Working Title: Crimson Fate

[Tarvek Val]

Dramatis Personae & Warships

Dramatis Personae 

 

XII Legion – World Eaters

—   Ulskar: Captain, 65^th Company

—   Varkh: Centurion, formerly the sergeant of 7^th Squad

—   Dereskh: Legionary, 7^th Squad

—   Eydros Torbek: Legionary, 7^th Squad

—   Kallan Korva: Legionary, 7th Squad

—   Vlayen: Legionary, 7th Squad

—   Aydross: Legionary, 7th Squad

—   Vaen'kar: Legionary, 7th Squad

—   Kyell'nos, "The Twin": Legionary, 7th Squad

—   Kyell'van, "The Twin": Legionary, 7th Squad

—   Sorska, "The Youngblooded": Apothecary

—

 

XIII Legion – Ultramarines

—   Tibrus Honorius: “Master of the Void,” commander of the 84^th Defensive Formation

—   

 

XVII Legion – Word Bearers

—   Rembrial, “The Devout”: Captain-Apostle of the 22^nd Grand Company, the Chapter of the Coiled Serpent

—   Shael-Har: Gal Vorbak, 2^nd Company, Chapter of the Coiled Serpent

—   Vierta Kullon: Legionary, 3^rd Company, Chapter of the Coiled Serpent

—   Maldrik: Legionary, 3^rd Company, Chapter of the Coiled Serpent

—   

 

Additional Personnel

—   Norus Malain: fleet-captain of the Blackened Heart

—   Shipmaster Poltan: captain of the Spirit of Honour

—   

 

Warships of the Legions

 

XII Legion – World Eaters

—   Blackened Heart: Indrajit-class heavy cruiser

—   Bane of Cowards: Infernus-class heavy cruiser

—   Decimation: Dominus-class grand cruiser

—   Talons of Hate: Eclipse-class light cruiser

—   Voidmurder: Venom-class destroyer

—   Prince of the Red Sands: Venom-class destroyer

 

 

XIII Legion – Ultramarines

—   Spirit of Honour: Eclipse-class cruiser

—   Shield of Sanctity: Triton-class cruiser

—   Fierce Judgement: Cobra-class destroyer

—   Writ of Intent: Cobra-class destroyer

 

XVII Legion – Word Bearers

—   Child of Monarchia: Retribution-class battlecruiser

—   Chastity of Truth: Vengeance-class grand cruiser

—   Pierce the Veil: Infernus-class heavy cruiser

—   Seventh Star: Hoplon-class assault cruiser

—   Fall of Empires: Venom-class destroyer

—   Shattered Link: Venom-class destroyer

 

Part I: Path of Destiny

Ulskar

 

            The Blackened Heart drags itself out of the warp in juddering leaps and bounds, currents of jellied immaterium streaming across its hull as it slows to a gradual stop. Moments later, a second warship materializes, ripping through the dispersing cloud of warp-stuff left in the Blackened Heart’s wake. Another ship follows, and another, and another. For several minutes, the area of space around the Talasa Systems’s Mandeville point is shrouded by the impact of a dozen Legion warships transitioning to realspace in quick succession. 

            Those with the advanced augmentations of a Mechanicum acolyte might glean some information from the series of cracks, pops, and creaks that the Blackened Heart gives off as its iron skin cools off. Perhaps they would categorize the throaty roar of its main drives powering up as impatience, or the pounding wail of its ‘readiness alert’ as a desire to protect its mortal crew. The Blackened Heart is an ancient beast, its hull laid down in the shipyards above Mars some century and a half ago. From start to first flight, the Indrajit-class heavy cruiser took eleven years to complete, and it took the lives of some four thousand Mechanicum bond-thralls and servitors. Four different commanders had once stood upon its cramped bridge, shouting orders to their underlings as the Blackened Heart hurled devastating macrocannon barrages at its foes. The ship has a long and lauded history, from its beginning as a command ship with the 44^th Expeditionary Fleet to the present day. The vessel, along with all of its escorts and accompanying warships, had been offered to the master of the War Hounds as a personal gift from the Emperor Himself upon the former’s discovery.

            Ulskar, Captain of the 65^th Company of the XII Legion, cares nothing for the vessel’s distinguished service record and history. When the Blackened Heart had first been assigned to his company, he had stared down at the grizzled fleet-captain in command of the ship and asked a single question.

            ‘Will it serve us well?’

            Fleet-Captain Norus Malain had seen stars explode, galaxies collapse into dust and voidlight, and planets burn under the weight of now-forbidden munitions. Yet even he had struggled to keep his composure when confronted by the looming figure of death before him.             

           ‘Yes,’ he had managed to say, ‘it will – I will, serve you well in the wars to come, my lord.’

           The World Eater had laughed. Even his mirth was threatening, the guttural rumble of tectonic plates crashing against one another. He had left the bridge as quickly as he had come, stomping away with long, unhurried strides as the mortal members of Malain’s crew had scrambled out of his path. Malain had upheld his end of the bargain. The Blackened Heart had served the World Eaters well indeed.

           Ulskar stands upon the ship’s bridge now, silently observing the organized chaos as crew members scramble to initiate contact with the other vessels of the fleet and get the ship’s systems running at full power. He stands just behind the throne wired into the center of the bridge, where Malain has established his nexus of command.

           ‘Void shields first,’ the fleet-captain orders, ‘then main drives to full. Keep weapon signatures to a minimum, we don’t want to worry our noble hosts.’

           A crewman repeats the order out loud as he obeys his superior’s command. Ulskar doesn’t know the man’s name, and sees no reason to bother learning it. An insistent chiming in the data-pit captures another mortal’s attention, and he turns to address the lone Astartes on the bridge. He swallows, gathering his courage before he addresses the World Eater.

           ‘Incoming signal from the Child of Monarchia, sir. Lord Rembrial wishes to speak with you.’

           Ulskar scowls, his glowering expression reflected back at him in the narrow vision slit built into the front of the bridge. The face that is revealed to him has devolved through the years. Even before the Apothecaries of the World Eaters had implanted the Butcher’s Nails into his skull, Ulskar had never been handsome. His is the face of a pugilist — a web of scars cross over each other, cutting upwards from his neck to his close-cropped black hair whilst miraculously bypassing his cratered wreck of a nose. An orc cleaver had narrowly missed his left eye years before, leaving an ugly gouge in its path down his cheek. He had smashed the xenos’s head in with a fierce headbutt, which had done nothing for his looks but had relieved the ringing of the Nails for a few sweet seconds of oblivion.

           A pict-projector whirrs to life, bringing the presence of Captain-Apostle Rembrial to the center of the space. Rembrial, in appearance at least, is everything that Ulskar is not. His crimson-painted armor is immaculate, covered in intricate Colchisian script and golden iconography depicting scenes of fervent worship. A thick tome is connected to his hip by means of a fine golden chain, its cover written by the hand of a demigod. His face bears the distinctive arching cheekbones and proud chin of a Colchisian noble, and his golden hair falls neatly across his shoulder pauldrons.

           The communications officer begins to speak.

           ‘Lord Rembrial, we have begun —’

           He is cut off by Ulskar’s snarled rebuke.

           ‘He is no lord, neither to me nor to you. Captain-Apostle Rembrial commands the Word Bearers of this combined fleet, and nothing more. Forget that at your own peril.’

           The Word Bearer smiles, amusement oozing through his projection to pool about the feet of those on the Blackened Heart’s bridge.

           ‘I am certain your officer did not mean to offend, brother. I would never presume to set myself above you in station, nor in killing prowess.’

           Ulskar grunts. The Word Bearer bleeds charisma and comradery. Ulskar is a warrior, a killer of men. He would have preferred that Lorgar had seen fit to send someone of a similar nature to represent his Legion in their combined endeavor, yet he must make do with what is offered.

           Rembrial’s grin widens, as if he senses the World Eater’s hospitality from the bridge of his own ship.

           ‘Will we make the rendezvous with our cousins in time? I would hate for them to be kept waiting.’ 

           Ulskar doesn’t reply, instead turning to Malain with a baleful look. The fleet-captain squirms in his throne, adjusting himself to address Rembrial’s projection head-on.

           ‘We will be precisely thirteen-point-three-seven minutes ahead of our projected rendezvous with the Ultramarine ships if we assume formation within the next five minutes, Captain-Apostle. I have directed our Legion vessels to prioritize void shields and engines, so as not to make the Ultramarines suspicious.’

           ‘A wise decision,’ muses the Word Bearer, ‘yet unnecessary. Bring your weapons batteries online. We will act as soon as we receive the signal from Kor Phaeron.’

           ‘They will see us coming a mile out,’ Ulskar interjects, ‘and even the most dull-witted of Guilliman’s lackards will sense that something is amiss when they see a dozen warships blazing towards them in an attack formation with weapons ready. We are to meet the Ultramarines under the pretense of inspecting the readiness of Danarch’s ground defenses to repel an ork invasion, not launch a void battle.’

           ‘Yes,’ Rembrial acknowledges somberly, ‘but we have a few surprises of our own to reveal in due time. This I can promise you, they will never even see us coming.’

           Ulskar nods reluctantly.

           ‘I’ll trust you to fulfill that promise, then. Don’t fail us.’

           For the first time since he had first materialized onto the bridge, the Word Bearer loses his attitude of tranquil geniality. 

           ‘We will write a song into the universe, Ulskar, and make a believer of you yet.’

 

 

Shael-Har

 

            Shael-Har frowns down at the naval armsman. The man has soiled himself, the stench of urine rising up from him in a harsh chemical wave. His uniform, once pristine and adorned with white and gold tassels, is disheveled and messy. The man scrambles backwards on hands and knees, mindless fear propelling him away from the warrior standing over him.

            ‘Please please my lord please you cannot…’

            Shael-Har’s frown deepens and he cannot help himself from sighing aloud, the sound masked behind the visor of his Mark IV helmet. He does not relish the task before him, but it is one born of unfortunate necessity. He stands in the center of an octagonal chamber buried within the heart of the Child of Monarchia, the space lit only by the dim lighting of precisely one hundred and forty-four candles. The candles are arranged into clusters of twelve, sitting on the ground at precisely marked spaces that met with Shael-Har’s approval some hours beforehand. Red wax drips sporadically onto the floor, appearing almost like blood in the flickering half-light. 

            Two of Shael-Har’s brothers are in the chamber with him. Maldrik stands by the chamber’s sole entranceway, the idle growl of his Mark III armor the only sign of his presence in the space. Vierta Kullon is present as well, but his sable-and-maroon warplate allows him to blend in with the pockets of darkness sprinkled at the outer edges of the candles’ reach. 

            Fifteen other mortals are crowded into the confines of the ritual space. They huddle together at one end of the chamber, as far from Shael-Har and Maldrik as they can possibly get. They watch Shael-Har slowly pursue the armsman, making no move to come to the latter’s assistance despite the horror written across their faces. Shael-Har supposes that, to the men and women helpless before him, he must appear to be some kind of monster — a daemon, wrought from the deepest darkness of hel itself to come steal their souls away. That’s not far from the truth, he can’t help himself from thinking.

            The armsman backs himself into a corner, where two angles of the octagon greet each other and branch out across the chamber. He can move backwards no further. He continues to plead, the words coming out in a frantic torrent of half-syllables. 

            ‘Stop, please.’

            The mortal’s gibbering increases. Annoyed, Shael-Har repeats himself and allows a little bit of the other’s influence to coat his words.

            ‘Stop, please.’

            The man goes quiet, though he soils himself again as he still pointlessly attempts to escape through the solid iron wall at his back. Shael-Har slowly draws a dagger from a leather sheath at his hip. The athame catches the flickering candlelight in a strange way, as if drops of blood are running down the blade to drip to the floor in synch with the droplets of wax. It is not one of the Eight Blades — Shael-Har has done nothing so deserving as to own one of those — but this athame is a gift from the Crimson Lord. Argel Tal himself had showed Shael-Har some of the more basic functions of the blade, and the Word Bearer had learned a great many more of the blade’s secrets by himself in the years since they had last parted ways.

            ‘Be still,’ Shael-Har soothes the armsman, ‘you know nothing of the honors you are about to receive.’ 

            The man goes quiet. For a split second, hope and fear wage war across his features, before fear wins out and he begins crying softly.

            ‘You’re – you’re going to kill… to kill me.’

            ‘Yes,’ Shael-Har replies gravely, ‘I am.’

There is no point in hiding the truth. To do so would be needless and cruel — while the man has not managed to face his demise with anything approaching dignity thus far, it is never too late. Shael-Har lowers himself to the armsman’s level, the servos in his armor whining in protest at this unexpected act of submission. 

            ‘You did not choose your path in life, did you?’

            ‘My lord, I – I – I’

            ‘Answer me. You didn’t choose to become an armsman, did you?’

            ‘No, I was chosen to —’

            Shael-Har bites back a laugh. The man’s ignorance is not his fault.

            ‘You were not chosen. You were judged, and arbitrarily at that. Tell me, what crime did you commit that the proud Lords of Ultramar saw fit to condemn you to a lifetime of servitude as a bondsman aboard one of their patrol ships?’

            The man swallows, choosing his words carefully. Sweat mixes with the tears rolling down his flushed cheeks.

            ‘I was a thief, and unworthy of the life I had been given.’

            ‘So you stole something, and then what?’

            Some of the man’s stutter reasserts itself as the trauma of his past plays itself out again in his mind.

            ‘I w-went before the T-T-Tetrarch of Danarch, who is noble and, and just, and he said that I must atone for my a-a-actions…’

            Shael-Har removes his helm, allowing the man to look upon his bared features.

            ‘Tell me, mortal, do I appear a monster to you? Do fangs come from my mouth? Do horns sprout from my forehead? I am a man, the same as you. I have made mistake, the same as you. I have worshipped false ideals, the same as you. And I have learned from my past. I wish to elevate humanity, to raise it beyond the shackles of false judgement and tyranny.’

            The Word Bearer leans closer, his fervor getting the best of him.

            ‘You were condemned off of one simple act, your life consigned to a meaningless spiral of perpetuity. Your death will serve your fellow men and women more than a thousand of your lives — you will strike back against those who have wronged you in both this life and the next.’

            ‘Please.’

            Shael-Har smiles sadly. 

            ‘You did not choose this fate, I truly understand that. For what it’s worth, I am sorry that this has come upon you, but we must each follow the path that destiny has set before us.’

             He begins with a diagonal stroke, opening the armsman up from his left shoulder to his right hip. Blood flows across the deck, mixing with the puddles of wax to create a slick crimson coating underfoot. Following is a cut from left hip to right shoulder. The armsman dies a messy death, and as Shael-Har breathes deeply, he can almost taste the aetheric essence gathering about the room. He gently closes the man’s eyes, and turns to face the remaining humans. They regard him with terror — all except one, a young woman in a gold-and-blue sundress. Gathering herself, she explodes into a sprint, making for the shadowed entranceway.

            Maldrik glides smoothly into her path. He catches her by the throat with contemptuous ease, slamming her against the wall with indifference. Her throat and the back of her skull are ruined by the blow, and the Word Bearer drops her broken body to the deck.

            ‘No,’ Shael-Har snarls, ‘we needed her!’

            ‘What is one life against the sea of souls?’

            Shael-Har bristles at his brother’s indifference.

            ‘There are rules in play here that you willingly misunderstand. We are creating a symphony, my brother. As even the most uncultured and insensitive of the Phoenician’s sons would tell you, a melody with a single sour note becomes a funeral dirge in a matter of moments.’

            Maldrik accepts the rebuke in silence. 

            ‘We do this out of necessity, not cruelty,’ Shael-Har hisses, ‘now find me another soul, and together we will create a melody that will shatter the chains of man for eternity.’

            Maldrik obeys, ducking under the chamber’s low archway and vanishing into the gloom beyond. Vierta Kullon silently materializes out of the shadows to take the other warrior’s place by the door. As he does so, Shael-Har mentally selects his next offering. There is not much time to prepare the Captain-Apostle’s first surprise, and everything must go according to plan. 

Edited July 16, 2020 by Tarvek Val

[Mazer Rackham]

I apologise if you mean to keep this thread for your writing and don't wish to break it up with comments (I can ask a friendly moderator to oblige :) ) but this shows your strengths of mood and conflict - I immediately grasped the nature of your characters and emotionally attached to them appropriately.  Good use of sensory descriptions pulls me right into the scene.

 

Very well written, if I may offer my humble opinion :)

 

MR.

[Tarvek Val]

Thank you MR! I should have said this in the first post, but I'm happy to get feedback and comments in this thread. Thank you for reading the first segment, I'm glad you enjoyed it! I have a lot going on with my personal life at the moment, but am hoping to keep updating the thread on a regular basis.

[Mazer Rackham]

My best wishes for a swift end to your troubles Tarvek.

 

Wouldn't want your talent going stale on us! ;)

 

MR.

[Tarvek Val]

Part II: Shadows and Fire

Tibrus Honorius

 

            A deafening series of alarms are ringing in a discordant clamor of noise, causing Tibrus Honorius to wince. He pinches the bridge of his nose with one gauntleted fist, and his aching headache begins to slowly disperse. He had just finished a six-hour training session in one of the training cages buried within the Spirit of Honour’s belly when the first proximity alert had gone off. As befitting his duties as Master of the Void of the 84^th Defensive Formation, Honorius had sheathed his gladius, holstered his bolt pistol, set the servitors he had been facing to ‘inactive,’ and made his way to the ship’s command bridge.

            Shipmaster Poltan is at the center of the cacophony, calling out for information reports and directing his naval officers to bring the ship’s engines to full power. He is an older man, coal-black hair going grey at the edges and eyes bloodshot from spending too many years staring out of starports into the black of the void. As he catches sight of Honorius lurking at the periphery of the bridge, he snaps to attention and throws a quick salute in the Astartes’s direction.

            ‘The Word Bearers and World Easters have just entered the system. The advanced augurs recently picked up on the disruption of their re-entry from the warp.’

            ‘I figured as much,’ Honorius replies drily, ‘though for a moment I had feared the entirety of the greenskin empire must be at our throat to warrant so many alarms.’

            Poltan’s throat flushes red. 

            ‘I- ah- that is, we strive to maintain peak readiness in the case of…’

            Honorius cuts the shipmaster off with a dismissive wave of a hand.

            ‘Relax, shipmaster, I was just joking. Do we know how many ships they have, or how far out they are?’

            Poltan shakes his head.

            ‘No, my lord, our augurs cannot seem to get a definitive fix on their fleet’s size or bearing. It’s strange, the outer detection station was serviced within the past decade and has not reported transmission errors in the period since. Should we raise void shields and adopt a defensive position?’

            Honorius ponders the shipmaster’s word question, brow furrowing in thought. The majority of Ultramar’s warships are gathered about Calth, awaiting reinforcement from the fleets of the XII and XVII Legions. At his command, Honorius has the Eclipse-class Spirit of Honor, the Triton-class cruiser Shield of Sanctity, and the Cobra-class destroyers Fierce Judgement and Writ of Intent. A small fleet, certainly, but one equipped for long-range combat thanks to the torpedo batteries of the destroyers and mobility of the Shield of Sanctity. 

            Honorius comes to the only rational decision one could expect after only a few seconds of deliberation.

            ‘Keep our shields and weapons systems running at minimum power. I would have us greet our esteemed cousins with open arms, not a drawn blade.’

            Poltan salutes again.

            ‘A wise decision, sir.’

 

Shael-Har

 

            The air is taut, singing with untapped potential and the promise of imminent release. Shael-Har tugs his athame out of his last offering’s chest, the blade slipping free from its mortal sheath with a wet squelch. The dying woman falls back to the deck, her last breath escaping her as a sigh of relief. Shael-Har is surrounded by the dead, their blood mixing with unevenly with scarlet candle wax and creating a sticky paste that coats the floor and walls of the octagonal chamber. In an additional eleven identical chambers across the Child of Monarchia, the very same ritual is being repeated by his brothers. 

            Vierta Kullon and Maldrik look on, twisted curiosity compelling them to watch the ritual to its inevitable conclusion. They are no longer needed as gaolers, but Shael-Har can feel their interest, just as he can feel the other presence blossoming within his own soul. 

            ‘Control,’ Argel Tal had said, before he had clasped Shael-Har’s hand in a firm grasp and departed to his drop-ship, ‘is everything. You share a bond with the divine, linked to the aether in ways your brothers will never understand. You carry a fragment of the warp within you now, but take care that it does not transcend your mortal shell.’

            Shael-Har hadn’t fully understood what his former commander had meant at the time. He had known that there was something changed about himself after his journey into the so-called Eye, but it had taken him months to realize precisely what that change entailed. It was during a bout in the practice cages that he had fully realized what Argel Tal had meant. He had been dueling with Vay Telask, a grim warrior of the Chapter of the Burning Chalice. Shael-Har knew from the moment he stepped into the sandy arena that he was outmatched. He was quickly forced backwards on the red-spotted sand, power sword desperately deflecting each sweep of the other warrior’s chainsword. Back, back, back, until there was nowhere left to go. 

            Telask had moved in for the kill, forgetting himself in a moment of indulgence and bloodlust. His chainsword had whipped towards Shael-Har’s neck with finality, and Shael-Har had caught the blade in his left hand, the right still bring his own sword around for a futile parry. Except it wasn’t his left hand, not really — it was a thing of talons and too-long fingers, the ceramite of his gauntlet warped and reformed into an impossible clawed fist. By all rights, his hand should have been reduced to bloody ruin, yet it had been the chainsword’s teeth that had shattered, spraying across the chamber in a deadly hail of splinters.

            Telask had stepped back, the shock in his eyes quickly turning to reverence. Shael-Har was blessed by the new gods, his devotion to his primarch and the pantheon made evident by his transformation. It was in that moment that Eyen’lorra’kyash had made his presence known to Shael-Har, his unwitting host. Since then, Shael-Har had grown to know the second being nestled between his hearts. 

            ‘We are one,’ the daemon had whispered to him, ‘you and I, a symbol of the pact your Aurelian made with the warp. We hunger, we thirst, we hunt together now.’

            The bond had been uncomfortable at first. The daemon was easily woken at first, making its presence felt at times both convenient and inopportune. But thanks to Argel Tal’s guidance and the stabilizing presence of the athame, Shael-Har had gradually learned how to compromise with Eyen’lorra’kyash. 

            He feels the daemon start to awaken, hears its whisper in his head. Yes, the pantheon is pleased by this slaughter…

            He ignores the inner voice, concentrating on the ritual and nothing else. He begins the incantation that the athame had shared with him many years ago.

            ‘Vaytalla kashtar monarchos, umber tellios shalldrak…’

            As he draws the harsh syllables out, spitting them out over his tongue, he feels the untapped potential in the air closing in about him. The candles flicker momentarily, darkness and light spiraling in prisms across the chamber before the candles resume burning. The flames have gone darker, a faint green tint now coloring the flickering embers. Shael-Har continues the incantation, making a precise cut in the air with the athame as he does so. Left to right. The blade has grown heavier, its weight dragging his arm down despite his prodigious strength. He continues speaking, aware of blood and bile bubbling up in the back of his throat as he forces the words out. The second cut, right to left. Eyen’lorra’kyash is fully awake now, stretching out within Shael-Har’s stomach. The daemon is hungry. It’s always hungry.

            The candlelight is scarcely enough to light even the center of the chamber, where Shael-Har stands. The shadows creep closer at the edge of his vision. If he looks closely enough, the darkness has wings and teeth and sharp, flaying claws. Laughter encroaches on his ears, and he can tell that his brothers hear the whispers too from the way they shift uneasily. They are as devout in their worship of the pantheon as him, of course, but they will never understand the burden that Shael-Har carries upon his very soul. To them, the whispers are the voices of their incorporeal allies, not the weight of a being they will carry with them until their dying day.

            Shael-Har nears the final invocation, releasing the last syllable as he makes two final cuts with the athame. Down and up, and back down. One for each recipient. The blade strokes hang impossibly in the air, visible to the naked eye as physical streaks of oily-black in the dim light. He sinks to his knees, his efforts exhausting even his transhuman physique. As his knees hit the floor, the candles blow out as if caught in a fierce gust of wind. Before his night-augmented vision kicks in, Shael-Har sees the marks vanish before his eyes as quickly as they had come. He takes a moment to breath as his brothers step forwards to help him back to his feet.

            It is done. 

 

Tibrus Honorius

 

            The bridge has finally returned to some semblance of peace and sanity. The proximity alerts have been silenced, and the vessel’s mighty engines are online, powering the ship smoothly towards its planned rendezvous point. Honorius takes a moment to relax, confident that his fleet is ready to proceed with its assignment. The bridge seems to have dimmed a little bit, as if the lighting systems have not come online in their full capacity. Honorius resolves to take this up with the shipmaster when there is an opportunity to do so. As per Guilliman’s orders, all Ultramarines vessels must have well-lit command spaces, so as to guarantee efficiency in combat operations. Poltan isn’t the sort to neglect his ship, yet the space is nonetheless much darker than it ought to be. 

            Sending the issue to the back of his mind for a moment, Honorius comes up behind the shipmaster, leaning over the command throne to consult with the aging man. Had he not done so, he might have noticed the servitor plugged into the augur system shaking slightly, as if in the grip of some sort of bizarre seizure. The darkness seems to cluster around the half-man, swelling about his fingers, where the cyborg is hard-wired into the ship’s systems.

            ‘What is our time to the rendezvous point?’

            ‘Sixteen minutes, give or take,’ Poltan replies promptly.

            Honorius gives the man an approving nod. He opens his mouth, but never gets the chance to voice his next thought.

            ‘Sir! Look at this.’

            The speaker is one of the vessel’s comms officers. His name is Regulon, Honorius thinks, as he turns around. Regulon is pointing at one of the servitors, and Honorius quickly sees that the thrall is suffering some kind of malfunction. It is shaking back and forth, as if trying to curl itself into a ball. 

            ‘What on Terra,’ Regulon blurts out as he approaches the servitor cautiously.

            ‘Wait,’ Honorius shouts, his mind racing, ‘don’t touch it!’

            He is a second too late. Regulon grabs the thrall by the shoulder, trying to pull it out of its entrenched position. The servitor’s house comes slowly about, turning beyond the limits of its muscles and bones to observe the commsman. The servitor’s eyes are bloodshot and rimmed with tears, and it opens its mouth to give voice to a scream that no lobotomized thrall should ever be able to let out. Every single electrical panel, switch, and light on the bridge explodes in a violent deluge of electricity and static. Regulon and the servitor alike are electrocuted, the screams of the former joining the servitor’s agonized chorus. 

            In the moments before the emergency power systems kick in and the bridge is illuminated in red lighting, Honorius swears that he can hear faint laughter in the distance. 

My best wishes for a swift end to your troubles Tarvek.

 

Wouldn't want your talent going stale on us!

 

MR.

 

Thank you! I very much appreciate it. I expect progress to be somewhat sporadic, but existent nonetheless! 

Edited July 14, 2020 by Tarvek Val

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Excellent work. I presume your story is set just before the Horus Heresy, and the World Eaters and Word Bearers' treachery has yet to be revealed?

In eleven identical chambers across the Child of Monarchia, the very same ritual is being repeated by his brothers.

Eleven is the holy number of Malal/Malice. Is Shael-Har sworn to Malal/Malice?

[Tarvek Val]

Yes, this tale is set at the start of the Shadow Crusade. As for the number eleven, I had meant the sentence to infer that there were eleven additional chambers, and have changed it read accordingly. As one of the first Gal Vorbak, I haven't yet decided which patron power Shael-Har will follow, or whether he will be sworn to Chaos Undivided — thanks for bringing that up.

[Tarvek Val]

Part III: Blackened Hearts

Ulskar

 

            Ulskar paces the tight confines of the Blackened Heart’s bridge, stalking back and forth amongst the different command centers and data-pits. Fleet-captain Malain eyes the Astartes warily but keeps the majority of his focus on his mortal crewmembers. The Ultramarines vessels are close enough that their signatures have materialized on the ship’s augur display, flashing across the screen as four pinpricks of red-rimmed darkness. Curiously enough, none of the vessels are in motion — each returning data scan reveals that the vessels have dispersed themselves well short of the agreed-upon rendezvous point, with the fast cruiser Shield of Sanctity in the forefront of the unorganized formation.

            ‘Shipmaster,’ Ulskar barks, ‘why have they stopped?’

            Malain looks at the latest augur reading, confusion written across his face.

            ‘I have not the slightest clue, Captain. It makes no sense for the Ultramarines to have abandoned formation, nor for their fastest ship to be left alone at the head of their formation with no hope of support from either of the destroyer escorts. Either they are incompetent, or something we cannot see is preventing them from moving onwards.’

            Ulskar accepts the fleet-captain’s non-explanation with a brusque nod. Whatever the reason for their inactivity, the fleet of combined World Eater and Word Bearer vessels will make swift work of the Ultramarines fleet. For each vessel in the blue, gold, and white of the Ultramarines, there are three coated in layers of crimson, scarlet, white, and sable.

            As if summoned by the World Eater’s foul mood, an insistent chiming heralds an attempted vox-communication from the Spirit of Monarchia. Before the unfortunate communications officer can even open his mouth, Ulskar snarls at him to establish the link. For the second time, Rembrial becomes present on the Blackened Heart. 

            ‘Do you like what you see before you?’

            The cryptic question only serves to irritate Ulskar further. He is a warrior, a reaper of souls upon the battlefield. The Word Bearer’s enigmatic questions and devotion to his so-called ‘symphony’ grate upon his nerves at the best of times, and the moments leading up to a battlefield are never pleasant. Ulskar feels the Nails kicking, biting at the back of his skull and bringing with them a headache of truly titanic proportions.

            ‘What, are you, referencing,’ he manages to growl the words through a clenched jaw as his brain fights the rage swelling within.

            ‘Come now,’ the Word Bearer replies, ‘surely you don’t believe that the ever-timely Ultramarines would willingly abandon the rendezvous point and allow their ships to drift aimlessly in the void?’

            So it was some form of trickery, Ulskar thinks, I suppose Rembrial’s rituals and choir practice have some merit after all. It doesn’t make him like the Word Bearer any more, but perhaps there is some truth to what the warrior-priest has claimed about the new gods he reveres.

            ‘It makes things easier on us if they are out of formation,’ he allows.

            ‘Oh, it’s even better than that, Captain,’ Rembrial laughs, ‘their power systems and scanners are offline as well. They are truly dead in the void.’

            ‘Their weapons?’

            ‘Functional,’ the Word Bearer allows, ‘but without targeting systems and fire controls they are firing blind — for all the good it will do them.’

            ‘So we just core the ships with lance fire and broadsides and move on to the planet itself,’ Ulskar surmises.

            ‘No.’

            Ulskar frowns. It would be simple enough to eliminate four disabled vessels with ease and efficiency. He doesn’t know what Rembrial is planning, but something tells him he will not like what the Word Bearer reveals. 

            ‘The destroyers and Triton-class are worthless. We will tear their iron spines out and leave them bleeding in the void. However. I want that command ship.’

            ‘Simple, then,’ Ulskar grunts, ‘send boarding parties over and take it.’

            ‘You misunderstand. I want your warriors to take it for me, while my men prepare for the next stage of the incursion.’

            ‘Why should I waste the lives of my men on such a fool’s endeavor? We should kill the ship while it is defenseless.’

            Rembrial glances away for a moment, as a robed mortal appears briefly at the edge of the hololithic projection to deliver a report to his lord.

            ‘I never expected a son of Angron to back down from a good fight.’

            The words are spoken carefully and without emotion, yet Ulskar can feel the challenge exuding from the other warrior’s aura. The Ultramarines fleet grows ever closer on the augur display. If he looks out the bay window, Ulskar surmises that he might be able to make out the faint flicker of distress lights blinking along the hull of the lead vessel. It would be easy to order Malain to direct the fire of the World Eaters’ ships into each vessel in turn, peeling open their metal skin to allow the void to grasp the unwitting victims inside. He can prove to the Word Bearer, for once and for all, that he is in no positions to give commands in that arrogant, calm manner of his. 

            Instead, Ulskar curses in the native tongue of his home world, and blink-clinks a vox-link inside his helmet. 

            ‘Varkh.’

            It takes several seconds for the other World Eater to respond, and when he does so, his voice heaves as if he is in the midst of a fierce conflict.

            ‘Captain Ulskar.’

            ‘I need you to prepare a boarding party. We’re sending you over to the Spirit of Honour.’

            The other warrior’s confusion is manifest in his reply, but he acknowledges the order nonetheless and the vox-link is severed. Rembrial’s hologram stands by patiently, his bare face showing the same enigmatic half-smile that always graces his thin lips. Ulskar studiously ignores him for a moment, instead ordering his fleet-captain to make a close pass by the first Ultramarines vessel. The Shield of Sanctity grows ever closer, until the faint outline of its shape is visible against the backdrop of stars and nebulae. 

            ‘All batteries stand ready,’ Malain orders in a clipped tone, ‘void shields at full.’

            ‘All batteries armed and ready, sir!’

            ‘Shields at full, aye.’

            The Blackened Heart turns in the void, altering its course so as to bring it past the other vessel at a perfect parallel. The other vessels of the combined fleet race to catch up with it, but Malain’s warship will earn the first kill of the conflict by itself. Malain waits until the angles are perfect and the stricken cruiser is perfectly in place, and then — ‘fire!’

            The Blackened Heart shakes with the fierce recoil of its first barrage. A cloud of macrocannon shells sail serenely across the gulf dividing the two vessels, until they hit home. The impacts tear through the lightly armored cruiser, ripping gashes in its outer hull armor and detonating within its metal skin. Ulskar imagines the panic and fear in the mortal crewmembers aboard as their ship quickly becomes a coffin, venting oxygen and plasma from the rents in its hull.

            ‘Batteries ready,’ calls Malain, and again he is answered by his crew.

            The second broadside finishes what the first started — the Shield of Sanctity lists towards its killer, the inner decks of the stricken vessel lit up with plasma detonations and hull fires. The latter flicker and die out as the ship’s oxygen levels drop, but the explosions grow in frequency and intensity as the ship’s integrity fails. 

            ‘Good kill, fleet-captain,’ Ulskar growls, before turning back to the vox-projection, ‘and as for you, we will get you your prize.’

            Rembrial nods a split second before Ulskar orders the communication terminated.

            ‘Come about to a new heading, Malain. Leave the Cobras to the rest of the fleet and prepare boarding pods. We’re taking the command vessel — and someone get Varkh and the others out of the fighting pits and into the embarkation bays.’

            Its bloodlust sated for the moment, the Blackened Heart makes a wide turn past the guttering wreckage of the Shield of Sanctity. The next victim awaits.

 

Varkh

 

            Varkh grunts as the gladius cuts across the bare flesh of his right arm, drawing blood and a snarled curse at nearly the same time. Dereskh dances backwards before Varkh can answer the bloody cut in kind, the other World Eater’s eyes glazed over by the bite of the Nails. The two Astartes stand within one of the Blackened Heart’s many fighting pits, the blood-soaked spaces reminiscent of the original arenas of Nuceria. This arena takes the appearance of a desert-scape: the metal decking is covered over by a fine layer of sands and silts, rocks are interspersed at random intervals, and even a few stilted desert trees have grown upwards from patches of sandy soil. True to its name, the pit itself is walled in, and a host of World Eaters look on from above. Shouts of encouragement, roars of bloodlust, and curses echo about the space with spontaneous frequency. 

            Dereskh vanishes behind one of the stunted trees, flicking the blood from his blade as he disappears from Varkh’s view for a moment. Varkh follows cautiously, his chainsword clenched tightly in his right fist. As he comes around the obstacle, Dereskh charges forwards with a roar of fury, bull rushing Varkh back into the tree. The slender growth is no match for the mass of two Astartes, and it cracks under their weight, sending the warriors tumbling into the sand. Dereskh smashes a fist into Varkh’s jaw, sending stars spiraling across the latter’s vision. Varkh growls, catching Dereskh with an elbow to the nose in retaliation. As Dereskh reels backwards, blood spaying across the sand in a fine mist, Varkh presses the advantage. He pistons a fist into his opponent’s throat, once, twice, three times. His chainsword idles in his hand — the bout will last until one of the warriors cannot fight on, but he doesn’t wish to kill his brother.

            Dereskh has no such reservations, lashing blindly with his gladius at the space where Varkh ought to be. He cannot see through the film of blood covering his face, and Varkh sidesteps easily. Ramming the hilt of his chainsword into his brother’s gut, he steps back and allows Dereskh to sink to his knees. 

            ‘We’re done here,’ he manages.

            ‘More,’ Dereskh snarls, ‘more blood!’

            Varkh seriously considers his brother’s request, before shaking his head.

            ‘You lasted longer than usual, but don’t push it.’

            Varkh stomps to the stairwell leading to the viewing platform where his brothers are waiting. He wipes the blood and sweat off of his bare skin as he walks. Eydros Torbek clasps his forearm as he steps onto the top deck, the other warrior clad in full Mark III armor. 

            ‘A good bout. Was the chainsword to the gut really necessary though?’

            Varkh scoffs.

            ‘Dereskh tried to cut my bloody head off, I’d say he got off easily enough.’

            Torbek chuckles, acknowledging the point.

            ‘The captain has been trying to reach you for the last few minutes,’ he adds belatedly, ‘and he’s mad about something.’

            Varkh reaches for his helmet, which he had left sitting on a weapons rack behind Torbek. A pair of twin-mantles sweep up from the helmet’s crown. The symbols of the caedere remissum are covered in white-and-blue stripes running haphazardly across the raised icons, the paint scuffed and chipped from decades of conflict. Varkh places the helm over his head, drawing coarse laughter from the other World Eaters at the absurdity of the sight — an Astartes clad only in a ragged loincloth and a battle helm, blood still streaked across his bare torso from his last match in the pits.

            Varkh ignores them, opening the vox-link to his captain.

            ‘Varkh.’

            Varkh grimaces behind his helm — Ulskar is, as Torbek had noted, clearly angry about something. Then again, what World Eater isn’t constantly furious at the universe around him? Varkh acknowledges his captain, careful not to keep the grizzled veteran waiting for his reply. The nature of Ulskar’s ire quickly become clear.

            ‘I need you to prepare a boarding party. We’re sending you over to the Spirit of Honour.’

            Varkh wants to demand a reason for this unexpected order, but a healthy sense of self-preservation kills his questions before they can leave his lips. He grunts his acceptance and the vox-link is abruptly severed. Removing his helmet, Varkh turns to the crowd of warriors about him.

            ‘Brothers,’ he roars, ‘we are called upon. We hunt well this day! Arm yourselves, prepare your blades, head to the embarkation bays. We go to kill the curs of Ultramar!’

            A ragged series of cheers and oaths follows the proclamation, and the World Eaters leave the pit in a discordant flood of white-and-blue armor.

            As an afterthought, Varkh stops Torbek and Dre’ken before they can join the others.

            ‘Go get Dereskh and bring him with you. He’s given me enough of a headache for today.’

Edited July 15, 2020 by Tarvek Val

[Mazer Rackham]

The humours of your Point-of-view characters really 'bleed' through the dialogue, which I envy, because you write it well.

 

I always find the tense you write in very interesting.  Is this a conscious choice or are you going by instinct?

 

I will be very interested to see where this goes!

 

PS, can I get a chainaxe through Rembrial's head?

 

MR.

[Tarvek Val]

Thank you so much for the kind words! I always worry about whether or not my dialogue is "realistic" and "authentic," so I'm glad it helps give the characters some personality.

 

As for the tense, I historically struggled with maintaining one tense through my writing; I would always start out in past / present and inevitably switch between the two at some point. For my last few stories, I've tried out present-tense perspectives and stuck with them — the reader gets the action as it is happening through the POV character's eyes, which I find pretty cool.

 

I honestly don't have Rembrial's arc fully mapped out yet, but you never know what can happen...

[Tarvek Val]

Update: not certain if I'll get the next installment finished today. I have compiled a WIP characters list, which I'll add on to as characters are added. I'll put it in this post in a spoiler box and add it to the original post as well.

 

Dramatis Personae 

 

XII Legion – World Eaters

—   Ulskar: Captain, 65^th Company

—   Varkh: Centurion, formerly the sergeant of 7^th Squad

—   Dereskh: Legionary, 7^th Squad

—   Eydros Torbek: Legionary, 7^th Squad

—   

 

XIII Legion – Ultramarines

—   Tibrus Honorius: “Master of the Void,” commander of the 84^th Defensive Formation

—   

 

XVII Legion – Word Bearers

—   Rembrial, “The Devout”: Captain-Apostle of the 22^nd Grand Company, the Chapter of the Coiled Serpent

—   Shael-Har: Gal Vorbak, 2^nd Company, Chapter of the Coiled Serpent

—   Vierta Kullon: Legionary, 3^rd Company, Chapter of the Coiled Serpent

—   Maldrik: Legionary, 3^rd Company, Chapter of the Coiled Serpent

—   

 

Additional Personnel

—   Norus Malain: fleet-captain of the Blackened Heart

—   Shipmaster Poltan: captain of the Spirit of Honour

—   

 

Warships of the Legions

 

XII Legion – World Eaters

—   Blackened Heart: Indrajit-class heavy cruiser

—   Bane of Cowards: Infernus-class heavy cruiser

—   Decimation: Dominus-class grand cruiser

—   Talons of Hate: Eclipse-class light cruiser

—   Voidmurder: Venom-class destroyer

—   Prince of the Red Sands: Venom-class destroyer

 

 

XIII Legion – Ultramarines

—   Spirit of Honour: Eclipse-class cruiser

—   Shield of Sanctity: Triton-class cruiser

—   Fierce Judgement: Cobra-class destroyer

—   Writ of Intent: Cobra-class destroyer

 

XVII Legion – Word Bearers

—   Child of Monarchia: Retribution-class battlecruiser

—   Chastity of Truth: Vengeance-class grand cruiser

—   Pierce the Veil: Infernus-class heavy cruiser

—   Seventh Star: Hoplon-class assault cruiser

—   Fall of Empires: Venom-class destroyer

—   Shattered Link: Venom-class destroyer

 

Note: as I was going through the list of warships, it seems likely that I will retroactively add some vessels to the Word Bearers / World Eaters fleet. The number of escort vessels seems to be too low at the moment.

[Tarvek Val]

Part IV: Dance of Discord

Tibrus Honorius

 

            Honorius stares in disbelief, watching the pretty red and gold patterns blossom before him in the vastness of the void. Fireflies twinkle brightly amidst the curtain of stars, bursting into life and flickering out just as swiftly. He is the veteran of a hundred ship-bound battles, and he can recognize the sight of a warship dying even with the Spirit of Honour’s electrical systems disabled. Poltan is likewise entranced, gazing out of the starport with his mouth agape. For once, Honorius can find nothing to mock in his shipmaster’s expression. The mortal’s face reflects the horror that Honorius feels within his soul. Something has gone terribly wrong.

            ‘Shipmaster?’

            Poltan doesn’t respond, shock and fear getting the best of him for a moment. Honorius grabs the man’s shoulders in a firm grip, spinning him around to face the Astartes. Some of the fear vanishes from Poltan’s expression, and he unconsciously clears his throat as he regains some measure of his former composure.

            ‘Shipmaster. What is happening out there?’

            ‘I don’t know for certain but,’ and here Poltan swallows shakily, ‘that was most likely the Shield of Sanctity. Our last augur report indicates that they were at the head of our formation, and those explosions are coming from a position near where they ought to have been.’

            Honorius nods slowly, his mind racing with possibilities. Is it the greenskins? The majority of the XIII Legion’s warships were sent to meet the fleets of the Word Bearers and World Eaters at the Calth muster — could an element of the greenskin armada have skirted the muster to attack the less-protected worlds of Ultramar? Have Honorius’s ships been sabotaged? Worse, have all the ships in the area been the victim of some sort of EMP assault? Perhaps the incoming ships of the Word Bearers and World Eaters were impacted as well, and they targeted the Shield of Sanctity by mistake? Honorius cannot decide which practical scenario is more likely, nor which one he hopes has occurred. 

            ‘Do we have power, shipmaster?’

            Poltan shakes his head miserably.

            ‘We have guns, Lord Honorius. No overall fire control system, no engine power, and void shields are running at the level they were prior to the… systems failure.’

            So shields are barely powered up, is what the shipmaster doesn’t say, yet Honorius accepts the unspoken rebuke with a grave nod of his head.

            ‘Does the shipboard vox still function?’

            ‘Aye, Lord Honorius.’

            That’s something, Honorius thinks as he gets on the vox-system, ‘all Astartes and Imperial armsmen, we may come under attack soon by forces unknown. Stay calm and move to your assigned section with all haste. Prepare to repel boarders.’

            Honorius blink-clicks open a link to the members of his command squad, summoning them to the bridge. Whatever happened to the Shield of Sanctity may well befall us. We may die defenseless in the void — but if we are indeed under attack and the enemy decides to test us, they will find foes full of courage and honor waiting for them. I have been assigned to defend the worlds of Ultramar, and will do so with pride until my dying breath. 

 

 

 

Varkh

 

            The Bloodletter shakes violently, the small vessel’s thruster bank burning at its maximum capacity. To the naked eye of even an Astartes, the Caestus Assault Ram would be invisible, lost among the vastness of its backdrop. The interior of the vessel is crammed to its full capacity — Varkh and nine of his brothers are packed into the boarding vessel like sardines in a can. They represent one of ten boarding squads launched from the embarkation bays of the Blackened Heart. Though this represents a mere portion of the Blackened Heart’s Astartes’ contingent, Varkh (and by extension Ulskar) is confident in their ability to take control of the primary systems of the enemy vessel. Each of the Astartes is strapped to his seat by means of a series of harnesses and straps; the assault ram, as its name suggests, is made to impact with its target at maximum speed. Even an Astartes would be unable to withstand such a cataclysmic impact. If the unsupported warrior were lucky, he would be hurled about the cabin like an errant missile, shattering bones and limbs with abandon. If he were unlucky, he would be crushed to a red paste against the vessel’s firm walls.  

           Glancing about the interior of the assault ram, Varkh observes his brothers in various states of readiness. Eydros Torbek, Kallan Korva, Vlayen, and Aydross already have their helms on, their blades and bolt weapons mag-locked to their hips. Torbek offers a respectful nod to his centurion as the latter’s gaze falls upon him. The four warriors are clad in a mix of Mark III and IV armor, the icon hammer-and-blade icon of the 65^th Company featured upon their shoulder pads and vambraces.

           Dereskh sits at the far corner of the vessel, as far away from his brothers as possible; neither he nor the other Astartes are upset by his voluntary distancing. Dereskh hunches over, lips twitching as he mutters some arcane mantra to himself. The warrior’s blue-and-white Mark III armor bears the scars of dozens of battles, the joints wheezing with unrepaired hydraulics and damaged servos. Rusted chains dangle about Dereskh’s waist, cruel metal prongs at the end of the chains serving to impale a variety of skulls: ork, arachnid, human. The last artificer to offer to repair Dereskh’s damaged armor quickly found his skull added to Dereskh’s collection — his armor has gone untended to in the years since. 

           Sorska sits to Varkh’s left, the Apothecary armored in a suit of modified Mark IV armor to allow him to bring his medical tools to the heart of any battlefield. The narthecium encasing his left fist is stained rust-red from previous usage, and the Apothecary’s helm hangs loosely at his right hip. His unscarred face appears youthful, but his pale grey eyes betray his years of experience fighting the False Emperor’s wars. He salutes his centurion, crashing his fist twice against his breastplate. 

           The sound disturbs the Astartes seated to his left, who looks up with annoyance flashing in his eyes for a moment. Vaen’kar is also helmless, his pale face framed by greasy locks of stringy brown hair. Like Dereskh, his armor is festooned with trophies from past battlefields — strips of flayed skin and severed human hands are nailed to his shoulder plates, the phantom limbs set to ghastly motion with the warrior’s movements. Vaen’kar fingers are wrapped tightly around the hilt of his chain-glaive, the deadly weapon resting on the floor between his legs. Sorska rolls his eyes at Varkh and gives a bloodthirsty grin, unperturbed by Vaen’kar’s ire. 

           The final two warriors of Varkh’s detachment are seated across from one another, identical faces hidden behind the visors of their battlehelms. Kyell’nos and Kyell’van, the Twins, sit in silence, violence contained in the stillness of their muscles and seeming nonchalance. Varkh gives an approving nod. His squad, while unorthodox in their formation and shackled by the instability of some of its members, remains a force to be reckoned with upon the battlefield. 

            ‘Impact imminent. Thirty second warning. Impact imminent.’

           The droning voice of the ram’s pilot-servitor fills the cabin. By the timbre of its voice, Varkh guesses that the servitor had once been a woman. He reaches down to grab his helmet, taking a moment to admire the curving horns arcing up from the sides of the helm. The horns of the caedere remissum are Varkh’s by right, earned by his ascension to the rank of centurion upon the battlefield of… of… somewhere. It hardly matters now. The past is gone, dead, along with Varkh’s previous allegiance to the Emperor. He serves the Red Angel with pride now.

           ‘Helms on,’ he growls, ‘I’d hate to see Dereskh’s brains splattered all about, though it would surely make an easy clean-up for the servitors later.’

           Several of the warriors chuckle. Dereskh studiously ignores the barbed remark, though he grudgingly dons his helmet nonetheless. With his helm on, Varkh hears the voices of several of his brothers over the inter-squad vox. Vaen’kar and Dereskh offer prayers and promises of bloodshed, Torbek banters with Sorska over which Astartes of 7^th Squad will be the first to down one of the XIII Legion, and the Twins utter their customary war chant in perfect synch. 

           ‘Ten second warning.’

           The ram’s engines shift in pitch, growing to a furious growl as the vessel makes the last-second adjustments necessary to avoid shattering the craft against the rigid hull of the Spirit of Honour. The prayers, curses, and banter across the squad vox grows in strength and intensity as the vessel makes its final approach.

           ‘Brace yourselves. Twins, you’re out first. Kill everything you come across. For the Twelfth,’ Varkh barks.

            ‘Five, four, three, two, one.’

           The ram collides with the larger ship with a deafening boom of impact. Despite the restraints, Varkh is thrown forwards, bouncing off the straps and slamming back into his seat with a crash of armor plates. His brothers are likewise impacted, flung about in their seats by the violence of the impact. Varkh is pleased to note that all of the restraints hold this time. He had liked Rendrekk well enough — it was a shame when his restraint sleeve had snapped pre-emptively on the last deployment. 

            The abrupt silence in the cabin is broken by the sound of the ram’s breaching tools firing up. As the ram begins to penetrate the Spirit of Honour’s outer armor layers, Varkh’s fingers clench unconsciously around the hilt of the chainsword at his waist. The Nails have begun to kick, woken by the violent ship-on-ship impact, and he knows that bloodshed will soon follow.

 

 

Kalebb Vestenson

 

            Kalebb clutches his shotgun close to his chest. He has served aboard the Spirit of Honour as an Imperial armsman for three standard Terran years, volunteering for the position upon his sixteenth birthday. He had wanted to leave his boring life as a machine-shop worker and see the stars for himself, serving alongside the proud Astartes of the Ultramarines. He had not imagined actually needing to defend the ship he was assigned to, and his thoughts race. The voice of Lord Honorius had rung out across the ship’s corridors an hour ago, calling Kalebb and his comrades to their assigned defensive positions. Sergeant Tocho offers Kalebb a reassuring smile, the older man reaching out to squeeze Kalebb’s arm.

            ‘Relax, lad. It’s likely that this is just some kinda weird electrical issue, nothin’ to worry about I’m sure. Besides, there are no less than five squads of Ultramarines onboard. They ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to us, I’m sure.’

            Kalebb nods, trying to force a smile onto his face, but it just won’t come. Despite Tocho’s words, something definitely feels wrong. When the corridor Kalebb’s squad is guarding rings with a deep boom that bounces about for several seconds after the first impact, Kalebb feels almost vindicated in his earlier paranoia. He squares up, raising his shotgun as Tocho taught him. His comrades ready their weapons, discipline allowing them to overcome their fear and uneasiness. 

            For several minutes, the corridor echoes with a series of deep bangs and cracks. After the third series of crashes, the sounds abruptly stop, and Kalebb relaxes his grip on his gun. Maybe there is nothing wrong after all. He smells smoke, and frowns. When did the corridor get so full of dark, grey smoke? 

            Tocho whispers something under his breath. Had it not been forbidden, Kalebb might have thought that the sergeant had whispered a prayer to the Emperor. Surely, though, he is mistaken. But when Kalebb sees what is coming through the cloud of smoke towards him, he forgets about the sergeant and his blasphemy entirely. He tries to raise his shotgun to his shoulder, but his trembling fingers lose their grip on the weapon and it falls to the ground, forgotten instantly. 

            Kalebb opens his mouth, to say the last two words he’ll ever speak. He makes it through the first word – ‘oh f—’ – before the roar of chainblades and vox-augmented warcries drowns him out. A chainsword rips through his torso, splattering the walls with blood and entrails. The Astartes wielding the blade rips it out with casual ease, stepping over Kalebb with careless contempt. Kalebb clutches his belly, futilely attempting to stem the flow of blood painting the deck red. He watches the Astartes close in on Tocho. The older man shouts his defiance, pumping a pair of solid slugs into the Astartes’s chest before he is torn nearly in half by the roaring blade. 

            The other members of the armsmen squad last scant seconds longer, blasted by bolt rounds and annihilated by chain-weapons and power fists. Kalebb is quickly the last arsman alive in the corridor. He tries to drag himself down the hallway, but his fingers slip on the slick, blood-drenched deck. He sees one of the Astartes approaching, a different one than the one that had stabbed him earlier. This warrior’s armor is festooned with skulls, and as Kalebb makes out the knife in the warrior’s left hand his fear increases. He doubles his efforts to escape, as the warrior’s mocking laughter chases him. He doesn’t escape, and his journey to see the stars ends as quickly as it had begun.

Edited July 15, 2020 by Tarvek Val

[Wrath of Bruinen]

Excellent work, I read all four parts in one sitting, which speaks to its brilliant pacing and engrossing story

 

Looking forward to more!

[Tarvek Val]

That's great to hear, I'm glad you've enjoyed the story so far! I'm really enjoying writing this piece and exploring the Shadow Crusade. The next installment will be up tomorrow or Saturday most likely. 

[Tarvek Val]

Part V: Bared Fangs

Varkh

 

            Varkh’s chainsword revs throatily, the weapon kicking in his fist as if the blade hungers for its next victim. The narrow walls of the Spirit of Honour’s corridor have been painted a sloppy red, as if by the paintbrush of some mad remembrancer. The dismembered bodies of Imperial armsmen are scattered across the hallway, limbs and entrails splattered about with abandon. One of the armsmen still lives somehow. Varkh notes dispassionately that it is the first soldier he had come across after disembarking from the Bloodletter. The man drags himself across the blood-slick deck with his left hand, the right dangling limply at his side. Dereskh stalks after him, slowly drawing a serrated knife from a sheath hidden at his waist as he follows the dying soldier. 

            ‘Blood,’ the half-mad Astartes hisses, ‘skulls and souls. Souls, skulls for murder.’

            Varkh tries to stifle his irritation — Dereskh’s battle-rage and desire to collect battlefield trophies gives the Ultramarines and armsmen additional time, time they can use to fortify their positions and inflict heavier casualties on the boarding parties.

            ‘Make it quick, brother, or we leave you here,’ Varkh warns Dereskh over a private commlink.

            Dereskh ignores the order, obsessively sawing his knife back and forth across the armsman’s throat as the latter dies a messing death, blood spurting across Dereskh’s gauntlets and the adjacent wall panels. His task accomplished, Dereskh impales his gory trophy upon on of the empty hooks dangling from his armor.

            As he looks on, a hiss of static alerts Varkh to a private communications request from another of his brothers. He blink-clicks to accept the conversation.

            ‘What is wrong with him?’

            Eydros Torbek cannot hide the disgust in his voice. Like Varkh and any other World Eater, Torbek is an angel of red death and decimation upon the battlefield. The streaks of blood painting his warplate after the encounter with the armsmen attest to his efficiency as a warrior. For all that, he deals death with quick, merciless strikes of his chainaxe and precise shots from his bolt pistol. He rarely makes his foes suffer a prolonged demise, preferring instead to find another opponent as quickly as possible to drown out the singing of the Nails in his skull.

            To some extent, Varkh shares his brother’s unease. He has fought for the Legion since its earliest days, and has seen the depths of savagery that his brothers are capable of once they are unleashed. More and more warriors are becoming like Dereskh and Vaen’kar, dishonorable killers that exist only to inflict pain and suffering upon their victims. But even so…

            ‘He is changing, Torbek. You and I both see it, the bloodlust taking control of his heart as much as it powers his limbs… but we need weapons like him. We need monsters like him, to remind us that we are still more than butchers.’

            Yet even as he speaks the words, Varkh feels the faintest hint of doubt awaken in some forgotten corner of his mind. We are still more than butchers. He doesn’t know if he actually believes his own words anymore. He is saved from further contemplation by Torbek’s terse acknowledgement, and he orders the squad to form up and move down the corridor. For several minutes, they run down the seemingly endless labyrinth of white-painted walls and blast doors. Each immense door yawns open, rendered inoperable without the warship’s electronic systems online. Varkh imagines the panic of the Mechanicum acolytes operating the warship as they lost control of their most vital and delicate systems. The thought of their fear makes a faint smile cross his lips. 

            They encounter a second armsman squad in what the schematics overlaid in Varkh’s helm categorize as ‘Ventral Access Corridor Delta-Seven-Mu.’ The corridor is close to the ship’s bridge — Ulskar entrusted Varkh and his squad with the vital task of securing the ship’s bridge and ensuring the elimination of the vessel’s Ultramarines contingent. These armsmen are better prepared than the first squad Varkh had encountered — they stand ready and, as the Astartes charge into view, open fire with their shotguns. A deluge of solid shell slugs crash into Varkh’s armor. He weathers the storm, gritting his teeth and allowing the projectiles to bounce off his plate as he continues his sprint down the hallway. He sees the sweat streaking the sallow cheeks of the closest armsman, mere seconds before the man’s head explodes into a grisly cloud of bone fragments and brain matter. 

            Varkh reaches the dead soldier’s comrades as they recoil back from the first armsman’s messy death. A swift stroke of his chainsword decapitates the next armsman. Two others focus their fire on him, trying to find a weak spot in his armor. He shrugs the rounds off, cutting one of the irritating mortals from hip to neck with a precise slash of his chainblade. Vlayen kills the other soldier — the Astartes does not even bother using his power fist, but merely lowers his shoulder and cannons into the armsman at full speed. The man is flung bodily across the chamber, ribs and neck crushed by the violent impact. He slams bodily into the wall and slides slowly down to the floor. 

            The Twins fight side-by-side, boarding shields raised to ward off the worst of the incoming projectiles. The bolters attached to the firing slits of their shields reap a crimson harvest upon the lightly armored Imperial soldiers, cutting down a further four men in as few seconds. Vaen’kar corners the remaining three mortals, offering them a brazen salute with his chain-glaive held high in the air. The soldiers maintain formation, even as fear threatens to steal their courage away. They fire until they have no shells left. Vaen’kar soaks up the barrage, his armor whining in protest. When they have no ammunition left, he attacks, chain-glaive tracing a blurring pattern of cuts in the air. 

            The massacre takes precisely seven-point-three seconds, if the chrono ticking in the bottom left corner of Varkh’s helm is to be trusted. Dereskh and Vaen’kar pause to collect trophies from the dead, but Varkh corrals them with a barrage of fierce curses. The bridge is close, and time is of the essence. The Astartes move on, Dereskh and Vaen’kar panting with animalistic rage at the denial of their prizes. As they round yet another right corner, Varkh sees his target at the end of yet another long corridor. The bride’s blast doors are open, a tantalizing prospect to the World Eater. Dead armsmen are scattered across the hall, a clear sign that another squad of World Eaters has passed through the space recently. Varkh feels unease as he makes out several unmoving figures, clad unmistakably in power armor, spread amongst the dozens of dead mortals. A half-dozen of the dead are clad in the battered warplate of the World Eaters, but several others are clad in the blue and gold trim of Ultramar. Even in death, the Ultramarines cut proud figures: blades and bolters clasped in firm death-grips, armor unmarked apart from the frenzied slashes and rending marks of killing blows.

            The corridor is silent, but Varkh remains wary of the seemingly unguarded blast doors set at the end of the corridor. He calls The Twins to take point at the head of the squad, their boarding shields well-equipped to allow them to take the lead as the World Eaters advance on the bridge. Before he can give the order to advance, the deck shakes under the tread of heavy boots as a second squad of World Eaters trots around the corner that Varkh and his brothers had just come around. Their sergeant, Borren, offers a respectful nod to Varkh.

            ‘A lot of killing done here, huh? A shame we were late to the action.’

            Varkh nods, noting the absence of three warriors in the other World Eater’s squad. Clearly, Borren’s squad encountered more than mere armsmen on their march to the bridge. Three of the newcomers carry boarding shields, and Varkh wordlessly gestures to them to take point alongside the Twins. The five Astartes lock their shields and begin to advance as one, synchronizing their steps to minimize the inevitable gaps left in their shield wall. The other World Eaters follow cautiously in their footsteps, waiting for any sign of an ambush. It’s not long before the trap is sprung. As one of Borren’s breacher squad kicks a dead armsman out of his path, a pair of frag grenades wired to the deck under the corpse explodes. The Astartes is not killed, but he is knocked backwards by the blast. A gap opens in the shield wall for a split second, but it is enough. The distinctive rattle of bolter fire explodes to life as a pair of Astartes open fire from behind the blast door, and one of Borren’s squad drops, the victim of a lucky headshot that splits his helm open. The other Astartes of his squad explode into violent life, furious at the death of their comrade. They rush forwards, the trio of shield-carrying breachers amongst them.

            Varkh curses. The Ultramarines had clearly been hoping to provoke his warriors into a reckless attack, minimizing the protection offered by the boarding shields by drawing the World Eaters into close combat. The hiss of a plasma pistol and at least one additional bolter add to the cacophony of gunfire, meaning at least four Ultramarines entrenched just beyond the blast doors. Varkh comes to the only rational conclusion to salvage the rapidly deteriorating conflict.

            ‘World Eaters, attack!’

            With a bloodthirsty roar, Varkh’s warriors surge forwards, following in the path of their headstrong brothers. Varkh finds himself running behind one of Borren’s shield-bearers, the other Astartes slowed up by the cumbersome weight of his equipment. A bolt-round finds the World Eater’s knee by some stroke of fortune, and the warrior loses his grip on his shield as he stumbles. A pair of rounds find his throat and left eye-lens in quick succession, blowing the warrior’s brains out the back of his skull. Varkh curses, realizing that he is about to bear the brunt of the barrage of bolt-rounds. He wraps an arm around the throat of the sagging World Eater and, shoving the warrior’s dead weight in front of him as a barricade, continues his headlong rush down the corridor. 

            Bolt-rounds punch through the dead Astartes’s armor, sending chips of ceramite and bone arcing into Varkh’s gauntlet. He is close enough to make out one of the ambushers now. The Ultramarine is crouched in the shadow of the blast door, bolter panning out beyond the cover of the heavy metal barricade. As the warrior pauses his salvo to reload, Varkh sees his chance to strike. He heaves the dead weight of Borren’s squad-mate away, sending the ruined suit of meat and ceramite crashing bodily into the Ultramarine before he has the chance to finish reloading. Varkh throws himself forward, chainsword hungrily roaring away at the gap between the Ultramarine’s helm and gorget. The Ultramarine’s head clatters noisily away across the deck, and Varkh dimly hears a scream of rage and loss as a fresh set of bolter rounds pounds into his exposed back. By focusing his fire on Varkh to avenge his brother’s death, the second Ultramarine dooms himself. Borren’s surviving breachers round the corner and set upon the legionary with gladius and flaying knife, blades finding the Ultramarine’s throat time and again. 

            A roiling ball of plasma kills one of the breachers before he can even celebrate his kill, burning through his shield and coring his armor. Three Ultramarines remain, spread about the bridge so as to catch the World Eaters in a lethal crossfire. Two hammer out a relentless storm of rounds with their bolters while the third, this one bearing the livery of a captain, fires a plasma pistol. 

            ‘The captain is mine,’ Varkh growls across the inter-squad vox.

            ‘If you beat Borren to him,’ Sorska quips.

            The Apothecary has gained the bridge, using Kyell’nos and his boarding shield as mobile cover. The two work well in tandem — Kyell’nos tosses a frag grenade towards one of the bolter-wielding Ultramarines, forcing the legionary to dive behind a set of instruments for cover. Sorska capitulates on the distraction, rushing the Ultramarine before he can resume his barrage. The drill mounted on his narthecium whines as it powers up, the ceramite-tipped surgical tool punching through the Ultramarine’s breastplate with ease. With mechanical precision, Sorska targets the warrior’s twin hearts before allowing his victim to collapse to the ground. The other Ultramarine is cut nearly in two by Borren’s chainaxe, but not before he manages to cut down the last of Borren’s breachers. Only three of Borren’s squad remain, including the sergeant, and Varkh grits his teeth as all three rush the Ultramarines captain. The captain draws his power sword and lets them come.

 

Tibrus Honorius 

 

            Taylon Arbor’s death rattle echoes across the vox, condemning Honorius in its horror as the Ultramarine dies beneath the chainaxe of the rampaging World Eaters sergeant. Furious tears trail their way down Honorius’s cheeks, hidden below the stern visage of his helm, as his last brother dies. He has no time to mourn, as Arbor’s killer and two other World Eaters charge the command dais that Honorius stands upon. With slow grace, he draws the power sword sheathed at his hip. The blade’s name is Faithful — even now, the irony is particularly striking. The first World Eater comes at Honorius with his chainsword raised high to strike. The blow is easy to dodge, and Honorius elegantly slashes his sword across the exposed flank of his opponent. The World Eater pauses, as if unaware of the cut tearing his body nearly in two, before he slowly crumples to the ground. 

            Honorius’s remaining two opponents learn from the first World Eater’s death, coming at the Master of the Void together with a whirling storm of iron teeth. The sergeant’s chainaxe nearly sweeps Honorius’s head from his shoulders, and as he steps back from the blow, the second warrior’s chainsword scrapes across his breastplate. 

            ‘Do you have no honor, that you must fight three against one?’

            The warriors make no reply, driving forwards with renewed frenzy. Honorius curses the sons of Angron, wishing that the bloody primarch of the War Hounds had never been found and that his Legion had been allowed to continue their bloody slide into oblivion. He backpedals slowly, giving ground before the frenzied attacks of his opponents. He is dimly aware of the presence of many more World Eaters surrounding the dais in a loose semicircle, and wonders why they don’t join the warriors opposing him. They stand silently, weapons held loosely at their sides as they observe the fight. 

            The World Eater with the chainsword overextends, his blade flickering past Honorius’s guard to shatter a command lectern. Honorius strikes back, his blade slicing through the warrior’s wrist. Both hand and chainsword tumble to the floor, and the World Eater staggers back with a muffled curse. The sergeant presses forward, chainaxe whipping past Honorius’s face again. For the first time, the sergeant speaks, casting a glace over his shoulder to one of the World Eaters looking on from below.

            ‘Varkh, curse you, help —’ 

            Honorius takes advantage of his opponent’s moment of distraction, driving his sword from the right eye-lens of the sergeant. The chainaxe clatters to the floor as the sergeant’s fingers relax in death, and the World Eater crashes to the ground as Honorius rips his blade out from the warrior’s skull. Blood steams as it evaporates from the powered edges of the blade. The other World Eater has recovered from his injury and throws himself forward, a gladius clutched in his remaining hand. Honorius snarls as he impales the Astartes upon the tip of his power sword, sliding it smoothly out a moment later. 

            The silence that falls upon the bridge is broken by the slow, rhythmic sound of clapping. One of the remaining World Eaters steps forward from the ring of warriors surrounding the dais, his chainsword sheathed at his hip. The warrior, a centurion by the markings upon his plate, slaps his gauntlets together. Honorius stares at the warrior in bemusement as he applauds Honorius’s victory over his own brothers. 

            ‘Are you all such dishonorable wretches, that you murder your comrades under the flag of truce and brotherhood?’

            Honorius can sense the bloody laugh in the centurion’s reply.

            ‘Aye, I reckon that most of us are.’

            The centurion draws his chainsword and raises it in salute, an action that Honorius refuses to mirror. He readies himself for battle, allowing the centurion to ascend nearly to the top of the dais before launching his attack. Faithfulslashes towards the centurion’s face, but is deflected at the last moment by the whirring teeth of the chainsword. The centurion launches a strike of his own as he crests the dais, lunging forwards with grace unbefitting a warrior of his bloody Legion. With a sinking heart, Honorius realizes that he is outmatched — at peak readiness and without having just fought multiple opponent in quick succession, he may have been a match for the centurion. As weary as he is, it is a struggle to simply stay alive as the World Eater presses his advantage. One strike, then another, and yet another, succeed in getting through Honorius’s guard — the fifth such blow draws blood from a deep cut to Honorius’s left forearm.

             As the World Eater gathers himself to unleash a final series of attacks, Honorius gasps out one final question to the warrior that will surely become his killer.

            ‘Why did you come here to kill us?’

            The centurion’s answer is as simple as it is brutally honest.

            ‘Because I was ordered to.’

            The chainsword flashes crimson in the Spirit of Honour’s emergency lighting, and Honorius falls.

Edited July 19, 2020 by Tarvek Val

[Bjorn Firewalker]

The boarding scene and the resulting battle are well-written.