Arek had been running for quite some time now. The dank corridors reverberated the sound of his footsteps on the metal grills. He stumbled as he reached a shredded metal door, and fell. Spinning onto his back, he scanned the stretch of corridor behind him with the lamp on his lasgun. As the sound of his crashing fall echoed away, the only sound was that of water dripping, and the almost pneumatic hiss of his own breathing. He spun back onto his chest, scanning the space before him, trembling. Holding his breath, Arek stood slowly, and stepped through the door. He turned to his right and sprinted to a glowing console, breathing again, the wheeze of air being expelled through the tracheotomy on his windpipe filling his ears. He didn't care about it anymore, knowing full well he should have died. The horrible burning as it was pierced had knocked Arek out it was so unbearably painful. Pushing buttons and pulling levers, he frantically tried to open the ceramite plated doors leading out of the base.
The doors hissed open, and Arek sighed in relief, though it sounded rather more like a quiet scream. He stepped cautiously out. It was pitch dark now, cloud cover above blocking out the light often afforded by the planet's eight moons. He thought he saw a massive shape moving as his lamp's beam of light hit it, but he couldn't see anything when he took a second look. Moving forward slowly, Arek's eyes darted from side to side. His lamp flickered. He whispered obscenities at the light as it continued to flicker, and his slow walk accelerated until he was running, head down, smacking the lamp. It went out.
As Arek's pace began to slow, he whimpered. His eyes caught something in the darkness, and he turned round, slowly. He put out his hand, feeling curved metal, ornate. His head, though he was wishing it not to, tilted upwards, and two bright red light came into view.
Arek screamed. It seemed almost like an eternity to him, his final cry ringing through the surrounding forests, then there was a flash in the dark, and Arek was eternally silenced.
+++
The snow was settling now, after a night of heavy fall. He found the shell comparatively light after lugging them around all night. Bombardment was a good tactic, but ultimately tiring for logistics. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he turned and walked back to the Chimera and climbed in.
A man appeared at the ramp. He peered in and said, "Everything off?"
"Aye, sir," the Sergeant said, nodding.
"Good," the man said, "Get going." The Chimera's ramp closed and the man stepped aside. It roared off down the icy trail as the sun began to rise over the mountain tops. The man walked quickly to the battery of Basilisks and the large tent behind them. Pushing one of the flaps aside, he strode into the tent. He sighed as he looked at some of the screens, his breath crystallising in the cold air.
"Here's the casualty report, sir," a young soldier said as he handed the man a data slate.
"Thank you," the man said, looking at the list of units and names. Only minor casualties, he thought, and placed the slate down. Taking a last look at the distribution of the artillery, he stepped outside the tent.
There was another man, battle-marching up the foot-trail on the face of the cliff below. Though it'd be incorrect to call this man a man, for he was truly not. Not even human, some argued.
A squad of venerable Storm Marines Veterans marched behind him, perfectly in time. As they reached the end of the trail they slowed to a stop. The superhuman warrior turned and scanned the field at the bottom of the small cliff. Armoured columns sat at the foot of the cliff, the artillery of both the Kelnite 13th Imperial Guard Regiment and the armoury of the Storm Marines Space Marines Chapter roared as they fired clouds of shells over a far off ridge toward an invisible enemy. Turning to face the Veteran Marines, he made the Imperial Aquila on his chest and nodded. The Marines ran off down the larger trail behind the tent toward headquarters.
"How did the operation go?" the man enquired.
"Good, we wiped out the Traitor installations this side of the ridge. The fighting was fierce, but we encountered only disillusioned cultists and treacherous Guardsmen," the Marine answered. They both stood, surveying the artillery, until the man smiled widely.
"It is always good to have the Storm Marines on hand, Icarus," the man said, turning to face the Marine.
Nodding, Icarus said, "I'm pleased to hear it, Andrew. Working alongside the Kelnite Regiments is a pleasure, particularly the 13th."
"Good. The newer recruits are coming along nicely in this campaign. They are becoming battle-hardened veterans very quickly," Andrew commented.
"Too quickly, maybe. One of the snipers I got last night was 17, Andrew. He's not even a man, and he's fought in more battles than most." Icarus checked turned, and, followed by Andrew, walked slowly down past the tent.
"They are doing their duty, that is what counts. I was 15 when I first tasted battle. I turned out alright," Andrew countered. Andrew, full name Andrew Eisenhower, was a General in the Imperial Guard. He commanded the 13th Kelnite, and was also a very powerful political figure. His love of combat and the thrill he took from his work had blocked his political career, but he was, never-the-less, an influential figure, and could often gain the support of his superiors when it came to strategy.
His appearance reflected his position, authority and personality. He was tall and well built, but had an athletic look about him. His features were sharp and defined, his eyes a cold, ice blue, rare amongst Kelnites. His hair had began to grey recently, and his skin had begun to lose the tan that characterised his people. Though his physical qualities had begun to pale, his mind had only grown sharper, and a long list of impressive victories in recent campaigns showed it. He had, indeed, turned out well.
"I suppose so," Icarus agreed. He stopped, and removed his ornate helmet. Icarus Athrasuriel appeared to be young, though he was the same age as Eisenhower. His eyes were ridiculously dark, naturally, but the light reflected off them to give them a cold look. His features were gaunt and tight, tanned slightly. His nose had a ridge in the centre, and a long, deep scar ran down the left cheek. His Hair was shoulder length, jet black and thin. Though younger than most of his Captains, Icarus was the Chapter Master of the Storm Marines. His record in battle was at least ten times as impressive as that of any in his Chapter. His mind was dedicated to one thing, meticulous planning and cold precision. Then he continued. They walked in silence for some time.
They faced each other for a moment, before Icarus looked behind them. They had long left the armoured companies, and were now deep in the forest, approaching the landing site where they had set up. The roar of Chimera coming up the trail disturbed the silence, but it died away as the transport turned onto another route.
"What did you find?" Andrew asked, turning to look up the trail.
"Another Fane. That's the eighth, Andrew. We've found them every we've went."
"It is worrying. What do you think it means?"
"I'm not sure. I doubt it has any great meaning. The first we found was in the year 901. That's fifty years ago."
"Still...we should be watchful." The pair began to walk again. The air was still, silent. Then something beeped. Icarus stopped.
"What is it?" Andrew asked. Icarus took a radio from with a leather pouch hanging from his armour. He activated it, and put it on loudspeaker.
"This is Chapter Master Athrasuriel responding." The radio stayed silent for a moment, then two. "Who is this?"
"This is Moralitor, sir," the radio replied. Icarus glanced at Andrew.
"Yes, Brother. What is it?"
"Eh, sir. I think there's something you need to see."
"What?"
"We've found the 167th Cadian."
+++
He cringed slightly as one of the Guardsmen vomited behind him. Moralitor turned to see the white faced Cadian fall over, gripping his abdomen. A medic rushed to him, and Moralitor turned back to survey what he saw. It was unfortunate, but it wasn't a terrible disaster, he thought. At least it hadn't done any damage to the Crusade.
"The Chapter Master is on his way, secure a perimeter, spread out around the site," Moralitor ordered. Veteran Sergeant Augustus, of the 1st Company's 3rd Squad, nodded and turned. He began to shout orders at the Cadians and directed the two Tactical Squads to move in-site. He took his squad and followed them. The Guardsmen began to spread out around the shallow, crater-like valley. The slopes down to it's floor were not steep, and the Marines traversed them easily, though it was a long way to the valley-floor. Moralitor guessed it was at least two kilometres wide.
A Thunderhawk roared overhead, escorted by two Vulture Gunships. Following it came three Valkyries. The aircraft swung around and landed on a flat patch of land 50m from Moralitor. He sprinted to the Thunderhawk, coming to a stop just as the ramp lowered and six Marines marched out. One carried the Chapter Standard, another donned the equipment of a Company Champion. An Apothecary followed, then two Veteran Marines with a Bolt Pistol and Chainsword, and a Melta Gun, respectively. Behind them strode a Veteran Sergeant with a Plasma Pistol and Power Sword. They stood to one side, and out of the Thunderhawk came Icarus Athrasuriel. He stopped just short of Moralitor and made the sign of the Aquilla on his breastplate. Moralitor returned the gesture.
"Moralitor, you said that you had found the 167th. Where are they?" the venerable Chapter Master inquired, looking over Moralitor's shoulder.
"The valley floor, sir," Moralitor replied. Out of two Valkyries marched squads of ten Imperial Stormtroopers, and from the third, surrounded by a group of soldiers and advisors, came General Andrew Eisenhower. The three groups of Guardsmen approached.
"Where's the Cadians?" Andrew asked Moralitor.
"As I was telling my Chapter Master, they are on the Valley floor, General," Moralitor answered, "If you would like to follow me,
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