Bulwark Against The Terror (Warhammer 40k Chapter Master Quest)

[Rolled 6, 65, 71]

The operation began with the muted cough of Tul'Ra's Mark IX Ultra-Pattern sniper rifle, all but imperceptible against the background noise of the Ork fortress. The subsonic bullet sailed lazily through the air, arcing over the fortress before gravity pulled it inexorably downward. It sliced through a loop of metal, before embedding itself in the dirt floor.

A moment later, a Gargantuan Squiggoth trashing angrily against its bindings found one of the chains holding it in place had suddenly gone slack. With a wrench of its enormous bulk, the ill-tempered creature broke the remaining chains in a succession of metallic snaps, before letting loose a roar that seemed to shake the ground itself. Several Ork Meks that had been attempting to bolt a battle-howdah onto the beast's back were thrown off by the sudden movement, their bodies trampled to paste by the Squggoth's titanic feet.

A moment later, explosions rippled across the Squig Pens, sending bodies flying and debris flying. Did ordnance fall out of the half-completed howdah, or did the Squiggoth step on something volatile? The Orks certainly wouldn't know, or care. What they cared about was the rampaging Squigs, their cages torn open by the explosions or the growing stampede. And so in turn, the greenskins rushed into the fight.

Which meant that they did not see the grey shadows creeping upon the opposite side of the base, camo-cloaks shielding them from the sight of the few sentries left in place. Tul'Ra and his squad reached the base of the walls and began to climb, combat knives and gene-wrought strength punching handholds in the stone.

Tul'Ra reached the battlements first, firing his sniper rifle from the hip and taking the head off a surprised Ork sentry. The other Ork in the small watchpost reacted slowly, grunting in surprise and raising it's shoota towards Tul'Ra, but before it could fire Mathias and Nathieu leapt onto it, combat knives flashing. First they relieved it of the hand fumbling for the trigger, before plunging their blades into its brain stem.

Tul'Ra nodded in satisfaction, heaving the headless corpse of the Ork he'd killed and tossing it over the battlement to plunge down to the ground far below. The impact would hide any identifying wound marks, should the Orks even care to investigate the death.

"Another lesson. Infiltration tactics must suit the target." Tul'Ra growled as the Scouts threw the other greenskin off the wall as well. "If I catch one of you trying this trick against Eldar, I will personally flay your hide."

With that, Tul'Ra strode over to the other side of the watchpost and detached the scope of his rifle, studying the inner fortress. It was as haphazardly built as anything crafted by Orks, constructions of stone, metal and wood jammed in between the enormous tree trunks whose canopies hid it from aerial scouting. Thousands upon thousands of greenskins were streaming towards the ongoing scrap in the Squig Pens, fighting to subdue the rampaging beasts the Steel Dragons had freed.

"Many weapon stockpiles. Chariots and wagons to be drawn by squigs." Lucaster noted. "These Orks are preparing for war."

"All Orks are." Tul'Ra grunted. "We must find out more." He gestured towards the inner fortress. "Split into pairs, we need to cover a lot of ground very quickly before the Orks deal with our distraction. Greenskins won't keep documentation, but their operative security is non-existent. Listen in, take a look around, and figure out what they've been up to since Ghazghkull left."

With silent acknowledgements the Scouts moved out, camo cloaks melding into the darkness. The sun had long since settled beyond the horizon, for what little light it provided this deep in the jungle. Instead the fort was illuminated by oily torches, the flickering flames casting long shadows.

Tul'Ra advanced through the base on his own, slipping from cover to cover like a liquid shadow. He noted the progress of his students, working their way through the fortress in teams of two, hidden from Ork sentries but not his keen eyes.

This would serve as a fine graduation test. It would test their limits, and indeed some may well perish. But those who survived the anvil would emerge forged anew, proven in the fire as the Primarch had intended.

How many times had he performed this role, shepherding young warriors into battle to earn their place among the Chapter's ranks?

Hundreds, if not thousands of times, over three centuries of service. Yet it was the first time he did so bearing not the emerald green of the Salamanders on the pauldrons of his carapace armour, but the dull grey of the Steel Dragons.

It was still a change that sometimes took him by surprise when he looked down, even after nearly a decade. It had not been as hard on him as it had been for others, for his family on Nocturne had long since passed, and he knew that N'Varr had found the departure particularly painful. Even so, it had not been easy to divest himself of ancient tradition and ties of brotherhood, to dedicate himself to a world that was not his own.

Armageddon was a worthy planet to call home. But it was not his home. It was not Nocturne.

Sometimes he wondered if Chapters such as the Ultramarines or Dark Angels found the pain of separation easier, having been taught to expect the possibility from the beginning. But in the end, what he felt didn't matter. Duty was duty, and ultimately such issues would lose meaning after a few centuries, when he and the other Nocturne-born Steel Dragons would pass on to Chapter legend.

Slipping into a nook between a misaligned stone wall and a crooked, winding street Tul'Ra stopped to listen as a mob of Orks

"Move it ya gitz!" One of the Nobs bellowed, waving its huge club in the air as it directed the smaller Orks towards the ongoing fight at the Squig pens. "Zurgog iz gonna be mad if all 'is Squigz get krumped just when we woz 'bout ta head out!"

Filing the information for later, Tul'Ra made his way towards the center of the fortress. It was a crude thing, an elevated area with a central courtyard and a large throne adorned with many bones and trophies sitting at the center of it. The skeleton of a vast snake looped several times around the base of the seat before going up to drape over the backrest, a large skull with a pair of sharp fangs on display over where the sitting Ork's head would be.

Yet, of the Warboss there was no sign.

Something was starting to bother Tul'Ra. In the entire fortress, he'd only seen Snakebite symbols. There was the Red Skull, but that was Snikrot's insignia. Which left the question, where were the Blood Axes?

[Rolled 35, 53, 85]

Just then, the blare of horns could be heard from the direction of the fortress gates, and Tul'Ra could soon make out the tread of heavy boots and bestial grunts.

A large warband of Orks wearing emblems of blood-stained axes on strips of camouflage stomped into the fortress, at their head a massive Warboss sporting a red skull crudely painted over its face. In sharp contrast to the Snakebites it was heavily equipped, with plates of metal armour and strips of combat webbing filled with grenades. A huge multi-barrel shoota was casually slung over its shoulder, while its other hand ended in a snapping power klaw. The newcomers made their way to the fortress' central courtyard surrounded by wary Snakebites, before the Warboss stepped forward, visibly taking in a deep breath.

"ZURGOG!" It bellowed with a voice that echoed across the jungle, several nearby Orks flinching backward from the sheer volume. "WHERE'Z YA LOUSY 'SCUSE OF AN ORK?!"

"GASTRUKK!" Came the equally loud roar of outrage from the direction of the Squig Pens, and a moment later another Warboss of similar size emerged, clad in armour of rattling bones topped off with a Squig-skull totem mounted on its broad shoulders. On one hand it carried an enormous choppa the size of a small aircraft wing, while the other held a bone-tipped spear seemingly made from the trunk of a small tree, several more bound across its back. "Can't ya see I'z BUZY?!"

The two Warbosses squared up against each other on the courtyard, their respective clans gathering behind them albeit at a respectable distance. Gastrukk was slightly taller but Zurgog was fractionally broader, leaving them roughly equal in overall size.

" 'z not MY fault if ya can't control you'z own Squigs." Gastrukk grunted, its power klaw snapping idly. "Wot's diz I'z been hearin' from you'z boyz 'bout ya zoggin off to fight da humies? Did ya forget Da Plan already?"

"Da Plan." Zurgog snarled with derision, spitting on the ground between them. "We'z propa Orkz, made for fightin' an' winnin', not muckin' about. Not dat ya Blood Axes would know anyfin' about dat. We'z gonna krump da 'umies an' knock down da cities, like Ghazghkull told us ta."

"An' where's Ghazgkull now? Zogged off across the galaxy when da goin' got tough, dat's where. So now'z we follow Snikrot, becuz he'z da biggest an' da meanest. An' Snikrot says he'z got a Plan."

"I don' see Snikrot 'ere either." Zurgog growled as the two circled each other.

"Snikrot ain't 'ere becuz you ain't worth 'iz time. He'z da Green Ghost o' Armageddon." Gastrukk retorted, stepping close to the other Warboss and glaring it down. "An' if he hears you'z messin' up Da Plan, he'z gonna come in da night, take you'z scalp, and leave it 'ere for you'z boyz to find when da mornin' comes. 'z dat what ya want ta happen?"

Zurgog took a step back, glowering at Gastrukk with a look of defiance.

[Rolled 23, 22, 1.]

Before the two Warbosses could get into it any further, one of Gastrukk's Nobs entered the courtyard, a bloody choppa in one hand and dragging something with the other.

" 'ey boss! Look at what I'z found lurkin' 'round!"

With a heave, the Ork tossed Brother Lucaster's body on to the floor, blood seeping onto the stone from the massive wound on his chest nearly splitting him in two.

"Nargoz ya stupid git, why'd ya kill 'im?" One of the other Nobs growled. "We'z coulda 'terrogated 'im, good and propa."

"Deze is dem marine-boyz, ya git. Ya can' 'terrogate 'em, dey just won' talk."

"Dat'z what makes it so fun ya git, you'z can just keep on goin' wiff no end."

"Shut the zog up." Gastrukk grunted, silencing the two bickering Orks instantly. "If an' dere'z one of 'em, dere'z more."

"Marines, in ME fortress?!" Zurgog bellowed. "FIND 'EM, BOYZ!!!"

Tul'Ra had already activated his commbead while the Orks were talking, given that vox silence was pointless at this point.

"Magos Talisian." He grunted, holding his camo-cloak over his mouth. The audio-muffling properties of the cameleoline would keep his position from being compromised. "I require a teleport extraction on my squad's transponder coordinates, as soon as possible."

"I shall begin the Rites of Ignition." The Tech-Priest in charge of the Enginarium of the Voidflame returned. "It will take three hundred and seven seconds to rouse the machine spirits to readiness for the Rites of Translocation."

"I told you to keep the machine at the ready." He growled.

"Which is why it shall only take so long, Captain Tul'Ra." Talisian replied seamlessly. "But such delicate machinery cannot be kept on full standby for long. Now, unless there's anything else, I suggest you and I get back to our respective duties."

Tul'Ra shut off the channel with a muffled snarl of annoyance as he switched to squad frequency. Five minutes. Practically an eternity in the middle of the enemy fortress while they knew you were there.

Vote for how you're going to try to stay alive until extraction.
[] Fight
[] Run
[] Hide
[] Write-In