Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 99

Restoring the battlefield was an urgent priority and the Terrans went to it with all the brisk efficiency one would expect of the Departmento Munitorum. Churned ground was bulldozed flat, wreckage and ruins cleared by haulier teams to make room for fresh buildings and tents. Cargo-8's rolled in constantly, unloading mess tents, hospitaller bivouacs, sleeping canvas and comm-pavillions. Ferrocrete for void shield bunkers and auspex arrays was poured over smoking ruins and Enginseers dug insulated cabling between them with brisk efficiency. Machine Shrines were erected, Chapels raised, even laundry facilities were set up, all according to procedures envisioned thousands of years earlier and followed without deviation. Within hours the damage inflicted by the Tellarites began to vanish, so it was surprising that time was spared to collect the dead.

Black tented Cargo-8's were piled high with bodies, the dead stacked like sacks of flour. Each man or woman had their id-tags collected, then a priest would sprinkle the whole vehicle with holy oil while reciting last rites for the fallen. Terran or Tellarite, it didn't seem to matter, their differences erased by the finality of death, or more likely there wasn't time to sort the dead into separate piles. Cargo-8's came in with building materials and left with corpses, a conveyor belt process as bleak as it was pragmatic.

"Seems peculiar," Sergeant Oroton commented.

"The dead must be honoured," Chaplain Bulvok admonished.

"But to gather the Heretics too."

"They are human, not Xenos monsters, the Emperor shall judge their souls."

But Nemkir refuted, "Do not ascribe noble sentiment to practical necessity. Dead bodies rot, if left to fester then this camp would succumb to flux and malignant pox within days."

Oroton watched a loaded Cargo-8 trundle off, to be replaced by the next in line, "Shipped off home I suppose, to join their family at the end. Given the speed the Administratum works at it might only be two or three generations till their families are notified."

Nemkir however snorted, "You think the quill-pushers would waste starships shipping bodies?"

Oroton frowned, "If they're not being sent home, then where?"

"Nutrient production centres," Nemkir answered.

Oroton grimaced, "You don't mean..."

Bulvok confirmed bluntly, "Supplementary rations, there are billions of hungry mouths to feed and the Guardsmen's diet will contain a generous measure of Corpse Starch."

"Do they know?"

Nemkir concluded, "They know, but are encouraged to not think upon it."

Bulvok nodded, "Idle thought breeds Heresy."

"Better not tell the Smoke Jaguars then," Oroton muttered.

Nemkir cast his eye to their allies, the twisted breed of Astartes who called themselves cousins. The Smoke Jaguars had fought well, if sub-optimally, and stood with the Raven Guard in the face of danger. Yet despite that Nemkir was still put off by their strange behaviour, even now they were stooping to touch the ground, smearing their gauntlets with blood-sodden earth and touching it to their tongues. Many Chapters practiced strange rites, but that brought no clemency with Nemkir.

Steeling himself Nemkir approached them, passing by their Dreadnought, whose many wounds were being tended by their Techmarine, no, 'Techwright' as the Smoke Jaguars named them. On the other side their 'Genewright' tended the injured of both Chapters. It galled that the Raven Guard had no living Apothecary to soothe their ills, but the Smoke Jaguar tended all without comment. Many scout-novices had suffered in the battle and would be back on their feet all the sooner for a healer's touch.

Nemkir found Damchak with head bowed in contemplation, "Cousin, we must speak."

"A moment," Damchak said, "We take in the scent of our foe."

"You what?"

"It is our way when blood is spilled to taste the shed blood of our prey, learn of their nature and habits. As the predator breathes in the scent of the prey, so too do we track our quarry."

The Neuroglottis had many functions, but Nemkir was unfamiliar with this one, he covered by saying, "I require your presence."

"For what purpose?"

"To meet with the theatre commander and devise our strategy."

"This is your way?"

"It is," Nemkir stated.

"Then lead on."

Nemkir and Damchak set off, leaving their fellows behind. Bulvok made to remonstrate the Novices, while Oroton paused to thank Aapo for saving his life. Nemkir strode boldly, moving through the camp with Damchak at his side. Many gawping faces did they attract, few citizens ever laid eyes on a Space Marine, and many legends had grown around them, Nemkir ignored it, he was used to such reactions, though Damchak seemed intrigued.

The Smoke Jaguar mused, "They look upon you as a hero of legend."

"They have never seen an Astartes before," Nemkir dismissed, "Are your kind not regarded so in your protectorate?"

"The Boscage is small, and we travel always. Few espy us, but even so we are held as fact, not fable. Yet legends of our deeds echo down the B'ak'tun."

"Legendary deeds are what they expect of us," Nemkir stated, "And in that we shall not disappoint."

Damchak mused aloud, "The deeds of Corax must ring louder than any."

Nemkir considered his history lessons, "Our Primarch was not given to boisterous displays. He did what needed to be done, without expecting plaudits. Other Primarchs demanded accolades, but not so the Ravenlord. He often acted alone, and did not care to explain where he went, or why."

"And his passing?"

"Corax's death was as elusive as his life, he departed and was never seen again."

"Surely his firstborn sons looked for him?"

"We looked but we did not find him."

Their stride brought them to a looming building, its walls pitted by craters but thick enough to have survived the assault. Vox-masts and comm dishes proclaimed its function and Nemkir strode through the main door without bothering to wait for permission. Slack-jawed guards merely stared as the two Astartes passed, unable to summon a word of protest. The interior was standard STC, so Nemkir knew exactly where to go and brooked no challenge to his passing.

In minutes they entered a large command suite, filled with tables covered in with charts and logistic tables. The walls were bare Ferrocrete, the humming of cogitators a buzzsaw across the ear and the chatter of adjutants and logisticians a thunderous din. The clamour fell silent as they entered, but Nemkir ignored all as he made his way to the central Hololithic projector, where Lord Militant Marcher was arguing with his aides.

The supreme commander of the Terran armies had come down from orbit to personally direct recovery efforts. His haggard face told of his impatience, the jiggling of his moustache reinforced his words and the whirring of augmetic features told how the mechanisms struggled to match his fierce expressions. Discontent oozed off the man, his crisp uniform was dishevelled and he'd taken off his heavy jacket in the fierce heat of the room, but still he was animated as ever.

"Who let you in here?!" Marcher snapped as he addressed the Space Marines.

Nemkir came to a halt, "Lord Militant, again you misconstrue that you have authority to impede the execution of my duties. Astartes are autonomous and not beholden to you."

Marcher retorted, "If you think you can come in here and take over, you have another think coming!"

"I do not seek to usurp your office," Nemkir replied, "I merely seek to coordinate our strategy."

"I know what that means: you run about and take all the glory while we do all the hard work."

Marcher's ire seemed to be growing, but Damchak tapped the Hololith with his clawed hand, "I see the heroes of Terra have withstood the wiles of the foul enemy, your men must rejoice. Are their victory cups overflowing?"

"Emperor Wept, what is he supposed to be?!" Marcher blinked.

Nemkir replied, "Meet Damchak, Commander of the Smoke Jaguars, an ally to the Raven Guard. And you didn't answer his question."

Marcher grimaced, "This little excursion is hardly worth getting worked up about. It's not the first time the Heretics have tried tunnelling under the line and popping up in our rear. We've done it to them a few times too. We saw them off, and we will again. The next offensive is being readied even as we speak. A vast surge across the entire front, we'll pay them back for their temerity, make no mistake!"

Nemkir examined the Hololith, "I see formidable defences in place, how do you plan to circumvent them?"

"I don't," Marcher hissed, "We'll hit the rebel scum at every point, drown them in shells and tanks, then rush the trenches."

Damchak blinked, "You would throw away millions of lives for a few metres of mud?"

Marcher scoffed, "This is the part where you suggest some brilliant way to outfox the enemy. You're about to propose we cut through the Rad Spoils or slip under the surface of the Bleached Sea in submersibles. Believe me it's been tried; we've exhausted every possible means of slipping past the line and it's all come to nothing. The Rad wastes are too toxic, the seas are mined and the orbital defences are too thick for drop insertions. Fourteen thousand kilometres of razorwire and trench, there's nothing else out there. We've tried every conceivable way to get around the line, it didn't work, nothing works."

Nemkir frowned, "So you resort to grinding attrition?!"

Marcher snorted, "It's all I've got. I requested Titan support, a Centurio Ordinatus, even a Knight House. Terra only ever sent me lasguns and Leman Russ. Tanks, against superheavies, it's such a poor jest it's not even funny! The only edge I've got is numbers, so I use them. I'm wearing the rebels down inch by inch, grinding them to nothing one atom at a time. They only have so many Hives to birth new soldiers, we've got half a galaxy sending us troops. Soon or later the Heretics will be exhausted, a year more, two at the outside and they'll collapse."

Nemkir's opinion of the man fell a notch, "You have not attempted combined arms warfare!"

"Of course I have!" Marcher spat, "I've got planes and tanks and artillery all massing for a united push."

"But what you didn't have was Astartes," Nemkir retorted, "If you coordinate with me, I shall conduct an infiltration behind the lines. Hit ammo dumps here, here and here, the comm towers in these sectors and disable these rail links back to the Hives. My Brothers can disrupt the Tellarites at the exact moment you strike, crippling their ability to respond."

It was a bold stratagem but Marcher snorted, "I've heard it all before."

"You offer insult!" Nemkir bristled.

"Three years into the war, when we first set foot on Tellaris, that's when it all went wrong. We'd swept up the first few hives, but when we came for the rest we were stabbed in the back. The Angels of Redemption disappeared mid-battle, just took off and hung us out to dry. No word of explanation, they just abandoned us in the field. I lost two million men in three days as I fell back to the isthmus and built the line to hold what we'd taken. These augmetics you see, I earned them fighting for my life, all because of the bloody Astartes!"

Nemkir had seen reports that the Angels of Redemption redeployed without warning, but had no idea it was at such a critical juncture, nor without explanation. He found it dishonourable, but he had no remit to comment on the behaviour of a Chapter descended from the Dark Angels. Their honour was their own, and their judgement a matter for the Emperor in spirit, and the Inquisition in practice.

Nemkir steeled his jaw, "Lord Militant, I do not have the right to judge the conduct of this war, all I offer is my support. Together we can break this deadlock, ending the war two years early."

"Work with Astartes," Marcher sneered, "Never again, not in this lifetime."

"Without my aid you condemn millions more Guardsmen to die."

"If that is what the God-Emperor demands, so be it!"

"You act the fool!"

"Better a fool than an idiot, which I would be if I trusted you!"

They stood at an impasse but then Damchak coughed, "If you lend me your ears, there is a third way."

"You what?!" Marcher spat.

"A path that does not need us to draw swords together."

Nemkir gritted his teeth, "This is not the time."

But Marcher barked, "If you don't want to hear this, then I certainly do! Go on, tell us your brilliant idea."

Damchak fiddled with a few runes and the Hololith zoomed in on a small dimple, "What being this is?"

Marcher glanced over, "Oh that, that's just the shrine of the God-Emperor Delivering Salvation. The Heretics erected it on the exact spot where our first offensive stalled. Fifty metres tall, we can see it on a clear day. They proclaim it holy ground, they genuinely think the God-Emperor's on their side, more fools them."

"Perfection," Damchak grinned.

Nemkir scowled, "I assign no tactical significance to a gaudy shrine."

"Because you think of war as lines on maps and guns on walls. The Testimony teaches us that the key to victory is breaking an enemy's will. To attack their hearts and minds and rob them of fighting spirit. Take your enemy's greatest symbol of hope from them, and despair shall follow."

Nemkir hissed in annoyance, "These are not feeble-minded Orks and that is not a primitive Boss-Pole!"

Marcher however smirked, "Hold on, he's got a point. The Tellarites are convinced they have the God-Emperor's favour, take that away from them and they'll fall apart. That Shrine has been taunting us for seventeen years, I wouldn't mind seeing it blown up."

Damchak nodded, "Murder their righteous certainty and their spirit shall break in turn. What man can find the will to fight if his god turns from him?"

Nemkir was vexed, "This is my campaign, you swore to follow my directives!"

Marcher however countered, "I'm not going to let you run wild in my warzone without proof you can be relied upon. But if you can pull this off before our offensive begins, I might reconsider that stance. Blow up that shrine for me, and then I'll entertain your suggestions."

Nemkir glared at Damchak but asked, "How long do we have till you make your move?"

Marcher leaned over to an aide who whispered in his ear then the Lord Militant declared, "Three days."

"More than enough time," Nemkir conceded, "We'll be in and out before you start your offensive, at which point we will be revisiting the matter of strategy."

Marcher grinned, "Of course you still have to find a way across no-man's land, I can't help you with that. You can't fly, you can't walk past them, and forget teleporting, that Shrine has more void shields than a Naval Frigate."

"Worry ye not," Damchak chuckled, "Our heart-foe has already delivered all we require."