Into the Breach

by victor aeternum

The crew of the Semper Fidelis, warship of the rogue trader Lucius Dynasty, has been petition to assist marooned Imperial Guardsmen. But before the ship even arrive at their destination, the warp has something in store for its eclectic crew. When the true battle for the dominion of Ultra Primaris begins, all will change. This series follows the events of the Butcher's Bill.

10. Chapter 10

Into the Breach:

Part 10

The scion might have been sequestered against his will, but he was far from a prisoner. His darkened chambers were as stark as the rest of the Dynast's villa, but not nearly as tamed. Sparse furniture decorated the room in a minimalist fashion, but a distinctive Sigs-like-flare made the room his. Sola shook her head in disapproval as she explored what now looked like a military barrack turned whore house. Decanters of beaten brass littered the room, their vinegary tinge coating the air of the chamber. Other smells lingered as well, clinging to the hanging curtains which muffled and hid the room's occupants. Sola's attentive mind struggled to ignore the scents but they registered with disturbing clarity, which left her shuddering in her steps. She easily imagined bodies writhing in coitus, sweating and shedding their humors, all of which had left their trace for Sola to find. When she finally reached Sigismund's bed chambers, Sola remained unfazed by the scene her senses had long pieced together.

Three women were entwined in the embrace of their patron, every last one drunken and undressed. Togas, chitons, silken robes, and linen undergarments were shed about the tussled surface of the vast bed. The women, all so similar in appearance they were either siblings or the victims of the latest trend, wrapped their milky white limbs around each other to recover the warmth they had shed during their carnal exploits. Sigs, as oblivious as his mistresses, sported a bushy salt and pepper rug on his haggard face. He nestled between the women, daring to break into a sweaty sheen while the sleepy woman latched onto him desperately for heat. Sola tutted, she hoped Sigs had been more selfless during his lovemaking than after.

One woman started in surprise while the two others half groaned, awakening drowsily. The sister closest to the vice factotum sported a newly acquired welt on her dove white thighs, her confused objection at the early rising more personal than her sisters. When the painted trio had finally understood that they were no longer welcomed to the scion's bed, they gathered their linens and left, their naked feet slapping on the cold stone beneath them.

"Sigs, wake up." Sola prodded him. "Sigs!"

The scion grumbled and turned away. The stench of the night's exertion mingled with that of his unwashed body. Sigismund was far too intoxicated to make sense of her prodding. Thankfully, the facto had been prepared for such an eventuality. After having dealt with him following Hubert's death and his summons to the Senatorum, Sola had anticipated the intensity that his debauchery would take. She let her fingers search within the pouch at her hip and pulled out an auto-dispensing injector. Sola pushed the erstwhile captain onto his side, rolling her eyes at the sweat stained sheet beneath him, and stabbed him in the meat of his buttock. The facto quickly scampered off, knowing full well what the dose of Detox would provoke in the captain. In a few seconds he would be voiding his body of every toxin therein and by whatever means necessary.

When the purging began, Sola stood outside the bed chamber and smirked at the well-deserved discomfort Sigismund was experiencing. The vice factotum was not a cruel woman. She did not take pleasure in the pain of others. But considering the trouble she had gone through in the last few months, the sound of Sigismund painfully retching away his indulgences was a tiny sliver of recompense.

-/-/-/-/-

Blood shot eyes stared with simmering resentment. They had not left Sola for quite some time now. The exhausted scion was chest deep in a Romani bath, the beautiful pool of steaming mineral water soaking his tired flesh. Though the bath itself could welcome a dozen guests, only Sigismund benefitted from its sobering effect while Sola sat on its raised edge, fingers barely threading upon the water's jade green surface. Sola's eyes had also been locked on Sigismund, watching the wretched man groan from his discomfort as he eased his shaking body into the rejuvenating waters. The steam made the room stuffy and humid, its tiled surfaces locking in the heat.

"That was uncalled for," Sigismund finally croaked through parched lips.

"What you judge appropriate these days is probably an indication of how terribly wrong you are, Sigs."

The scion's hooded eyes blinked groggily, relenting before the argument even began. "Why are you here?"

"The Dynasty needs you Sigs. Its time you stopped whining like a newly blooded virgin and get back into the game." Sola cupped the water and let it fall from her hand, the tinkling stream echoing in the private bathroom."

"Virg—" Sigismund scoffed and disappeared beneath the water for a few seconds before rising again and slowly shaking his head, regretting the motion immediately, head pounding with dizzying vertigo . "I'm not interested in what the Dynasty needs." He groaned, wincing away the stabbing in his brain. "Besides, if it needed me I would be hearing it from someone else than you."

"Not unless it wasn't aware of the danger," baited the vice factotum. For a fraction of a second, Sigismund seemed to take the hook, but only for a second. Instead, he rolled his shoulders and eased some stiffness from his joints. What could possibly have happened to rob Sigismund of his zest for life, Sola wondered. Where once the man had burned with a desire to venture into the unknown, wrestle with its monsters, and charge heroically at the slightest possibility of glory, he now wallowed in disgrace. The pyres had burned out of his eyes and not even their ambers remained, only ash. There was barely a flicker of the man Sigismund had been.

Sigismund groaned sullenly. "It's still none of my business. Tell the Lord Dynast that, or any of his hundreds of lackeys, and leave me alone. It's not like I ever did anything to make the old goat happy. Not that he deserves to be..."

There was a certain spite in him which Sola had never witnessed before. Sure, Sigismund was often unhappy with his father's commands or his comments, but it was always a simmering resentment which clouded his complaints, not outright contempt. "You do know it wasn't his fault, what happened that is, right?" reminded Sola.

"Oh yes, quite. It was my sister's fault. That hairy old bitch. Yet another waste of my time in an equally wasted life." The scion grumbled lowly, slapping at the water like a petulant child who knew to hold his tantrums back, least he be punished again.

Sola sighed and shook her head, crossing her arms on the bath's raised edge and resting her chin on them. Sigismund was an enigma to most, and certainly, he was difficult to read even for Sola. One moment he was a sniveling brat, another a suave debonair, the next a brilliant commander and the most radiant hero she had ever seen. Not that Sola had witness many acts of heroism in her life. She doubted true heroes even existed anymore, at least the kinds which stories were written about. Occasional heroes, yes, and Sigismund certainly was one of those. Still, something wasn't right, his moods were usually mercurial, and this one should have passed long ago.

"I've seen you bounce back from a hundred falls, Sigs. What is this really about, is it Hubert?" asked Sola genuinely. Concern tugged at her heart. It was a rare creature, Sola's worry. It could fill her at the mention of a thousand things, but it never voiced itself quite like when Sigismund faltered. That foolish man, whose vision had seen through a hundred waifs and handed her the keys to his kingdom. It was the dying of that vision which shook her to the core, and which threatened to leave a cold and hopeless galaxy in its stead, full of hate and war.

Sigismund's face was suddenly etched with hidden pain, his brow furrowed, and his eyes filled with a sea of unshed tears. Before the unbearable broke him, he disappeared beneath the steaming water again. He stayed there, sitting at the bottom of the pool, occasional bubbles floating to the surface. He only rose again once the danger had passed. He postured with indifference, but Sola knew him too well to believe it. His naked, scarred body bobbed against the lapping waters as he swam to the bath's edge in search of a much needed refreshment, which had been left by servants for this exact purpose.

"There are words which exist Sola," he said as he poured himself a drink from a waiting decanter, "which have destroyed worlds when uttered." He sipped at the therapeutic contents meant to sooth his self-inflicted pain, speaking with his back to Sola. "Commands which have lain men and beast alike to fallow and rot; which have set empires ablaze and forced species into extinction." Sigismund sounded weary just from recalling the memories. These were not the kind you made reading dusty pages, but rather lived and carried throughout a lifetime. There was pain in his voice to, and regret. "Words I have uttered in the name of family, tradition, and duty. Words I have unleashed at the lure of glory and for fortunes immeasurable." He finally turned, eyes meeting Sola's. "But I have never given life to words like those I carry now. Words which Hubert was unable to speak. Words which were kept from me to protect a Dynasty. Sola, the fear that everything I have ever done has been useless and vain gnaws at my bones."

Unbidden, Sola's implants whirred into life, cross referencing dossiers, histories, and the slew of shadowy knowledge which had come into her possession these last months. Data overlaid her vision, fed from her remembrance logi, until she silenced the process with a mental command. What Sigismund was struggling to say came from a place logic alone could never understand. It came from a place where humanity and passion ruled.

There was a raw vulnerability in his voice, in the distorted motions of his body under the water's swell. It was disturbingly inviting. She couldn't help herself but be drawn in. She listened to Sigismund's words, marveling at the truth behind the mask. There were no performances here, no skilled manipulation or calculated stratagem. Only a man stripped of the armor he had worn as a dynast's son. Even haggard and ill, he projected such a presence, that it was no wonder the Semper Fidelis' crew was utterly devoted to him. That even after these long months, they still silently whispered his name in hopes for his return. Sigismund had a magnetic personality which drew followers to him as surely as lungs drew air. It was all part of a vital, energetic requirement of Sigismund's life. To serve as the shield of his people, to be needed. His name was Sigismund, and a child had never been so perfectly named. He was the hand, the protector, the one who sought victory in defense of his ideals.

It was the broken remains of a man denied his vital essence, who spoke to her now.

"I can't tell you if that's true Sigs. Not if you don't let me in. how can I help if I don't know what's hurting you like this?" Sola looked at the man, soaked in wisps of vapors, a child lost in a horrid galaxy, hidden in a man's body. A child like she had once been, and in some ways still was, hidden deep beneath the armor of her logic. Sola was unsure of what to do to still Sigismund's heart, but she hoped it wouldn't leave hers in tatters. With a gesture of her hand and pleading eyes, she bid the scion to turn his eyes from her and shyly began to strip her relics of office from her bodysuit.

Sola feared she would seem untrue. She slipped from her body glove and into the water. Somehow the symmetry felt more honest. Thought the scion felt no shame towards his nakedness, he had chosen to strip his heart of its defenses and share it with Sola. There was a purity in the act of shedding her clothes which lightened the scales of Sola's mind. Her own naked, primal self a testament of the human need to be heard, understood and forgiven. A confession of the soul, cleansed through its embodiment in the flesh. Sola's sweeping arms drew Sigismund's attention as the facto glided along the waters. As the scion turned he could see, stamped on Sola's shoulder blade, the Mechanicus' mark of ownership. Alternating stripes of ink scarred her flesh, denoting her past and her future in the binary tongue of the techna lingua. Strange how a tiny thing like that could command such power over fate; like a heraldic crest, Sigismund remarked to himself bitterly.

Sigs' buoyed steps took him to Sola's side, her enraptured gaze ambrosia to his lashed soul. He rested his head against her shoulder, a thin trickle of steaming water the only barrier between their naked flesh. The strange intimacy only deepened the plight of his sorrow and Sola, once again, was unable to resist the lure of his suffering. She slipped her fingers in his wet locks, caressing his scalp with uncharacteristic affection.

If the Sigismund she knew had truly died from his unshed burden, she would resurrect him. She would need him. She would breathe life into the ideals which kept him aloft, and if they proved too shattered to mend anew, Sola would give him reasons to look past the horizon again and force the horrors which lay there to hesitate once more before impinging on the Emperor's holy domain.

Sola sighed, but not in worry. She had decided to share, for the very first time, her greatest secret. The relief which flooded her was unexpected and she struggled to keep her voice from faltering as she put her life in Sigismund's hands.

"When I was a little girl, my mother named me Seraphina," Sola began. If his secret was such a weighty burden, than she would ease it from his shoulders by sharing her own. "She fell in love with a magos, and he with her. It was a forbidden romance which bore only one fruit, me. But it was not the last sin my father would commit in the eyes of the Cult Mechanicus."

Sigismund listened to Sola's strange confession. Slowly, as her tragic story found the words of express itself, he remembered something the darkness of his own aguish had swallowed for so long. He remembered that pain's harvest did not care for which field it reaped its bounty from.

-/-/-/-/-

The Imperial Guard's response to the Ork threat had been swift. Within a week, an assortment of battalions from all five Persephonian regiments had been assembled at the northern outpost, some four hundred kilometers from New Pariden, with all the necessary support a budding ork menace deserved. Trevin had received the Lord Dynast's blessing in curtailing this disturbing incursion, and all the assistance he required from the rogue trader fleet in orbit. Only the ability to command an outright orbital bombardment had been denied the Brigadier-Colonel. In any instance, it would have helped little as the core of the ork horde was hidden within the bowels of a mountain range and consisted of highly mobile assets. These assets, were the reason for this general staff meeting.

The outpost had been designed to be the eyes and ears of New Pariden in the northern continent and so offered little luxury, Trevin was fine with that. The crowded briefing room was now filled with senior battalion officers and their aids, a handful of enginseers and ministorum chaplain, a commissar clad in their usual black, munitorum scribes and tacticians, as well as Trevin's own guard detail. In this room was everyone who needed to know what command's strategy for dealing with the Orks was, and all those who would benefit from the knowledge of the Kursk veterans.

Ironically, Trevin and his misfits were surrounded by men and women who had every right to challenge their authority. High lords and knights of the Persephonian gentry were arrayed in their luscious cloaks and heavy medals, each outranking Trevin and his ilk back home, but who had sworn their fealty and their swords to their leader in the Guard. Their eyes were bright with the promised glory to come. Trevin wondered how many would die in the days to come. Perhaps if they listened, he could spare a few their untimely fate. The young nobleman ran his hand in his hair and smirked, remembering his fiancée's words when he left their home in the city.

"Your officers have been sitting idle for many months now Gus, they will want to get stuck in the fight and you know it. Play their game, coax their ego, and make them think you're just like them, they will listen all the more for it. It will save their lives."

Josephina had been right of course. He was high born himself, but he had spent years in the trenches with the common foot soldier, and a decade like a savage in the wastes. These soldiers would be soft and foolish compared to his comrades from Kursk, but he wouldn't hold it against them.

"Well gentlemen, and fair ladies," Trevin began as he stood at the briefing lectern in the cramped, and now sweaty, room. "Seems we were called to duty fighting old friends of ours." The assembled cadre of officers chuckled. Already, they had taken the 1st's legacy as their own. They believed themselves ork slayers, though they had never even faced one yet. It was better they laugh, Trevin reminded himself, if they knew the truth they would soil themselves instead. "As is often the case, we have no idea where the greenskins came from. These bastards grow out of the grown after all."

Major Ghalla smirked with his fellows, his youthful face hiding decades of juvenat treatments and the beginning of a portly gut. He was from the 5th, commander of the hussars and their armored fist. "Perhaps we should send the caretakers to trim these unseemly weeds, then." The new blood laughed at his jest. Trevin raised a hand and quieted the officers. Behind him, Jensen lit himself a lho stick and took the time to run a comb through his hair- which was still non regulation length. It was clear in the command sergeant's demeanor he was already betting on who would be the first officer cadre casualty of this war.

"Nonetheless my friends, they are here. However they came to be is not the issue, for we know what they want." Continued Trevin.

"And what's that Brigadier-Colonel? What could beast possibly want?" interrupted another captain from the hussars. This time, Trevin would nip the candour of his officers in the bud.

"Your blood…"

The commander's tone, along with his stone cold glare, put the gathered nobility in their place. Few could match the stern look the madmen of Kursk deployed, it was already regimental myth. Many took out scribble pads or signaled to their aids to be attentive. From opposite his place at the head of the room, Trevin saw Lord Commissar Otto nod in approval. The executioner still had not introduced himself personally, though Trevin knew him by way of the reports the man had filed. A man who had survived as long as he had, through countless warzones during his service to the Golden Throne probably cared little for formalities. When the room was attentive and ready, Trevin flashed them a reassuring smile- the carrot to his stick- before getting to the thick of the matter.

"We are confronted by an unknown number of orks, led by an unknown boss. Munitorum tacticians estimate a few thousand orks with an assortment of odd boys, perhaps a splinter group from a larger waaagh." The adept which had prepared the tactical dossier beamed with pride as his data was laid out. The grin he so happily sported was short lived. "I believe otherwise."

Frowns and darted glances filled the room. Trevin had just blatantly stomped all over the munitorum's expertise. In short, he had questioned the way things were done, and the inviolable wisdom of the chain of command. What's worst, he had done it publicly. Trevin would have precious few moments to explain himself before the black clad killer at the back of the room intervened. Strangely enough, Lord Commissar Otto was watching the commander attentively. Perhaps he had been informed of Trevin's maverick tendencies.

"Orks possess a primal cleverness, but they rarely have the foresight to plan ahead, not in any considerable way. If this were a splinter group we would have known about them along ago. These orks behave strangely for their kind, the reconnaissance shows us as much." Trevin gave the signal which killed the lumens. Behind him, a projector blew up pictures taken by orbital auspex scans and flight missions performed by lightning scout interceptors. Only experienced troopers would have realised the depth of the threat they faced, and one such veteran now presented his observations, despite the fact that munitorum advisors had come to a different conclusion.

"What we first took to be klan banners were actually transmission towers. Crude, I'll give you that, but functional." The Brigadier-Colonel carried on, lighting up locations of the magnified projection. "No ork mob has been spotted outside of the mountain range except when moving fast from one location to another with their vehicles. The infrastructure to support the light armour the orks deploy is nowhere to be seen, so they must be within the mountain itself." Trevin let his words sink in. "The orks are hiding their assets, gentlemen, and not with camo nets or "inspired" paint jobs. They are hiding their movements, troop numbers, resource access, and coordinating the lot with a makeshift comm net, one which we were unable to pick up until we were at their doorstep. These are deliberate tactics specifically meant to foil imperial methods."

"What are you suggesting, Brigadier-Colonel?" the crowd twisted in their seats, hearing the gravelly voice of the lord commissar speak for the first time, and what they hoped would be the last.

Trevin nodded to the executioner. "Dynastic intelligence informs me that this world is a sacred place to the Eldar, which means they would not have allowed the orks to set up shop. We can count the Eldar out as potential masterminds. Under normal circumstances, they would have been our best bet, but not here, not on this world."

"Who's responsible?" The gravelly voice commanded more than asked. Claiming that orks were intelligent enough to outwit men was clear-cut heresy. The kind men were shot for, the kind that undermined moral, the kind the Infantryman's Uplifting Primer had been specifically made to counter. Orks were terrible creatures and the only saving grace in the eyes of the poor sods sent to fight them was their supposed stupidity.

"No one who matters now," lied Trevin, his prime suspect being one of the rogue trader's in orbit. He heard rumors during his time of the Semper Fidelis, rumors of sanctioned xenos. "What matters now Lord Commissar, is that we treat this threat as it should be. We have ourselves a clever warboss. One which knows at least some of our tricks, and who probably hasn't the numbers to throw himself at us the way they usually do. It'll be a sneaky git, and if we wait too long, he'll have what he needs to burn this world to ashes."

Trevin's assessment was dangerously close to being toxic to moral, but it was realistic. Something commissar Otto seemed to concur with. "Carry on, Brigadier-Colonel."

Trevin cast aside the report the munitorum had prepared for him, using instead the notes he and Misfit had furiously pieced together the night before. Trevin might have been in command but he served at the pleasure of the munitorum and the commissariat, as well as the support of his peers and the purse of the Lucius Dynasty. Should he slip up even once, with any of his patrons, and he would be strung up so fast even the Emperor wouldn't be able to intervene.

With that in mind, he outlined his orders for the Persephonian battalions, combining all of their assets to hunt and kill the ork forces, uproot them from the mountain, and burn every damn spore their filthy kind shed in the process. Using a third of his planetary forces, Trevin would scour the northern regions. The 2nd's Galvan inspired formations would ferret out the orks' hidden outposts and sabotaging them. The 3rd's heavy infantry would form a reef onto which any ork raiding party could be broken, especially with the help of the 4th's siege artillery. This would leave the 1st and 5th, mounted infantry and armored fist respectively, to wander the rolling meadows from east to west and strike the highly mobile enemy forces wherever they could find them.

What objections Trevin's stratagem had evoked were effectively plugged by the assistance of Lord Captain Falk's Valhalla and his soldiers. Holding in geosynchronous orbit above the northern continent, the void ship could dispatch wings of aeronautical crafts to offer over watch, reconnaissance, attack runs, or medevac missions for stranded guardsmen. Trevin was also relieved to have Falk's Fallschirmjagers at his disposal. The orbital drop troopers could reinforce any position in little more than twenty minutes, falling from the skies aboard pods which were very similar to the ones the Emperor's own angels of death used. Yes, thought Trevin, this plan would work out nicely.

Juts at the Brigadier-Colonel was about to close the briefing a frazzled lieutenant barged into the staff room unceremoniously. He teetered as the gaze of the officers present all fell on him, and swallowed loudly as he took off his cap. "Forgive the intrusion my lords," he stammered a bit and added a nervously, "and ladies. But a xeno has surrendered at our gates."

Murmurs filled the stifling room before Jensen piped up. "You mean to tell me an ork surrendered to you?" The command sergeant didn't even try to hide is smirk of disbelief.

"No Sirs… not an ork. That would be terribly silly." The silent stares of the crowd prompted him to get on with it. "It's an Eldar my lords," his fingers scratched at the edge of the cap he was holding. "And ladies," he added again.

-/-/-/-/-

Elamnyl was sitting in small room devoid of any decoration. A mirrored window occupied half of a wall to his left. The other walls dropped like grey sheets of pulverized stone, which he guessed was what they actually were. It suited the mon-keigh well, all ruff and sharp, without sense of beauty or continuity. Just blunt, angular, and terminally short. Like their lives. A flickering source of illumination cast the room in shadow, only lighting his seat, a futile attempt to make him fear the dark. The pathfinder had not come to criticize their architecture. He had come to warn them. Though he doubted their simple minds would perceive it as such, he had to try. The mon-keigh didn't trust him, but hadn't expected them to. It explained why his hands and ankles were shackled and bound to a crude metal table, which in turned was bolted to the concrete floor, and left alone in an empty room whose only exit was blocked by a thick armored door with hidden hinges. It was probably locked too, the amount of precautions was either very flattering or simply very redundant. It was just like the mon-keigh to do something over and over again, instead of simply doing it right once.

The heavy steel door opened and a man in a military uniform stalked in, accompanied by another in a long black storm coat. Elamnyl knew everything he needed from the soldier's awkward camouflage-pattern and the many crude stripes on his shoulder. The second was one of the madmen the pathfinder had seen on a field of battle long ago. They were fierce killers who laid their enemies low in great swaths. They also did the same to their allies whenever they failed to live up to the insane creed many of the mon-keigh embraced. One of his visitors was a killer, and the other was a murderer. In this instance, it was hard to tell which was which. The uniformed man sneered angrily, the mangled mess of scars on his face pulling his lips into a threatening rictus. The mon-keigh was muscular and lean, bristling with hatred and disgust at the mere sight of Elamnyl. The other hid his contempt better, an impassive face letting slip none of its revulsion. Except for his eyes, those were alight with righteous fury.

Surprisingly, it was the soldier which spoke to the pathfinder first. The black cloaked man simply stood in the room's corner, one hand grasping the wrist of the other. An oversized pistol was held loosely in his hand, a not so subtle reminder of Elamnyl's future. Strangely angry, these creatures were.

"What are you playing at xeno?" Siggurd leaned in menacingly, hands on the table. "You come here unarmed and expect us to believe you mean us no harm? Do you think it takes so little to convince us? To make us believe you have information that would help us?"

"I have not truly been allowed to speak human, I-" the sound of a hammer being cocked silenced the pathfinder. It seemed he had spoken out of turn. He wondered if the leather clad man would threaten him with death every time he displeased his hosts. Elamnyl decided to be silent instead, and let the mon-keigh play out their ritual.

"Forget your message, and your heresies. You will answer only what I ask. No more. If you do not understand this then I will simply leave and my friend here will send you to your heathen gods. Understood?" the scarred man took a step back, his bulging eyes and slab like teeth retreating with him into the near darkness. The man was undoubtedly a fierce specimen of his warrior kind, but his allure was lost on the century old Eldar, who had seen horrors much more convincing that the one the mon-keigh pretended to be. Elamnyl nodded, his long hair swaying with the gesture.

"Give me your name, your rank, and the details of your mission before you were apprehended." The hardened soldier adopted a pose much like his friend, albeit without a weapon. Elamnyl supposed it was meant to project strength and menace. He stilled a smirk. To the Eldar's sharp senses, the two looked like caged animals, flexing their muscles and baring their chest in an attempt to establish dominance. Nonetheless, they would savage him in a blink of an eye if he gave them reason to.

"I am Elamnyl, outcast of my people and finders of paths, son of Biel-Tan, and I have come to warn you of the creatures you hunt."

"You trying to tell me you're alone out there? The last time Biel-Tan came they had quite the mob with them. Or is it that you're a scout? Is that what a finder of paths is? You here to tell them where to strike when they come for the kill?" Siggurd had not been present for the assault of the Eldar on the Lucius Dynasty outpost, but he had heard of the massacre. Any human death and the hand of the alien was an unforgivable affront, one he burned to redress.

"Yes, I am a scout of sort. I seek out the enemies of Biel-Tan and call the storm down upon those who deserve to die. But that is not why I am here." The bound Eldar shuddered, a sinuous motion. He was working the aches out his body. Elamnyl had long been uncomfortable and rued the fact he could not limber his limbs, few thing were as displeasing to a pathfinder as fetters. The black clad man with the peaked cap made a sound of displeasured."

"You will answer my questions and nothing else xeno." The soldier pointed to his watchdog. "He will not allow your filth to pollute my mind. He will kill you before you are allowed to corrupt a loyal servant of the Emperor. So keep it short, the less you say the better."

Elamnyl had seen the black clad warrior priest of the mon-keigh in action before. He knew the soldier had not lied, he also knew the soldier had left a valuable part out of his threat. The man with the pistol would kill the soldier as well, if he felt the mood take him. It was amusing to consider that there were two prisoners within the small room. One had chains and the other did not but both had come of their own free will. Elamnyl nodded his understanding to the soldier.

The soldier nodded back, "what is your mission?"

"I have hunted the greenskin for many months now, the one which fathered the horde you set yourself against. I wish to slay him, and all his kind."

"So why come here? You throne well know we have no love for your kind." The soldier clenched his fist, cartilage cracking. Elamnyl would need to speak a language the war dogs understood, otherwise his gambit would fail and his mission with it.

"Duty."

The man in black scoffed and spat on the floor. "Your treacherous kind knows no honor, no duty, only the indulgences of your filthy xeno urges."

The scarred soldier squared his shoulders at the sound of his superior barking out. "You heard the man, no honor, no duty. Try again. Why did you come here?"

"Revenge."

The man with the oversized gun nodded to himself, satisfied that Elamnyl fit his mold, while the other was simply content with following the trail his questions exposed.

"You want to kill the men here, don't you? Is that it xeno? You want revenge for your brothers and sisters who died attacking the innocent settlers, is that what makes you wet between the legs?"

Elamnyl tilted his head to get a better look at the soldier's face. Did he honestly believe his own dribble? And why was he mistaking Elamnyl for a woman? By Isha, these beast were stupid things.

"Against the greenskin, human." The soldiers looked to his master, clearly rejecting the answer Elamnyl had given him. The man in black's features, which had grown hot with hateful anger suddenly cooled. A small twinkling light by the man's ear caught the pathfinder's eye then, and he understood. Elamnyl had blamed the claustrophobic chamber and the mistreatment he had suffered at the humans' hands for the pressure in his head. He had even ignored it because its unpleasantness had been only that, unpleasant. But the Eldar knew better now, the sensation he had noticed had been that of an oafish mon-keigh seer peering into his mind. They were reading his thoughts to test his sincerity. Was this what passed for cunning amongst them?

"Go on." The shadowy commissar said.

"Your kind brought him onto this world. He was slain by us. We would have scoured the entire outpost but for the treat of your guns, far above us in the sky. The spores would have been uprooted and the soil cleansed. But he wasn't dead. By the time we returned to purify the sacred grounds he had risen from his grave and disappeared." Elamnyl kept his eyes downcast, away from the violent mon-keigh. He recalled the search with vivid detail, telling them the truth of their folly and the result of their sins. "I tracked him, the beast. It is no chore to do so usually. His kind leave swaths of destruction behind them, but he was different."

The mon-keigh listened to the Eldar's singsong voice, unsettled by its inhuman timber. "It had grew clever for its time with you humans. It hid its trail and often doubled back. It fed on anything it could find, but it never lit a fire. It returned to the outpost to salvage what it needed. It was cleaver, but not more than I was, or so I thought. Its trail was familiar to me and I followed its erratic circles. It always returned to the outpost to pilfer more of what it wanted. So I waited for it in the ruins of your buildings and when it came back, I put a bolt of light through its skull."

The gun totting bigot was casting Elamnyl vicious glances, forced to listen to the xeno tell its tale. The voices in his ear told him to allow the blasphemy to persist. Every moment the executioner's finger strayed from the trigger was another he hated with spiteful scorn. But he obeyed his orders and Elamnyl was allowed to continue.

"Orks are sturdy, paradoxical things. They keep breathing even when dead, and can live without breathing. The only sure way to kill an ork is to burn him, or shred him on a molecular level. So I came to confirm my kill and dispose of the body. I… have not trusted my aim these last few months. The creature had played a childish trick on me, but it had worked. When I came within striking range, readying myself to take its head, it roared back to life and dealt me a grievous blow." The gash across Elamnyl's midriff ached with the sympathetic memory of its birth.

The soldier was frowning. "Yet you survived, for here you are."

Elamnyl nodded, the soft fabrics of his clothes rustling. "Yet I survived. The beast cackled and went on its way. I do not know how long I laid upon the ground, but it was long enough for it to retrieve its clanking monstrosity and load it up with pillage." The pathfinder hesitated to go into the details of his own torturous battle with death, least his thoughts of Uliassen's spirit stone betray him to the mon-keigh. The man in the corner lifted his pistol and aimed it at the Eldar's head. Death and destruction, it was always death and destruction with these creatures.

"The beast must have realized, somewhere along the way, that whenever it was wounded and bled, it left behind spores of itself. The creature had not described lazy circles around the outpost to hide its trail. It knew I would find it. It had sowed its flesh like seeds, and spread its taint. The ork, in a strange irony, had discovered the secret of its own procreation."

"It has not been the first," spat the executioner with his bolt pistol still held firmly in his grip.

The Eldar stared at the mouth of the pistol and leaned to look at its wielder. "No human, it is not the first to do so. War bosses have sent their hordes to die for just the same thing. To breed more warriors, stronger than the last. But this greenskin has enough of a mind to harvest his own flesh. He is methodical, he thinks like you do, at least he tries, and he knows he is vulnerable."

"He shall fall nonetheless xeno, none can stand against the Emperor's light, his hammer and his anvil! Your attempts to demoralize us has failed, now prepare to die!" the commissar stepped forward pressing the muzzle of his gun against the Eldar's head. Siggurd turned his face away, anticipating the splatter.

"My warning is tenfold worst!" The calm of the Eldar was shattered, moments away from an ignoble death. Fear crept into his voice, and the fear made the shadow of death smile. Before the commissar could eliminate the moral threat, his ear bead chimed. Its effect was akin to a chain being yanked. The fervent war dog lifted his aim and stepped back, visibly strained by the effort required to let the Eldar breathe another moment. "Speak, and be warned, your death is assured xeno scum, this is only a reprieve."

Elamnyl sucked the gritty air of the room into his lungs, glad for even that. The mangled faced soldier seemed genuinely surprised to find the pathfinder still alive.

"He's built some kind of machine in the mountain depths, a sort of incubator. From the hundred he has grown from his flesh, he will make thousands, and from them, millions. Or at least he will try until his mind is engulfed by the orkish gestalt and his human born cleverness becomes lost in the tides of his bloodlust."

"And you can lead us to it, is that it?" offered the soldier.

"Yes human, I can. Without me the green tide will swallow you all, but without you it will swallow my people's world. This is why I have come here. This is why I speak the truth, and why it was worth your wrath to do so. For without each other we are doomed"

The commissar flicked the safety on his pistol and holstered it. The soldier, now assured of his superior's satisfaction, pulled a canteen of water from his combat harness and slammed it down in front of the Eldar, leaning the lacerated furrows of his face uncomfortably close to Elamnyl's.

"First things first xeno. It ain't your people's world no more."

-/-/-/-/-

Sigismund was dissecting his thick grox steak with his cutlery. He had been a sorry mess little more than a day ago but now, clad in an administratum adept's tunic and clean shaven, he was heartily swallowing his food with what bordered on ill manners. Sola's story had moved something deep within him, such that he had reached an epiphany. When in turned he had told the vice factotum the truth of his lineage, the matter had resolved itself. He was not a scion, an heir, or a servant of the Dynasty. He was Sigismund, Sieglinde and Hubert's son, and he would do right by them. People depended on him, not things, not mountains of gelts, or age old contracts. No, only people who trusted him to get them through the long night. People like Sola and his crew. He might not be master of the Semper Fidelis anymore, but his duty to the crew remained the same.

"Are you sure you should be eating so much?" asked Sola. The two were in a fine eatery in New Pariden. Large windows bathe the dining hall in soft light as outside, the busy colonists hurried about the city's center. Sola had insisted they go where the Dynasty's eyes and hears would have trouble spying on them, and where they could assemble a team of loyal men and women for the task ahead. Sigs had not only agreed, but he had drawn up an unusual list during their travel planet side. Using the scroll his father had left for him when he exited the Romani bath, which he insisted boiled down to "don't gakk this up," Sigismund had detailed the people and the roles they would play in their clandestine undertaking. People skillful enough to serve a purpose but unimportant enough to be noticed once they went missing from the Dynasty's holdings. With Sola's help, most of the team was already on Ultra Primaris carrying out orders so mundane they suspected nothing, least of all their upcoming recruitment.

Sigismund chewed a mouthful of savory meat and washed it down with a soft honey hued drink, tiny sparkling flecks of gold suspended in its body. "Hair of the beast my dear." Sola stifled a laugh. "What about her, are you sure she should be here?"

Chastity, in her modest attire, could easily pass off as the couple's daughter. Without her power armor and bolter, the young girl's appearance was infinitely more malleable. She kept her gaze fixed on the napkin she was fiddling with while Sigismund scrutinized her.

"Yes, I am. And I was unaware your trampled liver had fallen prey to a grox stampede." She smiled.

"There seems to be little you are unaware of these days Sola. You would make a fine Master of Whispers for the Semper Fidelis, had the post not already been filled." Sigs brushed aside his billowing sleeve and returned to battling the thick cut of meat with his knife and fork.

"There is no Masters of Whispers aboard the ship, I made sure of it." Indeed, she had. Before launching herself into her shadowy plan, Sola has scoured the personnel files and a great deal of other more secret documents. Her analytical prowess had all but ruled out the existence of a spymaster aboard the warship. Sigismund only smirked and gave her a wink. It was hard to tell if he was simply mocking her, but the thought that an agent could have evaded her notice sent a shiver down her spine. It would have undermined her greatly if she had slipped up, casting doubt on many another move she had made in accordance with her presumption.

Chastity had ordered no food or drink, and sulked silently. The young girl didn't know why she was here, with the people she had involuntarily dishonored, but Sola had insisted. Her mistress had insisted on a great many things these last few weeks. Strange exercise regiments, familiarization with the Omnissiah's machine rites, even dancing lessons. Of all the mysteries these activities portended, the only thing Chastity knew for sure was that she hadn't seen her wargear in ages. Perhaps she had lost the privilege of bearing arms in the mistress' company.

"There he is," Sola said changing the subject. Sigismund looked up from his plate long enough to witness the appearance of Barr, whose inconspicuous civilian attire made him all but unremarkable, if not for the ocular implant which replaced the eye he had lost to the Eldar. Barr had been ordered to make planet fall with the last remaining storm troopers, a paltry handful, and directed to shadow and observe Sola. She had hope to assess the troopers' abilities beyond shooting and stabbing things. To her surprise, the trio of soldiers had all but evaded her notice, if not for the swarm of minuscule spy drones she had deployed. The skittering machine insects were tucked into window sills and ceiling rafters. One of the men was sitting outside the dining hall, enjoying a recaf with a woman he had picked up moments before. Another was slurping at a lentil soup three tables away.

The trooper pulled a chair by the ravenous Sigismund and scowled, as much as his injured face could. "What's the meaning of all this?"

Sigismund shrugged as he went on chewing. Sola filled the dead air with a smile "You were given orders, the latest of which was to make contact. Or am I wrong?"

The ocular lens whirred as Barr focused his frustrated sight on the vice factotum, who wore non-descript clothing along with the scion and the virgin guard. "In my experience scribe, you don't ever make contact with your target during an assa…assignment. And your target certainly don't know what your orders are, either. Not unless you bundled it all up and I know for a fact we didn't."

Sigismund perked up. "You were trained for cleaning missions? Is that standard schola progenium curriculum?" The scion looked more curious than concerned.

"Many boys are given to the inquisition, though the drill abbots call it special operations back at the progenium. Those singled out are given the basics, not all are chosen." Barr didn't expand on his explanation, much to Sigismund's disappointment, and left it at that.

"Well, you're about to embark on a special operation then, you and your boys. Off the record and without Dynastic authority. But it's for a good cause," Sola made the offer but Barr was not convinced. The storm trooper seemed to maul it over as he stared at Sigismund finishing yet another glass of his liquor. The man leaned back in his chair, positively stuffed.

"I'm not fighting for this prick. I won't endanger what's left of my brothers unless I get a direct order from the command echelon. Which I heard he's no longer part. Enough good, loyal blood has been spilled for greedy gakkers and their ivory towers." Barr was gesturing at the establishment they were in, and Sola suspected everything beyond its walls. It was true the world was being colonized for profit, but it served the Imperium's aim nonetheless.

"We believe," began Sola. She shared a glance with Sigismund and he nodded. "That the Eldar are plotting to wipe the entire population of Ultra Primaris. We don't expect just another assault. If that's the way they were going, it would have happened already." Chastity looked up from her sulking, realizing that she was privy to something of dire importance. In no uncertain terms, by speaking of the matter in her presence, the mistress was extending her trust again and giving her an opportunity to redeem herself. "We need to uncover their plans and stop them however we can, but the Dynasty won't give the word. It would sow panic and their investments would falter. That's why we have the Lord Dynast's unspoken blessing and nothing else."

Barr growled, helping himself to a glass which had been poured for him by a passing waiter. "What, just the four of us?"

Sola smiled again. "Us four, your back up over there, a navigator, a mechanicus adept, a bounty hunter, and a pilot." Barr followed Sola's nod to see his men clinging to covers which obviously had been blown. The sergeant pressed something hidden within his sleeve and the troopers dispersed as inconspicuously as they could. The soup slurper left a few gelts on his table and made his way to the exit, while the lady killer outside abandoned his girl with her recaf in hand. That one clearly wondered what she did wrong. "Sigismund also believes he can convince the Imperial Guard commander on the planet to help us, so it's not entirely on us."

Barr chewed his tongue and took another gulp of his drink. Sigismund patted his stomach and smirked confidently. "An eye for an eye, Barr. Just like the ancient Terrans of old."

Barr's augmented eye whirred noisily as he stifled a sneer. "Fine, I'm in."

"And me?" asked the virgin guard, ramrod straight at the edge of her seat.

Sola signaled the maître d'hôtel. A slew of waiters cleaned their table in a fanciful flourish, leaving only a discreet bill by Sola's hand. "I have plans for you… special plans."

Chastity smiled brightly, with all the naiveté of youth.

-/-/-/-/-

It was no small feat to stay informed on the flotilla. Between the Dynasty's ships, there was close to a hundred thousand servants. It was like keeping an eye on a small city, which was divided in three parts, and separated by the cold empty sea of the void. Of all those servants only a few thousand actually mattered, which simplified the task immensely. Those were the ship officers and the petty officers which answered to them. From the Lord Captain's own masters of the bridge to the clerics and confessors, tech-adepts and lay artisan, gun captains and whips, all were but a handful of the teeming hordes which served at the Dynasty's pleasure. The daunting task was made manageable by this fact, a fact which unfortunately no longer applied. The colonization of Ultra Primaris had brought nearly three times the Dynasty's numbers within its orbit; the crews of the Bull, Valhalla, and the Stalker being the most prominent of the contracted aid required for such an endeavor. Finally, the planet itself, now populated by a few millions, was a hotbed on contentious interest from all those powerful- and dangerous- enough to afford it.

But Lucretia knew one thing all those busy lords and ladies did not. She knew her brother's mind. As the captain navigated the treacherous corridors of the Chariot, evading the dead ends, the pitfalls, the crushing walls, holofields, and the motion triggered murder servitors, she finally arrived at the heart of the fat bellied transport. Scroll in hand, she approached the Virgin Guard which stood before the vast tempered vault door, gilded with precious metal and glimmering gems. "I have news for her grace, let me in." Blank helm visors stared back at her, the soft hum of their power armor a subtle reminder of their murderous potential. After nearly a minute of silence, the guards parted and the vault opened behind them. Normally such lack of decorum would have been a death sentence for those foolish enough to disrespect a ship's master, but the painful truth was that Lucretia was not the true master of the Chariot. Zenobia, fair matriarch of the Dynasty, was mistress above all others here, and Lucretia but a glorified coach driver.

The captain slipped beyond the thick armored vault and suddenly found herself in another world. Gone were the dark and empty corridors, their warmthless plasteel edges sullen and ominous. Lucretia now stood under a clear blue sky with soft cheerful clouds. Her booted feet now threaded grass, dirt, and sand. The air was fragrant and alive with scents the likes of which should never truly bless a void born ship. Lucretia approached the squat villa by the artificial sea, Virgin Guards with cloaks of silk or animal pelts, draped over their ceramite shoulder, watched her every move. From a distance; on the hills; by the roads; under trees; or atop actual living horses. They almost looked like naked warrior maidens, thanks to their armor. Like legends, their skins were fair or lightly tanned, their firm yet supple breasts were carried on proud chests, their nubile bodies sculpted to perfection. Two things dispelled the illusion however, their helmed faceplates and their large godwyn-pattern boltguns. There were no spears or leather skinned shields for these warriors, only ceramite forged into a façade of flesh and the promise of a bloody death for those who threatened their mistress.

The captain walked up the granite steps of the villa and entered without fear. Her breeding robbed her long ago of undignified expressions such as fear, and her confidence assured her safety. The Lady Dynast was wrapped in pristine white robes, their edges trimmed with Ultramar's blue, and the fabric held in place by a golden lion brooch at her shoulder. An elderly lady now, her beauty still shone, her long slender neck holding up a nest of braided and oiled hair, which rose like the crown she never wore. In truth, Lucretia and Zenobia could have been sisters, both wore their eight decades with pride and wisdom, but the captain remained youthful and fresh because it served the Dynasty. Zenobia on the other hand, had long passed the day she could bear children for the Lord Dynast, and so had been left to wither and die according to natures whims. It was a cruel fate, and one Lucretia despised. Women were used and cast off for the sake of their noble born masters, or in the case of the captain, denied their true heritage and rights because of tradition and gender.

The two women embraced in the usual greeting, though none felt relieved for it. "My ability to keep tabs on the affairs of the Dynasty has somewhat been lessened due to the nature of our present predicament. Yet for all that, I have kept my best and most trustworthy eyes on my brother." Lucretia handed the Lady Dynast the scroll she held. Zenobia seemed intrigued but passed the soft velum to her hand maiden, who immediately unfurled the message and read it out loud.

"The cub has risen from his slumber" said the youthful maiden. "Convinced by his merchant queen and blessed by the sun itself, he sets his paws upon his new domain and gathers a pride to his side." The handmaiden was justifiably confused, but kept reading on. "With spears, hound, eyes, and iron body, he visits generals in their home. There is no rhyme or reason, yet the cub prepares to roar."

Zenobia smiled softly and caressed the young girl's head of hair, dismissing her. The Lady Dynast and the captain walked the halls of the villa in relative silence until they reached the artificial sea. The water roared and rushed about, splashing against the villa's stones villa which met at its shore and sprayed salt into the air. Truly, the illusion of life was artfully constructed. Lucretia knew the truth however, that the millions of gallons of water which were pumped and salted by the tech-adepts was just one of the many extravagances which decorated the Lady Dynast's cage.

"Your spies are wise to speak in riddles, but I would rather know the whole of it and your intentions with this visit." Said the graceful matriarch.

Lucretia pulled her cloak about her, saving herself from the worst of the occasional spray. She, like most of the Dynasty, had been born far from natural weather, and the simulacrum bothered her. "My brother was good and done for before his clever bitch dragged him out of his stupor. Whatever is going on with him, it's her doing and her plan, and a plan involving a scion is a plan against the Dynasty."

"I would agree. Only I do not understand why you continue to oppose your brother. Sigismund has lost his command, and his veneer of invincibility, you have succeeded. The foolishness of men has been made clear and the daughters of the Dynasty are now in command of its ships."

Lucretia turned her gaze upon the floor, not in submission but in respect. "The senatorum has a short memory, like the senile old men they are, if Sigismund achieves some kind of heroic feat they will rally to his side again."

Zenobia sighed thoughtfully. She raised Lucretia's chin to meet her eyes and nodded her understanding. "We are close you and I, closer than we were before. You have helped my daughter command her own fate and I understand too well how fickle men's heart can be." The Lady Dynast stroked her stomach softly. "I have already sacrificed one of my guards for you, what else do you need?"

"My agents have told me that Sigismund and Sola, his vice factotum, spoke briefly in the private baths of my father. They tell me that when they met, it was in hushed whispers, the kind with which secrets are shared. My agents could not overhear, yet we need to know what was said. It might be the secret to his recovery. When men and women share naked baths, they either scream in pleasure or plot in whispers."

Zenobia was only too familiar with the saying, having done both herself in her youth. It was often quoted to justify final solutions. Lucretia's lips were still but her eyes begged the question. Did she seek the Lady Dynast's permission to kill her brother? Was fratricide so easily considered? Zenobia prayed Sigismund's secret would be enough to save his life and ruin his claim to the charter of trade. She was convince Lucretia would kill him otherwise. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorn. A skald once said so, in times lost on Terra. I pray you do not burn in the fire you unleash. I will help you as I can."

Lucretia bowed and walked away before being dismissed. There would be no hiding from her just cause. She would rip the bowels of the Semper Fidelis if it came to it. She would find what that ambitious little whore had in store for her brother. What's more, she knew exactly who could help her do it. With her mother and sister urging her, Evangeline would believe anything they chose to tell her. That her brother was a traitor turned by a cut throat opportunist and trying to plot against their father, was the easiest lie of all. It was the easiest because it was so plausible, that it was only a matter of time before it became the truth.