Tales of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 53

The wind was fierce at this altitude and the cold biting. Aapo's fingers were blocks of ice and his toes numb, the urge to stick his hands into his armpits for warmth was growing but he refused to show weakness before the Shade-Seer. To distract himself he allowed the burning of his thighs and calves to spread, using the fire to counterbalance the chill. His genhanced legs could run for days, but this was testing his limits. They had climbed above the snowline and the stair they were traversing was steep enough that a mortal would call it a ladder.

Aapo examined his surroundings, admiring the ring of mountains that surrounded the Fortress-Monastery of the Smoke Jaguars. Steep they were and forbidding, not a one lacking a snowy cap. Without any passes they could not be traversed, save by gunship or the secret tunnels that were bored through the roots of the mountains. Clouds passed below the summits and the exposed rockfaces were without trees or bushes. No animals made their homes among those peaks, save the Kondors and the Golden Eagles who nested safe from predators.

Aapo followed Xavaar up the steep stair, wondering all the while where they were going. At first he had fretted they would enter the Black Ziggurat, where the Seers were said to peer into the future, but the pair had bypassed the intimidating bastion and left the fortress behind. Xavaar was walking effortlessly up the stairs, seemingly untroubled by the steep gradient. Aapo bitterly thought this climb must be easy in powered pate, not to mention warmer than his leathers. He should be more wary about his thoughts before a master of the mystic arts, but at this moment he was finding hard to care.

"Here we are," Xavaar announced as they reached a narrow plateau, barely ten metres long and half as wide.

"A hallowed place," Aapo wheezed breathlessly, "To meet one's end."

"Are you planning to die?" Xavaar asked lightly.

"To know the hour of one's passing is a rare thing. I thank thee for dignity and solitude at my ending."

Xavaar leant on his staff and sighed, "For the purposes of this conversation, it would be better if we spoke in Gothic."

"Shade-Seer?" Aapo blinked.

Xavaar switched tongues, "Don't pretend you can't, the Hypno-indoctrination machines imprinted the knowledge. Speak the old way."

Aapo struggled to understand the intent, he could understand the language but had never spoken it. The teaching machines and implanted the secrets into his neurons, but it was foreign to his tongue. The cadences and syntax were alien to his lips, so uncouth and ugly, compared to the flowing poetry of Copan XII.

"I... troth..." Aapo stammered, "I hear... shall obey I..."

"I shall obey," Xavaar corrected, "You clearly need practice, we'll work on that. Now, tell me why you think I brought you up here to kill you."

"I... unavailing..." Aapo worked through straining lips, "I denied go elevate."

Xavaar tutted, "Cogitate the verb."

"I denied to elevate."

"But falling short is a negative, so you must use..."

"Failed? Failed to elevate..."

"Are you a grav-lift?!"

I failed, to... ascend."

Xavaar nodded, "There you go, it's not hard. I really must make Low Gothic classes mandatory among the Scout-novices. Five hundred years of linguistic drift, at this rate we won't be able to hold a conversation outside our Chapter. Now as to your question, no I'm not planning to kill you simply because a squad didn't pick you. It happens sometimes."

Aapo struggled to process the foreign language but with every word his Transhuman brain was decoding the mysteries, "This before happened?"

"Happened before, get it right. And yes, sometimes there are more neophytes than squads have openings. We try to match numbers, but war is unpredictable and we have to make do. Usually the unlucky novice is folded back into the scouts till another choosing comes around. I've never seen a novice passed over twice... well once I did... but the Magpyr was left weird in the head after an Ork cracked his skull."

Aapo frowned, "You say usually, but this is usual not?"

Xavaar sighed, "Five hundred years I've watched over the Smoke Jaguars set down roots and grow tall. We are far from what Corax, or Guilliman, intended but then we were planted in stranger soils than they expected. Always growing, and yet we're still barely half our required numbers. Five hundred years building this our Brotherhood, and suddenly I find time has run out."

Aapo looked up, "You walked under the same sun as noble Sedaxus, his passing was legendary."

"Noble… him?!" Xavaar snorted with mirth, "Legends owe more to fable than truth. Sedaxus got gutted by an Ork cleaver, wasn't even a Warboss holding it just some random Boy. Sedaxus always was cavalier with his own life, it caught up to him in the end. Damned idiot."

"Oh..." Aapo sighed in disappointment,

"He always was a sarcastic bastard, but I do miss his taunts," Xavaar lamented, "And now history repeats itself."

"Shade-Seer?" Aapo questioned.

"My mind drifts," Xavaar sighed, "Let me show you why we climbed up here, take five paces left and you'll understand."

Aapo frowned but did as bid, stepping along the ridge, climbing ever so slightly. As he did so a strange shimmer passed over him, then he gasped as the vista transformed. Below the caldera was filled with a beautiful lake, shining bright in the evening sun. It was a vision of wild splendour, but also a lie. Aapo took two paces left and the Fortress-Monastery returned, stepped pyramids laid out in rigid progressions, emanating from the awesome bulk of the Black Ziggurat. Step right and the lake returned, step left and the streets and boulevards were revealed, even the delicate rivers that ran in stone-lined channels.

"Eyes in the dark, the veil of evensong misleads," Aapo gasped.

"In Gothic!" Xavaar snapped.

"My eyes are deceived," Aapo corrected.

Though his flesh-mask was incapable of expression Xavaar's voice was amused, "Good, isn't it? Reflex shield technology, modified from our warships. This neat bit of trickery makes our home undetectable, and with Shadowhawks we can fly in and out at will. I discovered this tiny little flaw we're standing in a century ago, I kept it to myself, as a private place to meditate."

Aapo was amazed, he'd left the Fortress-Monastery many times in his days as a Doan, but always in the belly of a Shadowhawk. He'd never seen the arcane protections of his home at work, and it was marvellous. He kept stepping right and left, admiring the twin views. The intricate layout of the base, the purity of the lake, forge-fanes, training grounds and Apothecariums, all invisible. The Prowls did not dwell within, claiming hidden residences across the jungles that covered the continent, but the spiritual and logistic heart of the Smoke Jaguars was here, and it was invisible to outsiders.

Xavaar's voice grew wistful, "Circumspection and silence, subtly and shadow, these are powerful tools and we employ them well, but for some decades I have begun to believe we are rank amateurs floundering in ignorance. Across the boscage enemies move, some obvious like the Orks, others more subtle. I have reason to suspect we are being stalked by an enemy more cunning and devious than we ever suspected. That the true master of subterfuge lies right under our noses."

"Orruk?" Aapo asked.

"It's pronounced Ork," Xavaar sighed, "And no, not them. Palanque takes the Prowls to go confront the Greenskin at Marajo, great clashes rage and blood stains the rivers and the fields. But this is not my concern. I seek an enemy who moves unseen, one who has eluded me for centuries."

"How can you be sure he exists?" Aapo asked.

"Subtle hints and third-hand rumours. Shipments from Alar-Median going missing, Governors on friendly worlds suddenly turning against us, talk of strange figures appearing in the crime slums of great cities, offering rewards great and venal. For a long time I thought these events were unconnected, but the pattern grew in my mind and a name came to my attention: the Bronzed Beast. It can no longer be denied that we have an enemy amid our Boscage, one who moves against us and after a century of searching I have found his world."

Aapo was confused but ventured, "Unleash the Prowls, send our Brothers to burn down his house."

Xavaar snorted, "I said Palanque is engaged fighting Orks, he can spare no blades. So lacking an army I called in a favour, Engar went to have a look, but he never reported back."

Aapo gasped, Engar the Lord Headsman, chief of that feared order. A legend to match Xavaar's own. A founder, bearer of Giant's Roar, the most silent among the silent, and able to slip his own shadow. Engar was the unseen hand on the neck of every Smoke Jaguar, none could know when his eyes were watching or when his stern judgement would fall. For this reason the Prowls did not war upon each other, though they sparred and pilfered aplenty. Competition kept them strong, but none dared commit murder so long as the Headsmen were watching.

Aapo gulped, "If this unseen foe can best the Lord Headsman, he must be a fell foe."

"If what I suspect is true then he's far deadlier than that," Xavaar hissed, "And I suspect his goal will spell doom for the Smoke Jaguars. He must be stopped."

"What numbers have we?"

Xavaar mused, "Currently... one creaky old Shade-Seer and one Doan who didn't get picked."

"That is not good," Aapo muttered.

"Not good indeed," Xavaar agreed, "Which is why we must seek another. One who will treble our strength."

Aapo cocked his head, "One Brother?"

"When you meet him, you will understand," Xavaar assured.

"Where will we find him?"

"Where he thinks I will not go, among the dead," Xavaar sighed, "You had better get your armour and Obsidian Knife, you will need them."

"Surely no Kinsman would lift his hand against you!"

Xavaar snorted, "He has before. Do not think the Headsman will protect us from him. Steel yourself young one, we venture into the den of the Dark Fury."