Black Valkyrie Down II: Victrix Tyrannus

Enginseer Dillian wrenched his ancient axe from the split chest cavity of the man known as Borus, high commander of the palace guard. The edge of his crimson flak armour melted, charred and blackened where the artisan power weapon had cleaved through his skull, throat and ribcage. Violent arcs of lightning crackled across the stylised half-cog axehead, vaporising any fragments of viscera. The precise, short staccato bursts of heavy bolter fire from Dillian's gun servitors were music to his ears beneath the familiar humming and whining and groaning of the great engines around him. At least, insofar as he appreciated the mathematical purity of a well-composed piece of instrumentation. Or had, once upon a time. His iron jaw twitched, some latent, buried impulse to smile managing to break through the bulwark of logic that was his mind. The infestation was finally cleansed, the vermin exterminated and sent scurrying into the streets to be cut down by Aldrek's regiment. Dillian had campaigned with them for nine years. He admired their... efficiency.

'Sleep now, poor, tormented spirit,' said Dillian in a burst of binary. He pressed a silver adamantine hand against the skin of the ancient generator, so irreverently plucked from a most holy Titan nearly a century ago. 'You were made to crush cities underfoot, not languish in half-life preserving the desecrated bones of the forge which birthed you. Rest, great one, your duty is fulfilled. You shall die in battle, as it should be. We will meet the Omnissiah together.'

The great engine wheezed a final sigh of relief as its systems powered down one by one. The sound split the eardrums of the few remaining palace guard cowering behind power relays or great umbilical cables each as wide as a rhino transport.

Dillian activated his internal vox, encoding and scrambling his signal with the most cursory of thoughts. 'This is Enginseer Dillian to the Lord Bastille. The Rite of Decommissioning is completed. All void shields are now offline. Cleanse this sacred place. Remove the Desecrator's false works that the restoration may begin. Praise be to the Omnissiah.'

There was no reply.

There was only fire.





The frag grenade exploded, only a dull thump once the auto-senses in Alis' helmet filtered the excess noise. A younger man, his back a ragged mess leading to a pair of bloody stumps where his legs were moments ago, crawled out of the squat hab. He reached out, to what Alis wasn't sure. His lips were moving, barely a whisper. His outstretched arm fell limp, a bloody aquila pendant wrapped around his fingers. She stepped over him, moving quickly. The Hydra was nestled between two ruined buildings ahead of her, its eyes and barrels turned toward the skies. With a grunt she hauled herself onto its back. Without even a second of thought she pulled the pin on her last krak grenade, nestling it behind the optronic lens mounted between the four autocannons for which it was named. She ducked behind the turret, holding onto a vertical exhaust as the tank shook from the detonation. The beast was blinded. One, two, three, four, five, six, sev-

The cupola hatch swung open, revealing a greasy bald head with a simple cap. The greasy head turned this way and that, following an old laspistol as it tracked across the street. Alis sprang to her full height, sliding a serrated knife from its sheath across her chest in one quick motion before plunging it through the base of the greasy skull. The body twitched, its muscles tensing, a single squeeze of a finger firing a las bolt into the side of a nearby building. She pushed down on the greasy head until it disappeared back inside the tank.
'Sir, what's going on up there? Sir? Fuck, by the Emperor-' A raspy voice yelled from the Hydra's guts. Alis dropped another grenade into the cupola and then slammed the hatch closed. The vehicle shuddered under her hands.

All too familiar engines caught her attention. She heard them before they appeared further up the street. A Vanquisher, a Hellhound and two Chimeras. The Vanquisher rumbled to a halt, a thin, pale woman peering out of the battle tank's cupola turned her head suddenly towards the Hydra.

'Fuck,' muttered Alis, sighting the woman through the scope of her hellgun. The woman was yelling something and pointing at her. The lumbering turret was already turning. 'I'll see you in hell,' said Alis as she pulled the trigger.

The Vanquisher exploded. The fireball engulfed the entire squadron as first the Vanquisher's ammunition detonated and then the Hellhound's vast fuel tanks added to the conflagration. Alis lowered her rifle, the dull-red lenses of her helmet darkening to prevent retinal scarring. She stared in disbelief at the weapon, then cursed herself for believing a miracle had occurred, if only for less than a second. The chimeras awkwardly pivoted to pass the burning wreckage of the lead vehicles, the closest showering the dead Hydra with multilaser fire. When the deluge of lasers abruptly ceased, Alis peered over her makeshift cover. A colossal tank, named for the most implaccable of Primarchs, lumbered through the burning wrecks of its prey, sponson-mounted multi-meltas evaporating the chimeras like parchment held over an open flame. That glorious machine bore the livery of the 117th and yet now it turned on its brethren. The broad-shouldered man, one hand of silver and the other encased beneath a large gauntlet, spared her a glance. She stood up at her full height and offered him a curt salute. He raised two fingers to his temple and casually echoed the gesture as the Rogal Dorn continued on its warpath toward the heart of captain Aldrek's formation.





A bead of sweat dripped down the back of captain Aldrek's thick neck, the tiny silvery-blond hairs shivering imperceptibly as the perspiration threaded its way across his leathery skin. Elias hauled corporal Amara's body away from the master vox, reverently setting her down and taking a moment to close her eyes before pulling the vox phone from her hand. He nodded repeatedly, solemnly, then grimaced.

'Report,' said Aldrek tersely, slamming a quick-loader into his stub revolver's cylinder and thumbing the hammer back.
'Captain Laurence is MIA. The broadcast station has been destroyed and what's left of his unit is en route to Ulan's group.'
Aldrek lifted his head to survey the burning battlefield in front of the false Regent's palace. Hundreds, maybe thousands were strewn across the ground from the blood-smeared marble steps of the palace to the smouldering craters surrounding the broken statue. Several nearby buildings were melting into boiled slag as the Executioner tank fired volley after volley into the fragmented militia attempting to save the bitch regent.
'This is taking too long,' Aldrek barked. 'I want Aurelia dead, do you hear me, Elias? Order all of our tanks to target that Alms house. Instruct them to fire on my command. On my command!'
'Yes sir,' replied Elias with a grim smile. 'Tank commanders are confirming.'
Aldrek stood tall, heedless of the stray lasfire from the disorganised close-range firefight between his own forces and the Palace Guard cowering beneath the wreckage of their valkyries.
'Sir, please, get down before-'
'Absolutely not! I will stand witness to the end of the Tyrant.'
Withering hails of high-capacity las weapons pierced through the front of the Alms house, scything down scores of militia attempting to breach the building, punctuated by the occasional and unmistakable bark of a bolter. As the Leman Russ formation regrouped into a firing line, the depleted remnants of their loyal militia comrades scurried into cover behind the mighty war machines.
'Driver - bring us into formation with the rest of the squadron,' ordered Aldrek. In response the Salamander's engine growled into life, Aldrek and Elias swaying and bracing themselves against the siderails as it trundled behind its bigger brothers. Aldrek ignored the nauseating crunch of broken bodies beneath its treads. Nothing would distract him now.

Aldrek snatched the vox phone from Elias, flicking a switch to change from broadcast to vox-speaker. 'Hear me, Tyrant. You know who I am. How fitting that your reign ends with you cowering in an Alms house where your own people sought relief from the suffering you caused them. I hope you feel, in this moment, even a fraction of their fear; their desperation, to rely only on the mercy of others to ensure they see the next day. Know this, Cassandra. You will get no mercy from me.'

His voice echoed across the battlefield. The endless exchange of gunfire slowed to an occasional wild shot from either side, as all eyes turned toward the tanks and the Alms house. Several shots singed the side of the Salamander, and Aldrek stumbled as one slammed into the back of his thick flak greatcoat. He grit his teeth and then regained his posture.



The one remaining door to the Alms house, loosely hanging from a single hinge, swung open and clattered against the tattered walls. A single figure emerged, her black coat tattered and frayed, her ornate carapace armour marked from a dozen las burns. Cassandra Aurelia stood before the seven battle tanks. In one hand she held her shimmering power sword, the other was raised with a single finger pressed to her ear. Aldrek leaned over the railing and squinted. Was that bitch smiling? Fucking smiling?

'Sir? Is the order given? Sir! Do we open fire?' Elias screamed, desperately tugging on Aldrek's shoulder. The old captain turned his head slowly as a new sound, a horrifying sound, an intolerable sound, screeched overhead. Six Vendetta gunships descended over the palace, unleashing searing lances of energy which raked across the battlefield. Aldrek blinked, staring at the severed cord dangling from the vox phone over the scorched remains of the front of the Salamander where Elias had been a second ago. His severed, cauterised hand and forearm still gripped his coat. The Executioner and two of its siblings were hit by lascannon beams as the hovering gunships circled overhead, picking apart their prey with contemptuous ease.

'F-F-... Fire! Somebody fucking fire!' Aldrek screamed, his voice hoarse and chest rising and falling with desperate ragged breaths. The Tyrant Cassandra Aurelia disappeared from his view as the Alms house was shredded and the entire structure collapsed in a cloud of dust and flames. Through the fire and smoke the unmistakable silhouettes of the Adeptus Astartes emerged, their heraldy and golden accoutrements scorched, twisted and melted. With las, plasma and melta, they brought death to the panicked, broken remnants of the 117th regiment of Imperial Guard.

Instinctively, Aldrek turned as the comforting sound of a heavy tank approaching greeted his ears and calmed his heart ever so slightly. The reinforcements - finally. Aldrek's smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived when the Rogal Dorn battle tank's oppressor cannon spoke with unmistakable thunder. A high-explosive shell penetrated the last Leman Russ beneath its turret. The tank commander leapt free, screaming as he burned and the tank's guns fell silent.

'This cannot be...' Aldrek cried. 'Victory was ours. Emperor, I beg thee, deliver us from the heretics.'

The Emperor answered and Aldrek's world turned to fire.






Across the city of Salvator eyes turned upwards wide with fear while others collapsed to their knees in prayer. At first glance, many thought perhaps a rogue meteor strike had somehow breached the planetary defense satellites. Ulan knew better. He closed his eyes a second before the volley of macrocannon shells reached their target. The ground shook violently and he barely managed to steady himself. Ulan hoped captains Laurence and Aldrek had died well. If they hadn't, they'd at least died fulfilling their parts of the plan. Simple military minds, believing the extent of it was merely to execute a coup in a single move. Of course, if the Regent happened to perish that would expediate matters. If she yet lived... inconsequential.

'My lord?' It was one of the militia, an older woman with grey hair neatly tied into a bun and the grime of manufactorums over her face. Ulan turned his head slightly, viewing the woman through the thin slits of his expressionless mask.
'Have you found the records?' Asked Ulan.
'Yes my lord, but there's a problem. We cannot transmit them to the ship.'
Ulan turned to face the woman now and folded his arms.
'There's some kind of interference, comms are down.'
'Where's the throne-damned tech priest? What does she have to say about it?' Ulan said, failing to hide his frustration.
'She is still in the depths of the Archivum, beseeching the cogitators for further information... as you requested, lord.'

Ulan raised a hand. 'Enough. If we cannot transmit the data into orbit... Bring the records to me immediately.'
The woman opened her mouth as though to ask another question, then thought better of it, instead nodding curtly and shuffling out of the office. Ulan stepped through the open doors onto the wide balcony, resting his hands over the colossal bronze aquila mounted onto the stone parapet overlooking Salvator. The city was littered with plumes of fire and smoke, all of which paled in comparison to the inferno at its heart. It was as though the God-Emperor himself reached out to pluck the Regent's palace from the face of Caedis V as if it had never existed. That accursed Dillian had taken almost too long performing whatever nonsensical machine-rites were apparently required to deactivate the palace defenses. Emperor willing, the Tyrant's forces would be too preoccupied searching for her by the time anyone cared enough to retake the Archivum. Ulan closed his eyes, allowed the sounds of death to fade to the edge of perception. There was only darkness, and in that darkness, a presence half-formed. Ulan floated towards it, formless, weightless. The half-formed presence, a mirror of Ulan's own masked visage, burned with a power Ulan could scarcely tolerate to approach. A shudder rippled through his body, threatening to drag him back into the physical world. He ignored the impulse.

The masked creature, shifting and fragmented within a wreath of black smoke reached out with unseen hands. It was at once a caress and an invasion. Ulan let his defences fall away, opened himself to the interrogation. Cold, so cold. The burning cold.

It was over. Ulan snapped back into his own body, doubling over the balcony gasping for air. The connection was established. The effort would kill him, he knew. Meaningless. He caught his reflection in the polished marble stone. That smooth, emotionless mask, now weeping tears of blood. He looked up into the sky where smoke met the repulsive, sickly clouds that spat arcs of emerald lightning and radiation surrounding the city. If he had to die this day, at least he would die seeing the clear sky for once in his life, in the eye of the storm.





The Sanctus Excelsior was angry. Captain Flint felt the machine spirit's vengeful fury through the command throne, impulses and raw data fed through a dozen wires plugged into his skull. The Lord Bastille's overwhelming strike craft advantage had quickly decimated the planetary defense fleet, though not without sustaining heavy casualties. What was left of their interceptors were now being slowly but surely destroyed by their own meagre strike craft. The hull shook again as the starboard macrobatteries unleashed another barrage. Their void shields were gone, but the enemy's shields had fallen far sooner. The Bastille's port weapons battery had been devastated, leaving only a single cannon - a spit in the wind - to answer them with. Their starboard weapons battery instead targeted the planet with a full volley. There was nothing they could do to stop it now. Captain Flint thought only of his daughter in that moment, and silently offered a prayer to the Emperor for her safe return... or to welcome her to His side should she fall in battle.

Fury turned to fear and agony. Screaming. The Sanctus Excelsior was screaming inside his head and he was screaming with it. Blinded by pain, the bitter iron taste of blood in his mouth, Flint tore at the cables in his brain, heedless of the risk of an aneurysm or permanent neural damage. He ripped them out in chunks, two, three at a time until finally the screaming was gone. It was an age before his vision returned, murky and unfocused as it was. The bridge was in disarray. The servitors were screaming. How could the servitors be screaming? Their voices, monotone, flat, emotionless, yet screaming in unison until one by one they burst into flames. They sat there, screaming, melting in their sockets, producing that soulless dirge until they no longer had mouths with which to voice their impossible anguish.

'Report?' Flint managed to say at last. It felt like a bull-grox had kicked him in the head and then sat on his chest. He absentmindedly pulled a navy blue handkerchief from the front pocket of his uniform and wiped a thick smear of blood from his lips.
One of his officers, he could not see their face clearly, answered. 'The transmission we were monitoring from the surface... it... infected our systems just after the broadcast complex was destroyed. I've shut off the transmission and the tech priests say they are working to isolate and destroy the infection. But we've lost weapons, navigation, engines...'
Flint hauled himself back onto his throne, coughing up more blood. 'And... the enemy?'
'They also appear to be disabled, for now. Sir, this is system-wide. Whatever it was has been broadcast to the inter-system relay stations. All communications are down. Only isolated systems - our small craft among them - remain functional.'
'How long until weapons are restored?'
The crewman tapped the control station hurriedly. 'The enginseers estimate perhaps an hour, just for the lance weapons. Sir, we're dead in the water. What do we do?'
Flint leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'We pray that the Lord Bastille does not regain its weapons first.'





Aldrek stumbled through the ruined street, bracing himself on the wall of a demolished manufactorum. He could no longer see out of his left eye and winced with each step. He'd broken several ribs certainly and was deaf save for incessant ringing in one ear. Where was he going? He did not know. Gunfire echoed in the distance. He smiled weakly. Others would continue the fight and in doing so, perhaps redeem his failure. Uneven Footsteps behind him broke his thoughts.

Cassandra Aurelia. Her right arm and shoulder were gone, leaking servo-fluid. A piece of shrapnel was jutting from her abdomen. Those giant warriors clad in adamantine and ceramite stood behind her, their weapons held low. He thought he saw one of them bow his head rather than meet his eyes.
'This is my mercy, captain Aldrek,' said the Tyrant, pointing her sword at him. 'Die as a soldier.'
His face hardened and he nodded slowly, surprising himself with his own involuntary laugh as he drew his cutlass. It felt heavy for the first time in a century. 'Get on with it. I haven't got all day.'





Nathaniel Gregorious Yorck trudged through the ruined imperial plaza, his bolt pistol in hand. A cohort of stormtroopers moved quickly all around him, shooting any who still lived. For the traitors, a better end than they deserved. For the loyal guardsmen, clutching their burst eardrums and severed limbs, it was the Emperor's mercy. The palace had been obliterated. The very ground beneath it had erupted, opening a great chasm in the metal skin of this world. He stared into that abyss, at the ruins of three bridges and the crumbling sanctum that had formed the very foundation of the palace itself. He exhaled heavily, suppressing the return of memories buried a hundred years ago almost as deeply as that forsaken place. None here would live to remember seeing even its bones and his own stormtroopers would inevitably have to be mind-wiped again. A tedious distraction amidst more pressing matters.

This place that had only so recently been full of life and celebration was now a graveyard. Dozens of tanks reduced to nought but burning carcasses, thousands of broken bodies charred into the ground like sleeping shadows. Yorck stepped over the ash-clad effigy of Xecaon, mercifully spared from seeing the undoing of everything he died for.

Amidst the dead and dying, some few pockets of life remained. A small squad of navy armsmen, judging by their uniforms, were slumped against the side of an immobilized Rogal Dorn battle tank at the edge of the plaza. One of them was smoking, desperately sucking breaths through the burnt filter of a lho stick, oblivious to the fact it was nought but flakes of ash on his fatigues now. Another was rocking back and forth in the foetal position. To their credit, most of them seemed to have survived the orbital bombardment with their sanity intact. In the middle of them all was a man Yorck was somehow unsurprised to find here. Of course he would survive yet again. Beside him, the tall, slender figure of a regrettably sanctioned xenos and a small team of mercenaries in faded airborne flak vests all surveyed a portable holographic projection of the city, fed live from the augmented eyes of the purifier servitors flying high above. An inspired workaround for the lack of intel, as seemingly every auspex array and orbital satellite capable of remote transmission were inoperative. Red markers highlighted a concentration of traitor units surrounding the Archivum Primaris. A comms officer desperately called out to anyone, anywhere using a hastily assembled vox array, met only with garbled scrap-code screams in response. Behind the impromptu command centre a squat, ugly gunship lay on its belly. A team of medicae were carrying the Rogue Trader known to him as Lucinda Harper aboard on a metal stretcher.

'Will she live?' Yorck asked, interrupting the conversation.
Rook shrugged. 'So I'm told.'
'Who is this one who approaches so quietly like a frightened child in the night?' Said the xenos in its despicable mockery of low gothic. A short woman fidgeted nervously beside the Eldar.
'The right hand of the Emperor,' Rook replied sarcastically.

"For fucks sake, keep it steady" Kettleblack snapped at the disjointed technician that they had roped in to operate the purifier servitors. He wasn't sure if it was either the machinery or man operating it causing the holoprojector to flicker and wobble, but it sure made him miss having actual cog-man around.

At least it was giving him legitimate distraction from the train wreck brewing next to him. He had made a point to avoiding any deployments that involved Preator Rukowski for a reason, and his bitch fight with what appeared to Regent's death squad commander four feet from his command post continued to confirm his dislike for the man. Truthfully, he didn't even hate the man, he just didn't like him.

Bloody Rook had already tried to pull him into their cockslapping match once, and he probably was going to do it again once his counterparts runs out of breath. Keeping a ear out so that he might dodge, he noticed his Corporal make his way towards the command post clad in his mustard tone airborne kit, lit cig lighting up the dour man's face as he returned from the dropship.

"Yea sarge, checked up with the lads. Most of the buggers still look like mashed taters, but should still be able to walk it off eventually. Some of them might get patched up enough to join us, but I wouldn't bet on it" Anberg kept up the dour appearance as he reported back what he had found.

It had been small fortune to discover that small pockets of his unit had survived the opening barrage, even if it had turned most survivors in walking wounded at best. During the brief lull in combat, they had managed to commandeer one of the militant's utility trucks and reform with the other Preator squad, which had been significantly easier than he had expected. He wasn't sure how band of naval armsmen were able to hijack a heavy tank, but he wasn't complaining about it and it's guns being around.

"Well, guess that is going to be best we are going get, corporal. Try to get at least one or two up for the push. I'll keep the light ups here" Wishing he had kept his gas mask off so that he could have a smoke, he watched as corporal eyeball the two officers fighting next him before tapping out and returning back the dropship.

Taking deep breath, and giving the projector one final glance, noting the red blips and their locations. It was going to be long day. Turning to two officers still bickering about their pecking orders, Kettleblack failed to notice the brief green blip as a lone mechanical figure briefly moved between buildings before vanishing out of servitors vision.

"Right, sirs, if you don't mind we do have a war going on, so I would prefer if we could get back to it. If not, please do not duel to the death next to command post, and instead use a nearby street for it" Ketteblack stated in his blandest "yes sir" tone as he tilted his head to address the two officers.

"Furthermore, Captain Rukowski. Guard doesn't take orders from the navy as per direct orders from I believe Primarch Guilliman."

"Well then, seems like the good Captain won't be joining us" Glaring at the retreating back of said officer, Kettleblack sighed before returning his attention back to the projector.

"Farlowe, how are the men?" Glancing at his second surviving section leader, he was internally glad that the sarcastic bastard had survived. Still bloody despite the efforts of the medicae, corporal Farlowe with his boonie hat and eye patch stared back at him behind the holoprojectors glow.

"Still alive, for what is left of them. Second half didn't make it, and the 3rd section is just karking gone" Kettleblack listened grimly as he received the tally.

"Fuck"

"Lapthorne still somehow made it, as usual. Not sure how the old karker did it, but we still have to deal with his shit. Heh" Chuckling to himself, Farlowe poured himself a cup of recaff from dispenser that someone had managed to found out of the wreckage.

"Heh, he does have habit for that" Pouring himself a cup, Kettleblack stared at the image feed and considered his options. He wouldn't have men for frontal attack and most likely the rebels would have already collapsed any secondary access routes in the archive by now. It would have to combined assault, and that would require dealing with the political clusterfuck that was the imperial command.

If only the damn lady hadn't gotten herself knocked out by prancing into a warzone personally.

Taking a sip out of sewage that was recaff, he watched as his men slowly crawled out of the medicae and wished he had something stronger to drink.

'Perking, Maddison, Ackland.. Where the hell is Anberg?' So, the hog, princess and lunatic had somehow made it out alive and he would bet good money that the Lapthorne was somewhere rummaging through some dead mans pockets over reporting in.

Anberg missing was more concerning. He would have assumed that the bulldog would have come huffing and puffing back by now and his concern grew as he watched large figure clamber out of the medicae tent.

Glad in heavy steel plate with its face hidden behind visor and towering over the assembled soldiers, Kettleblack watched as the figure made it's way towards him. As it came closer, he noted the blood and sweat coating the bulging muscles of the figure with the figure having patched wounds on him that would have killed lesser man. He had heard second hand reports of the regents supposed "space marines" and he guessed this would be his first encounter.

Staring at the man, Kettleblack signaled with handsigns for his section sole surviving grenadier to get ready as the figure stomped his way over, the heavy furnace plate chattering each step.

"SAH, reporting for 'Uty, SAH" Booming bellow from the creature followed by two loud clangs as it tried to imitate a guard salute by slamming its his fist against its helmet made Kettleblack feel like a idiot.

'Of course, it was just a bloody Ogryn.'

"First of all, who is reporting. Secondly, I'm not a bloody Sir" Kettleblack stated bluntly at the Ogryn as they waited for response, clearly not sure what was the actual protocol.

'Is this why Anberg is late? Did he teach Ogryn regulation salute just to have something to annoy me with'

"Sorry SAH, won't happen again SAH. Eh, SAH. Private Greg, that's me name. Got me propa name from Mama. Uh, right. Reporting for 'Uty SAH, Sorry SAH" Blanky watching as the brute tried and somehow managed to perform second worst report for his sections standard after Maddison.

"Right, I'll guess that is going have to pass for now. Private, do you understand what we are doing here"

"Aye, me got it. Stomping dem bastards. Me was no good with 'hinking thingies, but hitting things for Big Man. Aye, I can do that"

"Good, that works. We still have time until we move out so go find yourself a weapon during that time. Perking will help you with, isn't he?" Watching as the brute gave salute and walked off to find bigger stick, Kettleblack watched as his missing corporal returned, looking for more unnerved than before.

"Bloody skitarii come back." He watched as the dour corporal downed his own recaff cup in one go before lighting himself a iho-stick.

"Just one of them, covered in gore like a broken butcher servitor and carrying the others around him like some karking trophies while they are still alive." Taking deep puff of his stick, he continued.

"Karking cogheads. Even the bloody butchermaid from armory is unnerved by the thing and she is bloody machine. Apparently, they are putting the thing in quarantine in the cutter and lifting it back the ship"

"At least it won't be our problem, we have enough of them here already" Taking puff from his own stick, Kettleblack placed the issue of skitarii to backburner as he and his section returned to planning their assault on the archive.