Hey chaps, here's chapter 8 of the story. Once again, I find myself apologising for my poor upload schedule but luckily I've got a bit of a treat for you. When I finally completed this chapter, it stood at about 14,000 words (yes, I know). I decided that that was too long, so I split it. I'll release the other part of this chapter tomorrow as Chapter 9 (sorry if that's a little confusing). I'm hoping to get the next one out before the end of July. Thank you to all the messages I've received, and your words of encouragement (some of which were very blunt :D) and I hope you enjoy it.
Song of the day: The Passenger – Iggy Pop
Chapter 8 – On the Run
The storm had broken in the early hours of the morning, the murky clouds retreating as quickly as an army put to flight. Now the sun reigned supreme over its expansive blue kingdom, hanging high in the air, about to reach its zenith with not a cloud in sight. The dramatic turn in the weather was a welcome change to Locke.
Walking through snow was hard enough without the visibility being reduced by a vicious blizzard. Although, the rays of sunshine that cascaded down offered little in the way of warmth to the beleaguered soldier, but the combination of light along with his good progress was enough to keep him in good spirits.
Got enough food to last me a few days, if I ration it, could last me 'bout a week. If I run out, I'll have to forage or hunt. Hope it don't come to that, hunting is gonna be a right bitch without my lasrifle.
The wariness concerning his food situation was never too far away from his thoughts. The idea of scavenging for food did not sit well with him. Guardsman were taught early on in basic training to be very mindful of eating any local fauna and flora they happened to find. There had been too many incidents of stupid and easily avoidable deaths to disease or poisoning.
Turning his attention to a more positive side of things, he reflected on his successful journey thus far. The first hour of any long march is always the worst. At first, aching and tired limbs protest at the unending pace, while the shoulders fidget under the weight of the pack and the skin chafes from the constant friction.
Under current circumstances, due to his shoulder wound and the other minor injuries that criss-crossed his body, Locke was experiencing more discomfort than normal. The pain was further magnified by his perspiration, the salty secretions of cold sweat ensuring that his wounds stung all the more. On the upside, at least the aching from his sprained wrist had dissipated somewhat.
Pushing the hardship aside, he reflected on how soldiers often sing once they've broken camp. While not always appropriate for the situation, it does provide several benefits. Firstly, it allows all the men to fall into step and more importantly it creates a good distraction from the pain of travelling.
Eventually though, the body becomes accustomed to the suffering, allowing the mind to wander to other things. By this point, guardsmen will usually begin chatting to one another; Locke, all on his lonesome had no one, so he was simply content to daydream.
While wandering down a wide valley, Locke fantasised about Guardsman Emma Fairley from 2nd Platoon, but was cruelly snatched away from his thoughts by an abrupt change in the sound of his footfall. Instead of the usual crunch of snow, his boot struck something solid, producing a light clunk.
Crouching low to investigate; there hidden beneath the snow was a post made from a type of wood he didn't recognise. Excited by his accidental discovery, Locke eagerly brushed away more of the icy white blanket. Once he'd cleared away most of the snow, the object was revealed to be an old, warped signpost: green from decay and slimy to the touch.
It was difficult to read the inscription due to the degradation, but by tracing his index finger along the indentation in the wood, the guardsman was able to make out the letters.
"Kelna." He whispered, the unfamiliar name twisting in his mouth.
Taking that to mean the name of the settlement, Locke looked up, following the direct line of the arrow. The guardsman smiled behind his rebreather at his good fortune; his journey was almost at an end. Without a second thought, he strode smartly in the direction of the arrow.
It was after crossing a narrow-frozen stream and reaching the summit of a nearby hillock when he found the presence of real civilisation… or more accurately what was left of it. At first, his spirit soared at the thought of friendly imperial faces and a warm bed, but that hope was soon dashed. What he surmised must have been a meagre village, comprising of a few basic dwellings and a small imperial chapel, was now little more than piles of rubble and ash.
The only thing left standing was the chapel, although it was clear that the stout building had seen better days. The roof had been burnt to cinders while dirty black marks flecked the windows and doorways where the flames had spilled out like fiery tongues. The driving wind had caused snow to pile up high into large snowdrifts against the destroyed dwellings, giving them a definite tomb-like aesthetic.
Upon seeing the devastation wrought to this place, Locke dropped prone to the freezing ground. The sudden coldness of the ice pressed against his front, briefly making it difficult to breathe. He took a few moments to adjust to the new temperature gradient while the snow leached the body heat from him like a thermal parasite.
The breeze tickled the edges of his cloak while he watched and waited. The remains of the hamlet were empty and deadly silent apart from a bell in the shrine which hung lopsidedly from a charred rope, clanging gently in the wind. Locke remained still as he continued to observe the destroyed settlement. The minutes passed he saw no sign of life or movement. Drawing his seax from his scabbard, he cautiously approached the village.
The closer he got to the devastated buildings, the greater the thick smell of burnt wood. Even with his rebreather, it still caught at the back of his throat. Tears ran from his eyes as he fought his own body to stifle any coughs that might leak from his chest. Eventually, he won out and his throat began to relax. Moving deeper into the village, he darted from cover to cover, cautiously navigating his way across the icy shattered flagstones.
Upon reaching the shrine, he noticed large splinters scattered around liberally; they were remnants of the shrine's once heavy wooden doors. Sticking close to the wall, Locke edged his way through the open doorway, pressing himself hard up against the cold interior. After a quick inspection, it was obvious the shrine was empty.
Every horizontal surface was festooned with the undisturbed build-up of silver flakes that had fallen through the gaps in the crumbling roof. The destroyed roof allowed light to flood down onto the floor, highlighting the ruin of glass and scorched timber that lay strewn around the building's interior.
Surprisingly, a few of the pews were still somewhat intact, although most were scattered and overturned. The pulpit stood defiantly, refusing to be ruined by the disaster that had befallen the rest of the temple. Locke took comfort at the sight of the unmoved pulpit, reminding him of his own village's church. Nonetheless, it was still unnerving to see the Emperor's place of worship so desolated and lifeless.
Always something eerie 'bout a church with no pastor or flock. Locke opined, as he slowly walked down the rubble-covered aisle. He crept along at a steady pace, his eyes darting from bench to bench.
The guardsman skirted around the rays of sunlight which shone through the destroyed stained-glass windows. If anything lay in the shadows waiting to ambush him, he certainly wasn't going to give them a good view.
The sudden crunch of glass made Locke go still as he frantically tried to find the source of the offending noise. It wasn't until after several heartbeats that he looked down to find he'd trodden on one of the stained-glass fragments. Moving his foot carefully from the crushed shard, he came face to face with the splintered visage of one the primarchs. Locke winced at his accidental blasphemy and looked up toward the ceiling.
"Uh…sorry Lord." He said awkwardly whilst making the sign of the Aquila across his chest. The Emperor's apostle still looked displeased, even more so now that his face bore several cracks.
Approaching the diocese, the Lectitio Divinitatus was spread open upon the pulpit. Curiosity regarding this hamlet's last sermon prompted him to wipe away the errant frost. Locke took a quick glance at the crinkled and matted pages.
It was the prayer for divine help:
Hear my words, O Lord;
listen to my sighing.
Hear my cry for help, my Emperor, my God!
To you I pray, O Lord;
at dawn you will hear my cry;
at dawn I will plead before you and wait…
Something terrible had happened to this place and to the people who had lived here.
The important question burgeoning in Locke's mind was who or what had wrought such destruction upon a tiny village out in the styx.
Is there a war on? It would explain the state of this place, classic scorched-earth tactics. Obviously, this is some sort of Imperial world, but who are they fighting against?
In that moment, it seemed as if the Goddess of fate herself had heard his very question, and deigned to answer it. Just as the guardsman turned to right a fallen statue of the Emperor that had fallen from one of the alcoves, his foot caught upon a tripwire.
Locke's blood ran cold as a small contraption, previously unseen amongst the debris and snow, burst into life. With a loud whine, the machine sent a blinding red star screaming upwards through the hole in the roof and to the heavens beyond.
The sound of the flare's launch was deafening in the confines of the chapel, causing the guardsman to instinctively cover his ears while the flash of light left a trail on his retinas. A few heartbeats later and the room returned back to its state of undisturbed silence while Locke was left stunned.
You've fucking done it now. He reprimanded himself.
For several seconds he watched the glowing projectile lazily arcing across the sky through the gap in the collapsed roof. Finally, the penny dropped and without a second thought he burst into motion.
He sprinted down the aisle, flung himself through the gaping doorway, across the town square and out of the village; all pretext of stealth was abandoned. Whoever had laid that trap was obviously watching. He needed to get out as soon as possible and put as much distance between himself and those terrible ruins.
Not too far away a large scouting force of greenskins was encamped at the edge of a small wood. The orks were going about their usual barbaric business: scrapping with one another, eating, and preparing for their next fight.
Around a dozen of the greenskins had gathered round a large bonfire, sitting on logs or random pieces of scrap, eyes attentively fixed to their next meal. Balanced on two crudely whittled branches sat a spit roasted squig, slowly being rotated by a team of lowly gretchin.
"'URRY UP, I'Z STARVIN'." Facebusta complained, bruxing his considerable canines which protruded menacingly from his bottom jaw.
"SHUT YA GOB, YA GIT. MOIGHT BE ROASTIN' YOU NEXT." Gravesnappah growled, sitting directly across from the other greenskin. Outraged by the threat, the offended ork stood up; the sudden movement sent two of his brethren back over onto their arses as their sitting log was displaced.
"YA WANNA SAY DAT AGAIN!" The infuriated greenskin challenged, gesturing his rusted axe towards the offending ork.
"WE'LL ROAST YA! NOICE AN' SLOW!" Gravesnappah repeated, a grim smile plastered on the swine's face as he pulled a choppa of his own from his belt.
"DAT'S IT, CUM ERE YA GIT! Facebusta roared as they both manoeuvred around the bonfire and charged one another.
Sensing violence, the orks from across the encampment formed a circle around the two combatants, screaming for bloodlust. The gretchin quickly started moving between the larger orks, giving odds, and taking bets in the effort to earn a quick reward of teeth.
After their initial indecisive bout, the two ork fighters separated and began circling each other, grunting, and posturing to the other greenskins around them. Gravesnappah was the smaller of the two and while he might not have been able to match his opponent for strength, he made up for it with speed and cunning.
Facebusta sensing the time was right, charged forwards, lifting his choppa high into the air with a two-handed grip, aiming to bring the terrible blade crashing into the weaselly ork's cranium. His opponent met this assault with his own weapon; sparks flew as the axe blades met.
In a twist of luck, the smaller greenskin managed to redirect his opponents blow, leaving Facebusta unbalanced. Before the large brute could respond with another attack, Gravesnappah used his free hand and smashed his fist directly into the other ork's jaw.
The impact made a sickening crack as the jawbone broke and several teeth were dislodged, flying in several directions. Under such a horrible blow, Facebusta crumpled to the floor with all bravado entirely absent.
Gravesnappah seizing the initiative, wasted no time in planting his choppa into the ork's skull before his collapsed opponent could respond. He roared into the air, announcing his little victory while the gretchin collected their winnings and opportunistic orks moved in to loot the fresh cadaver. Gravesnappah noticed from the corner of his eye, one of the smaller orks pick up the dead greenskin's heavy stubber.
"OI DATZ MA SHOOTA!" The victorious greenskin shouted, outraged that another ork would try to take the best loot from his kill.
"IT'Z MOINE NOW!" Kirgrod replied, brandishing his own axe. Just before the next cycle of violence could happen, the chief nob Drazgad waded into the throng of greenskins, grabbing both Gravesnappah and Kirgrod by the scruff of their necks.
"DATS ENNUF!" The war chief bellowed, smacking the heads of the two combatants against each other.
Flushed with success from his recent kill, Gravesnappah was undeterred and decided to try his luck.
"I'Z SICK OF TAKIN' ORDAS FROM DA LIKES OF YOU!" The greenskin snarled arrogantly, punching Drazgad straight in the face with all the strength he could muster. The ork crowd immediately stopped what they were doing and went silent as they all watched the pair's brawl.
The wiry ork had anticipated that the same tactic that had felled Facebusta would work again. However, he was left more than disappointed. The ork chief barely even registered the blow; merely turning his head and spitting out a bloody tooth.
Turning back to face his stunned opponent, "YOU'Z GONNA PAY FOR DAT!" Drazgad growled; throwing aside the smaller Kirgrod into a group of watching orks.
With both arms free, he practically picked up the surprised challenger and began headbutting him over and over. It wasn't long before the greenskin's face turned into a battered and bloody ruin. The ork nob only stopped his merciless headbanging when one of the younger orks shouted for his attention.
"LOOK!" the greenskin cried excitedly as he pointed towards the red flare. "LOOK OVA DERE DRAZGAD, I'Z TOLD YA DEY'D CUM BACK. DEM 'UMMIES LOVE DEIR KNEELIN' PLACES."
"ZOG OFF YA GIT!" The ork chief glared at the impertinent swine. "CAN'T YA SEE I'Z BUSY 'ERE!" He shouted, momentarily pausing his beating of Gravesnappah.
"OI BOSS, DA GIT'Z ROIGHT! Kirgrod Joined in.
"DO YOU WANNA GET KRUMPED!" The irate war chief declared to the smaller ork. As Kirgrod backed away, Drazgad took his attention off of the bludgeoned Gravesnappah and turned his attention to the flare which had already began its calm descent to the ground.
From as far back as the ork nob could remember, he had always relied on his gut to tell him what the future held. Right now, all he could feel was a nice cosy warm feeling; a sure sign of battle to come. As certain as the sunrise on the morrow, the chance to enact violence was something that no true greenskin could ignore. The orks around him ceased their rough housing and began preparing as they too could sense the call to action.
Drazgad released the concussed Gravesnappah and began issuing orders to his various subordinates to break camp and fire up the engines of their war trucks. A scene of pure mania unfolded as gretchin and orks ran around their camp, gathering their equipment and mounting their vehicles. Very soon the smell of burning promethium mixed with burnt squig filled the air as engines from dozens of vehicles flared as one.
"I LUV DA SMELL OF PROMEFEEIUM IN DA MORNIN!" Drazgad shouted, standing atop his war truck.
"BUT CHIEF IT AIN'T DA MORNIN' NO MORE!" A rather cheeky gretchin, who really should have known better, pointed out. This earned the grot a well-deserved sharp kick from the ork nob's boot.
As for Gravesnappah, he took the opportunity to get back on his feet now that his war chief had lost interest in his punishment. The bruised ork shakily picked himself up off the ground, to only go and blindly stumble into the still-burning bonfire. Against the backdrop of Gravesnappah screaming in pain as the fire caught his overalls and seared his flesh, Drazgad issued his orders.
"ALRIGHT BOYZ, MOUN' UP. WE'Z GONNA 'UNT SOME 'UMMIES!"
The first thing Aristriel knew was the throbbing pain that came from the back of her head. A friendly reminder of the fact that she wasn't dead. Her induced sleep had been deep but amongst the pitch black of her mind, there had been scatterings of visions; brief supernovae in the midst of the slumbering void.
These rare dreams had been sporadic with varying levels of comprehension: some vivid and memorable while others were dark and undistinguished. Not to mention unfocused, tossing and turning aimlessly upon the rolling waves of her mind like a boat without a rudder. Aristriel's conscious continued to fade in and out until an image began to form.
A mon'keigh soldier was silhouetted against an unyielding red sun, his features were hazy, impossible to make out. He wandered without purpose through an inhospitable desert while a sinister shadow that was not his own, clung to his heels.
The shadow whispered into the human's ear while he blindly walked forwards, oblivious to the poisoned words; his eyes were too transfixed on the horizon to take any notice. Whatever words were spoken by the shadow were lost upon the wind.
Aristriel who was nothing more than an apparition drew closer to the two figures, like a moth to a flame. The shadow halted his scheming and turned his head towards her. Piercing amber eyes, filled with malice, locked on to her own; the banshee stopped her dead in her tracks.
For several moments they stared at one another, neither moving as they appraised the other. All the while the mon'keigh continued to lumber forwards, leaving the two entities behind.
The shadow was the first to break the spell, a menacing smile spreading across his face. It was reminiscent of a feline toying with a helpless rodent, but soon the foul entity's smile turned into full throated laughter. His sinister amusement sounded like the moaning of a million poor souls. A whiplash of dread froze Aristriel in place as his voice, a thing of terror incarnate, drove a wedge of fear directly into her heart.
Regaining control of her senses, she fled, while his vile mirth followed her; the hounds of hell yapping at her heels. Despite the distance she put between herself and the shadow, his laughter only grew louder and more malevolent. The image faded shortly afterwards and to what happened next, her memory failed her.
There were other dreams of course; Aristriel saw distorted snapshots of her life: her childhood, her lonely life as a ranger, the death of her family and her rise as an aspect warrior. Yet all the while, the sinister laughter of the shadow still echoed at the back of her mind.
Her eyes flicked open; light poured into the lenses of her helm. After her eyes adjusted, she took in the emptiness of the cave. Instinctively, Aristriel tried to rub the back of her throbbing skull but to no avail. Her limbs had been tightly restricted by the human's improvised shackles.
Exhaling in irritation, she remembered her weapons which lay on the other side of the cavern, exactly where the mon'keigh had left them. Even her power sword was amongst the bundle which both relieved and confused the banshee in equal measure. The human, even with his visage covered, had not been discrete over his desire for her ancestral blade. The emotions of greed and conquest had exuded off him like a sour vapour.
The mon'keigh could have taken it if he had wanted to, Aristriel was in no position to stop him and yet instead of claiming it as his own, he had left it behind. She could not help but be fascinated by the human's actions, he had shown some level of self-discipline and respect.
Perplexing… most perplexing.
Pushing the strange behaviour of the mon'keigh aside, she still had the dilemma of freeing herself and tracking down the Omnicron.
By Kaela Mensha Khaine, I will make that mon'keigh pay for reducing me to this.
She rolled onto her front in much the same way a stranded reptile moves off its back, slowly gathering momentum before pushing herself over the edge. Now that her front was pressed horribly against the cold stone, she unstylishly began working her way across the cavern floor towards her bundle of blades.
It was slow going and she was ever thankful that none of her compatriots could see her humiliating predicament. Eventually, as with all successful voyages, her own awkward one across the cave floor came to an end as she reached the bundle.
Levering herself on to her left side, she grasped for one of the daggers. As her hands were tied behind her back, trying to grab the dagger's hilt proved more difficult than she realised. Several times, she clutched at empty air, causing her to curse at every failed attempt.
In the end, after a few adjustments to her position, her efforts were rewarded as her hand finally contacted the handgrip of the blade.
Gradually, the aspect warrior retracted the dagger from its shackled prison; she carefully reversed the blade so that the edge was pressed up against the rope that bound her hands. Utilising her aeldari dexterity, she sawed away at the crude bonds in a most prudent fashion.
It was agonisingly sluggish work. The minutes ticked by, and her frustration only grew as the rope stubbornly clung to every last strand. Soon enough though, she was compensated for this undignified treatment with the delightful sound of fraying cords followed by a tight snap. A sense of victory permeated through her as she rubbed life back into her aching wrists, allowing the defeated remains of the rope to tumble to the floor.
With her arms free, she made short work of the remaining bonds. After a few minutes she was free once more, the sliced-up bits of rope were strewn around her like corpses on the battlefield.
Aristriel afforded herself a smile as she did a few stretches, enjoying the sensation of moving without hindrance. Satisfied that her body was relatively unhurt, she swooped low and gathered up her blades. After a few test flicks with her sword, she dutifully returned her various blades to their rightful homes in their various scabbards.
Climbing out of the cave proved to be harder than expected, her body had become lethargic due to her uncomfortable incarceration. Nevertheless, she willed her limbs to obey and not before long, she crawled out of the hole in the ground and out into the light of day.
She savoured the morning sunlight while a slight breeze kicked up small clouds of frost about her feet. Aristriel took in her surroundings with a misgiving glare; she now found herself amongst an icy wasteland that stretched off far into the distance in either direction.
Snow covered fields along with a few small woods dominated the landscape while distant mountains were highlighted against the royal blue sky. By observing the sun's position, Aristriel estimated that the planet had completed approximately two fifths of its current rotation.
Provided that she had only been unconscious for a few hours, the mon'keigh could not be too far away. He was hurt with at least one major injury to his shoulder and was weighed down by his primitive equipment.
If I run cross-country, I might be able to catch up to him before the day's end.
Beforehand when carrying out her exodus from the cavern, a worrying speculation had wormed its way into her mind; the fear that she would have to spend precious time picking up the guardsman's trail.
Her worries were well founded, the blizzard that had swamped them, had continued throughout the night and into the early hours of the morning. Luckily for her though, the blizzard must have dissipated before the human had set off as his tracks were still very visible.
The depth of the boot marks indicated that he had set off in a hurry, evidently hoping to get a big head start. She could not help but give a slight grin at the futility of the human's actions, soon he would pay for his foolishness.
Enjoy your little victory mon'keigh, for it shall be your last. Let the hunt begin.
She gave a silent prayer to the pantheon of heaven for the success of her mission and took a deep breath. Exhaling cloudy vapour, she began to walk which quickly picked up into a jog and finally shifted into a full-blown run.
How did it come to this? The fragmented thought whistled past as his feet pounded through the snow, churning up an ocean of silver.
He took a glance behind him to gauge the distance between him and his pursuers. There was nothing but snowy hills, fields, hedgerows, and rocky stone walls. However, this did nothing to calm his fears as the guttural rumble of engines echoing across the land drew closer.
Trying to pinpoint their whereabouts was rendered impossible due to the noise reflecting off the hills. The mechanised roar of cruel engines boomed from all directions, making it sound as if he was already surrounded. Panic continued to mount from within as his already frayed nerves unravelled further, all the while his pursuers undoubtedly closed the distance.
Locke turned back to his front, pressing further onwards; he exhaled great clouds of vapour out of his heaving lungs. Vaulting a hedge row, he landed hard on the other side. For a single heartbeat he feared he'd sprained his right ankle but was relieved to find no pain for once as his legs pumped furiously across the frozen turf.
His shoulder ached, By the God-Emperor did it ache but to slow down would be to consign oneself to death. It was only when he crested a small rise did he finally get his first view of who hunted him.
Two makeshift vehicles burst out of a small copse, gunning their engines roughly in his direction. A chill ran up his spine, he knew exactly what they were. The two war trucks were just over a mile away, but they'd soon be upon him if he didn't get a move on.
Even with the distance, Locke could make out a few of the details. The scrap metal hides of the cruel machines glinted in the sunlight while bulky green beasts hung from the war truck's sides.
Oh, give me a fuckin' break! Orks, why did it have to be orks? The bitterly fatigued guardsman whined as he turned and ran in the opposite direction.
The downward slope lent his retreat wings as he flew down the hill, his legs stumbling slightly in a particularly deep snow drift. Fortunately, the guardsman managed to keep his footing, and upon reaching the base of the hill; he swiftly vaulted another low hedge row.
Locke made it about halfway across the field before the fierce shouts of orks - in their coarse language streamed down the hill after him. His eyes remained firmly fixed on the patchy woodland on the far side of the field, although he did risk a quick glimpse behind him. The enemy had finally reached the hillock's summit and were now driving wildly towards him.
The wheels of the ork war trucks tore through the snow, sending clumps of slush high up into the air while thick black smoke trailed behind as the alien motors flared, sensing the end of the chase.
In spite of the ever-looming threat, Locke could tell he was beginning to slacken. His exhausted legs refused to move faster than a slow run. The burning sensation was now too great to ignore, the lactic acid streaming through his limbs made them feel like molten iron.
Gritting his teeth, Locke pushed himself into a run, groaning aloud as the pain in his legs flared to an unbelievable level. He would not be able to maintain this pace for long. Unfortunately, the booming growl of the xenos contraptions and jeering greenskins drew closer, so much so that it became clear his efforts were in vain.
Locke begrudgingly resigned himself to his fate; he couldn't outrun automobiles, not even the piles of junk the orks rode on. His burnt-out legs were barely capable of keeping him upright. Accepting the inevitable, he turned around, drew his seax and faced his tormentors.
In the end he contented himself with blowing thick clouds of vapour in the greenskin's general direction, his chest palpitating as he fought to regain his breath. Locke's face, hidden beneath his rebreather and visor, was one of stoicism tinged with regret.
Much to his astonishment, he watched as the greenskins stopped their vehicles and dismounted, immediately continuing the pursuit on foot as they charged headlong towards him. The younger orks were the fastest off the mark, leaving their slower cousins behind. It didn't take long for the smaller, less experienced greenskins to get to the front of the rushing throng.
Evidently, they recognised that Locke had given up on running and instead chose to make a fight of it. Locke grunted at the childishness of it all. Out of all the activities that orks enjoyed; close quarters, hand-to-hand combat was the thing they relished most of all.
He watched apathetically as the hulking monsters barrelled across the icy field, their boots pulverising the once pristine white blanket. They whooped with bestial joy, brandishing their feral weapons, and roaring their delight at the imminent violence. There were about a dozen of the awful creatures with only about eight hundred yards separating the foul xenos and himself.
Those greenskins that had ranged weaponry, soon started sending as much lead towards the beleaguered guardsman as possible. Locke didn't take too much notice, billows of frost spouted up across the field as the rounds struck the ground. He'd faced orks before and their legendary inaccuracy almost matched his own. No, this contest would be settled with blood and steel alone.
It didn't escape his notice that the distance was shrinking rapidly. Adrenaline began seeping into Locke's muscles, causing them to shake while his heart pounded incessantly inside his chest.
Locke glanced down; his boot had wiped away a layer of snow to reveal a dormant plant with a cream-coloured, crystalline flower.
Hmmm that's odd, never seen a flower in winter before.
Even with the current situation, he couldn't help but ask questions to the open air. Wonder what sort of plant it is? Why's it kept its flower in the midst of winter? How common is it? Locke stifled a hollow a laugh.
Here I am, 'bout to die and all I can think of is feckin' flowers. He gently chastised himself, but inevitably his mind filled with images of the garden in his family's small hovel.
Every spring, it became a rainbow of colour: the pale-yellow flowers of drowsy joys, the blood-red blooms of yeselas, the violet shoots of zambipers, the dark blue blossoms of ashen lavender and many more.
All the while, fenwick ferns would continue to sprout up at the garden's fringes despite the best efforts of his mother to remove them. "I just don't get it, every bloody year I pull them out and they always come back." His mother's words bounced around inside his head, making Locke smile even in light of his dire circumstances.
Of course, the guardsman knew why they kept coming back. He never told his mother that it was in fact him that kept planting fenwick bulbs when she wasn't looking. He had always loved the tiny multicoloured flowers that came from the ferns. The happiness of that memory; so, at odds with the alien savages that screamed for his blood at this very moment.
What I wouldn't give to see that garden... one last time. He sighed.
Looking back to his enemies, he readied himself for his ultimate demise. A prayer to the God-Emperor silently passed his lips when he was suddenly struck by an idea. His free hand drifted to his webbing pouch that hung securely at his side. It only took a few moments of rooting around before his hand came away with the artefact in his grasp.
The orks had now closed to within four hundred yards, although thankfully they had spread out. The uneven depth of snow covering the field must have reduced the speed of each ork by different increments, thereby leaving some further ahead than others.
If his plan failed, he hoped to take on each ork individually, but the odds were certainly stacked against him.
Hopefully, it doesn't come to that. Locke willed himself to believe that his idea would be his salvation.
He stared at the ancient cube seated neatly in his palm, the various runes glowing white. The black obsidian of the stone, so foreign and yet so familiar stood in complete contrast to the pale snow surrounding him. Holding the strange black cube, he noticed the calming effect on his psyche; aches and pains that clung to his limbs subsided while a subtle wave of euphoria swept through his being.
Locke searched back through his mind to Adept Doric's words, "The Artefact itself is some sort of repository but also an amplifier for warp energy."
He knew precious little about the warp which would often be counted by many as a blessing considering the state of the galaxy. Knowledge was something the Imperium kept to a strictly need-to-know basis and guardsman generally didn't need to know.
Locke had been happy with this unspoken arrangement; he was content with being a little cog in a titanic machine - unseen and ignored. It was well-known that those who pried into matters above their station, often met a swift and usually unpleasant end.
Still, he couldn't help but wish he'd paid more attention to the witches he'd seen three years into his service. During the horrific purge of the hive world, Asturia, he'd seen a few sanctioned psykers dealing death and destruction to the enemies of the Imperium using their warp mastery.
One in particular stood out to the guardsman. A mumbling madman clad in rags shooting lightning and fire from his hands, incinerating anything that stood against him. He almost wished that madman were with him now.
If this thing is connected to the warp, surely I should be able to do things like those psykers? The guardsman speculated.
Taking an estimated guess on the operation of the artefact, he cleared his mind, closed his eyes, and concentrated solely on the stone in his palm while imagining images of fire. At first, he felt no different until suddenly his mind branched outwards.
There was certainly something there, it was difficult to describe, but Locke could undoubtedly sense various auras that were previously unknown to him. Detecting this phenomenon, it appeared as if there were layers to reality overlaid over the top of one another.
Connecting these layers ran what could only be described as aethereal threads which both surrounded and passed through everything and everyone, including himself. Locke found that any of his feeble attempts to touch or manipulate these strands ended in failure.
Thinking back to the previous day and the portal he had inadvertently ripped into existence; he had hoped that he might be able to induce another miracle into being. Locke wasn't sure what to expect, but clasping the artefact in his hand, he thrust it towards the oncoming enemy - who were now little more than two hundred yards away.
It did nothing, not even a wisp of smoke nor a flash of sparks. Locke tried several times more but was left crestfallen. Panic rose within him again and he began desperately trying to get the black stone to do anything of use.
"Come on, you useless piece o' shite!" he rasped as he thrust the artefact towards the nearest ork once more. The greenskins were now close enough that he could make out the details; individual teeth, creases in their crude fatigues, facial scars, etc.
"Any fuckin' time now! Fire! Lightning! Anything'll do!" he whispered harshly at the obsidian cube in his hand. The artefact was noncompliant to his demands as sweat began pouring from his forehead. The nearest of the xeno barbarians was now only several paces away.
A frozen hand gripped his heart, his plan had failed. There would be no miracle whether it be through divine or arcane means. In that moment, his desperation turned to fury; he tossed the artefact aside into a nearby snowbank.
Useless bloody thing. The guardsman bellowed his war cry at the oncoming monster, venting his anger and frustration; Locke stormed impetuously towards his attacker.
The smell of the greenskin nearly bowled him over before their blades even had the chance to clash. A gross mixture of sweat, promethium, and blood filled his nostrils almost making him wretch. The ork seeing Locke's hesitance, chopped his jagged axe diagonally towards him, aiming to split the guardsman in half.
Locke, still slow from exhaustion, barely managed to dive underneath the swing. The wind of the weapon passed over his head but there was no time to stop, pushing off with his back foot he raced towards the greenskin's legs in a reckless tackle. His wounded shoulder took the brunt of the impact as he hit the trunk of the ork's midsection. Locke screamed; the left side of his upper body exploded in agony as the various stitches in his shoulder ripped through his battered flesh.
The two combatants came crashing to the ground in a flurry of flailing limbs and curses. Both tussled to gain an advantage over the other; the ork screamed a feral challenge while Locke responded with an indecipherable one of his own.
Due to the close proximity of the fight, the ork wasn't able to bring his axe to bear on the annoyingly nimble human. Locke fuelled by the terrible pain, began stabbing frantically through the alien's overalls and straight into the greenskin's torso. Bright fountains of ruby-red blood burst forth from each stab wound which soon turned the surrounding snow, along with Locke's uniform, a dark shade of crimson.
The vile sound of flesh wetly sucking at the blade filled Locke's ears as he continued to thrust the now bloody blade into the greenskin's body. The ork, slightly taken aback by the human's ferocity, attempted repeatedly to bite his assailant with his tusk-like maw, but to no avail.
The ork enraged by Locke's onslaught sent his fist flying towards the irritating human, a blow so strong it could have caved in the man's puny chest. The soldier, anticipating the strike, moved at the last-minute which lessened the damage done by the xeno's meaty fist.
Nonetheless, that glancing blow was enough to momentarily paralyse him and crack multiple ribs. Locke groaned with gritted teeth; his vision turning red.
"Just fuckin' die!" he snarled, avoiding the ork's flailing limbs; he drove his seax through the xeno's beady red eye and into its brain.
The green beast spasmed briefly, its mighty limbs stubbornly refusing to relent as the ork's brain comprehended its own death. Finally, it went still, but there would be no respite for the poor guardsman. The heavy footfalls of crunching snow denoted his next adversary.
He'd barely picked himself off the xeno's corpse when the next greenskin smacked him hard with a giant club made of scrap metal. Locke crumpled under the blow as he was sent flying into a nearby snowdrift. The ork laughed, happily jogging over to finish off the human. Upon hitting the snow, Locke bit his tongue while his head lolled to the side.
The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, saturating his senses and amplifying the trauma as his head swam. The pain caused him to pass out briefly, the white-hot dagger that was twisting inside his shoulder almost too much to bear while his chest felt like it was made from broken glass.
In that moment, amongst his suffering, he asked for the sweet relief of death.
I got one of 'em Dad… I did my best Mam… everything hurts… it hurts so much. Tears began falling from his weary eyes at those glimpses of thought in his stuttering mind.
He clasped his hand onto the seax's grip, readying himself for what was to come, but even that honour was denied to him as his fingers curled around nothing but snow. Terrified that he'd lost his precious blade, his right hand mindlessly groped around in the bitter ice, but the blade had vanished.
Facing death and bereft of his short sword, this truly was the ultimate disgrace. He lay there and grimaced seeing the ork come into view through his visor. The greenskin gave him a big toothy grin; a smile so awful that it would have made children weep. The alien chuckled ominously while raising his makeshift club overhead; the slab of wicked metal held aloft at its zenith, just before it would be sent hurtling towards the guardsman.
Bludgeoned to death by an ork…I suppose there's worse ways to go.
"SAHY GUDBYE 'UM-", the ork warrior was rudely interrupted by the crunch of bone, followed by a wet slap, evocative of meat hitting a butcher's counter.
In a twirling flash of silver, a long bone-like hilt suddenly protruded from the side of its head.
That wasn't there before…was it? The dazed guardsman blinked.
The ork was just as confused; a look of shear bewilderment plastered his green leathery face, his mouth slightly ajar while his eyes began darting in random directions. The hulking brute swayed slightly before crashing towards the ground.
Locke desperately tried to move out of the way but was too slow. He had only managed to roll over onto his front when the alien slammed into him. He yelped straight into the snow as once again the wind was knocked out of him.
Review Responses:
Bio team2 – Hopefully those questions shall be answered in time.
Muricamatthewx – Glad you liked it. I think the stitching scene and the nightmare scene are the best thing I've written so far although I must confess, I took a common prayer from the Bible and converted into a 40K format. Hope you enjoy this chapter as well.
Disciple of Ember – A) and B) have been corrected, thank you. As for C) I think we'll have to agree to disagree. Obviously, Locke should just kill her. I mean that is the safest solution for himself but of course he's dealing with a few things at the moment so he can't bring himself to do it. Bringing her with him is also not a good choice as that would require him to cut the ties around her legs and as we all know Eldar are pretty dangerous, so that isn't a good idea. In the end he's decided to just leave her and hope that she'll go her own way. Is that a smart decision? Absolutely not. Will it have consequences? Definitely.
Rogal Dorn – I'll take that as a compliment.
Orakle – What is dead may never die. On a more serious note, I never left, I just have a lot on my plate unfortunately.
John Legend – I've already addressed a few of these points in the "Disciple of Ember Review". Anyway, he didn't exactly give her weapons back to her, she still has to free herself first which isn't easy. I agree with you on Locke, he's a bit too nice. That is why, I've gone back and redone the last part of Chapter 7 to hopefully make him a bit greyer as a character. I did try to make it dumb luck, if it were not for the timely intervention of that portal, Locke would be dead. I might have to revisit Chapter 6 and make this more obvious. Thank you too for taking the time to leave an in-depth review. Unfortunately, I have no idea what's causing that bug, sorry.
Sonic – Very good.
Guest – You'll just have to find out but given she's relatively young (for an Eldar) and from a Craftworld, that's a pretty big hint.
Guest – Answered in previous comment.
York52 – No she does not. Hmmm, that does sound intriguing but at the moment I have a slightly different idea for the Artefact.
Josephate – Thank you, I shall endeavour to keep it going (when I have the time)
Shadowfire12 – You'll just have to wait and see what happens.
Kargan3033 – Thank you very much for your kind words. Hopefully this chapter will be able to answer that question of yours.
LordSolarMathius – Glad you like it. I unfortunately will have to disappoint you on the update schedule, my free time is often taken up by other things, but I am trying to make room for writing I assure you.
Guest – Answered in a previous comment.
LordSolarMathius – I agree on your perspective of the lore.
Thesunofshadow – Hopefully this chapter will suffice…for now.
Guest – Sorry, I'll do my best.
FuckHorus – Oh I'm sure she will. Although remember it isn't his notebook, it's his sister's. Cora is the artist of the family, not Locke.
MrDodo – Ahhhhhh Tomas Locke, you are a bold one *cough* *cough*.
Inquisition – Cheers mate, happy you're enjoying. Glad you like the main character; you have no idea how happy I am with the praise you've given me. Evidently I must be doing something right. I based his personality and of those in the 195th on the stereotypical Anglo-Celtic national character; primarily Northern England and Scotland. As for his speech patterns, I took a lot of inspiration from many conversations I've had with my friends and colleagues over the years.
