In 004.M41 a crack literary unit was sent to prison by a military court for a grammatical error they didn't commit.
These men promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Spelchekka underhive. Today, still wanted by the Administratum, they survive as fluff editors of fortune.
If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire the Ordo Literatus....
Active Ordo Literatus Personnel
Aurelius Rex ( Scions of Dorn )
Rogue Trader (Grief Bringers)
Jokersminis (Legion of Fear)
Several Concerned Cricketers (Brazen Claws)
Chaplain Lazarus (Exorcists)
Paradox01 (Iron Knights)
In short the Ordo operates within the confines of the Bolter & Chainsword, working to help budding writers and writing fluff of their own. Gathered here are the fruits of their labours, including the current collaborative piece about the Legio Bolter & Chainsword, Planetfall: Alcmene.
Some of the characters in the following story make their first appearance in the Arena of Death stories that also appear on this website - here.
Planetfall: Alcmene
Part 1
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The Thunderhawk banked sharply, skimming low through the plascrete canyons of the wrecked hive. Jarrett increased the magnetic pull of his boots, anchoring himself more firmly to the deck as it tilted under him, and looked around the crowded compartment. Thirty marines, each clad in the black and red of the Legio Bolter and Chainsword murmured their final prayers and readied their weapons for planetfall. Marines from some of the most famous chapters in the galaxy, the Salamanders, Imperial Fists and Raven Guard stood shoulder to shoulder, each proudly displaying their heritage on their right shoulder pauldron.
Across the compartment a young marine bearing the heraldry of the Brazen Claws was conferring with Diffido, formerly of the Exorcists Chapter. The Brazen Claw glanced up, met Jarrett's gaze and nodded. Jarrett returned the nod, but couldn't shake the unease he felt about the Exorcist. Diffido's armour bore arcane hexagrams and runes that disturbed Jarrett in ways he couldn't explain. He'd heard rumours of the chapter's strange practices - they all had - and he couldn't help but feel worried about dropping on a Chaos controlled planet with a marine who seemed so close to heresy himself. Jarrett shook his head, and braced himself as the pilot gave the ten second warning.
The Thunderhawk settled in the shadow of a desecrated temple to the Emperor, at the edge of an open plaza. Jarrett leaped from the ramp, his boots kicking up dust as he ran after Sergeant Castor. He skidded to a halt behind a shattered pillar and scanned the square. As the rest of the squad took up positions around him, a mob of chaos marines in burgundy armour burst from an archway and sprinted towards the Gunship, bolters spitting fire. As Jarrett raised his weapon, an icon flashed in front of his eyes and he whirled to see traitors flooding the square from every direction.
Glancing towards the Thunderhawk, Jarrett saw the first group of traitors reach the access ramp, only to be repelled by a counter-charge led by the Brazen Claw, Rhadamanthys. The young marine fought calmly and coolly, wielding his chainsword in both hands, the weapon a blur as he pushed back the burgundy armoured chaos marines. Turning away, Jarrett racked the under-slung grenade launcher that jutted from his antique boltgun and fired a krak grenade towards a squad of traitors entrenched behind a fallen pillar. The grenade flew high over the traitor position, impacting against the base of the temple wall behind them and detonating with a sharp report. Castor's voice buzzed from the vox bead in Jarrett's ear
"Emperor's teeth, Jarrett, at least hit the enemy…"
The wall of the temple, weakened by Jarrett's grenade, slowly collapsed on top of the traitor squad burying them in plascrete and mortar. Jarrett smiled as the cloud of dust rose into the sky and turned to assess the situation.
The black clad Legio marines had formed a loose ring around the Thunderhawk, holding back the tide of Chaos marines and cultists that flooded into the plaza from every corner. The Heavy Bolters on the Gunship opened fire, raking the hordes of traitors with explosive shells. A deep rumbling echoed around the square as a Land Raider encrusted with skulls and leering daemonic faces powered through a ruined wall, crushing corpses beneath its cleated tracks. The twin Lascannon lanced out, striking the Thunderhawk's starboard engine, and raking along the hull towards the cockpit. The beams of coherent light flared as they struck the reinforced plasglass screen, then the cockpit exploded with a blinding flash as the lasers penetrated the protective shielding…
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As the cockpit of the loyalist Thunderhawk detonated, Brother Jeremiah of the Word Bearers watched with despondency as his misguided brothers continued to fight. It must be obvious even to them that they were beaten. Surely now they would see sense and accept the Pantheon as their saviours.
His eyes misted as he targeted the fleeing black armoured figures with the Landraider's heavy bolter turret, tears of heart-felt anguish running down his cheeks as he was forced to turn a brother into bloodmist.
No. It seemed they were beyond the light of Salvation. With a heavy heart he gave Brother Gideon the signal to man the combi-bolter on the top hatch pintle and put these poor wretches out of their misery.
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Golgotha took the marble steps four at a time, trusting to faith that the passage of the corrupted Landraider through the building wouldn't see them giving way under his feet. In another few seconds he was at the top of the staircase, and swinging up onto the window ledge. Ahead he saw his Brothers of the Legio Bolter & Chainsword surrounded, caught in a bloody crossfire between the Word Bearer traitor marines and the overwhelming firepower of their Landraider just below him. Well, he reflected, all that was about to change.
He leapt out into space, and rolled as he hit the top deck of the tank. It faintly repulsed him that there were faces leering out of the metal surface, like trapped souls bound inside the infernal construction. He put it out of his mind. He had seen enough things in his eight decades with the Scions of Dorn, and then another quarter-century with the Legio for it not to even surprise, let alone frighten him. The grinding of actuators from the pintle hatch was more than he could have hoped - he had thought he was going to have to do it the hard way. With a prayer of thanks to the Emperor, Brother-Sergeant Golgotha emptied a full magazine of Inferno bolts through the half-opened access hatch. Relishing the satisfying sound of them ricocheting within the armoured cabin, he followed up with a brace of frag grenades, and slammed the hatch shut.
The sound of the internal heavy bolter magazine cooking off told him it was time to leave. With the target neutralised he leapt down to join his squad as they swept towards the suddenly beleaguered Word Bearer force.
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Two miles away from the ambush, sequestered appropriately enough within the remains of a brothel, Veteran Sergeant Weissmann of the Order Encarmine played the sight of his sniper rifle across the scene. The crosshairs stopped on a loyalist marine leaping from a burning Landraider. He stroked the trigger, holding the man's life in the balance, but held off the kill-shot, admiring his skill with the oversized chainsword. The marine twisted to parry a blow, and with shock he saw the stylised ‘S' on his shoulder pad.
Weissmann threw the rifle to one side in disgust. Such a quick death was too good for a Scion of Dorn. He remembered the baseless allegations of the Inquisition, and how readily the Scions of Dorn had turned against a fellow Chapter. He remembered how they had declared 'Exterminatus' on his homeworld with cyclonic torpedos, and captured or killed over half of his chapter.
No. After what they had done to his chapter, Weissmann had something far more appropriate in mind than simple assassination.
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Jarrett grinned as Golgotha leaped from the top hatch of the Land Raider and drew his chainsword with a flourish. The big marine had no concept of subtlety, an attitude that faintly horrified Jarrett, who had specialised in covert operations for decades with the Grief Bringers. Everything about the Scion of Dorn was ostentatious, from his brash, boisterous manner and his glossy, almost reflective armour to his customised chainsword, fully twice the length of a normal weapon. Regardless, Jarrett could think of few marines he would rather have next to him in the heat of battle.
True to form, Golgotha's timely intervention in destroying the Word Bearers' Land Raider had given the Legio marines fresh hope, pressing the traitors back against the ruins of an apothecarion. The traitor legionnaires had been shaken by the destruction of the attack tank and the loyalists had been quick to press home their advantage, striking down chaos marines with bolter and chainsword.
Just as it seemed the traitors would break, the dull thud of great war drums echoed around the plaza. A figure in ornate armour encrusted with skulls and wax seals leapt atop a pile of rubble. Two flaming braziers jutted from behind his shoulders and he flourished an eight pointed crozius in the air. Yet this figure was no Chaplain of the Legio, no upholder of the Imperial faith. No, he was a Dark Apostle of the Word Bearers, a corruptor of the innocent, a heretic of the very worst kind. Activating the power armour's external vox unit, the mockery of a Chaplain began chanting a blasphemous mantra, rallying the Word Bearers to repel the black clad marines of the Legio. Jarrett and his brothers were pressed back, attacked from three directions and left only one avenue of retreat.
Tranquillity Way was a mighty boulevard, a great artery, running from the outskirts of the metropolis through the industrial and hab districts into the heart of the city and ending at the adamantium gates of the Arbites precinct. In times of peace it had been home to ornamental gardens, delicate fountains and statues of planetary nobles. Now a pitched battle raged along the streets, the gardens trampled by armoured boots, great gouges torn in the soil by missile and plasma. Statues and fountains, pitted from small arms fire were utilised as makeshift bulwarks and hard points as the marines of the Legio were forced back inch by inch down the wide avenue.
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Jarrett ran down the wide boulevard, slid to a halt behind a fallen statue and turned to provide covering fire for the retreating Legio marines. Chanting the calming mantra of his parent Chapter, the Grief Bringers, he raised his bolter:
“Pure in thought…”
He scanned the avenue, spotting the Dark Apostle stood atop a pile of rubble, exhorting the corrupted marines onward with fiery rhetoric and catechisms of hatred.
“…pure in word…
A targeting reticle projected in front of Jarrett's eyes, magnifying the traitorous orator. He felt his gut wrench as he saw the baroque armour, the distorted octahedral crozius, the blood red seals fluttering in the wind. A wave of anger washed over him as he stared at the mockery of an Astartes Chaplain.
“…pure in deed.”
Jarrett squeezed the trigger, loosing off a trio of explosive shells at the Dark Apostle. The traitor's head exploded, filling the air with crimson mist as the bolts penetrated the weak spot between plastron and helm. The headless body stood for a moment, the debased crozius falling from limp fingers as the corpse slumped to the ground.
A squad of Word Bearers had worked its way into the ruins of a manufactorium on the north side of Tranquility Way and was raking the Legio marines with Autocannon fire from a first floor window, the heavy shells kicking up dirt as they slammed into the ground. Jarrett vaulted the statue ran towards the building, the Autocannon stitching fire around his feet. He flicked his bolter to full auto and sprayed the window as he ran, seeing one of the traitors fall, shoulder exploding as the bolts struck home. The Autocannon spoke again, and Jarrett felt the hammer blows of the shells impacting against his power armour. He stumbled, pain lancing down his leg as one of the shells penetrated the thick ceramite of his thigh armour. Another volley of shells struck him in the chest, slamming him back onto the rockcrete road…
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Jarrett was alone in a personal universe of agony.
He tried to move, but there was only pain. He tried to cry out to Dorn, to The Emperor, to his long-dead mother but had no breath. He blindly reached up to his chest, dreading the damage he would find. To his surprise he was bloody, but whole, although the same could not be said for his armoured chestplate. Jarrett knew that the mere fact he could feel anything was a good sign - he had seen enough mortal wounds to know that.
His vision returned, but stayed resolutely monochrome, although it was obvious that the ominously flashing warning runes in his helmet display would have been an angry red. Gasping for breath against the fire in his chest and still unable to move, Jarrett looked up at the zealot behind the gunsight of the autocannon. The traitor marine was staring down at him with the same detached interest a small boy might watch an insect struggling in a glass of water.
Glancing to his right, Jarret saw his bolter, magazine empty and just out of reach. He stretched, inching his hand closer to the stock of the weapon, then flinched away as an autocannon shell slammed into the ground next to his outstretched fingers. Silently, without the breath even to speak, Brother Jarrett mouthed the Death Incantation: ‘I fear no evil, I fear no death, for the Emperor comes for me.'
The last thing he expected to hear from behind him was the booming laugh of Sergeant Golgotha.
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'Don't worry lad, the heretic was just lucky.' Shouted Golgotha cheerily over the din of the battle spilling into the plaza. He had removed his helmet and was standing in plain view at the other end of the square. 'Y'see, the Lorgar geneseed is defective in so many ways, one of which is that they have lost the ability to shoot straight!'
He slapped his armoured chestplate and locked gaze with the Word Bearer aiming the autocannon at Jarrett. The challenge could not have been clearer. An eerie hush fell over the battlefield, as all eyes were drawn inexorably to the confrontation playing out before them.
'The Emperor is my shield and armour.' The words breaking the unnatural silence. 'I know no fear while he is with me.'
Without a word of reply the traitor marine swung the barrel of the autocannon up, steadied himself, and smiled.
The autocannon roared.
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It was the most awe inspiring thing that Brother Faustino had ever seen. Sergeant Golgotha had just stood there, testing his faith against that of the traitor marine. He had heard some unbelievable stories about Golgotha – barrack room talk - gross exaggeration of course, but there he was, just daring a lunatic with an autocannon to shoot him if he could! All around him the battle had stopped dead. Legio brethren, Word Bearers and cultists, no-one quite believed what they were seeing.
And then the salvo had shredded the unbearable stillness, round after round until all that remained was echoes, the angry whir of the empty belt-feed mechanism… and the hearty laugh of Sergeant Golgotha, standing without even a scratch on his armour.
He had marvelled as the sergeant had whipped up his bolter and fired a single shot at the now glazed-eyed, slack-jawed traitor, who had slumped, and then tumbled out of the first floor window. Both sides knew that the fight was over before the gunner had hit the rubble. With their Dark Apostle already dead, witnessing such a crushing challenge to their faith had proved too much, and the battle had spiralled into a rout.
Faustino roared with righteous anger after the few fleeing cultists that had survived the carnage. Let them run, let them spread the word that Legio Bolter & Chainsword had come to reclaim this planet in the name of The Emperor.
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‘Up you get, my boy,' smiled Golgotha, pulling Jarrett to his feet. 'Just a flesh wound, eh?' Jarrett suppressed a wince as the sergeant clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Of course,' he continued, answering his own question, ‘You are a Grief Bringer, you carry the blessed lineage of Rogal Dorn. It will take more than that to finish you off.' Then, in a much lower voice; 'Throne, Jarrett, you look like feth. How bad is it? Honestly.'
Jarrett lied - he could not be removed from his squad, his mission was too important - but if the sergeant noticed he made no comment.
As Golgotha turned away Jarrett called out: ‘I thought I saw something, just before the traitor fired on you - it looked like he… jerked?'
Golgotha stopped, paused as if deciding something, and returned, a devilish grin on his face. 'I have faith that The Emperor protects his humble servants, but I also have faith in the aim of Brother Sanchez and his ‘Stalker' silenced bolter shells. The heretic squeezed the trigger with his death-spasm, the only way he would have hit me is by accident. It was a calculated risk that his armour's recoil compensators would keep him upright long enough for me to let off a round, but like I said, The Emperor Protects!'
Jarrett was speechless.
‘My squad has done it a couple of times before,' Golgotha continued with a wink, ‘and I promise you, within the hour there will be tales all over the city of the Avenging Warriors of the Emperor who are all twelve feet tall and are impossible to kill with tank-rounds. I think it is time we stopped running and remembered the reason we came here, Jarrett.'
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Rhadamanthys stood up slowly, dusting the plascrete dust from his freshly painted black armour. All around him Legio Marines were rising from what little cover they had been able to find, many still staring at the unscathed figure of Sergeant Golgotha, marvelling at the strength of his faith. Others of his brethren reached for medical kits or ceramite repair tubes, patching up both themselves and their armour.
Rhadamanthys jumped as a single shot rang out, turning swiftly he saw Brother Croeseus raising his bolt pistol from the skull of a now dead heretic. Croeseus looked at him, withering contempt in his eyes,
'Can't hurt you now boy...'
Rhadamanthys felt his twin hearts race as anger and embarassment coursed through his veins. He opened his mouth to reply but a strong hand on his shoulder silently bade him hold his tongue. Turning from the embittered Marine he faced the owner of the hand, Sergeant Castor.
'Rhadamanthys, check the temple for intel. Take Faustino, Krankov and Lethe with you to secure the western flank. Report back to me when you're done.'
Bringing himself to attention Rhadamanthys hammered a clenched fist to his breastplate,
'Aye, Sergeant.'
Turning on his heel Rhadamanthys gathered up the chosen Marines by eye, silently leading them through the ruins of the ancient temple. Quickly assigning his brethren to vantage points to watch for the return of the enemy, he returned to the nave of the chapel. A quick scan of the area revealed nothing more than a broken Aquila and the bodies of a handful of fallen Traitors. Breathing a prayer of purity, Rhadamanthys searched each corpse thoroughly, noting markings, serial numbers and equipment types for the Legio's Librarians to pore over later.
Quickly he searched the rest of the temple, finding only the bones of the long dead parishioners and their priest, slaughtered when the world fell to Chaos sometime in the distant past and the usual filth that accompanied the prescence of Chaos. Returning to the nave he gathered the broken pieces of the temple's Aquila and placed them before him. He removed his helmet and murmured the Emperor's Prayer as he began to assemble the Aquila. A few minutes dextrous work and he smiled, the pieces of the holy jigsaw now resembling their true form once more.
Fishing a ceramite repair tube from a belt pouch Rhadamanthys began to glue the relic together. Another few minutes delicate work and his smile widened, reciting the Imperial Lobgesang while the glue set, he lifted the now whole symbol and hung it on the shattered, blood-spattered wall. Stepping back, Rhadamanthys knelt before the Aquila, breathing a prayer for those of his brethren who had fallen in battle today.
Standing, Rhadamanthys grabbed his helmet and headed back to the town square to report to Sergeant Castor. Jogging through the ruins the vox-bead in his ear crackled, then hissed and fell silent. Pulling his helmet on hurriedly Rhadamanthys toggled vox-channels, fruitlessly trying to reach Castor. Reaching the outskirts of the square he heard the snap-crack of lasfire against the background of the deeper sounds of bolter fire. Voxing his brethren at the temple a brief sit-rep he unholstered his Filienostos pattern bolt-pistol and began to work his way around the square, heading for the source of the lasfire...
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Rhadamanthys crept through the shattered tunnel as quietly as his bulky power armour would allow. Glancing down at a subdued rune-icon on his helmet display, a square with three wavy, vertical lines, Rhadamanthys willed it to glowing green life with a brief mental impulse. Immediately the almost inaudible whirring from the front of his helmet ceased and he heard a faint grinding of gears as his helmet's air purifier cut out, allowing the planet's own atmosphere into the close confines of his helmet. Despite his enhancements he shuddered as the cold air caressed his face, then grimaced as the ages old stink of the sewer became apparent, resisting the urge to switch back to his internal air supply Rhadamanthys pressed on, senses stretched to the maximum, searching for the enemy.
Stepping over the long dead corpse of a huge sewer rat Rhadamanthys' nose gave him the first indication of his enemy, that familiar sting at the back of his throat where the Neuroglottis had been implanted more than a century ago. The Brazen Claws prided themselves on the purity and functionality of each of the 19 organs that made each one of them truly a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes, including those that enhanced a Marine's olfactory senses, and whilst not possessing the acuity of a Space Wolf, they were still able to track by scent or taste alone. Slowing his pace Rhadamanthys inhaled more deeply, trying to distinguish the taint of Chaos from the stench of sewage, a few more cautious paces and he was able to pick the tunnel branch the taint was coming from. Rhadamanthys quickened his pace again as he headed down the eastern branch of the sewer, determined to come to grips with the enemy above.
A sudden increase in the formerly muted volume of lasfire indicated to Rhadamanthys that he was nearing his quarry. Turning his gaze to the ceiling he saw that the sewer grates were too small for him to fit through even if he shed his armour, cursing he looked about for another way to exit the sewers. As he twisted in the cramped environs to look for another exit his elbow bumped a large canister mag-clamped to his hip; with a grin Rhadamanthys remembered what it was…
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Jarrett cursed the day he'd set foot on this damned planet. Blood red diagnostic runes flashed in front of his eyes, a scrolling column cataloguing his injuries. The fused rib-plate inside his chest was fractured, and his secondary heart was thumping out an erratic beat that echoed inside his skull like the tribal drums of his distant homeworld. Blesséd numbness washed over him as his power armour injected a cocktail of stimulants, painkillers and counterseptics into his system.
With a sigh Jarrett noticed the planet's star creeping below the horizon, the moon bathing in the city in sombre shades of blue and grey. The howling nighttime winds of Alcmene rose suddenly, sweeping down from the plains outside the city, piercing the ragged remains of his armour, and chilling him to the bone
A bass rumbling echoed along Tranquillity Way, and Jarrett turned to see two ramshackle half- tracks trundle slowly from a side street onto the broad avenue. Cultists, wild-eyed, emaciated men who clutched their las-rifles and autoguns in white knuckled hands, were clustered about the decrepit vehicles. A Heavy Stubber, no doubt pilfered from the PDF armoury many years ago was spot welded to the cab of one, whilst the other bore a jury-rigged Flamethrower. The pilot light of the Flamer sputtered and flared in the rising winds as the half-tracks rolled into position.
As Jarrett slammed a fresh magazine into his weapon, a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he turned to see huge figure crouched atop a ruined spire of the temple. A tattered, fur-trimmed cloak that might once have been white fluttered around dark, baroque armour, and a leering skull with eyes like garnets stared straight at Jarrett. Jarrett glanced down as he racked his bolter, and raised the gun to aim it at… nothing. The figure was gone, the crumbling spire empty. Jarrett glanced at his brother marines, but none of them seemed to have noticed the shadowy figure.
He shook his head and followed Aiakos, Mirandis and Lindsberg through the decimated building that had housed the Word Bearer squad and into a dank narrow alley, skidding on spilt entrails and bones. Jarrett could hear the spluttering engine and the grinding of metal cleats on rockcrete as the half-tracks advanced. With a gesture, Sergeant Aiakos signalled Jarrett to take point. Glancing round the corner of a building, Jarrett watched the half tracks race past, the driver of the nearest momentarily losing control on the slick rockcrete and clipping the building, rupturing a fuel drum strapped to the side. The driver quickly recovered and the ‘track slewed to a halt, the Stubber spitting a storm of heavy bullets at the marines of the Legio, covering the advance of it's flamer-equipped companion.
Jarrett frowned - he couldn't get a clean shot, the rear of the ‘track was obscured by fallen rubble. An evil grin spread across his face as he saw one of the cultists sheltering behind the half-track raise a plasglass bottle with a burning rag stuffed in the neck. Jarrett sighted quickly and snapped off a shot, watched the bottle fall, the man's severed hand still wrapped round it. The bottle shattered on the rockcrete with a sharp crack, followed by a sighing whoomph as burning promethium sprayed through the air.
As the wind wafted the rancid smell of burning flesh toward Jarrett he watched the trickle of fuel from the damaged barrel run agonisingly slowly towards the burning promethium. One of the half-track crewmen turned to pick up a fresh magazine for the Stubber and sheer horror spread across his face as he saw the trail of fuel from the vehicle stretching towards the flames. He leapt, screaming, from the vehicle as the fuel ignited, the fire racing inhumanly fast towards the half-track, and licked round the punctured fuel barrel. With a dull roar the drum exploded and the ground shuddered as the half track's own fuel supply exploded a second later...
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The dull crump of an explosion staggered Rhadamanthys, he stumbled into the nearby wall as the shockwave hit him, covering him in a shower of rockcrete dust and slime, the sound built to a crescendo as a second, larger explosion followed the first, this time throwing Rhadamanthys to the floor and immersing him in the scum infested waters of the sewer tunnel. Standing up, dripping slime and sewage, he waited a moment for his auto-senses to remove the cut-out that had protected his hearing from the noise of the second explosion, twisting, he grasped the mag-locked bundle at his hip and thumbed the mag-lock off. Briefly, he checked the mechanism to ensure it's brief dip in the sewage hadn't damaged it, then affixed it to the tunnel roof, close to the source of the second explosion. Setting the chrono to 15 seconds he muttered the Prayer for Ignition,
' Spirit of fire, Prime this weapon, And blast the foe, From the Emperor's blessed sight.'
then stabbed the detonator button and quickly moved back down the tunnel to safety. The melta bomb erupted with a deafening roar in the close confines of the tunnel, for the second time in as many minutes Rhadamanthys thanked his armour's spirit for saving his hearing as the auto-senses kicked in to smother the sound. Looking down the tunnel he was shocked to see a large vehicle sliding into the hole his melta bomb had opened in the tunnel's roof, as it hit the wall the pintle mounted flamer crumpled in on itself, erupting in a huge gout of promethium fuelled flames as the jury rigged device's pilot lit was driven into ruptured fuel lines. Standing as tall as he could in the tunnel Rhadamanthys sprinted for the flaming vehicle, trusting in his armour to protect him from the inferno, he hauled himself over the front of the flaming vehicle and into the crew compartment, his bolt pistol kicked in his hand as he dispatched the few cultists still alive in the vehicle.
Flames lapping at his heels Rhadamanthys vaulted over the rear of the half-track, landing among the dazed and disoriented cultists who had been following the armoured vehicles. Unclipping his double edged chainsword he set to work, bolt pistol coughing in his right hand, chainsword buzzing in his left, cutting a swathe through the stunned chaos worshippers. Within moments his bolt pistol ran dry, not bothering to reload he deftly holstered the weapon and grasped his Procyon pattern chainsword in both hands, swinging the blade easily, as though in a training room , severing limbs and ripping the spinning teeth through torsos and stomachs with practiced ease. Rhadamanthys stood his ground as the cultists shook off their stupor and tried to overwhelm him with a deadly mix of numbers and savagery.
The distinctive bark of bolter fire grew louder as his brethren took advantage of the destruction of the half-tracks to advance on the hapless cultists, mowing them down with skillfully aimed volleys. Like a rock amid a turbulent sea Rhadamanthys towered over the frenzied cultists, his armour turning aside the weak blows of their crude weapons as he returned each blow with interest, dealing out death at each stroke. He smiled grimly as he saw his brother's fire cutting into the cultists near him, the wretched traitors too far gone in their battle lust to notice their impending doom. The static that had plagued the vox systems disappeared and he heard the voice of Sergeant Castor, his usually grim tone lightened as he enjoyed the one sided battle,
'That's quite an entrance boy, even Golgotha would have been proud of that one!'
Chuckles echoed over the vox as the Sergeant's men enjoyed his joke before he spoke again, this time his tone serious,
'Now get back over here where you belong...'
Through the still open vents of his helmet Rhadamanthys breathed in the cold night air, now heavy with the scent of blood and tinged with the reek of burning promethium, taking a deep breath he let out a wordless roar that was quickly snatched away by the howling wind and abandoned his defensive posture, plunging back into the raging sea of ragged bodies, now intent on battering his way through to his brethren...
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© Copyright 2003 Christopher Widenbar
E-mail: crismate@iinet.net.au
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