Copyright of me, Jared G. Juckiewicz
Garrow was beginning to get irritated. Oh, not at standing his post, no. He’d stood in parade for far longer, before, and it would be hours yet afore it began to bother him, and hours more afore he’d admit to it. Anyway, if there was anything a man of the Clans knew, beyond how to give, and take blows, it was patience. Especially the Khan’Dayle. His kind lacked the brute strength of the Ursk’Eyna, or Khar’Khar’Don, or the swift fury of the Fey’Liada or Udun’Khitai. Unlike any of the other clans, bar perhaps, in a way, the Akh’Pietr, the gift of the Khan’Dayle was in patience, in endurance.
No, it was not the formation he was forced to stand, to hold, that bothered him. It would end soon enough, and his unit was to be one of the first waves. The first wave, in fact, the Vanguard. His issue was with their allies, the Confederation troops. See, each and every one of the Clansfolk assigned to the drop had had their gear ready, perfect, immaculate, a full twenty-four hours afore the drop. And they had been standing, ready, in the drop bay, since before the notional dawn maintained on transports. They could have dropped, easily, hours earlier than planned, and such was always the way of the Clans.
The Confederation troops on the other hand… Oh, they had a few reasonable units, who had been ready beforehand, but most of them still had things to square together when the assembly signal was sounded. And so it was that they were filtering into the drop in dribs and drabs. Slow, disorganised, clumsy. When he thought on it, it almost brought a growl to his throat. Were it not that the drop pilots for the Clansfolk were all Akh’Pietr, he’d almost wish them the vanguard, the forlorn hope. For no matter how cold, how calculating and aloof the Akh’Pietr were, none could claim they were bad pilots.
At last, the Confeds were in their formations. And their leader was having an image of himself projected on the great bay doors, making a final speech. An exhortation to the troops. Garrow ignored it. He could say nothing that would induce a man of the Clans to fight any harder. The Leaders of the Clans had declared that their Clans would stand beside the Confederation long ago. Back in the days when the six great Guard-Captains, the original Guard-Captains, held sway, ruling alongst those known as the Tormented, the first mothers of the Clans. The days when the broken bodies of those who had thought themselves masters dangled from the parapets of their own keeps, slain by those they had twisted and shaped to ward them and serve their unnatural lusts.
The speech ended, and Garrow finally heard the order he had been waiting for. True, the Akh’Pietr had beaten them with their cry of “LOOSE THE JESSES!” but old Cale Greyback had been barely a breath behind with the Khan’Dayle order, “OFF LEAD!” Without a thought, Garrow snatched up his kitbag, threw it over his shoulder, lifted his helmet from its rest by his feet, and rushed for his shuttle, his Clan-Kin, Brothers and Sisters both matching his pace. Boarding his shuttle, he found the hard, uncomfortable jumpseat assigned him, and sat, kitbag going between his legs. Locking the restraints about his shoulders and waist, he drew his personal weapon, a heavy Plasma Gun, from his kitbag and then stowed the bag under his seat. He rested the weapon on his knees, donned his helm, pulling it down tight against the gorget and twisting it until the seals caught and the nano-fibers locked.
He felt a familiar moments panic as the nanofibers extruded by the helmet lining connected to his neural cortex, but then relaxed as his senses widened. He could see the heat signatures of his Clankin, at least their heads, and until they donned their own helms, and into the ultraviolet. He could ‘hear’ and ‘speak’ radio signals and other more esoteric transmissions, could taste the most minute chemical signatures. It was a heady and addictive feeling. Suddenly there was a judder, and a feeling of lightness as the shuttle lifted from its cradle. A few moments later, there was a feeling of motion as it began to move stately forward. It moved slowly, behind the fighter screen, but the evasive actions that are standard procedure in such a drop ensured it was not a comfortable ride for any involved.
On the other hand, the Khan’Dayle are renowned, like most of the Clans, for stoicism, and so not a peep was uttered. At least, not until a sensation of falling and severe turbulence marked the entry into atmosphere. Then, then Garrow and his Clankin sounded off, howling their warlust into their helms. The shuttle corkscrewed down wildly, seemingly accelerating all the while, only to slow with bonejarring speed, and settle gently onto the ground. There was a hiss of equalising pressure, and then the restraints popped loose and the hatch popped open.
Garrow bolted to his feet, as around him his Clankin did likewise. His Force-Leader strode down the exit ramp, and immediately set off in the long, slow, ground eating lope that the Khan’Dayle were capable of maintaining almost indefinitely. With a howl, the rest of the squad followed. Theirs it would be to race ahead of the main force, striking at targets of opportunity, scouting in force. It was a task that the Khan’Dayle with their patience and endurance were well suited to. And one which they had done many a time before…
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