Blue Hand Heresy Hive Infiltration

## The Infiltration of Hive Sawa(Blue Hand Heresy Hive Infiltration)

Armorial of the Blue Hand Chaos Warband.

The **Blue Hand Heresy Hive Infiltration**, known in official Imperial records as the 'Infiltration of Hive Sawa', was an action carried out by the Bloodmoon Hunters Space Marine Chapter during the events of the Blue Hand Heresy in M39. Hive Sawa was, at the time, the Capital of the World of Levan Prime in the Levan System, Levan Sub-Sector of the Mandavi Sector of Segmentum Ultima.

When the Bloodmoon Hunters arrived, the 1st, 3rd, and 6th Companies of the Blue Hand Chaos Warband were assaulting Hive Sawa, which was being defended by the world's PDF under the command of Planetary Governor Lord Giovanni Levan, last of the House of Levan, which had settled the planet millennia before. The Governor's forces were focused on the defense of Ajaccia Spire, as was the Blue Hand Assault. This meant that much of the Hive was uncontested, although nominally in Chaos's hands.

The conflict can broadly be separated into three phases, which took place concurrently to events of the broader conflict for Levan Prime, such as The Fall of Ajaccia Spire, The Scouring of the Outhives, and The Final Day. These Phases are:

Phase 1
The Cult War
Phase 2
The War of the Two Hunters
Phase 3
The War Beyond Ending
The Infiltration of Hive Sawa can be said to have ended with the death of Blue Hand Captain Pacifi Calcanea and the arrival of the Astra Militarum Army Group under Lord General Militant Darrick Garvaan, although the Bloodmoon Hunters would go on to fight through the rest of the Blue Hand Heresy, until it's culmination during the Second Battle For Craw.

## Forces and Commanders

### The Blue Hand Warband and Cults

Pacifi Calcanea, Captain of the Blue Hand 1st Company led the assault on Levan Prime for the former Chapter Master, turned Warlord, Azulite Manibus. Calcanea initially also had the assistance of the 3rd and 6th Companies, although they would later be called off world.

Captain Calcanea was a masterful Strategist and gifted Tactician with a specialty in Seige and Urban Warfare. Warlord Manibus had chosen the 1st to lead the assault on Levan Prime explicitly because of their leader's experience capturing or demolishing Hive Cities. The Captain took the field with a Master-Crafted Bolter and a Relic Combat Sheild. He was rarely spotted alone, nor was he known for leading assaults personally. While he preferred to travel with his squad of Veterans as his bodyguard, he would not hesitate to commit them when his strategy called for it.

At his side was Caelum Unguiculi, the 1st Company Champion. Caelum was an exceptional warrior with an almost preternatural ability to sense danger. As a Battle-Brother, he served as Equerry to the previous Chapter Master, a common step for aspiring Champions. Unguiculi dual wielded Power Mauls, however he moved with such incredible speed and finesse that his lack of a was shield rarely a hindrance.

The Blue Hand had always sought to make its nine oversized companies identical to each other, and the 1st Company had only a single squad of Veterans, along with two squads of Scouts, and three squads each of Tactical, Assault, and Devastators.

Additionally, the 1st Company contained Venerable Palmaris, a Mark IV Castraferrum Dreadnought whose occupant was over 2000 years old. He was armed with a Dreadnought Power Claw and an Assault Cannon, however, that is not why he became such a dangerous foe. Since his turn to Chaos and his arrival on Levan Prime, Palmaris had recruited his own small cult (arguably the first real Cult of the Blue Hand).

While he abandoned the siege and wandered the underhive, Venerable Palmaris encountered a mutant named Figaro Barabara who, while physically weak, was a potent Psyker. Palmaris allowed Barabara to ride upon his frame, proclaiming the will of Tzeentch. Barabara was capable of projecting a powerful shield, and warp lightning. The two came to be surrounded at all times by devotees, including a dozen mutant bodyguards, whom Palmaris chose for near Ogryn levels of strength.

### The Blood Moon Hunters Space Marine Chapter

The Bloodmoon Hunters are a stalwart and dedicated non-codex compliant Loyalist Space Marine Chapter created during the 13th Founding, the so-called 'Dark Founding'. Little is known of this mysterious founding as there are no reliable records that indicate how many Chapters were conceived during this Founding or what became of them. Extant records indicate that the Bloodmoon Hunters were supposedly created during this Founding around the time a recorded prophecy foretold their inception. It is generally believed that the Adeptus Mechanicus might have played a role in the creation of this Chapter, as their inception occurred sometime in early M35, during the divisive and widespread doctrinal conflict known as the Moirae Schism. The Bloodmoon Hunters were known to maintain close ties with the Archmagos of the Cult Mechanicus as well, receiving a wide diversity of arms and weaponry, including power blades and relic weaponry of the finest quality and rare, advanced patterns of armored vehicles and gunships.

The Bloodmoon Hunters Chapter is highly unusual among its fellow Space Marines and its modus operandi is quite different from that of the bulk of the Adeptus Astartes. The Bloodmoon Hunters do not fight as a single force or even usually as full companies but instead second squads drawn from the Chapter's companies and make use of bonded cybernetic enhanced humans and creatures. During the Infiltration of Hive Sawa, this modus operandi was seen in the deployment of the Scáth Hiachóir Hunting Party.

### Scáth Hiachóir Hunting Party.

Formed by the Senior Veteran Sergeant of the **5th Hunt Company** *"Stalkers of Ishtar"* for the express purpose of hunting the traitor marines of the Blue Hand Heresy. Trailblazer Scáth Hiachóir and his second in command Artificer Jared Leictreach gathered members of the company choosing who would go on this grand hunt. An Apothecary with Five Lupine School Biker Tactical Marines, Five Arachnid School Infiltration Marines, Three Arachnid School Devastator Marines, Three Raptor School Assault Jump Marines, and Five Apprentice Scout Marines would make up the whole of the Hunting party plus some vehicles and Artificer Jared's Cyber-menagerie.

### Levan Prime PDF

Lord Giovanni Levan was the last in a long line of Planetary Governors, going back to Lady Sawa Levan herself. He was a loyal servant of the God Emperor, but he lacked flexibility or tactical acumen.

When the Blue Hand assaulted his world, he pulled his PDF forces back to protect the center of Hive Sawa, particularly Ajaccia Spire. This was not necessarily a bad decision, but by switching entirely to a static defense, he surrendered the initiative to Traitors, and by focusing too heavily on the upspire world of his birth, he may have missed opportunities that might have resulted from a tactical withdrawal.

Following Lord Sawa's death, and Fall of Ajaccia Spire, surviving PDF units scattered, while some disciplined units held out to buy time for the others. Many of these forces would eventually unite with the Blood Moon Hunters, but others would lead their own resistance, go to ground or disband, or seek to travel to one of the nine Outhives, where loyalist PDF forces continued to resist well into the Scouring.

### Levan Hive Gangs

Like any Hive, Hive Sawa had numerous gangs, along with Militias, Hab Defense Pacts and other quasi-legitimate groups assembled for defensive or offensive purposes. However, for the purposes of this conflict, four Hive Gangs were of particular importance:

Maztech Montague's Manglers
Maztech was a disgraced techpriest who after being stripped of his rank for offending his superiors ran and hid in the underbelly of Hive Sawa. There he built an empire not of actual territory but of contacts and mercenaries. Maztech's empire of a hive gang became known as one that stretched even to the proto-hives. He was smuggler and fence for most other gangs and had built a wealth that allowed him to hire mercenaries of all shapes and sizes to protect his and his own. Further those that crossed him usually ended up as a specialized servitor in his service anyways.
The Manglers operated out of a facility on the West Face, but Montague's influence reached throughout the underhive, and many smaller gangs pledged their loyalty to him.
Killer Capulet's Gang
'Killer' Capulet controlled the most phyiscal territory of the four major gangs. Looking like he had Orgyrn blood in his lineage he was a fearsome person to look upon. He was known to use fear and physical threats to keep his people in line. A Killer born of miners and slum scum, he worked his way to the top of the gangs through murder and intimidation.
Killers gang was one of, if not the largest in the underhive. He held territory along the Northern Pits, but he was constantly pushing inward to the core shafts.
Desi's Dazelers
When she was young, Desdemona Rocker killed the man who raped her, and found that she rather enjoyed it. She began to recruit other young women of a similar mindset, and soon found that there were enough rapists in several of the local gangs to make it simpler to wipe out the gangs and take over their territory, than to try to pick out the guilty from the innocent.
By the time of the Blue Hand Invasion, Desi controlled a large territory on the East Rim. Crime is rampant in Desi's domain, and profitable, but rape is not. The Dazzlers make sure that anyone who forgets this becomes a… colorful example, to discourage others.
The Black Moors
The Black Moors were the smallest of the four major gangs, but they were also the best organized and the most secretive. Little was known about their leader, a man known only as Othello, but he was widely rumored to be ex Guard, which would have explained why he is able to run such a disciplined outfit in the chaotic South Slope of the Sawa underhive.
One was much more likely to encounter The Black Moors second in command, a young gun named Iago Sicario. Sicario was the public face of the outfit, in times of peace. If the Black Moors went to war, their face became the muzzle of an autogun, or the end of a blade.
## The First Phase: The Cult War

### The Hand of God is Upon His Mind

*Come and listen!* cried the great walker, *Come and here the Prophet speak, for the hand of the **True God** is Upon his mind!*

The powerful Mark IV Castraferrum Dreadnought walked the corridors of the underhive. At first, it had walked alone, rejecting it's brothers as they battered on the doors of the Hive Spire, but he had not walked blindly. No, after two millenia of darkness, of unthinking obedience to the will of the Emperor, Venerable Palmaris now walked with it eyes wide open.

It was there, in the squalor of the dim underhive, there in the refuse and the stink, where it had found the voice of God.

*This is my turf, don't come in here!* the voice had said.

Before, in its blindness, Palmaris would have ignored the pitiful creature, or perhaps it would have trode him under foot. But now...

The massive walker turned his auto-sensors upon the frail mutant. He was small, small even for a regular human, and tiny before the mighty war machine. He looked at it with his one working eye, caught somewhere between defiance and terror... and madness.

Yes, madness was there, but that word captures only the barest fraction of what the Dreadnought saw. The creature's mind was open to truths no sane mind could comprehend, he had the capacity to look upon reality of the universe and not run screaming, for he had no sanity to protect. The colossus rotated in place, then, gentely, it lowered itself forward, prostrating itself before the mutant.

He stared up at it, *What'cha doing?*

The great metal voice boomed from its Vox Grill, *You are the prophet of the true God, the hand of Tzeench is upon your mind. You are here to lead us to salvation, and I am your vessel, your servant, and your protector. Now, tell me, what does the voice command?*

*Nope.* the little creature replied, turning to shamble into his hovel. *Ain't none of those here. Just little Figy who don't hear no voice, no sir.*

Venerable Palmaris rose and followed the creature, Figy. As it walked, it spoke, camly, and reasonably. As it walked, it àlso demolished Figy's hovel, the next structure Figy ran for, and two load bearing walls in between.

*Oh prophet, you have nothing to fear from me. I wish only to aid you in your glorious work.*

*Figgy can't do no work.* he replied. *No jobs for your kind, that's what the factorum man said. Figgy's only job is to stay out'a sight, not let no witch hunters or Arbites near'm. That's what Mama Barabara said.*

Finally cornering the small man, the Dreadnought stopped a pace in front of him. It said, *Prophet, Figy, I have strode the battlefield for 2,000 years. I pick my teeth with witch hunters, I wipe my feet on factorum men, and the Arbite who can challenge me has yet to be born. You are safe, perhaps for the first time in your life, nothing can harm you. I just want to talk to you. I want to talk to you about the voices.*

The mutant looked up pathetically, *But they ain't real.*

The Astartes replied, *Oh, but they are.*

*You can hear'um?*

*Yes, but only you can understand them. Only you can tell me what I must do.*

*And, you'll listen?* the prophet asked?

His servant replied, *I shall listen to you, I shall protect you, and I shall carry you. Together, we shall lead these people to salvation.*

With that, the Dreadnought bent forward and extended it's arm to the small man, who grasped it with a hand, and the the other, and then both feet. Soon the mutant had scampered onto the Walker's top, and the War Machine had risen to it's full hight.

Palmaris asked, *What is your name, oh prophet of Tzeench?*

In a small voice, touched with just the first breath of confidence, the man replied, *Figaro Barabara.*

*Come and hear the word of the Prophet Figaro Barabara, beloved of the one true God and herald of the new dawn! Heed his words for the Blue Hand of Tzeench is upon his mind!* and so, the two set off into the underhive, about their great commision.

### The Blooding of the New Hunt

The Bloodmoon Hunters among the first to respond to the distressed messages of Levan Prime. Dispatched in *Spejder* (Hunter-class Destroyer), Sergeant Scáth Hiachóir's Hunting Party made stealth insertions to the planet before the orbitals were completely closed off. By use of an advanced stealth augurs on their vessel, his Hunting party made it down in just a few trips of their Nighthawk Pattern Storm Eagle. By Astartes standards sending less than 25 marines to deal with a renegade chapter and heresy would be an affront. But for the Bloodmoon Hunters that represented a rather large Hunting Party. The resources devoted to the Hunt of the Blue Hand Chapter represented quite the importance to the Chapter Command.

To get a feel for the psychologies of the Blue Hand Chapter and the tactics they were likely to use, the Bloodmoon Hunters under Sergeant Scáth Hiachóir decided to not declare their presence to any forces enemy nor allied. Their allies for the moment would have to hold the siege on their own. Their objectives were to set up in the underhive of Hive Sawa and use it as a base to began a campaign of resource denial until a liberation fleet could arrive. Unfortunately due to the state of the neighboring sectors that could take some time. The Bloodmoon Hunters were to by time one planet at a time. Levan Prime and Hive Sawa were to become their home.

Landing outside the Hive, the Bloodmoon Hunters quickly hid their few transports and war machines. Time was not yet ripe to unleash their best weapons. No, Sergeant Scáth Hiachóir had the entire Hunting Party split up into smaller formations of singletons and combat teams to infiltrate and find a base of operations to take their gear to. Entering a Hive already with broken defenses proved absurdly easy for the trained Astartes. Deep into the bowls they gathered their numbers, but not before they had gotten started. Artificer Jared Leictreach in charge of protecting their War Machines began his work on the activation rights for his Cyber-menagerie. Cyber-Hawks and hounds were activated and sent to scout the enemy. These were perfect for the role as they could blend with chaos that was raging.

Soon the Bloodmoon Hunters would identify the rank structure and command elements of the traitors. This would allow them to pick their targets and priorities. By observing the battle data of the Blue Hand and their traitor guardsmen, the Bloodmoon Hunters would get their first look into the psychology of their prey. For Bloodmoon Hunters all were prey, especially renegades like those that chose here and now to side with the traitors.

### A Drink in the Dark

The man looked out through what would once have been called Venetian blinds on a city in darkness. The underhive was always dark, especially on the south slope, but this, this was a different kind of twilight. High above, the lords of the spire were fighting for their lives, but what did the underhive care for the gilded lordlings? No, this was a darkness heralded change, change and uncertainty.

The man had faced uncertainty before, his grim visage had beheld the death of worlds, and now, he feared, so it would again.

A knock came at the door behind him, he didn't turn. Only a trusted few could approach that door without killing a great many men first, and if someone had managed that without making a noise, the man was prepared to assume that his life was over, anyway.

Another man walked into the darkened room, glanced at the man looking out the window, and walked to a small cabinet in the corner. The new man appeared much younger than other, his skin pale, his hair red, in contrast to the older looking man’s dark skin and shaved head. His looks were an illusion, both men were over 100 years old and had been rejuvenated at great cost. The pale skinned man had simply paid another princely fee to be made to look young, while the other retained more of the gravitas of his age.

The younger man reached for a glass, and began to open a bottle of hard alcohol distilled on the upper slope of the southside. Then, he thought better of it, and reached for another bottle, a much older one that had been put aside.

*Is the news that bad, or that good?* the older looking man asked.

The younger looking man took a look at his drink ruefully before knocking back another sip, *Be a shame to die with this unopened. Here,* he poured a second glass and extended it to the other man, *To the everlasting glory of the 7th rifles*.

The other man took the glass, but didn’t drink.

*Iago, tell me what happened?* he said.

A look of disgust flashed across Iago’s face. He took a drink, as if to wash the taste from his mouth. He replied, *No one even put a proposal for unity forward.* Iago had gone to the meeting armed with the power to back any proposal for a unified front against the invaders, *Killer didn’t show, The Dazzlers wanted to know how this even related to them, and Montague wanted to renegotiate shaft access, can you believe it?* Access to the great shafts that led uphive were fiercely contested due to their value, but at least nominally, the major gangs had agreements about who had the right to use which shaft when.

The older looking man grunted, it was just like the Manglers to push for advantage.

His young looking companion continued, *Most of the little fish just wanted to talk about parochial issues, you’d hardly have known there was a war on.*

*How can they?* his companion turned from the window, and finally raised his glass to his lips. *The higher ups have kept us all in the dark.* With a flick of his powerful wrist, the man closed the blinds, and waved a light on.

*Othello,* the younger looking man began, but the older looking man cut him off.

*That’s not my name.*

Iago continued, *I know that, Sir, but since I can’t ever say that other name out loud again, I’ve got to call you something. So you tell me, Othello, where is he now?*

Stepping towards a desk, Othello gestured at a map with his glass, *He’s on the East Ridge, around level 43. Our boys are keeping out of range, whatever that means for something like him.*

*Who’s leading?* Iago asked.

Othello replied, *Tybalt, he used to be in 9th Company.*

It went without saying that this group would be overseen by one of their dwindling number of veterans of the 7th. The Regiment was something the oldtimers would mention occasionally, but their juniors knew better than to ask, The 7th *of where*?

Iago asked, *Will he still have the strength, if he needs to?*

*He had the strength to put down Mercutio when he started scribbling, and they were brothers. He’ll do what needs to be done.*

The newer members of the gang, the Whiteshields, as Othello and Iago still thought of them, hadn’t been there on that cursed world. They hadn’t seen what the veterans had seen. They hadn’t resisted what they had resisted. They hadn’t had to deal with friends and squadmates who’d been unable to resist, or the ones who hadn’t wanted to.

*But he’s definitely preaching for... for the same guys?* Iago asked.

Hunching his shoulders, and leaning down over the map, Othello took stock of their hard won territory. The Black Moors controlled a major domain stretching eight levels and tens of kilometers. They weren’t as numerous as the Killer’s gang, nor as rich as the Manglers, and no one in their right mind wanted to try to compete with the Dazzlers for sheer mayhem and brutality. But the Moors were disciplined, hard, cool, and led by an inner circle who were fundamentally incapable of being scared by anything the underhive had to offer. That was, at least, until now.

Othello turned to face his friend and replied, *Blessed is the mind too small for doubt.*

Iago gave a chuckle, devoid of any humor, *And don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to.* He threw himself onto a well worn sofa and hoisted his glass, gazing at the light through the lens of the yellow liquid. *So what do we do? Finish the bottle and give ourselves the Emperor’s Grace?*

Othello lowered himself into an armchair across from his oldest friend, *If that’s your choice, I won’t stop you, but no, I’m fighting. By the third hell, we haven’t even seen one of **them** yet.*

Between fits of genuine laughter, this time, Iago replied, *No! Just the Emperor’s own Angels of Battle!* Catching his breath, he continued more somberly, *But you’re right, they’re just **almost** impossible to kill. That means we have a chance, for now.*

Othello started speaking, only he wasn’t Othello, he was someone else, someone whose name could not be spoken, but whose commands could not be denied, *Tell the boys I want all are stockpiles full, no concern for current balances, every weapon needs to work, and have ammo. I want you to quietly start putting out feelers to some of the larger Militias, as well as the Hab Defense Pacts from midspire. We’re not looking to get caught fighting up there, when the bastards finally start pushing down: but anyone who can withdraw in good order with their fighting forces in tact can pull their civilians back to the south slope and join our lines. Tell Roderigo I need all the plans for evacuation and refugees to be updated, now, and have Antonio start drawing up lists of residents here who can recruit if we need warm bodies, fast.*

The bald man got up and walked back to the window, waving for darkness, before he pulled the blinds. Staring out over his domain, he took another sip of his drink. Without turning, he said to his friend, *I’m considering reaching out to the Ministorum.*

His second in command came and stood behind him, *That’s dangerous, you’re wanted and they might know.*

The warrior replied, *Risks are part of any war. Nothing is certain, but I’ll tell you this without hesitation: we’re going to need allies, or none of this will mean an Emperor damned thing.*

### Gathering Darkness for Hunters

Trailblazer Scáth Hiachóir appeared to slip from out of deeper darkness. The dusty dark reds and dark grey of his armor blended into the darkness almost completely. One as large as him and in the bulkier Mk III Iron Power Armor should not be silent, but he was. Thanks to his close friend and second in command Artificer Jared Leictreach, his armor was exactly what he needed for operations as these. His hunt party was already spreading through the hive in quiet and silent means. Layout was important so they were mapping and designing where and when they should start the ambushes. But Scáth Hiachóir gave himself the hard job, finding those yet to be converted to the perversions of Chaos and those who could be used in the coming days. The Planetary Defense Forces were tied down with defending that central spire, besides were likely useless for the first phases of setting up a resistance. Hive Gangs are more flexible in their approaches than standard Imperial Forces.

This was why he was here, and thanks to this man's need to disclose the state of things the Bloodmoon Hunters have some of the information they need. His Cyber-Mastiff broke away from a different shadowy corner climbing down from the roof, claws marking his passage. The large beast and machine stopped in front of the door daring any to approach it. Scáth Hiachóir spoke in harsh whispered tones, *Orthello of the 7th Rifles, hello. Interesting to see former Militarum in charge of some Hive Gang. You seem to know something of the invaders, lets speak.* His over seven foot tall frame without his thick armor towered over those in the room as he moved towards them. So far not a threat was made except the fact the Cyber-Mastiff was something much more deadly than what an Arbites would have.

Seeing the two humans freeze a bit not knowing whether to fight or fly, at least it seemed. *Sit, We have much to discuss if you are to put up a reasonable resistance against Blue Hand Heretics.* Scáth Hiachóir continued in his harsh whisper voice, edged with caution. Information of his chapter even being on planet was sensitive. But he needed more forces to use to confound the Blue Hand. *Your choices are me or the Ministorum, and I am more forgiving of having a past.* The Astartes was showing extreme patience with the mortals but at the same time it was clear he didn't like having to deal with them. His choices of words was slowly bringing down the adrenaline rates of the two humans who he could clearly read through his Auspex built into his visor.

Scáth looked the two up and down once more and gave himself a mental shrug. This was just the first of many stops he had to make this day. *If you are loyalist I have come to help, though if you rather side with those invading the Hive we can have it out now?* His words were meant to push the two into revealing more information with startled actions. His mind already placing the names of the other Gangs as well what might motivate them, he had a start with the information about the greed of one of the Gangs. In his mind he brought up plans to secure a shaft for their use.

### Threats and Chess Moves

The man who both was, and was not, named Iago held very still. He had seen Astartes before, watched them move with transhuman speed and grace. He knew he'd never reach any of the many weapons in this room in time to use them.

However, that wasn't the only thing he had seen. You didn't have to watch too many friends splayed, still screaming, on an altar of **the four**, their guts and viscera and immortal-souls being ripped from them by things too awful to name, before you realized that fates worse than death existed.

This phantom may have claimed to be opposed to the Blue Hand, but words were cheap, and dark things whispered dark lies in your ear, until your friends saved you with a las round to the base of your skull.

He knew he'd never complete the draw, but there was a laspistol at his belt and a frag grenade in a compartment on the side table, and with luck, going for both at once would provoke the traitor Marine into killing him outright. It might not achieve anything, he certainly wouldn't get to take the shot, but it might be enough to let him report to the muster at the foot of the Golden Throne.

**click**

Iago's eyes flashed left.

Othello had just put down his glass on a sideboard.
The dark skinned man had frozen, same as Iago had, when the apparition appeared. But he had also unfrozen, and with a calmness he couldn't possibly feel he'd set his glass down and shifted in his seat to face the Marine.

*I don't know you* he began. *And whatever you may have heard eavesdropping, you clearly don't know who I am. I take it you want me to believe you're loyal to the Throne? Well, maybe you are, and maybe you're lying through your teeth, if you're even still human enough under that helmet to have teeth. I just don't know, but I do know this,* he said calmly peeling back false skin from a plate on the back of his hand, *You're in my territory. You're in my stronghold, and your standing about 40cm from a 400kg shaped charge of thermodynamic explosives, and all I have to do... is take my thumb off this button.*

Iago had not known about the deadman's switch, or the suicide charge. Nonetheless, he was immensely comforted to discover it existed.

Othello continued, *So, if we're all loyalists here, it's on you to prove it. So take a seat,* he glanced from the armored giant to the furniture, *Or maybe don't, and start giving me reasons not to kill us all.*

### Pawn in Check

Scáth laughed heartily, that belayed his silent nature. With slow movements, he removed his helmet to reveal a rugged face that was of a different world that was openly smiling at the audacity of this human. Few are clever enough for a deadman trap, though it was poorly executed. *I will talk to you and not through a helmet.* His movements were very slow as not to cause the human to lift his thumb. The Mastiff hasn't moved from it's spot laying on the floor in front of the door. Both the Marine and Cyber-dog looked completely un-bothered. *For future note, while a deadman switch is clever it's hard to hide thermodynamic explosives from sensors. I would suggest multiple explosives of smaller yields and different mixtures to make detection harder.*  As Scáth spoke he tossed the detonator on the ground in front of them.

Then without taking much of a break also threw down the a dismantled frag grenade as well as the broke down parts of the other hidden weapons. *Let's take a step back. I am Scáth Hiachóir of the Bloodmoon Hunters. You are the commander of the Black Moor that goes by Orthello and his second in command that goes by Iago. You two are wanted criminals and from the conversation deserters from the Astra Militarum. Your Gang of misfits is the closest this place has to a discipline force after the Planetary Defense Forces which are currently tied up in the central spire and so far no defense has been given to any other location in this system. I don't know which planet you originally hail from true and I am curious but that is secondary to forming a defense plan that doesn't allow the Blue Hand Heretics the resources they need to commit to further action elsewhere. Now do I need to kill you or are you willing to listen?*

As he said his speech in a still low tone which seems to be his natural voice, a soft knock could be heard at the door. The Cyber-Mastiff moved away for a moment and an Apprentice slipped in silently. One could see for just a moment that the guards outside the door were knocked out but it was obvious they were still breathing. The Apprentice scout spoke up lightly, *Trailblazer, the Heretics seemed to have already made it into the underhive and the upper hive is going badly. The Planetary defense forces will not win but they have awhile before they fall. A Dreadnought is in the lower hive recruiting and preaching to the mutants and the disaffected. It will just be time before he has a secondary army.*  Scáth Hiachóir nodded to the information he figured out would be happening. PDF rarely stood long against Astartes no matter the flavor.

Scáth Hiachóir looked to the former guardsmen now gang leader, *I would start that evacuation soon, but make it quiet so we can keep the element of surprise.*  The Apprentice scout soon melded into the shadows and seemed to disappear if one didn't know he was standing there. Scáth looked to the two human's expectedly for he still had much work to direct before he was done.

### A Gambit, and an Opening

*Alright,* Othello said standing up and walking over to a bookshelf behind his chair. Keeping his hands plainly visible, and his movements slow and nonthreatening, he engaged a hidden mechanism he had purchased off the former Tech-Priest Maztech Montague. With a whirring of gears and a snap of springs, a compartment popped open revealing several boxes, a Chainsword, and a Bolt Pistol. Scáth could not tell it's pattern, but it had clearly been designed to fit in a normal human's hand.

Neither man nor Astartes commented upon the fact that the weapons seemed to have gone undiscovered in the Astartes otherwise through sweep of the room, and Othello took up a round case and drew out a series of documents from it. As he laid them on the table, it became apparent that they were maps of the underhive, but unlike the map that had previously been displayed, these held far more detail, combining sources that were clearly Imperial in nature with human intelligence from the Black Moors own network.

Standing above the table, and focusing on the map, Othello addressed the Marine without turning to face him, *Let's say for a second you're telling the truth, hell, what's more, let's say I believe you: just for argument's sake. So what? You don't have the men to take the Blue Hand straight on, if you did, we wouldn't be having this conversation.*

The Veteran Trailblazer made no move to deny the claim. So Othello continued, *So, again, assuming you're telling the truth, you want to stop the spread of these cults, unite the gangs, and force the spire with a mass of bodies. Right?*

He stood upright and looked the Trailblazer cleanly in the eye, *It's not a terrible plan, but it comes down to this, you need my help, and I don't trust you. Yes, I know where the cults are forming, not just that walker thing, but others your boy there does have yet. I know the gangs, I know who you have to meet and how you have to approach them. And if you're one of them, one of those guys, the other side, whatever the hells you call it, I'd be leading the only people who could try to oppose you right into a trap.*

*So, we have ourselves at a bit of what the locals call an Umbrian Standoff. You kill us, you lose your source of information, we try to fight you, we die. So, here's what I propose…*

Suddenly there were two needle like blades in his left hand. Without looking he drove both of them into the map.

*There are two more of these bastards raising cults here, and here. Not like that Mechanicus monstrosity, just guys like you. With them, they have witches and cultist scum. so far, those groups are only in the dozens. We'll take you to them, but I want to see you and your boys prove which side you're fighting for and who you're killing. Do that, and then we'll talk.*

The man returned to his seat, and took another sip of his drink. He looked back at the Astartes, who smiled back at him darkly.

### A hunter and a Guide

Iago slip into the night like the arms of a lost love. There were some skills you never lost, and some you never had the opportunity to not use. His foot falls were as silent as a Milltinite Nearfox, which he expected and understood. What he didn't understand was how the four figures that followed him seemed to make less noise than he did. They were giants, of course, not a one of them came close to being under two meters, but they were also wearing suits of armor. How anything that massive, and comprised of that many moving parts, could move so silently was beyond Iago's understanding.

But he did understand the underhive. He had come here decades ago, and unlike most new arrivals, he had been unable to feel afraid of the city's dangers. Sure, he recognized the risks one took exploring an unregulated urban megapolis, but those risks were so manageable, compared to where he had come here from, as to prove no restraint upon his wanderlust.

So now, in the company of giants, he navigated the familiar routes through the westface maintenance grates, leading to the point he was to rendevouz with the Black Moors who had been keeping an eye on this particular dangers. He knew that, somewhere, Othello and the leader of these Blood Moon Hunters were making a similar trek to a separate location. Iago was to show these Astartes to the traitors, and then confirm that they really killed them.

While waiting for a transit lift to pass, so they could cross over two levels through its shaft, Iago took a moment to look over the Marine who seemed to serve as the Veteran Sergeant's second in command. The Marine's armor was etched with signs and sigils, few of which Iago recognized, but they didn't slither and shift like the writing of the enemy. He wore some kind of Mechanicus servo-rig over his armor, that occasionally clicked or hised, almost like it had a life of its own, although Iago had spent enough time in the company of Tech-Priests, in another life, to know that this was normal, and not necessarily a sign of possession. Most disturbing of all was his helmet, whose face plate had been carefully worked into the visage of a human skull, with dim red bulbs peeping out from cavernous eye sockets. Copper circuitry had been inlaid, running from each temple, down the orbital, across the cheek till then ended suddenly on either side of the jaw. When Iago had been introduced to the Marine in the ***safety*** of Othello's office, the circuits had glowed a continuous electric blue, but now, hiding in the dark, they only occasionally showed a brief blue spark running the length of the circuit.

Across the shaft and two levels down, Iago gave a low whistle, and received two short notes in reply. As the Marines waited in the shadows, Iago ran over and met with three Black Moor who had been tasked with watching this particular cult. After a brief exchange, Iago sent his men back to their south slope territory by another route. He then returned to the Marines, waiting as still as shadows.

He turned to the leader, Leictreach, and began, *Petruchio says they're at about 40 members, most of them have some kind of mutation, although only two seem to be psykers. Ones a girl, showed off flames, another's a young boy who keeps pointing out their hiding spots. Gave our men a rough time having to reposition every 10 minutes. Then there's the leader, heard him called Beryllus. Wears armor, 2.4 meters tall, carries a Chainsword, you can't miss him.*

The death's head looked back at Iago, silent and unreadable.

*Look, here's what you need to know, he's been having them bring him preachers, they're about the only presence the Ministorum has down here. They've killed two in the last day, but not quickly or cleanly. The point is Petruchio says it looks like another's been caught. They're using the courtyard at the bottom of that shaft as their base, it's about 40 meters down, and at least half of them are there at any time. But when they're about their sacrificing, that number goes right up. You do what you're doing. I'll find a place to watch. Don't look for me if Beryllus **happens** to get away. This is your one chance to prove whose side your on.*

With that, Iago slipped back into the darkness, and Leictreach began to sign commands to his Battle-Brothers.

### Ambush in the Square

Leictreach didn't speak as his marines slinked into the darkness. Iago wouldn't even see them leave as they vanish as if they were as insubstantial as a spectre. The courtyard where the sacrifice was about to happen had viscera where the previous sacrifices happen. With the courtyard filling up it should have been a challenge to hide but for the Bloodmoon Hunters it was child's play. The cultists knowing their masters were winning the war above thought they had little to worry about. Leictreach watched from a secure vantage point as the other three marines did the lion's share of the work. They knew how to work around psykers easily enough.

Leictreach smiled beneath his mask as one by one cultist guards began to disappear. Anyone who wasn't already in the courtyard found themselves dead if they were heading that way quickly. Unnoticed even by the clever Iago as the guards and stragglers disappeared planted was explosives around the perimeter. Further how the guards disappeared was interesting, for there wasn't the sound of bolter fire or anything else. It was as if they too vanished, but it was the marines work. Shortly however Leictreach was pointed at by the boy psyker, and a rush of a group of cultists came for his spot. That boy pointed him out as an astartes but even the precog didn't know the chapter.

The guards never made it to Leictreach, first those that trailed were killed, by precise Bolter fire seemingly out of the darkness. Beryllus recognized the sound and knew the enemy was an Astartes began to rush to join the battle. That moment was enough to end the boy psyker as two shots were fire at the same time. The boy 'saw' one and got hit by the second that was shot with the knowledge of how the boy would dodge. The numbers were quickly dropped to less than fifteen but these knew there was danger and not as easily tricked. The girl with the flames lit the area with a blast of fire at Leictreach now they could see his silhouette.

That lasted not long as explosives went off crumbling the whole corrupted edifice, Iago would catch glimpse of a shadow making off with the preacher just as the explosion happened. The explosion also ate the small fireball and roughly a third of the remaining. It was then that Leictreach's circuits glowed blue along with his whip and sword. His armor crackled so much it sounded if birds were chirping. He finally charged the horde as they died under Bolter and Needler fire. As Beryllus and Leictreach finally clashed, a huge blast of plasma came out of nowhere to engulf the last survivors. Beryllus had only the time to realize that the Leictreach wasn't alone and that his allies were all ashes or vanished when his sword was yanked from his hand.

Beryllus in his Blue Hand armor was at a lost for no one could do what the marines did to him. He was use to being a dedicated swordsmen and figured he could best anyone but Caelum Unguiculi. But here was someone just as quick but used a completely foreign style of fighting. His choices was to fight or run, quickly he decided to charge the Artificer for if he could get by him, he could fade. That far he did not get for as soon as he put his heighten reflexes to work, he was already on the ground not from the dangers he knew but from one he didn't know. A small laspistol had pierced him in his head. The shot had come from what looked like the electrified sword, but upon closer examination there was a small built in pistol as well at the handle.

### Moment of Truth

As Iago emerged from the shadows, which had concealed him from the Cultists, but not the the Astartes, the four Blood Moon Hunters gathered over the fallen corpse of the Blue Hand Marine.

Leictreach blade flashed at his side, and the traitors helmet fell away from his body, only to be caught by the artfaciers foot. He reached a gauntleted hand into helm, drawing forth the severed head. He grimaced at the single needle like tooth protruding from the slackened jaw, conscious that mutation would only grow worse the longer these heathens worshiped the Lord of Change.

Placing the head on a rockcrete pedestal, one of the courtyard's only standing features, he spoke, while the other three answered in quiet chorus:

*For your sins against the Emperor;*

***False Brother, We Detest Thee.***

*For the shame you bring upon your Gene-Father;*

***False Brother, We Detest Thee.***

*For abandoning your duty;*

***False Brother, We Detest Thee.***

*For embracing mutation;*

***False Brother, We Detest Thee.***

*For worshiping the darkness;*

***False Brother, We Detest Thee.***

*For all these crimes, I cast you from the Emperor's Light. Your name is dead. Your memory is gone to us.*

***False Brother, We Detest Thee, We Cast You Out, We Turn From You.***

As he spoke, Artfacier Leictreachhad anointed the traitor's head with purest Prometheum, from a hidden well on Aigéad Fuil. As the Battle-Brothers finished their chant, the youngest of their number drew his combat knife and struck a single spark upon the rockcrete, igniting the flame that would burn the traitor Beryllus from the minds of all those loyal to the Throne.

Leictreach had took up the traitor's helmet, pausing to smash any circuitry that might be used to trace their location, and handed it to the mortal man. He addressed Iago, and in a somber voice said, *There will not be time, during this hunt, to perform the rights of detestation for every enemy we slay. We shall say them now, and again when the Heresy has been cleansed.*

Looking from the helmet, to the smouldering skull, and finally to the skeletal mask wreathed in electric flame, Iago nodded to himself. *Alright then, come on.*

### The First Council of War

As Iago and the four Marines came down the stairs, Othello looked up from the reports he had been reviewing. While his office had a sense of genteel comfort, this basement couldn't be mistaken for anything but a command bunker. Rows of tables bore maps, outlining tactical positions in as close to real time as possible. Communication equipment lined one wall, some of it tied into the Hives inner workings, others transmitting Vox in code. Runners stood by, and supplies were stacked neatly out of the way.

Iago set a second Space helmet beside the blood soaked first, and nodded to Othello. Othello rubbed his bald scalp, then turned to Sergeant Hiachóir, who had been exchanging brief words with his subordinate.

*All right,* Othello began, as the two Space Marines sat themselves on a low rockcrete wall. The mortal clasped his hands behind his back and nodded to a vertical map of the Hive, sketched along one of the walls, in what had the feel of a formal briefing.

*The enemy is here in strength, they are besieging the upspires and are locked in conflict with the PDF. The PDF Alpha Lines are here,* he gestured on the map, *in these six blocks, protecting Ajaccia Spire. Based on the conflict so far, I estimate three to six months before the enemy breaches the Alpha Lines and enters Ajaccia Spire proper. Once their in, it could take months, or hours to clear the top, depending on how well the PDF switches to guerrilla tactics. Our contacts in the PDF put their total deployment at over 300 Space Marines, but those Marines are going to be facing some of the toughest defenses in the Mandavi Sector, so this will take time.*

Turning back to the Marines, Othello continued, *We, however, have problems closer to home. As you've seen, we have lone-wolf preachers breaking away from the battle to raise cults in the underhive. In addition to the two you dealt with, the Black Moors have taken down three others over the last week. We lost some good men in those operations, and we'd have lost more taking down these two.* he said, looking contemptuously at the two traitor helmets. *But they're also not our main problem. That walker creature, the **Dreadnought** as you call it, has over 40,000 armed followers, and they're spreading.*

Moving to one of the map tables, he indicated an area on the north side of the underhive. He said, *At this point, that thing now counts as one of the major players in the underhive, and its influence is growing. They've already overrun one of the Hive Militias, and they're beginning to encroach on several of the mid sized gangs loyal to Montegue. If we don't deal with that thing in the next three months, or at least before the Alpha Lines break, you can kiss your uprising goodbye.*

Othello straddled a chair, backwards, before looking from the map, to the Astartes. He asked, *So that's the predicament we find ourselves in. So what do you want to know?*

\_\_\_

Sergeant Hiachóir contemplated the map and scratched his chin, in a cultivated mannerism. He had quickly dispatched the small cult the dark gang leaders had shown him to, and had spent the trip to and from trying to judge the mortal's competence and judgement. It was a risk, but he decided he would have to rely upon that judgement, at least when it came to the other denizens of the underhive. If he waited until it was obvious that all loyal souls must unite under the Emperor's banner, it would be far too late to carry forward the type of hunt he wished to perform.

Turning his piercing gaze upon the unflinching mortal, he said *I have information about the forces here in this Hive. My men have been listening at many a doorstep, Brother Jared has tapped into the flow and weave of the voices of metal, and more than one person has been… detained, since our arrival, so we might question them. That is how I found you. It would also lead me to the other powers within this City, but I lack context, and history. I need to know, not just who my allies could be, but how to make them so. You will tell me these things.*

Othello glanced at Iago, making eye contact from where the other man stood, collating vox reports. He turned back to the Astartes and began, *Obviously the first major force is the PDF, regardless of what happens, some of them will make it out of the Spire, if it falls.*

Leictreach asked, *Can the Governor be convinced to stage a tactical withdrawal?*

Othello's face was half sour and half amused. He said, *Let's just put it this way, Giovanni Levan is not quite the man his mother was. Now old Lady Lucrezia, the previous Governor, she was sharp. I never wanted to mess with her, and so, I didn't. But no, Giovanni is going to hold that Spire till he's dead, one way or another. I already have feelers out to some of the PDF Officers, I'm not asking anyone to desert, but when they're ready to fall back downhive, they know they can rally with our forces.*

Grabbing a baton, Othello approached the map. As he indicated, he said, *Midhivers tend to have more resources than us poor folk. Many of the midspire Habs have Defense Pacts, armed security forces. Some of them aren't worth thinking about, but there are a few with real military potential.*

Scáth interjected, *You spoke of them when we first met, that they might evacuate their civilians to your lines if they were able to bring their fighting forces with them.*

Othello replied, *I'm running a business, not a charity, but this goes beyond that. We can't afford to protect everyone, if we try, we lose the ability to act and react tactically.*

The Sergeant gave a small nod, he had not meant the point as a criticism.

The dark skinned man continued, *Further down Hive you have the Militias and the Gangs. Now the Militias lack the organization, the equipment, and the training your going to need to take the fight to the traitors. That said, many of the Militias are set up on the parish level, and they're the most likely to come running because the good God Emperor says so. I figure, when you're ready to reveal yourselves, the Militias will come to you, for what they're worth.*

Othello reached into a metal filing cabinet against the a side wall, and pulled out three sheets of plaspap. He spread the sheets on the table nearest the Marines and stood back.

Each sheet bore an image of an individual.

The first was a sketch, clearly a composite drawn from descriptions, of a heavily augmented man. He was far enough from human, that he could have been a member of the Martian Brotherhood, but the clothes he wore bore no markings, nor any iconography of the Cult Mechanicus.

The second was a photo of a giant of a man. He wasn't as large as an Astartes in Power Armor, but had they both been barefoot, he'd have been able to look Scáth straight in the eye. The man was overly muscular, and his dress might have been fashionable, in some parts. However, his head was oddly misshapen and he bore many scars with a casual pride.

The third was either a still from a vid recording, or a lucky photo taken in the midst of action. It featured a women, firing an autogun at someone outside the picture's frame. She was clad head to toe in black leather, with only her head exposed. The photo was poor, but her features were clearly visible. The woman was angry and wild eyed, her face bore serpentine tattoos, and her pink hair was done in an odd style where a single braid hugged the center of her scalp, leaving the rest of her head shaved. She appeared to be just on the cusp of no longer being young, but no one would mistake her for anything but a threatening force.

Othello gave the Marines time to study the pictures. Scáth did not need the time, of course, but he took a moment anyway, to ponder on what he saw.

When a the moment had passed, Othello pointed to the first figure and said, *This is Maztech Montague. No one I know of has been able to make an imager work when he's nearby. Obviously he has, or had, some kind of Mechanicus connection. He doesn't talk about it, and I don't ask. His outfit is known as the Manglers, they're small, but don't let that fool you. His power comes through manipulation, not force. Many of the smaller gangs have sworn loyalty to him, others are under his control… less willingly. If anyone is going to try to cut a deal with the enemy, it's Maztech, and judging by the fact that one of his lieutenants was recently dropped 1,600 meters down the number 3 shaft, I'd say his offer was rejected. You can't trust him, but he's not stupid, once he realizes these guys won't let him maintain business as usual, he'll fight.*

He then indicated the photo of the large man, *Moving on to Sewa Hive's favorite son, this is Killer Capulet, and yes, that is his real name. He's big, he's though, and he kills things. Most of your questions about him can be answered by one or more of those three facts. He controls the largest territory and the most men, but they're ramshackle, and he's holding the entire organization together by brute force. Cracking him will be hard: you could kill him, but that won't give you his gang. There's be infighting, territorial disputes, scores being settled… no, if you want his men, you're going to need to bring the man himself on board, and there's nothing he respects but sheer brutal strength. Any of you boys know someone who could mete some of that out?*

The two Astartes glanced at each other. Leictreach gave a wry smile, but Hiachóir face remained as impassive as a marble cliff.

Finally, Othello held up the third image and shook his head. He asked the Space Marines, *Either of you ever run into an all female Militarum Regiment?*

The two gave small shakes of their head in unison.

The mortal met Scáth's eye. He said, *The ones that make it through their first battle are some of the fiercest, brutalist, most singularly bloody minded units in the whole damn Guard. They have to be, hells, often just to survive what their own side tries to do to them. The Dazzlers are like that. They don't have the numbers that Killer does, and they're not as organized as we are, but we both keep well back from the East Rim.*

He handed the picture to the Sergeant, *And this is the reason why. Nobody does mayhem like Desi. Her girls are into fire, explosions, and hearing people scream. Don't get me wrong, she's got a code, and it's one I can respect. But that code only allows one response to people who cross her, piss her off, or look at her funny.*

Examining the picture again, Scáth replied, *They sound very much like the type of people we would like to have on our side. How do we achieve this?*

Othello gave a low chuckle and rubbed his scalp, *I've been asking myself that question for 12 years.*

He took the picture back and looked at it.

*She has a code,* he continued, *and part of that code is keeping her girls safe. If she knew what was coming, what these people, these **things**, were capable of, then she'd fight with us, but I don't know how to get through to her. I'll keep thinking, focus on Killer and Maztech, they've got to be your priority. Something will come up with Desi, I hope.*

He grabbed all three images and set them face down on the table.

*So, Mr. Space Marine, that is what we're up against and what we have to work with,* he said turning back to the Sergeant and the Artificer, *So, what do suggest we do about it?*

### Astartes dictate Tactics

Scáth rubbed the back of his neck as he exchanged one more look with his second. This human they had joined forces with will have to bear close scrutiny for he had knowledge of Chaos that few held and stayed sane.

*Leictreach, you handle Maztech Montague. Offer him trade with our chapter if you think that will buy him, then go handle Killer. I will handle the little hellion. Meanwhile Orthello, I need you to start trouble with the minor gangs. We need their numbers and the distraction for the Blue Hand. Further our presence is not to be known outside this room. Anyone else who finds out about us is dead got it? You will have some of my brother's support for making the minor gangs ours.*

Scáth was cautious about trusting anyone at all much less a normal human. So far the only numbers revealed to their 'allies' was about five or six Astartes. He knew this particular human was fairly insightful and made sure that the human was picking up no more information than he intended. Knowledge was power as the Blood Ravens like to say. But his brethren were the Bloodmoon Hunters, and it was time for the hunt to begin in earness. Orders were given earlier to let loose his brothers to cause as much chaos as they cared to do.

At this point several areas were rigged to explode or collapse. The Ambush site preparations were well on their way, as well as his scouts were identifying likely areas of trouble. The two cults that they dealt with for the Black Moor were just the tip of the iceberg of their operations. At the same time as to draw notice away from those operations two squads of his brothers performed similar feats to other cults. They were making the underhive a very dangerous place to be an Astartes or Cultist. The preachers of Imperial Faith found guardian angels in the shadows as they were the bait for his kill hunters.

### A plea for strategy

The two Astartes began to rise, but Othello was standing before they could, he held his hands spread in a calming gesture, *Hold up, hold up, please, sit back down a moment.* he said.

Leictreach, still half risen, looked to his Sergeant. Hiachóir briefly toyed with the idea of refusing to listen, but decided he couldn't afford to. Little as he liked it, given the man's uncertain past, he could not risk completely discounting such a source of valuable local intelligence, and there was no point in having a guide if you wouldn't even consider his advice. Scáth lowered his Power Armored bulk back onto the small wall and peered inquisitively at the mortal, a moment later, Jared followed suit.

*Thank you, thank you,* Othello said, *Let me ask you a question. Do either of you come from a Hive World?*

The Artificer said nothing, but his leader had no hesitation, Aigéad Fuil was no secret. He shook his head and replied, *Once, long ago, our home was such a world, but no longer.*

The dark skinned gang leader continued, *Ok, question two, have you fought on Hive Worlds often?*

The two Astartes looked at each other, unsure where the mortal was going with this. Hiachóir replied, *Rarely, and never in a Hive so large.*

Clasping his hands together, Othello said, *Thank you, one last question, how many unarmed humans would it take to kill you? Five hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? Because what you have to consider is that there are enough people in this Hive to kill twenty million Space Marines at that exchange rate.*

The two transhumans looked at each other, less certain this time. Scáth Hiachóir was confident he could kill a thousand unarmed mortals, if his duty demanded it, five hundred, he might kill without his wargear. But ten thousand was another matter, and with the few Battle-Brothers he had in his party, such odds would be even worse. It was a sobering thought, and not a way of looking at the matter he would have come to on his own.

The Marine gave a small nod, acknowledging the point, and the man continued speaking, *A Hive isn't a city, it isn't a planet, Sewa Hive is a densely populated solar system, all on its own. It's systems are immense and complex, and you cannot just come in and knock those systems over, not if you want to use them for your benefit.*

*Look,* he continued, *How do you think I make my money? Do you think I earn it running stills and gambling dens? Oh, sure I do, but the money that brings in is pocket change compared to what I bring in from the Manufactorums. The Planetary Nobles and Merchant Princes may own those plants, but I provide safety and security that allows them to operate, so they give me a cut. I maintain order in an area of hundreds of square kilometers across 8 levels. There are close to a billion people in my territory, and the Moors are the smallest of the big four gangs. Killer controls a territory with the population and output of several Civilized Worlds. Maztech could buy himself a Titan, if anyone was selling, the point is, he could afford it. As for Desdemona,* the man ran his hand across his bald scalp, *she ought to be out there leading a Battlegroup, it's the Imperium's loss that she isn't a Lord General.*

*If you keep thinking of us as small time gangers, minor players who don't need to be handled carefully… you're not going to get the outcome you want.*

*I'm cooperating, and you know why.* He pitched his voice low, for their ears only, *I've been off world I know what's out there, what's coming.* The look in the man's eyes made it clear to what he referred, and the Sergeant gave a grudging nod.

He continued in a normal voice, *But Capulet is used to being a big fish in this particular pond. He isn't going to take the Blue Hand seriously, because he has nothing to compare them to. Nor will he take you as seriously as he should, straight away. Oh, he may decide you're a threat, and if he does, he'll come down on you with ten thousand armed men. But that doesn't get you what you want. For that, you're going to have to take him almost as seriously as he takes himself.*

*As for Montague… actually he might be interested in that trade deal, but you won't get him to the table easily. The man takes paranoia to a whole nother level, and if you try to come through his door without an invitation, or worse, you manage to sneak in spite of all his defenses, he'll probably try to kill you, no matter the risk. Now, I'm not saying he'll succeed, but he might end up forcing you to kill him, and that gets you nowhere in terms of bringing his forces to bear against the traitors.*

*As for Desi…* he rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, *I really don't know how to get through to her, but barging into her territory won't work. She is a protector, she keeps her territory safe, and people who try to hurt her, or her people, she only has one answer to that. I'm hoping that as the cult becomes more dangerous, and it will before we can take it on, she'll come round and see the danger we're all in.*

*If this is going to work, you're going to need these people alive and on your side. But these are powerful leaders from a closed off society. You need to be able to look at this through their eyes, and talk to them in ways they understand.*

Sergeant Hiachóir sat in thought for a solid minute, then another. He ran the situation backwards and forwards through his mind, unsure of how to proceed. Finally, he looked down at his left forearm. Covered though it was, that arm bore a scar from one of his first hunts as a Neophyte. He had underestimated a lesser creature, carelessly following a Damhán Alla into its lair. The giant subterranean arachnid had come close to taking his arm off, but it had taught him not to doubt the strength of a creature that knew its home well. That lesson would have to guide him on this hunt.

*What do you suggest?* the Astartes asked.

Othello reflected for a moment, arching his index fingers beneath his chin. Suddenly, he looked up, he smiled at the two Marines and asked, *Are any of you on the short side?*

The two stared at him puzzled.

He continued, *I mean by your own standards?*

### Chosen for the Arena

*Apprentice Trodaire Gearr, send for him please.* Sergeant Hiachóir asked his second and through ways that were known only to the Bloodmoon Hunters an apprentice who by rights was shorter than Astartes usually are was called up. He is known among the hunting party not as a clever fighter or even one excellent in any particular field yet. But there was no other who could last as long in constant combat than these newly made Astartes. This was his first hunt outside the immediate confines of their system, fresh from being made Astartes he was still in his growth but already showed the potential for the Raptor School.

Apprentice Trodaire Gearr was soon on his way to the arena of Killer. He dressed down from his normal gear keeping only a prized dagger he had made from the chitin of a Léim Portán that he kept as a good luck charm. Standing 6' 6" tall, this tan skinned man has an unlikable feel about him, and he has a strange burn mark on his left leg from getting caught in a vent blast in the tunnels of Aigéad Fuil. His lean face has a softly shaped jaw, a pointed nose, large ears and thin lips to go with his grey eyes that are deep set, and fine eyebrows. A very short, fine, brown hair which is neatly styled matched his short arms, a heavy torso, and toned legs that spoke of heavy weight training and weapons work. He has a mythical creature tattoo across his entire left arm that shown even wearing scruffy, garish clothes that are mostly pastel-coloured and slightly too small.

The dagger is flexible, currently has a sharp edge, and has mysterious engravings across it that only has meaning for his past hunts. It has an impractical guard, a tattered purple leather grip, and a large red gem set in the pommel. It is of an average weight, is well balanced and is comfortable to use for a long time. A perfect weapon for such an act as he was going to fight for sport, and not just for training or for life against an arrogant normal.

### The Gladiator Challenge

As hab blocks shot by the window of the transport tube, Othello took the time to carefully inspect the younger Astartes from the crown of his head to the soles of his boots. Not, mind you, that you could guess his age based on looking at him. There was, however, something about this one that said **young** to Othello's experienced eye, at least when he compared him to the Sergeant or the Artificer.

It wasn't a lack of confidence, for the next inconfident Space Marine he met would be the first. Nor was it anything to do with the clear deference the apprentice showed his leader, for in another life Othello had known men who could be genuinely different and loyal to boys a third their age. But there was something, something of the pacing of the caged beast in the Marine's deep grey eyes, a sharpness in the way he moved his relatively short arms, that was absent in his seniors. Othello knew these signs well, Transhuman or not: young Trodaire had something to prove, whereas Hiachóir and Leictreach had nothing left that needed it. The two veterans had seen the Ork, as they said in the Guard, and they had met the test of their harshest critic, themselves.

The Space Marines may know no fear, but fear has a second cousin named doubt, and behind the certainty, behind the perfection of his weapons and his enhancements, the young apprentice had room for the tiniest sliver of doubt, if only in his own worth.

Othello smiled, pleased with what he saw. In part, it was good to know that, even in a transhuman demigod, veterancy still mattered. But also pleased because he knew that this boy-man-god-thing would need that sliver of humanity, if he were to complete his true mission.

The transport tube was half empty, precisely half empty, because a row of four Black Moors stood across the center of the car, keeping the other passengers back with clearly displayed weapons. Othello and Brother Trodaire sat at the rear of the car, luxuriating in the last moments of semi-privacy they would enjoy for some time.

Hiachóir had given the Marine his orders, and instructed him to listen to Othello, although he had not, the mortal noted, told his subordinate to trust what he had to say. The leader of the Black Moors knew that the other Astartes would be there, somewhere in the background, ready to aid their Brother if the situation called for it. But if that happened, then their best option would have fallen through. No, if this was going to work, it would be young Trodaire Gearr with his fists, his wits, his dagger, and the knowledge Othello could impart to him.

Othello leaned in and in a quiet voice, began to share that knowledge, *Killer came up out of the pits, oh, about 20 years ago. Might have been 11 years old, already killed enough to get that name. He was already bigger than most, and he knew how to make that work for him.*

Othello clasped his hands, remembering things the Marine couldn't see, *The pits are one of the roughest areas in the whole damn underhive, we say that in the pits, life is short, and the knives are long. That shaped him, it taught him that either you were strong enough to do things to others, or they tended to do them to you.*

The young Marine grunted, in what might have been acknowledgment, or it might have been a good deal more. Othello went on, *Everything he has, he took by being the biggest meanest son-of-a-bitch around. He's not stupid, not really, but he only respects strength. And that, my friend, is where you come in.*

The mortal looked up, meeting the Astartes's eyes dead on.

*The way to get into Killer's good graces quickly, the only way, is to win in the fighting pits. Now tonight, tonight he won't be there, this is just a qualifier. But once you start building a name for yourself, I give it a week the way I expect you to fight, you'll get an invite up to Sancta Charnage, that's his place, and it's the biggest arena on the planet.*

It was often hard to read an Astartes expressions, but if Trodaire was the least bit impressed by the idea of the largest fighting pit on Levan Prime, by the idea 20,000,000 screaming fans, or the certainty toughest gladiators the world had to offer, he was doing a better than usual job of hiding it.

**Fair enough.** Othello thought to himself. He continued, *Win there, and Killer will notice you. Win multiple times in the Sancta Charnage and he'll let you fight one of his favorites. Beat one of his favorites, and he'll fight you himself. Now, this is important,* he said, leaning further in, *You have to lose, but he can't know you've let him win.*

The Marine's face screwed up like he'd bit down on something sour. He didn't object, but he also didn't agree.

Othello was ready for this, he was about to gamble hard on his allies moniker being significant. They called themselves hunters, he would see if they really thought in terms of the hunt, *That's the Trap,* Othello began, *That's how you get past his guard.*

The Marine sat back, his eyes suddenly dark and contemplative. Othello pressed on, *We need Killer alive and on our side, but to do that, we need someone he'll listen to. If he thinks you just barely lost to him, more than that, if you gave him a fight he enjoyed, you become one of his favorites. He'll want you at his table. He'll want you with him in his cups. He'll listen to you. That way, a week later, maybe two at the outside, when your Sergeant is ready to plead his case, you can vouch for him.*

The Marine finally spoke, he asked, skeptically, *Won't he feel betrayed when he discovered I've lied to him?*

Othello replied, *That's not his way,* he put emphasis into his voice, *Not unless you let him know you threw the match. That's all he cares about, strength.*

As the transport tube came around a bend, Othello knew they were running out of time. They had a route set up to get the Astartes secretly to one of the fighting pits, he couldn't be seen with the Black Moors if this was going to work.

Sitting up straight, Othello took in a deep breath, *Were almost there, do have any questions, anything else you need convincing of?*

### First Match

End of the line. One last stop. Though he’d heard it described as “underground,” Davis was loath to call the fight anything close to that as it was tame compared to his life on Aigéad Fuil.

Packed with promoters, gamblers, fans of all types, the only man who was worthy of the whole bunch was his opponent, who stood at the edge opposite his own with his sword glinting in the lights of the pits. He had just watch the man take on several opponents and make them beg for the release of death.

It was his time to take on one of his first matches before Killer. This light swordsmen though quick would be no match.

The first punch glanced his Opponent’s chin. His opponent noticed too late that it was a feint, though, when the second punch doubled him over and expelled the last bit of choked air from his belly.

This was crazy. He knew it. Crazy didn’t mean the two remaining swords in the arena—his, a dagger and his opponent’s, a thin curved hookblade—hadn’t spilled a lot of blood that day. Both blades looked almost pink in the dying light. He made brief eye contact with his opponent, who only smirked at him. He didn’t want to admit the move gave his man the edge, but it had.

It was a heck of a shot that his opponent countered with. Outside of having the wind knocked from him, which he always hated, Trodaire noticed a fair amount of pain with the gutshot that was reinforced with some sort of powered gauntlet that was hidden under the gloves the man was using, which was something he wasn’t used to. A hit to the face, yes, or even the kidney...but the gut shouldn’t have been much more than discomfort, if that.

And they were off. The crowd shied back as the opponent, all youth and lean muscle, leapt catlike, waving the hooked blade in figure eights multiple times before touching down again. Trodaire cracked a smile. This time, he made sure to make eye contact. For a brief moment, he could see uncertainty in his opponent’s eyes. He felt grateful for the advantage.

Fortunately, he was used to it all. A veteran of bar fights before even becoming an Astartes.

He stood straight, eyes bulging with rage, and stared at his opponent—some punk boy with a smart mouth—right in his shifty little eyes. The kid tried to stand tall, but he was about to pee his pants he was so scared. Trodaire had him where he wanted him.

“You…little…” His opponent took a lurching step forward with each word. On the third, he swung: “Punk!”

The blow felt too sluggish. Trodaire knew the second his opponent launched it. The Astartes ducked under it. Before his opponent could even register the dodge, however, another body shot, this one to his ribs, sent fresh ripples of pain through his opponent's torso. His opponent didn’t fall—he made absolutely sure he did not fall—but it was a lot closer than he’d have liked.

The opponent went in for another shot. Trodaire shoved him off. Seeing the opponent scoot back so far against the weight of it gave his opponent a second wind. Trodaire covered the distance between them. Threw three more punches that did land.

Advancing. Advancing. The man charged at him with the hooked blade upheld, going to his foreswing and following it with a backswing. Trodaire dodged the first and met the second with his dagger. The weight of the counter sent his opponent’s blade back, back, back…but not far enough to knock the blade free of his opponent's hands.

Striking. This arcing shot sliced the fabric of his opponent’s shirt at the midsection. It missed the flesh behind it by perhaps a centimeter.

His man staggered. Trodaire swung. His dagger missed, though not close enough to eat fabric. The opponent managed another smirk, this time at the spryness of his dodge. Trodaire had to admit it was impressive, but this time, the sight only made him angrier.

Swing. Swing. Swing. The first two missed badly, but the third, a backswing off the one before it, found flesh. The dagger ate through his opponent as easily as air. The fighter dropped to a knee, tried to stand, and dropped again.

“A WINNER!” The fat man stepped towards the center again, making sure not to sully his expensive shoes with the loser’s blood.

### A Bet Starts to Pay Off

As the crowd roared, a man with a cheap transmitter voxed the results to the South Slopes. There was nothing unusual about it, bookmakers from across the underhive had agents in the fighting pits, here and elsewhere. About half of them worked, either directly or indirectly, for Maztech Montague, but there were plenty of freelancers as well. There might very well be a war on in the high spires, but what did the underhivers care who ruled in Ajaccia? It had always been the same down here, and surely it always would be.

The only thing that happened to be different about this man, and his vox, was that the bookie on the other end had three Black Moors standing in his office, listening with him. They weren't holding him hostage, nor anything so vulgar. He ran a legitimate business, and paid his security fees to the Moors promptly on the first of each month. All he knew was that the Leader, the one some people called Othello, had an interest in the outcome of a particular fight.

Once they had heard about the victory of this, Trodaire Gearr (odd name, that) they headed out into the night, with a polite wave. There was zero chance, whatsoever, that the bookie would tell anyone about their visit. Fear was a small part of it, but loyalty and gratitude were much greater. The Black Moors had been a God Emperor-send for the South Slope, bringing needed stability and ending the constant petty gang wars of previous generations.

Maybe the Moors were running a complex operation that used put fighters as a front, or maybe the Leader just had a bet with his boy Iago and wanted to know the outcome sooner. It didn't matter to the bookie. His lips, were sealed.

As the report came in at the Moors headquarters, Othello smiled at Iago. He knew how the next few days would play out, and he was right.

People who'd never heard of Trodaire Gearr came back to see him the next day.

At the third day's match, those same people cheered his name, alongside others who had traveled far to see the new sensation.

By the fourth day, Gearr's manager, a reliable man with no obvious ties to the Black Moors, was having to chase of admires with a stick, especially **women**. If Iago could have gotten a holograph of Sergeant Hiachóir's face when he shared that piece of news, he'd have kept it as a cherished keepsake. Who knew Space Marines could be dumbfounded?

It was on the sixth day, after a particularly gory eight way match, from which only Brother Trodaire and one other walked away, that the news came. A Lieutenant of Killer Capulet emerged from the stands and grabbed the vox from the deferential Ringmaster.

There, before hundreds of thousands of Gearr's new fans, the man announced that Killer had heard Gearr's name, that he wanted to see what he was capable of. He told the Astartes that he had been judged worthy to die in the Sancta Charnage, but would have to prove that he was worthy of being a champion there. The man asked what Gearr had to say for himself, and Gearr merely raised his fist, clutching his bloodstained dagger high above his head. The roar of the crowd shook the arena, and could be heard for tens of kilometers.

Trodaire Gearr would have his day in the Sancta Charnage, and his chance for glory

### Bout to Remember

Throwing a few handfuls of dirt onto his own body and that of his opponent as a form of blessing, Trodaire Gearr was ready for a fight of epic proportions. The fight with the Lieutenant of Killer Capulet would be done unarmed. Actually all of his fights in Sancta Charnage were to be done this way. He was meant to lose or prove his mettle in a fashion of more than superior strength but superior in use of everything around him.