Well, here we go... on the eve of war...
Disclaimer: The trolls in Great Britain at Games Workshop
own Warhammer 40,000; I don't. I don't own the Ranma
characters, either.
The Emperor's Hand
Chapter Five: Preparation
Ranma was in Teldurin's Shrine, sparring with six
Howling Banshees at once, when the Exarch shouted, "Stop!"
"What's wrong?" asked the Human.
"It is the call of the Avatar. We go to war." She
turned, and left the Shrine. The Banshees left behind set
down their practice swords, and took off the masks they wore.
Instantly, he could see a change in their demeanor. They went
from hardened warriors, willing to fight to their utmost even
in practice, to soft and gentle women with the artist's
demeanor so common to the Eldar.
"Where's she goin'?" he asked.
Eldaveril looked at him. "When the time comes to go to
war, before the Farseers gather the Guardians, the Avatar
sends a silent call to all the Exarch. One of their number,
who was named the Young King the year before, is then
ritually prepared for the Avatar. He becomes one with the
Lord of Battle, and emerges, carrying the Suin Dallae, the
Wailing Doom."
"Alright, one thing at a time. First, what are
Guardians? Second, what's an Avatar? And last, what's a
Wailing Doom?"
One of the other Banshees spoke this time. "When an
Eldar has walked the Path of the Warrior, and returns to
other duties, she still retains a fraction of the skills she
learned. If the Craftworld goes to war, then they take up the
arms and armor of the Guardian, and are the foot troops of
our forces. Some, who were once of the Shining Spear aspect,
ride either jetbikes, or the heavier Vypers.
"As for the Avatar, each Craftworld carries with it a
shard of our war god, Kaela Mensha Khaine, the bloody-handed
god. He rests in the heart of the Craftworld, awaiting war.
When the time is right, he issues the call, and all the
Exarchs meet at his Shrine. The Young King, one chosen from
their number, is anointed and prepared, and he enters the
Shrine. Moments later, the Avatar erupts forth, bearing the
spirit stone of the Young King. The Suin Dallae is his
weapon, a blade which no armor can withstand."
"Oh. Right." Scratching his head, he shrugged. "So,
whadda _we_ do?"
Eldaveril snapped her mask down over her face. "We
practice, until we leave for battle." She picked up her
practice sword, and the stun pistol, and began her assault on
him anew.
*************************************************
Hours later, thousands of Eldar were gathered in a large
hall, wearing red armor, and carrying red helmets with white
faceplates. They surrounded a large dais, upon which the
Farseers and Warlocks of Valdur Avendel were gathered in
their runecast, wraithbone armor and flowing robes.
Ailunaraven spoke to them, his power carrying his words to
every being present. "Our scouts have returned, and carry
with them war. You have been summoned to do your duty as your
path has decreed. Even now, the ceremony of the Young King is
taking place, and soon our Avatar shall stride the halls of
our home.
"Our foe is the Legion, the myriad forms of the Enemy
known as the Tyrannids. They have deceived the Orks, and are
using them as fodder for our weapons. Fortunately, the Humans
do not care for the Blasted Patch of Blood-soaked Sand, so we
will not have to worry about a third foe.
"According to the scouts, the foe is on the move. It shall
be seven more hours, yet, before they reach any target of
significance.
"The Avatar will lead the main force, and I shall
accompany them. Farseer Gadremon shall lead the Secondary
thrust, while Farseers Dalhavadar and Valimparanor shall lead
our flanking forces. The assignments of these forces shall be
made once the Avatar awakens." He knelt. "May the Old Gods of
our ancestors watch over us."
Thousands of murmuring voices are as loud as a dozen
shouts. "May the Old Gods of our ancestors watch over us."
*************************************************
Later that day, Ranma found himself doing what he does
best. Eating, of course, what else? He was accompanied by the
warrior maidens of the Banshee Shrine, and scattered members
of other Aspect cults. Hanuril, one of the Striking
Scorpions, spoke to him. "Well, Human, we have all heard of
your victory over Teldurin. Perhaps, if you remain among us
after the war, we will see if you can face real warriors,
eh?"
The pigtailed martial artist smirked, and paused in the
endless task of shoveling food into his face. "I dunno, from
the sound o' things, the only real warrior in the whole place
is that Avatar-thingie. Maybe I could spar with him, huh?"
The table erupted in laughter. "Anial Gorwydd, even as
mighty as the Banshees claim you are, no mortal can hope to
withstand an Avatar. Even the Phoenix Lords, the primal
Exarchs that roam from Craftworld to Craftworld, cannot hope
to match its skill or power," said Evanor, a Fire Dragon.
"Yeah, well, anyway, so what's so great about this
Avatar, anyway? So he's a war god. I kinda remember fightin'
demons an' monsters, an' even a dragon or two. So, what's so
hot about him?"
Once again, everyone at the table laughed. "Hot, he
says. Hot? Mwahahaha, Human, did no one describe the Avatar
to you?" asked Hanuril.
"No, why?"
"Eldaveril, you and yours have always been a little
reticent," said Evanor. "Boy, the Avatar's physical form is
an iron shell, filled with the molten heat of a star! You may
be fast enough to strike a blow against him, but your hands
will burn as if they touched a hot iron."
Now, it was Ranma's turn to laugh. "Don't worry, I got
somethin' to deal with that," he said, a cocky grin spreading
across his face.
"Watch your pronouncements, Anial Gorwydd," said
Fioranir, a Dark Reaper. His baritone voice carried tones of
respect as he uttered Ranma's Eldar name. "The Avatar knows
of all utterings referring to him."
"Which brings up another matter. What is this 'chi'? The
Warlocks who were with you say they saw something, but you
have no psychic gift." Eldaveril paused. "And they also say
this 'something' destroyed an Ork Dreadnought in less than a
second."
"Well, it's hard to explain. I've been studying my
family's style of martial arts since I could walk. I don't
remember when, or how, but I eventually learned how to
harness my breath, and emotions, and use them as a weapon.
That's chi."
"I do not understand. But, if it works, it's good for
the battlefield," said Evanor. "Anyway, Anial, have you tried
this? It's very good, if a little rough for some palates."
And so, the meal continued, as Ranma and the Aspect Warriors
attempted to hold on to the little bit of peace they had
until the coming battle.
*************************************************
Seventy warriors, each in arcane armor, and the masks of
their Shrines, stood before a massive iron door. Three hours
before, the Young King, whose name would forevermore become
part of the Avatar's name, had entered, and begun his
meditation. Now, they chanted, and waited.
Seventy voices droned, knowing that their god incarnate
would soon be among them. They waited, for the only moments
in which they truly lived anymore were coming. The chant had
not waver, could not waver, until the Avatar emerged.
As one, the chants ended, as a scream of joy torn from
an inhuman throat echoed in their ears, and in their minds.
One hundred and forty eyes focused on the iron doors, and not
even the sound of breath could be heard. One second ticked
by. Two. Three.
A mile away, the cacophony of the iron doors slamming
open could be heard. Standing over ten feet tall, the hulking
form of the Avatar exploded from his shrine. There was no
sign of the Young King. The body of the thing resembled a
sculpted statue, with emerald-green gemstones encrusted
thereon, and a reddish glow radiating from within. In its
right hand, was a nine foot sword, glowing as bright as the
heart of a star. Black runes writhed like serpents in the
heart of the blade, and smoke wafted off it, befouling the
otherwise clean air. And the left hand of the thing dripped
blood, blood that sizzled as it struck the ground.
"It is time," said Kaela Mensha Khaine. "And bring me
the Human."
*************************************************
"No, Ranma. You are our guest. You will not be going
with us to battle. I am sorry, but I must ask that you leave
the Shrine, so that we may prepare." Eldaveril put her hand
on his shoulder, and smiled. "When we return, I'll make sure
you get a sparring match you'll never forget."
"Uh... we're just talkin' about fightin', right? Nothin'
else?" he asked. Then he mentally slapped himself, remembering
that the warrior women have taken an oath, and don't think
about... about... He raised a hand to stop the impending
nosebleed.
"Of course." Her confusion showed in her words. "What
else would I mean?"
"Umm, nothin'. Anyways..."
"'Anyways', your presence is needed. Now." Teldurin walked
in, not only in her mask, but in full armor, entered the
Shrine. "The Avatar commands it."
"Alright, some action," said Ranma.
"Perhaps," said the Exarch. "But I do not believe you
will enjoy it." She led him out into the hall, and to a
nearby Webway portal.
They emerged outside the Avatar's Shrine. The great
thing stood outside, the Suin Dallae resting easily in his
grasp, the blood still dripping eternally from his left hand.
The remaining Exarchs were there, as well. "Human, there are
matters that must be dealt with."
Cocky as ever, Ranma thrust out his chest. "Yeah? What?"
"None must be allowed to doubt my power. I must prove to
you that I, and I alone, am the god of war." Pointing to one
of the Banshee Exarchs, he said, "Hand him your powersword."
As the Exarch stepped towards the martial artist, the
hilt of a blade extended towards him, he shook his head.
"Nope, I don't need no weapons. So, what, are we gonna fight
right here?"
"Arrogant whelp. You doom yourself. This battle is to
first blood, and with no weapon, you cannot draw blood.
Prepare yourself." With a gesture, the Exarchs fell back, and
the wide hall was cleared for the duel.
Ranma stretched a little, popping those joints that
needed popping. "Tell you what. You win, an' I'll admit
you're better'n me. If I win, I go with you guys to the
battle."
Glaring, the Avatar merely nodded, and struck with the
speed of a viper. It whipped past the dodging martial artist,
and cut under just as suddenly, intending to catch him on the
backswing.
*Jeez, this guy's fast! An' he's got one heckuva reach!
Gotta start now!* The Human began a series of dodges and
evasions, barely able to escape the rapidly spinning Suin
Dallae. He placed his feet carefully, and fell back before
the onslaught.
"Such a pity," said a Fire Dragon Exarch. "He is
apparently very skilled. It will be a great loss to someone."
The steps of the duel were as graceful as any dance.
Despite its size, the Avatar was as fluid as any Eldar. It
pondered for a moment ending the charade, and simply killing
the boy, but it sensed the presence of something akin to
another god dancing about the edges of its consciousness, and
not one of darkness and Chaos. So, it fought with a careless
ease, not exerting itself, but allowing its anger to grow,
and fuel the power of its sword. It never noticed that the
boy was entering a spiral.
*Just five more steps... three more... one more... now!*
With a heart of ice, and an uppercut that never landed, he
cried out, "HIRYUU SHOTEN HA!"
The resulting tornado was unlike anything the Eldar had
ever seen. It was incredibly focused, no more than ten feet
wide, and funneled straight up. The Avatar was carried up,
his massive form ripping through deck after deck of the
immense, world-sized ship. Ranma, on the other hand, stood in
place, fist raised high.
Eventually, the Avatar failed to penetrate a bulkhead,
and rebounded, falling rapidly to the floor. Ranma hopped
back, and watched as the force of impact sent the fragment of
the god of war down to the deck below the one he stood upon.
"Well, did that draw blood?" he asked.
A blood-dripping hand reached up, and hauled the great
thing back to the hall where the young man stood. The hand
bearing the Wailing Doom reached up, and wiped at the iron
face. From the corner of its mouth, a single drop of molten
iron leaked onto its gauntlet. Its eyes opened wide, and it
nodded. "Mortal, I know not how you accomplished this. But...
you have won. You will accompany my warriors into battle."
*************************************************
Ranma was permitted to accompany the Banshees back to
their Shrine, as they began their preparations for the
conflict ahead. He did not understand much of what was done,
but he waited in silence. His thoughts drifted back to his
lost memory, and those few moments he could remember.
An old woman, shrunken and withered, carrying a cane
much taller than she was. "Son-in-law, you cannot go against
three thousand years of Amazon tradition!"
A woman, younger than the first, but still slightly
older than he was. Her beautiful face was creased with tiny
lines of sorrow. "Oh, Ranko, if only Ranma had been here. I
had so wanted to see how manly my son had become."
A dark pit, the feel of fur, and the hissing of many,
many... the image is violently thrust away.
A man, going on towards middle-aged, and portly. A cloth
was tied over his balding head, and glasses perched on his
nose. "Come on, Ranma! I've just heard about a great new
method of training!"
Seeing the older man fall from a pole, into a pool of
Water. A large, black and white animal leaves the pool, knocking
Him in another. He finds he has... changed?
A girl, slightly older than he was, wearing an apron.
"Don't worry about it, Ranma-kun. She may be a little angry
at times, but she's really sweet, deep down. She'll calm down
in a short while."
A girl in a boy's clothing, a huge spatula strapped to
Her back. "Hey, Ran-chan. How's it goin'?"
Two young men, about his age, sitting behind wooden
desks. "Hey, Ranma-kun, why can't you share at least one of
your women with us, huh?"
And the smile. A girl his age, her short hair framing a
face that saw anger too often, now lit up in a smile that
threw down all defenses he had. He would do anything to see
that smile again. And with the smile, a name...
"Akane..."
*************************************************
"So, what are these Tyralids?"
"No, Ranma, Tyrannids. They're large, and rather
disgusting, insect-like creatures. They use their mastery of
shaping life forms to create servitor and warrior slaves. Any
foes they defeat, but do not kill, become part of their
genetic pool." Eldaveril held up a hand, one finger
upraised. "First, there are the Tyrannids themselves. They
are almost as tall as the Avatar, have four arms, and large
hooves. They are not only dangerous warriors, they also help
coordinate the broods of slave troops.
"Next, are Termagants. These creatures are much smaller,
perhaps a head shorter than you, and carry bio-weapons that
shoot a variety of living ammunition. Their 'cousins', the
Hormagants, have had all four forelimbs modified into deadly
scythes.
"They have larger creatures, too. The Lictors can
camouflage themselves at a moments notice, then erupt out to
attack a foe. Their upper limbs are huge scythes, while their
lowers bear razor sharp claws. The Zoanthrope is a powerful
psyker, capable of destroying troops with the power of its
mind. And the Carnifex is a squat, tank-like engine of
destruction, with four immense talons that can rip apart a
grav-tank in seconds."
"Wow. Anythin' else?" he asked.
"Only the worst of the lot. The Genestealers are only
slightly larger than a Human or an Eldar, but are wickedly
fast, with razor sharp talons, and a ferocity that is
terrifying. The most dangerous part is that they appear in
huge numbers, attacking like a swarm."
"So," began Ranma, "any idea why they're hookin' up with
the Orks?"
Teldurin nodded. "The Orks are brutal, cunning, and
savage. However, they are also quite stupid. A Tyrannid Hive
Tyrant likely approached the Ork Boss, and convinced him to
team up with them. Should the combination of the two prove
too much for our troops, then the Tyrannids will fall upon
the Orks, adding them to their genetic stock."
"Jeez, that's brutal." He tugged lightly on his pigtail.
"When are we gonna go and kick their butts back to wherever
they came from? Assumin' they got butts, o' course."
The Spirit Stones on the chests of the gathered Eldar
pulsed once, then twice. "Now," said the Exarch. They
gathered their weapons, and left the Shrine. Ranma took a
deep breath, then followed.
*************************************************
Akane sat on her bed, clutching her little piglet
tightly to her chest. "Oh, P-chan, I don't know. A friend of
Cologne's knows something, and he might be able to bring
Ranma back. But I don't trust her, and I don't know if I can
trust her friend."
"Bwee, bukwee!" squealed the little creature.
"I know, P-chan. If it'll bring Ranma back, I have to
help." She sighed. "But what if Cologne is bringing him back
just to marry him off to Shampoo?"
"Bwthhhhhp!" This was only about the second or third
time Akane had ever heard P-chan give a raspberry.
"P-chan! Now, that's not nice! But," she giggled, "it is
pretty funny."
"If he comes back... _when_ he comes back... I have to
tell him.
"I have to tell him I love him."
"Bukwee? Bwee." As she lay back, a sad little piglet
nuzzled her hand, then climbed down off the bed. With a sad
sigh, trying to say goodbye, it looked back at her, then
walked out the door. Right into the closet.
*Yes, Tendou Akane, sleep. For in your sleep, you relax.
And when you relax, you become unprepared* The shadowy figure
clinging to the ceiling beams fought hard to stifle her
trademark laugh. *Unprepared for the Black Rose!* Counting to
thirty, the insane gymnast dropped, hammer in hand.
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=====
- Valandar the Red of the Empty Tankard
Captain of the Guard of the Barony of the Far Woods
Empire of the Iron Mountains
http://members.tripod.com/~Valandar/fanfic.html
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