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.

As Dawn’s fingers pull the face of the sun upwards into the sky, the Trader’s village is illuminated for the first time since we arrived. Half a dozen houses cough black smoke into the sky as they burn to the ground. My kinsmen march our prisoners out past the palisade and next to the stream; each on carrying a bundle of valuables or food. A few more of our raiders round up the Trader’s lizard like grox and order more of the former traders to hitch them to their wagons. Down by the stream we have them pile their goods into piles, then herd them like cattle into small bunches of five or six like-sexed prisoners. Tears run down the faces of the women and children, while the few remaining men scowl darkly at us when they think we aren’t looking. A few protest their treatment, but are quickly silenced by a jab of a spear or slash of a blade. Once we had dispatched the village’s warrior folk, we took to feeding our many hungers. Twas a night of debauchery and pain as we celebrated the way conquerors have celebrated since the beginning of time; with cruelty and wild abandon.

Now, though we are tired from a long night of toil and pleasure, we prepare our forty or so new slaves to depart. The quicker we get them moving, and stop them thinking, the better. We are far less prepared for an uprising than we let on.

I am assigned to guard a knot of prisoners being tied together, hands behind backs, by another group of raiders. Soon those lines shall be tied to the backs of the captured wagons, and we will begin the long march back to our own lands. It took us five days and nights to reach the Trader’s village; the Clanlord believes that we can return home in twelve days, provided we get an early start and make good time.

I occupy my time deciding which woman I will claim as my prize. For saving his life from a Trader assassin during our debauchery, the Clanlord promised me the first pick of spoils; before himself even. It had been a very close call.

I caught the eye of a pretty young thing with straw colored hair and a face as innocent as a newborn elk calf. When she saw the look on my face and the gleam in my eye, her head quickly drooped towards the ground and she began to shake. I laughed.

Then I began to hear something… strange. It was low, as if it came from far away. It buzzed like an insect, but whined like a mewling child as well. I take a quick look around, both my kinsmen and our prisoners hear it as well; they all look quizzically to and from one another as they try to find its source. The Clanlord barks a command, and the raiders form a loose circle around our captives; ever third man faced inward, to still any thoughts of revolt.

We stare outward in every direction for many long moments. As time passes, the sound grows in strength, as if getting nearer. Even my most steadfast and experienced kinsmen begin to show visible signs of fear; many tensed or shifted their weight from foot to foot. The gathering roar broke amongst us louder and more violently with each passing second. Now most of the prisoners were in sobbing and huddling together in fear.

The sound reached its zenith just as a blackened blur shot over the trees and the village. Faster than an arrow from a bow and more graceful than a bird it cut to the side and began to circle us.

My eyes can hardly track it; it moves so fast it appears that there are many. A thought strikes me like a bolt of lightning: there are many of them. The first blur was joined so quickly by another and another that we never saw them arrive.

With a series of loud pops, dozens of balls trailing green and blue smoke slam into our midsts and all at once we begin to cough. The wailing from the blurs lowers ever so slightly and I just barely notice that they are both slowing and lowering. I can now make out five forms; like ships with razors for prows the sailed around and around in the air. Lithe, graceful figures teemed and danced all over their exteriors.

I began to feel dizzy, and my watering eyes started to loose focus. My drowning mind barely recognized the smoke as the cause of my illness. All around me my kinsmen were stumbling around or dropping to the ground, clawing at their faces.

I grip my spear as tightly as I can and run forward, away from the smoke. With that slight respite from the assault on my mind and senses I notice a number of my kinsmen doing the same. As I look forward I see that many of the lithe figures have jumped off of their monstrous rides and were slowly stalking towards us.

Tall as any many I have ever seen they saunter forward with an eerie grace. At the end of their long, spindly arms their dexterous hands they pointed strange, multi-bladed spears at us. Their bodies are frighteningly skinny, and every movement they make seems at once both effortless and intimidating. Their jet black skin had strange, exaggerated features of muscles and joints, almost like paintings of such monsters, rather than the monsters themselves. Pointed, angular heads rested atop long necks. Horrible masks depicting monstrous and daemonic faces covered their features, but their eyes glowed a burning red color like the fires of hell.

Without warning the air was filled with a crazed whistling sound. I can just make out some sort of movement at the tips of their strange spears. With as much warning that heralded the start of the sound, my body is punctured by a swarm of angry stings like fiery needles. I look down and absently notice that needles are indeed sticking out of my flesh.

Then darkness.