Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 123

Time passed in a whirlwind of activity. The battle ended in Terran victory and their rigid chain of command meant they continued as if nothing had happened to their highest officer. New officers stepped in and followed their predecessor's plans so exactly that the grinding machine of war just rumbled on. Reinvigorated regiments set forth to plant the flag of the High Lords on the rebel's graves, rearmed, reinforced and burning with zeal. The end of the rebellion was in sight and the prospect of victory flushed the men's spirits with eager relish.

The repulsed Tellarite armies fled from the battle, bleeding and broken. Vengeful Terrans broiled after them, hounding the rebels for days and days. Many machines ground to a halt before they reached safety, choking on their last drops of fuel. Waves of Marauder bombers fell upon the stranded convoys before the crews could run for safety, obliterating thousands with chains of high-explosive ordnance. Few Tellarites lived to see the old trench line that had defined the war for so many years but they did not stop there, they fled further, racing for the sheltering walls of Hive cities and their Macrocannons. Terran armies nipped at their heels, spilling from the Isthmus into the continent beyond, ringing cities and imposing firm embargoes.

Captain Nemkir however did not see it. For five days he had laid in a Sus-an-membrane coma, tended to by the finest Chirugeons flown down from orbit. His body had been restored and he'd been awakened with alchemical flushes and recited Hypno-triggers. Another day of frustrated waiting as the sawbones fussed over his injuries and argued over minutiae. Nemkir was on the verge of walking out regardless when they finally discharged him. He donned his armour and set out to learn what he had missed.

Currently he stood on a hillock, surveying the Tech-Priests at work. Hundreds of red-robes adepts crawled over Invicta Nova, offering ritual appeasements to soothe its spirit. Gantry cranes were being erected, each the size of a Titan and digging machines trundled into place. That they intended to salvage the Capitol Imperialis was obvious, but the fumes of their labours filled the air with smog. A harsh tang of burnt oil and engine exhaust, mixed with old blood and rotting flesh. Nemkir had smelt it before, the smell of a battlefield was never forgotten, though the history books always let that detail out.

"Do you think they can restore it?" Sergeant Oroton asked at his side.

"Anything can be restored if one is willing to commit oneself to the effort," Nemkir replied.

"The Tech-priests are drooling at the prospect of claiming a Capitol Imperialis, they will not rest until it is ours."

"There is certainly great need," Nemkir responded, "War rages across the galaxy. The Ghoul Stars desperately need reinforcement; I would not be surprised if Invicta Nova is sent to give battle to those nightmare fiends."

Bulvok's voice intruded, "First we must conclude the conquest of Tellaris. The rebel Hive cities yet stand against us, they must be made to submit to the rule of the High Lords. It is an affront that Heretics yet draw breath while the Administratum dithers."

Nemkir lifted a quizzical eyebrow, "They delay the final assault?"

"Worse, they talk," Bulvok spat, "Now the end is in sight the Legatus have stepped in and opened talks for surrender."

"They wouldn't!" Oroton gasped.

Nemkir sniffed, "Assaulting a Hive is no small affair, if they can be brought to their knees by talk then we can save time, lives and munitions. Siege warfare is destructive and unbridled, the forges of Tellaris are needed, their productivity must be claimed intact. Three and a half billion human lives were expended for this world, it would be waste to spend a billion more unnecessarily."

Oroton snorted, "They may surrender today, but the Inquisition will cleanse them regardless. The population will be swept into labour camps and replaced wholesale with fresh colonists."

"That depends entirely on whether the Administratum deems it more efficient to enslave the populace and make them bleed to pay off back-tithes, or eliminate them altogether. The lives of every man, woman and child on Tellaris are reduced to nothing but the sum of numbers on a spreadsheet. Their fates will be determined by dreary Adepts with their abacus, who will never set foot on this planet."

Bulvok bristled, "To leave one Heretic alive is an insult unto the Emperor!"

Nemkir however countered, "We are in no position to intervene. We came to this world with forty-seven Raven Guard, we stand at eight actives, and double that in healing comas. The Codex Astartes lays out the numbers and dispositions required for siege warfare and we are not equal to the task. We came to this world to tip the scales of battle, and that we have achieved. Our dead must be returned to Deliverance and our Gene-seed to the Apothecarium."

Bulvok grimaced in disgust but allowed, "Before we can depart we must address the unresolved issue."

Nemkir nodded, "The death of Lord militant Marcher. Sergeant, what conclusions did you reach?"

Sergeant Oroton had been leading the investigation and reported, "Marcher's identity was confirmed by fingerprint, gene-print and augmetic serial-number match. His wounds were consistent with Heretic weaponry, and he was surrounded by Tellarites."

"And the Smoke Jaguars?"

"Arrived too late, there were no bolter impacts or Transhuman scale wounds evident on any of the bodies."

Nemkir turned to face the Sergeant, "Be certain of your assessment, more than the fate of a Chapter rests upon your words. The worlds they might save, or destroy, shall be determined here and now."

Oroton's reply was firm, "Marcher was not killed by the Smoke Jaguars, I stake my life on it."

"Then I must address them," Nemkir uttered.

Standing nearby was a loose knot of Smoke Jaguars, huddled together in a disorderly group. Nemkir still found their ways unbecoming for an Astartes, but they had proved themselves stalwart and loyal. He did not demand they approach him, as a master does a servant, but went to meet them as an equal. They saw him coming and Damchak split off from the group, striding to the halfway point.

"Well met by noonlight, proud Jade foot," Damchak greeted.

"Shadow-chieftain of the Smoke Jaguars," Nemkir hailed, "A title earned thrice over."

Damchak cocked his head, "The days of testing are behind us?"

Nemkir replied bluntly, "A Space Marines' testing is never-ending, each day brings a fresh challenge, but as to my assessment of your Chapter I deem you worthy of inclusion to the orders of the Adeptus Astartes."

Damchak smiled, "The esteem of our forebearers is a mighty gift. Shadelord Q'umarkaj will declare a day of celebration when I send word of our deeds."

Nemkir nodded, "I shall send Astropathic messages to Deliverance, recommending the Raven Guard lend our voices to those who would embrace you to the Imperial fold. Be warned though, formal recognition may take some time."

"How many grains in the hourglass?"

"Given the efficiency of the Administratum… perhaps a century," Nemkir quipped.

Damchak mused, "And you sail for the orbits of home?"

Nemkir affirmed, "We are no longer combat-viable, and the need for our presence has ended. Alacritous Intervention shall set a course for Deliverance, and we shall see again the bleak halls and magnificent desolation of Lycaeus. Too many years has it been since the unblinking stars graced my eyes and the cold walls will be a salve unto my spirit."

Now Damchak grinned, "The Jade Foot must surely have read the Testimony, you poetize like a Smoke Jaguar."

Nemkir's face blanched, "Emperor forfend! You must be rubbing off on me, I must chasten my tongue immediately!"

"Silence shall be my gift unto you," Damchak smirked.

Nemkir shook it off, "And you also sail for home?"

Damchak glanced upwards, "Crovin the Stranger prepares for voyages deep into the warp. To the Boscage we return, to the boughs of our jungle and the quiet of our dens. Great stories we have to tell, of Imperium and treachery most foul. The living have deep truths to unburden and our dead must be returned to the Stair Abyssal. Think not that this is the end of our rapport, for the Smoke Jaguars will be abroad among the stars. Mighty deeds await us and many Prowls smell opportunity to forge legends. We shall look for the Raven Guard on the field of war, to renew our troth of blood and murder."

Nemkir considered this, "Few bonds are as tight as those forged in the fires of battle, but before we part I must ask… what did you make of Marcher's death?"

Damchak's hand brushed a shrunken head hanging from his waist, "A rude death, a painless death, too quick for he who slew my Blood-Brother. Alas that I was too slow to witness his passing, even that succulent morsel was denied me."

Nemkir eyed the Smoke Jaguar keenly, "You may not have killed him, but would you have stood aside and allowed him to die?"

Damchak tilted his head, "Marcher's life and death were pre-destined, and I have not the power to avert fate once set. The Sun-Emperor decreed that the worm die fighting heathens, and His will is not ours to question. We Smoke Jaguars bow before the mysteries of fate and destiny: Thus it is written, thus shall it be, as we say."

"Your brother's murderer is dead, I trust that settles the matter once and for all?"

Damchak's sighed, "He who is not contended with what he is given, would not be contended with what he craves most."

Nemkir finally accepted this, "Prowlmaster, you have proven yourself to me. I asked that you set aside your personal desires and submit to the demands of duty. This you have done. Your commitment and zeal have done you proud. Though I doubt the Smoke Jaguars will ever be Codex-Compliant, you are worthy of respect. Soon your Chapter will receive Technoarcana and relics commensurate with your status as children of Corax, but for today know you have my seal of approval."

Damchak bowed his head, "The esteem of one's Kinsman is the greatest treasure any warrior can desire."

Nemkir concurred, "Then we are true Battle-brothers… but errr… one last detail. Jade Foot… what exactly does that title mean?"

Damchak smiled broadly, "A deed-name means whatever you make it mean. I hold Tuun-Ok as a certain and deliberate warrior, one who cannot be turned from his path once set. His footsteps are the thunderous peals of a storm on the horizon, his voice is the howling wind that throws down houses, his ire is the thrashing hail that flenses skin from the bone. Among Smoke Jaguars it shall ever be said, let all fear the coming of Jade Foot, for he is steel and he is doom."

Nemkir was surprised by the frank appraisal and offered his hand, "I shall look for you on the battlefield and shall fight proudly alongside you again."

"Until we meet again, may the light of the Sun-Emperor guide you in the dark places you must walk," Damchak affirmed.

They grasped each other's wrists in a warrior's embrace and Nemkir was satisfied that the Smoke Jaguars were worthy. Strange by any measure, but strong, dedicated and honest in their own way. Mankind would benefit greatly from having these lost sons of Corax return and the Imperium would be strengthened. Rare were the days Nemkir could claim to have left the galaxy better for his efforts and he found himself gladden for it. He trusted he would see Damchak again someday, and hear the tales of the adventures the Smoke Jaguar had yet to undertake.