Dark Recruit

Some writefaggotry. The story is told in first person (mostly) and details the recruitment of a feral world barbarian into the ranks of a Chaos Space Marine warband.

Part 1: Raid Awry

I wake with a start from a light blow to my ribs. Though startled, I make no noise. Not tonight. Somewhere to my left another warrior, Braga, I think, is less careful. I hear a sharp crack off in that direction, good, someone shut him up.

The night is cold; I draw my leather coat closer to my chest as I try to separate my clansmen from the gloom; no fire is lit this night. Most of my kin has already awakened; soon it will be time to move. To my right sits Dag, wrapped in a warm cloak and picking up his spear. I repay him for striking my ribs with a punch to his arm. He is close enough that I can see him smile. I can make out few other details, but I know them well enough from memory.

Dag is clothed and armed like all of our kind; thick britches of fur cover his, our, legs, heavy coats of darkened leather hang from our shoulders, fine moccasins of elk-flesh keep our feat fleet and silent. We carry stone tipped spears or javelins of hardy, dark wood. Most of us sport long daggers of foreign bronze on our belts. Nearly all of us have brought hatchets of sharpened flint. We are armed to the teeth and have the advantages of speed and surprise; we make a fearsome lot.

I look eastward, towards the horizon, from whence we came; sunrise is still a ways off yet. I give little thought to the march. Five days we have traveled west, stopping only to fill our waterskins and to sleep through the hottest parts of the day. That is how it has always been; to march under the cover of night and to sleep through the treacherous day. Tonight, though, the Clanlord had us make camp just as the sun dove behind the western mountains; he wants us rested and ready for the raid.

From somewhere up ahead I hear an owl-call; the Clanlord orders us to move. I quickly grasp my spear, a weapon I crafted myself to be longer than I am tall, and take my place in line. I am placed near the front, with the rest of the younger raiders, where we can earn experience and scars like our elder kin. I have been in few battles before today, and never with such a large host. The mere size of our army was enough to excite me on the day we left; the Clanlord has gathered over three score warriors from the four villages for this raid; the largest force in living memory. Only a host of this size has any hope of taking the Trade Settlement; with their caravan’s returned, they will have many well armed warriors to defend it.

But the Clanlord is confident and that makes me confident. With this many warriors at his command, how could he possibly fail? Our people live off the land, hunting and farming and fighting. The Trade clans are soft and weak; they grow fat and rich off of our hard work and sweat. We are strong, we will win.

My thoughts give way as we start moving. The Clanlord’s pace is steady and quick; we eat up the final leagues of our journey in no time at all. I give silent thanks to the gods for giving him the wisdom to have us rest before the final leg; even by the time I see the silhouette of the Trader’s village my breath is still calm and even.

We slow our pace and spread out as we reach our destination. Never have I seen such buildings; they are built of wood and are twice as tall as anything I have seen before. Also, they are square. Why someone waste their time with four-walled structures when a simple circle works so well? Their wooden walls I understand; these buildings are permanent. Unlike our own yurts and tents that are designed to be quickly taken down and raised once more if we move or they get damaged, the Trader’s village is built to stay where they are built. This also means that every one of their buildings is essentially a small fortress. Am I starting to get nervous?

They built their homes in a fine place. A swift stream separates it from us, and a copse of trees rests on the far side. The land is cultivated and the settlement is surrounded by sea of grain; I suppose the Traders do work after all. I am glad, the tall crops provide us ample cover and hint at food stores; food stores that will be ours very soon. The younger raiders, myself included, ran out of food two days ago; our inexperience in rationing led to hungry days of marching. Lesson learned. We did manage to fell a pair of elk before making camp earlier this night, and the mouthful of raw meat that was given as my share meant that my stomach wouldn’t be completely empty for the coming battle; and the warm blood helped to keep me warm throughout the night.

If any of us were still groggy after our early morning run, we weren’t after we hit the water. Cold as ice and burning like fire it cut into us up to our knees. Our need for stealth prolonged our agony, moving fast through water is loud, but sharpened our focus. We were ready as we would ever be.

We reached the wall to find a wooden palisade blocking our way into the village. No matter. Those to get there fist cupped their hands and took a knee; I was one of the first to be propelled over the wall. As I reach the top I quickly scan the area and decide to launch myself onto the roof of the nearest building, there was nothing else of interest to either side. I land lighter than I expected, the Traders seem to cover their roofs with straw of some sort. Moving as silently as I can I dart forward and vault onto the next roof; the Traders were fools to build their homes so close together. After crossing over a few more rooftops and making my way to the far side of the village, Dag and I landed on a building larger than most of the others, we left the other buildings along the way to the raider behind us. Two more raiders join us, both fresh like Dag and me.

We wait for a moment until we hear the hooted command of the Clanlord, then begin hacking at the straw roof with nervous fervor. Within moments we forge a pair of holes and steel our nerves for what lies ahead.

With a quick nod to Dag and the others, I gently place my spear next to the hole and lower myself into the darkness below. I land with nary sound and freeze. Every joint and nerve in my body is taut like a drawn bowstring. I hear no sound, and quietly draw my bronze dagger; I curse my stupidity under my breath for not having done so before landing. I would have met with a quick and messy death had I landed amongst an armed and wakeful foe.

My eyes, already well adjusted to the gloom, discern the shape of the building interior. It is a long hall with a wooden portal at both ends. In the center of the room rests a fire pit of dying embers; identical ones are positioned on either side at even intervals in between the first and the doors. As I make out the shapes of another raider land below the other hole nearer the other side of the hall, I make a silent prayer of thanks that no one landed in the coals; things would have gotten loud and messy in a hurry. I move to the side as Dag lands beside me. I study the longer walls more closely and discover that they are made of some sort of fabric. Either side of hall is divided into five smaller sections of hanging cloth. I motion to Dag to move to one end of the hall, the other two raiders do the same on the other side.

We nod to each other and move into a room on either side of the hall, one for each of us. Hardly breathing, I tiptoe into my chosen room. It is dark, very dark, but I manage to make out the room’s contents; just some bushels of grain and hanging meat. I make quick pass around the room to make sure I didn’t miss any sleeping people; then make my way to the room’s second close wall. It dawns on me that the Traders designed this building as a single large room, probably to house an extended family. When it comes time to sleep, they hang large pieces of cloth from prepositioned hooks dangling from ropes set into support beams that make up the building’s slightly sloped ceiling. Rather sensible, when you think about it, I muse.

In the center of the second room lay a trio of fur wrapped bundles huddled together. I move closer and realize that they contain sleeping Traders. With an evil grin I crouch beside my first victim and see that it is a large, bald man with a thick beard. Next to him lies a much smaller figure, a child by the look of it. The third and final form belongs to a graying woman. A family, it appears; with both parents keeping their child safe and warm.

Well, not quite safe enough. After sparing only a second to reposition myself, I quickly cup my hand over the man’s mouth with my left hand and plunge my dagger through his chest. There is a wet spurt of warm blood and his eyes open in shock. Though already dead, his spasms wake the sleeping child at his side. With almost frantic haste rip my dagger free and slam its pommel onto the top its head. The awkward action causes me to stumble and I sprawl into the child’s unconscious lap; I catch myself, but only by groping the mother’s side.

She awakens groggily with a mumbled question on her lips. With little grace, I pull myself on top of her. Just as she opens her mouth to scream I jab my dagger into her throat. She dies messily, gurgling as her blood bubbles around my blade and clawing at my chest futilely. A long moment passes and she finally slumps into her furs, dead.

I slowly raise myself into a crouching position. While struggling to control my heavy breathing, I strain my ears for sounds of alarm; nothing from inside the hall or out. I breathe a sigh of relief and make my way into the next room.

I can’t decide if I should curse my luck or praise my fortune; the third room is occupied over half a dozen bodies. Fortunately, these are spread out more than those of the previous room. Quickly moving, almost hopping, from one sleeping figure to the next I make my rounds. Well practiced now, I dispatch an old man and woman, as well as a boy just older than I am that appeared to be a warrior. A swift crack from my pommel incapacitates another three, two young girls and a boy too young to hold a blade; but not to young to work. With two figures left I freeze as the curtain-wall moves aside and a figure passes through.

I prepare to lunge at it blade first, but stop as I recognize the familiar face of another raider. After a brisk nod of understanding, we each move towards to closest sleeping figure. We barely make it a step before a shrill voice screams in terror amongst the rooms on the other side of the building. The figure before me sits up with a start and begins to pat around his bedding for a weapon. I join the screams and challenges that now pierce the night with a bloody cry of my own and rush him.

I plant my foot on the flat of his blade just as his hand reaches it. He stares up at me for a moment before I start hacking downwards at his face. Three chops later and his cries of pain give way to whimpering as he gropes the ragged tears on his face and throat.

A cry of pain from the other rooms quickly draws my attention. Stopping only to gather up my victim’s sword I dash towards to sound of combat. I brush past the first curtain, leap over the dying fire pit, and rush into the room across the hall. My eyes scan the scene at once; many bodies litter the floor, Dag’s limp form included. The final raider, bleeding profusely from a score of wounds, has his back to the wooden wall and is flailing wildly at the three armed assailants that surround him. Without stopping I leap forward and jab my blade into the nearest Trader’s back. I notice only absently that the raider behind me had followed my charge and had engaged another man.

My victim barks a shout of anger and pain as he turns quickly but clumsily around at me. This catches me off guard and I pay for it when his sword cuts into my right arm; he falls dead with a smile on his face. Sparing not a moment I lunge at the final Trader. He turns to accept my attack but is stabbed in the back by the wounded raider; only a fool turns their back on an enemy, wounded or not.

A gargled cough of blood draws my attention to the battle between the final raider and Trader. My kinsman grips his foes shoulder with the thumb and two remaining fingers of his left hand. It would almost appear as if they were embracing were it not for the steam of blood pouring from the Trader’s mouth and the dip of a bronze blade protruding from his back. The raider lets his foe fall to the floor.

We stare at each other for half a moment; until our reverie is broken by the continued sound of conflict outside. Without a word we tighten our grips on our weapons and rush out to join the fray.

I stand in a field of flattened grain; at my feet, huddled together in fear, are some three score sobbing wretches. Tears stream down the faces of shaking women and children as they stare downwards and weep for their losses; homes, kin, freedom. Scattered amongst their number are the few men we managed to take alive; to their credit, most opted to die rather than suffer the shame of capture. They comfort the womenfolk, their weary arms over haggard shoulders, and glare up at us when they think we aren’t looking.

As I stand here, leaning on the haft of my spear, I stare back at the shambles of burning wood and flesh that was once a thriving village. I drown myself in the scenery, one day I shall relish the memories made last night. The palisade is colored red from blood dripping from corpses pinned to its side; the final fate of those that resisted. Black smoke is belching into the sky from the wrecked shells of the Trader’s homes. Even now, after most of my kin and I have sated our hunger and lust on the villages stores and women, a few screams still cut into my ears followed by the rumbling laughter of my raider comrades. Over by the gate a long line of prisoners pass food and valuables, hand over hand, onto wagons they once owned themselves; their new masters prodding them with spear and blade to move faster.

We are fortunate that the newly enslaved Traders are too engrossed in their own misery to notice how weary we, their captors, actually are. Memories of the killing and looting of the previous night are still fresh on my mind; by all rights many of us should be sleeping off alcohol headaches sore limbs. Altogether, they still outnumber us two to one; things could get awfully messy if they decide to try something.

The Clanlord doesn’t plan on letting that happen. As soon as the supplies are packed we are going to start heading back home, hard and fast. But even with the liberal application of spear points and whips we plan to use, the going will be much slower than the coming with so many prisoners. It took us five days and nights of forced marching to get here, it may take as many as twelve to get back. With this in mind, the Clanlord ordered some of our men to round up enough rope to tie our chattel together; until then we have to keep them working or under heavy guard.

Minutes turn into hours as I realize how tired I truly am. My feet are as sore as they have ever been and my eyelids feel like lead weights. I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from yawning. If it wasn’t for that accursed buzzing in my ear, I probably would have fallen asleep already…

Buzzing?

What buzzing?

When did that start?

I lift my weary head and look around. None of my fellows seem to notice, or are too damned tired to care. The victims at our feet, though, they hear it. Just as I notice it they begin to shake even harder than before. One girl quite close to me seems close to hysterics.

It is a disconcerting sound, though; like countless angry insects winging in every direction with all haste. And it’s getting louder.

Even the weariest of my kid are starting to hear it; they pop their heads up as if waking with a start and look around with confused looks hanging from their faces.

“Keep them quite,” I order them, pointing to the nearly frantic prisoners at our feet. “I’ll find the Clanlord,” I am fortunate that they are too tired to notice that the person giving them orders is many years their junior.

I jog towards the village as I hear a new sound join with the first; a high pitched wail that sounds like some sort of shrieking flute. It’s actually painful to hear; I drop my spear and clap my hands to my ears involuntarily. Am I crying out? I can’t tell.

Fighting against the agony in my head I try to look around. I am far from being the only person affected; everywhere I see slaver and slave alike clutching their ears, many have tears streaming from their eyes. A man to my left tries to shove leaves and grass into his ears.

A shadow passes over me with mind-numbing speed. I look upwards to find a sky filled with black and red shapes weaving in and out amongst themselves. Jagged shapes and sharp edges are all I can make out; they move faster than arrows in flight. Fighting an almost overwhelming urge to curl up on the ground and wish it all away I manage to get to my feet and begin stumbling towards the village.

What is Hell’s name is going on?

Where did these things come from?

Why, oh gods why won’t the shrieking stop?!

I pick up speed then stubble to the ground, clutching my leg. A blade of fire pierces my right calf. Burning… pain… agony… w-what is this? My gods … it hurts! My gods it hurts!

My hand flails wildly around the origin of my torture. Fingers. My fingers are bitten… bitten by something. I-I can’t think. I grab at… I grab at the thing biting me. It’s not biting me… A stick. My hand clenches around a stick. It’s in my leg. Everything is wet with warmth. Blood. My blood!

The stick. The stick is like- like a little arrow. An arrow- an arrow in me. The stick is hurting me!

I pull. I pull at it. I-I have to get it out of me! Oh gods it hurts!

H- have to get it… get it out.

Pull! Tug! Tear! Rip!

It’s out! Praise be to the gods it’s out!

I lay back, eyes closed, panting. The burning is gone! I could almost weep for the relief! The wound, it still hurts. Hurts like a normal wound, though. I can deal with that.

I open my eyes and sit up. The stick is where I dropped it, at my side. I reach to pick it up… Damnation! I snap my hand away from it; it burns at the touch.

I lean forward and examine it with my eyes alone. It’s the length of my hand, wrist to finger tip. I’m sure it’s sharp, but the tip is still covered in a small piece of meat. My meat; my flesh and skin. The thought snaps me into action. I lift my leg and examine the gapping hole in my calf. There will be a good scar there, one day.

I use my spear tip to cut a piece of leather off of my jacket, then grit my teeth as I shove it into the hole. I cut another piece, this one long and thin, which I use to tie the first one in place.

Good, that will last until I can treat it properly. I turn my attention back to my surroundings; my blood runs cold when I look up.

The black and red forms from earlier, as well as the shrieking sound that heralded their arrival some part of my mind realizes, have stopped. Now I can see them clearly; long, sharp, boat shaped things bedecked in blades and nets. How is it that they can… float a spear’s length above the ground like that? There is a lump in my throat that I cannot seem to swallow; it is as if my mind has broken.

Only things like birds can stay in the air like that! These horrors before me are abominations against nature.

I try to get to my feet, only to fall to the ground once more when I see a group of black-clad figures moving towards me.

They are tall, as tall as any man I have ever seen. They have bodies as black as night, and are naked; though metallic wires, blades, and hooks hang from them, giving them a sinister profile. Their muscles and curves are strangely exaggerated; like painted depictions of monsters rather than monsters in the flesh. Pointed heads bedecked with horn and blades rest atop their slender necks; but their faces are nearly nonexistent. Like blank masks they stare ever forward with eyes that burn like red fire. I can see neither noses nor mouths, but their revulsion I feel from seeing, or not seeing, their lack of facial features is by far outweighed by the way they move.

Lithe and graceful as hunting cats ready to pounce they glide forward effortlessly. Their movements are too smooth and unnatural and fast to be human; rather, they appear to me perverted, monstrous parodies of a man’s nightmares given form.

One of them glances in my direction and raises a many-bladed spear at me. But it doesn’t look like it is readying to throw it, it merely raises it to chest height gently; a challenge then. I will not be mocked for cowardice in this life or the next! I bite my tongue against the pain, draw my spear to my side, and pull myself to my feet. With a cry of war much weaker than I would have liked on my lips I charge forward, slowly, with the tip of my spear pointed directly at the monster’s chest. It makes no reaction.

Without warning the whole of my chest erupts in the fiery agony that had tortured my calf earlier. I scream in pain as I trip and land heavily on my right shoulder, reopening the wound given to me last night. Almost unable to breath I look down at my burning chest; half a dozen of the biting fire-sticks are protruding from the front of my jacket.

The p-pain is far worse than before! Panic wells in my throat, I cannot breathe. I-I have to g-get th-them out of m-me!

Gods it burns!

My g-gods how it b-burns!

OH GODS IT BUR…