Oath-Bound - Eternal Crusade Writing Contest Entry

[Dark Disciple]

A while back I made an attempt at entering the Eternal Crusade Descent on Arkhona writing contest. It was meant to be mood piece showing a warrior preparing to make landfall. I wanted to show his unease at being sent on what he perceives to be a suicide mission. Originally I'd thought to have the character wrestling with a daemon bound to his wargear which was preying on his uncertainty but it just seemed a little too close to ADB's brilliant The Underworld War.

Unfortunately it didn't make the top 20 but I would love to get some feedback on it so I can try to improve for the next one.

 

Oath-Bound

 

Thaerin of the VIII Legion had just received his orders from the hands of a trembling mortal; “You’re being sent to Arkhona…” the missive had began.

Growling his frustration, Thaerin crushed the data slate in his fist rather than strike one of the “marked”. Duty conflicted with terror as the mortal awaited a response to deliver to the ships master despite knowing that, by striking him down, the demi-god before him would himself be executed.

“I will be in attendance” he barked at the slave, before stalking into the gloom of the corridor.

The briefing, though not what he had expected, had failed to soothe his temper. Lord Ix, the current master of the Myrth’Shul Var dominated the war room with his presence. Severed heads rattled from chains on his ornate Terminator armour as he paced like a caged crag lion, though Thaerin’s attention was fixed firmly on the lone black armoured figure standing in the wings. The presence of one of the Warmaster’s Black Legion told Thaerin more about the undertaking than his Lords tale of Archeotech, glory and vengeance. It was a fine speech to be sure, designed to stoke the thirst in his “chosen” warriors, a cross section of Ix’s die-hard supporters, as well as dissenters and threats who no doubt would fail to return. A glance at his Claw leader Hal’Karrion was enough to suggest that Thaerin was considered a part of the latter.

Following the briefing Thaerin had travelled to one the cavernous training halls aboard the Umbra Odvetta, venting his wrath in the training cages for several hours. His latest opponent was a four armed combat servitor wielding an assortment of blades scavenged from the detritus of past murders. Deflecting an overhead strike, Thaerin was forced to pivot sharply as the second and third blades stabbed in from the left before barely ducking a decapitating strike from the fourth. Surging to his feet he leapt inside the constructs guard, wrapping his arms around the things armoured torso and sinking his teeth into the biomechanical mess of the things throat. For his efforts he was rewarded with a vox distorted shriek, for unlike most the VIII Legion never fully lobotomised their training servitors, as well as a slow, measured clapping. Pushing the dying servitor to the ground, he turned and stared into the gloom of the training hall.

“Care for a real opponent brother?”

“If you can find me one Algrim, then happily” he replied, collecting the discarded longsword from the cage floor.

Algrim smirked as he selected a matched pair of falchions from one of the weapon racks dotting the hall. Stalking towards one of the marked duelling areas, Algrim threw a mocking salute towards Thaerin and launched himself forward.

The blades met. Algrim darted left, feinting high with his left blade while thrusting his right towards Thaerin’s thigh. In response Thaerin swatted the blade away with his right hand, weakening his grip. Algrim immediately seized the longsword from him, spinning it in his hand with a flourish only to be kicked from his feet.

“You strut like one of Fulgrim’s curs” Thaerin chuckled.

“True” Algrim replied, picking himself from the ground and throwing the longsword from the area. Each chose a new weapon from the rack and settled into a well-rehearsed set of cuts and counter cuts.

“What vexes you brother?”

“I am being sent to Arkhona” he replied “So is Hal’Karrion”.

“I must admit I have lost track. Did he try to kill you last or you him?”

“Hal’Karrion is not the issue Al.” Thaerin replied, speeding up his attacks as his frustration grew once more.

“What is then?” Algrim queried, spinning away from an overhead cut, he blocked Thaerin’s next attack and, using his opponent’s momentum against him, deftly disarmed him.

“It makes no sense, there is nothing there for us” he spat.

“There are four cycles remaining before the ship drops out of the warp. Perhaps a trip to the maintenance decks will grant you the perspective you desire” Algrim replied.

The idea had merit. Their duel over, he embraced Algrim as his trusted brother and bid him well.

 

He sat as a statue above one of the many black markets which infested the Umbra Odvetta, observing the slaves on their daily comings and goings. Though there had been several promising candidates, in the end their transgressions were either too pedestrian or their constitution too weak to provide sufficient sport. At last he found his mark, a tall, strong mortal with crude tattoos wearing what passed for finery amongst the misbegotten dregs that served them. Thaerin watched as two armed guards accosted a stall vendor under the tattooed man’s supervision. Closer now he could see the man’s tattoos were an imitation of the gang markings of lost Nostramo and this one it seemed fancied himself a crime lord. The thugs died to the sound of bolter fire as Thaerin descended on their master. The first was struck in the torso by a bolt pistol round which almost cut him two, while the second was caught in the hip and left to bleed out. A second later Thaerin’s gauntlet closed around his preys throat and dragged him into the shadows.

The prey awoke with a start, unseeing eyes darting left and right in a futile attempt to pierce the absolute darkness around it. Thaerin waited patiently for his prey to begin groping around, letting panic subside for now. It was important that the mortal understood after all.

“Did you think your crimes went unseen mortal.” The rhetorical question hissed from his helm vox, freezing his prey to the spot.

“You are guilty of extortion, of murder and of crimes against the Legion that gave you shelter. We are not without mercy however, if you can find your way from the darkness of your sin and into the light of redemption you will be free to go. Go mortal, the hunt begins.”

Terror gripped the man, his heart thundered in his chest so hard Thaerin thought for a moment it would fail and rob him of his sport. Then, running blindly to the nearest bulkhead his prey began to work it’s way around the walls in search of an exit. He keyed the release code into the door panel, causing faint red light to bleed into the room from the opening door. As his prey ran for the door he moved into the labyrinth proper. The Umbra Odvetta, like many VIII Legion warships contained purpose built labyrinths, designed in homage to the vast complexes the Primarch himself was supposed to have kept. Stalking into the darkness of the hunting grounds he uttered two words.

“Prey Sight”

 

The God Rune burned into the meat of his chest itched sympathetically as he savoured the fear bleeding from his prey. The sinuous curving rune was both his secret pride and shame for few openly coveted the powers of the warp in the VIII Legion. Ghosting along the walkway above the slave he allowed the claws of his gauntlet to scrape along the bulkheads whenever his prey began to slow, herding it towards a large room filled with hanging chains. The room itself was inconsequential, serving no other purpose than that for which he was using it. Stagnant, rust filled water dripped from ruptured pipes in the ceiling, causing the heavy to chains to sway and rattle.

Quietly he descended, allowing the sound of the rattling chains to mask his movements. The prey stopped abruptly bringing it’s hand up to it’s mouth, ignorant of the murderer stalking it. He stood before the door and theatrically revved the chainsword in his hand.

Had the prey turned around it would have seen his silhouette frame against the ruddy light seeping through the door and the piercing light of his helm optics. Instead the prey ran. Running blindly through the crashing chains the prey was confronted by the corpses of his predecessors, hung artistically by their killers in the chain gallery. Taken by fancy Thaerin selected one as mortal might select a piece of fruit at a market stall and stalked after his victim.

Thaerin took great care to ensure his prey was never allowed too long a respite, keeping himself largely hidden and allowing the man’s imagination to feed his terror. The hunt had been drawn out for three days ship time, his prey pushed to the limits of its endurance. He watched it now, crouched amongst waste pipes which stretched upward through a dozen ship decks. The mortal was resting, believing himself safe from the nightmare for the moment. Gone was the arrogance, the self-belief all washed away by the purity of fear. Thaerin glanced at the chronometer of his helmet display. All good things he thought as he unbound the rotting torso from his backpack. Lifting it in one hand he dropped it next to his prey.

Over the next hour he had carefully herded the former crime lord to the labyrinth’s exit, closing bulkhead doors to prevent it retreating deeper into the warrens. He waited now, perched above the brightly light exit, listening for the footfalls that would signal the end of his game. He closed his eyes and in his mind could see the dark rain slicked streets of his birth world. The dull sound of quiet steps disturbed the familiar reverie; his eyes snapped open to the smeared heat traces of his helmets prey sight. The prey was crouching, peering around the thick door frame in-between furtive glances into the pitch dark behind it. Even through the haze of prey sight Thaerin could see the battle between the hope of deliverance and the fear he had spent the past three days nurturing.

The prey darted for the open door, for the safety promised by the light and the hope of another miserable day. He waited for an agonising moment, allowing the prey’s sense of hope to grow before detaching himself from his perch.

The prey whimpered, its eyes fixed on the door even as it ground closed on squealing gears of heavy iron. Its neck was broken but it was alive, for now, and that was what mattered to him. He moved with a predator’s grace towards his helpless victim, a Crag Lion toying with a wounded animal. Slowly he drew the flensing knife from its sheath on his breastplate, allowing the wickedly sharp edge to catch on the light from his helmets eye lenses. He wasted no time on words for no words were needed for something this intimate. He pressed the edge of the blade tenderly against the man’s tattooed face and cut.

This was the moment he had been waiting for, the perfect moment of clarity and serenity that only murder brought him. As he began his bloody work, Thaerin considered his options. For the warband to commit against such a world there must be something of worth on it beyond the trinkets their current master had dangled before them. Perhaps, just maybe, by playing the loyal dog he could seize control of the Claw from Hal’Karrion and further his own ambitions. From one of the packs attached to his belt he removed a set of ink vials and a finely pointed scalpel. Carefully he anointed the instrument in ink and enacted one of the Legions more private rituals, alone in the darkness as tradition demanded. Satisfied with the flowing Nostramen script he removed his helm to a hiss of pressurised air. Lifting the flayed skin to his pale lips, Thaerin pressed it to his lips and whispered.

“In midnight clad, this is my oath of moment”

Without another word he fixed the oath to armour and turned from the murdered slave without a second thought.

 

Thanks for looking!

[The Vanquisher]

This has potential.... please write some more......