The Disaster at Mot

Chapter 1: Planning An Attack

Gal-Uru closed his eyes and recited sacred scripture as he waited for his transport to complete the docking rituals. They were already within Naramutu’s bay, but the warship’s simpering slaves were clumsy and slow in completing the procedure. It brought a smile to Gal-Uru’s face to think of the torture that would be inflicted for this tardiness. Of course as High Demigaur he knew he could not always partake in festivities of slaughter; he had responsibilities to the Sherden Pact that, if neglected, would rightfully earn him lethal censure. But much though he took seriously the righteous work of directing the Mighty to Ascension, he did permit himself the odd indulgence in reward for work well done.

And this campaign was proving to be work very well done indeed. Mot’s great astropathic amplification centres would allow them to more directly coordinate with insurgents they were aiding elsewhere in the sector. Indeed, some goremages even thought that, infused with Khorne’s power, these relays may even enable contact with their long lost cousins in the Consanguinity. This latter especially was a long cherished goal of the Sanguinary Utnapishtim, now something of a miniature Empire in its own right. How great would be the carnage if they could coordinate across the Rift, something the Imperium’s weaklings found impossible. A great bridge of skulls reaching across the entire galaxy!

So to celebrate the breach of Mot-Tertium he had spent the past few days in an invigorating pursuit of tearing the throats out from over 888 enemy combatants. He had been somewhat unsure whether his 612th throat-tear — an elderly woman clearly lacking sight — had counted as a combatant per se. But she had made the matter easy for him by offering defiant words and frantically scratching at his skin as he approached her. Even she, in her own way, had proven worthy; she had drawn blood. Gal-Uru had been honoured to take her life (or, more specifically, her throat) in His name.

“Our empire prizes only war; on war we found our lives, and in war we earn our deaths. Through war we decide who is worthy of survival, who merits destruction,” Gal-Uru murmured to himself, only just managing to complete the verse before a shuddering boom marked the craft’s sudden halt. His hand had gone instinctively to his sword, and as the moment passed he couldn’t help but chuckle at his own foolishness — if this had been an attack on the ship surely he would not have been able to stab his way out of the problem. Still, as he returned the blade to his sheath he was pleased to see it still soaked in vitae; he should hate to enter aeternity with his blade unbloodied.

Striding back onto his command deck, the agonised screams of scourged slaves fresh in his ears, Gal-Uru was approached by his equerry. “Gal-Uru Demigaur, eightfold blessings on your return sir!” Dumuzi rattled off in that crisp voice of his. “How went the campaign?”

“Marvellous, Dumuzi, truly marvellous; a bronze throne is right now being raised in the gore soaked ruins of Mot-Tertium. Their eyes upon the river aeternal.”

Dumuzi piously echoed, “Their eyes upon the river aeternal,” before giving his report. Void superiority was maintained, 7th Philia had triumphed in the Murub foothills, and the Centurion had returned shortly before Gal-Uru himself.

All as expected, with just two exceptions. First, their attached Pater had requested Gal-Uru’s presence at the earliest opportunity. A pious man like Gal-Uru took frequent opportunity to engage in guided reading and contemplative prisoner-excoriating with Pater Kaašhk; if he felt the need to reach out it meant something must require urgent attention. Second, their astropaths were detecting enemy distress calls from a relatively distant sector, Imperium-designation “Stygius”. Typically the great warp storm, Atrahasis’s wrath, precluded such communiques. Clearly this was Khorne directing his Pactsmen to their next campaign. Gal-Uru ordered Dumuzi to convey Stygius’ coordinates back to command on Uruk, and went with due haste to see what Kaašhk had to say.

Along the way to the chapel Gal-Uru saw the hulking figure of the Centurion leaving the disarmament chambers. One of his Chosen companions left at the same time, twitching and tweaking as battle’s fury still coursed through his veins. Gal-Uru hoped that none of the more useful slaves crossed paths with him before he was able to calm himself. The relationship between the Sherden and the terrible Qarnu Anšar could be somewhat fraught. It was pointless for any individual mortal to try and give orders to Astartes, let alone those in service to Khorne. But, at the same time, by dint of sheer numbers and tactical acumen the Sherden Pactsmen probably outmatched the Qarnu Anšar collectively. Since their goals aligned, to attain the benefits of cooperation a polite fiction was maintained wherein the Astartes treated the orders of high ranking Sherden as simply suggestions, yet these suggestions were near invariably followed.

Gal-Uru was too pious to admit that worship of Khorne came with any downsides whatsoever, but he would perhaps grant that the tendency to slip into holy rage made maintaining diplomatic politeness challenging at times. Quick to anger and a proud bunch, even given the mutual advantages of this pretence (and the Qarnu Anšar’s relative disinterest in exact command structure so long as it provided regular opportunity to sate their blood lust) it was not unknown for civil war between mortal and Astartes to break out among Sherden war fleets where etiquette broke down and one side or the other felt a slight had been given. Fortunately, however, he and Centurion Izdubar had fought enough campaigns together to create a smooth functioning working relationship. And, in any case, whatever other problems he had with their somewhat ill disciplined behaviour, Gal-Uru was always in awe as he read the reports from his strategic advisors, and could not dispute that the Qarnu Anšar’s MPM (murder per moment) ratio was phenomenal.

So it was he greeted Izdubar with cheer and without hesitation. “Honoured Centurion! How goes the fight at the Śebaar Facility?”

“What Śebaar Facility?” Izdubar replied in deadpan, earning a laugh from both. “Those Imperial dogs defending the walls were barely worth putting down, but you were right that the sheer number of refugees that had flocked to the storage centres itself made for bloody slaughter. My men’s thirst was more nearly sated tonight than on any other I can recall. Your wisdom in guiding us there was appreciated, High Demigaur.”

“Think nothing of it!” Gal-Uru replied in turn, “The defenders may not have been much but the walls themselves were difficult to scale and it would have taken us much time to break through them without you. That, after all, is why those cowards thought themselves safe there. Without that granary and with the Murub passages sealed, the dogs in Mot-Secundus will be forced to face us in open battle on the plains. True battle, worthy of the throne! I trust your men shall be ready in time for this?”

“Know that we would not miss it for Skarbrand himself,” Izdubar replied, before respectfully nodding his head as both departed on their separate business about the ship.

Entering the chapel Gal-Uru was pleased to see many of the warriors he had returned with had themselves come immediately to prayer or meditation. Passing by, he heard whispered chants of holy words by warriors repairing their weapons. Others were reverently writing calligraphic battle verse, only occasionally stopping to prompt their muse by falling savagely upon a bound slave at their side. He was much pleased to lead so worshipful an army. The Sherden were, much like the entire Pact, convinced that it is only through disciplined warfare that one maximised one’s offerings to the skull throne. Amateurish slaughter without due foresight seemed like piety to the young and much impressed hotheaded fools, but they invariably led to being thwarted relatively early in what might otherwise have been a lasting affair. Mass carnage required organisation and focus — traits the Sherden often found disappointingly lacking in their coreligionists. So, inspiring though reckless enthusiasm could seem, it ultimately left blood unspilled — and no greater sin could there be. Where many Khornite cults spent a short few months bringing a mere planet or two into a state of righteous frenzy through their unrestrained battle lust, the rigidly disciplined Pact had for centuries wreaked carnage across entire sectors. All this to say, their methods got results and they were proud of it.

But, well, killing people really is rather fun. The Sherden were indeed a pious bunch, but by no means dour. Theirs was a joyous faith. Far be it from any of them - Gal-Uru least of all - to deny that it was not merely a duty but a pleasure to take skulls and shed blood, to wreak havoc and sow carnage, to test one’s might and offer a foe’s life or your own to His glory. And it was possible to get a bit carried away. While of course they had disciplinary mechanisms like any other reasonable military force, even they posed their own problems: punishment beatings were themselves the sort of thing one could get a bit too enthusiastic about, after all, and taken too far they would end up reducing their combat effectiveness and skewing the MPM ratio their strategists so carefully tracked. That would not do one little bit.

It was to this end that their meditative religious practices had been implemented. Those Sherden who found themselves unable to return to a rational state of mind after an extended period of action were taught (or where necessary made) to submit themselves to the chaplaincy wherein a Pater would attend to their spiritual needs. Typically this would involve things like reciting words from the Beauty of Slaughter, the most holy text in the entire Sanguinary Utnapishtim, while working on weapon maintenance. Where that would not suffice there might be bouts of ritual combat between squad-mates carefully presided over by their Katogaur. Thus it was the Sherden balanced the rigours of sustained war against the rapturous exultation of battle.

Passing through the chapel Gal-Uru entered Pater Kaašhk’s office, who he saw was finishing up a conversation with one of his lay brethren, Šakû. “… see that it is done. Their eyes upon the river aeternal,” Kaašhk said, receiving the expected echo from Šakû before he departed. Gal-Uru let Šakû pass before reverently making the sign of the Mighty to Kaašhk, a closed fist upon an open palm held before his chest. “Ah, you are here! You bring the skull throne glory through your victories, High Demigaur. But I have an urgent matter I must discuss with you. It is imperative that I and my brethren be allowed to deploy to Mot-Secundus.”

Gal-Uru was taken aback by this and did not hide as such in his reaction. Of course Kaašhk, Šakû, and all the lay brethren besides, were able warriors. One did not become a member of the Bloodson Disciples, lay or ordained, without proving oneself Worthy in battle. But their calling was typically to offer spiritually-inspirational violence to the Sherden and their slaves. Would it not disrupt their holy work, and the vital ideological function it served, for them to risk themselves behind enemy lines?

“I see my request troubles you Demigaur, please let me explain,” Kaašhk continued. “Yesterday I was aiding a Pactsmen returning from a state of sanctified vigour. He was the last survivor of Eighth Philia, but a Katogaur from the 29th had found him and brought him to my attention. As ever when I carry out such a duty, I made sure to note the words of one so close to communion with the tempest of souls, in order to discern whatever wisdom may lie there. And it was clear to me, High Demigaur, that between exultations of how great were the sights they had seen while infiltrating Mot-Secundus, the soldier was quoting from the fabled Thirteenth Catechism.”

Kaašhk paused for dramatic effect, and well he might. Upon even mentioning the text Gal-Uru instinctively made the sign of the Mighty once more and whispered “By all the blood in the river!” After collecting himself he asked Kaašhk “How can you know? And where can I find this soldier?”

“Alas he went into a fit and perished just 2 hours into meditative bleeding, it seemed Khorne had need of him in the battle aeternal.”

At this Gal-Uru swore — it was not unknown for warriors to die from sheer excess of holy energy during ritual comedown sessions, and usually this was seen as an honourable way to go. But this of all cases was extremely unfortunate.

“However, he clearly and confidently completed the one known verse from the Thirteenth, crying out ‘Warring hosts clash for years on end, seeking only the glory of combat everlasting.’” Kaašhk’s intonation indicated the completion of the famed passage, and Gal-Uru was entranced. How fitting that the eighth of all Philia should bring this back! If the final lost chapter of the Beauty of Slaughter could be rediscovered on his campaign then how great the merit and how much further along the path to ascension would be he and his men! Any chance of success justified all risk.

“This is clearly the will of the Skull Throne, Kaašhk, so of course your mission shall be approved. I will assign a squad from 7th Philia’s Death Brigades to insert and escort. When can you leave?”

“Many thanks, Gal-Uru Demigaur. We are prepared to leave within the hour. And the assistance of the 7th would be appreciated for insertion, but once therein I must insist my brethren and I proceed alone. I have already spoke with the other priests and on your word we are prepared to raise up some Nēšu Kārum from among volunteers, of which I am sure we shall have many. This would suffice for protection, and otherwise I feel that the completion of He Who Mastered the Sun’s” — as he spoke this title both Kaašhk and Gal-Uru made the sign of the Mighty — “great book is a matter for the Church of the Burning Massacre to handle itself.”

Gal-Uru felt his choler rising at this, and had to dig his nails into his fist to prevent himself striking the Pater down there and then. “You will run ideas for deployment past me, Pater, before consulting anyone else. Nonetheless, faithfulness to the God we both serve inclines me to agree. Prepare the rituals while I get in contact with 7th’s Sirdar and have her draw up a plan. Be ready to leave on my command.”

Kaašhk bowed and held his hands up in supplication, “No disrespect was intended my Demigaur. The blood God shall look kindly on our venture, and His whole Pact shall soon be speaking our names with awe. Their eyes upon the river aeternal.”

Mollified by a show of deference, Gal-Uru respectfully replied, “Their eyes upon the river aeternal” and turned to leave. But reverent though their final exchange was, and unbeknownst to the exiting High Demigaur, Kaašhk’s triumphant eyes were fixed with a predator’s focus entirely upon him.