The Eagle Ascending

[Walter Payton]

When I posted, I was just showing how other people would put it, though it did make me laugh to have a mental image of a guy sitting at the back laughing his head off.

 

Well, the internet is full of double meanings, and sagged is a better word, now that I think of it.

 

Thanks again-I aim to have the full chapter up tomorrow night!

[Walter Payton]

The Senatorial Amphitheatrum was in uproar.

Men howled and clamoured, retinues bickered across the great flagstone floor, emblazoned with the crest of Macragge, The Eternium Ultra, an Eagle, clutching the consular emblem, a stylized ‘U’. Around, arranged in ranked tiers according to their place, the Macraggeii Senators, the aediles, the quaestors, the praetors and the two Consuls, Gallan and Konor, stood, howling and arguing. With each man, a sizeable retinue of retainers would whisper and advise, passing scrolls of cartridge paper on which were written key statistics, lines of dreary text and names and rosters of arriving shipments from the ports of Ostianum, Saeclus and Vinostatum, or one of the far rarer shipments from off-world, Talassar, or Calth.

 

Today, however, they were on their feet, barracking and defaming those advisors and senators of rivals and enemies with threats and accusations and declarations. Gallan, his swollen mass kept cool by a pair of Illyrian slave boys with feather fans, howled and heckled from his lofty seat, and several of his sycophants and beneficiaries joined him. Opposite his rival consul, who in his choler resembled a large and particularly verbose arachnid, stood Konor, wearing his purple trimmed senatorial tunica, his orator’s tones cutting through the verbal mire.

 

“Order!” It was a simple enough phrase, robust, yet subtly offensive. Where they, the senate, not ordered? Had they not gone through the rigours and agonies of the barracks too? On a normal day, the clarion note of the Consul would have been enough to calm any ocean of malcontent, but today was different. Today, the news from Illyricum had stirred the Senate to fever pitch. Upon his dais at the back of the chamber, the Speaker of the Senate Eternium lolled, seemingly unable to bring calm to the proceedings. Behind Konor, his principal advisor, Aldrius, leaned forwards, and spoke in his usual sardonic tones.

‘Yet another fine example of Macraggeii democracy.’

‘Oh, shut up.’

 

Aldrius chuckled, his murmurs interspersed with the furious clattering of the Speaker’s gavel. At last, after a good fifteen minutes of stagnant bickering, order came to the Senate Eternium.

‘If we might return to the matter at hand,’ flustered the aged creature, his corpulence matching that of Gallan, his pale eyes flitting over the tiers of contemptuous senators, ‘that is, the heavy casualties sustained by the Reserve Legions brought up into the Illyrian front. Our honoured guest, Legate Caradoc, has drawn up a full report. If I may invite the Legate to give his briefing. Finally.’

 

Legate Caradoc had remained apart from the rhetorical brawl that had so recently thundered through the pillared cloisters of the Senate Eternium, standing just outwith the shafts of sunlight that fell through the glassed dome at the top of the room. He looked about the chamber, at the ageing and fat old men who governed and commanded the armies of Macragge. He was disgusted. As far as he, a soldier since he had left the barracks, was concerned, there was no need for argument. He had needed more men. He had not been given any, and now the Macraggeii supply lines had been savaged, resulting in the rout and near destruction of an entire Legion. Ten thousand men, reduced to a ragged band of survivors. There was no need for argument. Heads would roll, and as far as Caradoc was concerned, he would be quite happy to begin the centrifugal processes.

 

Commander of the Auxillia Bellum of the Consulate of Macragge, Fidelus Militus, Lupus Felix, Admiral Primus and Knight Champion of the Consuls, as well as a score of other, less official (though no less flattering) titles bestowed upon him by his men, he held the highest rank in the Macraggeii military apparatus. Each and every armed man on Macragge, the lowliest rating on the warships of the Auxillia Navis, the canny war-pilots of the Auxillia Aerial and the honest fighting men of the Auxillia Terrae, were at his beck and call. He had no need for whining diplomats and dishonest politicians. An honest man in the Senate, he had always said, was like finding a pearl in a pile of manure. A welcome change, but so disagreeable to find that one ended up regretting the exercise of finding the bloody thing in the first place.

 

Just as the Legate walked to the centre of the room, the sunlight turned from its white glare to an angry red, as the Sun finished another lap of its eternal chariot race. The red light caught on the Legate’s armour, the sculpted bronze and purple lapis of its exquisite torso flashing with every movement, the gem set in the pommel of the general’s ceremonial chain-gladius refracting the crimson beams around the eager faces of the Senate.

 

Despite his impressive armour and medal-studded chest, it was the Legate’s face that drew most attention. Scarred and worn, with a nose that looked to have been broken several times, he gave the impression of an ancient lion, long in tooth and claw, and still more than capable of delivering a severe mauling to any young pretender foolish enough to challenge his lofty throne. He cleared his throat, and spoke in a voice more often used to issue commands to terrified staff officers,

‘My honoured lords,’ he began, stressing the second word in a way that did not flatter. Why should he bow and scrape before such vermin? He continued,

 

‘At around midnight, yesterday, the 55th Legion’s supply convoy, consisting of several bulk transport carriages, in addition to eight self propelled and fifteen tractor-drawn artillery guns, as well as its outriding escorts, was attacked and destroyed in an Illyrian ambush. Details of this initial skirmish are as yet unclear, but it seems the Illyrians mined the road, immediately destroying several vehicles, before an ambushing force destroyed or crippled the rest. The guards posted to the convoy fought back as best they could, but were unable to reach safety. Before they were overrun, the convoy did however manage to put out a call for assistance to 55th Command. Colonel Varros responded with all haste, dispatching his entire legion, including himself and his personal command tank, Meretrix Felix to find and destroy the ambushers.’ Caradoc paused, and took a sip of water from a glass held by an accompanying servile.

 

‘It seems that Colonel Varros allowed his anger to get in the way of his better judgement. As the legion’s transport convoy drove towards the site of the ambush, the Illyrians struck again, this time using appropriated ambush flares and camouflage gear, in addition, if eyewitnesses are to be believed, several PILU-M missile launchers. Unable to adequately address this threat, his men fumbling in the dark, Colonel Varros attempted to engage the enemy in close-quarters fighting. The battle degenerated into close-quarters warfare, where the superior numbers of the Illyrians inflicted near eighty percent casualties on our forces. The remainder of the Legion managed a breakout, at least preventing their Lion from being captured. I would attribute the failure to a number of factors, the first being-’

 

‘Spare us the excuses, Legate,’ sneered Gallan, as his sycophants and beneficiaries guffawed in the manner of barrack muster-yard bullies. Not that bullying was discouraged on Macragge. He continued; ‘Your general failed. The way I see it, Colonel Varros should be stripped from command.’ There were a few scattered cries of ‘here here,’ and a few of ‘shame,’ from Konor’s bloc and Gallan’s, and for a moment it seemed as though the chamber would descend into verbal violence yet again. Legate Caradoc, however, spoke once more, his soldier’s roar cutting through the gathering storm.

 

‘Colonel Varros is dead, senator,’ he shouted above the tumult, ‘He died defending the Legion’s Lion from capture, but the Meretrix Felix was hit by captured missiles.’ Silence came to the chamber. A weighty blow had been delivered to Gallan’s power base, though Caradoc knew or cared nothing of such night moves. Varros had risen to command a Legion with Gallan’s patronage. And as he was beyond the mortal coil, he was beyond punishment, and any chances of Gallan distancing himself from his inept lackey were beyond hope. Konor displayed no emotion, though Aldrius could not resist a smirk.

 

Gallan, in whom the impulse to punish was ever powerful, spluttered, then asked, in what he evidently hoped was an impressive and commanding voice, ‘Who is in command then? Must they not suffer for this outrage?’

 

Legate Caradoc consulted his notes. ‘The ranking officer is a Lieutenant Gaius Aurelius Orar. He seems to have pulled together the scattered defences of the 55th, as well as reclaiming the Lion, and averting considerable dishonour.’ The Lions of Macragge were the standards carried by each Legion. So-called for the Lion’s head that topped each standard, they were the most precious military items on Macragge, and each soldier was expected to give their last breath to defend them. Caradoc went on, ‘Of course, we could still punish him, but seeing as I just gave him a Military Cross and a Captain’s commission, it might make us look a bit…silly.”

 

Gallan turned puce. There were few men in the Senate who would dare mock him so openly, but Caradoc was protected by his station and the loyalty of the army. Gallan was now desperate. Losing upon the senatorial floor was not something he was accustomed to. If nothing else, he was an unrivalled orator.

 

“Then the remainder of the regiment must be decimated, as an example to others!” he bawled, reminding Konor of a malevolent baby. Konor’s thoughts briefly turned to Roboute, and he smiled. He wondered what might be happening to the boy on his first day. He had been made to run to the Cicero’s Arch on his. He returned his thoughts to the debate, and Gallan’s suggestion.

 

‘Brothers,’ he began, in a soft yet carrying voice, ‘do we really need the Illyrians to fight? Might we not be better to sit here in Macragge City, and execute a hundred poor labourers a month, after all, it would save a lot of time and effort, and all that money we use for expensive weaponry would build a lovely aquaduct. My brother Gallan seems all for the idea.”

 

Gallan swept from the chamber, Caradoc laughed, and Konor smirked, and looked out the arched window. Two boys, one tall and blonde, the other thin and dark-haired, were running past, in the direction of Cicero’s arch. Konor laughed for the first time in almost a week.

[calgar101]

Im hating Gallan already :) Good writing Alecto, i look forwards to more about Roboute's training.

[Walter Payton]

Im hating Gallan already :tu: Good writing Alecto, i look forwards to more about Roboute's training.

 

That's odd, I love writing him! I am considering introducing a more sympathetic take on his character, like that we have seen about Konrad Curze lately...

[calgar101]

No sorry you can't. For the simple fact as he is a power hungry man, thats how it is written in the codex and IA article.

[Hibberyjoo]

this is incredible! well worth the wait :tu:

any ideas when the next part will be up?

[Jonas Stromclaw]

Excellent update! When does Gallan get eviscerated? ^_^

[Walter Payton]

Excellent update! When does Gallan get eviscerated? :)

 

Not for a while, I am planning the ending though!

[Dosjetka]

Great update! ^_^

 

Can't wait for more!!

[WGXH]

This is excellent stuff. I'll be keeping an eye on this thread.

[Tanhausen]

Very neat historical-like narrative!

 

A suggestion: maybe blending in a bit more techonology with classical imagery... except for a few "odd words" such as tanks and so, you could be talking of Caesar's Rome or Scipios campaigns :tu:

[Walter Payton]

Very neat historical-like narrative!

 

A suggestion: maybe blending in a bit more techonology with classical imagery... except for a few "odd words" such as tanks and so, you could be talking of Caesar's Rome or Scipios campaigns ;)

 

My vision of Macragge is Caesar's Rome, but with technology only used whenever they have to. But trust me, when Roboute moves on in the barracks, we'll see some Macraggeii military might.

[Tanhausen]

I insist in your narrative neatness! (is that a word? ;))

 

Very well structured, easy reading and flowing and very fluffy enviroment that doesn't get in the way of the main story...I really like your style!

 

When I refer to technology, I don't quite imagine soldiers who don't wear their power armour on a daily basis... then when the plot demands it, they just go by the armory, jack up onto the PA and hey, we are ready to go :sweat:

 

That said, as soon as you finish writting up the Codex Astartes, please do PM a link with the pdf :down: What? That Roboute will not write it? SHAME ON YOU hahahaha

[Walter Payton]

Teaser:

 

The dreamer drew close to light, and allowed her mentor to cup her cheek. His ancient scarred face, framed by his neat silver hair. The ancient smiled, the lines of his face twisting into new and unreadable patterns. They reminded the dreamer of wraithbone. Slowly, his impossibly thin arms straining, he twirled his hands. A gleaming blue portal appeared in the vision. The ancient took the dreamers hand, and both escaped from nightmare.

 

“Did you see what I saw?” asked Elanniel.

“Yes,” replied Thule.

[chapter master miles]

i have to say, i never really liked this paticular primarch. but this is turning out pretty well, i cant wait to see the more byzantine aspect to the story

[Dosjetka]

Hum... no progress? ;)

[Walter Payton]

Hum... no progress? ;)

 

I have the "big" exams up this year, and I am a bit of a try hard. I will endeavour to make the time soon, however.

[Pulse]

Just read every part so far, very nice indeed. One question i must ask, are you fan of Conn Iggulden and his Emperor series at all? I only ask as some of your writing is very much like his with descriptions and such. :D

[Dominicus]

When is the rest of the story to be posted? Eagerly awaiting the rest!!!!!

 

 

Dominicus

[Walter Payton]

I'm back!

 

***

 

 

 

The dreamer walked the forests of bone, and, caught in a nightmare all the more terrible for its truth, begged to be awake. Surrounded by the singing spirit-voices of her deceased ancestors, she was as a mariner, trapped on a struggling lifeboat, surrounded by a sea of despair. Finally, a voice, lilting and soft, reached her, its tones of soothing calm cutting through the terrible visions like a searchlight through the night sky.

 

The dreamer drew close to light, and allowed her mentor to cup her cheek. His ancient scarred face, framed by his neat silver hair. The ancient smiled, the lines of his face twisting into new and unreadable patterns. They reminded the dreamer of wraithbone. Slowly, his impossibly thin arms straining, he twirled his hands. A gleaming blue portal appeared in the vision. The ancient took the dreamers hand, and both escaped from nightmare.

 

“Did you see what I saw?” asked Elanniel.

“Yes,” replied Thule.

Both the Farseers were awake now. The Chamber of the Thorned Vines, ensconced at the very heart of the craftworld of Biel-Tan, reflecting their mood, had turned the black of dread, streaked with the crimson slashes of war.

“The Council must be informed of this,” said Elanniel. Thule looked at her sharply. Her young face, barely one hundred years old, was a mask of concern. Thule raised an eyebrow.

“A bold pronouncement for one so young.”

“But it is true is it not master, this Chem-Pan-Sey in the vision. He is foretold to bring great suffering to our race. Him, and the Gathering Storm of Earth. What the weakling seer calls the “‘Great Crusade’”,” Elanniel spat upon the floor. Thule frowned. The spittle evaporated instantly.

“Don’t do that,” he murmured. Elanniel hissed in frustration.

“If you are unwilling to present this to the council, master, then I will.”

Thule frowned. He spoke softly, his whisper barely audible above the creaking of the wraithbone, “My dear, I never said that I would not. I merely sought to mark upon the announcement by yourself that I ought to. I am intrigued by your decisiveness. I never had such a gift, you see.” The old eyes glittered violet. Student and teacher climbed the wraithbone stairs up from the Chamber of the Thorned Vines, and stepped into the Tier Garden of Biel-Tan. Elanniel thought she saw, wheeling in the hydroponic garden, an eagle, its twin heads observing her. But then she dismissed it as an after-effect of her vision. Not even the human ‘Emperor’ is that powerful, she thought. Is he?

 

* * *

 

“Yes, he is actually,” chuckled the Emperor of Mankind, aboard the bridge of his great golden battle barge, Bucephalas. Resting in his warship above the colossal dome of Imperium Galactic Command, the huge military complex built on the ancient headquarters of an ancient Terran navy, the Emperor was preparing to take an inspection tour of the Imperial Navy warships mustering above the triple ports of Liveraqua, Portsmaw and Hull. But a little meditation never hurt. The shamans had taught him that.

 

An old picture of an ancient Terran warship hung in a frame on the wall of the Bucephalas’s bridge. An odd ensign, a red cross on a white flag, with another, more complex flag in its upper left quarter, hung at its stern, beneath sheeted white sails. The words painted across the old vessel’s stern seemed appropriate, thought the Emperor.

 

Victory

 

* * *

 

 

The ANS Scylla hung in orbit over the beautiful sphere of Macragge, its graceful lines rippling with energy from shield discharges and the tiny flitting shapes of fighters dancing across its hull. Nearly a kilometre long, the missile destroyer was patrolling orbital space, probing with its augur arrays for in-system warp-transits. Or, worse, webway breachs.

 

On the bridge, Captain Victorinus Agemann sat in his command chair, listening to the steady litany of checks and reports coming in. His combat air patrols were orbiting three thousand miles out, and his short-ranged close-in defence fighters were making looping passes around the ship. A young ensign asked about the shield coverage, and a robed techno-admin growled a reply, before activating Number 2 reactor’s coolant vent. Glittering steam billowed from the side of the Scylla, crystallizing as it hit the hard vacuum of space.

 

The Scylla was a happy ship, which was more than could be said for many of the ships of the Auxillia Navis. The space branch of Macragge’s armed forces was little more than a delivery device for the fearsome land armies, which were the envy of the entire sector, and most captains were those men too unfit or inept to make the army. But Victorinus Agemann had always wanted to be a starsailor, from the day his father had taken him to see a new frigate launched from the great launch pad outside the Capitol. He relaxed in his chair.

 

And then every red light on his bridge turned on at once.

[Dosjetka]

Oh yeah! This is good! I can't wait for the next part! :)

 

Ludovic

[Midgard]

I chuckled at the part with the Emperor. Still very enjoyable stuff.

[Legio Draconis]

I have been waiting an age for this particular tale to update and it was well worth it. Now more good sir don't have us starve so long for the next piece.

[Pulse]

Glad to see the Emperor has good taste in paintings. HMS Victory. :devil:

[Sun Reaver]

Dude! This is awesome! This story is as engaging as some of the Horus Heresy novels. You are one very talented writer!

 

It has been a couple months since your last post, when is the next update? I can't wait for more.

 

Sun Reaver