Chapter Five

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate

This was, Berbatov knew, what he was created for; his halberd was a whirling, slashing promise of death. Its blade sparkled with power, flashing back and forth, leaving only dismembered husks behind. His laughter rang out and his men joined in, their battle madness total in its abandon.

One Tauran planted himself in front of Berbatov’s armoured figure, in his hand a distorted sword whose blade’s form wavered as buzzing flies coalesced around it. The Tauran’s armour moved as though it carried something hidden inside; a writhing and shuddering constantly wracked the hideous frame.

“Time to die!” it buzzed, as bloated insects entered its open mouth.

“How trite, but true,” responded the Sargeant carelessly cutting the mutated figures in front of him out of his way.

“Ready, when you are!” he said cheerfully and swung his halberd.

*

Marius climbed down from his cockpit and watched as the two delta-winged craft flew past. Only five of his men had survived the brutal dog fight, and they too had landed with the hope that Walters’ troops had somehow managed to find sufficient ammunition to allow them back into the air.

“Sir! Sir!” called a voice nearby, and he turned to find a young infantry Leftenant waiting nearby.

“Yes, Leftenant?” answered Marius, returning the fresh faced Officer’s salute.

“Captain Marius, Sir,” he said snappily, “I formally relinquish command, Sir!”

It was only then that Marius saw the soldiers hunkered down nearby, staring warily in his direction. He peered into the gloom and saw the distinctive shape of tanks, their turrets pointing out towards the enemy.

“Command?” he queried, only now noticing the distinctive short swords and cap badges.

“Yes, sir!” responded the Leftenant, looking at the eagle emblem stitched onto the front of Marius’ tunic, laurel leaves grasped in its claws as it screamed its defiance, “What are your orders?”

Argent III
Zone of Conflict
Second Church Protectorate

Viker opened his bleary eyes and saw Corporal Johns’ weather beaten face staring down at him.

“Welcome back, son,” said Johns, standing and moving away.

“W-what hit me?” asked Viker, every muscle in his body aching.

“You have been blessed,” returned the Corporal, “given a great gift, which you must use wisely.”

“Pardon?” said Viker, his confusion evident.

“Our Lord has chosen you, endowed you with His power,” stated the Corporal, “Are you ready?”

Stiv checked his body carefully, there were no obvious wounds and he swung his legs off the cot, carefully testing his ability to stand. He moved in front of the mirror and stared in amazement at the face looking back at him. The thing that struck him most were his eyes, their normal ice-blue colour had changed to a deep green. Unknowingly he began to growl.

“Exactly,” echoed the Corporal, “so I ask you again, are you ready? The boys are waiting.”

He looked enquiringly at the Corporal who grinned savagely, “There’s plenty more of the enemy out there,” he said, his arm waving generally in the direction of the Tauran forces, “have you finished in here?”

The young soldier felt energy begin to pour through his body, revitalising him and nodded at Johns.

“Good!” snarled Johns, “Let’s get going then!”, and without another word he sprang out of the door, Viker following close behind. Suddenly, Stiv felt imbued with an incredible strength, the growl in his throat turning into a full-blooded howl. From all around came his answer and he saw shapes racing to join him. In leaps and bounds they came, bodies changing as they sprang to his side; muscles writhed, teeth were bared in anticipation and weapons were tossed aside.

Then he knew, he could feel Walters ahead slicing his way through their enemies. Without conscious thought, his claws snicked into place and at last Viker joined his pack.

*

Arn waited with the rest of his men aboard the Galleon; he would not be needed, things seemed to be going exactly as planned. The fat transports waited too, their cargo would soon arrive; at this moment it was being created in the maelstrom of battle below.

Amongst the seething mass of Tauran troops, there were two clear islands of relative calm. Within the eye of this tainted plague infested storm, Church troops replenished ammunition, repaired equipment and then once more smote their enemies.

Captain Marius was in one such place, the remaining Eyotalians gathered around him as he spoke. He had utilised the cockpit of his now stranded fighter as a platform from which to address his new command.

He spoke of Walters, of his call to battle and pointed towards the spearhead of Berbatov and his troops who were carving their way methodically through their foes. Marius’ oration included their long and proud tradition of battle, and the opportunity they held within their hands today; they too could write a glorious page in the history of their people. His speech was crowned by the more than symbolic gesture of unsheathing the short sword belted to his waist.

The men roared in approval and, as one, hundreds of sparkling swords joined in this veneration,” Walters!” they screamed, “A-ve! A-ve!”

*

Walters was surrounded, a score of Tauran Elite had him pinned within the circle of their pestilent weaponry, or so they thought. He merely smiled as they advanced, waiting patiently, his arms held loosely by his sides. The furore of the battle field had faded into insignificance for all of the players in this cameo performance.

Suddenly, Walters moved, his arm flashing forward and catching one of the Taurans by his wrist, with a quick twist Walters snapped his bone cleanly. He twisted the dangling hand and slammed the owner’s sword into his own chest. Powering backwards he stamped his heel into the chest of another opponent, shattering armour and ribs alike and punching the Tauran off his feet, to fly uncontrollably into two of his fellows.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Walters claws slid into view, energy crackling around them. His subsequent strikes were lightning fast, cleaving armour, chopping flesh and tearing immense wounds wherever they touched. The Taurans demon-augmented bodies were snail-like in their responses, in comparison to Walters speed, and his wild laughter rang out.

A savage howling impinged on his consciousness, but he did not stop; each death brought him closer to the ordained moment.

*

Berbatov could now see Walters and the fact that he appeared alone, drove him to new heights. His whirling halberd was a blur, powerful double strokes pulled him through his enemies. He no longer danced nor moved to avoid incoming blows, he simply smashed his way through them. At his side came the rest of his men, their brutal attacks mirroring his own, nothing could stand in their way.

Those that tried to flee or were simply too far away were cleaned up by Marius and his men. Their disciplined and methodical pace was awesome; shoot, stamp and strike, they cleaved their way through with finesse. Tanks rolled on behind them, their battle cannons tossing shells far ahead, gauging huge holes in the Tauran ranks.

This escaped Berbatov, his only thought was to reach his Lord’s side, he cared not how many of the enemy interposed themselves in his way, all would die.

*

From almost the opposite direction, Viker led the charge. His new found powers melded naturally with his transformed physique and he roared, howled and killed. Johns stood by him, deflecting blows where needed and protecting Viker’s back. He seemed to have automatically fallen into the role, yet it seemed so natural.

*

Uther and his men rejoined Walters, crashing through the final resistance to reach his side. Their help was not needed, as even as they rushed to his aid, Walters skewered the last of the Taurans on his claws, driving them through his putrid armour and into his sternum. With a wrench of his shoulders he ripped them back out and howled his triumph to the skies.

“Are you well, my Lord?” asked Uther, kneeling in obeisance.

“Never better!” replied Walters and as they watched his body began to glow.

*

Troopers moved slowly across the field, harvesting souls for their Lord. A whine of pain would attract them, a swift slash of claw or knife would stifle their cries and on then the gruesome work would continue.

Marius watched his men as they too did their duty, his thoughts turning to the rapid change in his fortune. From fighter pilot to leader of men in one short day; he missed the exhilaration of riding his war beast, but today he had found something new.

“Sir!” cried one of his men, pointing at an incandescent point of light, “What is it?”

Saying nothing, Marius began to run, his men swiftly falling in behind.


Argent III
Geosynchronous Orbit
Second Church Protectorate

Arn felt the change, the burgeoning godhood of his Lord, and fell to his knees, arms raised in adulation.

Berbatov had now reached Walters’ side and he too crashed unbidden to the floor, his men following his example. An unbearably bright light suffused Walters’ body, radiating outwards and painting the surrounding terrain an eerie shade of green.

Far across space others trembled or roared their defiance and on one small planet, a beacon began to glow.

Urion - Man or Myth

Urion’s Belt


Excerpt from A History of Urion: Man or Myth


Centuries passed and internecine war changed to intergalactic war with the Tauran Confederation ever expansive. Solar system after solar system fell until they ran headlong into the seven systems which made up the loose association of the Ori.

Seven separate Houses, each claiming descent from the Great One himself, attempted to physically convince their neighbours of the folly of their ways. The Taurans’ arrival provided the catalyst for the birth of the greatest figure within known history.

Stories vary on where he came from, one tells of a meeting of the Great One with a poor farmer, who fed the hungry giant. Afterwards the farmer was asked what was his greatest desire and he said a son, he had worked hard all of his life and had never found anyone willing to share in his hardships. The Great One took pity on him, and asked him to bury the remains of their meal in one of the farmer’s most fallow pastures. As the poor man slept, the Great One returned and breathed life into the bones and meat that lay between the earth. The following morning, the farmer found a mewling babe there and gave praise to His Mighty Lord.

This was then used to explain the differences seen between Urion and other men, how he was marked out for greatness from an early age. Although scholars expostulate that Urion was in fact a half-breed, born from a union between the Taurans and the Ori. This theory has been denounced by the Church Orders as heresy and the relevant scholars excommunicated.

Whatever his meagre beginnings he rose rapidly, commanding men and then armies. He united first one planet and then another, driving the Tauran invaders from his home world and continuing his campaign until he was proclaimed defender of the Faith and given the first of the seven sacred jewels. Here was where his legend was born.

The sacred jewels have been studied and written about in other texts, their miraculous powers have become the property of the Church and no-one can be certain of their true nature. It is written that they were a gift from the Great One himself and given to Urion as a means to unite the people. Whatever they really were or what powers they truly held has been lost in the mists of time.

Tauran fleets strove to exert their dominion over Urion’s forces and system after system joined his banner, until all of the seven Great Houses bowed before him. For each House was crafted a singular jewel, and each jewel was endowed with mystical power.

Urion was reputed to be a giant of a man and the jewels were fashioned into one spectacular adornment which he carried with him into battle. They were set into the buckle of his great belt, on which hung his divine sword. There was no-one who could stand against him and he smashed the combined Tauran fleets in one epic battle.

Urion led his forces against the Tauran Confederation and all fell before him. A lasting peace was enforced and Urion led his people into a golden age. In time Urion was crowned ruler of all known space and he took unto him a wife. Their seven sons grew strong and were given the rule of the Houses of Ori.

This caused much discontent and signalled the start of the First Civil War. Urion reunited his forces and put down the rebellions, in so doing he was forced to kill six of his seven sons, who had been swayed by the entreaties of the corrupt Houses.

Only the youngest of his sons survived, and foreswearing all claim to his kingdom and his rights, he took his young family and was lost from all records..

It is during this period that historians diverge in their recounting of Urion’s life. Some claim that he was mysteriously taken to the Great One’s bosom and rests there still. Other, less religious men talk of poison, even regicide, but the only thing that can be confirmed is that Urion and his belt disappeared. The jewels themselves still reside with the scions of each great House, waiting it is said for Urion’s return.

Of the belt, less is known although this historian would like to believe the story held by the Rigelians, who claim that a loyal servant spirited it away and fled to Urion’s youngest son’s side. The belt is so held to be with the line of Urion’s only faithful son and, one day, will be returned to his long suffering people in triumph.

As this historian has said, it is his fervent wish that this would be true, although being a pragmatist, this writer in truth holds no hope for this occurrence.

In the following chapter, will be described the rise of the seven Great Houses and their dominion over the Tauran Confederation.


*

Our dim lit halls cry out your name,
Broken buildings alight with flame,
Ragged flags lie limp with pain,
And tears run freely as the rain.

Where art thou Lord, what do you do?
Your people hope with faith anew,
To run, to laugh, to hear, to see,
A dream come true, our heartfelt plea.

They struck you down, in all your might,
Our golden dream then put to flight,
A heel that crushes hard, that smears
The brightest star, expands our fears.

Come home to us and raise us high,
Your warrior’s roar becomes our cry,
Enemies will quake with fear,
When once again you draw us near.

Urion your people wait,
Here in front of death’s dark gate,
Lead us is our clarion call,
And watch how our dreaded foes do fall

-Anonymous-

Chapter Four

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate

“Die you frakker!” screamed Marius, his fingers pressing again and again on the fire control button. He had passed through the calm and controlled commander phase and was only now interested in killing his enemies. This was a nightmare, he had no idea how many men he had left, and in fact cared little. The only thing fixed in his mind was the next enemy that crossed his sights. In such a target rich environment, it was easy to lose yourself.

His last Spitfire missile speared outwards, obliterating his target; a slow moving bomber which had lined itself up for a run at the AA batteries. All he had left were his auto-cannons and he was determined to make every last one of these Tauran frakkers pay. Screaming his anger aloud he roared as he fired, “Walters, where are you? This is for you!”

A calm washed over him, an exhilarating energy he had never felt before. He heard Walters’ voice ringing in his mind, “I know my son, have faith!”

The curious thing was that he did, and unbelievingly he felt his laser cannon power up. It burnt with a pure green fire and he aimed at his enemies and felt the screaming bolt tear them apart. There was none of the usual waiting time, rather he seemed to have infinite charge in his weapon. The auto-cannon was spent, his missiles were gone and yet his laser cannons carried a sort of divine flame.

A message entered in his brain, he heard the words whispered and he did indeed believe. His voice rang through all of his surviving wingmen’s speakers, “Have faith in Him, believe in Walters and you shall be rewarded. See how I smite our enemies!”

The channel became clogged with transmissions, “In Walters’ name! For Walters! Die you Frakker!” All worked, they had been blessed and were exultant. Their enemies could not resist the purifying fire of their lasers and down below Walters roared, grew and called more to his banner. The enemy came, they fought and they died!

*

Viker watched them come, the mutants and dispossessed herded by their masters; the Tauran Elite. He watched as the virulent armour of the fallen spewed forth clouds of bloated flies which swirled around their heads, hiding them from sight. Laser fire was ineffective against them, only dropping the monsters to the earth, yet the Taurans came on.

He looked up at Walters and found him smiling, saw him nod to his own men and stride forward. Like many Viker raged in frustration at his inability to be more than he was, to walk at Walters’ side and then miraculously his Colonel halted. He turned, his eyes flashing a pure verdant green and spoke, “Come, join me!”, was all he said and they did.

They came in their hundreds and thousands, screaming his name, yet he did not wait. He strode forwards to meet the demon possessed Taurans and they cried out in anguish. Running they tried to catch up with him, almost insane with their desire they ripped and tore their way through the unfortunates who faced them. They had no pity, no reason to forgive; their Lord walked alone and they would not be found wanting.

Walters smiled and watched them come; it was almost time, he could feel it.

The Galleon
In Transit
Fold Space

“What’s keeping us,” growled Berbatov, his halberd slamming into the wall, sending metallic sparks into the air.

“Calm down,” cautioned Arn, “we still have time!”

“But he’s alone, with nothing but a handful of men with him!” replied Berbatov in frustration.

“Have faith, my friend,” responded Arn, “When has he ever let you down?”

“Never!” snarled Berbatov , “My fear is that we will fail him!”

“Do not fear,” said Arn, his tone reassuring, “even now we arrive!”


Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate


AA batteries spewed forth their charged weapons, tanks rolled forwards and the Seventh Lutheran killed. They were inspired, nothing could stop them. Not the Tauran champions whose now plague invested bodies caused unimaginable mutations in their minions, nor the Battle Fleet which railed against them.

Elsewhere on this accursed planet, Church Troops died. They boiled in their own juices, they cursed their leaders and still they expired. Only those who fought within Walters’ sphere of influence prevailed.

Marius and his men were invincible; they harvested enemy souls as though they were nothing more than offerings to their Lord. Far out in space, the Tauran fleet despaired and when they thought they were at their lowest, they felt deceived.

Out of the vagaries of space appeared ship after ship, led by a strange three-masted vessel whose broadsides were devastating in the extreme. They ripped and tore, scalded and boiled, the very existence of their foes away. The Tauran Pagan Gods quailed at the fervour they faced, their minions were destroyed without pity, screaming into the void.

They had never faced such an enemy and knew not what to do. On the planet’s surface Walters came into his own, his long awaited ascension was imminent. He howled in triumph as his enemies fell, and his men howled with him.

With each slash of his claws they grew, with every bite of his jaws they changed, until at last they were his. Their bodies became infused with his power, their cries were only an echo of his own and in the midst of the ripping and tearing host, Viker found his God and was pleased.


Outer Atmosphere
Argent III
Second Church Protectorate


Nothing could prevail against the intense bombardments, the Tauran Battleship heaved in pain. Boils and pustules on its hull burst, throwing virulent waste, debris and ammunition outwards. A miasma of bloated flies roared out of the distorted turrets, the respective swarms obscuring the form of the vessel. Slowly the great ship got underway, its creaking and groaning shell resisting the impact of the plasma batteries by the sheer will of its demon-infused master. With one last great effort it lurched its way into fold space, leaving behind a trail of plague infested debris, which dwindled and died.

Other ships were not so lucky, the Galleon’s accompanying cruiser and two destroyers laid down a tremendous field of fire. It seemed as though they were willing to expend every last missile, every drop of plasma, and to drain completely their laser batteries. Once free of the battleship, the Galleon joined them, methodically reducing ship by ship the Tauan fleet to inexistence.

Smaller transport ships dropped out of the warp, hanging back out of the way of the seething maelstrom of fire. As a safe corridor was blasted through to the planet, they waddled their way forward, taking up a stationary position above the war stricken world below.

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate

“Whoa!” gasped Marius, as a sleet delta-winged fighter screamed past him, its plasma cannons spitting forth brilliant streaks of lightning. In a matter of moments, two of the attacking craft were nothing more than rapidly dissipating balls of energy.

The swift vessel turned sharply and roared back towards him, taking up a silent but protective position to his right. He tried to contact its pilot, but received no answer.

Another silently moved into place to his left, rigidly holding a more than respective distance, seemingly their task only being to escort him.

“Got to get me one of those!” said Marius to himself, as they effortlessly matched his speed. Then at last he remembered the rest of his Wing and guiltily asked for a roll call.

*

Viker saw the blade as it arced towards his head and knew that there was nothing he could do. At the last moment, a gauntleted hand parried the blow, following through with the blade in its hand. The weapon sheared through the meagre armour of the mutant, showering Viker in a spray of bile and blood.

Beside him stood one of the armoured figures, who nodded briefly and then sprang forward into the fray once more. Stiv glanced round and saw that somehow he had left his platoon behind, he was surrounded by armoured figures and slightly ahead he saw the Colonel. He pulled his rifle from the body below him, the bayonet had become stuck in its entrails and he needed to stamp down hard in order to rip it free.

There was a soft footfall to his left and he swung the weapon sharply, but to his dismay it was caught and held. Crying out in desperation he let go of its stock and scrabbled for his combat knife, but a hand gently closed over his restraining him.

“Your fervour is admirable, soldier”, said a soft voice, “but trying to kill your commanding officer is not the done thing.”

Shame-faced, Viker looked into the grinning face of Walters and wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

“S-s-s-ir!” he muttered in chagrin, “I am so sorry!”

“Not to worry …..ah yes, Viker, isn’t it?” and then when the young man nodded, Walters continued, “Your fervour has led you to rashly leave the protection of your platoon. If you insist on being here, then I’ll just have to give you a helping hand.”

Walters eyes began to blaze with an incandescent green fire and Viker felt himself drown in their vast depths. There was a roaring in his head, a long drawn howl and then he feinted.

“Johns!” roared Walters and the Corporal raced forwards, “My Lord?” he rasped.

“Take care of him,” Walters commanded, and then more quietly, “he’s one of us now.”

Johns grinned and hefted the prone body of the soldier effortlessly onto his shoulder. The boy had shown promise and had been rewarded, today many others would receive their Lord’s gift, but Johns sensed something special about this one.

*

Elsewhere on Argent III, Church troops fought and died. They were no match for the Tauran Elite led forces, nor the swarms of bloated flies which crawled into every open orifice of their bodies. Their still warm corpses expanded grotesquely, finally exploding and each one expelling a mass of the horrific insects. Thus an expanding wave of plague-driven troopers crashed back into their own lines, ultimately propagating their fellows’ doom.

In other areas, decaying and putrid men staggered onwards, laser fire ineffective against their mindless assault. They bit and clawed at their ex-companions, infecting them even as they gorged on the fresh meat.

The only true resistance came from a mixed group of Eyotalian Lancers and Infantry. Their tanks held their position with the barrels of their battle cannons depressed to their limits, they fired high explosive rounds directly into contaminated troopers as well as the oncoming Tauran Forces. They then rolled forward, flamers and heavy bolters charring and exploding what was left.

Accompanying them was what was left of their infantry, their Leftenant had wisely ordered his men to discard their rifles and with pistols and short swords only they butchered their way through their undead foes. These weapons were a remnant of their historic past and with a steady and measured beat they swung and stabbed, cut and hacked until their arms ran with the blood of their enemies.

Cheering they celebrated their victory until the drop pods began to slam down. Wearily the Leftenant called his men to order as a new wave of mutants raced forward, and waited for the drop pods to show what new horror they would thrust upon his men.

*

Explosive bolts blew, metal flew away and out they came, howling and snarling with rage. Armoured covered bodies leaped forward, weapons blazing a constant explosive fire. A huge man led them, smashing through the desperate defence with ease, bodies crumpling into nothingness as he struck.

Berbatov had arrived, and the Tauran Forces trembled.

Chapter Three

Geosynchronus Orbit
Argent III
Second Church Protectorate

“Eagle One to Eagle Base, over. I repeat, Eagle One to Eagle Base, over!” nothing, there was zero response. Captain Marius of the Eyotalian 326th Fighter Wing, ‘the Eagles’, cursed as he pounded his fist against his control panel. He had seen the destroyers implode under the vicious enemy barrage, and had heard the frantic transmissions from the cruiser as the boarders smashed their way through the final defences.

His wing had responded to his call, flying close to the automatic anti-aircraft systems of the cruiser, relying on their own friendly identification transponders to protect them. They had flown tip to tip, their autocannons blazing a metallic path of death in front of them. The enemy fighters had been unable to resist, yet the ploy had not been without casualties.

Two of their wing had been downed on the first pass by enemy missiles, another blown apart by the cruiser’s own defences. It was irrelevant now though, they had nowhere to land, the ship’s launch bays having been destroyed. Basically there were two choices, die here or try and link up with the ground forces, a slower yet no less certain death based upon the vast superiority of the enemy fleet.

Marius was leaning towards a more glorious and rapid end, here amongst the last remains of his companions. Not because he was the most heroic of men, rather the most practical. Signal strength was minimal and therefore he could not contact anyone on the planet, he had three Spitfire missiles remaining, his autocannons were less than half-full and his laser cannon was all but useless.

There was no certainty his men would feel the same way, but he had to at least give them the option. Drawing in a deep breath he reached to activate his transmitter, but was forestalled by an incoming message.


"This is Colonel Walters, seventh Lutheran calling all surviving Navy personnel. You are to disengage, I repeat, disengage from enemy contact. I am assuming overall control for this mission. You will lock on to the signal which is currently being transmitted from my temporary headquarters. Walters Out!”

Captain Marius looked curiously at his transmitter, he must have subconsciously flicked the switch to transmit after the message had finished. Cautiously he responded, “Marius here, can you verify? Over.”

“Captain, make your choice,” replied the voice flatly, “accept my invitation unconditionally or die out there. Out!”

This was more than strange, thought Marius, he had never given his rank, or had he?

*

Walters turned to face Krantu, “Don’t worry Leftenant, they’ll come.”

“My Lord, what use are a few fighter pilots,” asked the Leftenant, looking puzzled.

“I wasn’t talking about them,” grinned Walters, “however, every single person counts, or have you forgotten that?”

“No my Lord,” said Krantu, “I have not forgotten.”

“Good. Now what reports do we have of the enemy?” questioned the Colonel, changing the subject.

“Nothing as of yet, my Lord, all is quiet,” replied the Leftenant.

“That won’t last for much longer,” responded Walters, “believe me!”

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate


Viker refused the smoke stick Alana waved enticingly under his nose, it held no interest for him. Ever since his chance encounter with the Colonel earlier, he had felt energised and in need of no other substitute.

He had tried to explain what had happened, but his squad mates had just laughed. Curiously enough the only one who had not derided him was Corporal Johns, instead the grizzled veteran had simply stared. His gaze had been free of contempt, it was instead watchful, in a stern yet accepting way. Any reverie was blown away by the screaming howl of the alarms, all across the base they erupted in a manic chorus.

Johns sprang to his feet, barking orders to the relaxed men and women, using his fists and feet where words seemed to have no effect. The enemy was coming and he had no time for stragglers and he was keen to make sure that they all understood this.

“You!” he snapped at Viker, “Get your weapon and stick with me!”

”Corporal?” asked Viker, his voice quavering slightly.

“That goes for all of you!” he roared, but Viker was sure the message had been especially meant for him.



Geosynchronus Orbit
Argent III
Second Church Protectorate

Drop pods were launched ceaselessly from the enemy cruisers, fighter craft were spat carelessly into space in numbers too many to count and still Marius vacillated. Right now, they were out of the main fight, hanging motionless whilst he made up his mind. More men had found their way to him, their own units ripped apart by the fury of the previous engagement and looking for someone to take charge.

“Frak this!” he muttered to himself, and then over the general frequency, “Form up, boys, we’re going to join the party. You have my absolute permission to send as many of these frakkers back to whichever ugly witch created them. For the Prelate!”

Any response was drowned out by the roar of his engines as they thrust his fighter forwards. This was much better than waiting, and who knew, maybe this Colonel Walters had a plan?

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate


Soldiers charged to and fro in a maelstrom of activity; vast amounts of ammunition were ferried to forward supply depots, armour took up its position and Guardsmen scurried to avoid their commanders’ wrath. Colonel Walters looked on, confidence in his men high. He knew that this scenario was being repeated in other areas, the Church units outside of his command reacting in their own way.

They, however, were of little concern to him at this moment, whatever part of the enemy forces they could tie up would only be a help, but was not counted in his own plan. His men needed to be blooded, to bond and find their true vocation. When the time was right he would be able to demonstrate to them exactly what was required of them and the rewards awaiting their loyalty.

No, all they needed was time, enough for Arn and Berbatov to get here. Once that happened they could deal with the Tauran forces and then their real mission could begin. As the first of the drop pods began to rain down, he smiled, his teeth bared in an animalistic pleasure. The Church Navy had left them here to die and his men would soon know that. Once they realised their predicament, they would turn to him for guidance and he would be ready.

Behind him he heard the excited growling of his K’ran bodyguard, they could feel it too. The link between them and Walters was strong and they could feel his rising excitement. Today they could kill again in the name of their Lord, their impatience to do so was palpable. Walters growled back, energy beginning to flow into him, and flexed his muscles. He was ready, let them come!

*

Viker clutched his laser rifle close to his chest, fear setting his nerves on edge. Drop pods had hit the earth close to his position and he knew it would be soon. He saw Alana’s mouth moving, but no sound issued forth. She was praying to the Great One of that he was sure, but whether it would do any good was another matter.

Johns stood nearby, one foot on top of the earthworks, staring out across the plain in front of them. Wind ruffled his shaggy hair and his face was lifted into the breeze. Viker could have sworn that he was sniffing the air, like some wild animal.

Unannounced, he turned, his eyes locking tight onto those of the young soldier’s. With a start, Viker for a moment saw them blazing an emerald green and winced at the physical impact of them. In His name, he thought, who or rather what is he?

The screeching of brakes announced the arrival of an aircar, Colonel Walters jumping down from the cabin. A low hum was heard across the lines, almost a purring of contentment, and Viker saw all of the veteran troopers staring at their commander, an almost religious fervour in their eyes. Leftenant Krantu and the two huge bodyguards were also there, their bodies tense with excitement.

The Colonel and his entourage carried no weapons, yet they did not look unarmed, instead they radiated a kind of cold and deadly violence, held in check, but soon to be released.

Stiv heard chanting and the beating of drums from out on the plain, a dark mass slowly moving forward. They were here, and he only hoped that he could stay the fear which coursed through his veins, long enough at least to do his duty.

There was a light touch on his arm and he swivelled around, finding the Colonel next to him.

“Do not worry, my son,” said Walters calmly, “I am with you!”

*

Captain Marius held his Wing under tight control; they could not afford to waste their valuable ammunition. Now his decision had been made, their only hope of survival was in reaching the Lutheran positions. Somehow he knew there would be support there, more ammunition perhaps, but at least a safe haven. He was determined to make every last round count, to maximise the destructive power of his fighters.

So with this in mind, the formation of fighters roared onwards, avoiding engagement with the enemy as instructed. The transponder signal drew them on, its bleep becoming a beacon of hope, or at least the promise of some kind of salvation.

“Walters,” muttered Marius to himself, “you had better be worth it!”

*

The semi-recognition of the Captain’s need reached Walters where he stood and he smiled. It was starting, now he would speak to the men here, would build their hunger for victory and with each chant of his name, with each pledge of loyalty, his strength would grow.

*

Uther felt his Lord’s summons and called to his battle brothers, Tor would remain here, in the pinnace, for now. The ex-Immortal checked his weapons one last time, as the others filed past him into the waiting shuttle. The craft had been kept hidden on board the pinnace, its design screaming Immortals to all.

No matter now, they were no longer Church Elite, they had a new brotherhood, a new Lord. Still, their role was the same, they would only carry it out in another’s name. One who held their total loyalty, who led them on the battlefield and imbued them with his strength. Unable to hold his eagerness in further, Uther raised his head and howled in joyous exultation, his brothers quickly joining in.

*

The stuttering roar of the anti-aircraft batteries announced the arrival of the enemy aircraft, strangely they had kept silent during the deployment of the drop pods, but now they opened up in their full splendour. Their targets appeared only to be the enemy fighters and bombers, they strictly avoided the more slow moving troop transports.

Marius and his men had no such compunction, their objective was to join up with Walters and anything that got in their way was a prime target. They had managed to maintain their identity relatively secret during their approach, their craft ignoring all hails and hugging the ground as they neared the Church-controlled positions. Finally though their disguise had been sprung and Marius had given the order to fire.

He watched as one of his precious Spitfire missiles swooped imperiously into the attack. All attempts to stop it failed and it finally tore its way through the belly of a slow-moving transport, splitting it open and sending its contents spewing downwards towards the hard ground below. He briefly saw tumbling bodies and equipment as he flashed past, another target in his sights.

*

The shuttle settled briefly to earth, disgorging its contents, before rising rapidly and tearing back in the direction it had just come from. Viker stared at the armoured men rushing forward, there had been no talk of Immortals here!

Amazingly he saw them kneel before Walters, their fists crashing against their chests. Then he recognised them as part of the crew of the pinnace, this was getting stranger by the minute. One of them carried a furled banner in his hands, which he ceremoniously held out to the Colonel. He saw Walters smile gently and nod, the armoured figure then firmly planting the shaft into the ground. The colours which unfolded were not those of the regiment, the design was the same but contained no Church numbering or prayers. A snarling beast head emerged, as the wind caught the cloth. It seemed alive, its emerald eyes reflecting in the sunlight.

As one, the armoured figures and all of the veterans knelt, then their howls rang out in a tremendous chorus. They appeared changed, bigger, more powerful and the Colonel almost god-like! What was happening?

Chapter Two

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate

The world of Argent III, sat innocuously in its usual place, revolving quietly around its particularly uneventful sun. Nothing ever happened here, in fact nothing had ever happened out of the ordinary as far as the inhabitants of the planet were concerned. That is, until this one fine morning, when war came slowly yet resolutely to the system.

Ships winked into real space, taking up their predetermined positions. Shuttles began to ferry Church troops to the planet’s surface, irrespective of the local Governor’s complaints. Regiment after regiment was deployed, and the Guardsmen began to dig themselves in.

Shortly after the final troop transport was once more safely in the arms of the fleet, the main body of vessels jumped once more. They had other worlds to find, other fortifications to build and time was running out.

*

Stiv Viker was among the first to make planet fall. Somehow Johns and his platoon had been adopted by the gruff Leftenant Krantu. They had been relieved of their more mundane duties and put through some special training. Little more had been said about the unusual treatment meted out to the Inspector, but truth be told, none of them were particularly upset about Ivanov’s predicament.

An APC roared past, spraying mud into the air and Stiv delicately wiped the front of his tunic. He, like many of his fellows, took an inordinate pride in his Regimental emblem. It instilled confidence; he always felt ready for anything when he was dressed in his uniform. Even with his body armour in place, he could feel where the snarling head sat over his heart, and was comforted.

He laughed uncontrollably as he saw Alana misjudge her step and fall backwards into a muddy puddle.

“Viker!” screamed Corporal Johns, “Don’t just stand there! Give her a hand!”

The thought of clapping appreciatively did briefly flit across his mind, but it was not advisable to display too much humour in front of the testy non-com.

With a wave of agreement, he trudged forward, better positioning his backpack to make sure he did not overbalance and join her there in the middle of the road.

*

“Him there,” said Krantu softly to Walters, “he’s the one.”

“Why him?” asked Walters enquiringly, not for a moment doubting the K’ran’s judgement, rather his question was out of curiosity.

“He’s different,” replied Krantu, even after all of this time and the modifications his body had undergone, he still found it hard to talk in long sentences.

Smiling to himself, Walters insisted, “How is he different?” he asked.

“Hard to say,” replied Krantu, “but trust me, he’s the one.”

Walters watched the young soldier struggling through the mud, his hand outstretched in order to help his companion. With a heave she dragged him down beside her and they both collapsed into helpless laughter. Perhaps he is the catalyst, thought Walters to himself, only time will tell.

His attention was drawn away from the two young soldiers, as his enhanced senses felt a disturbance in the ether approaching. Whatever it was, it wasn’t friendly.

Closing his eyes he reached out and felt the wrongness and with a snarl he turned to Krantu.

“They’re here already!” there was a snick of claws extending, as the K’ran grinned wolfishly.

“Good!” was his only answer, as he waited for further commands.

“Warn the men,” snapped Walters, his mind already calculating what they might have to do, “Ours that is!” he cautioned Krantu, “the others will just have to look after themselves!”

*

Something was going on, of that Stiv was sure. There was a new purpose in the older men, they seemed to bristle in excited anticipation. He could have sworn he had heard some of them growling to each other in low undertones, and their walk! They prowled now, like hunting beasts ready to be slipped from their leashes, hands flexing subconsciously, forgotten weapons slung on their backs.

Viker stared closely as the Colonel exited his Command Tent, Major James and Leftenant Krantu with him. A group of the men from his pinnace approached, their bodies encased in their strange power armour. They were huge men, fully as big as any of the Immortals, yet still wearing the characteristic snarling beast emblazoned on their shoulder guards.

One of them raised his visor and Stiv tried to get a better look. A rough hand jerked him away by the back of his tunic, spinning him around and there behind him was the ever present Johns.

“Stop gawking!” he hissed, “and get the rest of the platoon together. For some reason, the Leftenant has taken a personal interest in us and none of you are going to let me down!”

With a shove in the back, he was propelled rapidly across the road. Stiv risked one last glance at the group of officers and found himself staring into the unblinking green eyes of the Colonel. He felt pierced through by the Colonel’s gaze; it was as though he were being weighed on a very strict pair of scales. Smiling slightly, the Colonel turned away and Viker felt immensely disappointed, as though he had lost something and involuntarily he cried out.

Walters looked back briefly and an electrical charge seemed to pass between them, Viker feeling energised, invincible. The Colonel nodded and continued on his way, the others following meekly behind him.



The Galleon
Unknown Space

Arn rose from the Command chair and looked across at Berbatov, “Can you feel it?” he asked excitedly.

Berbatov nodded and swung a foot at a passing crewman who skipped easily out of the way. His hand reached down and touched his halberd where it lay propped against the wall. The shaft was reverberating slightly, as though in tune with some strange music.

“About time!” he grumbled bad-naturedly and then he grinned, “I was getting just a little bit bored with all this waiting. Why don’t you tell them?”

The shipboard communication system sprang into life, Arn speaking softly into the transmitter, “Our Lord calls us!”

His voice echoed around the Galleon and there came an answering howl of pure joy. Messages were passed across to the other ships and after a short wait, as one they winked out of real space in answer to the long awaited summons.


Geosynchronus Orbit
Argent III
Second Church Protectorate

Admiral Baynes had stayed behind with his cruiser and two destroyers, his orders to protect the best he could the troops on the planet below. Further sealed instructions had been given to him in private; if the threat was overwhelming he was make all speed to rejoin the fleet, the information of the enemy disposition was more important than the hundreds of thousands of lives below.

He had privately questioned these orders and had been curtly rebuffed, there would be no discussion allowed. So, it was with trepidation he received the reports of multiple vessel signatures. It looked as though a fleet were due and he would have to run. Perhaps he might get the chance to at least reduce the odds before he fled, although he would only do so if the risk to his ships were minimal.

It was in an awed silence he heard the details of the estimated number of enemy vessels dropping in real space and not waiting any longer, he ordered his ships away, leaving the troops below to their potentially terminal fate.

*

There was no escape for the Church ships, a vast fleet winked into existence all around them, effectively corralling Admiral Baynes and his men. His only option was to fight and take some of the enemy with him. He ordered gun batteries charged, missiles readied and fighter craft launched. In a tight formation his three vessels ploughed onwards, directly into the centre of the opposing forces.

On his command the ships fired into unison, their concentrated fire intended to punch its way through the vessels before them. Shields flared in opposition and counter missiles were launched.

He felt his cruiser reel under the power of his enemy’s attack, three times as many of them engaged him and from all sides. No time was given for him to communicate with his destroyers as their shields were torn apart and enemy fire sent them screaming to the Prelate’s Bosom.

Alone now, he continued to fight, data streamed in of batteries overheating, missile hits against enemy ships and more against them. Hull integrity had been breached on three separate levels and there was now no return for the fighters, the launch bays having been ripped into shreds by incoming missile strikes.

Baynes saw the indication of their failing shields and the exact moment their tenuous protection disappeared. Shortly afterwards he heard reports of enemy vessels clamping on to their hull and new breaches being blown. Reports flooded in of fighting on all decks and that his men were losing, their resistance futile.

His decision taken, he ordered his Exec Officer to join him in the destruction of his once mighty vessel. An explosive detonation stopped him short as he saw the poor man reduced to a liquid spray and he knew that all now rested on him. There was no time to do this properly and he raced to ensure that this failure at least would not fall at his feet.

It was, and always had been from the moment of the enemy fleet’s arrival, too late. A backhanded blow sent him reeling backwards in his chair and he screamed in pain as a whirring blade was pushed slowly into his stomach. The owner of the weapon calmly held the Admiral in place with one booted foot and proceeded to turn the man’s entrails into a horrific soup.

Still alive, Baynes looked up into the scarred and piteous face before him, pleading for release.

“I will give you release,” sneered the man, leaning forwards and kissing the Admiral on the lips, a vile spittle passing between them. He laughed even more as Baynes’ mouth began to blister and boil, “You are welcomed,” he snarled, “into his ever-loving embrace!”

Chapter One

Spaceport
Regimental Command
Luther

Rank upon serried rank of soldiers stood in review, the recruitment was complete and they waited to board the descending transports. Commands roared across the parade ground, feet stamped in unison, banners flared and the 7th Lutheran Infantry Regiment boarded the waiting vessels.

Engines sparked into life, farting fumes into the still air as APC’s, aircars and tanks patiently awaited their turn.

The cleansing of Luther had been brutal and it had been nothing less than miraculous that the Inspectorate had found Colonel Walters to lead this Regiment. He had appeared one day, when they had called for blooded officers. Apparently he had been stuck in some outpost, his small contingent more than happy to follow him.

They had quickly assimilated the new troopers, his command organisation rapidly incorporating the new volunteers. The Regiment had easily taken him to their hearts, their loyalty at times bordering on heresy. If it had not been for the urgency of the recruitment, many more questions would have been asked. Particularly the Church Guard had raised numerous complaints at the accidents befalling their personnel, although the Colonel’s reports had been scrupulous in their content.

None could complain at the generosity of the man; he had brought his own pinnace with him, his men crewing the vessel at no extra expense. No-one had seen the full crew; they had remained on board, their bodies covered in a strangely fashioned armour. Some of them appeared big enough to be Church Elite, but everyone had of course dismissed that as a ridiculous notion.

Colonel Walters had been presented with the Regimental colours in a particularly strange ceremony by his huge and forbidding looking Leftenant, the stylisation of the screaming wolf’s head unique in its depiction.

*

“We are ready, my Lord!” carolled Krantu, his pride in the soldiers obvious.

“I’ve warned you about that,” admonished Walters, smiling.

“Yes, my L… Sir!” replied the K’ran, snapping to attention.

“Are the others on board?” asked Walters, squinting upwards at the latest transport to depart.

“They’re waiting for you, Sir!” said the strange Leftenant, indicating the two platoons of soldiers; their khaki fatigues blazoned with the snarling emblem of the regiment, their tunics uniquely piped with green.

“Very well,” commented, Walters, turning for one last look around.

He knew that he had the best of the people from Luther with him. Men and women made up his new command, their close families and hangers-on had already been ferried up to the awaiting ships. It was true that he was leaching vital resources from this world, but he had promised himself that they would all reap the benefits of their sacrifice a hundredfold.

Silently he prowled forward, Krantu and two other huge soldiers trailing in his wake. If only the Churchmen knew, he thought to himself, they would certainly not be so accommodating.

*

Major ‘Jimmy’ James tapped his fingers impatiently on his desk, the Inspector in front of him had presented him with a real problem. He had arrived only today, with a small entourage; two junior inspectors and three cadets.

“I do not see your problem,” insisted the man in a whining tone, “my orders are clear and it will go ill for you to delay me longer. I will present myself to your vaunted Colonel, and woe betide him if he tries to thwart me in my task.”

James smiled quietly to himself, thinking of this puny individual, threatening the Colonel. Inspectorr Ivanov noted the smile and his hand reached for his sidearm.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” growled a new voice, and the Ivanov started as Walters pushed roughly past him, a huge Leftenant sauntering in his wake.

“This man is impeding me in my duty, as an Inspector of the Holy Prelate, I do not answer to you!” he sneered.

Walters waited patiently, the silence lengthening uncomfortably. He glanced once at his Leftenant and the Inspector was driven to his knees by a tremendous blow. The boot placed into his back pinned him to the floor, his cheek pressed firmly against the metallic decking. His men made as if to reach for their weapons but the look in the Colonel’s eyes stayed them; it was chilling, deadly in its promise and brooked no defiance.

“You will address me as Colonel or Sir,” said Walters calmly, “you will never threaten myself or any of my men again. This is my Regiment, not yours and I will accept nothing less than obedience. I think you need a little time to yourself to reflect on this, to pray to the Prelate for guidance.”

He nodded to Krantu, who roughly pulled the Inspector to his feet, other soldiers entering and dragging the rest of Ivanov’s team away, after disarming and roughly searching them.

“Lock them in the cells on the pinnace,” he ordered Krantu, “I want no contact between them and the rest of the transport’s crew. Not for the present anyway.”

Krantu turned away, his silence signifying his acceptance, his large hand firmly gripping the Inspector by the hair.

“You’ll be sorry!” screamed Ivanov as he was bundled out of the office.

Grinning at James, Walters spoke, “I already am, my dear Inspector!”

*

Stiv Viker was feeling lost, lonely and pretty awful. Last night’s party had somehow managed to continue over until this morning, at least that was what his body was telling him. He felt like somebody was trying to pound their way out of his head, his mouth dry and furry, his lungs still choked with smoke and he certainly wasn’t open to conversation.

Not that there was much small talk in his platoon, everyone would rather kill themselves than upset Corporal Johns. He was one of the older soldiers, found somewhere by the Colonel and readily accepted by the rest of their strange leader’s unit.

It had struck Viker, the same as many of the other new recruits, that there was a sameness to the older men. A shape of body; muscles seemed to burst from new tunics, shaggy hair; which seemed to cover every part of their bodies, and those eyes. Like the Colonel they each had piercing green eyes, whose depths seemed to promise raw, animalistic anger.

Shivering, he turned to his bunkmate, Alana and prodded her with a grimy finger, “How you feeling?” he asked as quietly as he could, although it still sounded like a roar to his pained skull.

“Leave me alone!” she snapped, then groaned as she was roughly tossed out of her bunk, by the passing Corporal.

“Up and at ‘em!” roared Johns, a wide grin splitting his face.

“What?” replied a befuddled Alana.

“Leftenant Krantu has a job for us,” he said cheerfully, “and you know better than to keep him waiting!”

As one the recruits moaned in dejection, if there was one person more terrifying than Johns, it was the big Leftenant; he didn’t even look human!

*

Inspector Ivanov was apoplectic with rage, he had never been treated this way by any Church officer. They knew their place in the scheme of things and had always been terrified of what the snivelly little man could do to them.

This Colonel Walters though, he showed a disdain for the badge and rank Ivanov carried, there was none of the requisite fear, rather an all powerful belief in his own right to command. It all smelled of heresy to the Inspector and in his cell he delighted himself with the thought of what he would do to the Colonel when he got out.

The clanging of the cell door brought him back to reality, and he shrank back against the rear wall at the sight of the hulking Leftenant. Behind the man stood a group of curious soldiers, delight at the predicament of the Inspector written plainly upon their faces.

“Arrest him!” screamed Ivanov, pointing at Krantu, “I command you!”

No-one moved a muscle. Instead they looked at the Leftenant as he began first to chuckle and then roar with laughter.

Finally he stopped his unseemly behaviour and pointed at the Inspector, “This,” he said flatly, “is your first lesson. The only person you owe your unquestioning loyalty to is Colonel Walters. You can see his benevolence and thought for you. This Inspector and the rest of his breed will rot here in this cell unless they are converted to our way of belief. Any who feel the same as this scum will join him here, praying for release from his God.”

There was absolute silence, except for the mutters of heresy from the cowering Inspector. Then, Viker’s tremulous voice was heard, “His God, sir?”

“Ah, yes,” responded Krantu, his eyes flashing, “that would be lesson number Two!”

Outer System
Charsu
Second Church Protectorate

A straining of fold space announced the vessel’s arrival, it burst into normal space in full view of the Tauran ships. There was a poised danger about the strange three-masted alien craft; the Galleon had arrived.

One cold transmission was heard, “We warned you!”, and then with no further communication, gun ports slammed open, rapidly followed by a broadside of plasma which tore through the two lead Tauran vessels.

Two more ships appeared, their design that of more familiar Church origin, but they only sat waiting. Desperately the Tauran Commander tried to bargain with his attackers, against whose shields his plasma and rail guns had zero effect.

It was in vain; the Galleon ruthlessly destroyed vessel after vessel, each broadside smashing through ineffective shields and vaporising metal instantly.

When there was nothing left except space dust, a broad band transmission was beamed down to the planet.

“This is the Lost Company, we apparently were not clear enough for your liking. Please receive these gifts on behalf of our Lord. Perhaps others will learn from this lesson and respect the sovereignty of our protected worlds in future.”

The cold voice disappeared, never to be heard by anyone living on the Tauran planet. Objects spat from each of the three vessels, their flight programmed to perfection. They cut into the planet’s atmosphere and screamed down towards their carefully selected targets. Shortly afterwards, small extremely bright suns began to burn in each of the world’s major cities.

Without another word, the three ships once more jumped into anonymity of fold space..

Sudden Dearth Book II - A GUIDING LIGHT

Seven sources of power, demons, unknown heroes and an all-powerful religion clash in a titanic struggle.

Men have become beasts. Some by choice and others by an unknown design. A galaxy-spanning battle has begun and not all yet know their part.

The Fortress has been reduced to rubble, the Taurans swept aside and the snarling K'ran's head banner flies in secret pride. A strange signal is received, a vast Tauran Fleet assembled and Walters and his men must again stand against both religious intolerance and Dark Magic. An unknown power calls to them all in a deadly race against time.