Penny

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

The company set to work with a will. Most of the ships were badly burned and even the surviving vessels suffered from shriveled rigging, or smoldering caulking. Skaldi filled the chill morning air with a stream of complaints about shoddy manling and Khazaki craftsmanship. The dwarf selected one of the long ships furthest from the center of the blaze. He stomped up and down the deck of his chosen vessel scowling like a thundercloud.

"Aye this is the best of a bad lot manlings, but she will still leak like a grobbi tunnel. We need to seal it or we will be swimming with the sharks! Cut down some of those pines and get a fire going!" the dwarf roared at the exhausted great swords. The exhausted soldiers looked up at the dwarf in weary incomprehension.

"We don't have axes," one of the men protested, as he unlatched his breastplate to cool off. Even in the chill of Nordland heavy armor became a furnace within a few minutes. Perversely it would be shiveringly cold within a few minutes. The dwarf gripped the gunnel with his sausage sized fingers, splintering the fire dried timber.

"The lass is out there in the hands of these Khazaki scum. I don't care if you have to cut them down with your teeth! And you'd better hope Cydric dosent..."

Both men sprang to there feet and started up the beach with nervous glances in the direction of the Ostlander sergeant. One of the pair found an abandoned Norscan axe and hefted it in one hand with a satisfied grunt.

"Riders!"

Men grabbed for weapons and shook out into a loose formation across the shale covered beach, locking shields into a loose wall. For long moments there was a silence broken only by wind, the slop of surf and the creak of shifting timbers. The look outs, two of the scouts that had accompanied Cydric, slid down the side of the bluff, weapons in hand, creating a small shower of gravel in their haste to join the formation. A moment later two figures on horseback came over the rise and began to pick their way down to the rocky incline.

One was a grim looking man in late middle age and patchwork armor. The other was a slightly plumpish red head, whose sour expression ruined her otherwise pretty face. Both horses were heavily loaded and just about played out judging by the amount they were blowing. Foam gathered at the corners of the beast mouths. The men relaxed, not abandoning their weapons but certain that such a pair didn't come with hostile intent. The man road forward towards the line, pausing twenty feet from the nearest swordsman.

"Morning!" he yelled in a lower class Altdorf accent. He reached up and brushed stringy greish blond hair from his face. The woman behind him cleared her throat pointed.

"My name is Yantz,"he took a deep breath as though he were about to do something he knew would be deeply embarrassing.

"And this is Dietrichia Von Grimmelhausen, we are looking for someone named Byrdic or Checker or something like that," he declared with an apologetic grimace.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Rene felt his pulse elevate as Solae came down the stairs. The ensemble hugged her every curve, the slight tightness across the chest emphasising her bust, the form fit trousers emphasising her waist and hips. Even the way her mane of golden hair was lifted made her face seem all the more elegantly proportioned. He tried to remind himself that she was in a vulnerable position and that he needed to focus on her protection but the argument rang a little hollow in his mind in light of what she had said back at the manor.

Despite Oanh’s gesture Rene instinctively went for his gun when she darted towards Solae. Fingers as strong as iron caught his wrist under the table. The impassive Min Ho showed no sign of strain as he pinned the younger mans hand long enough for the initial reaction to pass. The pressure slackened slight, and then, when the former assassin as sure the marine was at ease, vanished completely.

His face darkened slightly as Oanh made her suggestions. They did make some sense from a purely tactical point of view but he didn’t see that it would be much help. The monetary reward alone was sufficient to tempt all but the nobility and no few of them had less money than status. Her genetic access codes would make her invaluable even if she was as ugly as sin and with a body like that men would find a use for Solae even if she were a penniless beggar.

“You disapprove?” Oanh asked and Rene realised he had been scowling. A flush of embarrassment colored his skin for a moment. To cover his discomfort, and to give himself a moment to think, he dipped the bread into his soup and chewed. It was a long way from the elaborate food of his childhood, but to a man who had spent the past five years on Imperial rations it was ambrosia. He swallowed and met Solae’s eyes before giving his attention to their hostess.

“It isn’t really my place to approve or disapprove Ma.. Oanh,” he amended at the look of disapproval at the attempted honorific.

“Solae is her own woman and dosen’t need my approval or disapproval or anything. It is her path to walk, I’m just trying help her however I can.” He felt a mild irritation that Oanh had bought it up and by the look in her eye didn’t intend to drop it.

“Right, but you DO disapprove,” she challenged. Rene set his spoon down and shrugged his shoulders, though the gesture didn’t so much convey indifference as a surrender to the line of questioning.

“The marquessa shouldn’t have to renounce her titles to appease a bunch of spinward rebels who think they are somebody,” he declared, his tone conveying the contempt he felt for the Gids and their murderous master.

“Even if this thing is sector wide, once we get word out the Empire is going to come back in here and set things right,” he expanded. Set things right in a pretty permanent fashion if the pacification operations he had read about in the past were any guide at all.

“When that happens Solae will be the representative of her family and a representative of the Empire. People will need to look to her as an example of what we stand for, not see someone who she her burdens when they became inconvenient,” Rene concluded a trifle more forcefully than he had intended. The silence lingered a beat and he bought a spoonful of soup to his mouth.

“Listen I’m just a soldier…” Rene began only to be cut off by a hearty laugh from Min Ho.

“For ‘just a soldier’ you have an awfully long ranged view of the situation. Your manners are too good, you accent and your diction is off. You are from Cappela I take it?” Min Ho pressed, emphasising his point by waving his spoon in Rene’s general direction. The marine nodded, drawing a steadying breath, he was a guest and had no cause to be irritated if his hosts were curious about him, or if they wanted to make dinner conversation that was intentionally or accidentally awkward for him.

“Not the normal gutter sweepings that go for the Marines I’d judge. What is they say, too vicious to live, too stupid to die?” Min Ho suggested.

“Too crazy to live,” Rene corrected, the unofficial motto was too familiar to be particularly insulting, plus there was some truth to it. Most men who went into the marines were guilty of crimes ranging from grand theft to murder. Bowie had enlisted after knifing a man in a drunken brawl. By Imperial fiat once a someone ‘took the star’, so called for the star inlay on the recruitment screen, he or she was immune from prosecution. At the completion of ten years service they would be discharged with a new identity and no questions asked.

“It dosen’t really matter, I want Solae to be safe, that is what is important,” Rene went on, moving the conversation back to the original point. His lips twitched into the ghost of a smile.

“As she told me earlier today, she is more than capable of making her own decisions.”

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

The longship had cleared the bluff by the time Camilla regained consciousness. The wind as still whipping the sea to choppy grey white froth and an icy rain began to spit from the leaden sky. The Norscans, massive though they were, sweated and gasped for air from the effort of fighting the wind and the sea. She was tied to the mast, her arms bound behind her back and a noose around her neck, snugged up tight against the wind worn timber. No sail was flying in this wind though she could see the massive leather sheet rolled into a rough cylinder.

Gorn looked back at her from the prow with a feral grin. Sea spray ran down his powerful arms and for the first time he had a weapon, a large hooked axe tucked into the belt that wrapped his waist. Two prisoners, shivering Nordlanders knelt before him. Camilla guessed they were soldiers because they were well muscled and looked well fed, though their clothing was too ragged to betray any kind of uniform.

“Ah you are awake. I had plans for you but it seems the Dark Prince has greater ones. Don’t fear you may yet bear the children of Gorn Son of Gnarn,” the reaver laughed. Several of the crewmen looked nervously between Gorn and Camilla. One of them licked his lips, his tongue too pointed and prehensile to be entirely human. Gorn grabbed one of the men by the hair and hauled him to his feet. At full extension the man didn’t reach the Norscan’s shoulders. The soldier squirmed with pain but bit back any cry.

“You will go tell your Count that I, Gorn Son of Gnarn, have his daughter, and that if she doesn't forsake her weak southern gods, he will need to come to Norsca to see what grand children the bitch can whelp!” The reaver drew his axe and slammed it to the deck, severing several of the man's toes with a meaty chunk. The soldier screamed in agony as the Norscan pitched him into the heaving sea. Without further words he repeated the process with the second man, then gathered up the toes and tossed them over the side.

“Better swim fast, I’m told there are sharks!”

______________________

The shovel load of manure flew across the stable yard in a perfect ballistic arc. At the last moment, when it seemed fore ordained that it would splatter across the disheveled looking woman picking herself up off the cobblestones, a shield cut through the air and splattered the malodorous mass across the low stone wall that served as a barrier for horses in the inns carriage yard. The missileer, a balding bartender in a stained leather apron scowled at the the shield bearer but obviously thought better of a second attempt. The shield bearer was a tired looking man in his late forties. He wore a patchwork of armor, some of which would have been old when the man as born and he bore a (now) manure stained bucker. His face as craggy as only a man who spent years out in all weather can appear. The woman finished getting to her feet. She was a slightly plump, if not unattractive red head, though streaks of pale blonde speckled the auburn locks.

“Good sir,” she began, speaking with the exaggerated precision of the very drunk.

“I find the hospitality of your establishment…”

“Get your lying thieving ass out of here witch, or by Sigmar we will burn you no matter what they say in Altdorf!” The heavy wooden door slammed shut like a thunderclap. The woman started and looked skyward though her drink dulled senses rendered the action seconds too late to be of any practical help.

“Lightning!” she declared and began to slowly topple over. The man sprang to her side and grabbed an arm to steady her.

“You just had to play cards didn’t you Dietz, we had a warm bed lined up and everything,” the armored man grumped.

“Why Yantz, a woman has a right to pursue her subsistence!” The older man rolled his eyes and turned her towards the snow crusted road by one elbow.

“Well pursue it without getting us tossed out of another tow…” the sentence trailed of as the formerly pliant woman went rigid. Yantz looked back in surprise to find her starting at the pattern of splattered manure on the wall intently.

“For Taal’s sake what…” The readhead made a series of hissing shushing noises as she examined the excrement.

“It is a sign!” she declared dramatically, finger outstretched towards some of the filth.

“See there, it is Windbighters Bay, I see a tall man and something..” she paused to hiccup delicately.

“Something about boats,” she concluded mysteriously. Yantz crossed his arms unenthusiastically.

“Deitz,” he sighed longsufferingly, “that is literally horse shit.” The red head was already striding away, determined but with a definite list to the left which would drive her into the side of the stable in a few more feet. Yantz cast his eyes skyward imploringly and then hurried after the departing woman, muttering curses.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

“One bedroom will be fine ma’am,” Rene nodded in greatful acceptance as Oanh began to spoon generous portions of soup into bowls with a large wooden ladle. It was thick and filled with a variety of vegetables grown in the local garden. The pair seemed prosperous in their own terms and by those of most of New Concordia. Rene wondered if that was a result of funds, or merely the natural translation of the kind of organizational skills that a covert life style demaded.

As a child of the nobility Rene had undergone his own regime of genetic manipulation as well as minor cosmetic surgeries after birth. The process was far less extensive for males with the primary changes being metabolic in nature. Rene’s body produced muscle much more readily than fat and burned calories less efficiently. The result was that his physique was maintained by only moderate exercise and he suffered slightly in cold environments. The Marine Corp medics had noticed the changes but didn’t feel them to be worth more than a casual mention. It hadn't occurred to him that Solae’s astonishing beauty might bring with it worse drawbacks.

“And I’d appericate anything you can tell me medically. It really would be a huge help,” he told Oanh who made an ‘its nothing’ gesture with her left hand.

“I had to remove…” he began but Oanh interuppted him.

“Yes I saw, not a bad piece of work for a grunt,” she said with the slight unconscious contempt for a professional for the work of amateurs, “though you were lucky the pain didn’t send her into shock.”

“We used drugs to put her under,” Rene admitted, slicing the loaf of instant bread into thumb thick slices with a large serrated knife. Little wheat grew in the tropical lowlands and most of the subsitutes were similarly temperate crops. Bread was an offworld style on New Concordia where rice agriculture predominated but he was glad for the presence of the familiar staple.

“What drugs?” she asked, cocking an interrogatory eyebrow.

“Candemamine,” Rene admitted somewhat uncomfortably.

“Cand…” Oanh trailed off in shock. Rene explained the details of the manor to her hastily and Oanh seemed to relax as he told her how they had taken the drugs from Lord Armon’s recreational stores. Towards the end of the discussion Min Ho returned, his arrival completely silent but given away by the blast of humid afternoon air. Storm clouds were already beginning to pile high on the eastern horizon, making the normally brilliant sunlight seem flat. The two constants on New Concordia were heat and rain.

“Seems clear,” Min Ho said, moping he sweat from his brow with an armored gauntlet. The layered ceramic and polymerized metal succeeded in smearing the fluid without actually wicking it away. Oanh made a clucking sound and dabbed at her husband’s forehead with a dish towel.

“Looks like there might be something going on at one of the Manors off west, saw a couple of jumpers headed that way, hard to tell with the heat shimmer this time of day but there might have been smoke.”

“Enough of that, take off the turtle suit, our other guest will be down for dinner in a moment,” Oanh ordered, with all the authority of a field marshall directing a very junior subordinate.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

As Rene had imagined, the cellar served as both cellar and armory. The whole room had been sealed with a plasticized chemical which mimicked stone in effect but was more like ultra fine concrete. Boxes of food ranging from ration packs to flash frozen local produce were stacked with a perfect neatness which would have made Lieutenant Van Heck’s heart glad. Barrels of preserved meat and salted fish were laid out in neat rows along side casks of what Rene presumed to be palm wine distilled from the plentiful Terran palms which grew all over the coastal region of New Concordia.

The other half of the room would normally have been concealed behind a false wall but the seamless access panel was currently slid open. A variety of weapons and equipment was stacked in neat storage bins. Rene didn’t recognise half of it, but what he did recognise ranged from the illegal to the very illegal. Any doubts he had of Min Ho being in the Imperial service evaporated at the technological cornucopia. No jumped up bandit could ever hope to see, let alone own half this stuff. He took off his pack and set it inside the door and then unslung the rifle and set it across the top of the pack.

“Keeping the pistol?” Min Ho asked, his voice neutral. Rene began reply intending to tell the stranger that he wasn't going to disarm himself so completely but the older man merely reached past him and took a heavy pistol down off the wall and passed it to Rene. It was a heavy calibre electromotive model, black and round rather than boxy. It was a standard issue naval piece that Rene was familiar with from his ship board rotation. He thumbed an activation stud and twelve led lights lit up behind the receiver, indicating the load. The marine cracked the chamber with a practiced motion and made sure the electronic read out was correct. It was, though the rounds were of an alloy of stabilized uranium rather than the ceramics usually found in such weapons. You did not fire an armor piercing round in a space ship unless you could breath vacuum or were really sure you would hit.

“Cautious, that's good, but don’t let it become paranoia,” Min Ho advised as Rene snapped the chamber shut and dropped the weapon into his pant pocket. He added two additional magazines to balance the weight.

“I’ve had enough luck these past few days that I must be close to using up my lifetime supply,” Rene replied honestly as Min Ho pressed a switch on the inside of the door. The concrete panel slid shut without so much as a whisper as though it had never existed.

“Thank you for the gun,” Rene told his host courteously, Min Ho had been making a statement by giving it to him. I know more about you than you think most likely, but it was a good choice.

“Easier to lie about if the Gids find me, not their equipment,” Rene said, earning a smile from the older man.

“Paranoid and smart, you maybe missed your calling,” Min Ho laughed, clapping Rene on the shoulder as they headed back across the supply room. The armored man grabbed several boxes and a cask seemingly at random. The spectacle of a man gathering food for dinner in tactical armor was disorienting.

“You came from the Rat Trap?” Min Ho asked as the pair ascended the stairs. Rene nodded though he really didn’t want to think about it. It showed a surprising amount of knowledge of the local situation that he referred to the post by its nickname, but then perhaps that shouldn’t surprise him coming from a man who had half an Imperial Guard Battalion worth of hardware in his basement.

“They hit us there yesterday afternoon,” Rene said, helping Min Ho lay out spoons and fill glasses with an unfamiliar juice of a vaguely purplish color. Instant bread appeared from some of the cartons as did cuts of preserved meat with a peppery crust.

“Wiped us all out in one fell swoop,” he went on because his host appeared to expect it rather than from any genuine desire. Min Ho noded, his face somber and craggy.
“The Marines, The Embassy, they even took out the two courier ships in orbit. According to the news broadcasts Duke Tan has declared a state of emergency, cracking down against a possible coup against the Empress.”

Further discussion was interrupted by a subtle trembling which shook dust from the corners of the rooms. It was an unpleasant thrum in the base of the chest. Both men paused and cocked their heads in near mirror images. You didn’t forget the sound of ships decent and both Marines and former assassin's logged more space time than most people. Spacecraft descended on jets of plasma which chopped the RF spectrum to hash and as such their arrival and departure was usually tightly scheduled.

“I think that is the first touchdown I’ve heard since this mess started,” Rene observed as the rumble rose in pitch momentarily and then died away. Min Ho continued to set the table, tugging the red and white checked table cloth back into place where the wind had pulled it up over one corner.

“It is, might be they are trying to open the port, get trade flowing again,” Min Ho suggested dubiously. Rene shook his head.

“Too many thrusters for a freighter,” he explained. Plasma motors used water for reaction mass and so fuel was cheap, but the process of decent ate away at the throats of the thrusters. Replacing a worn thruster was both expensive and time consuming and so merchant captains almost always landed with a minimum thruster configuration.

“Must be a warship or a fast courier,” Rene concluded hoping that it didn’t bode i’ll for the fugitives.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Camilla awoke in the shifting aurora of the flames. Her neck as sore where her tunic had bound when the Norscan had seized her but she otherwise felt no pain. Whatever he had hit her to knock her out had obviously been more than physical. She was inside a tent of some unfamiliar grey leather. A brass manacle encircled her wrist and connected her to a heavy iron bound chest with a surprising length of chain. The only other items within the tent were a pile of bear pelts, obviously serving as bedding, and an altar of greenish soap stone carved with runes that were both seductive and disturbing in equal measure. Purplisly light from the fire outside poured through the single flap that served as an entrance. Hastily she patted herself down. Her clothing remained intact but her weapons were gone. She didn’t care to speculate how some of the knives she had secreted about her had been removed but her sword and both her pistols were nowhere to be found.

It was uncertain how long she had been unconscious but Ivan must have known she had been captured by now. That he hadn’t attempted a rescue was no surprise, she doubted he could have convinced the mercenaries to try such a plan, but she still felt a twinge of betrayal. It was possible that they had been discovered and massacred of course. Her hand went instinctively to her neck where she found Cydric’s necklace, the cool silver metal calming her sudden panic. There was no point in getting worked up before she had more information. She glanced at the entryway again and the hateful purple firelight that poured through it like glowing oil. Well at least she wasn’t likely to make her situation any worse.

Stepping through the flap, Camilla pulled her chain behind her with a metallic rattle. There must have been twenty feet of finely forged brass links. A hulking figure, the same Norscan who had captured her, squatted on the shale beach, far too close to the shifting purple bonfire. He was naked from the waist up and sweat ran down his tattoed musculature in rivers.

“You are awake, that is good,” the chaos worshiper rumbled. In his hand he held a vast oyster shell and a tooth that Camilla thought must belong to a shark. A flash of intuition struck her.

“It is shark skin, the tent is,” she said. The reavers luminous too large eyes flicked to the tent. He drew the tooth over the oyster shell with a slow unpleasant scritching sound. There was a pile of them at his feet, dozens of the things, covered in indecipherable scrawl.

“Yesss,” the reaver crooned, eye pinning her with feverish intensity.

“We hunt them in the Bay of Fins, Beloved of the Skull Lord sharks are,” the Norscan went on. As he spoke he thrust a hand into the purplish flames. The oyster shell smoked and cracked with an audible pop, though the hand that gripped it as unharmed. After a moment he withdrew the shell and traced a finger along the cracks, frowning as though they held great portent, then he dropped the calcified ruin to the pile before him and took up another.

Camilla considered charging the man. If she put her full weight behind a diving kick she could probably topple him into the fire. To what end though? He didn’t seem overly concerned by the flames. The camp sprawled around her, she had spent enough time watching it from the bluff to orient herself as on the south western corner. Other Norscan’s watched her from their own fires with hungry eyes. Off to the north stood a pen in which a score or so of raggedly dressed figures, mostly women, shivered together for heat. A leathery chaos hound patrolled the edge of the flimsy pen, a barrier far more formidable than ropes and stakes.

“I am Gorn Son of Gnarn,” the Norscan declared with portentous formaillity.

“Who are you?” he demanded as he picked up another shell.

“I’m Hilda, a fish wife from Barchaussen,” Camilla lied effortlessly. Gorn through back his head and laughed uproariously.

“I’ve raped enough fishermans wives to know what they look like and what they smell like,” he told her with playful cruelty.

“What they taste like as well,” he leered, the smile revealing teeth too large and too sharp. He flexe a bicep, the bloody wound cracking open and spiling down his arm.

“Then there is the small matter of your weapons and armor,” the Northman went on, oblivious to the blood sizzling in the heat of the flames. Camilla cowerd slightly, an affectation of the persona she was constructing for her self rather than her own inclination. Though Ranald knew she was scared enough. Gorn strode from the fire, thin wisps of smoke rising from his flesh like a dark halo. He seized her by the front of the tunic and lifted her bodily into the air bringing his face close to her. There as a scent to him that took her by surprise, incense and spices beneath the smoke and animal scents of his clothing.

“Who are you really, and by the Dark Prince if you lie to me I will slit your belly open and devour your entrails while you are still alive!” It wasn’t much of an act to curl up in terror at the threat but she managed a gasping sob none the less.

“I am Countess Valentina Von Gausser,” she half sobbed, “Please my father the count he told me not to come, he will give anything for my release!” Camilla had no idea of the Count of Nordland had a daughter, but on the back of such an obvious lie played far stronger than had she tried it from the outset. It also had the seductive quality of something the reaver wanted to be true. It was also backed up by the fine quality of her equipment and clothing, a detail that he would be congratulating himself for having notice.

“Aha!” Gorn roared in delight, hoisting her higher so she could look into his eyes.

“Give anything would he! Well his severed head can watch as Gorn son of Gnarn puts his sons inside of you! We will feed you his fingers as…”

Camilla flipped her leg up and over her shoulders in a contortionists tumble, using the Norscan’s grip as a pivot. The tunic tore three quarters of the way through the maneuver but she had enough momentum to land on the Chaos worshippers back, griping on with her knees. The reaver cursed in some unknown and horrible language but before he could grab her Camilla wrapped a foot of the chain around his neck, planted both feet in the small of his back and hauled with her full strength digging the brass links into his throat. The reaver twistd violently trying to throw her off but he couldn’t dislodge her. Wailing silently she drove the toe of her boot into the roaring mans temple working to keep him from formulating a plane. White knuckled she clung to the chain until the big warrior sank to his knees and then toppled to the rocky beach.

She gave him another thirty heartbeats to make sure he wasn’t shaming and then came shakily to her feet, brushing away pebbles and pieces of shell. No one had yet noticed her for the roar of their own fires and the screams of their own slaves. She crouched down beside Gorn and ran her wrist through the lathered sweat that the fire had covered him in. Groaning in pain she forced the bones in her hand to grind as close together as she could and then yanked hard. Her wrist slipped from the brass cuff and she relaxed her hand with a painful pop. The Chaos worshipper was too heavy to drag into the tent and, much as she wanted too she didn’t dare search for her weapons. She needed to get out of here and back to Cydric.

As she thought of her love her eyes fell on the lowering shadows of the great ships. Was he even still alive, did he have any chance at all if the Norscan’s weren’t distracted?

“Ranad curse me for a fool,” she murmured and slipped off towards the ships.

Away from the fires the few sources of illumination were large bowls of some sort of oil. Fish or whale oil by the maritime reek te stuff gave of as it burned with sooty enthusiasm. Carefully as she could she made her way to the southern tip of the encampment where the first ship was drawn up. She looked up at the bluff only a few hundred yards away, if Ivan and his men were up there all she had to do was run to them and she stood a good chance of getting away. Cursing herself she turned back to the ship and leaped straight up, catcing the gunnel and pulling herself over the side with acrobatic grace.

The interior of the long boat was open, with most of the space given over to rowing benches. At the rear of the craft she found what she was looking for, a crudely made cask not unlike those the Imperials used to store beer in. She pulled the bung free and poured a generous portion of the stinking oil over the ropes that were used to raise and lower the single wollen sail the vessel used, then taking some of the oil soaked rope as well as the keg, leaped the five foot gap to the next vessel.

Camilla had four vessels linked together when she realised she could no longer play it safe. At any moment one of the Norscans might stumble onto what she as doing. She dug around one of the sea chests until she found a flint and steel wrapped in a dirty leather cloth.

“Mannan,” she whispered quietly as she knelt at the end of one of the ropes.

“Mannan help me,” she whispered, invoking the sea god’s aid against those who defiled his waters. Then, drawing in her breath she struck flint to steel and showered sparks down on the frayed and oil soaked rope. It light with a quiet chuff and flames began to spread both on this deck and across the ropes to the other. She dipped a piece of rope into the oil and wrapped it around a wooden haliard as an improvised torch and ignited it from the flames.

“Mannan help me,” she repeated and leaped across to the next ship.

Gorn son of Gnarn woke to the insistent thrum of his God in his temples. His throat was horribly bruised and he head pounded like a drum. The flames licked towards him, the heat of their displeasure blistering his skin. The woman! Curse her in the name of the four! The camp was in chaos, Norscan’s shouted and cursed in a dozen tribal dialects and slaves screamed and died as frustrations were vented. Gorn pushed himself up and immediately saw the cause of the convolution. The ships were burning, nearly all of them. Men rushed to their own vessels, desperately trying to extinguish the devouring flames, but a wind had come up, whipping the gray water to white caps and fanning the fires into infernos. Gorn’s witch aided vision caught a spark of flame near the end of the line of boats. A slim feminine form leaping from ship to ship. Thus far she had been aided by advancing ahead of the flames while attention was drawn to the ships most full engulfed. The purplish fire pulsed insistently and Gorn felt his lust rise. It was the woman, the Count’s daughter. He would put such an end to her as would be written about in the sagas.

Camilla’s muscles burned as she set another ship on fire. She had lost count of the total, perhaps thirty five or forty? It was more than she had ever hoped for but she knew that it couldn’t last. Men ran for the fires yes, but the smarter ones, knowing that the disaster was by now beyond their control and the only hope lay in salvaging ships not yet caught in the conflagration, were running for the unburned ships to save what they could. One more ship, she would light the last ship and then dive into the ocean, perhaps swimming she had a chance to get out unscathed. With a running jump she leaped for the next ship. Even as sailed through the air, Gorn straightened from behind the gunnel of the next ship. She twisted awkwardly but there was no way to redirect her momentum. The Norscan teeth gleaming in savage vengeance caught her by the shift and yanked her from the air, slamming her down overhanded onto the deck. Breath exploded from her chest and the word went white for a moment as she lay on her back trying to force her lungs to draw breath. Gorn shouted something to the other Norscans climbing aboard the vessel. She felt the keel grind against the beach as strong back shoved the vessel free onto the whiping waves. Men were sitting at benches and unshipping oars.

“By the Dark Prince, you will suffer for what you have done here,” Gorn snarled, his eyes bright and terrible as firelight reflected off them. He hauled her up by the throat and turned her to view the harbor. The once quiet cove was a mass of burning ships. Seasoned and dried timbers blazed like dry pines and the heat was so great it drove men back from even those vessels not yet afire. The roar of the flames was an oppressie presence even as the Norscans hauled on their oars with all their strength, drawing them yard by yard away from the inferno, fighting the wind and sea for every inch.

“You, your children and your children's children shall be nothing but dogs before my hall!” the Norscan raged.

“They will tell of your fate to frighten children by Slaanesh…”

Camilla’s mind slipped at the mention of the forbidden name her body spasmed and her eyes rolled back for a moment. The crew, previously cursing and shouting in their own tongue fell instantly silent. Each of them aware of the reaction as their God thundered in their souls. Gorn, son of Gnarn, began to laugh. Behind him the flames consuming the fleet took on a purplish hew.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

The fires were burning wrong. Camilla lay amidst the brush watching the norscan encampment. Fifty great ships were pulled up onto the beach, their prows carved like snarling daemons who seemed to snap and hiss in the wavering fire light. Over a thousand Norscan’s had headed inland within minutes of landing, straggling off in partis of fifty or a hundred led by their black armored champions. The sight of them filled her with fear. The count had gone to Krondstat on her advice, if he and worse yet Cydric were overun by the tide of northerners she would never forgive herself.

What was wrong with the fires? The color was wrong, pale whites and purples, reds to vivid for the piles of driftwood she had watched them build. It was mesmerizing and sickening in equal measure but somehow she couldn’t pull her eyes away. The Norscan’s hadn’t left the ships undefended, there were over a hundred of the burly warriors left and a pair of the black armored warriors. That pair paced back and forth without pause, ceaselessly glaring eastwards after their fellows. Perhaps they felt cheated of the slaughter they felt certain to follow.

Camilla wanted to rush down on the encampment now. Each minute she waited only made her worry more about Cydric. Her hand unconsciously strayed to the necklace he had given her, willing him to be ok. If she struck now she would be early but there would be less chance of him being killed defending the town. She cursed the count for demanding they seperate and herself for agreeing to lead this group.

“What have we here,” ground a voice which was equal parts the squelching of mud and the purring of cats. A hand grabbed her by the tunic and hauled her into the air. Terror flooded through the courtesan like ice water and she grabbed for her weapons belt. The massive Norscan slapped her hand away like a child and yanked the weapons belt free with a jerk that bruised Camilla’s hips. The Norscan was bigger than Ivan with protruding brow ridges and a nose that had been broken many times. His eyes seemed to wide and luminous and each was nearly the size of tea cups. Arcane designs were inked onto much of his skin swirling unpleasantly as she watched them. In desperation she pulled a knife from her boot and plunged it to the hilt into the giants bicep. The giant gave a bark of harsh laughter and then the world went dark.

@POOHEAD189

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Gaius stiffend in fear but his face looked resolved. Junebug recognized the expression from the faces of rookie troopers about to run a gauntlet of enemy fire. The man clearly figured that so long as he held firm and survived he would be victorious. That didn’t stop him from being afraid, but he probably didn’t think Aiden would kill him out of hand. It as poor judgment indeed if the senator thought Aiden was even the second biggest threat in the room right now.

“Taya, can you pull up holocam footage from the security system?” Junebug asked as an idea crawled into her mind. Taya made a vexed sound from her monitor, artfully experessing how limited she judged Junebugs understanding of technical matters.

“Yes, but there are thousands of cameras in the palace, even sorting by confernce rooms or something it could take…”

“Can you back track from this stiff’s arrival, I’m willing to bet he came from wherever they were holed up.” The speculation as immediately borne out by a look of panic on Gaius’ face. Taya spun back to the console and began furiously tapping buttons. It would take her a minute or so but using the sophisticated holo editing software it was at least possible.

“Did you know that they were going to kill my father,” Aiden asked quietly. Gaius stiffened at the question and cast a sidelong look at the prince, his face becoming a mask of false disgust.

“You mean did I know that YOU were going to kill your father” the senator mocked. Aiden’s eyes blazed with fury and he took a step closer to Gaius. The man must have known Aiden as a gentleman, or else his contempt for the prince overmastered his reason.

“For generation we have made do licking your family’s boots for what scraps you give us, well from now on its going to be different, Alexander was so desperate that his handsome big brother not ascend to the throne ‘he’ was destined for. We wil supplant him within a year. I think we proved that your family is just as mortal as the rest of us when we killed dear old dad…”

Aiden made a growl of inarticulate rage and lunged at the seator. Junebug realised to late he was going for a pistol and leaped for the prince. Aiden smashed the butt of the weapon into the old man's nose with a sickening crunch that sent him staggering back. The big pistol went off just as Junebug grabbed Aiden’s arm. The boom was deafening in the high ceilinged chamber. Gaius screamed and pitched back against a wall, clutching his hip where blood welled between his fingers.

“You idiot!” Junebug snapped as she pulled the pistol from the prince’s hand.

“He killed my father, I have every right…” The palace alarm began to sound, a high warbling sound.

“You had the right?!” She pointed her assault rifle at the moaning senator offhanded and squeezed the trigger. A half dozen rounds stuttered out, jerking the man spasmodically and spraying blood and brain matter against one of the expensively polished walls.

“Who gives a fuck about your rights? Now the whole fucking palace knows we are here!” she snarled, thrusting the pistol back into Aiden’s hand and springing for the door to the patio. It as securely locked barring retreat to the air car, not that it would have been a great option with the anti-air defences alerted. She put three rounds into the reinforced glass, resulting in little more than a scratch.

“Looks like the only way out is through,” she said, her voice growing calmer as her options narrowed and there was nothing left to do but actually act.

“Taya feed as the route as you decode it, Neil, lets go,” she commanded, leaping over the remains of the senator and racing deeper into the palace.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Rene lowered the pistol he had drawn from his belt till it was flat against his trouser leg. The grizzled old man in tactical armor clearly saw the weapon but didn’t seem too concerned. As the man had said, had they wanted to shoot them they could have done so before the sniper abandoned his, no her, perch. He was just jumpy. The hike from the manor had been largely uneventful, they had kept to garden trails and back roads as much as they could. There had been occasional Gid patrols in the distance, along the larger roads but Rene had the sense that they were in the eye of a hurricane. The locals were clearly locking down the spaceport, that much was evident from the crawling pace of traffic on the major roads they had skirted. Low wheeled trucks loaded with rice and other produce destined for the markets of Armistice, stretched out for miles. Clear evidence of roadblocks and lengthy searches. The searchers were also out ahead of them. Rene caught the distant flashes of aircraft and jumpers in the distance, doubtless supporting a search on foot. The stay at Armon’s manor had thrown the Gids off the scent but he wasn’t fool enough to think their good fortune could last forever. Although if what the fellow said was true maybe a little longer. The big man gestured at the gun with the nod of his chin.

“What do you think your chances are,” Min Ho asked speculatively. Rene’s eye flicked side to side, considering his options.

“Fifteen or twenty percent, depending on how much your partner likes you,” he replied, although truthfully, the optimum moment to strike had already passed.

“Twenty on a good day then,” the woman chortled, gesturing urgently at the entrance to the two story home. Rene let the pistol slip back into his pocket. Min ho relaxed slightly, although it was hard to say exactly what in his posture conveyed the impression.

The interior of the house was cool after the smouldering heat of late afternoon. It was simply laid out, a large kitchen and dining area with large bedrooms off to the side. Earthenware pots, some sealed with wax, lined shelves of knotty tropical wood on the entire length of one wall. Bundles of dried beans and herbs hung from rafters of the same dark tropical wood as the shelving, filling the room with a spicy exotic aroma. A small fireplace burned in a corner over which a pot of fire blackened iron hung simmering, a vegetable soup of some kind at a low rolling boil. A simple stairway led to the upper story and down into what was either a root cellar or an armory. Rene supposed there was no reason it couldn’t be both.

The woman bustled in behind them and closed the door, propping the improbably large rifle behind it so the weapon would be concealed to anyone entering that way. The make was unfamiliar, though it had the look of the big anti-material rifles that vacuum commandos used. She caught Rene’s glance at the soup and tsked.

“We have generators, we are just saving the power cells incase these fools burn down the whole city. In case you were wondering,” she commented with acid directed in the direction of armistice with a gesture. Rene hadn’t been wondering. He was so used to the peasant hovels out near the Rat Trap that it hadn’t even registered that there was no electric power on display.

“Ma’am,” he responded with neutral politeness. He glanced at Solae, though he wasn’t sure what he expected to find on the marquessa’s face. She too was diplomatically blank for the moment.

“You obviously know who the lady is,” Rene said, his stance still guarded but no longer coiled to strike like a Leshi viper.

“Who are you?” he nodded at the mans impressive armor, “concerned citizens?”