#and he calls that it's a trap just before reinforcements arrive for the brotherhood

[watchyourdigits]

I'm so sorry to anyone who follows me and was invested in Night Letter. I haven't updated it in over a month & I feel terrible about it!!! I wish there was a way to post updates like this on AO3, but whatever.

This temporary setback is partly because my life is in shambles, but it's mostly because I was struck by the hand of God with an alternative plot that I've been too busy MARINATING in to properly write the originally planned story.

Spoilers in tags~

[ask-jaghatai-khan]

The Bolt and the Cross

(A personal writing about my homebrew chapter. A flash-fiction, really.)

The ground shook and more shrapnel and dirt rained down over the edges of the crater. Brother-Sergeant Werther cursed under his breath as the armored hood of his terminator suit was splashed with another mound of sod. Of the five veterans he had lead into the charge, four now remained, with Sword-Brother Wilheim fallen to the sheer barrage of the ork artillery. Even now, the beasts showed no sign of relenting, as thunderous claps of cannon-fire rang out over the muddy no-man’s land the battle had produced. The charge had gone well at first, with a hearty convocation of neophytes, sword-brethren, and Wether’s own elite squad smashing like a bloody hammer through the xenos resistance. However, the main ork fortress lied not ten leagues away, and so the entrenched creatures had managed to wear down the noble Black Templar force by attrition.

           “To the Emperor’s embrace, to the gates of the slain. May He judge you fairly for the blood spilt before your own was spent. May the chapter remember your sacrifice…” Apothecary Stein’s power-drill burrowed through the joint of the fallen Wilheim’s armor, before the medic began his extraction of the sacred progenoid.

           The rest of the brethren squatted in embittered silence, save for one of the surviving neophytes Werther had not yet learned the name of. The newblood whispered litanies of appeasement to the vox that crackled in front of him, as he tried to reach either crusade command, or their allies in the Guard.

           “I have sight upon the enemy!” Brother Gebhard called from the edge of the crater, the top of his own massive suit protruding from the lip of the entrenchment like a black tortoise. “Foul gretchin man the great cannons!” the injury that had taken half of Gebhard’s face in their last battle with greenskins had gifted the veteran with both a bionic eye of prodigious power, and a deep hatred for all things orkoid. “Their herders laugh at the bombardment. They do not even care if we are dead or not, they are but reveling in the explosions!” he steamed, sliding down back to his brothers, power-fist clenched so tight the metal ground against itself, “When we make the final push into their pathetic fortress, I shall twist each of their heads off like they are corks and their blood is communion wine!”

           “Settle down, brother.” Wether chastised, “I share your anger, but until we have the backing of some armored support, or a few more squadrons of brethren, we can do nothing but wait. Temperance!”

           Gebhard grumbled but bowed to the sergeant. As if by the Emperor’s grace, the neophyte yelped in victory at a sudden clarity in the vox.

           “To all stranded—forces—ord Commi—ar Burnsel of the—49th Armo—” the neophyte performed a quick rite of percussive maintenance, and the last of the severe static dispersed in time for Wether to grab the microphone in his armored fist.

           “Lord Commissar Burnsel, this is Sergeant Wether, veteran of the Black Templars. My unit is stranded after our charge of the ork lines. Where is your reinforcement, guardsman? This was to be the convergence spot!”

           The commissar’s posh yet determined voice answered back over the background buzz of incoming bullets, “Apologies, lord space marine, but we were confronted with an unexpected obstacle. The greenskins laid mines! We are diverting our course, but we should be at your location with but a short delay!”

           “Are you telling me you would be so weak-spined as to divert around a middling trap? Send in the conscripts, clear the way! The orks will no doubt meet you halfway and fall to their own idiocy in the process!” Werther growled.

           The commissar seemed cowed by the superhuman’s scolding, but persisted, “With all due respect, noble astartes, the orders are not my own anymore. With Field Marshall Helmoore dead in transit, orders are now being issued by astartes Captain Manan. One moment—trooper! You continue with that inaccuracy I shall demonstrate proper form on you for the whole regiment!”

           The commissar’s reprise gave the sergeant enough time to think. “What Captain Manan? He is not Marshall. Is he of the Valedictors force?” Try as he had to acquaint himself with the assisting chapter, their battlefields had been a literal world apart.

           “No, m’lord!” the mortal corrected, “He claims himself of the ‘Emancipators’. Relative new arrivals. They had been leading the purge of the moon.”

           “I shall have words with his subordinates. Tell him to curb his caution, we must complete this charge!”

           “You may get to tell him yourself, m’lord. Last I saw of the new astartes, the captain had lead a strike-force to your location.”

           Werther handed the microphone back to the neophyte, almost punching him out in the process. “Confirm coordinates and stay in communication.” He ordered. “Look keen, brothers, for help is on its way, however slow.”

           A clattering sound came from the crater’s edge. Power-fists crackled and swords were drawn in anticipation of orks, though what appeared was less expected.

           With a flutter of subtle camouflage pattern, a group of five space marines slid down the rubble-laden edge of the trench. Cloaks whipping behind them as they took point, colored in muddy browns to match the landscape, along with the extremities of their armor. As the five marines carrying standard boltguns stood to attention, one wearing intricate artificer armor stepped forward, pulling back his hood to reveal a bare head with one bionic eye, glowing gold in the gloomy battlefield dust.

           “Hail, sergeant. Sons of Dorn.” The marine nodded, parting his cloak to reveal a hilted power sword, and dark cyan armor inset with an antiqued gold-and-silver imperialis.

           Sergeant Werther bowed his head, “Hail, brother.” Pleasantries aside, he resumed his trademarked scowl, “So you are to be our reinforcements? You are not from the Valedictors, I take it?”

           “Captain Manan, of the Emancipators chapter.” The marine informed, shrugging off the edge of his cloak to reveal a lightning-triskelion emblazoned in crimson on his pauldron.

           Werther did not appreciate the surprise, having to give a deeper bow to the astartes of superior rank.

           “We were informed of your involvement. You diverted our backup within the Guard, did you not?”  With his terminator suit on, coupled with his natural great stature, the Templar stood a good foot above his peer, though the stealthy squad had a cold stillness about them, almost like servitors.

           “Yes, it was most unfortunate. The xenos had laid a minefield, and I did not want to waste lives on a frontal assault.” Manan gave the status in a faint accent, “They are making headway in a pincer assault through the tertiary encampments flanking the mines. My honor guard and I deigned to scout ahead for your lost squadron. It seems we have both lost someone in the process, though.” A darkness fell over the captain’s thin eyes.

           “So now we are both in a hole in the ground, with artillery all about. Did you have a plan as to how we might buy enough time to assault the ork stronghold?”

           “And why must you fight the beasts on foot, again? As opposed to having blasted this quagmire into glass from orbit?” Manan asked. The ork fleet had been durable, but outmaneuvered with minimal effort. Earlier, upon his flagship, he had tried to contact with Templars’ Crusade Command, but had received diversionary answers at best.

           “The den that the beasts now squat in was once a holy citadel. We cannot afford to lose whatever sacred relics that may still lie unsullied by their hands!” Werther clenched his fist. “And I shall have the head of Warboss Rokktoof for the insult he has paid my brethren. The crusade will not be completed without a proper duel—to leave the xenos and the relics as ash would be a grave dishonor.”

           A shadow of a scowl crept onto Manan’s face. “Indeed—have you seen the plains that surround this fortress, sergeant?”

           The Black Templar bowed his head, “A grave for many a hero. When the greenskins are purged at last, this may make for a great shrine-world someday.”

           “Over half the present Valedictors company lies dead, either incinerated in orbit, or buried in these fields. Likewise, many of your own brethren, and thousands of guardsmen.” He turned around to his phlegmatic squad, “Librarian Gokan, my own advisor, lies waiting for reclamation but a few leagues from this spot. From what I could gather, your own Marshall is directing this assault, yes?”

           “He is.” Werther gritted.

           “Then I will make an agreement with you: we shall capture the fortress, and get you the head of the warboss, but in turn you must defer to my command, and my fleet command.”

           “Do you think you have that manner of authority?” the sergeant tested.

           “Not of yet, I do not, and that is the problem. You! Neophyte!” the captain pointed to the scout at the vox, who turned at once. “Will that vox link me to the Marshall’s ship?”

           “Do not answer!” Werther’s voice rose, perhaps more than he meant it to, “This is a Black Templar crusade, and you will use our resources upon our own charity.” He gritted.

           The captain just stared at the terminator, eyes almost as dark as a son of Corax. Beneath plates of ceramite, muscles tensed upon both sides.

           “Then—might I make use of your vox, sergeant? So as to contact your superior, whom I share rank with?” Manan tilted his head, bionic eye contracting in a mechanical spiral.

           After a short exchange of furious glares, the terminator veteran stepped aside, as the Emancipator grabbed the vox-mic.

           “Black Templar fleet command, do you copy?” he probed the static.

           “Identify yourself. Are you of Brethren Werther’s foray?” a baritone voice crackled back.

           “This is Captain Manan, of the Emancipators, Sum’Rav—Mist Brotherhood. To whom am I speaking?”

           “You again?” the voice muttered in disbelief, “This is the bridge of his holiest Marshall Drustan’s flagship, Litany of Retribution. What is your message—brother?”

           Manan was unfazed, “Link me directly to Marshall Drustan’s vox feed or I take matters into my own hands.” He put as simple as he could manage, his voice serene despite the almost threatening statement.

           There was a short pause, laden with the grim silence of the operator, alongside those Templars yet in the crater with him.

           “What is it?!” A booming voice issued over the radio, buzzing in the captain’s ears, “What do you want now? Has the destruction of my forces not been enough to suit your superiority? If you dare to sacrifice any more of my men for your own cowardice, I shall descend and duel you to the bloody death, here—”

           “Forgiveness, Marshall.” Manan cut off the raging commander—most unsuitable for someone in charge of a whole crusade. “I might retort that your losses were the result of reckless anger playing into the orks’ hands, but I do not wish to argue when victory is yet on the line.” The Emancipator paused to check that the marshall was still listening. “I have a proposal.”

           “And in sterling time as well, captain. I am sure the Valedictors would have loved to hear it before the last of their ground squads were demolished.”

           “The ork stronghold still stands. Rokktoof is yet to be brought to payment for his crimes against the Emperor. I can ensure that your remaining assault teams will have ready access to inside the greenskins’ defences. No orders issued by myself—your crusaders will have free reign to butcher the xenos as they see fit the moment my recon team punches the hole.”

           Another pause, to which the Marshall issued a low grunt of impatient confirmation.

           “In turn, you will claim the head of the warboss as a trophy to your honor, and have access to any and all relics left untainted by greenskin hands within the shrine.” Manan completed.

           “And I assume you would like something in return, then? Or does your generosity know no bounds?” the Marshall hissed back.

           “In return I ask you depart the system as soon as the last of the relics are claimed, and the warboss lies dead. You will turn management of the system over to myself, and Lord Commissar Burnsel—as I believe he is the highest surviving commander left within the Guard detachment.”

           Had they been allotted a video feed, Manan could have seen the suspicious squint that he knew the Marshall was giving him. “And that is it?”

           “You have until then to make all preparations for your departure. I recommend you encourage your apothecaries to haste, and ready whatever team you seek to assist Werther here to claim Rokktoof’s head. Thank you for your consideration, Marshall.” Manan handed off the microphone before the Templar commander had time to confirm or deny.

           “Alright then, battle-brothers.” The Emancipator captain addressed the terminators, putting his hood up and nodding to his own troops. “What do you know of the art of stealth?”