Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 129
Damchak knelt in the ashes of Canticle City and brushed the blood-soaked ground with his fingertips. Gently he lifted his hand and licked the detritus of battle off Ceramite digits. The mysteries of gene-seed were deep and through it he tasted suffering, the death of millions and the toppling of empires. Sorrow was laced into the atoms of the soil, the cries of those slain unjustly. The Smoke Jaguars were no strangers to the imposition of woe but always with purpose, always in service to a higher truth. This was not the bitter taste of necessity but the acrid tang of wanton destruction for its own sake, the death of those unable to fight back, purely for being in the way.
He turned his head and spat in disgust as a voice asked, "This does not please thee?"
"Orruks show greater circumspection in their rampages," Damchak spat.
"A moon we cast from the heavens and cracked a continent," Nizca pointed out.
"A vile deed committed in service to a higher truth," Damchak argued, "Millions died, so billions could be spared the horror of grinding assault. The Serviles of the Golden Throne would have cast lives away like a man trying to wear down a mountain one drop of water at a time. We spared them that, but this… this was injudicious."
"We fight with Doans," Nizca agreed.
Damchak stood up and took in the ashes of Canticle City. Amid the burned ruins of opera houses and museums figures moved, sweeping the ashes for survivors. Mortals in tan fatigues with shining carapace armour and golden lasrifles. Frater Templars, the warrior-zealots of the Ecclesiarchy. They marched proudly, even as they dug up bleeding survivors from the rubble, only to shoot them for Heresy. In once-stunning parks the bodies of Novan citizenry were piled high, left for crows to pick over as icons of idolatry were smashed rubble. Yet they were not the ones who concerned Damchak. Fire Lords strode amongst them, resplendent in bright red and yellow, boastful and vain to the subtle eyes of the Smoke Jaguars. Bragging had its place but few were so loud as those who had little merit to esteem.
"Children playing at being Astartes," Nizca growled.
"Untempered metal, fresh from the forge-heat and yet to be hammered upon the anvil," Damchak agreed.
"They preen like peacocks, heedless that their single hunt-kill was brought to the lure by our efforts."
"The Doan rarely heeds the wisdom of the old man."
"Better they learn to bow before the First of Firsts," Nizca muttered.
"That is not given unto us, but the son of Sigismund," Damchak sighed.
Nine centuries had Nova Terra defied the High Lords, nine hundred years of twin empires. Now the Terrans had declared a War of Faith and for ten years the Novan Crusade had driven into the heart of what was once Segmentum Pacificus, spearheaded by the Black Templars. No man could know the number of Sigismund's heirs, but for this campaign they had brought fifteen hundred Astartes together. Ten years of slaughter had whittled that down greatly, despite the spreading wave of religious fervour that had seen a dozen planets overthrow the Ur-Council's envoys and pledge to the High Lords, for every planet conquered in blood. Four hundred and fifty Black Templars yet remained, not enough for the conquest of the Novan's capital world. Thankfully the crusade had long been expected and a Space Marine Founding had been set in motion decades earlier, though events nearly overtook it. The first of the new Chapters had come into service just in time to partake of the invasion, sons of Dorn, sent to reinforce their cousins at the most critical hour. Fire Lords, a thousand strong, all desperate to prove themselves.
The Smoke Jaguar's involvement had been more peripheral, as had the blood of their blood, the Dark Tusks. Many demands had been made for more numbers, but the pressures on other fronts had drawn their strength away. Still at no point had the Smoke Jaguars had less than twelve Prowls committed to the crusade, and for this campaign they had brought fifteen more. Great they were in skill but the esteem of others was lacking. Damchak found that intolerable.
His bitter musings were interrupted as a coarse boast arose in low Gothic, "Eleven!"
"Ha, seven, at best!" Zyenya's mocking tongue rebuked.
"Eleven I say, doubt me not," young Tikal rejoined.
Caulli sneered, "Three.. mark my words."
But Tikal avowed, "Eleven shall be the number of the counting, and the number of the counting shall be eleven!"
Damchak's already dour mood soured as he turned about and saw Umbral Flame lounging about. The Prowl were hanging about the ramp of their Shadowhawk, Sable Pinion. Young Tikal stood amid a ring of his Kinsmen, holding an Obsidian Blade out in one hand. Some looked doubtful, others scornful but all were interested as Tikal tensed then threw his knife into the air. Over and over it spun, flying high as it turned hilt over point. Any mortal could throw and catch a knife after one or two turns, an Astartes could easily manage five or six, even Damchak had once managed eight, as a very young Doan. Tikal however was truly superb with his skill as the hilt-heavy knife spun eleven times in its arc, before his hand snatched it from the air.
"Eleven!" Tikal crowed.
"Shade of Sedaxus preserve me," Damchak groaned.
"Tikal has rare skill," Nizca grinned.
"Too much skill, too little grace," Damchak muttered.
"At least they're practising their Gothic," Nizca pointed out.
Damchak ignored that as he stepped forward, "Is this the path of Umbral Flame?! Shame upon you all, you disgrace us before the blood of our blood! We stand amid the hosts of Imperium and you play at being the fool. Shame upon your heads, were Aapo the Eldest awake he'd remove the skin from your backs, and damn the Headsmen's wroth!"
The rest of Umbral Flame shrank before their First's ire, shame writ large upon their pale faces. Tikal however grinned, flashing his still-blue eyes in the wan light, "Idle blades make the Daemon's work."
"You think your talents are wasted?!" Damchak hissed.
"I think your finest blade grows blunt for lack of use," Tikal retorted.
"Dropping a battlemoon wasn't enough?" Nizca snorted from behind.
"I think my deed-title shall not be earned lounging in the ashes of others' victory," Tikal laughed his blue eyes twinkling.
The rest of Umbral Flame watched in interest and Damchak knew his authority was being tested. Smoke Jaguars were prideful and wayward creatures, respect must be earned and was never given as a right. Tikal was barely out of the Doans, and eager to carve out his place in the hierarchy of the Prowl. No matter that he rubbed shoulders with Kinsmen owning centuries more experience, he would not be content to stand in another's shadow. Damchak had to slap that attitude down hard, lest he be forced to challenge Tikal to a Chase.
Damchak leaned in, "You wish to order the comings and goings of Umbral Flame?! Your wailings echo like the callow babe in arms, crying for its mother's teat. I have worn the mantle of First since before your father's father drew breath. I have walked in the dark places of the galaxy and taught the monsters that linger there what fear is. I was Prowlmaster of Telluris, he who forged the rejoining of Smoke Jaguars and Imperium. I walk where I will, I order the times and places of our hunts, because it is my right to choose. You shall mind my decrees, or learn why the Orruk in their den quake at my shadow."
Silence reigned for a moment as all awaited the young braggart's response then Tikal bowed at the waist theatrically and declared, "I hear and obey, oh mighty one!"
Damchak was not amused and barked, "Form up, march in straight lines before me and show the sons of Dorn that the blood of Corax is every bit their equal!"
Umbral Flame formed up in twin lines, Tikal at the fore, and moved out. Such rigidity was rare among Smoke Jaguars, but the two centuries since reunification with the Imperium had taught them a few things and they moved like the proudest Ultramarine on the parade ground. Damchak stayed at the rear, to better watch their treads were even. He saw Fire Lords and Frater Templars looking over, some curious, others wearing disdain as a cloak. He paid them no mind though, the Smoke Jaguars were a sovereign chapter and judged their esteem, or lack thereof, a passing breeze in the night.
Nizca was at his side and whispered, "You elected to embrace Tikal upon the Proving Ground."
"Your keen memory is a gnat-bite unto my soul," Damchak grumbled.
"Why did you choose him?"
Damchak sighed, "His hunt-kill was a Smoke Jaguar."
"Truly?! Rare indeed does a Doan claim our namesake for his proving."
"Tikal's skill is remarkable, his exuberance I thought could be tempered with wisdom."
"I would wish you luck but the blessings of all the saints, in all the galaxy, will not suffice to teach Tikal wisdom."
"He will learn," Damchak growled, "Or I will throw him from the top of the Stair Abyssal."
Their march took them through the settling ruins, towards the landing fields. Here mighty bulldozers toppled scorched brickwork, as Ferrocrete pouring machines followed, laying down the ground for the coming invasion force. Probing units had been deposited across the planet, deep-insertion forces disrupting the Novan's response. Black Templars were spearheading command-decapitation strikes while Dark Tusks and Smoke Jaguars were scattered far and wide, creating havoc, but this alone would not suffice. Nova Terra was a super-earth, several times the size of Holy Terra, but with a low-density core that made gravity comfortable for mortals. Even with its carefully preserved ecosystem it boasted vast armies and Titan legions of the Moirae Schismatics. To defeat that the Frater Templars had brought oceans of tanks and Regiments by the thousand. Knight Houses marched to their banner and Demi-Legios of the Collegia Titanicus awaited landing. This demanded a sizeable logistic hub, and upon the bones of Canticle City the invaders planted their flag.
Damchak spied he whom he sought amid the preparations. Q'umarkaj, Shade-lord of the Smoke Jaguars, First of Firsts and He Who Must Be Obeyed. The mantle of command crowned his gorget and his Transonic claws were extended as he surveyed the preparations. Damchak had served under him when he had been First of Umbral Flame, and knew well his mercurial humour and wildly erratic mood swings. And today he seemed less than pleased.
The Prowl came to a halt before their lord and master and Damchak stepped forth, "Light of the Dawn be upon you, Shade-lord."
"The light of the sun darkens in my eye," Q'umarkaj growled.
"You find our litany of success lacking?"
"The Smoke Jaguars are the finest of the Sun-Emperor's warriors, even the blood of our blood, the Dark Tusks, esteem our names. Others do not see our worth."
"The Fire Lords?"
"Arrogance is in their blood, unearned and unmerited. They claim kinship with the Black Templars, but they are makeweights alone. They have no deed-titles yet dare disdain us."
Tikal snorted, "The death of a moon does not suffice to prove our worth?!"
The Shade-lord turned scornful eyes upon the youth, "A thousand times a thousand Orruk skulls must ye claim, before you can speak in the presence of Q'umarkaj!"
Tikal blanched and finally shut up, while Damchak made a mental note of the expression and tone of voice required to discipline the boy. Hastily the First gestured, "The Sun-Emperor sees our deeds and knows all this was made possible by the sons of Sedaxus. In His eyes we are worthy, what care we for the bleating of sheep-men and crop-burners?"
"Mil-Arder," Q'umarkaj's lip curled in amusement as his fleeting mood shifted, "Yes, a fitting deed-title. Crop-burners, sowers of salt, these are the names of a zealous fool, blundering about without care for the destruction he bestows."
Damchak almost winced at the depth of the insult. The Testimony of Arkqas taught a skilful way of war, truths backed by millennia of combating greenskin threats. Battles of attrition were anathema to the Smoke Jaguars, as was profligate destruction without cause. For the Smoke Jaguars displays of might were to goad the foe into rash action, or make them collapse into panic. To burn wantonly and without strategy was a fool's path, so countless Warbosses had taught them, and the Testimony wrote the perfect war was one that could be ended with a single shot.
"Many battles shall there be," Damchak counselled, "Many chances to prove our worth."
Q'umarkaj sneered, "It is they who must prove themselves to me!"
"And so they shall, leal sons of the Sun-Emperor walk the soil of many worlds, yet all cleave to the Throne of Gold."
Q'umarkaj unbent enough to say, "Alas that the Living-dead must slumber on occasions. Aapo the Eldest will be thrice-vexed that he slept through this hunt. It falls to me to explain why he could not be awoken."
Damchak was heartily glad not to be the one who must explain that to a cranky Dreadnought and said, "Thus it is written, thus shall it be."
Their conversation was cut short by a peal of thunder. All paused in their labours and gazed aloft as the heavens were split apart by the descent of a mountain. Upon shimmering Anti-gravs and blazing retro-rockets descended a mammoth building, all slab-sided walls and doughty gun-turrets. Gothic arches supported tripe-reinforced stained glassic windows, and macrocannons jutted from the four corners. Leering gargoyles clung to flying buttresses, blackened by the inferno of re-entry and a soaring spire arose from the top, crowned by a ten-metre tall statue of the Sun-Emperor in warrior pose, flaming sword held aloft in triumph. An invasion-cathedrum, dropped straight from orbit, filled with thousands of Frater Templars and all the equipment needed to command a global invasion.
The Cathedrum's course had been carefully calculated, its vector swept clean of anti-orbital defences. Now it blotted out the sun as it fell to the dirt, shaking the bones of the ruined city as it set down in the heart of the enemy. Hollowed-out buildings collapsed and setting Ferrocrete danced in its moulds. In one moment the landing field had been transformed from a ruin into a functional basecamp, and from this nexus the beating heart of the army would grow. Damchak however was more interested in the flag that unfurled above the towering gateway, black with a red and white cross emblazoned upon it. With that he knew the Cathedrum boasted the Lord Marshall of the Black Templars on board, and that the supreme commander of the Novan Crusade would be demanding the presence of his compatriots immediately.