Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 128
When the Battlemoon fell it changed the face of the world. Hundreds of thousands of tonnes of rock and Adamantium came screaming out of the heavens, plunging into the Causes mountains on a trail of fiery smoke. The impact flattened mountaintops that had stood since before man descended from the trees of Holy Terra, smashing into the bedrock below to send shivers into the roots of the world. The sound of its impact tore down trees and sent avalanches cascading down the slopes, sweeping away watchposts, auspex towers and shield vanes. And it was only the beginning.
Violent earthquakes rippled outwards, unmaking centuries of labour. Throughout the mountains intricate tunnel networks collapsed, buying silos and munition warehouses under uncaring rock. Mustering caverns became graveyards, where entire regiments were crushed in an instant and hangers nothing more than smears of metal, blood and oil squeezed between falling boulders. Lance batteries imploded, torpedo tubes were mangled into uselessness and Cogitators stack were reduced to kindling, irreplaceable Archeotech whose like would never be seen again. The Causes mountains had been Nova Terra's most indomitable bastion, but it was obliterated in moments, leaving only a towering pillar of ash climbing into the sky that would blacken the sun for decades to come.
Many thousands of kilometres away Disquisitor Von Tor felt the earthquake in his bones and knew the end had come. Around him the command centre staff were braying in denial, calling distant vox-operators who would never answer. The Wardsmen of Nova Terra were fine soldiers, disciplined and focused, but they'd never imagined such a calamity. Every strategic projection had been thrown into the dustbin, every plan they'd had to resist rendered moot at a stroke. Von Tor understood this better than any,
Von Tor was a tall man, pale and thin. His scalp had been made bald by passing centuries but frequent Juvenat treatments kept his body young and vigour bountiful. He wore a tightly buttoned red coat, emblazoned with the starburst of Nova Terra and the sigil of the Disquisiton. His fingers sported many rings, bearing unique technology, but it seemed he did not trust them to protect him this day, for he also carried a Xenoslock pistol and a thin power sword. A fierce man, one who had witnessed brutal deeds and committed many more, but also a tired man, the furrows around his brow grim and the bags under his eyes heavy.
"It seems you are in command," Von Tor said to the man opposite.
"It can't be," the scared looking man replied, "They said the orbital defence would hold for years, decades even."
"It seems not," Von Tor sighed.
"But High Command can't be gone, someone must be left."
"Doubtful," Von Tor refuted, "You are the highest in the chain of command, outside the Causes bastions."
"The Ur-Council must be informed."
"They will not reply in any meaningful time, you must take charge, your Wardsmen await your orders, Brigadier Atbathi."
Various emotions passed over Athbathi's face, fear, shock and a tiny trace of ambition realised. Von Tor had seen such looks a thousand times over the last decade, but suspected this time the outcome would be no different. Atbathi however seemed determined to make a good show of it and started barking out orders, sending flurries of activity across the control room. Vox-operators with huge headsets over their ears began echoing commands across the planet, marshalling regiments far and wide. Enginseers began to implore the machine spirits to update tactical Hololiths to better ready millions of troops and tanks for the coming invasion. Von Tor understood little of it, he was no military man to grasp marching orders and combat stats of units across continents, but he watched Atbathi closely. The Brigadier certainly looked the part, medals jangling as he mustered the Novan defenders, his short cape dashing and cummerbund doing a magnificent job of hiding his gut. Von Tor however noted the sweat under his cap, perspiration that had nothing to do with the heat of the room.
The Disquisitor retired to a corner and muttered, "Summon the Guncutter."
"Expecting trouble boss?" Kazial asked glibly.
"Always," Von Tor replied calmly.
"I knew the Grox-dung was piling up but not this high," Kazial muttered as he rooted about in a pocket.
"It will come faster than any of us expect," Von Tor whispered sadly.
Kazial pulled out a small vox-unit from his pocket and began whispering into it. A scarred man, with flak armour covered over by a jacket of tanned Eldar skins, replete with many pockets. He cultivated a rakish air, with stiff blonde hair and a wry smile, but the brown roots betrayed where the dyes he washed in were fading. Many mistook him for a fop and a dandy but that was deliberate. Being underestimated was a skill Kazial cultivated and few suspected his lethal skill with his Banestrike Bolt pistols, or his incredible speed on the draw.
A vox-operator called aloud, "Reports of incoming missiles on Canticle City!"
Atbathi snapped, "It's a feint! Canticle is nothing but a big opera house, the Terrans wouldn't waste ordnance burning music halls and theatres."
"Negative," the man reported, "Impacts confirmed, incendiary missiles, lots of them... Canticle city burns."
"Warp take those accursed Terrans," Atbathi snarled, "Those filth waste missiles on idle dreamers and innocent artists, simply to show us they can!"
Kazial snorted under his breath, "Haven't we done worse on other worlds?"
"Don't interrupt a good rant," Von Tor whispered back, "Besides Canticle City would make a fine landing ground for an invasion force. I suspect we'll see the next wave any second."
As if prophesied another Vox-operator called, "Drop pods, following on the wake of the missiles."
"Identify!" Athbathi barked.
"Unknown heraldry, but vox-capture speaks of Fire Lords."
Von Tor nodded sagely, "That's our cue to leave."
The Disquisitor turned his back on Atbathi and quietly left, making no fanfare of his departure. Kazial trailed along, confused but obedient. Outside the command centre they found a surprisingly well-furnished palace, with finely polished marble floors and soaring windows letting in daylight. Empty suits of carapace armour stood at intervals and ladies in multi-hued dresses wandered about, herding gaggles of children, gossiping as if the end of the world was not upon them. The clicking of Von Tor's boots on the immaculate floor annoyed him, so much time and effort wasted on these useless appearances, when war fell upon their heads.
As they passed the broad windows a city was revealed beyond. A sweeping conurbation of marble domes and white spires, reaching for the heavens above as a testament to the refined culture and elevated consciousness of Nova Terra. Oraphis city, a beautiful construction, far removed from the global slum that Holy Terra had become. This city was a hub of intellectual thought, commerce and production, but the lands beyond were fresh and untroubled by pollution. The Novans had taken great care to model their capital upon distant Ultramar, where industry was carefully managed to preserve the ecosystem. A noble sentiment but Von Tor reflected they'd have been better served covering the planet in Ferrocrete and gun towers.
Kazial finally broke his silence, "Boss, why are we leaving?"
Von Tor grimaced, "Because the first wave of the invasion was Fire Lords."
"Old acquaintances?"
"Never heard of them, the roster of Astartes Chapters is hardly complete, but I suspect these ones are new. A rookie force, untested in the field. You don't send rookies to secure your most important objective, you save that for your most elite and hardened warriors."
Kazial swallowed, "Black Templars?"
"That was my conclusion, and we're standing in the command hub."
Kazial fished in his pocket, "I think I'll tell the Guncutter to hurry up."
They hurried past a gaggle of noble ladies, twittering useless titbits of gossip. Von Tor fought the urge to scream at them, to try to wake them up. None of these people seemed able to grasp their lives of comfort and privilege were about to come crashing down around their ears, so accustomed to looking down upon the galaxy that they failed to see they had built their Houses upon quicksand. Many of the nobles had ordered the exploitation and oppression of distant worlds, using their strength at arms to impose their view of the universe upon distant planets. They had been ruthless and uncaring, sure that nobody would ever be in a position to do the same to them. They were about to pay for that lack of vision.
Nine centuries had the Imperium been divided by Interregnum, but ruinous Xeno wars in the Halo Zone had sapped the Novan's strength and left them vulnerable. The High Lords had sensed weakness and declared a war of faith, sending their Space Marines and Titans and Guardsmen to topple the Ur-Council and claim the galaxy whole. Ten years had the empire of Nova Terra been fighting for its survival, trying to hold back the Terran invasion. Ten years of defeat and failure, of planets lost and hasty retreats. If only the Novans had owned Space Marines of their own, perhaps it would have been different, but the Ur-Council commanded no such loyalty, even the Astartes extant within their borders refused to acknowledge any other authority than the God-Emperor on Holy Terra in theory, and their own Chapter Masters in practice.
A rumble through the floor interrupted the gossiping, causing powdered heads to turn about in confusion. Von Tor kept walking and sighed, "A test for you, my Acolyte, what could cause such a disturbance?"
Kazial grimaced sullenly, "Just a guess, but I reckon the shield generators of the palace just blew up."
"Very observant," Von Tor agreed as a series of secondary explosion rolled like thunder, "And that?"
"That would be the anti-air defences," Kazial sighed, "Clearing the way for Drop Pods."
Von Tor weaved around a suddenly scared-looking group of nobles, clutching small children to their dresses. He glanced out a tall window without slowing, seeing Wardsmen spilling into wide gardens with lasrifles in hand. They didn't get far. Giants in dark plate appeared from doorways, bolters thundering. Men came apart, blown into showers of gore by mass-reactive rounds. Wardsmen by the score, cut apart in perfectly executed crossfires. Their killers were shadows in the darkness, suggestions of giants in Ceramite, their outlines made jagged by black ivory emblems that crowned their backpacks.
"Dark Tusks," Von Tor stated as he strode on.
"Those triple-bastards," Kazial growled, "They've never forgiven us for Chasquit IX."
"A shame they didn't die from the virus bombs," Von Tor sighed, "It would have made our lives a lot easier."
"Shouldn't we do something?"
"Nothing we can do," Von Tor refuted, "Unless you think you can face off hundreds of Space Marines with two pistols."
"I'm good… but not that good," Kazial admitted.
Von Tor made for a large archway as screams began to ring in the halls. The pampered nobles had finally seen doom falling upon them, but too late, far too late. Ladies grabbed their children and began to hasten from the corridor, encumbered by the ridiculous dresses they wore. Servants called out for them to go this way or that, trying to save their masters, but they were ignored. It didn't matter which way they ran, there was nowhere to hide. Von Tor knew this all too well.
He stepped through an archway onto a sizable balcony and saw the sky above, already streaking with incoming Drop Pods. The Dark Tusks had infiltrated ahead to lay the ground, now the Black Templars came to seize the prize. Thankfully Von Tor's exit had already arrived, a bulky Guncutter, steaming on the reinforced balcony as its landing claws settled. Kazial wasted no time to hurry up the ramp but Von Tor paused, taking a moment to witness the fall of Oraphis.
The first black Drop pods slammed into the palace grounds, side panels blowing out to unleash rampaging Astartes. Figures in obsidian plate, replete with oath papers and proud banners on poles, charged forth, meeting milling crowds of Wardsmen with faith and fury. Chainswords rose and fell in frenzied slaughter, spraying blood everywhere while fists and boots shattered skulls. Mighty warcries were carried on the hot wind and the thunderous abjurations of Transhumans mid-battle. No man could stand against them in the field and the Black Templars cared nothing for pleas for mercy. Von Tor saw an officer run through by a juddering chainsword, another man bowled over and stepped upon, his chest imploding under the sheer weight of an Astartes. A servant, merely caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, fell to his knees and beseech them for mercy. A Ceramite gauntlet grabbed him about the shoulders, hoisting him aloft so a bolt pistol could remove his head entirely.
Oraphis' doom had come but Von Tor could only marvel at the ferocity of its killers. Such fervour, such brutality, such power. If only he'd had a force to equal Terran Space Marines in battle, the galaxy would have been changed forever. Sadly there was nothing he could do, not this day. So he set his foot upon the Guncutter's ramp and stepped within. Engines spooled up, landing skids lifted off the pad and with a burst of exhaust the Disquistion abandoned Oraphis to its fate. Nova Terra was invaded, and there was nothing anyone could do to avert its doom.