Организационные вопросы лит. проекта

[Доблестный Venenciy]

Дочитал главу. Насколько я понял, Багровокулакий навтыкал нашему кэпу по самое не хочу <_< , но Володя-Кулак признал его проигравшим и присудил победу Железному Рыцарю :? По какой причине, я пока не понял. Глава заканчивается, как ЖР держит речь перед Сарпи и другими Душепийцами.

Я медленно, но уверенно начинаю не любить Багровокулаких.

значит жр не крутые?

печальные?

[Свинота безграмотная]

значит жр не крутые?

печальные?

Но, но. Попрошу не троллить такими наездами участников проекта.

Изменено 4 марта, 2011 пользователем Dэн

[Доблестный Venenciy]

Но, но. Попрошу не троллить такими наездами участников проекта.

Да я и не пытался.

Я сам расстроился :blush:

[Дарт Йорикус]

Лучше подождать рассказ. Хотя уже ясно, что какашка.

Ну вот тебе рассказ, читай. :)

"Глава 6."

Molikor’s endless expanses of broken delta, islands of swampy grasses and gorse separated by the sludgy children of the planet’s great rivers, were a good place to hide. An entire nation hid there among the rotten trees and root cages, the odd chunk of rock eroded clean by the passage of the shifting waters. They had their strongholds among the mangrove swamps closer to the shore, where the biting insects swarmed so thick they could pick a man up off the ground, and the waters were infested with a thousand different forms of sharp-toothed creature. That nation, which called itself the Eshkeen, was as much a part of the landscape as the dour grey-streaked clouds overhead and the way the soft ground threatened to swallow up a power armoured foot. That nation had risen up in defiance. That nation had to die.

Commander N’Kalo took the magnoculars from the eyeslit of his armour. His augmented vision was enough to tell him that the foe had no intention of making itself seen, and a closer look had confirmed it. Behind him the strikeforce of nearly forty Iron Knights Space Marines was forming a perimeter lest the enemy close in from an unexpected angle, the bolters of Squads Salik, K’Jinn and Tchwayo scanning the indistinct horizon for targets. Sergeant Borasi’s Devastator squad had left its anti-tank weapons behind and sported a complement of heavy bolters, perfect for chewing through forested cover and ill-armoured enemies. Though the delta could have been deserted for all the Iron Knights could see, the Devastators were still ready to deploy, weapons loaded and shouldered.

‘They give us good sport,’ said Sergeant Borasi, standing just behind N’Kalo. ‘It disappoints me so when the enemy show themselves too early.’

‘Would that this was mere sport,’ replied N’Kalo. ‘The Eshkeen revolt against the rule of the Imperium. Books of atrocities have already been written about their campaigns of violence against the Imperial cities of this world, and if Molikor falls the whole of this frontier could follow.’

‘Nevertheless, captain, I am reminded of the best hunting grounds of Seheris. Below the equator, where the great rivers of the Zambenar meet the oceans. I lose count of how many reapermaw tusks my bolter has won for me down there.’

‘Then the hunting will be good,’ brother,’ said N’Kalo, stowing the magnoculars in a belt pouch, ‘if it is a hunt you see unfolding here.’

On Seheris, the home world of the Iron Knights Chapter, the unforgiving deserts and plains bred a thousand hardy peoples divided into tribes that treated the land as an adversary to be conquered. The Iron Knights were drawn from such people, and their wish to test themselves against an environment, as much as against a foe, never left them. They took pride in the fact that they fought in warzones which would have been deadly whether any enemy waited there or not – radioactive rock deserts, carnivorous jungles, archipelagos scattered across an ocean that seethed with sea monsters, and every other Emperor-forsaken place that a man could imagine. When the Parliaments of Molikor had requested help against a foe bent on exterminating the Emperor’s presence on their world, the Iron Knights had seen not only a task to be achieved to keep the Ghoul Stars Frontier intact, but the chance to test themselves against Molikor’s own dangers.

Too often, thought N’Kalo, his brother Space Marines treated war as a sport. The fact that he could see beyond that had marked him out as commander material. That was why he had been sent here to Molikor, to oversee his eager battle-brothers as they killed every Eshkeen on the planet.

Mile after mile, the Eshkeen drew the Iron Knights in.

It was clearly their tactic. Even as he walked the paths laid out for him through the winding delta paths, N’Kalo knew that the enemy had laid on Molikor a trap to cut off, surround and butcher anyone the Imperium sent to fight them. He read the landscape like a book, like any Iron Knight would, and he saw the thinking behind every dammed stream and felled copse.

The easiest path into the delta forests and swamps, where the Eshkeen surely waited, passed through two towering forests separated by a stretch of swamp where the shallow waters rushed over the sodden grassland. The soft-edged shadows, cast by a sun hidden behind the overcast sky, rendered this gap dark and its footing uncertain. The ways on either side were deep and difficult to traverse, and N’Kalo’s magnoculars had picked out the log dams on the distant highlands that had helped flood those regions to force any attackers to take the path between the forests.

N’Kalo’s strikeforce reached the first shadows cast by the tallest trees. The forest was dense and tangled, an unmanaged mass of broken branches and diseased trunks, clustered around rocky hills that broke the surface of the marshes and trapped enough soil for the trees to grow. N’Kalo could see no sign of the Eshkeen, but he knew they were there as surely as if they were standing there in front of him.

‘You cannot trap a Space Marine,’ said Sergeant Borasi over the strikeforce’s vox-net. ‘You can shut yourself in a room with him, but it is not he who is trapped.’

N’Kalo halted the strikeforce at the head of the forest gap. On the other side was a stretch of open marsh, tempting for any force making for the coastal strongholds with nowhere for the enemy to use as an ambush. N’Kalo imagined the Parliamentarian commanders who had fallen for such a trick, before Molikor had requested the assistance of Imperial forces, and how they must have decided that it was acceptable to risk this one ambush spot to ensure they had a clear run at the enemy. How many of them had the Eshkeen killed, moulding the landscape into their ally? How many cavalry forces had wheeled in panic on just such a path, stuck with thousands of arrows and, later, riddled with bullets from captured guns, fired from an enemy so well hidden it seemed the forest itself wanted them dead?

‘Salik, Tchwayo, take the fore,’ voxed N’Kalo. ‘K’Jinn, cover the rear. Borasi, up front with me.’

The strikeforce took up position in the mouth of the trap. Borasi’s Devastators knelt, heavy bolters covering their front arc.

To an observer unfamiliar with the Space Marines, it would seem the Iron Knights were pausing in trepidation, making up their minds whether to continue down the narrow path laid out for them.

‘Open fire!’ ordered N’Kalo.

The heavy bolters hammered out a dreadful cacophony as their fire shredded the edge of the right-hand forest, splintering tree trunks and sending clouds of spinning shards through the air.

‘Advance!’ shouted N’Kalo, his voice just audible over the din. ‘Advance and engage!’

As the Devastators reloaded, the three Tactical squads ran for the forest, bolters spitting fire as they headed onwards. N’Kalo had his power sword in one hand and his plasma pistol in the other, and as the last splinters of tree trunk fell he caught the first sight of the enemy.

The Eshkeen were heavily scarified, and wore strips of coloured cloth and leather wrapped tight around them to ward off the spines and stingers of the forests. The ridges of scar tissue that ran across their faces and bodies were high enough to be pierced with bones and thorns, and spikes were implanted under the shorn skin of their scalps. They resembled the figures from some primitive world’s visions of hell. Perhaps they modelled themselves after Molikor’s own myths, delving into their images of damnation to put fear into Parliamentarian hearts.

The Eshkeen returned fire as best they could as they dragged the wounded and dead from what remained of the treeline. Autogun and lasgun fire spattered down at the Iron Knights, hissing in the damp ground or ringing off ceramite. The Space Marines did not slow and headed straight for the enemy.

The ambush plan relied on the Space Marines staying in the open, thinking themselves unable to make any headway through the forest. Unfortunately for the Eshkeen, that plan, which would work horrendously well against the armies of the Parliamentarians, fell apart when confronted with an armoured Space Marine whose weight and strength could force him through the forest as fast as he moved in the open. Squad Salik reached the trees first and they did not slow down, shouldering their way between the tree trunks, rotten wood crumbling under their weight. The Eshkeen screamed war-cries as the Iron Knights were among them, streams of bolter fire criss-crossing through the forest and slicing Eshkeen in half.

N’Kalo felt, in spite of himself, a faint disappointment. None of the Eshkeen would get close enough for him to use his power sword. Already Squad Tchwayo were into the rapidly thinning forest. Men were dying among the twisted roots and falling tree trunks. N’Kalo would not take any heads today.

N’Kalo himself had reached the trees. Bodies lay twisted and broken among the fallen branches. One was still alive, moaning as he tried to force himself to his feet, apparently ignorant of the fact he had lost one of his arms at the elbow. Others had huge ragged holes in their torsos, cut down by bolter fire aimed at the central mass. Another had the side of his head crushed by a bolter stock. N’Kalo stepped over them, glancing around for targets as Borasi and K’Jinn advanced behind him.

Suddenly, N’Kalo could not hear the heavy footsteps and bolter fire of the battle-brothers behind him. He looked back, not wanting to slow his own advance, but he could not see them.

‘Squads report!’ said N’Kalo into the vox. Blank static was the only reply. ‘Report!’ he repeated, but got nothing.

The forest was seething. It was alive. The Eshkeen were barely recognisable as humans now, slipping in and out of tree trunks, their flesh merging with the mossy wood. They slithered along the ground like snakes, limbs as flexible as liquid, and slid into the ground before N’Kalo could take aim. They flitted overhead, birds on the wing.

‘What witchcraft is this?’ demanded N’Kalo. His power sword hummed into life and he slashed about him, felling the trees on either side as he pushed on. ‘A Space Marine fears not such devilry! He knows no fear!’

The forest warped around him. Trees bowed in and hands reached out of the earth to snare his ankles. N’Kalo fired at movement, his plasma pistol boring a glowing orange channel through the foliage, but he could not tell if he had hit anything. Everywhere he cut left and right, forging on through the path he hacked. He called for his battle-brothers, but there was no reply. Faces were leering from the trees now, blood welling up from the ground. The sky, where he glimpsed it through the writhing branches overhead, seemed blistered and burned, as if some malignant energy was forcing its way down towards him.

N’Kalo slammed into an obstacle that did not give way to his weight. He stumbled back a pace and saw another horror. A Space Marine from the waist up, a mutated monstrosity below, insectoid legs tipped with vicious talons, reared up to spear N’Kalo’s torso. The Space Marine was no iron Knight – his armour was painted purple, with a gilded chalice on one shoulder pad, and the high aegis collar of a Librarian.

N’Kalo slashed at the apparition with his sword. The mutant brought up the haft of an ornate axe to turn the blow aside. Without seeming to move the mutant was upon N’Kalo, its weight bearing down on him, legs forcing him back onto one knee. One insect leg snared his sword arm and the other batted his plasma pistol aside.

The forest was shifting again, this time back to normal. N’Kalo could hear his battle-brothers’ voices filling the vox-net.

‘Fall back!’ came K’Jinn’s voice. ‘Regroup at the far side!’

‘I have brothers down!’ shouted Salik. ‘Forming defensive!’ Bolter fire hammered away over the vox-net, volley and counter-volley shearing through the trees.

The mutant kicked N’Kalo’s sword aside.

‘What are you?’ gasped N’Kalo. He struggled to get free, but the mutant was stronger even than a Space Marine.

‘I am the truth,’ replied Sarpedon.

The fortresses of the Eshkeen were cunningly wrought so as to be invisible from the air. The finest siege-wrights of the Imperium could not have strung out fortifications of wooden stakes and pit traps with such subtlety, seeding the approaches to the dense coastal forests so that attackers on foot would find their numbers thinned out well before they came within bowshot of the fortress walls. The fortresses themselves were built on two levels, the first hidden trenches and murder-holes on the ground, the second walkways and battlements in the trees overhead. The canopy was thick enough to hide them, and the short distances between them were made deadly with tangles of cured razorvine, layers of dried earth concealing stretches of sucking mud, and even nests of forest predators herded into position by the Eshkeen. Two Parliamentarian forces had driven this far into Eshkeen territory and none of them had been seen again, save for a couple of messengers permitted to live so they could explain that the Eshkeen were not impressed by the glittering cavalry regiments and sumptuous banners of the Parliamentarian armies.

The fortresses backed against the sea, although it was difficult to tell where the sea began. Mangroves formed layers of root canopy over the murky waters, infested with Eshkeen fishermen who found their harpoons were as adept at picking off soldiers wading out of landing boats as they were at spearing fish. The shallow waters and hidden reefs were enough to dissuade all but the most glory-hungry admiral from attempting a landing there. Unfortunately for the Parliamentarians they had once possessed such an admiral, whose ships now lay a few hundred metres from the shore where they had foundered, their men trapped there for months before starvation and Eshkeen snipers had seen to the last of them.

These defences, as formidable as they were, would not have stopped a force of Space Marines determined to enact justice on the Eshkeen. The Iron Knights, however, had not been given that chance.

The first N’Kalo saw of the Eshkeen stronghold was a ceiling of wooden planks and plaited vines. He struggled to move and found that he was not bound. He was high up in the air, the structure around him built into the thick, gnarled trunks of the mangroves. The humid air had a faint tang of decay, the smell of fallen plant matter turning to watery sludge, mixed in with the salt breeze off the sea. Eshkeen were everywhere at watch, eerily still as they scanned the approaches with their bows or guns to hand. N’Kalo saw, for the first time, their women and children. Some of the sentries were women, and a gaggle of children crouched in a doorway watching N’Kalo with a mix of fascination and fear. They were scrawny in a way that only growing up outside civilisation could explain, tough and sinewy, with painted skin echoing the scarring of their elders.

N’Kalo sat up. The children squealed and scattered. He was in a barracks or communal living space, full of empty beds. He could not see his weapons, but his armour had been left on.

He touched a gauntlet to his face as he realised his helmet had been removed. No wonder the children had fled. The burns he had suffered long ago, which he had chosen to hide under the knightly helm of his Chapter’s commanders, must have made him look even more of a monster than any other Space Marine.

‘Commander N’Kalo,’ said a too-familiar voice. N’Kalo jumped to his feet as the mutant from the forest entered.

‘Where am I? What of my brothers?’ demanded N’Kalo.

‘They are safe. I cannot permit them their liberty yet. They will go free soon, as will you.’

The mutant Space Marine was armed with his power axe and a bolt pistol, and N’Kalo had not been a match for him when he had his power sword. Unarmed, he did not fancy his chances against the mutant. Better to talk and wait for the right time than to throw his life away trying to fight here, when he was bound to fail. ‘And you did not answer my question. What are you?’

The mutant shrugged. It was seemingly too human a gesture for such a grotesque creature. ‘I am a Space Marine, like you. Well, not exactly like you.’

‘You are a witch.’

‘I am, if you prefer that term. I am Librarian and Chapter Master Sarpedon of the Soul Drinkers. And we are similar in more than just bearing the arms of the Adeptus Astartes. We are both, Commander N’Kalo, students of justice as much as of war.’

‘Justice? My brothers have fallen at your hand!’

‘Fallen, but not dead. My Apothecary is seeing to them. Two have bolter wounds and another was felled by a chainsword. Though they will not fight for a while, the three will survive. They are being held at ground level, below us, watched over by my battle-brothers. Sergeant Borasi gave us a great deal of trouble. He should be commended for his spirit, misplaced though it is. He owes us several broken bones.’

N’Kalo had heard of the Soul Drinkers. Like the Iron Knights, they were successors to the Imperial Fists, with Rogal Dorn as their Primarch. N’Kalo had never met any of the Soul Drinkers but he recalled they were famed for their prowess in boarding actions and that they had won laurels during the battle for the Ecclesiarchal Palace during the Wars of Apostasy. N’Kalo and Sarpedon should have been brothers, not just as Space Marines but as sons of Dorn.

‘Why do you oppose us?’ said N’Kalo. ‘We are here doing the Emperor’s will!’

‘The Imperium’s will,’ replied Sarpedon. ‘Not the Emperor’s.’

‘And I suppose you, a mutant, one who has raised arms against my brethren, is the one doing the Emperor’s will?’

‘Looking at it that way,’ said Sarpedon, ‘I can understand your doubts. I do not believe, however, that you know the full story of what is happening on Molikor.’

‘And you are going to tell me?’ spat N’Kalo.

‘No. I am going to show you.’

N’Kalo saw his brothers guarded by a ring of Soul Drinkers. The Iron Knights had been disarmed but, as Sarpedon had said, few of them were hurt. A Soul Drinkers Apothecary was operating on the wounded leg of one sedated Iron Knight – all the rest were conscious and, led by Borasi, started up a chorus of plaudits for their commander and insults hurled at Sarpedon as soon as they saw N’Kalo. A couple of the other Soul Drinkers were mutants, although not as dramatically malformed as Sarpedon. One had an enormous mutated hand, and N’Kalo wondered what other mutations were hidden beneath their armour.

It was a strange feeling to be led, not quite a captive and not quite an equal, through the Eshkeen forest by Sarpedon. N’Kalo’s soldierly mind sized up every chance to attack Sarpedon, drag him down to the ground or stab him in the back with a fortuitous weapon snatched from a nearby Eshkeen, but Sarpedon had his own warrior instinct and every opportunity was gone before it began. If he had a weapon, N’Kalo thought, he could kill Sarpedon and, if not complete his mission, at least rid the Imperium of this enemy – but even with a bolter or a power sword in his hands, could he beat Sarpedon when he had been defeated before?

The Eshkeen watched curiously as N’Kalo moved through their domain. They walked paths almost hidden in the forest, avoiding traps and dead ends sown liberally throughout the forest. In places N’Kalo could see the waters of the ocean between the roots underfoot, and glimpse Eshkeen walking there, too, wading through the waters to fish or keep watch over the coastal approaches. In other places the ground underfoot was solid, with tunnels and bunkers dug into it. The Eshkeen themselves wore patchworks of body armour and scraps of captured uniform, the most colourful belonging to those who looked the most experienced and deadly. The right to sport the captured garb of the enemy was evidently a privilege that had to be earned.

In the heart of the stronghold was a fortification of stone instead of wood, concentric circles of jagged battlements forming a huge granite maw around a pit in the centre. Sarpedon followed a complex path through the fortifications, leading N’Kalo through them even though he could probably have scrambled over them with ease thanks to his arachnid limbs. The trees did not grow here so an artificial canopy had been stretched out overhead, a lattice of vines and ropes woven with leaves, to keep it hidden. There were no Eshkeen keeping watch among the fortifications, but many of them had gathered in the trees around the clearing to watch the two Space Marines descending to the pit.

‘Like you,’ said Sarpedon, ‘we heeded the distress call from the Parliaments of Molikor. But we have learned to be circumspect. A little more suspicious, perhaps, of our own Emperor-fearing citizens. We arrived here without informing the Parliaments of our presence, and spoke instead to the Eshkeen. When we hear only one side of the story, I find we inevitably miss out on the more interesting half.’

The pit was a shaft lined with carved stones, forming a spiral frieze winding down into the darkness. The frieze depicted an endless tangle of human bodies, contorted and wounded, missing limbs or eyes, faces drawn in pain. The Eshkeen who had sculpted it, countless generations ago, had used a stylised technique that removed the subtleties of the human form and left only the pain. Winding wooden stairs provided a way down into the shaft.

‘When Imperial settlers were brought to Molikor,’ explained Sarpedon as he and N’Kalo descended the shaft, ‘they sent out explorers to tame the marshland and forge a path to the ocean. They hoped to build a port on this coast and spread to the planet’s other continents. They never managed it, mainly because the land was too marshy and the Eshkeen rather unfriendly. But one of them did find this.’

N’Kalo made note of Sarpedon’s words with one half of his mind. The other half was trying to work out how he could turn on Sarpedon. They were alone now, and Sarpedon’s fellow Soul Drinkers could not come to his aid. If N’Kalo got behind Sarpedon, and if he was quick enough, he could throw Sarpedon off the staircase down the shaft. But the fall would not be guaranteed to kill him – indeed, N’Kalo could now see the bottom of the shaft strewn with leaves and broken branches, and a Space Marine would barely be inconvenienced by the distance. He could grab Sarpedon’s neck in a choke, but his aegis collar would make that difficult and besides, a Space Marine could go a long time before his three lungs gave out. By then Sarpedon could have climbed up the shaft and brought N’Kalo to the Soul Drinkers to face retribution.

And perhaps most importantly, N’Kalo felt a truth in Sarpedon’s words. N’Kalo wanted to know what was hidden down here, what could cause a Space Marine, even a renegade one, to fight his brothers. So he held back and followed as Sarpedon reached the bottom of the shaft and headed down a tunnel that led away to one side.

This tunnel was also carved with images. Eyes and hands covered the walls, symbols of watching and warding. N’Kalo could hear, on the hot, damp breeze washing over him from the far end of the tunnel, the reedy strains of voices. They were screaming, hundreds of them, the sounds overlapping like the threads of a tapestry.

A cavern opened up ahead, wet stone lit from beneath by a blood-red glow. The screaming got louder. N’Kalo tensed, unsure of what was ahead, one part of his brain still watching for a drop in Sarpedon’s guard.

‘Molikor,’ said Sarpedon, ‘has a curious relationship with its dead.’

The tunnel reached the threshold of a sudden drop. Beyond it was a cavern, as vast as an ocean, filled almost to the level of the tunnel entrance by a sea of writhing bodies.

N’Kalo was all but stunned by his first sight of it. The awfulness of it, the impossibility, seemed intent on prying his mind from his senses. The bodies were naked, men and women, all ages, the whole spectrum of shapes, sizes and skin tones. The glow was coming from their eyes, and from the wounds that wept bloody and fresh in their bodies. Many bore the scarring of the Eshkeen but there were countless others, from dozens of cultures.

‘Who are they?’ said N’Kalo.

‘Everyone who has ever died on Molikor,’ replied Sarpedon. ‘No one knows how far down it goes. When you die on Molikor, your body decays and is absorbed by the earth. Then it reforms here, vomited back up by the planet. Here they are, everyone this world has claimed since the Age of Strife.’

‘Why… why are you showing me this?’ said N’Kalo.

Sarpedon unholstered his bolt pistol. For a moment N’Kalo thought the Soul Drinker would turn on him, but instead Sarpedon held it handle-first towards N’Kalo. ‘Because I could not expect you to just take my word for it,’ said Sarpedon. ‘And besides, I haven’t shown you anything yet.’

The bodies heaved up, like a breaking wave. N’Kalo barely had time to close his hand around the bolt pistol before they were surging around him, a terrible flood of gasping limbs. N’Kalo saw they were not corpses, nor alive, but something else, reborn as they had been at the moment of death and filled with the same emotions – fear, anger, abandonment. Their screams were wordless torrents of pain. One wrapped its arms around N’Kalo, trying to force his head down – N’Kalo blasted it apart with a shot to the upper chest and it flowed past him, reforming in a burst of blood-coloured light.

Sarpedon grabbed N’Kalo’s free wrist. ‘Follow,’ he shouted above the screaming, and hauled N’Kalo off the edge of the drop and into the cavern.

It took a long time for the two Space Marines to forge their way through the dead of Molikor. Sarpedon’s arachnid limbs proved adept at opening up a tunnel through the writhing bodies, and their path was lit by the red glow of whatever energy animated these echoes of the dead. The screaming was muffled now, like the crashing of a distant ocean, with the occasional shriek reaching through. N’Kalo followed as Sarpedon burrowed on, winding a path downwards. N’Kalo contemplated shooting him with his own bolt pistol, but then he would be trapped in this ocean of bodies and he did not know if he would be able to climb out of it. And besides, he wanted to know what Sarpedon had to show him. That curiosity was a human emotion, not that of a Space Marine, but nevertheless it gripped N’Kalo now.

Sarpedon pulled back a final veil of bodies and revealed an opening, like an abscess, in the mass. It had formed around a spike of stone, a stalagmite, to which was chained another body.

This body was that of a male Imperial citizen, N’Kalo could tell that at first glance. He had a glowing, raw hole over one eye where a bionic had once been implanted, and the Imperial aquila had been tattooed on one shoulder. He was the only one of Molikor’s dead that N’Kalo had seen who was restrained in this way.

‘This,’ said Sarpedon, ‘is Manter Thyll. He was sent by the Parliaments of Molikor to explore the delta marshlands. He found the Eshkeen and bargained his way into the pit, to see what they were so intent on protecting. They thought when he saw this place, he would treat its protection as a sacred undertaking just like they did. But they were wrong.’

Sarpedon took a data-slate from the belt of his armour. N’Kalo hadn’t noticed it before, since his attention had been focussed on Sarpedon’s abhorrent mutations to the exclusion of such a detail.

‘This is the report he sent back to the Parliaments,’ said Sarpedon.

The image was of poor quality, only just recognisable as the face of the man chained to the rock. In life, Manter Thyll had combined an explorer’s ruggedness with a gentlemanly façade, his well-weathered face surmounted by a powdered periwig.

‘–the Eshkeen had guarded it for generations, my lords. And though at first appearance it was a horrible sight, yet upon closer examination and the questioning of my Eshkeen hosts I came to understand it is the greatest treasure this world possesses. They are not living beings, you see, but they are not dead. They do not age, they do not tire. They simply exist. Think, my lords! Think what a resource they could be! An endless source of brute labour! If they can be trained then all is well, if not then a simple system of electronics and interfaces would suffice to make them useful. I believe that the dead of Molikor are the most potent natural resource on this entire–’

Sarpedon paused the recording. N’Kalo stared dumbly for a few seconds at Thyll’s image, then at the man’s face.

‘He came back to bargain with the Eshkeen for access to the pit,’ said Sarpedon. ‘They knew what he wanted by then. They killed him.’

‘Did they chain his body here?’ said N’Kalo.

‘No. I did, so that I could show it to someone like you. What Thyll and the Parliamentarians did not realise, but what the Eshkeen have known for thousands of years, is that power like this cannot be tapped without consequences. The veil between realspace and the warp is thin here. The emotions of the dying find form in the warp and are cast back out into this pit. The ancestors of Molikor’s tribes knew it, and they sent their best warriors to guard the pit. They grew to be the Eshkeen. When the Imperium settled Molikor, the Parliamentarians learned of the pit and they decided they wanted it for themselves, without having any idea what it truly was.’

Sarpedon began to tear at the mass again, opening a path back up towards the surface. N’Kalo could only follow, conflicting emotions coursing through him. The immensity of what Sarpedon was saying, the concept of a world that regurgitated its dead as these mindless things, the claim that the Parliamentarians were the aggressors and that the Eshkeen were the only thing standing between Molikor and damnation – it weighed on him, and would not sit straight in his mind. Everything N’Kalo had believed about Molikor, everything he had assumed, was wrong.

The First Parliament of Molikor, the Father of Power, the Imperial Seat, the Font of Majesty, towered over the assembled councillors like a second set of heavens. The dome of the First Parliament was painted to resemble a sky, dramatic clouds backlit by golden sunlight echoing fanciful images of Terra’s own glories. The members of the First Parliament, drawn from the lesser parliaments of Molikor’s cities, were resplendent in the uniforms of the planet’s many militaries or the finery of their mercantile houses, wearing the symbol of the aquila to proclaim their loyalty to the Imperium.

Three thousand men and women were gathered beneath the First Parliament’s dome, the centremost place taken by Lord Speaker Vannarian Wrann. Wrann, as the mouthpiece of the First Parliament, was recognised as Molikor’s Imperial Governor. He was a sturdy and squat man, ermine-trimmed robes hanging off wide shoulders. He wore the massive gilded chain of his office around where his neck would have been had one existed between his barrel chest and shaven, glowering lump of a head. On the chain hung a silver aquila studded with diamonds and rubies, to match the fat gemstones on the rings he wore on his stubby fingers.

‘Men and women of the First Parliament!’ shouted Wrann. ‘You sons and daughters of the Imperial Will! We hereby recognise Commander N’Kalo of the Iron Knights!’

N’Kalo made his way down the aisle towards the centre of the dome. Every eye followed him. Jaded as they were by every honour and beautification Molikor could place before them, the sight of a Space Marine was something new to them. Those closest shuddered in fear as N’Kalo walked past, for even in his knightly armour with its crests and laurels there was no mistaking that he was fundamentally a killing machine.

‘Honoured councillors of Molikor,’ began N’Kalo as he approached Wrann. ‘Many thanks for receiving me to the heart of your government. The Iron Knights, as you do, claim the will of the Emperor as their warrant to arms, and in this we are brethren beneath His sight.’

‘You are welcomed, Commander N’Kalo, and your brother Space Marines are granted all honours it is the First Parliament’s right to bestow. Truly you stand before us as saviours of our people, as deliverers of our citizens from the threats that have so gravely beset us.’ Wrann’s words were met with polite applause from the First Parliament’s members. ‘Do you come here to tell us that the rebellion has been quashed?’ he continued. ‘That the hateful Eshkeen will no longer plague our lands with their savagery, and that the Emperor’s rule shall continue on Molikor?’

N’Kalo removed his helm. In spite of the need to keep up appearances, many councillors could not help grimacing or even turning away at the sight of N’Kalo’s burned face, its skin here blackened, there deformed like wax that had melted and recooled, and elsewhere missing entirely.

‘No, Lord Speaker,’ he said. ‘I have not.’

His words were met with silence. Those councillors who did not stare in grim fascination at N’Kalo’s face glanced uneasily between their neighbours.

‘Commander?’ said Wrann. ‘Pray, explain yourself.’

‘I have seen the pit,’ said N’Kalo. ‘I have heard the words of Manter Thyll. When my Iron Knights answered the call for intervention from this Parliament, they did so without critical thought, without exploring first the history of this world and the true nature of its conflicts. Ours is the way of action, not contemplation. But we were forced into examining Molikor by allies of the Eshkeen, who also responded to your pleas for assistance, but to find out the truth, not merely destroy the Eshkeen as you desired.’

‘Of what pit do you speak?’ demanded Wrann. ‘And this Manter Thyll? We know nothing of–’

‘Do not lie to me!’ shouted N’Kalo. The councillors sitting closest to him tried to scramble away, ending up on one another’s laps to put some distance between them and the angry Space Marine. ‘I sought to understand for myself. I went to the historical archives in Molik Tertiam. Yes, to that place you thought hidden from the eyes of outsiders! My battle-brothers stormed the estate of Horse Marshal Konigen, that hero of your history, and demanded of him the truth of why he first led his armies into the delta lands! We know the truth, my brothers and I. The war on Molikor is not about an uprising by the Eshkeen. It is about your desire to exploit Molikor’s dead as labour for your mines and shipyards! It is about the wealth they can bring you! It is about your willingness to exploit the powers bleeding from the warp, and the Eshkeen’s determination to prevent you from committing such a sin!’

‘Then what would you have us do?’ shouted Wrann. ‘This frontier hangs by a thread! Without the war materiel that such labour could produce, we will never hold the Ghoul Stars! Humanity can barely survive out here as it is! Would you have us enslave our own? Would you have us grind our own hands to bone?’

‘No,’ replied N’Kalo calmly. ‘I would have you leave.’

The Judgement Upon Garadan made little concession to the embellishment and glorification that endowed many other Adeptus Astartes strike cruisers. It was every inch a warship, all riveted iron and hard, brutal lines, and as it hung in orbit over Molikor it seemed to glower down at the clouded planet. The lion-head crest, mounted above the prow like heraldry on a feudal knight’s helm, was the sole concession to appearances.

Inside, the Judgement was much the same, with little to suggest the glorious history the Iron Knights brought with them. N’Kalo conducted most of his ship’s business from the monastic cell in which he trained and meditated when his flag-captain did not require him on the bridge. The pict screen mounted on one wall showed a close-up of the space above Molikor’s main spaceport. N’Kalo watched as a flock of merchant and cargo ships drifted up from the cloud cover, a shower of silvery sparks. On those ships was the Imperial population of Molikor, among them the Parliamentarian leaders. Those leaders had, less than three days ago, received an ivory scroll case containing orders to evacuate their planet on pain of destruction. Those orders were signed with a single ‘I’, which gave them an authority within the Imperium second only to the word of the God-Emperor Himself.

Inside the scroll case had also been a string of rosarius beads. It was a traditional message. If you defy these orders, they implied, then use these beads to pray, for prayer is your only hope of deliverance.

Events moved slowly in space, given the vast distances involved. The pict screen flicked between the views of the fleeing Parliamentarian ships, and the single vessel, its livery gold and black, that drifted in from its concealed observation position behind one of Molikor’s moons. This ship, of which N’Kalo did not know the name, had arrived at Molikor so quickly it must have possessed archeotech or even xenos drives to have made so rapid a journey through the warp.

It was a vessel of the Inquisition. N’Kalo needed no communications with the craft to know that. His flag-captain had hailed it anyway and, as expected, there had been no reply. The Adeptus Astartes had done their job on Molikor. Now the Inquisition took over, and they answered to no one.

N’Kalo had seen quarantine orders enforced before. He hoped that everyone had got off Molikor safely. Though he had little love for the Parliamentarians, once the lead conspirators had been weeded out those who remained would be largely blameless Imperial citizens. The Inquisition would quarantine the world, destroy the spaceport and let it be known that it was forbidden thanks to the bizarre warp disturbance beneath its crust that caused it to spew its dead out as mindless facsimiles. The Parliamentarians who had sought to exploit the pit would be tried, questioned and probably executed for dabbling so willingly in matters of the warp. N’Kalo did not think much about their fates. Worse things happened to better people with every moment in the Imperium. He would not waste his thoughts on them. This was a grim business, but he had faith that this was the way it had to be.

The Soul Drinkers did not have faith, not in the Imperium. Perhaps that was understandable, thought N’Kalo. He had seen the same things they had, the same brutality and the spiteful randomness of how the fortunes of the Imperium were parcelled out. He had not strayed beyond the Imperial line – he had informed the Inquisition of the threat on Molikor, after all – but he was forced to wonder, considering the recent events there in his cell, whether he would have to have seen many more injustices to end up renegades like the Soul Drinkers.

‘Commander N’Kalo,’ came a vox from the flag-captain. ‘We are receiving a communication, tagged for you by name.’

‘Send it,’ said N’Kalo.

‘Greetings, commander,’ said a voice that, until a short time ago, had been an unfamiliar one reaching N’Kalo’s ears through the gunfire and crunching branches of the forest gap.

‘Sarpedon,’ said N’Kalo. ‘I had not expected you to still be around. You should be warned that the Inquisition would dearly love to listen in.’

‘My ship has communications even the Inquisition cannot intercept in a hurry,’ replied Sarpedon. His voice was transmitted in real time, meaning the Soul Drinkers and their ship had to be close by. ‘I wanted to thank you for doing the right thing by Molikor and the Eshkeen. You could have followed the Imperial line, but you did not. That takes something beyond mere bravery.’

‘I did not turn in the Parliaments of Molikor to garner thanks,’ replied N’Kalo. ‘I did it because it had to be done. The moral threat on that world could not have been left unchecked. But I am glad that I was not the instrument of injustice and so I should pay thanks to you, for showing me all the paths I might take.’

‘And yet I suspect that your gratitude will not prevent you from turning in a renegade and a mutant like myself,’ said Sarpedon, ‘and so I must leave here.’

‘I concur, Sarpedon. That would be wise. I have one question before you go.’

‘Speak it.’

‘What happened to the Eshkeen?’

N’Kalo thought he heard a small chuckle. ‘Do not fear for them,’ said Sarpedon. ‘My Chapter possesses the means to transport them somewhere they can start anew, and where the Imperium will not rediscover them for a very long time.’

‘I see. For my sake it is best I leave it at that. Fare well, Sarpedon, and I shall pray that our paths do not cross, for I feel if they do I must fight to bring you in.’

‘I shall pray for that too, Commander N’Kalo. Emperor’s speed to you.’

The comm-channel went dead.

In the hours to follow, the scanners of the Judgement Upon Garadan detected the possible signature of a ship making a warp jump near the outlying worlds of the Molikor System. The signature suggested a ship far bigger than any Imperial craft, however, and one that seemed dark and shadowy as if cloaked by some stealth system beyond Imperial technology. N’Kalo did not challenge his flag-captain when the event was logged and dismissed as a sensor error, and the Soul Drinkers vanished from the Chapter history of the Iron Knights.

[0.5 Кота]

В 2-ух словах?

[0.5 Кота]

Товарищи. Пока не начался новый конкурс, хотел бы задать вопрос.

Что там у кого есть?

Конкретно:

AN_XI, первая часть "Пира Клинков" закончена?

Мэд, когда ждать обновления "Мортис"?

Реанн, "Неиссякающий"? Моему персу нужен повод для встречи с ЖР или персонажем Линкс.

Изменено 17 марта, 2011 пользователем CTEPX

[Свинота безграмотная]

По сабжу "Неиссякающего" - остановился пока в тексте первой главе, тупо нет времени. Как уже говорил, выходит - либо вычитка, либо рассказ :( "Регицид" и "Реквием Прометея" взяли меня за горло, гады, и не дают даже воздушку вдохнуть, т.е. нормально сгенерировать хотя бы мало-мальски полезную идею.

Изменено 17 марта, 2011 пользователем Dэн

[Летающий Свин]

Мэд, когда ждать обновления "Мортис"?

Ы! Даже не знаю. Буквально только что сдал переводческую практику в универе, еще должен перевести книгу, если и возьмусь за "Мортис", то не раньше чем через 2-3 недели.

[samurai_klim]

У меня то все готово и расписано, но руки не доходят. Пытаюсь до конкурса дописать про кнехтов, хоть часть.

[Erenarch]

БЛ охренели, опять в ХиБ 6 история про ЖР, как вам, блин? >

пока не читал, на вопросы пока не отвечу.

Изменено 25 марта, 2011 пользователем Erenarch

[Дарт Йорикус]

Эренарх, это называется ноосфера. Ваши мысли просочились через Астрал в головы авторов БЛ и послужили им вдохновением.

[Erenarch]

короче, в принципе рассказ отстой, ниче нового про ЖР там нет, тока резня и разглагольствования как ЖР заботятся о людях (даже шлемы не надевают, чтобы не дай Бог завести людей в вакуум (в улье? :o ), а самим об том и не знать, хотя что мешает им их надеть, но открыть вентиляционные решетки ХЗ?)

Изменено 26 марта, 2011 пользователем Erenarch

[Erenarch]

кстати, про ИКП тоже упоминается

The Space Marines looked at each other. Each felt the guilt of their chapter, each felt the determination to atone for the sins of their fellow Iron Knights.

кстати, вот еще про причину ИКП

The daemon giggled at the sight of Goedendag.

‘How appropriate,’ said the daemon. ‘For the Iron Knights have their secrets, do they not?’

‘And you are a Keeper of Secrets,’ replied Goedendag.

‘What is your name?’

‘Goedendag Morningstar.’

There was silence, broken only by the ever present dripping of blood.

‘Don’t you wish to know my name?’ asked the daemon.

‘No.’

A look of petulance crossed the daemon’s face, like that of a small child denied a toy. It quickly passed.

‘And yet I believe I do hold a secret you wish to know. Do you wish to know the location of your brethren?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The daemon laughed.

‘I know that you are lying. Everyone knows of the penitence of the Iron Knights. Few outside the order know the reason. I am one of them. I am a Keeper of Secrets, and I know the location of your traitor brethren. It lies beyond the portal, Goedendag Morningstar, but I think you know that already. Why else would you have come here?’

‘My daughters are here. It would appear the comrades you left behind on the floor below have fallen, Goedendag Morningstar.’

‘It is no disgrace to die in battle.’

‘The traitors you seek thought otherwise, Goedendag Morningstar. They chose Chaos, Goedendag Morningstar. And you nearly chose the same!’

‘I came to destroy you.’

‘So you say. Come, Goedendag Morningstar. Soon the portal will open fully. Why not pass beyond it? Join your dark brethren. Join the Iron Knights that you call traitors.’

ну и предателей называют Железное Братство

Изменено 26 марта, 2011 пользователем Erenarch

[Erenarch]

ну и с немецкими именами мы угадали :)

правда не понятно почему Ortrud это ОН, а не ОНА, учитывая, что его боевого брата зовут Telramund?

[Свинота безграмотная]

Ну, что я могу сказать. Хоть это и попахивает банальщиной, похоже надо загонять в предатели какую-нить роту+/- сочувствующие <_<

[0.5 Кота]

А мне кажется, что нужно писать росказы. А то я ленюсь, остальные по конкурсам разбежались.

[Erenarch]

Ну, что я могу сказать. Хоть это и попахивает банальщиной, похоже надо загонять в предатели какую-нить роту+/- сочувствующие <_<

кстати, а мб сделать то просто сопутствующей, а не основной причиной ИКП?

[AN_XI]

Первую часть выложу, когда вернусь из Москвы, где я щаз обретаюсь.

[Erenarch]

а в Питере не будешь проездом?

[AN_XI]

а в Питере не будешь проездом?

Может в мае.....

[Erenarch]

ну как будешь, напиши. ;)

[Дарт Йорикус]

Прочёл этот рассказ. Забавно. Кое что меня просто убило.

‘I don’t think so. And so, Goedendag, before you die, I have one final question to ask you. Goedendag means Morningstar, does it not?’

‘It does. This is the last question you wish to ask me?’

‘No, you interrupt me. Your name, therefore, is Morningstar Morningstar. Why is that?’

Привет Лиону Льву! :image010:

[Erenarch]

нет, там не канает, у чувака было 2 "утренних звезды", а Лев там один, как ни крути. Изменено 27 марта, 2011 пользователем Erenarch

[Дарт Йорикус]

Нет, там не канает, у чувака было 2 "утренних звезды", а Лев там один.

Почему же один? :) Двое. Лион Эль"Джонсон, что по-калибански значит Лев Сын Леса, и убитый им калибанский лев. =)

[Erenarch]

нет, Лев с собой не таскал калибанского льва, а ЖР таскал с собой 2 утренних звезды на спине, поэтому и звали его Моргенштерн в квадрате.