Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 74

"Orruk mount attacks along the Sulphuric sea, we estimate their numbers surpass a hundred thousand already," a worried PDF officer reported.

"The destruction of the primary bridge has blocked our ability to establish a cordon," another lamented, "We recommend pulling back all forces to protect Sonyhu city."

"Probing attacks on the Vapour Mills show a second front moving up from the eastern barrens, if we leave the outer Sinkhole Cities unprotected they will fall in days."

"We haven't the manpower to thwart two offensives!" an alarmed general bemoaned.

"We haven't the numbers to stop one," King Denshu despaired.

Methuselah listened to their wailing with mounting ire. The reports were flooding in, swamping the PDF with Greenskin sightings, more than could possibly be investigated. The so-called leaders of this world were all puppets to his whim, but they were floundering in waters beyond their depths. The long-awaited invasion had come and they were incapable of mounting a response, or so it seemed.

Since the flight of the Smoke Jaguars Methuselah had retreated to his private fastness, hidden in a narrow crevice far from anywhere. He had summoned Denshu and the generals to brief him on recent events, and the call had shocked them. Never had the Bronze Beast invited any but his closest servants to his cloisters, not even his criminal underbosses, but his patience for subtly had worn out completely. He wanted this matter resolved, immediately.

The Bronze Beast sat atop a broad throne of brazen hue. He still wore his armour and his right hand flexed the long talons of his claw impatiently. His greeting hall was styled as one of the Technobarbarian kings of Old Earth, with bombastic statues lining the walls and spiked cages hanging from the roof, containing the skeletal remains of those who had offended him, displayed for all to see. Watching them slowly starve to death had pleased him once, reminding him of the murder galleries of the Panpacific Empire, but no longer did it bring him solace. Events were spiralling out of hand.

To his right Athaliah fretted, her hand clasping her thin sword nervously. To his left Tvos stood with arms folded into his sleeves, as inscrutable as ever. Anyone not as familiar with him as Methuselah would think the Magos was serene, but the Bronze Beast could sense the tension wafting off him. The gaggle of PDF at the base of the short steps were anything but calm, nearly screaming in hysteria, unable to compose themselves.

General Tuxx wiped a shaking hand over his sweaty brow, "Have we heard anything from Marajo?"

Field-Marshall Yros shook her ash-white face, "The war continues, the defenders of the Boscage fight on."

King Denshu quivered, "Tell them we need more men!"

Yros sighed, "They have none to spare."

"Xilbaba is invaded and they do nothing!" Denshu wailed.

"The Greenskin hordes are beyond counting," Yros warned, "Marajo is of far more worth to them than Xilbalba, they will not sacrifice a planet for a moon's sake."

"Then send word to Alar-Median," Tuxx proposed, "The Tech-priests must come to our aid."

Denshu nodded eagerly, "Yes, send for the Skitarii."

"No," Methuselah growled, drawing all eyes. The crowd of officers had almost forgotten he was there, overwhelmed by panic, but with a word he stopped their bleating. His eyes surveyed them slowly and found them all weak and cowardly. None of them deserved the freedom to think for themselves, not even Denshu, but fear overpowered their good sense. The local king's face was a mass of bandages and wadding, the Smoke Jaguars had left their mark on him, but it seemed that grievance had been forgotten in the face of an invasion.

Methuselah shifted forward, making them shrink back as he growled, "There is no Greenskin invasion."

Tuxx dared to protest, "But the reports!"

"False readings, inspired by fear. This is not the work of the Ork, but the Smoke Jaguars. My enemies are playing you for dupes!"

Denshu glared upwards, "We have thousands of reports confirming sightings of Orruk landings."

"Fools see only what they expect to see. My enemies planted the seed of an idea, watered it with a few terrorist attacks and let it grow in the fertile soil of your imaginations. You idiots are scared of a few Space Marines playing games in the night!"

They didn't look convinced, their eyes defiant. Where was this strange courage coming from, Methuselah wondered, a few weeks ago they wouldn't have dared meet his eye, but now they seemed churlish in their refusal to heed his warning. Methuselah reached down and cranked his dose of Blue to the maximum and in the rush of clarity saw they doubted his sanity. They believed wholeheartedly in the Orruk threat, and saw his denials as a refusal to accept reality. Their preconceptions had been certain Greenskins would invade, and any evidence to the contrary was rejected out of hand. In their eyes he was the delusional one, living in a fantasy world, despite the enormous amount of Blue flooding through his blood that made his anger rise.

Tuxx coughed gently, "Real or not the riots in the cities are crippling us."

Yros concurred, "We must deploy forces to police the civilian population. Else we'll lose this moon from within."

"I care nothing for your petty woes," Methuselah growled, "Get your forces into the wastes and track down the Smoke Jaguars!"

Denshu protested, "This is my moon to govern, I need those troopers on the streets!"

"Do not question me!" Methuselah spat, outraged at the stark impudence.

Athaliah leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Father, perhaps this is the time to make a prudent withdrawal?"

"Flee, from mere Astartes?!" Methuselah hissed as his claw flexed.

But the Pariah pressed, "You have not lived so long without knowing when to fold on a bad hand. The situation on Xilbalba has spun out of control, time to relocate to a more stable position and reorganise our plans."

"If you weren't so essential I'd kill you for speaking so," Methuselah snapped.

Tvos interrupted, "There are two possibilities, the Greenskins have invaded and this moon is about to fall, in which case the projected odds of our survival are close to nil. The other possibility is the Smoke Jaguars are engaged in actions designed to undermine your authority, in which case staying in this position works in their favour. In either scenario the ideal response is to withdraw and consolidate your position, before planning a counter-attack."

Methuselah snarled, "I will not run from my enemies! The Legiones Cataegis never ran, not once. We faced our foes head-on and took their strength for our own. We embraced suffering, grew mighty from it, we did not run like cravens!"

"They aren't behaving as you predicted," Athaliah protested, "You said they would come for you directly, they have not. Whatever you think you know of Astartes is wrong, they've changed with the passing of centuries, they are not the warriors you met at the beginning."

"Astartes don't change, they are incapable of it," Methuselah growled, "They are playing games but they won't give up. They're coming for me, and my armies will swamp them when they do!"

Denshu glared upwards, "My armies will do no such thing!"

Methuselah snapped his head about, "You dare?!"

"This is my moon, my armies! Too long have you lorded over my family, no more! You've lost your way, your reason is gone and your sanity with it. I will no longer bow to a drooling madman. Your time is over, you hear me, over!"

Methuselah's rage broke the dam of calming drugs, filling his mind with red raw violence. The surging tide of Blue mattered nothing as the Bronze Beast leapt from his throne, hurling himself at the crowd. They didn't even have time to react, so fast did he move. Methuselah was upon them before they could blink, ramming his claws into Denshu's chest. The king of Xilbalba froze in shock, unable to process what had happened. Methuselah hoisted him aloft, blood dripping on his face as he squeezed his fingers and scissored the king into wet chunks of flesh.

"Father no!" Athaliah yelled but it was too late. The PDF officers screamed in terror and turned to run. Methuselah was disgusted, so weak, so inferior. How he had let them live so long he could no longer recall, the urge to rend them all into offal burning through his reason like a goaded Grox. He lowered his hand and triggered the flamer, sending a plume of umbral flame over their heads to engulf the doorway. A black fireball exploded in their path, scalding the faces of all and blowing backwards to swathe the nearest. General Tuxx was set alight, flailing in agony as fire consumed him. He fell to the floor as he burned alive, his arms and legs growing still in seconds.

The rest drew back but Methuselah was among them. He swung his lightning claw and three men came apart. He punched with his other hand and a head came away, spine and all. He caught the trailing nerve bundle and swung it wide, smashing in the head of the next with the severed skull of a former comrade. Pleas and begging sounded but unearthly slow, as if heard underwater. Methuselah was no longer in the hall, he was amid the ruins of Narthan Dume's empire, his Brazen Bulls rampaging freely, slaughtering all without mercy or restraint. Ushotan was calling, claiming his Iron Lords were reaping ten times as many skulls, but Methuselah urged his Thunder Warriors on. Methuselah's hearts beat so hard his ribs flexed, every breath scalding hot and his organs roasted inside his chest from exertion. It was glorious, till it wasn't.

Methuselah staggered as a sharp lance of pain filled his chest, bringing him back to reality. He stood amid a wide puddle of blood, greaves painted red, the torn-out heart of Yros dripping in his hand. He dropped the red meat amid the piled corpses of the PDF, his belly writhing in torment. Red hot fire racked his lungs but his guts felt cold, numbness spreading rapidly. Weakness stole his strength, he was having trouble breathing, and the world was going grey.

"Tvos…" Methuselah groaned, "What's happening to me?"

The Magos hurried forward waving his hands, "Bio-med sensors report complete renal failure, imminent failures in liver, spleen and hyper-adrenal gland."

Athaliah hastened forward, "Is he dying?!"

"His emotional disequilibrium has unbalanced his humours. The corrosiveness of his blood has grown too extreme, his own vitae is destroying his organs," Tvos explained.

"But will he die?!"

"He needs immediate surgery; I must replace the failing organs with fresh clone-breeds and increase the globular filtration of his life-support unit."

"Get me to the…" Methuselah groaned as his knees nearly gave way.

"I can't carry him," Athaliah protested, "If he dies…"

Methuselah couldn't hear the rest. The world was going grey, ears muffled and hearts slowing. His genewrought organs were failing, but his will remained unbreakable He forced his foot forward, taking the first step on the long road to the surgical suites as he groaned, "Make me strong again… must be strong when they come… must be ready for… Smoke Jaguars… I will be stronger… strong enough to kill them…"