[DW] Blackthorn/Swordhand: Episode III - The Sundered House

[Petragor]

Quickly perking up at the received message, Embe sheathes his now resting relic and responds, more than a little relieved to hear that the crew of the Xenocide are alive, if not neccesarily very safe.

 

 

++Swordhand acknowledges Xenocide, it is good to hear your voice Thorvald! Do you hear mine? We’ve encounted a force of greenskins, but have secured our landing zone, trying to assess whether the damage the Warhawk has sustained will be an obstacle. I assume you face similar foes?++

[Commissar Molotov]

++Aye, Swordhand. We hear you. Captain Rubio is exloading a cartolith to you now.++

 

Those of you who choose to can access a three-dimensional map of the wreckage-strewn battlefield, overlaid with lattices of threat-markers. You can make out the ruin of the Riches Untold, along with your own ident-runes. But the centre of the field is dominated by a giant Orkoid vessel. You can see from the Xenocide's auspex returns that it is a behemoth of a craft. Some of you with experience of the void will be able to discern the standardised template-forms of an Imperial vessel - a Grand Cruiser judging by its size - though it has long since been clad in an amalgamation of rusted armour-plating. Weapons seem to bristle from every conceivable surface - macro-cannons, torpedo silos, even ramshackle plasma cannons and lance turrets. The ship's jutting prow has been refashioned into the visage of one of the Ork's foul mongrel gods, a maw of jagged teeth and horns.

 

++The markings on its hull indicate that they have named it Slagjaw,++ Thorvald continues. ++It arrived not long after you boarded the Riches Untold. They've dispatched boarding crews to hulks across the battlefield. Most likely scavenging for more materials and supplies. I'd wager this isn't their first time.++

 

++We have come under fire, Thorvald,++ Kol opens his vox-channel, customarily terse. ++Are there no indications that they are aware of our presence?++

 

++It seems that they're firing randomly. Likely enjoying target practice.++ The Space Wolf returns. ++Captain Rubio has us running on low power in an effort to avoid their detection. For now, it seems they haven't seen us.++

Edited February 20, 2022 by Commissar Molotov

[Lysimachus]

Titus snarled at the cartolith display, disgusted at the thought of yet another asset of the Imperium corrupted and turned against it by the foul greenskins. His first impulse was to attack, to destroy... but in reality the Xenocide could not hope to match a Grand Cruiser's firepower. Perhaps the squad could instead attempt a covert boarding action? Potentially suicidal, given the countless thousands of Orks that must be aboard, but if they could specifically target the Bridge, Engineerium or some other key system it might be possible to disable the vessel before they could be overwhelmed?

 

Also, there was still the matter of their mission - taking information about the Sunders back to Grist. Such reconnaissance was vital. But at this point, how much had they really learned other than the involvement of some strange, unidentified xeno species? Could the Orks aboard the Slagjaw tell them more? He opened his squad vox and in quick, clipped tones told his brethren what he had learned from the Mek's corpse, along with his theory about the meaning of the odd white glyphs that decorated its battle plate.

 

+So, brothers+ the Stormbringer concluded, +I suggest we have a choice. We could take what we have already learned and attempt to leave quietly now. There is no shame in a temporary withdrawal if it serves a greater purpose. Or… we board the Ork vessel and see if they have any further intelligence about the Dark Lantern, before doing whatever we can to scuttle that ship and deny her to the enemy.+

[Commissar Molotov]

As Titus begins to lay the foundations of his argument like a hunter patiently setting a snare, Maladon and Boros return from having assessed the Stormraven.

 

"Forgemaster Fasumé will be kept busy when we return to Azurea. But should we seek to strike at this Orkoid abomination, Warhawk will serve us capably," Maladon's voice grates.

 

"All weapons are intact and operational," Boros confirms in his heavy bass voice.

 

++My lords, this... Slagjaw is still broadcasting her original Imperial ident-codes,++ you hear the voice of Captain Rubio. ++She reads as the Worthy Venture, a Grand Cruiser in service to the Sunder Dynasty.++

 

Your hypnogogic conditioning allows any of you to recall the information from Inquisitor Grist's briefings. The Worthy Venture was commanded by Lady Obelia Sunder, the Dynasty's Matriarch before the battle here at the abyss.

 

 

Finally, the Librarian speaks.

 

As Achillion approaches the assembled Kill-Team, he carries his great-axe Libra in both hands. The arcane weapon’s psycho-active circuitry glitters with his simmering battle-rage.

 

His words are aimed at Kol, though he speaks openly in front of you all.

 

“Sergeant, you consulted the Tarot with me. You saw the same portents that I did. In this Slagjaw, I see those portents taking shape. The great host. The beast. The hulk, inverted.”

Edited February 21, 2022 by Commissar Molotov

[Petragor]

Embe studies the Cartolith intensely, holding his arms crossed and using his left hand to touch his right forearm, the place where the silhouette of his former assigned vessel, Serenkai is inscribed. What he wouldn’t give to have support from her bombardment cannons in this moment, or those of any other Battle Barge for that matter.

 

“Boarding a vessel is no simple matter Stormbringer, especially considering our limited forces and such an ill-boding prediction. We may be able to sneak or weave past the inaccurate ork point defense, but once we are inside they will be much more effective in the close quarters.”

 

Chaka makes a few edits to the squads shared map, merely marking two sections of the Ork-controlled vessel: The bridge and the main engine controls.

 

“The targets for investigation and scuttling respectively are not exactly close together, and not very near any entry points either. I would advise that we only pursue one of those objectives, rather than split our force into weaker halves for the “Beast” to pick off, or allow the enemy time to envelop us by taking a detour. We can search for knowledge and leave the ship intact, or end its suffering and scrounge for clues in the wreckage. A single objective can be accomplished without excessive risk to our success or our extraction vehicle, anything more would be foolhardy.”

[Lysimachus]

Titus listened carefully as Achillion and Embe spoke. The Librarian's words convinced him even more that they must board the stolen Cruiser, but the Lion made an excellent point.

 

+I bow to your superior knowledge of void combat, Brother Chaka,+ he rasped quietly across the squad vox, +and you are right that it would be unwise to divide our strength against this foe. If we must select only one objective, surely it must be to gather information? That is our first priority, our mission, yes? So we bring the Warhawk in, land it on the outer hull as close to the Command Deck as possible. Create an ingress point, perhaps through the Bridge windows, eliminate the Orks' command crew, and exload any useful data regarding the Sunders or the Lantern from the ship's cogitators to the Xenocide.+

 

The Stormbringer paused thoughtfully.

 

+But if we can take and hold the Bridge, even temporarily, have we not gained the means to accomplish both goals? Once the information is ours and we are ready to pull out, we simply lock in a heading at full speed directly into the largest object we can find in this Emperor-cursed debris field…+

 

Titus shrugged, the auto-reactive shoulder plates of his armour rising and falling in response to his movements.

 

+Even if the Xenos filth are not destroyed outright, we might be able to slow or prevent any pursuit?+

[apologist]

'Key is the information,' mused Yeng, adjusting his helm. 'But how can we drink the water without risking the currents?'

 

Slouching to one side, and idly adjusting an ammunition pouch, he went on. 'If one thing is familiar to us all, it is ways of the orks. They have,' he paused to wave his hands in a light, vague fashion, '... different priority on information. Perhaps we seek to read the ship's vault of information from source away from bridge. The ways of machinepriests are foreign to me, but perhaps orks have left seals unsealed and gaps unrepaired? Data-lecterns in secondary locations might allow us in. Thus we strike, take and leave – all without confronting the green denizens of a Grand Cruiser.'

[Commissar Molotov]

++The decision is yours, Swordhand,++ Thorvald voxes. ++Engaging the Orks in open conflict and hoping to destroy the Slagjaw may be an impossible task, given our numbers. Then again, if the Wrekkas are left alone to plunder this battlefield, they will only grow more formidable. You may be witnessing the birth of a Space Hulk.++

[Petragor]

Embe considers the idea of steering the ship astray. It’s a good plan, not as likely to result in destruction as a proper scuttling procedure, and yet holding great potential for severe damage, particularly considering the hazardous debris field, and a certain design feature common on ork vessels…

 

“You raise good points Brother Titus. A ramming action is a rather improvised and unreliable means of destroying a ship, yet leagues better than simply leaving it intact. Ork ship controls tend to be rather straightforward too, there should be a large red button installed there somewhere which would make the vessel quickly accelerate to dangerous speed.”

 

Chaka shifts his weight a little as he sets to work modifying the Cartolith, removing the engine room marker and adding some possible vectors for the Warhawk to approach the bridge without drawing overwhelming fire.

 

“I doubt we can enter the bridge directly, it will be too durable for the Warhawks guns unless the glass has sustained severe damage already. There may be other areas with similar damage though, or even a conventional entrance left unguarded.”

[Lysimachus]

Titus smiled thinly, pleased by Embe and Thorvald's agreement. He wanted to mount the surgical assault on the bridge, found himself fighting against a sudden rush of desire to utterly annihilate the enemy command structure and put the corrupted, rust-riddled vessel out of its misery.

 

However, he thought, taking a deep, slow breath, Yeng's comment was also entirely valid. After the hunt aboard the Riches Untold, Titus was not about to discount the Gentle's wisdom. In fact, Oto's words reminded him of a tactical proverb from the Book of Storms: "If your enemy does not know where your blade will fall, how can he defend against it?" The Stormbringers, like their White Scars forebears, commonly used feints and diversions to stretch an enemy's resources thin, then struck wherever he was weakest. Confusion, distraction, misdirection. All tools to be used.

 

Distraction. Titus frowned and pondered. How to distract the main body of the Ork crew away from the Deathwatch's target? As Embe had said, it would be unwise to split up their Kill-Team. Ideally, a platoon of Naval Ratings, Imperial Guard or other disposable troops could be ordered to assault another part of the Grand Cruiser and draw some of the greenskins' strength away from the bridge - but Swordhand had no such resource available.

 

Or did they? Titus' eye was suddenly drawn by the sparks that jumped and crackled atop the generator that was still providing gravity and atmosphere. A crude but massive power source. The detonation of such a device anywhere within the Cruiser would make for a very good distraction. How to deliver it though? His gaze followed the falling sparks down to the deck, and then along the thick, rubber-clad cables that connected the generator to the Ork lander. Like the Worthy Venture itself, the smaller craft appeared to be of standard Imperial design with the addition of several Orkish modifications; engine upgrades, weapons and pieces of scrap armour. Probably simple enough to fly, if an Ork could do it?

 

Titus frowned again. While effective, a sabotage mission of that sort would inevitably prove suicidal for the one who carried it out. The team could not afford to waste an Astartes in such a manner. He was ready to forget the idea entirely, when he noticed the turret mounted above the Stormraven's hull slowly traversing, allowing him to see through the armaglas canopy to where the slack-faced Servitor from Azurea's Forges was rechecking its arc of fire.

 

+We could use a distraction to cover our approach. Brother Maladon, would the programming of the Warhawk's co-pilot be sufficient to manage a different type of lander?+

[Commissar Molotov]

The Astral Drake looks at the gunship's turret and then the junk lander, comprehending the Stormbringer's plan.

 

"That craft? It could, in theory. Assuming these Greenskins haven't bastardised it beyond repair."

Edited February 22, 2022 by Commissar Molotov

[Reyner]

Vorr grimaced at the thought of getting the servitor to pilot the ramshackle Ork lander but could see the logic in it, he'd fought Orks before and knew they became so focused on firing their weapons at large targets they might not even noticed the lander floating towards them at low power. He winced beneath his helmet as he shifted his weight clearly he didn't realise how badly he had been wounded but he would never let on to the rest of the team but Yeng had done great work but his armour badly needed repair or even modification. The Gatebreaker had an ancient suit of Mark 3 Iron Armour and Vorr could see the benefits of the heavy slabs of armour at the front, the armour was weaker at the rear but he'd never allow himself to be shot in the back so it wasn't an issue. Casting his mind back to the dark day on Kaminus when the cursed Iron Warriors had counter attacked the Second Company and almost wiped them out, Vorr and his brothers destroyed many tanks that day and it still bothered him that he was the only survivor he'd known most of them before the Chapter had taken them from the wasteland of their homeworld. He'd turned down the offer of joining the First Company on account of not earning any bionics but his day would come to become closer with the machine. The Red Talons weren't like the Iron Hands who willingly cut themselves apart to become more machine than man, the Red Talons had to earn union with the machine. 

 

+It would be difficult but using the lander as an explosive we may be better served targeting the enginarium, Greenskins would still mangle a way to control the vessel without the bridge. We need to attack the engines and trigger a chain reaction to destroy the vessel. There may be cogitators left in the wreckage we can recover if not there will be other chances for information gathering, priority should be to cleanse the xenos.+

[Commissar Molotov]

++The original Enginarium will be buried deep within the ship's core,++ Captain Rubio says in response to the Red Talon's comments. ++They are specifically positioned to withstand enemy fire. With that said, the Ork Meks are far more enthusiastic than they are prudent: there are a number of fuel-lines and engine boosters that have been built directly onto the ship's hull. They do pose potential vulnerabilities.++ Edited February 23, 2022 by Commissar Molotov

[Lysimachus]

Titus and Embe stood at the wide portal, watching for more Orks approaching the hangar and occasionally looking back to observe the rest of the Kill-Team putting their plan into action.

 

It took only a few minutes for Brother Atreus to rig the massive generator with a detonator created from several Krak grenades and a long range vox receiver, then a few minutes more for Argus, Boros, Vorr and Thire to manhandle the huge device back up the ramp and into the dark, gaping maw that was the lander's cargo hold.

 

Even as they were doing this, the Techmarine was joined by Apothecary Yeng and with surgical precision the two specialists disconnected the Servitor from its position in the Warhawk's turret. Thus released, the half-human automaton blankly obeyed Maladon's order to follow him up and into the lander's cockpit. While the interior of the craft had been redecorated in just as garish a fashion as the exterior, thankfully the actual flight controls and other instrumentation appeared to have been left largely unmodified. After several long minutes, Maladon stumped back down the ramp alone to report to Kol and Achillion, looking somewhat tired and uncomfortable at the tech-heresy he had been required to commit.

 

+I have adapted the Servitor's flight protocols to allow for the differences between the Stormraven and that beast. It should be able to control it successfully… if not smoothly. However, that seems entirely appropriate given that we are trying to imitate a greenskin pilot? I have also disconnected the Servitor's vox transmitter and altered its data-logs so that its point of origin is changed from the hangar aboard the Xenocide to the main hangar of the Worthy Venture. Therefore, if I transmit a 'return to base' command, it should head for the Ork vessel. If it completes the journey, I can send another signal that will detonate the generator.+

 

As the Techmarine spoke these last few words, he spread his palms wide to convey the uncertainty of the success of these numerous modifications. Over his shoulder, the heavy servo-arm mounted to his power pack moved in sympathetic synchronicity.

 

Sergeant Kol simply nodded. When he replied, his voice was quiet but firm, projecting confidence.

 

+Excellent work, Brother Maladon. Swordhand! Mount up! Let's go give these stinking Orks their property back!+

 

In a matter of minutes, the Kill-Team were locked back into their harnesses, ready to depart. Titus, returning from his guard post at the portal, was last aboard. On seeing that no one else had taken it, he eagerly climbed into the turret seat vacated by the Servitor. The space was barely big enough to contain an armoured Astartes, but the Stormbringer did not mind. Being able to see beyond the confines of the hull was more than enough compensation for being a little cramped. Below, Atreus calmly flicked a series of switches, engaging the powerful thrusters that would lift the gunship and drive it out into the black.

 

+Releasing maglocks. Sending the 'return' signal now.+

 

There was a blurt of binharic chatter, followed by a long moment of silence. Then there was a brilliant flash of light that illuminated the whole hangar as the Servitor responded and the even larger thrusters of the lander burst into life. With a surge of bone-rattling vibration, the monstrous craft juddered its way forward, bouncing and scraping against the deck. It cleared the leftmost hangar bay door with inches to spare. Still shuddering, it turned and climbed to point its blunt nose towards the massive Ork vessel that was still firing its weapons at wrecks spinning across the debris field.

 

The Warhawk rose from the Riches Untold far more gracefully than the lumbering scow ahead of it. As they moved to shadow the larger shuttle, Titus could see a great cloud of dirt, dust and burnt promethium spreading out in the wake of it's passage. Atreus voxed from the pilot's chair.

 

+The Orks even provide cover for our advance. The Omnissiah turns their heresy against them.+

 

With a deft hand, the Astral Drake sent the Stormraven plunging into the swirling obscuration.

[Commissar Molotov]

Daon Akkad, the Last Loyal Son of Badab

Star Phantoms Battle Barge Clepsydra - Azurean Nearspace

 

As you walk to the chamber, you feel like a man being led to the gallows. The Phantoms standing guard at the entranceway remain motionless, their bolters held tight to their chests, but you hardly need to be a psyker to divine how they yearn to gun you down where you stand. Each of them wear campaign badges and icons that you have come to learn mark them out as participants in the so-called War of Badab.

 

Montesa came to your cell with news of the bargain he had struck: Trial by Ordeal. He had sat with you, attempting to describe what would unfold, and the steps that would need to be taken. For all the good it did you: it seemed akin to trying to explain sight to the blind. Still, with commendable patience he led you through prayers and taught you the mental exercises that would be necessary to endure what would happen.

 

Entering the chamber, you find it larger than you expected; it is spartan in the ways that Astartes accommodations so often are, but the end wall is dominated by a sculpture of the Imperator Mortifex, a looming, shrouded figure clutching an hourglass in its skeletal fingers. Perhaps best not to dwell on such symbolism. To your right, you see Montesa. The Codicier’s sloped helm inclines toward you in a nod. To your left, you see the Chief Librarian, Parmenion. He is unhelmed, his eyes boring into yours.

 

"Daon Akkad. You are summoned here to answer the charges that have been laid before you. The treasons of the Astral Claws are many and multitudinous, and the damage wrought upon the Imperium of Mankind by your brethren has erased any honours they may have once claimed. This trial will determine whether you bear any guilt; whether you must die alongside the rest of your kin."

 

As he speaks, the door shuts behind you with a heavy clunk-clunk-clunk... as the locks slide into place, one after the other. It only serves to add a sense of finality to Parmenion's words. Psychic wards and runes inlaid within the walls and floor begin to glow, taking on an oily, kaleidoscopic hue that streaks at the edges of your vision. The temperature of the room drops palpably.

 

Parmenion holds out a hand, drawing esoteric symbols in the air. The walls of the room seem to ripple, expanding and contracting with your double heartbeat. You are dimly aware of Star Phantom's prodigious psychic force lacerating your thoughts, sifting through your thoughts and inspecting each constitutent part. Your hands are swathed with wisps of turquoise smoke. As you reach out your hands, the smoke blooms and fluffs.

 

The veil of the warp draws back. The chamber fills with smoke, rushing around you with sudden force and speed. Your ears fill with the harrowing screams of every individual you have ever killed. So much death. There is the sensation of falling backwards, of being unable to halt yourself.

 

And lastly, the Librarian's words:

 

"What gives you the right to live, Daon Akkad?"

[Mazer Rackham]

I live by Right of Will.

 

Dusk fell in the manse, as the cloaked messenger handed the scroll to Daon’s Uncle, Aydam.  The bad-tempered old man stroked his beard, light glinting from emerald stones set into thick gold rings on the fingers of his left hand.  The rings were heirlooms, by right belonging to Daon’s father, but the House, its Living Kin and chattels were absorbed into Aydam’s stable when Lord Hyram Akkad fell to illness and death.  Other than the family, two statues stood witness to the beginning.

 

Direct opposites, one a huge carving of albor-marble like the Palace of Thorns.  The other was a shard of ebonite and silver, with bloodied hands.  His eyes slid off them, as though not meant to see and he forgot them as the past was remade before his very eyes.

 

Aydam unrolled the scroll, eyeing it narrowly.  He flicked a glance to Daon, now some twelve Badabian Summers old, accomplished in horse, blade and bow.  Versed well enough in the deadly politics of the forum at play here.

 

“We are commanded to provide an heir to the Throne of Thorns,” the older man explained, a grand sweep of his arm coming to rest on Daon.

 

“Why not your son?”  Neysha demanded.

 

“Your spawn is the last of Hyram’s line.  The Astral Claws will elevate him, bring the House great honour - if he lives.”

 

The oil lamps and candles sputtered, a gust rattling through the chamber atop the manse.  Daon didn’t think much of superstition, but the happenstance was inordinately well-timed.  The wicks burned with odd turquoise light, as though not truly alight.

 

“And so my son is sacrificed to the Emperor, and your influence grows, Half-father,” Neysha hissed.

 

Aydam was fast for an old man, Daon thought.  He turned swiftly, the loose-fitting clothing common to the upper castes of New Badab snapped around in the breeze as the hand with green jewels and golden rings lashed out, striking Neysha across the jaw, casting her to the ground in a heap.

 

“Amu!” Daon cried.

 

Without thinking, the hunting knife customarily at his belt, was in his hand, pulled from the leather sheath his father made.  A broad blade good for gutting beasts like Rimanis-Sa’hu scythed up in a powerful cut, the steel gliding through flesh as though not there.  He thrust as taught by the swordmasters, burying the blade to the hilt.  Blood stained his hands, but when he looked at them now, they were shod in flexsteel, black and silver.  Everything stopped.  A grinding voice, akin to boulders crushing together floated across the frozen scene.  The look of horror in his mothers’ eyes, the reaching arms of the Adjutant to arrest him.

 

Daon looked at the fists he made, one gripping the parchment carrying the summons to the training grounds.

 

“So, a kin-slayer from the beginning!” the alabaster giant didn't say, yet his gloating voice sounded like the carving of damning chisel into stone.

 

"A protector of what he held dear," countered the obsidian guardian.  "A loyal son."

 

"We shall see."

 

Daon fell again, the still scene fading into the distance, his hands desperately clutching to hold on.

 

Darkness.

[Mazer Rackham]

I live by Right of Brotherhood

 

The greenskins reacted to the ambush by laughing and spoiling for more bloodshed - even though their numbers were decimated by the detonation of the first explosive trap.  Temuddin and his squad of Mantis Warriors were on the opposite slope from Squad Akkad as the greenskins filled the ravine between them.

 

Temuddin drew his power-sabre, and led his Tacticals down the slope, a wedge of aphid green and hornet yellow crashing into the fiends smothered in blue woad.

 

Anraphael’s Assault squad closed the trap, attacking the Orks from the rear; the Lamenters giving no quarter to the beasts.  Dark fury driving their noble hearts, the piston-shriek of chainsword engines and snap-crack of bolt pistols gave voice to butcher’s work.

 

+Maintain fire!  Watch that big bastard there!+

 

One monster in scrap armour and animal pelts crunched through its own minions to confront Temuddin, brandishing a power-claw and brutal cleaver hammered from the aileron of some Imperial warbird.  It rumbled onwards to catch the Mantis Warrior, somehow separated from support in the tumult.  The Ork ploughed on, thick plumes of dirty smoke belching from the junk-pack powering its hideous cybernetic body.  Akkad pulled a Lascannon from the hands of Enlil-Su, wondering why his Second was harnessed in Tactical Dreadnought Armour, but the life of the Brother below was more important.

 

+Throne!+ he gasped as he sighted up.

 

"Which one?" a harsh voice wondered, ragged vocal chords echoing with metallic bite.

 

+The bloody Golden one!+ Akkad retorted as he fired, the turquoise beam lancing out to slice down into the ravine, thumping air displaced as the pack discharged, backfilling with the unwholesome stench of Ork flesh instantly cooking.  Akkad looked down at the half-crater he’d vaporised from Hecate III, and while there was nought but a fused, smouldering, half-dismembered corpse within, Temuddin was whole without.

 

He waved up at the Astral Claw.

 

+That’s how we do it,+ Akkad told the huge armoured warrior, offloading the cannon.

 

A bleak, stony stare was all he received before the terminator lashed out, delivering a thud to his plastron, denting the ceramite, and wrenching his neck with whiplash force. He was propelled over the precipice, hurtling towards the ground - passing through it into nothing, the walls of the ravine above distending into infinity, the two figures atop it watching as he tumbled.

 

“Pride goeth before a fall, Badabian," the Terminator replied at length.  "That's how the Astral Claws did it.”

 

+++++++++

 

I live by Right of Honour.

 

Akkad approached the Throne of Thorns.  The air was cold, heavy.  Light spilled in from above in the vaulted window arches in long shafts, silver dust particles twinkling glitter in the harsh spill.  It was wrong, surreal.  His only clothing was his robe, proudly displaying his heraldry and the embroidery of his rank, a Sergeant of a Devastator squad.  He stopped some forty paces before his Chapter Master and knelt.  Huron was entombed in the massive silver casket of his Terminator Armour, his face cold and his dark eyes unreadable.

 

The albor-marble throne rose above the Master of the Astral Claws in an intricate slab of menace. Entwined and carved with choking thickets of thorns, it carried the understanding that power was nothing without sacrifice, that each decision reached, every opportunity seized was done so with the risk of wounds.  As Huron stared down at him, the Ghost Razors flexed ominously, the only hint any thought troubled that austere brow.  Turquoise light slashed from their powered edges, dashing across the walls and floor around the chamber.  Still, he did not speak.  The burning fizz of ozone ignored, damning silence was Huron’s witness to this audience.

 

Apart from the two Centurions he knew, two strange figures watched him.  One, a giant in pallid plate, standing apart from the other, a smaller warrior in contrasting black.  Akkad felt like he knew them from somewhere, but he couldn’t place it.  It wasn’t important.  He cricked his neck.

 

His attention was drawn from the company of assembled officers as Corien Sumatris stepped forward.  The Champion of the Tyrant, and a Centurion in his own right, his long black and orange tiger cloak swaying in time with his step.  He took a breath.

 

"Daon Akkad, you have defied the will of the Tyrant.  Your voice is discord in our Legion.”

 

Akkad knew it was more than that.  Displaying Huron’s personal heraldry in place of that given by the Emperor was commonplace, an act of support by those who believed in the Tyrant’s cause, his will.  His own armour carried none of that pollution.  Battered and scraped as it was, his harness carried his true colours.

 

“You are hereby stripped of your rank and privileges.  You will be given over to the keeping of the Deathwatch - to honour a pact made centuries ago. You will take your armour and weapons, to die alone and forgotten.  You will die by the will of the Tyrant - and for Badab."

 

So not execution then, but exile.  He would be dead to them, as they were to him.  Good.

 

The palace stilled, the steel glint and lapis glamour of the panoply of the Astral Claws fading to desaturated grey.  The silence was disrupted by another voice, one harsh with bionic replacement, a ruined throat crackling with barely suppressed pain and power in abundance.

 

“You see?  He is cut from different cloth.  He is not one of them.”

 

Hammer smashing anvil replied. “A political mistake does not prove virtue!”

 

“The true blade does not warp,” the shadow stated.  His emphasis lingered on the final word, a hint of the unspoken lingering about it.

 

“Hmm,” the other grunted irritably.

 

Akkad fell once more, into a chasm of emptiness, an orphan to reason.

[Mazer Rackham]

I live by Right of War.

 

With a grunt, Akkad pulled himself free of the quagmire of alien guts and genhanced blood that clung to the disgusting organic matter that served as the ground.  He looked at the fallen Invader.

 

He reloaded Cadence, the munitions monitoring icons restored to an odd turquoise hue.  He maglocked the weapon against his backpack, and with a sigh matched by the snarky snap of broken circuitry, the Astral Claw marched across the intervening hellscape to squat beside the corpse of Rodrik Ghent.  The soot and burned propellant from so many bolt shells was lost in the sable-black skin of his power armour, but his biceps were grateful for the cessation of the constant vibrations of heavy support fire.

 

He gently laid his palm on Ghent's shoulder.  Maelstrom Warder or no, Ghent had covered him.

 

He scooped up the Invader's corpse and bore him over his left shoulder, some awkwardness due to the imbalance of Ghent's missing legs, but a lighter burden to carry.  He wasn't going to leave anyone here - in this...place.  Ghent’s legacy must live on.

 

He looked for the central pillar, but instead of a throaty mass of flesh and ribbed cartilage, mottled with tumours and mucus, it was an hourglass, as broad as a rhino APC and thrice as tall.  Each pillar was a skeleton, framed in the one of the four poises: Mercy, Praise, Repentance and Grace, and across the glass blazed the words giving thanks.

 

Imperator Mortifex.

 

The lower bell filled with rasping hiss, powdered bone from a million ground skulls thrashing against glass, and as the final grains fell, dead silence.

 

“Enough of this!” a giant skeleton demanded, voice thick with impatience.  “You have laid the defence, Son of Dorn, and well, but now the real trial begins.”

 

The filled bell pivoted at the fulcrum bisecting the timepiece, tilting the glazed blisters with an eerie momentum.  Unstoppable, heavy, the weight of aeons.

 

“We will see who you truly are, Astral Claw,” the Host of Bone decreed, his voice the scrape of shovel in hard graveyard earth.

[Commissar Molotov]

Daon Akkad:

 

The Star Phantom's voice swirls around you.

 

"Is there honour within your soul? Even after all the horrors you and your kin have perpetrated upon this galaxy?"

 

Once more you feel the sensation of falling backwards, falling through your memories until you land with a crunch on unfamiliar ground.

 

You look down to see a body that is yours - and yet not yours. The power armour that encloses your body is both entirely familiar and wholly alien, at once. White-painted ceramite, flecked with damage sustained in battle you have never fought and yet remember in intimate detail.

 

Before you can ponder these impossibilities further, a Thunderhawk gunship roars overhead, dangerously low. Reflexively, you take cover as a pair of missiles streak from its wings to detonate in sequence across a row of factories, administration buildings and hab-blocks ahead of you. The air is choked with dust and smoke that play havoc with your auto-senses.

 

++Get up!++

 

Where are you?

 

How could you have forgotten?

 

++GET UP!++

 

In the near-distance, ahead of you, you see the enemy advancing. Their familiarity with these streets and hab-stacks lends them an ease of movement. These are the defenders of the cess-pit that is Badab Primaris. The hated Astral Claws. Their steeled armour is tainted sickly yellow with the sulfurous light of the sky above. They are alert, bolters high and panning fast.

 

You rise on snarling armour joints, shedding the last vestiges of Daon Akkad as you do. Your painful memories are swallowed, sublimated as your armour’s pharmacopeia infuses your transhuman biology with stimulants and nerve-killers. It feels like stepping into a bath of warm water.

 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Edited February 27, 2022 by Commissar Molotov