Victory Pointless

Klotophis watched the battle unfold and swore softly under his non-existent breath.  When he’d begrudgingly acquiesced to handing over operational command of their ground forces to Lady Farreskh, he’d hoped that the pampered princess would make such a mess of things that he could swiftly retake control.  But Necrontyr nobility had been raised in the ways of war since almost before they could walk, and the army now moved with a coordination and vigor he’d never been able to inspire in them.

As he watched, blacklight Doomsday beams swept across the battlefield, destroying one human vehicle as they passed and converging on another.  The hull warped, split and disgorged its cargo of berserker-women.  The bellowed prayers of the Priest who was first to emerge were instantly silenced by Deathmark sniper fire and Lychguard marched smartly forwards to cut down the survivors.  Even Klotophis had to admire the brutal efficiency of it.

Why had they never displayed this level of discipline under his command?  Every molecule of respect and cooperation he’d ever gained from the Necron sub-commanders he’d had to earn, to wring out of them grain by grain.  Her, they obeyed without question purely by virtue of her birth.  The fools craved subjugation.

Soon.  Soon, my Love.  When she leads us to what we need we can finally be rid of her.

The voice in his head was Yetop’s.  At least, it was her voice as he imagined it – a blend of the soft mellifluous tones of her flesh-voice with the harsher, more angular vocalisations of her brief time as a Necron.  He was still self-aware enough to know that the thoughts it spoke were his own, not hers.  She had been a gentle soul who had dedicated her beautiful intellect to healing.  She would likely have not approved of his current course, had she truly been here.  The partitioned submind he had created in tribute had failed to capture her true essence – the few remaining scraps of her engrams he had been able to recover were not enough – but he could not bear to delete it.

Perhaps the hour of his triumph was approaching.  They had detected a Necron signal emanating from this cathedral sector.  The codes were archaic and the message itself was nonsensical, garbled, but it was the first sign of active Necron intelligence besides their own on this planet – perhaps a damaged Worldmind finally reaching out to make contact.  If he could access that, he could pull the information he needed from it directly, and do without Farreskh’s ‘guidance’.

A wave of Wraiths crashed into – and through – a squad of Battle Sisters.  The Wraiths in turn were gunned down by a unit of silver-armed space marines who were themselves eliminated by a charge from Barrakhad and his Skorpekh retainers.

Amidst the ebb and flow of combat he caught sight of something that made his reactor bile run cold.  Descending from the heavens on thrashing pillars of forked lightning came five figures, each bearing a staff with a bladed head in the shape of the Triarchal Ankh.

The Praetorians had arrived.

They joined the battle, diving down into the rear of the enemy lines, pursued by a swooping flock of Battle Sister Seraphim.

His interstitial comms force-activated.  “Klotophis.  If you’re quite done sulking, there’s a battle going on.” Farreskh.

He sighed.  “At your command, My Lady.”  In truth he had been about to enter the fray in any case – the Necron army was already dominating the field and he wanted to be first to reach the source of the transmission.  He signalled his phalanx of Warriors to advance.

Barrakhad danced through the melee ahead of them, mowing down a Deathwatch Watchmaster with a stream of enmitic fire.  He leapt into the air with a grace his crab-like body should not possess and hacked the wing off of an Imperial Saint who tumbled to the ground like a broken bird.

The Imperial forces had been massacred, the only remnants still in fighting condition were a squadron of crude but ornate human battlesuits.  Klotophis would ordinarily have left them to Barrakhad.  However, the info-glyph hovering over their leader identified her as a human of high rank.

Klotophis cared little for personal glory, but martial reputation carried certain benefits, especially among the Shakhana.  Farreskh’s victory might cast a shadow over his own previous generalship. A conspicuous display of martial valour, such as personally slaying this human hero, could be a useful deflection.

He urged his Warriors forward.  Their gauss streams nibbled away at the warmachines’ armour and metallic fists pounded at their legs, drawing cries of xenophobic dismay from the pilots – “Not the sanctified thighs!”

One of the bodyguard walkers interposed itself between Klotophis and his target.  He jabbed at the suit with his staff, missed, rewound time and struck again, this time landing the blow.  He channelled chronecrotic energies through the weapon and the suit slumped as its pilot, trapped in an accelerated time bubble, instantly aged ten thousand years and blew away as dust.

He surged forwards towards the final remaining battlesuit but came on too eagerly and was immediately speared through the chest by the woman’s power lance.

No, no.  Rewind.  Try again.  Same result.  Rewind.  No.  Rewind.

His entire body now glowed red-hot and his reactor core vented loudly in protest at the demands being placed on it.  His scries showed no future path that granted him victory – she was simply too skilled an opponent.

Instead he moved backwards, out of the scrum, deciding to let the Warriors handle it.  They stood no better chance than he did, but there were a lot more of them and they should keep her busy for long enough for him to conduct his investigation.  He ducked inside a nearby chapel.

“I see you got my message.”

Necron fashion moved at a glacial pace, but it did move – Overlords subtly resculpting their own bodies and those of their retainers to match the trends of the latest aeon.  The bodyplan of the Necron in front of Klotophis appeared positively archaic.  It even seemed to incorporate human technology, perhaps as some form of disguise.  Revolting.

There were a dozen socially-accepted protocols for greeting a Necron of another dynasty.  Klotophis ignored them all.  “Who are you?”

“You may call me Greg.”

“Gregkh?”  The name was unfamiliar.

“Just Greg.  You did get my message?  About the codes?”

“We received a signal of Necron origin, but the message was indecipherable.  Your encryption protocols are all wrong.”

“Ah, well it has been a while.  I’ll give you the short version.  Stella – that is, the human inquisitor – intends to commit Exterminatus on this planet.  So, I stole the launch codes.”  Greg pointed to a staircase leading down below the ground, half-choked with rubble.  “I left them down there, in the catacombs.  I’d hurry up and retrieve them if I were you – Stella is already here looking for them.”

“Exterminatus?  Bombing the planet would not kill us.  We would simply phase back to the Tomb Ship.”

“Humans are not logical creatures,” said Greg, emphatically.  “Trust me on this.  Besides, even though it wouldn’t kill you it might still destroy the artifact you seek.”

“You know about-?”

“Yes, I know what you are looking for.  The ‘Flower of Sanguis’.  You are getting close.  But be careful, Chronomancer.  The device was sealed away for a reason.  It does more than you think.  That is all I will say.  Now – hurry!”

There was a sudden crash as the limp body of a Necron Warrior impacted the side of the building at high speed.  Klotophis glanced outside for a second to check that the stalemate against the final battlesuit was still holding.  “How did-?”

When he looked back, the strange Necron had vanished.

+Nachmund Gauntlet Strike Force Crusade Battle+

Mission: Purge After Inload

Forces: Necrons (Awakened Dynasty) vs Adepta Sororitas

Result: 11:1 to the Necrons