DATE: 40148
The Battle of Chkarn


PART 1 - PROLOGUE

Trazlor is one of many Imperial cities on Necromunda, its multi-layered
hive city reaching down into the very depths of the planet.  The lower
levels, left by the rich centuries ago to the gangs, lie desolate.  The
once prosperous towns have become homes to outcasts, or black market
trading posts.  The plasteal gantries, towers and bulkheads dominate
the smog covered landscape in this barren region of the hive, which the
wealthy above would rather forget.  

One of the  many stories of this underhive starts off with a Guilder
leading a train of slaves, chained to each other by the neck and
heavily burdened with guns and ammunition on a journey to Dorant.  An
outpost where the supply of arms to the authorities is needed to try
and keep some kind of order in the disorder that is Necromunda....


PART 2 - THE SLAVE TRAIN

As the Necomundian smog cleared Yarrack viewed the trains journey for
the forthcoming day.  The route went straight through the old outpost
of Chkarn, and was filled with sludge, and the stench of an area
untouched (by humans at least) for decades.  There was no other route
for the Guilder and his line of slaves to take, there delivery of arms
was essential for the outpost beyond.  The firm authoritarian grip on
these lower levels was all that stood between the scumnic gangs of
Tazlor and their ascendancy to the upper levels, where their actions
could bring down the entire social fabric of this far-flung Imperial
world.  

The train slowly trudged out of camp down towards the old outpost.  The
smell of decay found its way into Yarracks nose, churning his stomach
and standing the hairs all over his body on end.  If he could have
turned back he would, but not even he could have foretold the horror
which awaited him and his followers in this pit of decay.  

The quietness was eerie, the deathly silence which was only interrupted
by unerring rumbles and what seemed like moans made even the most hardy
of Yarracks guard nervous.  They moved on slowly under the huge weight
of their cargo.  He tried to hurry them, but their terror was already
hurrying them all they could...  

Two scouts where sent forward to check out Yarracks fears of this
hell-hole.  After a while, when they did not return Yarrack decided to
move forward.  The plasteal gantries, almost worn through by corrosion
creaked and gave way, girders snapped like twigs in winter and water
purifiers, covered in a skin of sludge refused to supply.  

Then the first event happened, a slave near the back of the train,
heavy under his load fell, black vomit came from his mouth and a stench
of decay was emitted from his abdomen where his stomach had exploded
outwards, raining its putrid contents over those nearby.  He was lucky,
he had died, far worse fates  would become of the others as the zombie
plague griped the weak shells of the party, leading them onto an
emotionless life of itinerancy.  

The train carried on, aware of the zombies and their plague.  Yarrack
now knew that his fears had been true, his only hope was that he could
make it out alive.  

Ahead, in the smoke filled distance a human sized form could just be
made out.  As he ordered the train to halt he pulled out his
autopistol.  He advanced cautiously to face the zombie, but it was no
zombie.  Leant up against the steal girder the half devoured body of
one of his scouts.  His eyes removed and his blood soaked chest covered
with teeth marks of necromundian giant rats.  He wondered why the body
was only half devoured, perhaps the train had scared them off, or
perhaps it was someone or something else.  

Yarrack  investigated further on with the help of two of his best
guards.  His answer was given to him shortly after, a trail of blood
and slime started not more than a hundred paces from the first scout. 
They followed the line of mucus like slime like hunters stalking their
pray, cautious, meticulous in their care not to make a sound, or have
their movements observed. They still did not understand as Yarrack did
that they were already dead.

The last sight that met his eye was the dismembered leg of the second
scout.  Snapped in two like a dead branch, and slowly sinking into the
sludge.  The tranquillity was sublime, the smog closed in and the
stench grew, but he knew there was nothing he could do .  No end of
shouting or gunfire could help him now. He said his one last prayer to
the Emperor and as the first of the guards screamed in agony he placed
his gun to his brow, and said goodnight to the universe he had pledged
his life to protect.  


PART 3 - THE BATTLE

As the smog cleared the Delaque gang edged forward, down the disused
link tube towards the site.  Whilst in the settlement of Nakarn, Juron,
the leader of the Delaque had heard of the rumour of the attacked
Guilder slave train carrying a horde of guns.  The rantings of an old
drunken barman didn't persuade Juron , but the rumour of an Escher gang
preparing to leave for the outpost did catch his attention.  The rumour
was too important to ignore, and if it where true, this great horde
would make his gang one of the most respected in the hive.  

He was standing in a spot similar to the one which Yarrack had stood a
few weeks earlier, before his journey into death.  This time though an
extra problem met his dark eyes.  Ivory and a few of her brethren could
just be made out through the smog over the other side of the abyss,
they had obviously not expected a fight.  He could also make out the
crates and guns strain all over the area.  Some destroyed, some in
pools of sludge.  To an uneducated eye this could seem harmless, but to
Juron it could only mean one thing, zombies!  

As Juron and his gang advanced he made out a swarm of rats in the
distance and a quick flash of something else.  It could have been his
imagination but he was too experienced for that,  something was out
there.  Perhaps that was the reason the outpost had been deserted those
many decades ago.  

As they advanced towards the Escher under cover of the watchtower
Yeremi, a member of the Delaque  cringed and coward into himself, as if
possessed by a great demon.  When his face lifted into view once more
his features seemed melted and decayed.  His whole body was twisted in
agony, visibly decaying as the potent disease took hold of his body and
entered his brain, destroying all glimmer of humanity inside him.  He
had been taken by the zombie plague.  As  he scuttled off backwards to
join his new friends Juron was seen to shrug his shoulders, "we must
pay the price for prosperity".  

The stealthy Delaque advanced using any cover they could find. hiding
behind water purifiers and corroding girders hoping that the structures
would hide them from the soon to be incoming Escher fire.  Their
advance was methodical, but did not go unnoticed.  Ivory and a selected
few ran forward, taking cover where possible, seeking out their hidden
enemies, who were still out of weapon range.  

The confidence of Jurons Phalanx was too high, eleven men against four
women, the odds seemed good.  Juron realised they were too good all to
late as infiltrating Escher sprang up from tunnels, vents and gantries,
spraying shells over the Delaques advance, taking men down and knocking
them off gantries and ledges.  Under their panic the men fell back,
taking cover once more and returning fire whenever they could.  This
shock startled Juron for a brief second, but not long enough to stop
him pumping shells into two Escher who had strayed into his line of
sight.  

Lexandro seeing a chance to prove himself as a worthy ganger, ran for
the prime target, a master crafted heavy bolter lying on a high gantry.
 He ran for it, braving the fire of heavy weapons to get to it.  He
dodged the fire of Flame, lying low to get out of her sight but when
Monique's shotgun smacked into his right shoulder, just inches from his
prize he was sent plummeting down onto the floor.  He lay unconscious,
at the mercy of whoever or whatever lay in wait nearby.  

As he returned to consciousness well behind the Escher line he managed
to crawl up to a protective bulkhead.  The bulkhead and all the nearby
area seemed to be covered in some kind of slime.  His choice of shelter
did not seem a wise one and his deafened right ear didn't hear the
spawn as it reached out for him, finishing his days of fighting in the
underhive for good.  

As gangers fell to opposing fire and under blows from power swords
Flame and Nightwing scurried round the side to try and catch the
Delaque in the flank.  There separation from their gang of this young
pair was not a wise one.  The swarm of rats which had been moving
around on the lower levels could taste the fresh blood already.  Their
speed was too much for Flame and they swarmed all over her riping her
to shreds, much to the horror of Nightwind who fled at this gruesome
sight.  Unfortunately for her, Bourreau was wheeling his heavy stubber
in her direction and yet another of the Escher kin fell under its hail
of shells.  

Their prizes taken both gangs left the arena as distant rumbles echoed
down tunnels into the pit.  The looming hive quake put an end to the
aspirations of the gangs and they left to lick their wounds and fight
once again.  The horrors and jewels of this old outpost would be lost
forever, and stories told of the confrontation would be lost to drunken
barmen telling the tale for a few decades, until it will only be a
distant memory and the fighters who took part in it will all be long
dead and new adventures will come about in the chaos that is
Necromunda.


By Gareth Owen