.
"which ones lad?"
"All of them!"
The farmstead was already ablaze by the time trooper Stanton reached it. In fact the whole area was, thick black smoke filled the small dirt tracks connecting the farming habs making it near impossible to see. Civilians were rushing in a panicked frenzy to gather any remaining belongings before fleeing back to the city. Little did they know their efforts would be fruitless. Trooper Stanton ducked as another shell came whistling in, decimating a habhouse and sending shrapnel flying across the road. Nearby a cart exploded, the wood splinters cutting down two civilians in an instant. Trooper Stanton froze. This was the first time he saw death. He managed to come to senses in time to run for cover as another shell smashed into the road. He fell behind a garden wall where a young boy sat clasping his hands to his ears screaming. Trooper Stanton looked at him, and saw what his whole body craved to do. He shook the thought from his mind, he had a duty, a purpose, he was to defend this farming town to his last breath. "Do or die" he muttered and with a new found confidence he ran through the smoke towards his guard tower. More shells came whistling in and this time they came accompanied by gun fire, he could hear the roar of engines in the distance, the deep mechanical groans edging closer and closer and getting louder and louder.
The guard tower stood at the edge of the town built into the unmanned defensive wall that was designed more for the purpose of raising morale then to keep the enemy out. Most of it had already crumbled to the shells that found their mark, the rubble creating stepping stones in the flooded moat.
Stanton rushed up the ladder and into the control room with his las rifle slung over his shoulder, his wet boots slipping on the horizontal metallic bars. He rushed straight over to the communications box and began relaying information. "Come in command, this is farmstead 6241, we are under direct attack, I repeat we are under direct attack!" his voice was broken, panicked. "Come in command, this is…"
"Farmstead 6241 this is command please confirm your status" the radio crackled back interrupting, the operator clear and calm clearly had no explosions to worry about Stanton thought as another shell shook the ground.
"We are under direct attack! Reinforcements required immediately!"
"Farmstead 6241 this is command, please confirm the appropriate military status"
"STATUS WE ARE KNEE DEEP IN THE KETHING STINK! SEND MEN HERE NOW!" the anger sore through Stanton's veins. He looked up and stared out the wide viewing screen only to see that the war wagons were now a matter of a hundred metres away, racing across the desert at full speed. The radio was repeating its appropriate status command. He managed a one word response of blind fear before a shell disintegrated him.
"GREENSKINS!"
