The Price of Purity

[Corsair]

Hi all,

 

Wrote this little piece for fun today. I wanted to establish a potential antagonist for a Black Library submission down the line, and I kind of liked the way it came together. It's also nice to just write something (warts and all) without thinking about trying to get it published, hah.

 

Comments and Criticism welcome, of course.

The Price of Purity

 

by Tim Sweeney

“I told you this would happen,” whispered Cerck as he drove his fingers through the Iron Warrior’s eyes.

 

He was very careful not to push too deeply, not wanting the energised talons on his fingertips to penetrate the brain and kill the enemy warrior outright. Oh no, they must pierce the eye lenses just so, and rest against the eyeballs, razored claws ever-so-gently slicing through the pupil. Vision would begin peeling away in black curtains for the instant before the gelatinous masses burst, hissing and popping in the sparking lighting field that encased the Night Lord’s gauntlets.

 

The Iron Warrior refused to surrender meekly, levelling a heavy punch into Cerck’s stomach even as he began to bellow in agony. Cerck took the blow easily, not bothering to dodge, his ancient armour more than a match for even the mightiest of blows.

 

“Now, now, a Legionary should never cry,” he laughed as the Iron Warrior’s screams intensified. Cerck took another punch to the chest, weaker this time, more frantic, ignoring it as he jabbed his thumb-talon through the mouth grill of the Iron Warrior’s helm. There was no finesse this time, just a rapid gouge that sliced the tongue down the middle. He gave a little shudder as he felt the gushing blood lap against his hand, bubbling around his claws.

 

Teeth bared in a shark’s smile, the Night Lord lurched forward suddenly, bringing his armoured boots up to the Iron Warrior’s chest with far more agility than should have been possible for a power armoured Space Marine. He rode his victim to the ground, perched upon the Iron Warrior like the most grotesque of gargoyles, his clawed grip never loosening.

 

The Iron Warrior was thrashing now, gurgling helplessly. Cerck squatted upon the son of Perturabo’s chest, luxuriating in the hopeless, almost-fear he could feel radiating off this soldier who had fought upon countless battlefields across ten millennia.

 

Enjoying the pain-wracked spasms of his prey, the Night Lord delayed the end for a few more delicious minutes. He brought up his left hand, staring at the crimson-painted gauntlet for a long moment, examining the beautifully crafted claws that so closely mimicked those once worn by the Night Haunter himself.

 

They had tried to take them from him, once, when he had been forced to wear sinner’s red for the pacts he had made to maintain his purity. They had originally tried to kill him for his crimes against the Legion. They had died for that presumption.

 

His moment of introspection done, Cerck dragged his left index finger gently – almost tenderly – along the outside edges of the Iron Warrior’s helm, circling the faceplate, the curved talon dipping through the ceramite as easily as a blade through parchment.

 

After an eternity of careful cutting, he leaned forward to inspect his handiwork. With a satisfied grunt, the Night Lord clenched his right fist, hooking the fingers through the eye sockets and the roof of the mouth, his talons meeting somewhere behind the Iron Warrior’s nose. One last garbled scream escaped the tortured warrior, accompanied by the stench of sizzling meat.

 

With a savage tear, Cerck ripped his arm backwards, the front of the helm, the face, and most of the skull beneath coming free in his grip. The Iron Warrior thrashed for a few moments more, and then was completely still.

 

“I told you I would take your face,” Cerck whispered to the brutalised husk before him. The nameless Iron Warrior did not respond.

 

Still crouched upon the armoured corpse, the Night Lord used his now-unpowered claws to very carefully clean the fleshy remains from the inside of the front of the Iron Warrior’s helm. This task complete, he then set about peeling the chunks of bloody muscle and bone from the skin, scooping the gobbets of meat that had come free in his grip into his razor-toothed maw.

 

“All Claws, take defensive positions upon the walls and await extraction. The minions of Perturabo seek to counterattack.”

 

Cerck ignored the words of his hated Captain, not noticing or caring if his brothers in Ninth Claw responded or not. The ritual must be completed, it was all that mattered.

 

The Night Lord finished licking the inside of his victim’s face clean, holding the flesh-mask up to the pus-yellow light oozing in through the tiny gun ports studding the walls of the nameless Iron Warrior fortress . The illumination provided by the triumvirate of crystalline stars orbiting the daemon-world was poor, but still enough to allow him to examine his handiwork.

 

As always, it was perfect.

 

Hands shaking, chest heaving with gasping breaths, Cerck finally placed the Iron Warrior’s face upon his own. With the practiced movements of one who had done this countless times before, and would do it countless times again, he pulled the flesh-mask taut and impaled it on the eleven iron spikes studding his features, soulless black eyes glowing with bitter joy through the empty hollows of another man’s face.

 

“False Gods. Petty daemons. Denizens of the Warp.” he chanted the words softly in Nostraman, as he always did, over and over, accompanied by his clawed hands ripping the geneseed from the Iron Warrior’s throat and torso with easy, precise motions.

 

“False Gods. Petty daemons. Denizens of the Warp.” He grasped the fleshy sacks of genetic magic in his hands, stuffing them into his mouth greedily, his litany never faltering even as he chewed. Row upon row of serrated obsidian teeth tore the priceless organs to shreds, his eyes filling with flashes of the Iron Warrior’s worthless life of endless sieges and petty paranoia. Even such mundane memories did little to dull Cerck’s near-euphoric state.

 

“I stalk behind this mask of flesh,” he uttered finally, blood dribbling from his slack lips. “I deny you, False Gods of Chaos.”

 

The flesh-mask wriggled and writhed, stretching itself over his features, melding itself to him, or he to it; he could never quite tell.

 

“The gaze of your Eye shall never touch me.”

 

The last word spoken, Cerck’s spine arched as great spasms wracked his body, sight fleeing to be replaced by blindness, viciously strobing from the black of the void to searing white, and back, endlessly. He panted and moaned, writhing on the floor, unaware that he had even fallen. The Night Lord screamed in ecstasy as he felt the touch of the Eye of Terror retreat from its constant assault upon his body. His soul – or whatever it was he possessed that passed for a soul – was protected.

 

For now.

 

Cerck brought a hand up to stroke his flesh-mask, feeling the skin already beginning the march toward decay. Truly, this had been a weak victim.

 

The Night Lord stepped over the bloody remains of the Iron Warrior, stalking from the bowels of the fortress to join his brothers on the battlements. Sergeant Romeon did not comment on his absence; the Claw knew of his ritual, and tolerated it.

 

They knew he would eviscerate them if they did not.

 

The Iron Warriors counterattack was slow in coming, the glittering iron Stormbirds still floating above the putrescent ammonia seas many kilometres away.

 

Feeling the flesh-mask crumbling upon his face, the Night Lord knew that the battle could not come soon enough. He must remain pure, like the Primarch. Forever pure.

 

“Your face, Cerck,” muttered Sergeant Romeon, looking at him from the corner of his eye. “It is already as black as the Nostraman sky.”

 

Cerck tilted his head, surprised that the mask was wearing out so quickly. Truly the Iron Warriors were a tainted breed.

 

“You picked a weak one today,” as the Sergeant turned his attention back to the approaching gunships, still at least a quarter-hour away, he made the mistake of smirking.

 

“Oh, Sergeant?” Cerck said, skin peeling in great sloughs from his flesh-mask to reveal the maggot-pale visage beneath. His eyes were as black as his grin.

 

“What is it, brother?” Romeon turned back, the smirk still on his remarkably pure features. He had fought on the walls of the Imperial Palace, had Sergeant Romeon, remaining a solid brother of the Night Lords Legion when so many around him had fallen to corruption.

 

Cerck tilted his head to the side, the last remnants of his flesh-mask falling away to nothing. Already, he felt the touch of corruption upon his skin, seeping into his bones. He shivered, feeling the cells of his body beginning to mutate. How long? How long until he was impure?

 

“What do you want, freak?” growled the Sergeant into the silence, bringing his face in close to Cerck’s, nose to nose.

 

“I told you this would happen,” whispered Cerck as he drove his fingers through the Night Lord’s eyes.

[Ufthak]

BRILLIANT!!! ;)

 

I loved every word of it! Not only because I hate the stupid Iron Warriors and like the psychopathic Night Lords, but because you portray both so well! The portrayal of the Night Lords was brilliant, you got absolutely everything right! :P

 

Thumbs up also for zero typing or grammar mistakes!

 

Good job! Cerck is definitely a great potential antagonist :) The only thing I would change is his name...maybe something equally hard and rough but with more syllables.

 

Keep up the good work!

 

--Ufthak--

[Corsair]

Thank you very much Ufthak for the kind words, it's appreciated :P

 

In regards to Cerck's name, it was chosen to purposely sound guttural and menacing, specifically because the story I'm planning on using him in (well there's two actually) has other characters with longer, more noble sounding names. However, it's a good piece of advice and something I will keep in mind if I do go ahead with him.

 

Out of curiosity, did you (or anyone else reading) pick up the nods to what exactly it was Cerck had protecting him from Chaos? I tried to be subtle with the few references I made, just wondering.

 

Cheers again,

 

Tim

[Ufthak]

Hm, I wasn't entirely sure, but my guess is it's got something to do with the faces of Cerck's victims, their gene-seed, and the eleven spiked upon Cerck's head. The Dark Gods may be confused in their corruption by the detection of already corrupted gene-seed and the flesh-mask, though I couldn't make head or tail of the eleven spikes.

Did I get that even remotely right?

I must add that I have read no Night Lord books like the brilliant ones by Aaron Dembski-Bowden, so maybe I just don't know enough...

 

I find it immensely funny that so many traitor Legions think they are free of (or beyond) Chaos - Thousand Sons, Alpha Legion, Night Lords, and to a certain extent, Black Legion (or at least Abby).

[Corsair]

Hm, I wasn't entirely sure, but my guess is it's got something to do with the faces of Cerck's victims, their gene-seed, and the eleven spiked upon Cerck's head. The Dark Gods may be confused in their corruption by the detection of already corrupted gene-seed and the flesh-mask, though I couldn't make head or tail of the eleven spikes.

Did I get that even remotely right?

I must add that I have read no Night Lord books like the brilliant ones by Aaron Dembski-Bowden, so maybe I just don't know enough...

 

I find it immensely funny that so many traitor Legions think they are free of (or beyond) Chaos - Thousand Sons, Alpha Legion, Night Lords, and to a certain extent, Black Legion (or at least Abby).

 

You are indeed correct that those things are all part of it (as is the specific sort of blindness he experiences once the ritual is complete...

 

(I'll do this on the off chance someone reads and doesn't want to be told):

 

I loved the hypocrisy of the Night Lords in so much of what they do (as shown by ADB), and I was inspired by the fact that Uzas is a Khorne worshipper in all but name, but refuses to admit to it.

 

I loved the idea of a character who denies the Chaos Gods are real, even as he is obsessed with the warp mutating his 'pure' form. Thus, hating Chaos so much and wishing to be free of it, he goes to the one thing that can protect him....a Chaos God. The 11 spikes, the black/white strobing blindness, and the sacrifices of his fellow Night Lords that led to his delayed death sentence, all are references to a pact made with Malal/Malice.

 

It seemed appropriate to me for a Night Lord to fall to the God of Chaos Against Itself without ever acknowledging it to himself.

 

[Ufthak]

WOW...that is just brilliant!!! I'd never have thought of *thingy*...I thought he was retconned or something!

 

Anyway, I love such subtle hints :) Very, very good work!!!

 

Keep it up!!!

[Corsair]

WOW...that is just brilliant!!! I'd never have thought of *thingy*...I thought he was retconned or something!

 

Anyway, I love such subtle hints ;) Very, very good work!!!

 

Keep it up!!!

 

Spoiler:

Malal was reintroduced recently via a short about the Sons of Malice (the Labyrinth?), although it hasn't been explicitly stated, it's pretty obvious that Malice is the Chaos God Malal in all but name)

 

 

Thanks very much again for the kind words.

[Master Of Malfeasance X]

Duly impressive, sir. I highly approve.

[Corsair]

Duly impressive, sir. I highly approve.

 

Thank you, makes me happy to please the Night Lords!