The hull burst open like a titanium-alloy balloon, the evil wisps of long-
imprisoned souls finally released seething out from the exposed decks, and
the tiny, pin-point flashes of small arms fire aboard the doomed Chaos
cruiser as the boarding parties engaged their targets. The scream of
tortured metal as the vessel was finally wrought apart in a massive plasma
reactor blast, destroying several swarms of fighters and bombers that were
circling the ship. Fragments of pulsating, Chaos-warped metal shot out into
the blackness, and the Imperial detachment abandoned the ambush position,
homing back to the rest of the fleet. . . . . '
Battlefleet Entardus resumed orbit around the Cyclops Cluster, patrolling one of the most dangerous grid-cells in the Gothic sector. The ambush detachment had just returned from the Tamahl passage, claiming victory and total annihilation of a Desolator class battleship and its escorts.
Solar Admiral Morfias stood on the bridge of the Emperor class 'Shadowstalker' , studying the various vid-screens in the hope that something interesting would come up. Ever since they had been around the Cyclops Cluster, the most dangerous and infamous patrol in the sector, nothing had happened.
This area was supposed to be renowned for the fast and violent pirate raids carried out by the Eldar fleets, and from the other side of the Cluster came the brutal, head-on attacks of the Space Orks. His Astropaths monitoring the comm channels had reported nothing since the last scheduled report had come through from Port Maw, the home planet of the fleet.
Morfias jumped out of his skin when the bridge doors flew open, and his head Astropath, Serial 665472, burst into the room, his dark, black, flowing robes stained bright red with blood, and his hood thrown back, revealing his twisted and tormented face, horribly mutilated by the rigorous training head Astropaths had to be put through to focus their powers. Serial 665472 held a bolt pistol in one hand, and a powersword in the other. "Sir, we have a problem on the lower decks. . . ." His thin, rasping voice died out, and he slumped to the floor. The bridge medic was called, but the Astropath was too far gone to be revived. Solar Admiral Morfias took the holster with his plasma pistol of its perch on the side of his throne, and strode out the doors, drawing his own powersword as he went.
Serial 665472 had sensed a disturbance in the warp. A slight shimmer, a ripple. This could mean a number of things, but he decided to go and investigate. He had called security, and ordered blocks to all decks under 37. If anything had boarded or possessed any part of the ship, he did not want it spreading. He focused his mind, and drew his chosen, master-crafted weapons. One was fashioned out of the same material as the Golden Throne, and would easily rip through even the toughest of Chaos star-metals. An ancient powersword, handed down for generations, well maintained and sharpened. Also, he held a bolt pistol, its mechanism well-oiled, and its action well-practiced. He now had two objectives for the lower decks, search and destroy, and cleanse. These completed in this order would ensure that the ship was free of all Chaotic influences.
His footsteps echoed down the corridor, but all else was seemingly quiet, which was very unusual for a ship of this size. These were the cargo decks; storage spaces. They had been evacuated, and scanned for any form of life. None had been found, so Serial 556472 was expecting some sort of entity.
Suddenly, the mental alarm bells poised to let him know of any interferences in the warp went off, and the mental shields went up. Serial 556472 wheeled round slowly, trying to find some explanation for the strange warp activity. He found it. a pair of evil, red eyes studying him from the darkness, that was common in these dimly lit, dark, dank passage ways.
Serial 556472 raised the bolt pistol, but the eyes were already gone. He fired anyway, the bolt rounds digging into various crates and boxes, some clanging of the inner hull. A voice of pure evil, thick with hate, so quiet that Serial 556472 could hardly hear it, announced, "My name is Mordred Arkoth, distributor of plagues, and conqueror of souls." Serial 556472 snapped his head in the direction of the sound, but it had already moved. " I have come to seek vengeance on all those who bow down to that weak fool of an Emperor. I have come to show you some real power." The voice was getting closer, and Serial 556472 knew he did not have much time left before he would have to fight, if he didn't do something now. "The only real power was given to the Emperor, bless his name and soul. The forces of Chaos took the power, and twisted it into a machine of pure evil." "NO!", screamed the voice in rage, " We were the first! We spawned your pitiful race as slaves and playthings. You were born of us, out of our matter, but your once your small brains had an idea, they held on to it, and some of those stupid beings escaped, evolved into what are now called humans. Mortals. FOOLS! We shall make you pay for the trouble you have caused!"
Serial 556472 thought all emotion had been drilled out of him by his training procedure that he strictly adhered to everyday. He was wrong, and his outburst of anger proved it. "You are wrong, foul worshipper of Nurgle, for we were the first, and you are the slaves! You bow down to your demi- gods, but only because they pay you in enhancements and alterations to your physical and mental state. You were accidents; experiments gone wrong, and your foolish escapades, such as your venture into this sacred vessel, show it. How dare you tresspass on an Imperial starship, blessed by the Emperor himself, on your own!"
The air in front of him twisted, and formed into a black-robed figure, tall, dark, ancient, and an extreme air of power surrounded it. Serial 556472 fired the bolt pistol, again and again, the bubbling, seething cauldron of hate and anger welling up inside him, the rage controlling his trigger finger. The black figure just laughed. "Who said I was on my own, mortal?" It laughed again. Serial 556472 could now see more, smaller figures appearing, small, twisted, mutilated shapes scurrying toward him, half-lings in comparison to himself. He could smell the stench of decaying flesh, and as the came into sight, the Nurglings started to gibber words of Chaos feverishly, as if in some sort of trance. They came at him in ones or twos, and as he prepared himself to fight, the black-robed figure took a seat on a crate at the back of the room, still laughing. Serial 556472 shot the first one, then the second, and third, before holstering his bolt pistol, and grasping his powersword. The first one to challenge him in single combat was mercilessly cut down, taking the powersword through the ribs, and out the other side. They surrounded him, and suddenly, one uttered a sentence in broken English; "Surrender your arms now, mortal, and we will spare your life!" The ugly, pathetic creature was silenced with a backhand stroke decapitating him, followed with the powersword thrust through his chest. A vile, banshee-like scream issued from the others, at the death of what was obviously their leader.
This drove them into a fanatical state, their mouths frothing, their eyes shining red, they all charged at once. Seven were cut down in a series of strokes, which resulted in the handful that were left fleeing towards their leader, the black-robed figure, who was now standing, and cursing with rage at their failure. A gesture of his decaying hand sent them spiralling back into the warp.
Serial 556472 was bleeding from a dozen tiny cuts, but he was afraid that they were probably infected with some foul disease or another. Suddenly, the figure was gone, and in his place, several units of Chaos terminators, shouting, and baying taunts at Serial 556472. This he could not handle by himself, and he fled the compartment, drawing his bolt pistol as he went. He heard shots ringing off of the walls and deck behind him, as they took pot-shots at him. He heard their manic laughter, and the slam of their feet. He reached the door, and shot out the emergency lock-down control. The thick bulkhead slammed down. 'That'll keep them occupied for awhile', Serial 556472 thought to himself, as he raced to the deck elevator. As he pressed the control for the bridge, he suddenly felt very weak. He called security, and told them about the boarding parties. As he burst through the bridge doors, the last major action he performed was the sealing of the warp rift that had transported the terminators, using the remnants of his mind powers. That will stop anymore getting in, for now. As his mind and senses dulled, and his vision slowly turned to grey, and then black, he hoped his worn and battered soul would find mercy somewhere. . . .
Solar Admiral Morfias took up a defiant stride as he worked his way through the cargo bay, to inspire fear in any who may be following his steps. There were remnants of a small fire-fight here, and also there were dismembered body parts, with burnt fringes, which could only mean that they had been caused with a powersword. Morfias had known Serial 556472 a long time, from when the ship was young. He had been a good friend, and his right hand man, whether it was communication reports or battle tactics.
Morfias would not make the same mistake of trying to take on the forces of Chaos on his own. He had a fully armed and ready crack squad of Space Marines behind him, lurking in the shadows. They had been trained to remain unseen, and strike on command, when the enemy least expects it. The close- combat format of their weaponry was not suited to long, drawn-out fire- fights.
Even in the dimly-lit cargo hangar, he could still see the sudden shimmer that occurred in the air. He pivoted on the spot, seeking out that which did not want to be found.
He spotted it.
Inching towards him, so slow it could not even be seen, was a small group of Nurglings, little plague daemons, trying to use the cover of darkness to retain the element of surprise. He raised his hand, and they were blown apart in a vicious hail of fire, frag grenades, and flame. The close-combat orientated Space Marines fanned out, and encircled the cargo bay, making sure that no foul influences escaped, while Solar Admiral Morfias himself stepped forward. "Show yourself, warped slave of the pathetic Chaotic daemons that cower in the warp!" The black figure stepped out of the shadows right in front of Morfias, which startled him considerably; he hadn't heard anyone moving up so close to him. . . He did not show this on his face, he kept a stern mask of grim determination on at all times, so as not to convey weakness.
The Space Marines backed way slowly; they knew that only their Solar Admiral could handle this opponent, so they formed a circle around the pair, and made sure that their were no other nasty surprises lurking in the shadows.
"Your presence here has caused the death of one of my crew, a good friend, and has put the whole ship at risk. I want vengeance!"
Mordred Arkoth said nothing, only drawing a foul, ancient, blood-encrusted weapon of his own. It was like nothing Morfias had ever seen. It glowed red with the fires of hell, and there seemed to be something, or someone, trapped inside, as the blade emitted a dull, screaming as it was drawn from its rusted sheath.
Morfias charged, seeing only the colour red as he thought of all the pain and sorrow this entity had brought with him onto their vessel. He hacked left and right, forgoing his training in favour of broad swipes at the enemy. The black-robed figure simply laughed as he parried the strokes, batting the blade aside with his own. It seemed like the duelled for hours, and neither could best the other. For every stroke successfully parried, another one came flying at him.
Morfias could see he was getting nowhere fast. He glanced over at his retinue, and as one, they drew chainswords, knives, and other assorted blades and close-combat weaponry. Morfias shook his head, and the Space Marine sergeant nodded, sheathing his powersword. The others followed suit, and they returned to watching the shadows for any sign of daemonic presence.
He needed a plan to beat this absurd creation, otherwise the fate of his crew, and the entire ship was lost to the warp. . .
Suddenly, he had a thought. A small hole in the hull would suck the entire contents of the cargo bay out into space, including the Chaos servant. 'And including yourself' he thought, as he signalled to the Space Marines.
The sergeant nodded again, and one-by-one, they filed out the door. As he went out, the grizzled veteran of a Space Marine muttered a prayer for his commander.
"Why did you choose our sacred vessel to infect with your unholy presence, O foul one?" Morfias slowly moved towards the back of the cargo hangar, parrying blows, and trying to lure the Chaos daemonic fiend on. Mordred Arkoth rasped in his evil tongue, " I have been sent to please my master, by possessing an Imperial scum ship, and claiming it as our own. I was then to direct it back into the warp, to be refitted. . . " 'Just a little closer' thought Morfias. "Chaos will triumph eventually. Join us, and we will spare your pathetic existence' 'NOW!' he thought to himself.
Solar Admiral Morfias whipped the plasma pistol from its holster, and shot directly at Mordred Arkoth. The plasma shot passed right through without harming him, and blew a large hole in the outer hull. A vacuum formed, and crates and other packing items flew out of the hole. Mordred Arkoth had disappeared. 'That got the bastard' thought Morfias, as he held on for dear life to a support strut.
He felt his grasp on the metal beam slipping, and just as he was about to let go, and lay down his life in the service of the Emperor, the cargo hangar started to pressurize, and the oxygen returned to his lungs. The Space Marines rushed in, and secured the area, and the sergeant helped him to his feet. As Solar Admiral Morfias turned on his heel to leave, an ancient, evil voice started to cackle maniacally. . . . . . .
"You won't get rid of me that easily, mortal scum!"
Battlefleet Entardus resumed orbit around the Cyclops Cluster, patrolling one of the most dangerous grid-cells in the Gothic sector. The ambush detachment had just returned from the Tamahl passage, claiming victory and total annihilation of a Desolator class battleship and its escorts.
Solar Admiral Morfias stood on the bridge of the Emperor class 'Shadowstalker' , studying the various vid-screens in the hope that something interesting would come up. Ever since they had been around the Cyclops Cluster, the most dangerous and infamous patrol in the sector, nothing had happened.
This area was supposed to be renowned for the fast and violent pirate raids carried out by the Eldar fleets, and from the other side of the Cluster came the brutal, head-on attacks of the Space Orks. His Astropaths monitoring the comm channels had reported nothing since the last scheduled report had come through from Port Maw, the home planet of the fleet.
Morfias jumped out of his skin when the bridge doors flew open, and his head Astropath, Serial 665472, burst into the room, his dark, black, flowing robes stained bright red with blood, and his hood thrown back, revealing his twisted and tormented face, horribly mutilated by the rigorous training head Astropaths had to be put through to focus their powers. Serial 665472 held a bolt pistol in one hand, and a powersword in the other. "Sir, we have a problem on the lower decks. . . ." His thin, rasping voice died out, and he slumped to the floor. The bridge medic was called, but the Astropath was too far gone to be revived. Solar Admiral Morfias took the holster with his plasma pistol of its perch on the side of his throne, and strode out the doors, drawing his own powersword as he went.
Serial 665472 had sensed a disturbance in the warp. A slight shimmer, a ripple. This could mean a number of things, but he decided to go and investigate. He had called security, and ordered blocks to all decks under 37. If anything had boarded or possessed any part of the ship, he did not want it spreading. He focused his mind, and drew his chosen, master-crafted weapons. One was fashioned out of the same material as the Golden Throne, and would easily rip through even the toughest of Chaos star-metals. An ancient powersword, handed down for generations, well maintained and sharpened. Also, he held a bolt pistol, its mechanism well-oiled, and its action well-practiced. He now had two objectives for the lower decks, search and destroy, and cleanse. These completed in this order would ensure that the ship was free of all Chaotic influences.
His footsteps echoed down the corridor, but all else was seemingly quiet, which was very unusual for a ship of this size. These were the cargo decks; storage spaces. They had been evacuated, and scanned for any form of life. None had been found, so Serial 556472 was expecting some sort of entity.
Suddenly, the mental alarm bells poised to let him know of any interferences in the warp went off, and the mental shields went up. Serial 556472 wheeled round slowly, trying to find some explanation for the strange warp activity. He found it. a pair of evil, red eyes studying him from the darkness, that was common in these dimly lit, dark, dank passage ways.
Serial 556472 raised the bolt pistol, but the eyes were already gone. He fired anyway, the bolt rounds digging into various crates and boxes, some clanging of the inner hull. A voice of pure evil, thick with hate, so quiet that Serial 556472 could hardly hear it, announced, "My name is Mordred Arkoth, distributor of plagues, and conqueror of souls." Serial 556472 snapped his head in the direction of the sound, but it had already moved. " I have come to seek vengeance on all those who bow down to that weak fool of an Emperor. I have come to show you some real power." The voice was getting closer, and Serial 556472 knew he did not have much time left before he would have to fight, if he didn't do something now. "The only real power was given to the Emperor, bless his name and soul. The forces of Chaos took the power, and twisted it into a machine of pure evil." "NO!", screamed the voice in rage, " We were the first! We spawned your pitiful race as slaves and playthings. You were born of us, out of our matter, but your once your small brains had an idea, they held on to it, and some of those stupid beings escaped, evolved into what are now called humans. Mortals. FOOLS! We shall make you pay for the trouble you have caused!"
Serial 556472 thought all emotion had been drilled out of him by his training procedure that he strictly adhered to everyday. He was wrong, and his outburst of anger proved it. "You are wrong, foul worshipper of Nurgle, for we were the first, and you are the slaves! You bow down to your demi- gods, but only because they pay you in enhancements and alterations to your physical and mental state. You were accidents; experiments gone wrong, and your foolish escapades, such as your venture into this sacred vessel, show it. How dare you tresspass on an Imperial starship, blessed by the Emperor himself, on your own!"
The air in front of him twisted, and formed into a black-robed figure, tall, dark, ancient, and an extreme air of power surrounded it. Serial 556472 fired the bolt pistol, again and again, the bubbling, seething cauldron of hate and anger welling up inside him, the rage controlling his trigger finger. The black figure just laughed. "Who said I was on my own, mortal?" It laughed again. Serial 556472 could now see more, smaller figures appearing, small, twisted, mutilated shapes scurrying toward him, half-lings in comparison to himself. He could smell the stench of decaying flesh, and as the came into sight, the Nurglings started to gibber words of Chaos feverishly, as if in some sort of trance. They came at him in ones or twos, and as he prepared himself to fight, the black-robed figure took a seat on a crate at the back of the room, still laughing. Serial 556472 shot the first one, then the second, and third, before holstering his bolt pistol, and grasping his powersword. The first one to challenge him in single combat was mercilessly cut down, taking the powersword through the ribs, and out the other side. They surrounded him, and suddenly, one uttered a sentence in broken English; "Surrender your arms now, mortal, and we will spare your life!" The ugly, pathetic creature was silenced with a backhand stroke decapitating him, followed with the powersword thrust through his chest. A vile, banshee-like scream issued from the others, at the death of what was obviously their leader.
This drove them into a fanatical state, their mouths frothing, their eyes shining red, they all charged at once. Seven were cut down in a series of strokes, which resulted in the handful that were left fleeing towards their leader, the black-robed figure, who was now standing, and cursing with rage at their failure. A gesture of his decaying hand sent them spiralling back into the warp.
Serial 556472 was bleeding from a dozen tiny cuts, but he was afraid that they were probably infected with some foul disease or another. Suddenly, the figure was gone, and in his place, several units of Chaos terminators, shouting, and baying taunts at Serial 556472. This he could not handle by himself, and he fled the compartment, drawing his bolt pistol as he went. He heard shots ringing off of the walls and deck behind him, as they took pot-shots at him. He heard their manic laughter, and the slam of their feet. He reached the door, and shot out the emergency lock-down control. The thick bulkhead slammed down. 'That'll keep them occupied for awhile', Serial 556472 thought to himself, as he raced to the deck elevator. As he pressed the control for the bridge, he suddenly felt very weak. He called security, and told them about the boarding parties. As he burst through the bridge doors, the last major action he performed was the sealing of the warp rift that had transported the terminators, using the remnants of his mind powers. That will stop anymore getting in, for now. As his mind and senses dulled, and his vision slowly turned to grey, and then black, he hoped his worn and battered soul would find mercy somewhere. . . .
Solar Admiral Morfias took up a defiant stride as he worked his way through the cargo bay, to inspire fear in any who may be following his steps. There were remnants of a small fire-fight here, and also there were dismembered body parts, with burnt fringes, which could only mean that they had been caused with a powersword. Morfias had known Serial 556472 a long time, from when the ship was young. He had been a good friend, and his right hand man, whether it was communication reports or battle tactics.
Morfias would not make the same mistake of trying to take on the forces of Chaos on his own. He had a fully armed and ready crack squad of Space Marines behind him, lurking in the shadows. They had been trained to remain unseen, and strike on command, when the enemy least expects it. The close- combat format of their weaponry was not suited to long, drawn-out fire- fights.
Even in the dimly-lit cargo hangar, he could still see the sudden shimmer that occurred in the air. He pivoted on the spot, seeking out that which did not want to be found.
He spotted it.
Inching towards him, so slow it could not even be seen, was a small group of Nurglings, little plague daemons, trying to use the cover of darkness to retain the element of surprise. He raised his hand, and they were blown apart in a vicious hail of fire, frag grenades, and flame. The close-combat orientated Space Marines fanned out, and encircled the cargo bay, making sure that no foul influences escaped, while Solar Admiral Morfias himself stepped forward. "Show yourself, warped slave of the pathetic Chaotic daemons that cower in the warp!" The black figure stepped out of the shadows right in front of Morfias, which startled him considerably; he hadn't heard anyone moving up so close to him. . . He did not show this on his face, he kept a stern mask of grim determination on at all times, so as not to convey weakness.
The Space Marines backed way slowly; they knew that only their Solar Admiral could handle this opponent, so they formed a circle around the pair, and made sure that their were no other nasty surprises lurking in the shadows.
"Your presence here has caused the death of one of my crew, a good friend, and has put the whole ship at risk. I want vengeance!"
Mordred Arkoth said nothing, only drawing a foul, ancient, blood-encrusted weapon of his own. It was like nothing Morfias had ever seen. It glowed red with the fires of hell, and there seemed to be something, or someone, trapped inside, as the blade emitted a dull, screaming as it was drawn from its rusted sheath.
Morfias charged, seeing only the colour red as he thought of all the pain and sorrow this entity had brought with him onto their vessel. He hacked left and right, forgoing his training in favour of broad swipes at the enemy. The black-robed figure simply laughed as he parried the strokes, batting the blade aside with his own. It seemed like the duelled for hours, and neither could best the other. For every stroke successfully parried, another one came flying at him.
Morfias could see he was getting nowhere fast. He glanced over at his retinue, and as one, they drew chainswords, knives, and other assorted blades and close-combat weaponry. Morfias shook his head, and the Space Marine sergeant nodded, sheathing his powersword. The others followed suit, and they returned to watching the shadows for any sign of daemonic presence.
He needed a plan to beat this absurd creation, otherwise the fate of his crew, and the entire ship was lost to the warp. . .
Suddenly, he had a thought. A small hole in the hull would suck the entire contents of the cargo bay out into space, including the Chaos servant. 'And including yourself' he thought, as he signalled to the Space Marines.
The sergeant nodded again, and one-by-one, they filed out the door. As he went out, the grizzled veteran of a Space Marine muttered a prayer for his commander.
"Why did you choose our sacred vessel to infect with your unholy presence, O foul one?" Morfias slowly moved towards the back of the cargo hangar, parrying blows, and trying to lure the Chaos daemonic fiend on. Mordred Arkoth rasped in his evil tongue, " I have been sent to please my master, by possessing an Imperial scum ship, and claiming it as our own. I was then to direct it back into the warp, to be refitted. . . " 'Just a little closer' thought Morfias. "Chaos will triumph eventually. Join us, and we will spare your pathetic existence' 'NOW!' he thought to himself.
Solar Admiral Morfias whipped the plasma pistol from its holster, and shot directly at Mordred Arkoth. The plasma shot passed right through without harming him, and blew a large hole in the outer hull. A vacuum formed, and crates and other packing items flew out of the hole. Mordred Arkoth had disappeared. 'That got the bastard' thought Morfias, as he held on for dear life to a support strut.
He felt his grasp on the metal beam slipping, and just as he was about to let go, and lay down his life in the service of the Emperor, the cargo hangar started to pressurize, and the oxygen returned to his lungs. The Space Marines rushed in, and secured the area, and the sergeant helped him to his feet. As Solar Admiral Morfias turned on his heel to leave, an ancient, evil voice started to cackle maniacally. . . . . . .
"You won't get rid of me that easily, mortal scum!"