C. Goto - Dawn of War

“Isador, can you sense anything unusual in this place?” asked Gabriel without daring to look the Librarian in the eyes, but willing to trust the senses of his old friend.

The Librarian concentrated for a moment, opening his mind to the eddies and energy flows of the glade. Instantly a flood of voices crashed into his head, screaming and shouting of pain and death. But there, hidden behind the Shockwaves of the slaughter, was a careful, delicate whisper, trying to slip unnoticed into his soul. He had heard that voice before, and he hesitated slightly before replying.

“No. No, Gabriel, I have sensed nothing since we arrived. But if there is a sorcerer of Chaos with the enemy, he may be able to mask their presence, especially with all the background static caused by the battles and the uncouth aliens.” Isador looked away into the trees, as though looking for someone.

“There is something else you should see, captain,” said Corallis, leading Gabriel to a point on the other side of the glade, pointing out the burns left by the thrusters of a drop-ship.

“This,” said Corallis, picking up a fragment of ceramite from the grass. “This is not Blood Ravens armour, and it was not shot by a bolter.”

The shard of ceramite looked as if it had been punched out of the armour of a Space Marine, but it was a dull, acid green. Moreover, it was perforated by a series of tiny holes, barely a couple of centimetres across.

“It looks to me, Corallis,” said Gabriel, “like our friends the Alpha Legion are on Tartarus, and that we are not the only ones who are not pleased to see them. These are shuriken marks, are they not? It seems that the orks are just a distraction from the main game.”

C.S. Goto (ebook by Undead)

01 – Dawn of War

The forest shuddered and rippled, sending Shockwaves of green pulsing across the canopy. A couple of seconds later and the Thunderhawk dropped slowly down through the trees, its engines roaring and whining as they fought for a soft landing. The gunship came down just outside the busy clearing, crushing trees and plants like blades of grass.

Gabriel and Isador watched the vessel descend in silence. They already knew who was waiting for them inside, but they were not sure why he had come to Tartarus. The Litany of Fury had not been sent any warning of his arrival, but the crew had managed to get a message down to surface before the inquisitor could requisition one of the Chapter’s Thunderhawks and make planetfall himself.

The two Blood Ravens cast their eyes around the scene of carnage in the glade, and shook their heads. There were dead Marines strewn over the ground, and one that had apparently been ritually sacrificed across a rock in the centre of the clearing. It didn’t look good.

“What do you think he wants?” asked Isador, voicing the worry of everyone. “Do you suppose that he suspects one of us of heresy?”

“He is an inquisitor, Isador, protector of the Emperor’s divine word and will. He suspects everyone of heresy,” answered Gabriel flatly. “That is his job.”

“Perhaps he has sensed the taint of Chaos on this world?” offered Corallis, looking back towards the ruined figure of Mikaelus.

“Yes, perhaps,” replied Gabriel, as the hatch hissed open on the Thunderhawk and its boarding ramp lowered slowly.

Isador took half a step back as Inquisitor Mordecai Toth strode down the ramp towards the group of Marines, and Gabriel stood forward to greet him. Despite the absence of a Space Marine’s suit of power armour, Mordecai was an imposing man. He was tall and well muscled, and his dark skin glistened under the dappled light of the forest. His armour was elaborately etched with runes and sprinkled with purity seals. Emblazoned on his chest was the Imperial “I,” marking out the inquisitor’s almost limitless authority in the realm of the Emperor. A great book of law, sealed with locks and runes of binding, was chained around his waist, and an ornate warhammer swung casually from his right hand as he strode down the ramp.

“Inquisitor Toth,” said Gabriel, drawing himself up to his full height in front of the newcomer. “Welcome to Tartarus.” The captain spared a quick nod for each of the two Blood Ravens who had accompanied the inquisitor from the Litany of Fury, and he noticed that a nervous-looking curator from the librarium was still hovering in the hatchway behind them clutching a package of papers.

For a moment, Mordecai looked Gabriel up and down, the movements of his one human eye not quite matched by those of his augmented bio-monocle, which seemed to take in the rest of the glade. “Thank you, captain, but we have no time for welcomes or courtesies. The Blood Ravens must leave Tartarus immediately.”

The guardsman prodded the stonework gingerly, pressing his gloves up against the intricate carvings, tracing the forms of the runes. They seemed to slip and slide under his touch, as though striving to avoid his fingers. But the man’s eyes gleamed with a long forgotten magic, as though something primal were gradually seeping out of his pupils. The runes on the stone were reaching into his soul, even as they danced and swam around his fingertips.

Behind him, he could hear the voices of his comrades, each barely a whisper as they jostled for better positions. One or two of them were getting impatient, and he was certain that they were complaining about how long it was taking him to decipher the symbols. Up on the rim of the crater, a row of men stood guard, keeping their eyes peeled for any sign of movement in the surrounding wilds.

The stone was roughly cut, but slick with recently let blood. It was stained a rich, deep brown where countless trails of blood had caressed the sides of the altar, streaming their way into the fertile earth below. Tavett could almost feel the energy pulsing along the stains, as though they were themselves veins. Even through his gloves, the rock altar seemed to throb with inorganic life.

Firing a quick glance over his shoulder to check on his comrades, Tavett sprung from his kneeling position, launching himself onto the surface of the stone altar. He could hear his companions shriek as they saw him jump, and their rapid footfalls filled his ears as he spread himself across the cold stone tablet. They are so pathetically slow, thought Tavett. That’s why I was chosen, because I’m better than they are. My blood burns, and they are nothing more than cold husks.

By the time Sergeant Katrn had reached the altar it was already too late. Tavett lay on his stomach with his arms and legs outstretched to the corners of the tablet, as though struggling to embrace its huge form. His uniform was ripped to shreds, and his back was a web of lacerations and carved symbols. Blood poured out of him, coasting over his skin and gushing down the wriggling runes on the sides of the altar. His head was pushed round, so that he was looking awkwardly to the side, as though his neck was broken. And he was chattering incoherently as trickles of blood seeped out of his open mouth, a grotesque smile etched into his emaciated cheeks.

Katrn watched the ruined trooper with a fixed expression, staring with a mixture of hatred, anger, revulsion and jealousy. Why had that wretch Tavett been gifted with this glorious end? The little runt wouldn’t even have been here if it wasn’t for Katrn’s leadership. He had shown no understanding of the true nature of combat and war until Katrn had skewered him with his own bayonet on the walls of Magna Bonum. Only then, as Katrn had stared down into his streaming face, had a flash of realisation seared into Tavett’s stricken mind: blood for the Blood God-that’s what war was for.