A Welcome Gift (Part 1 and 2 of 3)

[Nineswords]

Howdy folks,
 
Having recently finished Dark Imperium, I really wanted to unpick how my own DIY successor chapter would react to the events of 8th edition. Here's part 1. I'm looking to pick up the upcoming new Space Marine codex to resolve some unanswered details into the Primaris Space Marine creation before I write the rest.
 
Probably worth having a quick look through my chapter's background to get some of the references. 
 
Enjoy.
 
 
 

Sun Sitai, the Forge of Nakaris
Autumn, the Year of the Serpent
033.M42, the Thirty-Fourth Year of the Indomitus Crusade

 

 

IT WAS RAINING AGAIN. Sheet hard and nigh on invisible in the night sky, it was felt, rather than heard. It was said that thousands of newcomers undertaking the Trial of the Mountain had been battered to death when the rain had become hail the size of fists. They either survived by finding cover, or added to the Ring of Bone. The rains used to be seasonal, but not now. Nakaris was sick, but it was as if the planet had modified its own meteorology to aid its natural defence system. One did not have to possess Heavensight to ascertain the cause of the planet's malady, you merely had to look up at the ugly tear in the sky. The Cicatrix Maledictum, that's what the Imperial Court called it. Nearly four Terran decades ago, the galactic cesspit known as the Maelstrom was a barely discernible dot in the night sky. Now, the abominable rift had swelled it to astronomically cataclysmic proportions, like the gaping maw of some cosmic beast ready to swallow parts of the Imperium whole, which sadly, it had. 
 
By dint of good fortune, the Utrar Khanates, dominion of the Emperor of All's Storm Sons, had been spared the worst of the Great Rift's wholesale slaughter of dozens of Imperial systems as the Maelstrom mutated and swelled, and it had taken the best part of thirty years to begin fortifying and containing the Maledictum's baleful influence. Gone were the innumerable tides of the Greenskins in their endless jihad, or the piratical Aeldari and their unfathomable agendas. In its place was something far more dangerous: the incursions of Chaos, the eternal enemy, for what it did not destroy it corrupted beyond redemption.
 
The rains could still be heard hundreds of feet below the surface, through the particular acoustic qualities of both the Mountain's geology, and the arrangement of chambers carved within. One such chamber was a vast subterranean cave, gleaming with a subtle bioluminescence, its rocky surfaces were adorned with thousands of knots of hair that whistled a low dirge in the breeze, clustered around a small lake. Known as Heaven's Spring, the cave was the literal and spiritual nexus of the Sons of the Storm, and though its primary function remained a mystery to all but the chapter's psychic wardens, it provided an equally important purpose as a war council for the senior echelon of the Storm Sons. 
 
The darkness of the cave did not compromise the enhanced vision of its occupants, for they were the Adeptus Astartes: bio-engineered warriors whose genetic enhancements made them superlative instruments of the Imperium's endless wars. A dozen figures stood or paced slowly by the lake's shore in a semi-circle, where they had been for hours, deep in conversation. 
 
All deferred to Shah Tomukher-Khan, seventh and current Chapter Master of the Khuu Arga, whose silver and white artificer armour glowed softly in the gloom. He was listening intently, his eyes closed. 
 
'He is not to be trusted, Shah-Khan,' said a warrior in blackened bronze, his bleached topknot marked him out as a Uir-Khan, a battle captain of the ordus. 
 
'And yet, his seal bears the mark of the Avenging Son,' replied the chapter master. 
 
'Lord,' interjected a second figure. A softer, female voice that belonged to the Master of the Fleet, Szu-Sharek. Wearing the neat trim of a Khanate Naval officer, her outline subtly shimmered in a fashion that betrayed her form as a hololithic projection, for no outsider was allowed to tread the depths of Heaven's Spring. 'He may come with the tidings of Shah-Guilliman, yet we are at a stand-off with an Ark Mechanicus fleet that could destroy us in minutes. We are outnumbered, outgunned and outmatched. Their escorts alone are of a pattern unknown to us, and preliminary scans indicate that just two of them would be more than a match for the Fortress of the Winds. Nakaris would be scoured clean if this dilemma is not resolved.'
 
Silence followed, but for the light breeze buffeting the knots of hair, and the faint echo of the unending rain. Presently, the Shah-Khan looked up at the hololithic projection.
 
'So noted, fleet-master,' the chapter master's voice low and sonorous. 'I have heard the counsel of the living. What say the dead?' 
 
The Shah-Khan looked to his right. Whilst the rest of the warriors were armoured in ancient bronze of different patterns and patinations, three of the dozen were clad in a deep blue, decorated with horned skulls and strange runic script inscribed onto their armour. They were the Zadyin Arga, the mystic Stormseers of the chapter, gifted with Heavensight to smite the foes of humanity with elemental force. 
 
At the Shah-Khan's request, the eldest of their number slowly waded into the inky blackness of the lake, until he was knee deep in its depths. The Stormseer was called Jelserekh, the Windwaker, and had served the chapter with his gifts for nearly three centuries. Murmuring softly, Windwaker traced a complex pattern in the silt with his silver staff, with the practised ease of a ritual he had performed hundreds of times. 
 
For a moment, one could only see the natural luminescence of the cave catching ripples as the seer continued to disturb the water's surface. Slowly, a turquoise ghostfire began to pulse from the bottom of the seer's staff. Within seconds, its flames-that-defied-water had spread quickly across the entirety of the lake, surrounding the Stormseer and lapping violently against his leg greaves. A chill wind blew as the lake glowed brighter still in the ghostfire, and the soft dirge of the hair knots became a whisper, its intensity increasing as dozens of whispers became hundreds, then thousands; all melding into a single, psychic cacophony.
 
The Stormseer appeared to absorb the lakes's radiance, and he slowly turned around to face the Shah-Khan, ghostfire dribbling from the seer's eye sockets onto his cheeks. Windwaker spoke, in a voice that was not quite his own. 
 
'What we hold in our cold dead hands is that which we have given away.'
 
Abruptly as it began, the ghostfire was snuffed out, the howling psychic roar dissipating into a low whisper once again. As the darkness returned, the only perceptible sound was the ragged panting of the Stormseer, who now leaned heavily on his staff as he hauled himself towards the lake's shore. Once on dry land, the Stormseer kowtowed towards the lake, followed by his companions, then all the others. The chapter master was the last to kneel, in a gesture that acknowledged the wisdom of the Storm Sons' ancestors, themselves a fragment of the Emperor of All's divine will. The war council had come to an end.
 
In respect to his seniority, the Shah-Khan was the first to rise. Looking over the assembled kowtowing figures, the chapter master made his proclamation, his slow deliberation entirely replaced by the tone of determination.
 
'Gather the ordus, we shall receive Cawl's emissary in the Hall of Elements.'

[Olis]

Enjoyable read brother. I look forward to the next two parts. :tu:

[deathspectersgt7]

We are ready.

[Brother Lunkhead]

Nice beginning sir  I await your next installment with anticipation.

[Nineswords]

Part 2, of 3. Enjoy!

 

 

THE HALL OF ELEMENTS was but one of hundreds of thousands of chambers contained within the mountain range of Sun Sitai, but it held the distinction of one of the oldest; created in the earliest days of the Storm Sons' foundation two millennia ago. Little of Sun Sitai's geological origins remained below the surface, enlarged by human and mechanical hands that quarried and reshaped nature's tectonic processes into forms more useful to the needs of the Adeptus Astartes.

Sun Sitai was a pragmatic fortress for a pragmatic chapter. Over the centuries, smaller chambers were mined or linked to existing natural caverns, eventually resembling the arcologies of Calth in Ultramar, or the nests of fire ants that inhabited the plains of Nakaris. Ribbed walls and fluted columns inscribed with mystic symbols were hewn into the bedrock, reminiscent of a scaled down inversion of Quan Zhou, the legendary marbled mountain-monastery of the White Scars on Chogoris. Though culturally and physically separated by centuries of war and the vast gulf of the galaxy, there were still similarities between the Storm Sons and their gene-sires, evidenced by large silk war banners in the Chogorian style, and lacquered skulls hanging proudly from the walls. Unlike the White Scars, however, the Storm Sons had little need for the gargantuan spaces required to house the Vth Legion of old.

 

The Hall of Elements, though vast, was in itself a contradiction of sorts. The aspirations of the Khuu Arga's first commander of a thousand strong chapter, filling the Hall of Elements amounted to nothing more than wishful thinking. Not once in the Storm Sons' two thousand year history had the space been filled to capacity. The unique constitution of the ordus and the evolution of the Storm Sons' particular brand of warfare made its ships the centre of command, dispersed across the breadth of the galaxy, relegating the Hall of Elements to a ceremonial role within a bastion largely given over to the training of neophytes.

The Great Rift had changed that, of course. The Cicatrix Maledictum had changed everything.

The ascension of Shah Tomukher-Khan, baptised by blood and fire in the crucible of the Rift's abominable expansion, had begun to gather the chapter's strength in numbers unseen in its entire existence. The Great Ordu, he had decreed, and it had taken over thirty years to recall the majority of the Storm Sons back to the home world. The interim however, had taken its toll on the chapter's fighting stock. In all, three hundred and forty three warriors from twenty eight ordus of the Storm Sons occupied just over half the Hall of Elements. Another seventy space marines were dispersed in the battle fleets around Nakaris and further afield throughout the Utrar Khanates, which left over two hundred Storm Sons unaccounted for. After all, the galaxy was a large place, and service to the Emperor never ceased, purging His domains of the heretic, the alien, and the Enemy of All.

 

The Shah stood with his war council on a raised dias, the centre of which was occupied by a gilded throne, embossed with both the twin headed eagle of the Imperium and the Chogorian berkut, the hawk of the Altak. Its proportions were entirely too large, even for the chapter master, for it was crafted for the primarch Jaghatai Khan in the golden age of the Imperium, a priceless relic of a forgotten epoch. None sat upon it, though this seemed to only accentuate the throne's authority. Its message was clear: we answer to none but the Emperor and the Great Khan.

At a nod from the Shah-Khan, ancient bronze doors began to grind open, and the bulky silhouettes beyond slowly resolved into a diaspora that was the Adeptus Mechanicus delegation. Three dozen servitors slowly heaved a gargantuan object swathed in black cloth suspended on an anti-grav platform, its low hum a background note to the monotonous stomp of steel grey battle automata of ancient design. At the forefront, red robed adepts of the Martian priesthood and their skitarii bodyguards accompanied four fully cloaked servitors carrying an ornate palanquin forged of brass with bundles of trailing silver cables. At the foot of the dias, the delegation terminated in perfect synchrony. There was a pause, and the cloaked servitors set down the palanquin, before withdrawing. An air of curiosity filled the hall, and though the assembly consisted of two institutions bonded by ancient pacts long honoured, a quiet tension still lingered.

 

Presently, one of the red robed adepts scooped up a bundle of silver cables from the palanquin and proceeded to insert them into input sockets hidden beneath the black cloth. There was a brief discharge of static as a higher pitched whine drowned out the background hum of the anti-grav motors. The adept tugged at the black cloth with the kind of grand flourish that a sculptor would unveil a masterpiece of stone, and let the cloth fall to the ground.

The thing revealed was horrifying.

The torso of a space marine dreadnought, scaled many times larger than the size of those employed by the chapters of the Adeptus Astartes. Fully armed, it was clear that the monstrosity would wreak havoc in any theatre of war.

'A bigger walking tomb is still a walking tomb. Long have the sons of the Great Khan rejected the half life offered by incarceration of the dreadnought chassis,' said Shah Tomukher-Khan, curling his lip in disgust.

A brief charge of static visibly travelled from the palanquin, along the silver cabling and into the dreadnought's chassis. Another followed, then another still, as the static became an electromagnetic pulse. Lights winked into existence on the dreadnought's humongous torso. It issued a booming metallic rasp, as if the vocal modulators on the chassis' speaker drives had been initiated for the first time.

'I am a simulacrum of the Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl,' it said, without preamble.

 

The chapter master did not reply.

 

'Your logic is flawed chapter master,' said the simulacrum. 'You see before you one of the Martian priesthood's most potent advances in astartes battle technology, and yet you reject its front line capabilities based on archaic superstition and misguided tradition,' replied the Martian emissary, its voice as cold as the cage that contained it.

'I do not doubt its efficacy,' retorted the Shah-Khan, 'but the Emperor, your Omnissiah, also created the astartes in his wisdom. Steel is strong, but flesh is stronger. What is steel compared the hand that wields it?'

'Your point is invalid, Chapter Master Tomukher. The nature of the war has changed and the galaxy burns in its wake. Even after ten millennia the Archmagos labours ceaselessly to bolster both the defence of Mars and the Imperium. By the will of the primarch Guilliman, he sends you these assets to aid you in your time of need.'

The Shah-Khan gestured at the dreadnought and the assembled delegation. 'Your weapons are welcome, for we face a common foe, but even our combined fleets are no match for the endless tide that vomits out of the Rift. Each year our strength dwindles further into extinction.'

A defiant resignation hung in the air, which was broken as one of the cloaked servitors took a step towards the dias, drawing itself up to its full height. In one fluid movement, the cloak was cast aside and a man stood before the assembled host.

Not a man. Not even a space marine, but something else entirely.

A full third taller than the largest Storm Son, the warrior standing before the host was magnificent. Wearing power armour of advanced design, it was as if the space marine before them had also been stretched and grown in proportion to match the dreadnought in stature and killing potential. Sleek lines and carefully overlapped plating were rendered in brilliant ivory white with red trim, the left pauldron bearing the stylised lightning strike of the White Scars over a grey chevron.

There was an audible murmur as the assembled host marvelled at the warrior that stood before them. The Shah-Khan took several steps towards him with curious delight. Even the elevated plinth did not compensate for their difference in height, and the Shah-Khan, lord of the Khuu Arga, was forced to look up. Both warriors looked at each other for a moment, before both bowed in the Chogorian manner. The warrior slowly unlocked his helm, revealing a proud face, faint lines scarring his cheeks. The chapter master gazed in wonder for a moment longer.

'Is this a dream?' he murmured softly.

'It is not, Shah-Khan,' replied the warrior in white, in perfect Khorchin. 'I am Timurbôr, once of the ordu of Jaghatai, and before that, of the Talskar.' His low voice was soft, and the dialect was ancient, from the time when the Great Khan himself hunted through the stars.

 

Timurbôr. It meant 'Iron Rain'. A warrior from the V Legion of the Great Crusade. A warrior from Jaghatai Khan's own people. Truly then, a warrior from legend.

'You...,' said the Shah-Khan, his voice trailing off, daring to voice the one question every warrior in the Hall of Elements desired to know the answer to. 'You fought, with the Khagan?' In his awe, the Shah-Khan struggled to remember the ancient colloquial title of the primarch.

Timurbôr smiled broadly. 'No, Shah-Khan, I am sorry to disappoint you, although I saw him once as a child in the victory parades on Chogoris. I began the trials of Ascension under Jemulan Noyan-Khan before I was selected for the Archmagos' Primaris programme, to be improved and awoken in mankind's darkest hour.'

The reverie was broken by a binaric blurt, the Archmagos Cawl's simulacra interrupting the Shah-Khan's conversation. It was as if the previous, galaxy changing moments merely filled a small gap in the emissary's original dialogue with the chapter master. It continued, blundering on in its harsh, grating speech.

'In addition to the astartes Timurbôr, Archmagos Dominus Cawl reinforces the adeptus astartes chapter designated Storm Sons with a contingent of two hundred and thirty four Primaris Adeptus Astartes, chosen from primarch Guilliman's Indomitus Crusade. All are implanted with original V Legion gene-stock, with only a 0.001% chance of genetic deviation from source. They are perfect specimens of the Emperor's gene-forging technology, with additional improvements made by the Archmagos himself. In addition to these soldiers and associated military materiel such as this Redemptor class dreadnought, it is the Archmagos' wish that he provides the chapter with the necessary banks of V Legion gene-seed and Genesis engines, with the necessary Adeptus Biologis adepts to create more Primaris space marines.'

'I se–,' began the Shah-Khan.

'Further,' interrupted the machine entity that was the Cawl simulacra, 'In return for this investment and your forge facilities on both Nakaris and Utrar XII, Mars expects the Storm Sons to provide the necessary labour force to manufacture the necessary components and materiel for the war effort, beginning with the establishments of facilities to create Mark X designation power armour to reinforce thirty-two other known or new adeptus astartes chapters operating in the galactic area known as the Maelstrom.'

With that final proclamation, the brief elation of Timurbôr's appearance quickly dissolved into grim pessimism once more. Shah Tomukher-Khan pointed directly at the dreadnought chassis, an accusatory tone in his words.

'You would see us enslave millions of innocents against their will to produce boltguns for you?' seethed the chapter master through gritted teeth.

'No,' said the Cawl Emissary. 'You must enslave billions. You are not seeing the bigger picture, chapter master. Better billions became indentured to the forges of Mars than let them turn to heresy. Forge World's are not enough if we are to fight the horrors of the Rift. We must build a ring of iron if we are to stand a fleeting chance. We have studied your records. Your compliance actions on dissident Imperial worlds are stained with an impressive level of brutality.'

'That is different,' said the chapter master. 'There can be no mercy for oath breakers. You condemn entire worlds - our worlds - to the forges on the promise of precious few weapons.'

'And yet,' the emissary replied, its monotonous vox-modulated voice taking on an entirely sinister tone in its revelation, 'I already know what your answer will be. You adapt. You are pragmatic. These are admirable qualities in the greater war to come.'

 

The Shah-Khan balked at the words. The price was much higher than the chapter had ever anticipated, despite the dire situation of the Imperium. Every warrior in the assembled host, including the warrior Timurbôr, was looking at the Shah-Khan.

The words came once again, unbidden. What we hold in our cold dead hands is that which we have given away.

Shah Tomukher-Khan of the Storm Sons stared at the thing that was the emissary of Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl for a long time. When he spoke once more, it was little more than barely concealed rage.

'You will have your answer in twelve hours. Now get out.'

[Kelborn]

Great story!

A truly entertaining read! :D

 

Hope that my future stuff will be nearly half as good.

 

Can't wait for part three. :)

[Brother Lunkhead]

Finally had a chance to sit down and read your story at leisure. Most excellent brother 

[The Vanquisher]

This story of yours is getting more riveting with each new addition keep it up Nineswords! My kudos to you!