Chapter 13

Outside Approaches
The Fortress

“Looks weird,” grunted Berbatov, squinting in order to avoid the sunlight, as it shone directly into his eyes.

“I couldn’t have expressed it better myself, Sargeant,” said Walters as he gazed pensively at the open gates, from their vantage point.

“We could just walk in, casual like, of course, “commented the Sargeant, his hand flexing on the shaft of his halberd, “and see what was there?”

“No …… I think that in this case, we’ll approach the problem a little differently to normal,” replied the Major, “It’s hard to explain, but something just doesn’t feel quite right.”

“The lack of laser fire, screaming Taurans or semi-insane monsters, perhaps?” added James, joining in the conversation.

“That, obviously, but I get a feeling …” mused Walters.

“Look, Sir,” James was pointing at a group of Taurans who were marching in single file towards the entrance, at first everything appeared normal. They stopped, waited as if listening, and then proceeded on their way. This time, however their steps were forced, jerky, and resistant.

“Can you not hear it, W’ratr?” hissed K’san

Walters concentrated and heard a faint refrain, distant yet enticing. He shook off the compulsion easily, as it appeared had the K’ran and watched, as the Taurans disappeared inside the Fortress.



Geostationary Orbit
Church Fleet


Inquisitor Artix studied the data once more and frowned, nothing really made much sense. He had combed through many archives and reports, yet the true meaning of the Fortress still eluded him.

Although he was here under the auspices of the Inspectorate, this was more of his own pet project. Neither the forces accompanying him nor the hierarchy of his own Order, really had all the facts.

Sighing, he rearranged the information and began again, the key was here somewhere and he needed to find it, urgently.



Field Headquarters
Church Command

“So they are retreating?” asked General Hamner, waiting for Wolfe’s response.

“I am not sure we should really qualify it as that in the true sense of the word,” replied Wolfe. “All that we are really sure of is that the main body of the Tauran Forces are leaving the immediate vicinity of our objective. Before long, they will make contact with our advance units.”

“Why would they move in our direction? Our reports from Arnesson, talk of the disengagement of Walters and his forces who remain in the vicinity of the Fortress still. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

Wolfe moved around the table as he spoke, pacing nervously.

“Oh, I think it makes a lot of sense,” said Hamner arrogantly, “I have said all along that Walters is one with them, he and his men have been clearly tainted. They have stayed to pay homage to their new leaders and guard the area.”

“Why then were they fighting?” asked Wolfe sarcastically, “because it seemed like a good thing to at the time?”

“My dear Wolfe,” responded Hamner, condescendingly, “we know well that these degenerates are always warring amongst themselves. That’s nothing new.”

“And what,” queried Wolfe, “exactly do you suggest that we do?”

“We should do exactly what the Inspector asked of us. Particularly, we must commit our main forces against the Tauran incursion and drive them back. We have sufficient resources available to deal with them directly.”

“And Walters? What of him?” questioned General Wolfe.

“We can take care of him easily enough once we have dealt with the main threat,” and here Hamner paused, “And if, by some outside chance, we are delayed, I am sure our friend the Inspector and his allies, will have no trouble dealing with such rabble.”



Outside Approaches
The Fortress


The main body of his troops remained positioned outside the walls, as Walters and his small group of followers made their way towards the entrance. The imposing stone walls of the Fortress reared skywards, the sheer scope of their expanse intimidating.

He had decided to take only a select few with him, as he was wary of what might be waiting inside for them. Walters had tried to dissuade Berbatov from joining him, but the big man had been strangely insistent. It had been agreed that at the first sign of anything strange, they would beat a hasty retreat. Although Leftenant Wilson by seniority had every right to command the human part of his followers, Walters had spent a long time explaining to him the necessity of listening to Sargeant James’ ‘advice’. The K’ran remained under the leadership of K’ranwon, K’rantu refusing to be left behind.

Therefore it was a strange party that passed through the gates, Walters, Berbatov and his section, K’san, K’rantu and those charged with the role of Walters’ bodyguard.



Lord’s Temple
The Fortress


Tendrils of smoke rose from the hole underneath the altar; as if sentient it reacted to the life forces entering the web it had carefully spun. A dark viscous fluid bubbled slowly into the room, hardening on contact with the cold stone surface. The eerily flickering light strengthened and began to pulse, slowly and in time to the music, which once more began to weave its subtle spell. Spreading outwards, all pervading, its tentacles of sound groped blindly for its prey.



Outside Approaches
The Fortress


Walters knew when the music started; he felt the push against his consciousness and glanced quickly at his companions. They seemed unaffected; the K’ran had pricked their ears, become more aware, watchful and eager. Berbatov laughed and gripped his halberd tightly, the weapon once more exhibiting the discharge of energy from its blade. The members of his section looked to the Sargeant, glanced at Walters and then seemingly reassured, continued on.

He had noticed the difference in these men too; his transformation in some way had affected them, made them stronger. Their features had changed, become more angular and distinct. They held themselves differently too, their gait lithe, like that of the K’ran.

Without real thought he pushed back dismissively against the pressure in his mind, his disdainful slap causing it to start backwards, if only for a moment. It came back, insistently probing for any weakness in his defences. With a snarl, his eyes flashing, he shrugged it off and strode forwards, entering the inner courtyard determinedly.


Church Attack
Lower Approaches


The Church forces struck like a hammer blow against the chaotic disorder of the Taurans. No mercy was asked for and none given. Church Guard emptied power cell after power cell into the screaming hordes, artillery fired indiscriminately heedless of individual targets, yet on they came.

General Wolfe had chosen to lead his men; he had come to the painful realisation that, whatever the Inspector’s plan was, his duty was to the Prelate and the Church first. That duty, when all was said and done, was to destroy any spread of Tauran influence, in whatever form. There was no better place, right now, than here.

He screamed with them, emptied his pistol alongside them and cursed just like them in despair as the Taurans attacked relentlessly. It seemed as though, rather than attack the Guard, they wanted to cut their way through him, to escape. Their desperation was unbelievable, the mortally wounded would use their teeth and nails, drag themselves forward on bloodied stumps and only the final shot of release would halt them.

Gradually the Church Forces gave ground, little by little and at great cost, yet they gave ground. Wolfe called for the communications operator to get Hamner for him. There was absolutely no way they would reach the Fortress at this rate, he needed Hamner to inform the Inspector of their failure, and now.



Geostationary Orbit
Church Fleet

Within the Assault Carrier, Inspector Artix received Hamner’s transmission and was unconcerned. It had never been his intention to use the Church forces in anything other than a feint. A distraction in order to clear the field for him.

Again he heard how this Walters and his men had taken occupancy of the terrain surrounding the Fortress and he smiled. It was quite appalling the extent to which Hamner would go to justify his inadequacy, a jumped up Leftenant was being touted as his greatest foe. Ridiculous in the extreme.

Affectionately he watched as his troops finished their preparation, ready for the forthcoming assault. Actually, they would take offence at being called ‘his’ troops, they served only one master, and oh how they served. Very soon he would lead them down and no opposition would stand in their way, of that he was certain.



Upper Levels
The Fortress

Level after level they descended, ever deeper into the bowels of the beast. For that now is what Walters knew it to be, some kind of animal force which both attracted and repelled him. His men huddled closely to him, the now stentorian music resounding all around them.

The K’ran had started a low growling and one by one the others joined in, it was a natural response, the challenge of the pack. Louder came each refrain and louder their defiance followed, step after step, floor after floor.



Field Headquarters
Church Command


Hamner had begun to panic, he had tried convincing Captain Arnesson to send a shuttle to pick him up, but Artix had left a clear standing order. No-one was to leave the planet until his mission had been concluded.

Pleading did not work, threats were useless, political connections irrelevant. It was then that Hamner really began to worry, for the first time.


Lord’s Temple
The Fortress


Unannounced the onslaught of sound ceased; no noise sallied forth from the now yawning cavity. The light continued to pulse weakly and intermittently.

Walls and floor were covered in the hardened black shell, whose surface was slick and shiny. Abruptly, the temperature began to drop rapidly, a frost-filled mist forming as if by magic around the entrance of the hole.

Blackness trembled, writhed and staggered forth into the room from the depths therein. Weirdly amorphous, the newly formed beings struggled into existence and cried piteously. As they solidified, they stood erect, a parody of body parts in their being. One by one they moved out of the room and moved to obey their undeniable impulse; to kill.

*

K’san howled, the call to battle accepted by all swiftly after. Yet they waited, Walters stood silently, sniffing the surrounding air. They again felt the influx of power, the supercharged quality of the air. His form coalesced into the mixture of man and beast, this time, however, the beast took precedent.

Walters flung back his head and roared, no howl this time, but the bellow of an undeniable challenge.

Chapter Twelve

Lord’s Temple
The Fortress

The altar room was silent; no moans of pain, gleeful sacrifices or chanting priests. Yet there was a still an atmosphere, charged with deadly intent, latent yet potent, like the calm before a storm. Dried and blackened blood coated the altar stone, semi-rigid flakes curled into a myriad of patterns.

A low sonorous rumbling began, the flakes moving as in a gentle dance whose tempo was soft and stately. Then, as though caught in a weak magnetic field they aligned themselves, tracing the stylised rune etched on the slab’s surface. This time there was no pinpoint of light, no whirling shapes, instead without warning the slab cracked neatly, the hairline fissure a perfectly straight line.
Small stone particles bounced merrily as the noise increased and with a final explosive snap, the altar split in two. Each half falling inwards and revealing a deep, dark cavity below.

A single bass note could be heard, so low it was almost inaudible. Again it came, the pitch varying slightly. Now there were two notes then three, then more. A strange melody filled the air, seductive in its simplicity.

*

There were a small number of priests who had remained within the Fortress and it was they who first felt the inexplicable desire. It was as though a tantalising smell wafted before them, teasing them with its mystery. They were drawn step by step, down to the lower levels where rested the altar stone. Glassy-eyed they ignored all attempts to communicate with them, and from the moment they answered the enigmatic call, they were doomed.

One by one they came, and the strange siren call filled their minds. They paced slowly towards the altar and entered the blackness beneath. Their unknowing feet found small steps, leading ever downwards and on they marched. To anyone watching, the scene would have appeared surreal, their bodies jerking as though pulled by a fine cord. Each step was preceded by a pause, then a stumble, as the line was reeled in.

As the last of them took the first fatal step into the maw of darkness, the screaming began. It was a long, terrible sound, of pain and suffering beyond measure. Yet none faltered, none wavered, on they went, blissfully unaware of their fate.

When the last indescribable tone faded away, there was only silence. Then a single bass note rang out……..



Field Headquarters
Church Command

“Ah, this is so much better,” said the Inspector who sat comfortably in General Wolfe’s chair, a glass of brandy in one hand and a half-empty bottle in the other.

“Please gentlemen, do sit down,” here he indicated the hastily arranged folding chairs.

The two men glared at each other, but neither wished to risk Artix’s anger.

“Why is he here,” asked Wolfe, pointing at the dishevelled form, slumped into the second chair.

“Hmm. I asked General Hamner to join us, because, strictly speaking, both of you are as much to blame.” responded Artix.

“I resent that remark,” gruffed Wolfe.

“I really don’t care what you think, my dear General,” interrupted the Inspector acidly, “here, only one opinion counts, and that I am afraid is mine.”

He took a small sip of the liquor, rolling the fiery liquid on his palate, before swallowing. Placing the bottle on the nearby table, he leaned forward in his chair, lowering his voice to a near whisper.

“This, and believe this when I say it, is a very delicate situation, it could mean the summary execution of both you.” and smiling at the shocked looks upon their faces, he continued, “Not that I recommended such a course of action. I in fact cautioned a more, shall we say, patient and understanding approach.”
With that he leaned back, picked up the bottle and refilled his glass.

Glancing at Hamner, Wolfe spoke, “What is it exactly that we are supposed to have done? I came here to relieve this incompetent of his duty. To try and salvage some order out of this fool’s mess.”

Artix laughed ironically and shook his head, “A most unfortunate choice of words, most unfortunate:”

Wolfe gulped, his face reddening and tried again, “Things here were completely out of control. We were killing our own troops and the Tauran forces, unknown in their intent, were running amok.”

“And things have changed ….?” injected Hamner, with a sneer on his face.
Wolfe jumped up, his chair thrown backward by the force of his anger, “How dare …”

“Sit down.”

The words were spoken in a soft, yet unmistakably icy tone.

Wolfe hastily picked up his seat from where it lay and quickly sat back into it.

“Where was I?” said the Inspector, “Oh, yes. So, I argued for a different approach, that of you working together to resolve this situation.”

“There is absolutely no way I will work with this fool!” snapped Wolfe, instantly forgetting, the last few moments in his rage.

“Nor I with him!” spat Hamner.

“This,” continued Artix in a calm, impersonal voice, “is most regrettable. I have already indicated that you have no choice, however, you continue to insist on this idiotic behaviour. Let me spell it out for you both; you leave this room in one of two ways. Either, as part of a team dedicated to the Church’s cause, whose sole aim is to wipe out all trace of the Tauran’s from this planet. Or ……..”

“Very well,” muttered General Wolfe, after only a slight pause. Hamner nodded in agreement and waited for the Inspector to speak.

“It seems that a number of people made a tiny mistake, with respect to this world. Not that I’m one to criticise, you understand, but if I have been consulted previously, we just might have been able to avoid all these misunderstandings.”

“What exactly do you mean?” asked Wolfe quizzically.

“We, and I speak here in general of the Inspectorate, are tasked with certain studies, sometimes a little bit out of the ordinary. In one particular instance we have been gathering information for some time now, which points to the existence of an anomaly. No let me explain, I’m just getting into the swing of it.”

General Hamner stopped in mid breath and gulped back his question.

“Thank you. It seems that there are references to a particular place in a number of outlawed texts. Some call it the Fortress, ah I can see that I have your attention now. There are many other names for this place, difficult to translate you know, but all speak of it as important. A repository shall we say, for an artefact whose very nature intrigues me, or rather should I say us.

“The Tauran forces on this planet, seem to have been here for an entirely different reason, one perhaps we will never truly know nor understand. What I do know, is that we need to make sure that the Fortress is in the hands of the Church. We need to do that quickly and by that I mean yesterday.”

Wolfe carefully phrased his question, “What exactly is this artefact and what does it do?”

“You really don’t want me to answer that do you?” replied Artix, “The Inspectorate has a penchant for guarding its secrets, in the name of the Church of course. Too much information could possibly in this case be a very bad thing. Trust me.”

General Wolfe looked into the cold, dark eyes of the Inspector and shuddered.
Unexpectedly, Hamner came to his aid, “In that case what would you like us to do?”

“That,” said Artix cheerfully, “is quite simple, gentlemen. I want you to expend whatever force is necessary in occupying the Taurans. Keeping them busy, killing them, you know. Whilst my special assistants and myself take care of our business.”

“I ….. think we understand, Inspector,” agreed Wolfe.

“Well,” and here the Inspector’s voice changed, becoming cold and deadly, “let me spell it out for you, clearly and concisely. You will commit one hundred per cent of your resources in the annihilation of all enemy forces on this planet. If this requires you to sacrifice every last one of your personnel, in order to allow me the time I need, you will do so.

“And to make myself crystal clear. Right now, the only two people who have a seat booked on my shuttle out of here, are you two gentlemen. It’s a small craft and I would imagine it would be difficult to fit in any more.”

Both sat quietly for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

“Good,” the Inspector’s tone was once again normal, “then I won’t keep you gentlemen any longer.”

With that they both left the room, closing the door quietly behind them.

*

Inspector Artix watched the door close and looked wistfully at the nearly empty bottle. He knew the two Generals were incapable of working together, but he was not really all that concerned. Their roles in this were minor, the more of their men that were taken care of now, the better.

Of course, he grinned to himself, there were no seats available for them either.

*

On leaving the room, General Wolfe turned his back on Hamner and made his way in the opposite direction. He needed some time on his own.

Originally, he had arrived here with the intention of saving his men, but gradually had been forced to change his opinion of the situation, on the ground. Not many men had accused him of being foolish in his time, but right now, he realised that they had a right to do so. His infatuation with the destruction of Walters had blinded him to the real threat and had brought him to this unpalatable choice.

Similarly, he was under no illusion as to the outcome of this mission. There would be no escape either for him, or any of the many Church Forces on this planet. Whatever it was that Artix was looking for, no-one outside of his confidants would be allowed to speak of it. Of that he was sure.

*

Hamner watched Wolfe stride away, sneering at his vanishing figure. He was not stupid, irrespective of whether the Inspector thought so or not. He would carry out his orders, and ensure that there was only one person on the last shuttle out of here. Him.

It was obvious that this was a test and he needed to impress the Inspector. If they were successful, he knew that reports could be rewritten and his career would once again be in the ascendancy.

*

Artix climbed back into the shuttle, gazing wistfully one last time at the flurry of activity all around him. It always brought a tear of pride to his eye, this show of the Church’s strength. Such a shame that their participation would end so badly for them.

The jerk as the craft lifted off brought him back to reality. There was only one real variable in this situation, or so it appeared to him at that moment, and that was whether the two Generals were capable of keeping the enemy busy. The Inspector had read the reports on Walters and his rag-tag army and dismissed them. They would be just one more helpful distraction.



Lord’s Temple
The Fortress

An eerie silence pervaded the Fortress, its gates hung slackly open whilst the battle raged outside.

There was an absence of life here, even that deformed version which had belonged to the Lord. The last war machine stood idle, its turrets pointing haphazardly into the sky. Abandoned weapons, discarded armour, clothing and supplies littered the ground.

Beasts, men and K’ran fought and died on the battle field. Slowly, the Taurans retreated, unable to withstand the onslaught led by Walters. Without the Lord, their cohesion was broken. There was no fear to bind them, no blood to joyously spill.
Inside the altar room, the music had ceased, and instead, a chill green light pulsed spasmodically from beneath the broken altar.

Chapter Eleven

Battle Plain
The Fortress

Berbatov was truly in his element for the first time in his life; he was wading through a river of blood, chopping and hacking as he moved upstream. His halberd felt lighter than air, imbued with a divine power. He stroked the blade through opponents; kissed them with its edge and caressed them with its staff. No longer did he need brute force to cleave, slice or smash, but the power remained.

Time seemed to slow and he wondered at the stream of light that seemed to follow the blade’s trajectory, marvelled at the speed of its movement and gloried in the simplicity of its result.

The violent noise of the conflict dragged him back to the present; the screams of pain, pleas for mercy, the meaty contact of metal against flesh, and the concussion of exploding munitions. His sections stood by him, revelling in their work and screaming their battle cry in time with each blow, each cut and thrust; ‘W-aaal-ters! W-aal-ters!’

The Sargeant smiled, even when the Major wasn’t trying, he was winning. The men loved him, they swore by his name, and before much longer they would be no doubt praying to him. Not bad for a scam to get off planet. That, however, was an eternity ago. There was no more need to lie, no more need to run or hide.

He had seen the Major begin to die, had cried over his broken body and rejoiced at his unexpected return. Now he would do what he did best, he would kill for him, no questions, no remorse. Where Walters walked he too would follow.

*

Walters was close, he could smell the stench of emptied bowels mixed with fresh blood. He could hear the chants and barbaric rituals, and the screech of turning wheels. His body reacted to the presence of that whose possession had burnt him, had scarred him, and ultimately birthed him.

Then he was clear the press of the surrounding bodies and stood face to face with The Lord. The mutated K’ran strained to reach him, snarling and slavering. He jumped up, punching downwards onto the top of the lead beast’s skull, shattering the bone and driving it into the earth. Moving quickly he snapped the reins holding it to the chariot and looped them around the second beast’s neck. Still holding the leather in his hands he vaulted over its head, forcing its neck backwards at an impossible angle, literally shredding its throat with the rapid tightening of the hastily formed noose. There was a crack, then it too slumped to the floor. The other beasts cowered away from him as he stalked towards them, the K’ran within them recognising the dominance exhibited.

The Major stopped beside the now gently swaying body of the vehicle and stared unblinkingly at the thing within.

“And who or what exactly are you?” asked the Lord as he unwound the ends of the reins from his waist. “You have caused me a great deal of trouble in organising this meeting.”

“Well, I’m here now,” returned Walters, smiling, “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Ah, humour. Not really the most appropriate of times,” he said as he climbed down to stand in front of Walters.

And for the first time Walters truly saw the monster he faced. It stood a head and a half taller than him, and half again as wide. Its lower half was dressed in what seemed to be a parody of a Church Guardsman, regulation boots and all. That was where the resemblance ended.

Its upper torso was covered in long thin strips of flesh, each wound bandage-fashion one on top of another. Only the head was uncovered. Its bald pate was criss-crossed in strange patterns of scarring, its mouth wide and filled with dagger like teeth. The eyes were reptilian, a sick yellow colour.

In one hand it held a serrated double-bladed sword, and in the other a long whip, whose end trailed idly on the floor.

Arrogantly the Lord waited and then laughingly taunted Walters, “I can taste the corruption within you, why do you fight me? You should bow down before me, join me in the purging of this unimportant world.”

“My apologies,” replied Walters, “but I must disappoint you. You see, I have an authority problem, bowing down before anyone, just isn’t me. As to corruption, well I guess that ‘s relative.”

“It is my opinion that …” began The Lord, but was cut short by Walters who waved his hand in dismissal.

“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. But thanks anyway,” the last comment ended abruptly as the whip hissed towards the Major’s head. He didn’t move quite quickly enough and the tip caught the side of his face, splitting the skin of his cheek.

“You really shouldn’t have done that, “he growled menacingly, “You really shouldn’t…”


Walters bounded forward, spinning in the air to avoid the returning whip and kicked out, his boot smacking firmly into the beast’s head and staggering it. He landed, quickly turning to face The Lord and struck again. He was inside the Lord’s defences and he pitilessly maintained his offensive. His blows struck one after another, in a frightening tattoo of sound. Chest, head and torso were pummelled, bones cracked and vile blood fountained.

With a superhuman effort, the Lord responded, the pommel of his sword punching into Walters face and gaining him some respite. He dropped the whip and gripped the weapon firmly in two hands.

Spitting blood to one side, he spoke, “If that was all that you have W’ratr, it is not enough.”

His eyes gleamed and the air around his blade shuddered, the edges beginning to smoke darkly.

“Did I upset you?” asked Walters and then when there was no reply, “Ooh, the silent treatment …scary.”

The blade whistled towards Walters’ head, the intention obvious. If it had achieved his purpose, he would no doubt have been split in too. However, he hadn’t waited for the impact of the blow, he had moved. And with such speed, his hand blocking the downward stroke in mid-flight and turning it, so the blade crashed into the floor. He used the momentum of the block, to continue his turn and hammered his elbow into the back of the Lord’s neck.

Pivoting slightly he curled his forearm across the beast’s throat and looped his other arm underneath, locking its sword arm in place. Flexing his muscles he heaved it upright. The opposing pressure he exerted held the Lord in place, and slowly, inexorably he increased it.

The Lord struggled, but there was no escape. He was pinioned across Walters’ back, his elbow joint rigid, his throat being slowly crushed. As a last resort he called for his Master and felt the response.


Walters was conscious of the moment of change, of the power flowing through The Lord’s body and was unconcerned. Deep within him there was a reserve of untapped power on which he now began to draw. He heard, as if from afar, his name being chanted as his men killed and he swelled in response. The K’ran ripped through their enemies for him, their teeth and claws drinking deeply the essence of their foes, and he grew with each strike, each death.

Ligaments tore free from The Lord’s shoulder joint, but there was no relief. Walters whipped round, releasing his hold, his hands held spear-like, pierced muscle and burrowed deep into his enemy’s chest. He held The Lord close, almost like a lover, his arms wrapped around him and whispered caressingly in his ear.

“Your first mistake was in sending another to do your bidding, his death made me stronger. The second mistake was arrogance, to think that your master made you invulnerable, untouchable. Finally the third and last mistake was ignorance, you do not know of that against which you have pitted yourself … and you never will.”

Walters’ hands, still buried in The Lord’s flesh closed around bone and he pulled. Not with an almighty force, but beginning gently and increasing without haste. Muscles ripped, cartilage parted, flesh yielded and smiling he tore his enemy’s chest in two.

Walters dropped the still quivering body to the floor; its vile blood could no longer hurt him. He saw the sword on the ground, close to where it had fallen and stooped to retrieve it. As he grasped the hilt, the smoke still clinging to it died and instead the blade glowed dully in his grasp.

He did not look back as he walked towards The Fortress, the weapon rising and falling as he cleared the way before him.

*

With the end of The Lord, the Tauran Forces began to fold before Walters advance. On one side, led by K’san, the K’ran had collapsed one wing of the attack upon itself. Berbatov and his men butchered their way after Walters, their advance more terrifying because of the laughter and joy with which they did their job.

Sargeant James was in trouble, one of the Tauran’s war machines had him pinned down and his men were being slowly annihilated. He heard the tortured screeching of metal against metal, a triumphant shout and a resounding crash. Breathing deeply and his pistol clasped closely in his hand he peered out from his hiding place.

The war machine lay on its side, its telescopic metal legs sheared clean through. Berbatov’s men were busy with the dragging out its occupants and their extinction.

A gentle cough to his right, brought him spinning round, ready to fire. There stood a grinning Walters, Berbatov by his side.

“Do please keep up, Sargeant. We really would hate to leave you behind.”



Field Headquarters
Church Command

“But, you’re not who I was expecting …” said General Wolfe, as the man slowly walked down the ramp. “Where are….”

“Yes, yes, General,” responded the casually dressed individual, “I know who you were expecting. Don’t worry, they’ll be along shortly.”

“Who are you?” the General demanded.

“Inspector Artix,” relied the man jovially, putting his arm around the General’s shoulder in a brotherly fashion and squeezing gently. “I thought you and I could have a little chat first.”

“What about...? What are you doing here?” asked the General uneasily.

“All in good time, my dear General, all in good time,” responded the Inspector, steering the General away from the landing ramp, “Let’s go to your office, where it’s just a little bit quieter, shall we?”

Chapter Ten

Main Courtyard
The Fortress

Banners arched through the sky. Their tattered tails of flayed skin, whirring in an unholy cadence, as they fell once more towards the misshapen hands of their owners. Symbols clashed, pinpointing a dissonant chorus of maddening sound, as the Tauran forces prepared for war.

High atop the battlements of The Fortress, the Lord avidly drank in the excess below him. The self-flagellation of the fervent, the mutilation of the unworthy; all was pleasing to his eye.

Waiting for him below was his war chariot, the still living bodies of the newly sacrificed, nailed to its sides. Their bloody bodies hanging limply, jerked into occasional animation by the prodding of the priests’ sharpened staffs.

Hideously deformed K’ran sat in the chariot’s traces, jaws snapping at any unfortunate who ventured too closely. Their enraged madness, mimicking the seething mass outside the walls.

A shout caught the Lord’s attention, there outlined starkly against the brow of the hill were the pitiful few who thought to challenge him. At their head he saw a cluster of shapes surrounding what must be their leader. He squinted, as the very side of the hill seemed to waver, to blur in and out of focus. An undulating, seething, seemingly endless carpet. The K’ran!


Lower Approaches
The Fortress

Walters waited as the K’ran flowed past, each body imparting a further spark of energy to that already within him. The touch of cloth against his skin was excrutiatingly painful, as his charged body struggled to contain the increasing influx of power. It began to leak from him, the static discharge causing K’san’s fur to bristle in response and arcs of blue-white light played around the halberd in Berbatov’s hand.

Sargeant James looked back and rubbed his eyes. It was difficult to look directly at the Major, his shape had become hazy and indistinct. One moment he was there and the next his body appeared to writhe uncontrollably, causing the Sargeant’s eyes to lose focus. James blinked and his vision cleared. Major Walters was there, but interposed was a shimmering halo, whose outline followed the contours of the Major’s body, his every movement. It sparked and flashed, but no longer wavered, the shape of the beast was clear and strong.

The K’ran saw it too and they began to whine. Weakly at first, but gaining in intensity, until it was a joyous howl.

Walters had never imagined that he could experience something this intense, this invigorating. He drew in a deep breath and felt the material across his back tear. Impatiently he tossed the remains of his greatcoat away, his tunic following closely after, and stood bare-chested, thrilling to the touch of the light wind playing across his skin.

A pressure built within him, unstoppable in its intensity and he flung back his head and screamed his defiance. The K’ran, his men, all of them, joined him and the cry rang clearly across to the Fortress below and the thousands upon thousands of enemy soldiers in their massed and capering ranks……. And they trembled, they feared.

At a slow, funereal pace, Walters marched down the hillside. All around him, his forces kept to his measured step. They followed him willingly, lovingly, to battle, and on to death if necessary.



Geostationary Orbit
Church Fleet


Alarms shrilled stridently, and the Executive Officer rushed to Captain Arnesson’s side.

“Sir, we have multiple vessel signatures, at least three.” reported the Officer crisply.

“Ah, that would be the General’s surprise gift, I believe,” responded, the Captain reassuringly.

“Incoming transmission Sir, from ……”

“Yes, yes. I know who its from.” interrupted the Captain. “Patch me through to General Wolfe.”



Lower Approaches
The Fortress


The first rounds from the Taurans punched into Walters forces, but they neither changed formation, nor direction. Inexorably they advanced, returning laser fire calmly and methodically. Walters paused for a moment and then began to run, gathering speed and momentum. The K’ran loped alongside him, matching him stride for stride. They hit the front ranks as one, but Walters’ entrance amongst the enemy was devastating.

The sword hung unused by his side, the pistol forgotten, as he swung his arms. Vast, gaping rents appeared in the flesh of those who faced him, as though slashed by gigantic claws. Yet, he carried no weapon. One heavily armoured monstrosity swung a great, double-bladed sword towards him and he effortlessly sidestepped the attack. Walters grasped the horned helm in one hand, holding the creature in place and stabbed his other hand forward. His curled fingers hooked into the beast’s breastplate, cleaving through the blood-red armour as though it didn’t exist.

Onward they travelled into the chest cavity, bones snapping beneath the implacable advance. His hand gripped the creature’s still-beating heart and in one swift movement, he raised the squealing monster up high into the air. Taking one step back, he slammed his other fist into its head, the force propelling the thing backwards, smashing through the Taurans before him, the steaming organ still grasped firmly between his fingers.

Walters lifted the heart towards his mouth, he sniffed it once and then threw it away disdainfully.

“Onwards!” he screamed, springing forward once more.

*



The whip snapped forwards, its barbed length tearing skin and fur from the lead beast. Time and again it lashed out and the chariot gathered momentum. The Lord brandished his sword in one hand, the whip in the other, needing no reins to control the vehicle. His animals cleared the path through his followers, their snapping jaws indiscriminate as to target.

The bodies swayed rhythmically in time with the chariot’s motion, banging and slapping against its sides as it picked up speed. The Lord had dropped his whip and stood, his weight evenly balanced, as he came closer to front of the battle. He raised one hand and dropped it sharply and in answer heavy guns roared from the battlements, their rounds falling indiscriminately amongst friend and foe. Smashed bodies were hurled high into the air, cartwheeling gruesomely before crashing again to earth. Engines snarled, smoke billowed and his machines of destruction rolled ponderously from the Fortress’ open gates.

On the battlefield Walters paused, one foot on the throat of his latest victim. He pressed down, crushing breath and life out of the squirming thing beneath him. To his left Berbatov drove the point of his halberd into a Tauran’s chest, twisted the blade and withdrew it. The man collapsed backwards and the Sargeant turned to look at Walters. The Major’s eyes were now a blazing green fire, yet he still smiled at the Sargeant.

“Wait here,” said Walters, even his voice had changed, each word carrying a growled undertone. With that, he bunched his muscles and sprang high above the crowd, clearing at least five rows of troops before coming to earth. He smashed through them without stopping, striking in a blur, and each blow tore a massive hole in their lines. The K’ran surged behind him, ripping a ravening path of destruction.



Geostationary Orbit
Church Fleet


Captain Arnesson waited patiently for the arrival of his guests; their leader had asked formally to meet him, to be appraised of the situation on the ground below. It was really a courtesy visit, already the Attack Cruiser was finalising its preparations for the deployment of its cargo. They had wasted little time in niceties, demanding full cooperation.

He heard the sound of booted feet and the metallic clang as something struck the side of the door.

“Captain,” announced his Executive Officer, “May I present …..”

“He knows who we are,” rumbled a gargantuan voice, “Now where are the Tauran scum…?”



Battle Plain
The Fortress


Sargeant James was amazed at the brutal disregard of the enemy forces for their own, armoured vehicles crushed their way through, tracks churning through man and beast alike. Rounds flashed through those too slow, too dumb, or too engrossed to get out of the way. This eagerness was aiding the Sargeant; taking a terrible toll on the Tauran Forces and allowing him time to direct his men.

He had for the moment lost sight of the Major, but having his own pressing matters to deal with, he was unconcerned. At his side, one of the troopers dropped to the ground, unlimbering his weapon.

There was something different about him, about all of them today. His movements were sure, unhurried. He took time to sway away from the downward swipe of a blade, drawing his combat knife in a fluid motion and stabbing into the eye of the man above him. Calmly he cleaned it on his trousers, re-sheathed the weapon and continued in his preparations.


Field Headquarters
Church Command


General Wolfe waited on the landing platform in eager anticipation. The area was a hive of activity, as troops were marched into transports and armour was loaded. The comfortingly shrill tones of the Inspectors rang out, followed by the occasional sound of a pistol discharging. This was how it should be, this was order.

High above, he heard the roar of approaching engines and congratulated himself. His plan had worked. Walters had been fooled completely, by his acceptance of the ‘Major’s? promotion.

Whilst Walters had taken care of the K’ran, Wolfe had been busy. He had sent a transmission to Fleet Command, asking for assistance, specific assistance. The content of the message had helped, he had at first embellished the note but things were falling nicely in line with his report. Walters had converted Church Troops, he had joined with Tauran Forces. The only part that was not strictly true was how the General had manipulated him into destroying the K’ran. However, Walters and his followers were now engaged in a type of mutual destruction with the enemy.

If he timed this right, he could lead a victorious assault, smiting the Church’s foes in His Name. Self-contentedly, he smiled at his officers as the craft landed.

Chapter Nine

Zone of Conflict
Unnamed Planet
Tauran Disputed Zone


Turning, Walters surveyed the prostrated men and K’ran before him. How could he explain what had happened, he was still unsure, uncertain. His death had been imminent; K’shir’s blood burning him both inside and out, eating away his resistance, corroding his will to live. His only conscious thought had been to rip the thing’s throat out, tear it from this world and drag it into to the next, joining him in his pain.

Momentarily he had felt that joining, had lived temporarily alongside the mixture of K’ran and monster, whose possession had abruptly been broken, but not so his connection with K’shir. They had spiralled into darkness together, the beast within him railing at the injustice of its end, and he had fought.

Spitting and snarling he had clawed his way back, until he felt all restraint break and he had been suffused with an incredible energy and vigour. He was conscious of his heart’s beat, of the blood pounding through his veins, cleansing his body of the vile blackness. Somehow the K’ran’s blood had catalysed this reaction, changing him, and now here he stood. Still he was Major Walters, yet he was that and more. Energy flowed through and around him; he could feel his vast reserves of power, drawn in part from the adoration of his followers. And yet, there was something else.

His thoughts were interrupted by Leftenant Wilson, who nervously spoke.

“Is it you, Major?”

“Who else would it be?” said Berbatov, jovially cuffing the young officer across the back of his head.

Walters desperately tried not to break into laughter at the look on the Leftenant´s face. Wilson, obviously didn’t know whether to be affronted by Berbatov’s personal attention, or ignore the matter. The Leftenant glanced quickly at Walters and then decided that caution was the better part of valour.

“Indeed”, said Walters, breaking the moment of tension with his grin, “How can I help you?”

“W-w-well, Sir,” the Leftenant stammered, pointing at the battlefield, “What about this, Sir?

“Have you been taking lessons from Sargeant Barbatov, Leftenant?” quipped Walters.

“What are we going to do, Sir?” blurted out the Leftenant, “We’re right in the middle of a war here!”

“Not any more,” responded Walters his face darkening, and then more calmly, “Not any more.”


Geostationary Orbit
Church Fleet

Captain Arnesson stared thoughtfully into the distance, before replying. It had taken time to assimilate all of the relevant data, but now he was sure. They had stopped fighting and appeared to be waiting for something.

“Send a message to General Wolfe and appraise him of the current situation.” he said in a clipped and disciplined tone to the subaltern.

“And the General’s request, Sir?” asked the man respectfully.

“Do as he asks, although I am not quite sure that I agree with him fully” replied the Captain.

“Sir?” queried the man.

“Nothing. Nothing. Carry on, son,” and with that Arnesson returned to his musings. What was Walters up to now?



Zone of Conflict
Unnamed Planet
Tauran Disputed Zone


Walters crouched down next to the injured K’ran, its laboured breathing the result of the broken ribs, received courtesy of K’shir.

He laid his hand gently on the beast’s shoulder, “How are you, my friend?” he asked softly.

K’san responded with a muted whine, which seemed to resonate echoingly inside Walters’ head. The sound rose and fell and then returned in strength as a violent buzzing. He clasped his hands to his ears, as it became an all encompassing roar and fell to his knees. Blood started to drip through his fingers and he bent forward, his forehead touching the cool earth beneath him.

An angry growl began in his throat, rising in pitch and tempo and with it he came to his feet, eyes tightly shut and fists clenched by his side in a vain attempt to combat the piercing pain. His eyelids flashed open and again the feral green and yellow orbs gleamed for all to see. With a noise halfway between a growl and shout, he looked down on the K’ran below him who unconsciously trembled beneath his gaze.

“What have you done to me!” hissed Walters.

“My Lord!” whined K’san in despair and Walters stopped, his fist half-raised to strike the beast.

“I want ….the truth!” he half-pleaded, half-screamed.

Across the field the K’ran responded, leaping to their feet in ecstasy, their Lord had spoken, they had understood, he was looking for The Truth.

“My Lord!” K’san eagerly barked, “How?”

“I do not know.” replied Walters quietly, burying his face in his hands.

*

Berbatov glanced once towards Walters and the strange scene depicted there, then resumed cleaning his halberd. The Major continued to surprise him, now he could talk with the puppies! He spat onto the burnished metal and continued cleaning off the caked and drying blood. He knew that whatever had happened to the Major was for the best, or at least he hoped so.

They would have little time for rest, as they still had both General Wolfe and who or whatever dwelt within the Fortress to deal with. Neither of whom would be particularly happy about the charming scenes being played out here. He grabbed another, cleaner, cloth off Williamson as he passed by, sending the private scuttling away as Berbatov swung a boot in his general direction.

Whistling happily, the Sargeant continued his work. He had a feeling he would be needing his weapon soon, real soon.



Lord’s Temple
The Fortress

The Lord smiled as the last of the sacrifices were brought into the room, their squealing was most invigorating. It was quite strange how those who professed their undying devotion to his cause, tended to change their minds when asked to demonstrate it. The altar was old, older than the fortress itself. He had brought it with him, being attached to it both literally and metaphorically. It was his conduit with his master, which he rarely used, but he felt drained and in need of renewal.

He nodded to the priest who began to intone the rite, the barbaric phrases calming his Lord. As the ceremony reached a crescendo, the hunched and cowled priest reached into the first victim’s mouth, gripping his tongue firmly in his clawed hands and slashed down with the consecrated knife. There was a squeal, a spurt of blood and then the glorious moaning began. The Lord was impatient, the ritual took too long. Drawing his sword he pierced the priest’s back with a savage stab and then reversed the blade in a sweeping motion, neatly removing the man’s head. The cowl flapped open, revealing the suppurating visage beneath and he laughed.

With incredible speed he struck again and again, resulting blood from each sacrifice spraying onto the altar and running into the neatly carved design on its surface. The stone seemed to shudder in delight and a point of light appeared, rapidly growing and swirling with a myriad of colours. Sickening to the eye, he drank it in and laying full length on the now sticky surface, gazed fervently into the portal.



Field Headquarters
Church Command


General Wolfe vomited onto the floor, uncaring of the watchful faces around him. The thing that had been his spiritual link with the Church lay curled into a ball before him in his Command Room. The woman had screamed once, long and hard, then stood still, silent, as her skin began to melt. First one blister, then five, joining together in a strange and convoluted tattoo of pain, etched into her face.

There had been no sound as the blisters burst and the fluid ran down her chest, boiling away. The stench had been unsupportable and Wolfe’s stomach had rebelled. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and gazed in a horror at the mutilated body before him. In God’s name what was happening? Had he been too late?



Lord’s Temple
The Fortress


None of the priests dared to enter the altar room. Every now and then they would hear an evil cackling, closely followed by a deep bass rumble. There would be a terrible pause, a sucking, tearing sound and then it would start all over again.

Generals cowered in corners, misshapen monsters tore their own flesh from their malformed faces, yet still the priests waited. Each time they ventured close to the entrance, thinking that it was safe to do, the dreadful sounds drove them backwards.

*

Walters too was not unaffected, the hairs on the back of his neck rose in response to the unnatural summoning. His lips curled back, baring his teeth and he snarled in challenge.

His tunic seemed too small for him as his chest expanded with each shuddering breath. Then it was over, whatever had called to him was gone.

*

When they entered, the priests found The Lord splayed across the stone slab of the altar top, his body covered in blood. Not only that of the victims, but his own in equal measure. It ran from his eyes, ears and nose in deep, dark rivulets. He gabbled insanely to himself, speaking in a strange and foreign tongue.

The bravest of them touched him with the slightest of caresses and screamed, his right hand blackening and shrivelling instantly. He fell to his knees, his face a picture mirroring an undescribable agony. Transfixed on their peer’s torment, the priests did not notice that The Lord had returned to them, until the meaty thud of his feet on the cold stone reminded them.

He stood beside the altar in all his corrupt majesty and then a new sound commenced, the harsh scrape of metal against stone. It was a persistent, grating sound as he drew the serrated blade back and forth against the side of the altar. With each stroke the smile on his face broadened, and then he laughed. It was a short, dismissive laugh, and the priests laughed nervously with him. The laugh grew infectiously and one by one they howled with him in uncontrollable mirth, until they began to die. The serrated blade rose and fell, tore and rent, yet still they laughed.

Outside all trembled, and waited.


Zone of Conflict
Unnamed Planet
Tauran Disputed Zone


The rage was unbearable, all consuming and so he had climbed to the top of the hill to be alone. He felt as if he was on fire, each muscle burning with a coruscating heat. Spasms racked his body, in a continuous roiling wave as he struggled to contain the warring forces within him.

A primeval urge to destroy, bubbled upwards and he drew his blade, but this was not enough. He threw the weapon away and smashed his fist against the unyielding rock, once, twice and then again. The tempo of his strikes increased incessantly, blow after blow and that which had withstood timelessly against the elements yielded. Stone exploded outwards, smashed into the tiniest of pieces and finally he was satisfied.

Walters looked down at his hands, at the unmarred surface of his skin wonderingly. What had he truly become?

*

K’rantu lay hidden, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on his leader’s back. He had been charged with W’ratr’s protection once and had failed, he would not do so again. He had watched reverently as the rock had bent before W’ratr’s will and his heart had been filled with an almost divine joy.

Making as little sound as possible he slipped away, K’san must be told, he must bear witness.

*

It was almost dark when Sargeant Berbatov and his patrol found Major Walters. They had at first found his sword lying discarded amongst the rocks and had begun to worry.

“Good evening, Major,” Berbatov casually greeted Walters, “Wanted a bit of you time?”

Walters smiled in spite of himself and responded, “Just needed some time to think, Sargeant”.

“Ah,” said the Sargeant, “Does that take a long time or are you about finished, Sir?”

“Just about finished, Sargeant. Did you want anything in particular? Or ….”

“No, Sir,” replied Berbatov, ”We were out for a stroll and thought we’d pop by, sir. Thought you might be hungry.”

“Very well, Sargeant. Lead on,” said Walters, suddenly realising he was famished.

At that moment Sargeant James appeared, with two K’ran.

“A party, Sargeant.” Asked Walters sardonically.

“Good idea, Sir!” chuckled Berbatov.

*

Sargeant James stopped and stared at the battered rock face in shock. Cracks ran up its surface and there were two distinct holes, whose lower face was patterned in a row of evenly spaced indentations. He ran his finger over them and whistled in amazement.

He realised he was being left behind and hurried to join up with Berbatov’s party and then he grinned to himself. He must remember to remind his fellow Sargeant not to upset Major Walters, ever.

Chapter Eight

Zone of Conflict
Unnamed Planet
Tauran Disputed Zone


Walters stood on the makeshift platform Berbatov had raised, with the help of his boys, in a cleared area in front of the outpost. His men, a concept he still found hard to believe, waited patiently for him to speak. He had tried writing a speech along the lines of those he had heard from other officers, but they really did not seem to apply. In the end, he had decided to just say what he was thinking, what he felt.

Right now, though, his mouth was dry and his palms were wet. His head ached and he wanted to be anywhere else but here. Taking a deep breath, he began.

“There are those who would question our right to be here, who wish to see us fail. There are others, waiting to forcibly take not only this right, but our lives, our very souls.”

He watched them, their reaction, the shuffling of feet, the nervous glances and forced laughter and continued.

“We have lived through much in a short time; fear, betrayal, death and the loss of an ideal. But we have also found anger, courage, strength and a belief in ourselves and those by our sides.”

Walters saw the change as they straightened, nudged the men by their side and how their interest was quickened.

“Today we will need that courage more than ever as we face an enemy who will spare no-one, whose only thought is pain and chaos. Who believes in nothing but the destruction of all we have come to stand for.”

Now he saw flickers of fear in their eyes but also a stubbornness, born of adversity.

“I am proud to lead you into this battle, proud that you have honoured me with your loyalty. Strengthened, that we are together as one, and that we will let nothing stand in our way.

“When this day, this battle is over and the field lies covered with the enemy dead. We will mourn our lost comrades, but we shall also praise them. They will have given their lives in defence of not only their freedom from the repression of others, but our own.”

Walters shook with the strength of his emotion, the pride he felt in these men and resolved not to let them down, not to fail in his quest to lead them out of this situation, off this planet and away from retribution.

He forced himself to breathe more easily and smile.

“There is only one more thing I have to say, and I cannot claim credit for this. In the famous words of Sargeant Berbatov, it’s time for some fun!”

Silence greeted his words and then came the sound. Low at first, but then gathering in momentum, the roar of men and K’ran augmenting the volume as they shook their fists, raised their weapons, and shouted their defiance so that all could hear.

“……Walters …….Walters …….Walters!”

*


Sargeant James has chosen well, thought Major Walters, as he studied the battle field. Patrols had been sent to harry and concentrate the enemy here, a valley between two small hills. His men were dug-in on the hillsides, ready to pour covering fire into the flanks of the oncoming K’ran and stop them bypassing his main force.

Wilson led the troops on the left hill, James on the other, with Berbatov here by his side. Walters knew that there would be little advantage from the terrain, but it was the best he could do. This would come down to a direct confrontation between the two sides. It was going to get bloody.

The silver furred K’ran moved back to join him, Walters smiling again at this morning’s surprise. He had at last found out what Berbatov had been up to. Each of the ‘puppies’ had been fitted out with a harness of sorts and were sporting an almost jaunty green bandana. In his unassuming way, the Sargeant had again corrected a potentially fatal tactical error. Now there was absolutely no way that they could mistake their allies for their enemies.

He heard the muted crackle of laser fire in the distance and unconsciously checked that his sword and pistol were in their accustomed places. Reassured he nodded to Berbatov and they moved forward as one.



Field Headquarters
Church Command


General Wolfe read his tactical report with an almost inhuman glee. ‘Major’ Walters was engaging with the Enemy, soon it would be time.

He turned to the communications operator, “Transmit the message to Captain Arnesson.”

“But Sir!” protested the man.

“Just do it!” screamed Wolfe and the soldier turned to obey his General.



Zone of Conflict
Unnamed Planet
Tauran Disputed Zone


Walters dived sideways, avoiding the snapping teeth and fired his pistol into the K’ran’s side. He had no time to appreciate the damage the round had done, as he ducked under another’s razor sharp claws. The blow was so close it scraped the top of his head, flipping off his cap and drawing blood. Screaming in defiance he struck upwards with the sword, the blade smashing its way through teeth and bone as he wrenched it from side to side, finally emerging from the top of the beast’s skull.

There had been no respite and, as he had predicted, the battle had devolved into a mass of screaming and twisting bodies. He had lost sight of Berbatov, but the welcome flash of green, accompanied by a howl of triumph announced the arrival of the silver K’ran and his group.

Taking time to look around him, Walters found it difficult to determine how the fight was going. It didn’t look good though. They were heavily outnumbered and now that the advantage of their firepower had been negated, things could only get worse.

Initially, the ordered volleys of laser fire had taken a terrible toll on the K’ran attackers, who had relied on their speed and agility to counteract the superior firepower of Walters and his men. Everything had changed when Wilson’s position had been overrun and the men driven like cattle down into the valley below. Within the rock covered hillside there was too much cover for the K’ran, who had pressed their advantage. James still held the right hand side hill, but was retreating steadily, determinedly reducing the K’ran numbers.

Then he heard a tremendous roar from the rear ranks of the K’ran and using the corpse of one of the dead beasts as a step, he climbed momentarily above the crowd around him. And wished he hadn’t.

Pushing its way through the Tauran Forces was the biggest K’ran he had ever seen, its silver fur covering a body of titanic proportions. The muscles under its skin bunched and rolled as it barged its way through.

“Oh, frak!” he muttered to no-one in particular.

*

K’san heard the roar and knew that his father had arrived. He felt the momentum of the battle swing and the renewed energies of the opposing K’ran, as each attempted to outdo the other in the ferocity of their need to impress the all-powerful leader of their pack.

“It is time,” hissed K’san, and to K’rantu, “stay with W’ratr, keep two of our brothers with you and protect him with your lives!”

K’rantu gave a short bark and stood watching as K’san tilted back his head and howled. His pack brothers gathered around him and as one they charged in a tightly meshed group, smashing their way through their enemies.

K’shir heard the howl and spoke, “He comes, My Lord. His heart is yours!” He felt the presence of The Lord joining with him, the elixir of his ravening spirit intoxicating him. He too howled, and the K’ran parted as a wave before him.


*

Fighting ceased around Walters as the K’ran allowed their leader to pass. It continued near both hills, where the engagement was brutal in the extreme. The Major rested on his sword, taking advantage of the brief respite, but then he saw the fatal charge, and ran closely followed by K’rantu and his brothers.


*

K’san skidded to a halt in front of his father, unable to repress a shudder of awe at the spirit-imbued beast.

“Father,” he growled softly.

“No longer, traitor. It is time you pay the price for your treachery. I want your still beating heart in my mouth and there I will extinguish you for good.”

This thing was no longer his father, the spirit of The Lord had corrupted him further. With a roar K’san leapt.

*

Walters saw the blow, heard the ribs break and the concussion of sound as K’san hit the floor. He saw the almost sedate approach of the huge silver beast, whose tongue swiped too and fro across its line of sharp teeth. Without stopping his run, he drove his sword full into the thing’s back, using his momentum to its fullest.

There was an ear-shattering roar and the beast turned, the still singing sword buried deep within it. The force of its turn ripping the weapon out of the Major’s hand. It rose up on its hind legs and struck. Its claws punched through the greatcoat, drawing Walters in towards the grinning maw above him. At lightening speed it withdrew its formidable weapons and struck again.

This time it enfolded the Major in a bear-like hug and tightened its grip. Walters felt the claws entering his back inexorably and smelt the terrible stench of its breath. The pain was intense and there was nothing he could do to stop it, his arms were crushed against his sides and he was held in a vice-like grip.

He had thought the agony could get no worse, but he was wrong, the beast used the claws embedded in his flesh to lift him and he screamed. Walters felt the touch of its saliva on the recently opened scratches on his head, and mewling in pain, buried his face against the rank fur before him.

Unbidden, the animal in him took over and Walters bit. At first K’shir felt nothing, then an annoying nip like that of one of his playful offspring, then true pain. He roared and tried to throw the human away, but in his Lord’s ecstasy he had dug too deep. His claws were entrenched in the body of the human below him, locked between skin and bone.

The realisation that he was dying hit Walters, but he was beyond caring. His only focus was on boring his way into the beast’s throat, chewing and gnawing he kept on. He was rewarded by the spurt of black arterial blood and felt the thing’s life pumping into his throat and he smiled. Then he swallowed, and his throat constricted as he felt the thing’s blood scald his flesh. It burned, oh how it burned.

*

Berbatov looked on in desperation, tears streaming down the big man’s face. They could do nothing for the Major, the beast in its frenzy to release its hold on him had opened huge gashes in Walters’ back. The Sargeant could see the white of bone, flashing amongst the mixture of red and black. He snarled and rammed the point of his halberd into the thing’s back, again and again.

*

K’rantu knew he had failed, but he would not let W’ratr die unavenged. Snapping and snarling he used his claws to drag himself up K’shir’s back and sank his teeth into the K’ran’s neck.

*



Deep within the Fortress, The Lord cried out in pain and rage. He had been so close to victory, but could feel it draining away as the K’ran’s blood spilled out onto the ground. Removing his connection with K’shir he shook his head from side to side, slightly disorientated. When he raised his head once more, his face was contorted in a expression of pure fury. This time there would be no mistakes, he would take care of the Church scum himself.

*


K’san limped up to join Berbatov, who continued to strike at K’shir’s body. He knew it was futile, but he could do nothing else. It was then they saw the change as K’shir’s body physically seemed to diminish and the K’ran fell back onto all fours, burying Walters beneath it.

Although its blood now ran only a darker shade of red, wisps of smoke still curled from the Major’s mangled body. His head and upper arms were black and charred. All noise had ceased but as K’rantu finally unlocked his jaws, the sound of power cells being replaced and angry growls echoed across the battlefield. It was then it happened.

The thing that had once been Major Walters began to writhe, thrashing from side to side and then the body of the now dead K’shir exploded off it in a rain of blood and gore. Wounds began to heal before their eyes, the body began to swell and it stood. The eyes opened, sparking a feral green and yellow, it opened its mouth and howled.

The sound uluated across the field of battle, reverberating in the chest of each and everything there. All fell to their knees, except Berbatov who stared stoically into its face, as the eyes changed back to their normal colour and it turned and spoke.

“Sargeant.”

“Major,” nodded the big man, pulling a battered officer’s cap from his tunic pocket and twisting it back into an almost recognisable shape. He meekly offered it to Walters and grinned, “Now that was fun!”

Chapter Seven

Zone of Conflict
Unnamed Planet
Tauran Disputed Zone


“Me and my big mouth,” cursed Walters, as he looked out over the ranks of Church Guard positioned below him. There looked to be at least three companies of Guards, spread out over the rough terrain and he had received reports of another company approaching from the west. At least there were no armoured units with them, if that could be called a blessing. And to make matters worse, James had reported in on the communications circuit, that advanced units of Tauran forces had been spotted, early this morning.

“It seems, Sargeant,” he said, turning to Berbatov, “that we are between a rock and a hard place.”

“Not to worry, Sir,” responded the Sargeant confidently, “you’ll think of something.”

“Oh, I’m thinking of something, Sargeant …” he muttered, but stopped to watch Private Williamson sprinting up the hill.

“Sir, Sir!” gasped the soldier, skidding to a stop, “you’ve got to see this.”

“Unless you are here to tell me that everyone is surrendering, due to our overwhelmingly unassailable position, I don’t really need to actually see anything else,” commented Walters sarcastically.

Williamson stood open mouthed before him, “H-h-h-ow did you know, Sir?”

“What? Speak up soldier,” urged Walters, restraining himself from grabbing the private by the front of his tunic and shaking him.

“We’ve just had a call over short range communications, Sir. They want to surrender to you, personally. You are to watch the front ranks, Leftenant, Sir.”

Walters turned and saw three men move out in front of the Church Forces, an officer at their head.

“Berbatov, we have some visitors, let’s go,” he said as, adjusted the sword by his side.

“Could be a trap,” gruffed Berbatov, then laughing he picked up the now infamous halberd, “could also be a whole lot of fun!”

Walters scowled at him, and settled his cap more firmly on his head. He felt the comforting nudge of the K’ran by his side and placed his hand on its head.

“Okay, let’s do this,” he said firmly, leading his two companions down the hill.

*


“So it is true!” breathed the young officer, as they watched the two men and the K’ran come towards them, apparently at ease in each others company.

“Stand still,” he ordered as a ripple of unease travelled through the ranks.

Berbatov grounded his halberd as he came to a halt and stared threateningly at the Guards before him. The silver furred K’ran growled menacingly, standing ready by Walters’ side. Walters himself said nothing, waiting instead for the Guard Officer to speak.

“Sir!” barked the officer, snapping to attention with a parade ground salute.

“To what do we owe this pleasure…?” queried Walters.

“Second Leftenant Wilson, Sir. I am here to relinquish command of 2nd , 4th and 5th companies to yourself, Sir.”

“A Leftenant in charge of three companies? Rather unusual wouldn’t you say?” asked Walters.

“Major Burne is injured, Sir. So I have assumed command in his absence, Sir.” replied Wilson quickly.

“And the good Major, is in agreement with your decision?” questioned Walters, watching closely for the other man’s reaction.

“I am sure he would be, Sir, if he was not so indisposed,” responded Wilson.

“Hmm. Rather interesting. And the fourth company approaching from the west? What do you know of that, Leftenant?” The man looked surprised, his reaction genuine. “Nothing, Sir, I can assure you.”

“Very well, Leftenant. Let’s say that I believe you. What would you have me do with your men?”

“We are here to fight the Tauran scum, Sir. With you, Sir?” replied Wilson, tremulously.

“This scum!” snapped Walters pointing at the K’ran by his side, who bristled at the tone in his voice.

“N-no,Sir. We heard that there was a large force coming to attack you here. That you would need assistance. That men from the 5th Lutheran and others were fighting by your side. That you did not prejudge those who were unfortunate enough to have been on the wrong side of the bombardment, Sir” he replied rapidly, stiffening further into his position of attention.

“All that is true. But there is one important question, Leftenant. The answer to which you need to consider well.”

“Y-y-y-es, Sir?”

“Who are you fighting for?”

Leftenant Wilson made as if to speak, but the man behind coughed and then moved forward. He was carrying a pole on which was tied a roll of cloth. Without speaking he unfurled the cloth and as if in answer, a breeze began to blow, which caught the cloth and lifted it fluttering before them. The breeze strengthened and there snapping in the wind before them, crudely fashioned, was the snarling K’ran’s head.

Cheers rang out, and Berbatov leaned in towards him, “Looks like you just got a promotion,Sir.”



Field Headquarters
Church Command


“What are you telling me, Major?” Wolfe snarled at the cowering officer before him.

“It appears that we have lost contact with a number of our units, Sir,” replied the man, quaking before the General’s anger.

“And what do we know of their movements?” asked Wolfe dangerously.

“Captain Arnesson has reported from orbit that they appear to be concentrating on Leftenant Walters’ position, General, Sir.” responded the Major, looking as though he expected to be slapped.

“Are they attacking …?” the sweet tone of the General’s voice, appeared to make it even more menacing.

The Major took a deep breath and replied, “No, Sir. Captain Arnesson indicates that they are deploying in a standard defensive formation, Sir.”

Wolfe turned slowly away from the Major and seemed to be struggling internally with his anger. After a few moments he turned back round and spoke, “Very well, get me Walters on the comm. We need to talk.”



Zone of Conflict
Unnamed Planet
Tauran Disputed Zone


“Yes, General Wolfe. How can I help you?” asked Walters, speaking calmly into the transmitter.

“It seems as though we got off on the wrong foot, Walters. I am willing to try again, if you are.” The General appeared to be in a conciliatory mood.

“Very amenable of you General,” Walters, managed to keep the mirth out of his voice, but only just.

“We seem to have the same goal in mind, that of ridding this planet of the Tauran Forces. I am a loyal servant of the Church, but am not blind to the role you can play in this. Will you work with me?” the General’s words came across as sickeningly sweet.

Walters waited a moment, collecting his thoughts, “General, General. Right now our objective is aligned I would say, rather than being the same. I seem to have a major disagreement with the Tauran Forces. Not really sure what I’ve done, apart from stealing some of their men and killing a few more of them. Sound familiar?” and not waiting for a reply, “Anyway, once I have dealt with that problem, what assurance do I have that you won’t just come running in to ‘reassign’ us?”

Walters could feel the grinding of the General’s teeth through the transmitter, but then he spoke, “I am willing to offer you a field commission to Captain, for the duration of this conflict. As long as you co-ordinate your actions with mine.”

“Make it Major and I’ll consider it,” replied Walters, grinning to himself, “Oh, and remember General, co-ordination does not mean interference.”

There was silence for an extended period of time and then the answer came, “Very well, Major.”



Zone of Conflict
Unnamed Planet
Tauran Disputed Zone


Walters flicked off the switch and stared into the distance. Things had just gotten a lot more complicated. There was absolutely no way that his command, nor commission, would be accepted once hostilities ceased. Neither General Wolfe nor his Inspectors would think twice about ‘reassigning’ him, killing the K’ran and liquidating the men who had joined him.

If he was to get out of this, he would have to think of something original, something unique. That, was for later though, right now, as Berbatov would say, it was time for some fun.

*

The newly crowned Major looked on in amazement at the scene before him. Sargeant Berbatov was buried beneath a mass of snarling and snapping bodies. With an enormous heave, he exploded from the middle of the melee and with a shout of pure glee, dived back in again.

To one side stood Williamson, in his arms what looked like a pile of green cloth, which he dropped to the floor as Berbatov barrelled into him, cursing happily.

“Sargeant!” shouted Walters, “When you have a moment?”

Berbatov batted one of the K’ran playfully on the side of the head and, after dusting off his trousers, swaggered across to Walters.

“Major, Sir!” he saluted in an awful rendition of standard drill.

“Could you possibly explain to me what is going on?” asked Walters, wincing as he saw the crafty expression cross the Sargeant’s face.

“Measuring, sir,” responded the Sargeant, staring past Walters’ shoulder.

He resisted the urge to turn and look at what Berbatov was fixated on and tried again. “Measuring, Sargeant?”

“Yes, Sir. Exactly, Sir,” replied Berbatov.

Walters waited patiently for more information, but it soon became obvious that Berbatov had nothing more to add. He tried again.

“And Williamson?”

“Helping me, Sir!” shouted Berbatov, getting into the swing of things.

“Helping you ……?” queried Walters, wishing he had never started this.

“Yes, Sir!” said Berbatov, giving the expected response, “Will that be all, Sir?

“Yes, Sargeant. That will definitely be all for now,” said Walters, as he watched Berbatov’s about turn in dismay.

Berbatov stopped to help Williamson gather up the cloth and then, with one arm around the nervous soldier’s shoulders, led him cheerfully away.

*

K’san looked on at the interplay between the two men, their bond was obviously strong. It would need to be. Tomorrow they would face the might of his father’s forces and they would need true strength and belief. He knew that there could be no quarter in this battle. The Lord had pronounced the death of W’ratr and his own father had sworn to personally fulfil his command, with specific emphasis on the death of his former son.

The K’ran knew this as more of his brothers had joined him, but alone they would not be enough. They needed W’ratr to lead them. He had proven that he was worthy of their brotherhood and they would fight, not just with him, but for him.
It would not be a battle only of guns and swords, but claws and fangs. There were many who needed to win their names, on both sides. He growled softly and K’ranwon and K’rantu moved to join him. As one they padded forward to join their pack.