Imperium Ascendant

Chapter Twenty-Six: They Came From the Stars

Date: 888.M30 (Two Solar Days Later)

Location: Shellmounte Nonus, Center of Trileen resistance

No matter the species, fortresses are all roughly the same. A solid point of defense, to garrison soldiers and break enemy attacks. Such was the same on Tragedy at a fortress of the native Xenos Imperials had named Shellmounte Nonus. Well except for one major exception, Shellmounte was not technically of Trileen make. The first Imperial orbital scans were met with initial disbelief at the fortress's nature. Shellmounte Nonus was the fossilized remains of a single colossal crustacean. Its million-year-old exoskeleton turned into a hollow mountain at least five kilometers at its longest. With anatomy similar to the notoriously persistent Terran Equineshoe Crab, the Shellmounte has become the last bastion of Trileen resistance. Its dominating presence attracting swarms of Orks to attack the Shellmountes defenses. So far the primitive Trileen had held out, exploiting the ranged advantage their pressure guns gave them. Barely equivalent to ancient smooth-bore black powder weapons of Feudal Worlds. These guns relied on systems of rapidly pressurized and pressurized atmosphere to launch projectiles. Obtuse and inefficient but crucially not relying on combustion. More than one Orkish force had been destroyed by run-away configurations, caused by Tragedy's obscenely high oxygen atmosphere. Ordinary munitions and engines would need to be used sparingly and with great caution.

The Orks in their typical fashion had adapted. Putting an even greater focus on melee combat, and making do with weapons primitive even by Greenskin standards. The planet's atmosphere may have prevented the Orks from using their nastier weapons, but also produced a serious problem for the Trileen. Thick and nutrient-rich the air of Tragedy was perfect for Orkish spores. On the planet's verdant surface the Orkish ecosystem had quickly taken root and grew at startling speed. Swarms of Squigs and their numerous subspecies grew by the thousands. Not enough time had passed for Feral Orks to sprout from the infestation, but given time they would soon be growing in droves. The Trileen were of course unaware of this, only noting the slow destruction of their worlds dry-reefs and sky plankton shoals. Replaced by a festering fungal blight.

One must truly pity any species unfortunate enough to face the Orks so early in their history as the Trileen. To go overnight from an agrarian people organized in small fiefdoms, having barely developed an effective printing method. To fighting for survival against the unstoppable savage wrath of the Orks. Having their entire fate broken by a stray bullet fired in some long ended conflict between petty godlings. Millions had died in the first hours of the invasion. Part bombardment, part landing, a storm of asteroids fell to Tragedy. Unleashing natural disasters in score before the Orks within these "rok ships" even set foot on the planet. Millions more fell to the Greenskin attack. The string of crushing defeats at Imperial hands that drove the Orks to this world left them frustrated and irritable. Emotions they took out on anything unlucky enough to be caught in their way. Within two rotations of Tragedy one-third of its sapient population was dead. Hacked and blasted apart as entertainment. Many were not lucky enough to meet such pleasant fates as target practice or punching bags. After all, it had been a long trip and a good fight, the Orks were hungry.

Some surviving Clans and Houses tried to mount a resistance, marshaling the greatest armies in Trileen history to fight the Orks. Warriors of a thousand different heraldries, many once bitter foes now fought side by side. Armed with pressure guns, shell breaker mauls, and armored in iridium plates. Dozens of battles were fought across Tragedy, each pitched bloody affairs where blue Trileen ichor flowed with reddish-black Ork gore. The warriors and levied plankton-farmers of Tragedy fought with bravery and the desperation found in wars of extinction. Never did they necessarily win a battle, but held the line with staunch shells. This pattern of vicious drawn-out engagements continued until another variable entered into the situation. Crusader Fleet XII arrived and waged war against the Orks in orbit. Shredding hulks and Krooza's to scrap, putting new pressure on the Greenskins. To the Trileen it seemed new constellations were born and killed every day. As flickers of the system-spanning void battle reached them.

These days of sifting stars and "cracked-sun eggs" as they termed the colossal explosions which even a million miles away could turn night to day and make days blinding continued. Bringing new devastation as stray shots or ruined Ork ships came crashing to Tragedy. The world of the Trileen had earned the grim Imperial designation once again, but it would not be the last time. The presence of the Warhound Legion drove the Orks into a frenzy. Average boyz revving for a rematch, the more intelligent greenskins pushing their subordinates to conquer Tragedy in preparation for the Imperial assault. This new passion and vicious energy coursing through the Orks revealed a horrible truth to the Trileen armies. Every previous battle they had paid dearly to stalemate had been nothing but practice for the Orks. Who relished the "propa fight" and did not want to rush it, enjoying the war and butchery like a hungry man drawing out every bite of a meal.

Now by the time of Baraca Themistars decision, the great Trileen armies were broken. With only a few fortresses and well-defended fiefdoms holding out. Chief among them Shellmounte Nonus. So in the shadow of some great prehistoric giant, the Angels of Death would come. To honor oaths of duty and break with tradition. Judgment had been made and the Primarch declared the Trileen would survive the Orks. If only to face extinction at the edge of Imperial Steel. For the defenders manning the ribbed battlements of Shellmounte, it must have seemed like the final part of the Apocalyptic disaster facing the Trileen. A million new stars burst into being in the night sky and a hundred thousand angels fell to Tragedy. The Warhounds had been let loose.

It rained scraps of metal as ruined void ships, flak and orbital chaff filled the sky. Providing a screen of protection for Imperial landers as they encircled the Shellmounte. The Greenskins were preparing to start an offensive on the Trileen fortress, as the orbital battle finished. The Orkish infection had already spread far. Millions of Orks and the related tools of war had landed on Tragedy. All eager to cut loose and enjoy the fight. Most of the Warbosses and Warlords of the surrounding sector had been killed in the initial Warhound attacks. Then the rudderless Greentide was herded towards Tragedy for the final blow. This strategy of decapitation strikes followed by corralling and extermination had proved effective against the Orks so far. Here at the outer edges of the Golgothan Wastes influence of the Beasts was less felt. In the sector around Tragedy, the Orks were wild brutal things, being cultivated for eventual absorbing by the Beast Bosses. Those God-Orks on dread Ullanor who prepared to wage war against everything. To the outside, it seemed the Golgothan Wastes were a dead zone, filled with Orkish detritus crawling at its edges. In truth, it was like some massive fungal pod. Slowly swelling up with festering growth. Moving steadily to a moment of critical mass where it burst open and flooded the galaxy in the greatest Greentide of all.

So here on Tragedy and thousands of more worlds like it. It fell to the Imperium to burn away this growing infection before it erupted across the galaxy in a WAAAGH! of WAAAGH! that nothing could survive. Now the great storm of Drop Vehicles fell through Tragedy's thick atmosphere and landed on its rich soil. Stormbirds by the thousand landed near Shellmounte Nonus, forming a crude ring of steel around the bone fortification. The Warhounds favored the use of Stormbird landers over Drop pods and other forms of orbital incursion. Not due to the crafts robust armor and armaments, but because of its transport capacity. To some Legions the idea of deploying fifty Astartes together in a single unit seems incredibly wasteful and an overconcentration of force. To the Warhounds it was perfect. As one all fifty battle-brothers in each Stormbird deployed into perfect formation. Ten Astartes across, four deep, with five terminators on each flank, the Warhound Phalanx.

Spread out with a Phalanx per hundred meters, the Warhounds moved with almost mechanical precision. Each warrior moving in perfect sync with the rest of his Phalanx. To the watching Trileen, it seemed each Phalanx was a single organism. The Orks who prepared to assault Shellmounte Nonus recognized this tactic. Scattered Orkish forces that had been trying to coalesce into a proper offensive, circled the Shellmounte, and now found the XII Legion between them and their prey. Invigorated by new victories against the Trileen, the Orks sought a rematch. A flood of Green malice started to flow towards Shellmounte Nonus, a steady stream that quickly swelled as news of a fight spread across Orkish territory. Becoming a surging tidal wave of raw bestial fury. Aimed directly at the thin checkered line of Phalanxes standing before them.

As the Orks approached the Warhounds, the Astartes readied their weapons. Four lines of abnormally long power and chain spears locked into a single wall of killing edges. Terminator flank guard fired the few weapons they could in Tragedy's atmosphere, hoping to disrupt what passed for an Orkish formation. Slowly at first, each Phalanx started to move forward. leaving the Stormbird dropships shadow, allowing it to return to the fleet and bring back more Astartes. Steady lockstep marching slowly increased in speed as the Warhounds gained momentum. Soon they were running, moving at speeds any civilian land vehicle would find comfortable, all without a single break in formation.

Terminators on each flank started to fan out, forming a wedge of adamantium and heavy weapons on either side of the Phalanx. Soon the first crude munitions and rocks launched by gravity-tossers slammed into the Astartes, the inner ranks of the formation quickly raising up Storm-shields to block the assault. The formation did not even shift, the Warhounds moved as one. A single solid mass of ceramite, transhuman muscle, and blood-hungry steel. Moving together at incredible speeds. Not hesitating, not faltering, not breaking rank even as the Greentide came closer and closer. Thousands upon thousands of screaming raging Orks counter-charged the Phalanx. Bellowing a singular mad cry of WAAAGH!!! Which the Warhounds answered at the final moment before the lines crashed. Roaring out a vox-amplified sonic-bomb of a warcry. Paraquoting one of their Primarch's own gene sources. "WE MAKE THE WAY!"

In the distant past of Ancient Terra the Phalanx was considered one of the greatest formations ever developed. Entire empires lived and died by the strength of the Phalanx. For over a thousand years the staunch line of spears held against any foe. Allowing disciplined mortal men to fight and win against virtually any enemy. That was the potential of the Phalanx in the hands of normal human flesh and bone. When used by the Legiones Astartes, it became so much more. The full momentum of fifty bipedal tanks moving at over eighty kilometers an hour. Armed with strong spears and bound by stronger discipline. Crushing anything under a relentless advance of steel. When the lines of battle met the Orks fell by the thousands. It was like being caught in an avalanche, an irresistible advance that carved a solid line of carnage through the Orks. With each Phalanx's flanks protected by adamant framed Terminators, anything caught in front of the formation died.

To their credit the Orks adapted quickly, moving out of the onrushing Astartes' way and moving towards the formation's rear. Traditionally the Phalanx of old's greatest weakness came in its lack of mobility and inability to deal with attacks from unexpected angles. Such a flaw was not carried over to the Warhound Legion. As the scrap-armored Orks, led by a force of their brute nobility charged the Phalanx's rear. The formation shifted in one fluid movement, spears raised and lowered to face the oncoming attack. The Warhounds shifted the direction of their attack all without any change in formation, driving their blades into the onrushing Greenskins.

Across the battlefield, fifty Astartes strong Phalanx cut through thousands of Orks. Drawing the full attention of the Greentide and leaving literal lakes of blood in their wake. The close-quarter battle waging around Shellmounte Nonus played right to the Warhound's strength. Beasts like ferocity chained by unbreakable discipline tore through the Orks. Normally the XII Legion Phalanx was supported by extensive Auxilia and artillery, but on Tragedy, such reinforcements were neither needed nor practical. This was a battle fought similar to those of ancient days. Where the strength of steel and the hand holding it decided the battle. Both armies fighting in the Bone-fortress's shadow were in their element. Ork and Warhound thriving in the unrepentant slaughter of such a battle. Mountains of corpses and rivers of blood covered the battlefield. Matched in ferocity both sides held an advantage, the Orks had numbers and a defense position, the Imperium had discipline, technology, and most importantly a Primarch.

Baraca Themistar, Lord Liberator and Primarch of the XII Legion had taken to the battlefield and that fact alone guaranteed the battle's outcome. Armed with a hulking slab of adamantium for a shield and a keen spear of star-forged metal. Baraca fought alongside his sons, joining the fight as a one-man phalanx. With his Honor guard protecting his flanks, Baraca focused on ripping through anything before him. Using both spear and shield he tore through Orks, sending dozens literally flying with Mach speed slams. Fighting with skill and power to match forty Astartes working in perfect concert. Yet that was not his only struggle. He held the Warhounds leash, the secret to the Legions uniform discipline. The unique organ of the XII Legion forged a chain of both chemical and physic nature that bound each Phalanx together into a singular pack. Each following the will of its Captain who in turn was bound to his commanding officer. Creating a massive chain of brotherhood and duty that unified the Warhounds and led to its Genefather. Through this complicated network of pheromonal and psychic links, Baraca could direct his sons with near-perfect coordination. The Warhounds fought as a whole, the entire Legion fighting as a singular macro-unit with virtually the same level of coordination a single Phalanx had.

Well trained, loyal, and fierce beyond comparison the Warhounds were the Emperor's Guard Canines. This connection and bond allowed for this evolution of the highly disciplined formations from Ancient Terra. It also held another aspect, one the Warhounds did not advertise but had become infamous. A good guard Canine is more than just loyal and disciplined, they are also unwaveringly brutal to their master's enemies. When the time came the best of the Warhounds were unleashed. Their connection to the broader network ended and the phalanx divided into small squads of spear-brothers. Then they stuck their spear in the ground and unsheathed both axe and sword. Running wild as beasts of battle. Fighting with mad berserk fury, each squad turned into its own hunting pack. Reaving across the battlefield killing any enemy they encountered. Among the best and most vicious melee fighters in the Legions, the Unchained Brothers would wreak a bloody path until the order came to stop. Where they would quickly reassemble and return to the discipline of before as if nothing had happened.

As Baraca tore through the battlefield, throwing his spear with enough force to impale half a dozen Orks. The bladed chain connecting the weapon to his arm turning the spear into a colossal flail. He gave the order for Kharn and his brothers to be unleashed. Where the Phalanx fought it left paths of bloodshed, steady lines of carnage that rarely changed direction. The Unchained left bloody lakes of gore as they spread out in a circle of shredding steel. Links of psychic and chemical empathy kept the Phalanx together and in lockstep unity. Those same links created a feedback loop of bloody wrath. Each brother's battle-lust feeding his squadmate's own. Pushing them to dizzying heights of ferocity.

For ten solid Terran hours, the Warhounds hacked away at the Orks. At first, it was two armies clashing, before becoming a harried retreat, and then a massacre of routing foes. The majority of the Orkish force in the Tragedy system had died in orbit, but millions had made planetfall. It fell to the XII Legion to cut that Greentide into something manageable. In all the talk of glory and heroism, some of the ugly truths of war are lost. Like exactly how tiring it is to kill another being, let alone an Ork. Or how much blood a being like that holds. Imperial estimates put the Orkish body count at something close to five million by the end of those ten hours. At least two million more broken terrified Orks had fled and would be hunted down with Auxilia support in the coming days. For now, the XII Legion had another duty to attend to, making first contact.

The Trileen defenders of Shellmounte Nonus looked out from battlements that once might have been feeding slits. Across an ocean of carnage surrounding the bone mountain. In every direction as far as their sensory organs could tell were blood and corpses. They had tried to join the battle with their longest guns but had little effect. Leaving them to watch an army of bideal monsters made of metal lay waste to the Orkish armies they had once thought unbeatable. What they witnessed shook the Xenos to their core. Never before in their history had they seen let alone imagined such bloodshed. The Orkish massacres had been smaller and more piecemeal affairs. These new sky-beings had an immeasurable capacity for violence and a talent for it. As the ragged defenders of the Xeno fortress looked out across the once verdant valley and what had replaced it. Lakes and rivers of crimson, ridges and hills made from broken bodies, a haze of heat and stinking death filling the air. It seemed the metal bipeds had saved them from the Green monsters but had they just traded one horror for a far darker one?

Coated helm to boot in drying blood, the battle scarred and weary Legion moved. Signaling for supply drops and reinforcements, the freshest among them continued to skirmish with the Orks. Nipping at the retreating Greenskins, giving Auxiliary forces time to land and deploy. Baraca Themistar, flanked by his honor guard and chosen sons moved towards the ossified orifice serving as Shellmounte Nonus's main gate. They moved with a slow deliberate speed. Weapons holstered and the casual air of patient killers about them. A trileen guard panicked as the Transhumans passed a spindly guard tower that might have once been a limb. It fired its pressure gun out of terror. The metal slug flew fast and struck the Primarch square in the chest. Primitive and of low caliber it bounced off the plate with a sharp clank. ⱤÅℕỐВΕS̈

The Astartes reaction was instantaneous, they charged forward drawing weapons. Furious the Xeno's they had bled to save might strike the Primarch. Chain weapons revved and curses plucked from a dozen pre-unification cultures rumbled from Astartes' throats. Baraca barked the order to halt, growling: "They are scared primitives, we will not judge them by such a moment of weakness."

Turning to face the orifice gate Baraca pulled up snippets of Audio recorded by Imperial probes and scouts. A morass of Trileen language and communication which had been feverishly deciphered by Imperial Adepts in the days before the battle. Now a spliced together message echoed from the Primarchs helmet vox-caster. It was a series of binary choices echoed in the sonorous moaning language of the Trileen. Like the Cetacean song of Old Earth, it held a unique resonant quality and unearthly beauty. Echoing away from the Primarch and through the thick atmosphere of Tragedy, the message spoke: "Question- War or Peace? Surrender or Destruction? Friend or Enemy? -Answer?"

Nothing happened for a moment as the patchwork message filtered through the Trileen defenders. For a little over a Terran hour, the Primarch and his honor guard stood near the bone portcullis, awaiting a response. It came with a grinding lurching noise as the gate opened. Out of fear, curiosity, and possibly hope, the Trileen had opened the way. Now it fell to Baraca to see this path through. Could peace be brokered and the world of Tragedy no longer deserve its name? Or would this planet become another graveyard to a species unworthy of living in mankind's galaxy? Thinking of his mother's words Baraca was hopeful, it was his duty to try and protect these lost beings. Bring them under the Imperial Aegis and let them prove themselves worthy of his protection. Yet flickers of another memory and influence passed through his mind. Of his father's grating words spoken in private to his sons many decades ago: "They cannot be trusted, they cannot be understood. Our galaxy is the ruins of a cosmic battlefield now filled with the monsters and weapons created by that long ended war. It is better to burn it all away, even that which seems harmless than let it fester and grow."

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