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Welcome to the Ironworks. Here lives my ever-growing collection of fiction, set in the 41st Millenium.

IMROGHAL

IMROGHAL

The smell of old, damp stone bordered on oppressive, and made the modest chamber feel even smaller. Filled as it was with old faded books and stacks of vellum, sturdy wooden furnishings, and tools for the upkeep of legionary weaponry, there was not much room left for Imroghal. It was his chamber, though, and he had come to savor its embrace. His bulk was impressive, and even more so was the way he maneuvered without disturbing the trappings of his domain. Not all of the Brethren were so deft, he smiled to himself.  His armor hadn’t left his body in decades, or perhaps centuries; he wasn’t entirely sure any longer. Certainly he had outlived many of his brotherhood, and it strained his memory to think of a time when he had doffed the heavy plates of ceramite. A feeble pounding at the door wafted the thoughts away like censer smoke. 

A serf had delivered to him a small note, scrawled on a sheet of vellum - that would be the six-hundred-and-forty-second piece of vellum to be delivered to him by one of their serfs since taking residence here. He waved away the thought, unsure why he spared a care for such arbitrary tedium. The note was scratched out by one of their Militia Chiefs. 

The Jackals have scented a meal…’,

He grumbled out loud, and the sound reverberated around his little domain. The voice was unnaturally low, and carried on the air something dreadful. A pitch unattainable by human vocal chords. A sort of inevitability. Without another word, the old warrior made ready his Boltgun. A Phobos pattern weapon at the time of its birth, the tool had now taken on a different aspect. Field-stripped, cleaned, and repaired with increasingly esoteric tools and means had left the weapon a shadow of it’s former self. In shadows lurk danger, however, and this old weapon was no exception. Loading his leather packs with ammunition, Imroghal stepped heavily out into the stone hall, and made for the motor-pool. 

Astomere, the man who’d delivered the note, watched from a nearby alcove as Imroghal departed his chamber. Dograts scurried from the movement, skittering and yapping. Resolving himself not to look away, the man found himself awed and disgusted in equal measure. The ancient creature must have been half again as tall as anyone he’d ever known, and had the weight of five. The armor it wore was pitted with age, and strained to contain the occupant. Worst of all were the antlers. A crown spanning five feet or more grew from the thing’s leather-cowled skull. He hoped dearly never to see what that robe hid. 

Jostled and tumbled inside of their Rhino transport, Imroghal and his band were making towards a copse of trees mentioned in the vellum note. A large pack of woodsmen had been spotted by one of their militia cohorts during a typical sweep of the moorland, and it had been thought that perhaps they were only the grasping claw of a larger colony. The woodsmen were an odd thing, Imroghal thought to himself. Man-shaped, but with the head of a great rat, or boar, or other beast. They often displayed enough intelligence to facilitate fruitful communication, although they were equally prone to violence. A number of their packs had been absorbed into the Brethren’s fighting forces, as they were willing to toil and fight in exchange for food and a place to den and rut. 

This was not the first time they’d been called out to attempt dealings with the woodsmen, as Imroghal seemed to have more success in communicating with them than most. None could say why that was, however. Perhaps it was his crown of antlers that spoke to them. 

Cresting a rise in the landscape, the armored transport came to a grinding halt; The idling engine rumbled and coughed, while Brother Bargost scanned the terrain from within the turret. Twin combi-bolters sat side by side, their squat maws ready to spit death at a word. The small units favored by the Brethren meant that their APC’s could be adapted to house a small turret, as well as the extra ammunition to feed it. Their position afforded them a good view, framed by treeline to their south, and encompassing an expanse of moss-covered moorland, gnarled by fangs of sharp stone as tall as two men. Bargost had picked up movement amongst a cluster of fractured stone piles. 

‘Shall we go and judge the color of their humour, brothers?’

Imroghal rose to a crouch in the back of the transport, and his band followed suit, piling out of the back of the vehicle efficiently. His band of warriors, veterans all, had been raised on stars long forgotten to most of them. They were ancient beyond the imaginings of mortal men, and their martial skill could not be hidden, even beneath their now hulking and twisted frames. Five of them made their way down the shallow hillside and toward the noted rock grouping. Behind them, the turret whined and hummed as Bargost panned across the vista, reassuring the group of his support. Odris had remained in the driver’s cradle, ready to respond if need be. 

Something on the air caused Imroghal to tense. Not perceptibly, but he felt suddenly that something was not as it should be. Indeed, they had sensed movement among the rocks ahead, and indeed, this was the location detailed in the missive. But he had yet to see any of the typical signs of woodsmen presence. Typically they could be scented, or tracked by their stompings in the moss. His com-link clicked; it was Bargost. 

Just sighted some… dead woodsman… Perhaps more than one, procee…caution,

At a hand signal, the five marines fanned out to make smaller targets of themselves. It was unlikely that they would encounter anything with a firearm out here, but their training was forged well into them. Rulosh stumbled without a word, and took a step backward. There was a muffled barking, and he took another step back. His armor was riddled with pockmarks, and the crumping of small detonations told them all that they were under bolter-fire. Imroghal said not a word, but the group responded in unison. They began to pepper the stones with return fire, alternating their fire to stagger their reloading. Rulosh had recovered himself, and despite the black blood running down his cuirass, he appeared to be fully functioning. Bargost came over the com-link once more. 

I see nothing, bu… optics are…ing up heat... They’re in there somewhere. Prepare for overwatch’,

The com was always full of static, even despite the close range. They all got the gist however, and crouched low. There wasn’t much cover, but the smaller rock formations provided at least partial cover for a crouching marine. Rulosh tossed a fragmentation grenade before ducking behind the same rock as Imroghal, who thumped his shoulder in approval. Just as they heard the vehicle’s weapons spooling up, the frag went off. Dirt and rock-shard were blown violently out from within the grove of rocks, and suddenly the combi-bolters sent indiscriminate fire lancing through the haze. The rattling and clanking of the bulky weapons stopped as suddenly as it had started. 

They’d advanced into the stones cautiously then. It had been some time since they’d been opposed by anything wielding a bolter, and their old drilling had proven worthwhile. The rock was now pitted and blasted into scree, and a dark chalky haze hung in the damp air. Their search came to a troubling conclusion, as the only bodies they were able to uncover were those of a few recently-dead woodsmen. They appeared to have been felled cleanly with blade, which told them all that whatever did the deed was a formidable foe. The woodsmen were larger than most men, and strong from their hard life in the wild. Ular called the rest of them over, and the group stood around a small clearing in the moss. They found there a spent bolter shell, which Ular knelt and picked up with one gauntleted hand. A small tentacle replaced his smallest digit, which he used to manipulate the warm casing. It was stamped with the Imperial Aquila. Imroghal also noticed a booted print left in the moss. It was smaller than their own tracks, but it was clearly left by an armored boot.  

The old Sergeant released a long grating breath, which steamed in the cold air, and cast a lingering gaze over the treeline. Someone had found them. 

‘Let’s be away now. We should inform the Coven, and see if anyone has an idea of where Thulde might be found.’

JUDE

JUDE

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