Falak IV was a vast agri-world with only one great continent. Now, a massive rebellion had erupted across its surface. Cultists calling themselves the Skull Crushers had seized nearly every major settlement and begun blood sacrifices, leaving only a scant handful of cities unconquered.
The tithes paid by this agri-world were enough to provide ample sustenance to dozens of nearby worlds. Its strategic importance required no explanation.
Its tithe date had also fallen due only recently, and so the Administratum’s response had been far swifter than expected. Several Astra Militarum regiments stationed within the sector had immediately moved to reinforce it.
Duvall led the forty-three survivors of Sixth Company through the boundless croplands. Beneath the light of the two immense moons overhead, every detail of the surrounding land stood sharply revealed.
As far as the eye could see, the crops that had once been Falak IV’s pride rolled in the wind like a tide.
These stalks, more than two metres high, formed an impenetrable jungle that blocked all sight. Duvall had not chosen the level roads. Under moonlight this bright, stepping into open ground would have been no different from seeking death.
Falak IV was now entering early winter. Its terrain resembled the great plains of ancient Terra, allowing the cold to ravage nearly half the continent unchecked. Duvall tightened his grey greatcoat around himself, his breath rising as a cloud of white vapour in the moonlight.
He signalled the column to halt, intending to confirm their direction once more. The cursed crops had swallowed nearly their entire field of vision; only the massive grain elevators, hundreds of metres tall, allowed them to determine their position.
Hollow, distant artillery thunder rolled from the horizon. It seemed the enemy’s next offensive had begun.
Duvall studied the map beneath the dim light. He had no intention of withdrawing directly to the regimental command line. To collide head-on with the enemy while they were launching a full assault would be suicide.
He intended to lead his men around the enemy’s rear, exploiting the guerrilla strengths of light infantry to strike the traitors hard from the darkness.
Then a faint rustling came from ahead. Stroud, serving as scout, emerged soundlessly. As a professional hunter, and with the traits bestowed upon him by the Legion Blade System, he possessed an astonishing sense of direction within these maze-like fields.
"Boss, there’s a village ahead." Stroud hurried to Duvall’s side and lowered his voice. "There are lights. I suspect it’s a stronghold for those cultists."
"Numbers?" Duvall asked, looking up.
"About forty in sight. Counting those inside the buildings who haven’t shown themselves, I’d estimate around a hundred."
"Their equipment?"
"Mostly crude melee weapons, mixed with a few makeshift autoguns."
"Gathering so many men this far from the main battlefield..." Duvall frowned slightly. "What in the Warp are they doing? Anything unusual?"
"Bodies. Bodies everywhere." Disgust was written across Stroud’s rugged face, and anger made his voice low. "I saw a group of cultists continuously dragging civilian and friendly dead toward the village’s central threshing ground. Something is deeply wrong with that place."
Duvall fell silent for a moment. In the 41st Millennium, cultists piling up corpses were never merely disposing of refuse. It could well be a blood sacrifice, a ritual to please the dark gods of the Warp.
No. He could not allow them to continue. If servants of the Blood God truly emerged from the Sea of Souls, not a single soul on this world would escape. It would become a catastrophe beyond the capacity of an Astra Militarum regiment to contain.
"Our supplies are low, but we cannot ignore this." Duvall’s gaze passed over the warriors behind him. These exhausted soldiers watched him with eyes full of hope and fervour.
After a brief consideration, Duvall gave his orders to Second Lieutenant Anderson, the bearded officer at his side. "Tell the men to set their lasguns to medium power and semi-automatic fire. We do not have much ammunition left, so keep it quiet. Stroud, you lead the way."
"Understood." The two men answered at once.
Under the moonlight, forty-three grey ants moved swiftly through an endless sea of golden crops. Whenever a strong gust raised waves of gold around them, they stopped, crouched where they stood, and watched their surroundings with wary vigilance.
Duvall had no concern that his force would fail against these cultists. [Precise Volley (Level 1)] had a cooldown of only three hours and lasted fifteen minutes—more than enough for a small engagement.
The squad had not marched for long before Duvall could see strands of orange-yellow lamplight through gaps in the luxuriant crops.
The village was now close at hand. At a crossroads two hundred metres ahead and slightly to their flank, three cultists daubed from head to toe in dried blood patrolled listlessly with serrated cleavers in hand. Their eyes shone with diseased frenzy.
As if they had sensed something, the three cultists began walking toward the edge of the fields. Duvall’s nerves tightened. He was about to raise his lasgun and take aim when a large, callused hand gently pressed down on its barrel.
Stroud grinned at him and whispered, "No need to fire, boss. Watch us."
He then gave several practised hand signals and led a handful of veterans silently into the shadows.
A moment later, several faint bird calls sounded from between the field ridges. The cultists halted and looked about suspiciously. Two more calls came. Having identified their source, two of the cultists exchanged looks and, muttering curses, stepped down from the raised path to investigate. The third remained at the crossroads to stand watch.
But just after the two cultists vanished among the field ridges, a throwing knife flashed beneath the moonlight and sank precisely into the remaining cultist’s throat. Stroud swiftly lowered himself, burst from the crops, and dragged the corpse back into the shadows behind him.
Duvall had not expected Stroud’s lean body to be capable of such explosive speed.
Stroud soon returned, grinning wide enough to reveal yellowed teeth. In one hand, he carried three bloody, twisted ears. "Boss, remember to mark down my merit."
Duvall gave a nod, then issued orders to Stroud and Anderson, the bearded officer beside him. "Take half the men to the fields opposite and wait on standby. Signal once you are in position. When you hear my shot, unleash volleys from both flanks."
"Understood."
Without the slightest hesitation, Duvall led the remaining twenty men across the road and into a firing position directly opposite the village.
Hidden beneath crops over two metres high, they were close enough to touch their prey, yet the cultists had not noticed their presence in the slightest.
Through the orange-yellow light, Duvall could clearly see the village centre. Upon the threshing ground stood eight nauseating mountains of corpses being drenched in viscous grease. The surrounding buildings had been painted with blasphemous eight-pointed Stars of Chaos in dried blood.
Dozens of mutants clad in ragged robes danced grotesquely around the corpse piles, shouting profane words. At their centre stood a cultist priest wearing a bone mask and raising a staff high overhead.
The air pressure began to fall. Amid the sweet fragrance of grain, the stench of sulphur was piercingly sharp.
Then another mission prompt appeared in Duvall’s vision.
[Warp interference detected. Current Chaos Corruption fluctuation: 15%.]
[Mission: Destroy the cult ritual. (0/5)]
[Reward: 300 points of the Emperor’s Wrath.]
In the darkness, a sudden, crisp bird call rang out. It was the signal that Stroud had reached his position.
Duvall drew a deep breath and slowly set his finger upon the trigger.
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