A Guiding Light

by Gerard A Whitfield

  “Have faith, my friend,” responded Arn, “When has he ever let you down?”

  “Never!” snarled Berbatov, “My fear is that we will fail him!”

  “Do not fear,” said Arn, his tone reassuring, “even now we arrive!”

  Argent III

  Disputed Zone

  Second Church Protectorate

  AA batteries spewed forth their charged weapons, tanks rolled forwards and the Seventh Lutheran killed. They were inspired, nothing could stop them. Not the Tauran champions whose now plague invested bodies caused unimaginable mutations in their minions, nor the Battle Fleet which railed against them.

  Elsewhere on this accursed planet, Church Troops died. They boiled in their own juices, they cursed their leaders and still they expired. Only those who fought within Walters’ sphere of influence prevailed.

  Marius and his men were invincible; they harvested enemy souls as though they were nothing more than offerings to their Lord. Far out in space, the Tauran fleet despaired and when they thought they were at their lowest, they felt deceived.

  Out of the vagaries of space appeared ship after ship, led by a strange three-masted vessel whose broadsides were devastating in the extreme. They ripped and tore, scalded and boiled, the very existence of their foes away. The Tauran Pagan Gods quailed at the fervour they faced, their minions were destroyed without pity, screaming into the void.

  They had never faced such an enemy and knew not what to do. On the planet’s surface Walters came into his own, his long awaited ascension was imminent. He howled in triumph as his enemies fell, and his men howled with him.

  With each slash of his claws they grew, with every bite of his jaws they changed, until at last they were his. Their bodies became infused with his power, their cries were only an echo of his own and in the midst of the ripping and tearing host, Viker found his God and was pleased.

  Outer Atmosphere

  Argent III

  Second Church Protectorate

  Nothing could prevail against the intense bombardments, the Tauran Battleship heaved in pain. Boils and pustules on its hull burst, throwing virulent waste, debris and ammunition outwards. A miasma of bloated flies roared out of the distorted turrets, the respective swarms obscuring the form of the vessel. Slowly the great ship got underway, its creaking and groaning shell resisting the impact of the plasma batteries by the sheer will of its demon-infused master. With one last great effort it lurched its way into Fold Space, leaving behind a trail of plague infested debris, which dwindled and died.

  Other ships were not so lucky, the Galleon’s accompanying cruiser and two destroyers laid down a tremendous field of fire. It seemed as though they were willing to expend every last missile, every drop of plasma, and to drain completely their laser batteries. Once free of the battleship, the Galleon joined them, methodically reducing ship by ship the Tauan fleet to inexistence.

  Smaller transport ships dropped out of Fold Space, hanging back out of the way of the seething maelstrom of fire. As a safe corridor was blasted through to the planet, they waddled their way forward, taking up a stationary position above the war stricken world below.

  Argent III

  Disputed Zone

  Second Church Protectorate

  “Whoa!” gasped Marius, as a sleet delta-winged fighter screamed past him, its plasma cannons spitting forth brilliant streaks of lightning. In a matter of moments, two of the attacking craft were nothing more than rapidly dissipating balls of energy.

  The swift vessel turned sharply and roared back towards him, taking up a silent but protective position to his right. He tried to contact its pilot, but received no answer.

  Another silently moved into place to his left, rigidly holding a more than respective distance, seemingly their task only being to escort him.

  “Got to get me one of those!” said Marius to himself, as they effortlessly matched his speed. Then at last he remembered the rest of his Wing and guiltily asked for a roll call.

  *****

  Viker saw the blade as it arced towards his head and knew that there was nothing he could do. At the last moment, a gauntleted hand parried the blow, following through with the blade in its hand. The weapon sheared through the meagre armour of the mutant, showering Viker in a spray of bile and blood.

  Beside him stood one of the armoured figures, who nodded briefly and then sprang forward into the fray once more. Stiv glanced round and saw that somehow he had left his platoon behind, he was surrounded by armoured figures and slightly ahead he saw the Colonel. He pulled his rifle from the body below him, the bayonet had become stuck in its entrails and he needed to stamp down hard in order to rip it free.

  There was a soft footfall to his left and he swung the weapon sharply, but to his dismay it was caught and held. Crying out in desperation he let go of its stock and scrabbled for his combat knife, but a hand gently closed over his restraining him.

  “Your fervour is admirable, soldier”, said a soft voice, “but trying to kill your commanding officer is not the done thing.”

  Shame-faced, Viker looked into the grinning face of Walters and wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

  “S-s-s-ir!” he muttered in chagrin, “I am so sorry!”

  “Not to worry …..ah yes, Viker, isn’t it?” and then when the young man nodded, Walters continued, “Your fervour has led you to rashly leave the protection of your platoon. If you insist on being here, then I’ll just have to give you a helping hand.”

  Walters eyes began to blaze with an incandescent green fire and Viker felt himself drown in their vast depths. There was a roaring in his head, a long drawn howl and then he feinted.

  “Johns!” roared Walters and the Corporal raced forwards, “My Lord?” he rasped.

  “Take care of him,” Walters commanded, and then more quietly, “he’s one of us now.”

  Johns grinned and hefted the prone body of the soldier effortlessly onto his shoulder. The boy had shown promise and had been rewarded, today many others would receive their Lord’s gift, but Johns sensed something special about this one.

  *****

  Elsewhere on Argent III, Church troops fought and died. They were no match for the Tauran Elite led forces, nor the swarms of bloated flies which crawled into every open orifice of their bodies. Their still warm corpses expanded grotesquely, finally exploding and each one expelling a mass of the horrific insects. Thus an expanding wave of plague-driven troopers crashed back into their own lines, ultimately propagating their fellows’ doom.

  In other areas, decaying and putrid men staggered onwards, laser fire ineffective against their mindless assault. They bit and clawed at their ex-companions, infecting them even as they gorged on the fresh meat.

  The only true resistance came from a mixed group of Eyotalian Lancers and Infantry. Their tanks held their position with the barrels of their battle cannons depressed to their limits, they fired high explosive rounds directly into contaminated troopers as well as the oncoming Tauran Forces. They then rolled forward, flamers and heavy auto cannons charring and exploding what was left.

  Accompanying them was what was left of their infantry, their Leftenant had wisely ordered his men to discard their rifles and with pistols and short swords only they butchered their way through their undead foes. These weapons were a remnant of their historic past and with a steady and measured beat they swung and stabbed, cut and hacked until their arms ran with the blood of their enemies.

  Cheering they celebrated their victory until the drop pods began to slam down. Wearily the Leftenant called his men to order as a new wave of mutants raced forward, and waited for the drop pods to show what new horror they would thrust upon his men.

  *****

  Explosive bolts blew, metal flew away and out they came, howling and snarling with rage. Armoured covered bodies leaped forward, weapons blazing a constant explosive fire. A huge man led them, smashing through the desperate defence with ease, bodies crumpling into no
thingness as he struck.

  Berbatov had arrived, and the Tauran Forces trembled.

  Chapter Five

  Argent III

  Disputed Zone

  Second Church Protectorate

  This was, Berbatov knew, what he was created for; his halberd was a whirling, slashing promise of death. Its blade sparkled with power, flashing back and forth, leaving only dismembered husks behind. His laughter rang out and his men joined in, their battle madness total in its abandon.

  One Tauran planted himself in front of Berbatov’s armoured figure, in his hand a distorted sword whose blade’s form wavered as buzzing flies coalesced around it. The Tauran’s armour moved as though it carried something hidden inside; a writhing and shuddering constantly wracked the hideous frame.

  “Time to die!” it buzzed, as bloated insects entered its open mouth.

  “How trite, but true,” responded the Sargeant carelessly cutting the mutated figures in front of him out of his way.

  “Ready, when you are!” he said cheerfully and swung his halberd.

  *****

  Marius climbed down from his cockpit and watched as the two delta-winged craft flew past. Only five of his men had survived the brutal dog fight, and they too had landed with the hope that Walters’ troops had somehow managed to find sufficient ammunition to allow them back into the air.

  “Sir! Sir!” called a voice nearby, and he turned to find a young infantry Leftenant waiting nearby.

  “Yes, Leftenant?” answered Marius, returning the fresh faced Officer’s salute.

  “Captain Marius, Sir,” he said snappily, “I formally relinquish command, Sir!”

  It was only then that Marius saw the soldiers hunkered down nearby, staring warily in his direction. He peered into the gloom and saw the distinctive shape of tanks, their turrets pointing out towards the enemy.

  “Command?” he queried, only now noticing the distinctive short swords and cap badges.

  “Yes, sir!” responded the Leftenant, looking at the eagle emblem stitched onto the front of Marius’ tunic, laurel leaves grasped in its claws as it screamed its defiance, “What are your orders?”

  Argent III

  Zone of Conflict

  Second Church Protectorate

  Viker opened his bleary eyes and saw Corporal Johns’ weather beaten face staring down at him.

  “Welcome back, son,” said Johns, standing and moving away.

  “W-what hit me?” asked Viker, every muscle in his body aching.

  “You have been blessed,” returned the Corporal, “given a great gift, which you must use wisely.”

  “Pardon?” said Viker, his confusion evident

  “Our Lord has chosen you, endowed you with His power,” stated the Corporal, “Are you ready?”

  Stiv checked his body carefully, there were no obvious wounds and he swung his legs off the cot, carefully testing his ability to stand. He moved in front of the mirror and stared in amazement at the face looking back at him. The thing that struck him most were his eyes, their normal ice-blue colour had changed to a deep green. Unknowingly he began to growl.

  “Exactly,” echoed the Corporal, “so I ask you again, are you ready? The boys are waiting.”

  He looked enquiringly at the Corporal who grinned savagely, “There’s plenty more of the enemy out there,” he said, his arm waving generally in the direction of the Tauran forces, “have you finished in here?”

  The young soldier felt energy begin to pour through his body, revitalising him and nodded at Johns.

  “Good!” snarled Johns, “Let’s get going then!”, and without another word he sprang out of the door, Viker following close behind. Suddenly, Stiv felt imbued with an incredible strength, the growl in his throat turning into a full-blooded howl. From all around came his answer and he saw shapes racing to join him. In leaps and bounds they came, bodies changing as they sprang to his side; muscles writhed, teeth were bared in anticipation and weapons were tossed aside.

  Then he knew, he could feel Walters ahead slicing his way through their enemies. Without conscious thought, his claws snicked into place and at last Viker joined his pack.

  *****

  Arn waited with the rest of his men aboard the Galleon; he would not be needed, things seemed to be going exactly as planned. The fat transports waited too, their cargo would soon arrive; at this moment it was being created in the maelstrom of battle below.

  Amongst the seething mass of Tauran troops, there were two clear islands of relative calm. Within the eye of this tainted plague infested storm, Church troops replenished ammunition, repaired equipment and then once more smote their enemies.

  Captain Marius was in one such place, the remaining Eyotalians gathered around him as he spoke. He had utilised the cockpit of his now stranded fighter as a platform from which to address his new command.

  He spoke of Walters, of his call to battle and pointed towards the spearhead of Berbatov and his troops who were carving their way methodically through their foes. Marius’ oration included their long and proud tradition of battle, and the opportunity they held within their hands today; they too could write a glorious page in the history of their people. His speech was crowned by the more than symbolic gesture of unsheathing the short sword belted to his waist.

  The men roared in approval and, as one, hundreds of sparkling swords joined in this veneration,” Walters!” they screamed, “A-ve! A-ve!”

  *****

  Walters was surrounded, a score of Tauran Elite had him pinned within the circle of their pestilent weaponry, or so they thought. He merely smiled as they advanced, waiting patiently, his arms held loosely by his sides. The furore of the battle field had faded into insignificance for all of the players in this cameo performance.

  Suddenly, Walters moved, his arm flashing forward and catching one of the Taurans by his wrist, with a quick twist Walters snapped his bone cleanly. He twisted the dangling hand and slammed the owner’s sword into his own chest. Powering backwards he stamped his heel into the chest of another opponent, shattering armour and ribs alike and punching the Tauran off his feet, to fly uncontrollably into two of his fellows.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, Walters claws slid into view, energy crackling around them. His subsequent strikes were lightning fast, cleaving armour, chopping flesh and tearing immense wounds wherever they touched. The Taurans demon-augmented bodies were snail-like in their responses, in comparison to Walters speed, and his wild laughter rang out.

  A savage howling impinged on his consciousness, but he did not stop; each death brought him closer to the ordained moment.

  *****

  Berbatov could now see Walters and the fact that he appeared alone, drove him to new heights. His whirling halberd was a blur, powerful double strokes pulled him through his enemies. He no longer danced nor moved to avoid incoming blows, he simply smashed his way through them. At his side came the rest of his men, their brutal attacks mirroring his own, nothing could stand in their way.

  Those that tried to flee or were simply too far away were cleaned up by Marius and his men. Their disciplined and methodical pace was awesome; shoot, stamp and strike, they cleaved their way through with finesse. Tanks rolled on behind them, their battle cannons tossing shells far ahead, gauging huge holes in the Tauran ranks.

  This escaped Berbatov, his only thought was to reach his Lord’s side, he cared not how many of the enemy interposed themselves in his way, all would die.

  *****

  From almost the opposite direction, Viker led the charge. His new found powers melded naturally with his transformed physique and he roared, howled and killed. Johns stood by him, deflecting blows where needed and protecting Viker’s back. He seemed to have automatically fallen into the role, yet it seemed so natural.

  *****

  Uther and his men rejoined Walters, crashing through the final resistance to reach his side. Their help was not needed, as even as they rushed to his aid, Walters skew
ered the last of the Taurans on his claws, driving them through his putrid armour and into his sternum. With a wrench of his shoulders he ripped them back out and howled his triumph to the skies.

  “Are you well, my Lord?” asked Uther, kneeling in obeisance.

  “Never better!” replied Walters and as they watched his body began to glow.

  *****

  Troopers moved slowly across the field, harvesting souls for their Lord. A whine of pain would attract them, a swift slash of claw or knife would stifle their cries and on then the gruesome work would continue.

  Marius watched his men as they too did their duty, his thoughts turning to the rapid change in his fortune. From fighter pilot to leader of men in one short day; he missed the exhilaration of riding his war beast, but today he had found something new.

  “Sir!” cried one of his men, pointing at an incandescent point of light, “What is it?”

  Saying nothing, Marius began to run, his men swiftly falling in behind.

  Argent III

  Geosynchronous Orbit

  Second Church Protectorate

  Arn felt the change, the burgeoning godhood of his Lord, and fell to his knees, arms raised in adulation.

  Berbatov had now reached Walters’ side and he too crashed unbidden to the floor, his men following his example. An unbearably bright light suffused Walters’ body, radiating outwards and painting the surrounding terrain an eerie shade of green.

  Far across space others trembled or roared their defiance and on one small planet, a beacon began to glow.

  Chapter Six

  The Tower

  Diadem

  Unassigned Space

  The city was dark and brooding; a jet black pall of cloud clung perpetually to its tall spires. No breeze gently stroked its filigreed buildings, no laughter rang through its vaulted halls. Death had stalked its once bright streets and garlanded avenues, and had decided to stay.

  At the centre of the gloomy and pain-ridden metropolis rose a tall thin spire, its top sharply truncated, clashing with the clean lines of the surrounding buildings. A ridged shape was wrapped tightly against the fluted tower, terminating in a diamond like block which lay flat and unmoving.