Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 168

13th B'ak'tun, year 18, Season of Damchak

The dead were restless today, making their displeasure known by a cold wind in the Stair Abyssal. Far into the deeps it rang, a kilometre across and echoing eternally. The honoured dead lay in alcoves ringing a descending path that circled the edge, their bones wrapped in preservative cloths against the ravages of time. Statues of those who walked at the Dawning were interspersed along the inner edge of the path, Arkqas, Xavaar, Damolos, Engar and of course Sedaxus, Founder of their Chapter. Brave souls, whose names echoed into eternity, but then all Smoke Jaguar's did.

Night and day Serviles stood vigil at various points, reciting the names of Smoke Jaguars into the echoing deeps as a huge leather drum was pounded in a slow rhythm. Long ago Servitors had been entrusted with this task, but such mindless repetition was not fit for the greatness of past heroes. Now the duty fell to a special breed of Servile, property of the Headsmen, bound to memorise the names of every Smoke Jaguar who ever lived so their spirits would never be lost. The Stair Abyssal was a place of unquiet dead, where spirits could almost be seen and Damchak oft came here to linger among Kinsmen long taken from him.

The First of Firsts stood proud, his head framed by a mantle of Eruth feathers. His Master-crafted armour gleamed in dappled shades and his vambraces bore two sets of Transonic Lightning claws. Scars old and new adorned his face, marks of fighting terrible foes and the teeth in his gums were sharpened into vicious fangs. Damchak's name had grown mighty with the passing decades, the Shade-Lord of the Smoke Jaguars steering his Chapter through the troubled times abroad in the galaxy, his word the only yoke the Prowls would bear. To Damchak it fell to command the Smoke Jaguars and it was a heavy burden indeed.

A gruff voice at his elbow, "Word from Ophelia VII, the Ecclesiarchy palace has been stormed. The Terran armies fell upon the Cardinals and put them to the sword. The attack was masterminded by the head of the Administratum, Goge Vandire. He claims he was command by the Golden Throne, but the Adeptus Ministorum decries that he seeks to make himself Ecclesiarch."

Damchak sniffed, "The clashes of paper kings are not ours to judge."

"Calls are being sent for Space Marine Chapters to assemble to oppose this Heresy," a chiding tone warned.

"Our path lies elsewhere," the Shade-Lord concluded.

"This could be more trouble than we realise. Vandire's ambitions have been making waves in the Senatorum Imperialis. Swift action now may save a desperate struggle tomorrow."

"We abide on sufferance, the Sun-Emperor's Headsmen do not trust us, nor we them. This High Lord or that one in supremacy is no concern of ours," Damchak refuted.

A huff of annoyance came from the Servile, who scrolled down his data-slate. A short man with a shaved scalp, his brow branded with the mark of the Shade-lord to denote he was the personal property of Damchak. Xecel was Copan-born, but had studied with the Administratum to act better as an equerry. Xecel had picked up some strange habits off-world, he wore a brown robe and shaved his scalp, his accent was thick with the ugliness of Gothic and he bathed, weekly, whether he needed it or not. Still Damchak valued Xecel's broad perspective and insight into the wheels of Imperium. Damchak didn't often agree, but he listened.

Xecel moved on to the next item, "Crovin the Younger seeks an audience, to discuss trade options."

Damchak sighed, "We are hunters, not merchants, what boon does he seek this time?"

"A plethora of trade-offers, including the hand in marriage of his youngest daughter."

"He knows this holds less interest to me than the underside of a toad."

"He knows, that's why he makes the offer, because he expects you won't accept it."

Damchak lifted an eyebrow, "How many heirs has he, out of how many wives?"

Xecel groaned, "Forty-nine sons and daughters, out of thirteen wives."

"He is his father's son, the spirit of Crovin the Stranger lives on in his brood, though his bones grow cold," Damchak groaned.

Xecel nodded, "The Crovin dynasty is sprawling and rich, they'd be running the Sector if only they could stop murdering each other for five minutes."

Damchak rolled his eyes and said, "Send missives that the Younger may approach, I will hear his pleas and judge if his entreaty is worth the air he wastes. A dim day it will be. When I was voted Shade-Lord I imagined great deeds, fighting Orruk and Devil-sons at the heads of the Prowls assembled. Not spending my days bickering over trade and bargain, hearing the harping of fishwives in my ear. The Headsmen warble about mischievous Doans, the Genewrights bemoan our gene-seed tithes and the Seers sniff dreamroot more than they ought. Even the Living-dead lament how nothing is as good as it was in their day. This is no life for a Smoke Jaguar."

Xecel's lip smirked slightly, "If you are bored know that Nizca awaits your pleasure."

"The First of Umbral Flame lingers and you bore me with minutiae?! You are cruel Xecel, you delight in my suffering!"

"I live to serve," Xecel grinned, "Shall I send him in?"

"Be hasty, else I use you as a plumbstone to measure the depths of the Stair Abyssal."

Xecel wasn't chagrined as he hurried away, to usher in Nizca. Damchak turned to inspect the First of Umbral Flame, his oldest living comrade. When Damchak had been voted Shade-lord, a century past, Nizca had been left to rebuild the Prowl, forging it afresh from nothing. He had succeeded, Umbral Flame was greatly esteemed, and with two Shade-Lords in turn ascended from their ranks there were few other Prowls who could stand equal. Nizca wore the relic Lightning Claw of the Prowl well, his bearing proud and eyes gleaming. Adventure beckoned, Damchak could smell it on him, a promise of wild hunts and terrible foes abroad. By the Ravenlord, how Damchak missed that.

Nizca addressed his master, "A thousand hails for Damchak, uniter and avenger!"

"Light of the Dawn be upon you," the Shade-Lord returned formally, "Far from our Boscage have you strayed. Tell me tales of your hunts."

"Pah, barely worth the telling. Orruk slain, Eldar gutted upon my claw, Devil-sons laid low, the sunrises of tenfold ten worlds upon my face... these petty details are beneath you."

Damchak snorted with amusement, "A Shade-lord judges what is worth his time, take care not to impugn my authority."

"I stand contrite," Nizca grinned as he bared his neck in mock submission.

Damchak let it pass as he looked upon his old friend. While the Shade-lord had whiled away the years with the heavy burdens of managing a Chapter, his old Kinsman had led a hunt far across the stars. Ten Prowls he had been voted to lead, dispatched by visions of the Seers to hunt a most elusive spoor. How Damchak wished to open a crate of Cyder-asps and remanences over past glories and hear of hunts on distant worlds, but more pressing concerns intruded.

"The quarry was found?" Damchak urged.

"Far did we travel, a thousand whispers did we chase, till at last we heard truth. He lives, he has returned, he walks the stars once more. Deep in Segmentum Tempestus, far from our known horizons. We have his scent but need more numbers to bring him to ground."

"Vorshaan," Damchak growled, "The foulest cur to ever draw breath has escaped his bondage beyond space and time. He laughs at us; he jeers at our indolence. We thought him gone, and in victory laid down our arms."

Nizca cocked his head, "Lazy we have been not, many Orruk heads have we taken, many vile foes have we culled."

"It matters nothing!" Damchak spat, "Justice has bounds but vengeance does not. It grows with the passing of years, honed by hateful wakings at dawn and swollen by bitter nights without sleep. Vorshaan drew the blood of Smoke Jaguars once, he killed our Kisnmen, he shall not know rest until our debt is settled. This is the will of Sedaxus!"

Nizca nodded in agreement, remembering the dead piled at Vorshaan's feet. Damchak however had reasons beyond the personal. Nizca could not know it but when Damchak was made Shade-Lord certain hidden truths had been revealed to him, known only to a select few among the Headsmen, Seers, Genewrights and Living-dead. Truths of blood and bone and heritage, and the name of the Dark One. Damchak had raged when he learned the Smoke Jaguars wellspring was shared between Corvus Corax and Konrad Curze, mad heathen and damned Primarch of the damned VIIIth. Along with that came an understanding of Vorshaan's taunts. The Dusk Prince had known, he had to. The preening filth had mocked Damchak with his lack of understanding and held that over him. Vorshaan knew the Smoke Jaguar's most shameful secret, he might try to use that against the Chapter. That could not be allowed to pass. The Imperium was not forgiving, and such a truth unveiled would spell doom for Copan XII.

Nizca spoke up, "I shall speak to the Techwrights and implore them to awaken the Eldest. Aapo will wish to walk with us once more."

Damchak agreed, "Do so, and I shall summon the Prowls. Deathmaker, Hounds Sinister, Hanged Men, Bone Gnawer, They Who Thunder, Flaming Brand, Whitecrow, Blazing Shadow, Jade Vipers and more. As many as can be spared from the Boscage."

"Will the Firsts agree?" Nizca asked.

"Their agreement is moot," Damchak hissed, "I am He Who Must Be Obeyed!"

"With our Shade-lord at our head, none will stand before us."

Damchak's lips drew back in a hungry grin, "Too long have I sat idle, too long have I gathered dust in these halls. No more, today I walk as a champion and leader. I shall sail the stars and together we shall run Vorshaan to ground. Our blood-debt will be settled, no matter the cost. Our will is unbending and only my death or his can end our conflict."

Nizca turned and hastened away, step eager and spirit buoyant. Damchak shared his enthusiasm, like an old mastiff rising on the dawn to find a spring in his feet thought long gone. Bold deeds called and danger as he had not known in many a decade, thrilling and fresh, and yet on the threshold he paused. The names recited in the Stair Abyssal grew familiar and Damchak waited till he heard the word 'Tikal' spoken aloud. A good omen, the spirit of his Kinsman was with him. Damchak was reassured all was as it should be as he stepped forth to begin his hunt anew.

Author's note

Damchak's legend now passes into history. The Smoke Jaguars will return with a new Prowl and a new adventure