Accept
Any Challenge
In the heart of the mountains, unnoticed for a thousand years, the warp portal stood, a towering edifice of darkness within darkness. It had lain there, dormant, for thousands of years, oblivious to the rise of the Ork Warboss Gornob Grimskragga on the surface; unaware of the arrival of the Black Templars to claim it’s world for humanity and the Imperium of Man. For a week battle had raged over and around it without ever coming close, and still it had lain in darkness. Now the time was right. It began to awaken. In the last week Darius had fought three battles against the Orks, the greenskins who had held this planet for hundreds of years. The light of the Emperor had come to Korros and it had burned the Orks away. Now his mission was simple. Engage and Destroy. Hunt down any Ork survivors and kill them. Darius had survived his first blooding and was eager for more, and so he had pressured his master, Initiate Gideon, into joining the roving squad. Thirteen Templars, the amalgamated survivors of two squads from the last battle, and gifted with a Land Raider Crusader, a huge ceramite tank, armed and equipped for roving destruction, plus a four-man bike squad to escort the armoured vehicle. Looking around the Crusader’s armoured interior he saw Gideon kneeling in prayer in the tank’s tiny shrine and he moved to join his master in homage. The two couldn’t have been more different. Darius was eighteen, slim, dark-haired with relics of his tribal sideburns, the only memory of his homeworld. Clad in the light armour of a Neophyte, Darius had been one of the lucky few that had become Black Templars. Out of a hundred aspirants, fourteen had made the grade to become Neophytes and receive training by the side of an older Marine. Gideon, on the other hand, was far bulkier and looked middle-aged. The truth was he was over a hundred years old, the Templar upgrades and implants making him seem a third of that. Greying hair, steely, piercing blue eyes and a gruff, zealous manner made him an ideal master, but one tinged with a sardonic sense of humour. In a training assignment the Templar had very nearly killed Darius to teach him respect, and since then they had fought together, not just as pupil and teacher, but also as comrades, in the Korros Crusade. The first battle had been won, but the Ork Warboss had escaped and they had standing orders to seek him out. Gideon’s head swung up as his protégé approached. “Ah, Darius. Having conned me into accepting this mission, you now seek to corrupt my soul by distracting my prayers? I should scourge your soul for this!” “My apologies, brother Gideon, but I thought you would wish to know this. Grimskragga has been sighted, and we go now to face him in a cleft of the mountains.” Darius’ reply was a little tremulous – Gideon was not above inflicting pain to teach a lesson, as the embarrassing incident on Mira had shown. “Then I
shall spare you the lash in favour of arming myself, boy. I advise you to pray
– after all, you have at least one sin to repent – before doing likewise.
Ferrus!” This last shouted to the Crusader’s driver. “How long till we
reach the plain?” The old Templar in the driver’s seat turned to face him, a slight smile on his wrinkled face. “Eager for the showdown, Gideon? Four klicks and closing, brother. Let’s hope we succeed where Macai failed, eh?” By this he was referring to the Crusade’s Champion, who had failed in his objective to challenge Gornob and had returned to the ship, disgusted, to flagellate for his failure. “We’ll show him how it’s done. Now on your knees, Neophyte, and let’s hear some sincerity this time, hmm?” The warpgate pulsed with a deep purple light, the strange shapes and patterns reflecting off the cavern walls. With each swirl of light came a dull throb, growing louder and more frequent until the walls trembled. From the darkness within strode a tall, black-armoured figure, then another and another, until forty stood before the gate. Their time had come. Now they would take their world back, whoever held it now. Warboss Gornob Grimskragga surveyed his troops. Twenty Boyz, a few bikers and a pair of Killa Kanz left out of an army that had stomped half a dozen worlds. Zoggin’ ‘ell. All that work to have it ruined by a bunch of weirdo humies. All that chantin’ and prayin’ business was beyond Gornob. He lived to fight and fought to live, just like every Ork. Looking to the left, he saw his loyal second-in-command, Magrot, racing back from the edge of the stinkin’ hole the Boyz had camped in. Magrot was yelling something, something about Beekies. Good, Gornob thought. Let ‘em come. Let ‘em die. The Crusader tore around the corner and sped into the mountain cleft, the two Hurricane bolters blazing. A medium-sized mob of Orks, two small Dreadnoughts and three or four crude bikes. Hardly worth the pursuit, although many Orks had doubtless fallen by the wayside as the Warboss pushed them harder and harder to escape. The bikes were speeding away from them, out of range now, and the bolters ceased fire. The Crusader’s vast armoured bulk sped down the ravine, tracks churning up the ground, leaving the mark of the Emperor on the planet’s soil and soul. Ferrus glanced out of the viewport before punching the control that would awaken the vehicle’s machine sprit. The tiny computer, easily the equal of a normal gunner, slowly ground into life, programming itself with mission and target data. The twin assault cannon above Ferrus suddenly blazed into life, superior range and strength ripping two of the Ork machines apart. The other two bikers, skidded back into line with the other Orks and gunned their engines, waiting for the order. Gornob came into view, brandishing his massive axe and bellowing commands at his Boyz. Still out of range. Ferrus cursed under his breath before bellowing into the troop chamber, “Suit up, brothers, we’re going in!” Then he hit the accelerator and the Crusader lurched forward. Victory awaited. Glory or Death. Slowing to a halt, firing at point blank range, the Crusader opened its troop hatch. The Templars poured out of the interior, bolt pistols blazing, covered by the assault cannon and Hurricane fire. Gideon led the charge, his weapon’s explosive bullets into the nearest Ork. Darius ran behind him, blasting at the next. To his rear, eleven voices joined the battlecry. “NO PITY! NO REMORSE! NO FEAR!” Battle was joined. Thirteen Templars ploughed into sixteen Orks, the bikers gone beneath a hail of fire. Darius’ heart sang with battle-frenzy as he claimed his fifth kill of the campaign, the Ork going down as it swung its axe to strike him. Too slow. Gideon, next to him, powerfist slaying an Ork with every stroke. On the other side, a Templar fell to a chainaxe stroke before its wielder was in turn slain by another Neophyte, Christus. The enemy’s numbers were thinning, struck down by explosive bolt or buzzing chainsword. Darius brought his pistol up to pulverize an Ork that lay in the dust, having been staggered by the impact of a falling corpse. As he did, his leg twisted in the recoil and he fell. Suddenly, he became aware of movement. The Orks were parting, moving aside. Looking ahead, Darius saw nothing, but then he heard a loud whirr of hydraulics. And then a huge, metallic foot obscured his vision. A small Dreadnought stood among the melee, hacking down a Templar with a buzzsaw the size of a man’s chest. The other ploughed in behind it, a heavy automatic weapon – big shootas, the Orks called them – blazing away at the Crusader, shells pattering off. Darius saw his master roll beneath the first Dreadnought, evading the sweeping claw, before Gideon’s powerfist shot up into the heart of the Ork war machine. It keeled over and fell, crushing three Orks. Gideon stood up, dusted himself off and returned to the Ork he’d been in the process of smashing. The second dreadnought closed on the Crusader, its claw descended and there was a crash of metal and a shower of sparks. The machine spirit, blinded, uttered a mechanical shriek of rage. Atop the tank, a hatch opened and a Templar gunner grabbed the multimelta that stood there. The weapon swung down, pointed at the dreadnought, and obliterated it in a loud hiss of superheated air. Darius dragged himself upright and saw Gornob entering battle behind his Boyz, his presence keeping them in the fight. No Templar was anywhere near him yet Darius saw him fall forward, screaming defiance in his crude tongue. Now came the last, the leader. He gestured with a long, languid hand and the lead warriors raised their weapons. Bursts of energy slammed into the passage. Dead end no more, the mountain split open and light shone on the warpgate for the first time in three thousand years. From the side of the mountain came the roar of falling rock, then from the darkness strode a force of tall, spindly beings that moved with extraordinary grace and speed, brandishing long rifles that slew an Ork with every shot. Among them were some who were clad in lighter, scantier armour and warpaint, armed with pistols of the same sort, and fearsome bladed weapons decorated in the same runes that adorned their skin. At their rear came a flying vehicle, a spearlike shape of dark metal that fired bolts of some hugely powerful energy into the throng. Each one oblivionized anything they hit, firing on Templar and Ork alike. At the head of the dark cadre was a warrior clad in a shield of darkness, surrounded by armoured warriors who bore strange, two-handed weapons and wore black helms that spat death at any who approached. Gideon stood upright amidst the confusion and bellowed to Darius, “Dark Eldar! The raiders of the night! With me, brother Templars! Accept any challenge, no matter the odds!” But his words came too late. Already he was alone, surrounded. Gideon felled the first Eldar in a single blow from his powerfist, but a war-painted, savage, female warrior struck him down with her blade. Darius screamed, a primal sound of fear and rage, his master fallen in their third battle – so soon, so sudden. He flung himself forward, and as he did an Eldar raised its rifle and shot him down. He felt the splinter pierce his neck and then he fell into darkness and knew no more. When he
awoke the battlefield was bare, save for the bodies of the dead. Staggering
upright, he saw the Crusader, blasted open and gutted, its tiny shrine
desecrated and weapons destroyed. Darius shook his head to clear the throbbing
pain, and then he remembered. Gideon falling to the warrior-woman’s blade –
but not dead, he was sure Gideon had to be alive. He recalled the shot from a
splinter rifle that had knocked him out. Gingerly, he felt the cut on his throat
– only shallow. He looked around and spotted a dead Templar biker, head
smashed open by a crude axe that was now lodged in his cold skull, his vehicle
miraculously undamaged. Without thinking, Darius pushed it upright and swung his
leg into the saddle, gunned the engine and rode for the end of the valley. He
was going to make amends. He was going to rescue Gideon.
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