My Woman, My Planet: Sacris Forever

by C.P.Scanlan

Modok; a young tribal warrior on the planet Sacris at the fringe of The Imperium, is determined to pass the ritual initiation necessary if he is to have any chance of becoming Brother Modok of the Grey Wardens, the stoic Space Marine chapter which presides over its original planet. The test is gruelling, and Modok knows not always do the warriors who attempt it come back alive.

1: My woman, My Planet – Sacris Forever

By Conor P. Scanlan

The crowd was abuzz with whispers, parting aside as Modok, garbed in ceremonial battle attire—wide imprecise waves of blue body paint streaking vertically across his bare torso and face—surmounted the stage with the other three aspirants to be received by the tribal chief.

In a very real sense Modok had been waiting for this day his entire life, doing everything he could to prepare for the trials he would soon endure. This year, himself included, there were only four aspirants, but this was usual for their village, which scarcely numbered a thousand inhabitants.

Modok was last in line to receive the anointing, kneeling to one knee, his left hand clasping his right shoulder, his head bowed, swearing fealty to the God-Emperor of mankind, and the holy knights of the Storm Wardens Space Marines. The crowd watched from below. They too cupped their right shoulder with their left hand and uttered silent prayers, praying for the safety of the aspirants.

The chief, a pale squat man, his face studded with metal adornments, received the pail of blood from his adjutant. The four aspirants were lined up in front of him, still kneeling, eyes downcast. He muttered the sacred words and doused each of them in turn with the blood, which was a foul-smelling mixture of various local fauna.

Modok winced as the blood sprayed him from above—burning, hot and sticky—and he squinted his eyes shut tight. The blood wasn't harmless, as part of its mixture was the blood of the fen trolls. A monstrous creature of the surrounding swampland, standing twice the height of a man, its blue-black blood had corrosive qualities. One of the other aspirants cried out in surprise, rolling to the ground, clawing at his face, desperately trying to wipe it away, the blood that stained him. Fool, Modok thought. Once the blood dried it was harmless, but to disturb it like that was to invite serious injury as the blood spread and seared the skin deeply. Two of the chief's adjutants had pails of water ready though, and soon the blood was washed away and the man carted off through the crowd, who all prayed for him. Even to only attempt the trials brought a man great respect within the community. He would never be a space marine, but he would have that as consolation.

'Arise, aspirants,' the Chief spoke, waiting for the three to regain their feet. 'Your trials shalt now commence. The first is simple. Each of you will be conducted to separate areas of the Tyteki swampland, and each shall face an opponent in one on one combat. Those who survive will tomorrow fight in a battle to the death. As you well know, only one aspirant succeeds each year, and oftentimes, none will make it. The hope of Tyteki Village goes with you, and may the God-Emperor bless you and steel your courage.'

Now it was the Chief who bowed down to the aspirants, crossing his arms in the traditional way of Modok's people. In response, the crowd did the same, kneeling into the mud, for they knew what this meant. If a space marine was made today, it would be a great honour for the village, and the Storm Wardens numbers were such that any marine was an invaluable asset to the Imperium of Man.

However, there was one who was not bowing, near the back of the crowd, almost hidden from view.

Her name was Yelenzi. Her eyes locked with Modok's over the knelt forms of the other villagers. At this distance he couldn't make out her deep brown eyes, but he knew she was hurt, immensely hurt by his decision to partake in the trials. She couldn't understand how he could love her and leave her to become a space marine, or quite possibly die. She couldn't understand that he was doing this for her. She was unlike any of the village women. She possessed strength like other women of the tribe, but in contrast to them, hers was quiet and enduring, just like the Yelenzi tree she had been named after. And her beauty was unrivalled in Modok's eyes. He gazed at her now; this might be the last time he ever saw her, even if he managed to survive. He drank in everything she was to him like a man parched, etching it into his memory. No matter what happened he would remember her; he would remember the absolute resoluteness of her being as she stood not a hundred metres away from him, though it was a distance that might as well have been infinite, and thus un-fordable. He would remember her dark smoky hair, flowing loose at the back, wisped up into an elaborate hairstyle at the front. He would remember the depth of her eyes and the curve of her cheeks and the scent of her; like the sweet smelling Pak-Pak plant.

She, to him, was home, and always would be. Most of all, he would remember her kindness to him, and the way they could be at peace with one another in silence, without feeling the need for words.

Modok was in love with Yelenzi, and for that reason, he was was determined to become a space marine. It was a sacrifice he knew from a young age he would have to make for the girl who would become the woman he loved. The Storm Wardens chapter waged an eternal war to keep Sacris safe, and Modok resolved in his youth that he would do everything he could to do the same; for his home, for his friends, for the memory of his dead parents and family; but most of all for Yelenzi.

Yelenzi afforded him one last glance, before she turned and fled, out of his life, and perhaps for good. Modok shut his eyes, locking away the pain and remorse. In doing this for her, he was hurting her, but there was no other way. He opened them again with renewed determination.

The trial was set to begin.

Modok, with a detachment of the village's sentinels, and bold villagers who wished to watch, waded out into the marshes. The water was in parts waist-deep, and there were small banks of land dotted across the landscape. Modok had grown up in the hazardous environment, so knew with a keen knowledge how to avoid the dangers: stink bogs, tube snakes, ralicondas, the reptilian derixes—all could spell death if one wasn't careful. To grow up on Sacris, you had to learn all these things or die. Besides, worse terrors than those lurked in the swamplands. And Modok had a feeling he was about to meet such a monster as they approached a large circular plot of land that rose some inches above the waterline. On it were several waiting men, and beside them a large cage with a tarp concealing whatever was inside.

Modok uttered a silent prayer to the emperor and leapt up onto the land. He'd seen enough of these combats to know the anointment of blood wasn't just for ceremonial purposes. Whatever was in there craved it, and it was a device to ensure the creature pursued him and only him. Either he would defeat it and survive, or he would die, and the men beside the cage would finish off the creature with their autoguns.

One of the tribal elders stood on an adjacent plot of land.

'Are you prepared, Modok Kurnai? You may, if you so wish, back out. But be aware you will never again be permitted to compete in the trials.'

'I am ready, elder,

Modok stood tall, hand clasped on the hilt of his sword sheathe, adopting a ready stance. The adjutants beside the cage twenty metres across from him at the other end of the belt of land unfurled the tarp, revealing not any creature he was expecting, but a fen troll; of all creatures on Sacris, one of the most respected, and the most feared. The creature roared and Modok's heart accelerated till he felt he might faint. A derix was a fearsome opponent he'd seen aspirants face many times, and a few times he'd even seen them pitted against ralicondas and the flying venom-spitting arcsaurs; but a fen troll, that was unheard of. The creature roared again, ramming its gnarled bulk against the cage, enraged by the sudden glare of the light. It was at least twice Modok's size, and many times his bulk, and he knew in a contest of strength he didn't stand a chance. But what were his options?

The adjutants stepped away from the cage and pulled a rope, leveraging the door of the cage up. The troll had its furious red eyes fixed only on him. With disgust he could see the troll's profuse nose twitching and probing for the scent; the scent of blood, and copious amounts of it. Its nose led it straight to him. It howled at its previous captors before turning to Modok, a maniacal grin in its eye,that made Modok re-evaluate everything he knew about a fen troll's lack of intelligence. He saw in its eyes something beyond instinct, buried deep, and it was something akin to cruelty and malice, but more animalistic.

Modok doubted he could even outthink the beast now, but it might be the only chance he had. There was no time for formulating plans though, the beast rose up on its bipedal legs, thumping its chest with arms gray and pallid and tree-trunk like in circumference, before charging headfirst towards him, big club-like fists almost grazing the ground as it ran, hunched forward.

Get out of the way, Modok's survival instincts shouted at him, but he'd seen what had happened to a friend who'd once attempted to evade a troll's charge with a sidestep. They could anticipate and predict movement of their prey with ease. His only chance was surprise. He crouched and willed himself to stay rooted to the spot, firing off a few shots from his laspistol, all ineffectual. The first two grazed the troll's shoulders, doing little more than singing hair, and the third, a chest shot, caused the beast to shriek, but to a creature that large it was nothing but a superficial wound. He holstered the laspistol again, a plan coming to him at the last moment.

The troll loped forward at a rapid rate, raising its huge claws to grab its prey. But Modok had other ideas. He too leapt forward into a run, pelting forward hunched, and the troll couldn't understand when its claws caught nothing but air.

Modok skidded into the mud, keeping low and sliding right between the troll's legs, just able to keep his feet and pivot before he lost his balance. The troll, bewildered, snatched at air, and reversing the path of his momentum, Modok jumped into the air, gaining as much height as possible, his sword held downward in a double fist. The blade sliced the flesh, rending through the hard carapace of the troll's back with some difficulty,allowing Modok an anchor point to hang onto; and hang on he did as the troll roared and bucked. He drove the blade in deeper, cutting through ropes of muscle and sinew, edging the blade in as deep as it would go, hoping to hit a vital point or nerve, maybe even the spinal column. He thought he had, but the troll did something unexpected, launching itself backwards into the swamp. Mid-air the blade snapped, brittle as a twig, and Modok tumbled out of the way to avoid being crushed. The troll hit the ground hard, its wound seeping blood, and Modok himself didn't fare much better, landing in the swampy water, which was only a foot deep. The shock drew all the breath from him, and though he tried to get to his feet, he couldn't, not even as thoughts of Yelenzi flashed through his mind.

The next thing he knew he was being held aloft in the air, having momentarily blacked out, maybe only for thirty seconds, but it was enough for the troll to recover and regain the advantage. It raised him out of the water in one claw, and he grimaced as its grip tightened around his waist. He felt a snap as one of his rips cracked under the increasing pressure.

The troll seemed to grin at his pain. It wanted revenge. As animal as its mind was, it could understand an emotion that simple, Modok knew for certain.

'Feth you,' he said, his own survival instincts kicking in, his right arm, whilst pinioned at his side, able to move just enough to feel the laspistol in its holster. The creature wasn't as smart as he thought it was. He laughed at it, a wry laughter that incensed the troll further. The pressure around his waist increased again; another rib snapped as he drew the laspistol out from its holster, holding onto it like the lifeline it was. Trial law prevented any outside interference in a ritual combat; he was on his own.

He aimed by feel as the creature held him skyward, raising him above its head in a stance of brutal animalistic triumph, or so it thought.

Crack, crack. Two shots like a whip slapped into the troll's chest. The grip weakened, more from the creature's surprise than anything, and with the extra arm movement allowed, Modok aimed three more shots. Two slammed into the sinewy neck, acid blood spurting. But the third was what he was hoping for. The discharged las bolt lanced straight through the troll's left eye, no doubt exiting through the back of its brain. It let out a bone chilling howl so abhuman and deject Modok shuddered. The grip of the troll became lax enough for him to squirm out, dropping into the swampy marsh below.

The troll rampaged in its agony, flailing with its almost two metre long arms, splitting in half horizontally. Modok glanced down at the laspistol, knowing it was the only reason he was still alive, and also knowing that if he truly intended to become a space marine, he couldn't always rely on his weapons. The troll was distracted by its pain, and while he owed the troll nothing, he would take it on in honourable single combat. His ribs were tender and his whole body ached with fatigue, but his resolve wouldn't be broken. He'd defeat this troll in honourable combat or he would die here this day. If he couldn't survive, then he wasn't cut out to be a marine.

With ceremony, as the troll spun and flailed in agony, Modok brought the laspistol to his lips, kissing it; then holstering it once again.

The troll shrugged off its pain. One hand over its eye, it looked at Modok with renewed hatred. Revenge was an emotion it knew well; in fact, it was the only emotion it had ever felt, and it was all centred on this one human.

The troll charged again, loping forward with its lengthy arms extended. It wouldn't fall for the same trick again, Modok realised, and the swamp water was up to his knees, which didn't affect the speed of the troll, but locked him in place. The laspistol in its holster felt heavy, nagging to be used, but Modok quelled his desire to make this easy on himself. His honour, his pride, was at stake. The troll screamed at him in its foul animalistic pseudo-language, and extended both arms once again.

Modok leapt up onto the land bank beside him, running along the edge. It gave him extra height, putting him almost on level with the troll, which didn't have time to follow him up onto the bank.

Modok was the one to attack this time, vaulting off from the higher position, the troll's clumsy fist grazing his torso, but ultimately missing, and unable to stop the momentum of his course. Modok landed and latched onto the troll's shoulder like a leech. The troll had built up momentum that it couldn't stop running. Modok hung on, ducking from the troll's attempts to snatch him. He sidled around the troll's back, looping both arms around the troll's thick neck and applying the strongest grip he could call upon from his beleaguered. He roared in tune with the troll, who couldn't sustain its pace any longer, tripping and sending both of them into the mud. Modok hung on, his biceps taut as he applied a lock around the neck, pressing into the troll's windpipe. It struggled to its feet once again, and Modok was wary of its arms as they tried to reach around to pluck him from its back like a gnat, but the oxygen was being starved from its already-injured brain, and it couldn't get the co-ordination right.

With alarm Modok felt the strength draining from his arms, but he gritted his teeth and held on. The troll staggered forward, swaying from side to side until its arms dropped to its side. This was his chance. The troll would out-endure him if he couldn't finish it off now. He readjusted his grip, and in a swift movement, hands placed firmly on either side of the troll's head, and with all his strength, snapped it to the side. The troll's neck cracked, the bones shattering between Modok's hands.

The troll slumped to the ground, and Modok, with nothing left in him, spread his arms wide and fell backwards to the marshy ground two and a half metres below. He shut his eyes and thumped to the ground, landing luckily on soft mud. When the elder and villagers caught up with him, they were amazed to find him alive and the troll dead, blood oozing from its mouth and wounds, its red eye now glazed over and pale. Prayers to the God-Emperor were uttered, and Modok was carted back to the village, fatigued and with injury, but alive.

Consciousness returned incrementally. Reality was dim each time, and when Modok could at last sustain his concentration, he could do so only long enough to realise he was alive, and that he could almost sit up.

The next time he awoke he was fully conscious. He was in a log cabin, laid out on a long bed, tucked away in the corner of a squat room. He propped himself up and saw a tray with a glass of water on a bedside table, and glancing up at the wall behind him, he saw a painting, and knew immediately where he was. It was a painting of a Storm Warden apothecary tending to a fallen battle-brother in the midst of combat. Shots were flying all round, but the expression on the apothecary's face was grim and focused.

As if to confirm what he already knew, Greygor, the tribe's doctor, opened the door.

'Ah, you are awake, that is good.' He said simply, beckoning Modok to drink the water. His lips were parched and he didn't need much encouragement.

'Some in the village thought you wouldn't recover, but they of course underestimated my skills, and not to mention your resilience. You've recovered fast brother Modok.'

'Thankyou Greygor, I feel better.'

'Yes, though your ribs may be tender for a while. It's not every man who faces a fen troll that lives to tell the tale. Even a man such as you can expect a few injuries.'

Modok grinned. 'How long have I been out?'

'Oh, not that long, a couple of days.' Greygor said, shuffling over to take Modok's temperature and administer a pill. 'For the pain.' He said.

Modok gently brushed the proffered pill aside. 'This is a pain I intend to feel and remember, if that is acceptable.'

'Suit yourself, you always were a stubborn child.' Greygor said, but not without affection. 'Now, I believe you have a visitor. I called her over since you were showing signs of regaining consciousness. Are you well enough?'

Modok nodded assent. 'There is one question I might ask first though.'

'Yes. The answer is yes, Modok.'

'What do you refer to?'

'Your question, of course. Yes, Modok, you passed the trial, and if you still wish it, you will be taken as an initiate of the Storm Wardens space marines.'

'But what about the final trial? The ritual combat?'

'Hmmm…' Greygor's eyebrows rose up like tall grey steeples. 'There was another of the aspirants who passed the first trial, and I must say, in almost as spectacular fashion as yourself, and usually you would both face off in a combat to the death. However, there's been an overruling of the usual procedure, on account of the extent of both your injuries, but more so due to the excellent aptitude and ability both of you showed. In other words—'

'It would be a shame to lose either of us. I see.' Modok finished for Greygor. 'But which of the other aspirants won?'

'It was Polias. I shall now take my leave, Yelenzi is keen to see you.'

As swiftly as Greygor departed the room Yelenzi strode in, leaving Modok little time to reflect on Polias's victory. His ruminations would have to wait.

Yelenzi stood stock-still in front of him, her fists curled tight, a look of consternation on her pretty, dirt-marked face.

'You're still going to do it, aren't you?' she said.

Modok threw aside his sheet and struggled to gain his feet. A bandage was wrapped around him from his waist to just below his ribcage, tied at the side. It pained him to move, but he rose up, standing almost two heads higher than the petite Yelenzi.

'I'm sorry, but you know I must.' He said in response.

'That's what you always say, but you don't have to, really, you don't have to at all.'

'Please Yelenzi, you must understand, I'm doing this for you, only for you.'

'That's not true!' She couldn't so much as look at him. He walked towards her.

'Please, I need to know I can protect you, and this planet.'

'But by never seeing me again? What do I care for my life and my home if you aren't a part of it. I'd sooner have a month of a real life with you than be protected from afar by a space marine. You won't even be human anymore, don't you know what they do to foolish men like you?'

'What choice do I have, Yelenzi? Even if it means hurting you, I'd rather you live and have a chance at happiness, even if we remain apart. I am now weak, but I can become strong. Our planet, as you know, isn't in a safe part of the galaxy. You know this. I know we were both young, but you, like all those on this planet, recall the days of the Chaos infestation. That was not long ago, and if not for the Storm Wardens and the protection of the God-Emperor himself, this planet would have fallen.'

'Oh, take your God-Emperor and shove it up the arse of your power suit, you're already sounding like one of them.'

'Please, Yelenzi, I lov—'

Yelenzi spun round and slapped him across the jaw. It stung. He really did love her, and knowing he might never see her again, drew her towards him, ignoring her little protests until she too broke down, the tears flowing.

There was nowhere Yelenzi felt safer than in his arms, but because of his idiotic male pride, he had decided that becoming a space marine—more than human, abhuman—was the only way he could truly protect her.

'I don't want a space marine of the accursed Adeptus Astartes, I want you. Just you.'

'It cannot be. But I will not forget you.' Modok said, and both of them knew he might not be able to keep such a promise, having each heard stories of the way recruited space marines are changed. They become more than human, physically and mentally enhanced, and perhaps changed in other inexplicable and terrible ways—their pasts irrelevant and forfeit.

But they had each other for a moment longer. And Yelenzi knew even if he forgot her, she would never be able to forget him—the man—in all his fallibility and weakness.

All too soon Modok found himself in a space marine transport ship, exiting the atmosphere of Sacris, perhaps for the last time, with a band of other would-be space marines drawn from the planet's populace. He knew not what awaited him, but was eager to find out. He had a planet to protect, and a woman too.