The Greatest and Oldest of the Phrygian Knights (short-story)

[Wulfburk]

A short-story I felt inclined to write, to set up the background of my ancient macedonia and diadochi inspired homebrew chapter (Phrygian Knights), after feeling inspired by my recent 30k reading, Saturnine, Warhawk, Echoes of Eternity, Sigismund and Rogal Dorn novels.

 

 

THE GREATEST AND OLDEST OF THE PHRYGIAN KNIGHTS

PART I

 

He ran with his aide, escaping their pursuers for a moment. They might find him, but not yet, not yet, he told himself. He still carried the grand prize: The Lamp of the DXLVII Olympiad. All he needed to do was bring it across the mountains. He would still have other trials to finish, oppositions to overcome - like the Ritual of Becoming, but that was years away. For now, he first needed to win the DXLVII Olympiad, and be marked as a prospect. Such was his destiny, he was often told. Again and again the elders of his bloodline, Elimeia, spoke of tales of heroes of old, which had the sole purpose of igniting that ambition within him, and it worked.

 

They had travelled many days without interference, and were near their destination. The end-game, and the end of the Olympiad. His companion was there by Antigono's account, to aid him in his quest. The Olympiad was no place for commoners, not at all: It was where the noble houses of Makedonia tested their mettle, their heirs and children carrying their banners - figuratively speaking. At play was the honour of having one's heir join the Knightly House of Argead, and be destined to greatness. Defeat would mean... Antigonos had never bothered about the effects of defeat, but he knew the stakes were high, his family looking forward to their name being raised in glory. That was why his aide was with him, Antigonos did not want such help, he did not need it. But they made him participate. Not an actual commoner, mind you, for those would not be accepted as a participant by the houses of Makedonia. Instead, his aide was the heir of a petty-dynasty, one that was satisfied in being a pawn to Elimeia. So be it, thought Antigonos.

 

A final sprint to the end, and this would be over. As they picked up the pace, there was shouting - they were not alone. Then they came, at first one, then two, and finally three. Three rivals, and not of any petty-dynasty - not that it mattered: He could run faster than them all. But while doing exactly so, he heard another shout, or rather, a scream, and looked back. Two had taken his aide, who had lost his spear, and would be dead in a minute. Antigonos looked towards the stone marking the finish line, then back to his aide, and then back-and-forth, before finally deciding, and running.

 

He ran, and kicked, and punched, and struck. In the confusion the Lamp was dropped, but that was irrelevant, the three rivals would not be going anywhere. He had already knocked out two, and the third was busy with his aide - not for long, as Antigonos grabbed him and plunged him aside, and killed. As the fighting finished, and his aide slowly got back up, Antigonos finally felt it, and it overwhelmed him: His own injuries.

 

Antigonos fell in pain and agony. Blood ran through his left cheek. He looked up to an arm holding the Lamp of the Olympiad, another extended in his direction, trying in vain to help. Just before he fainted, he noted the worried and apologetic eyes looking down upon him, and Antigonos grinned, coughing blood in the process.

 

PART II

The others had not believed it. None of them, not 'Kubernetes' Stratonike, not the other humans, not his brethren of the VII. To even think that such thing was possible would in itself defeat their vision of Unity. If this was true, then that dream was shattered, never to resurface - that was their thought process, he could see it in their eyes. So better to not believe it. The only issue, of course, was that he did, in fact, believe it. He watched closely as the stranger spoke his tale, and Antigonos simply could not but believe.

 

They were yet at the Phrygian Sub-Sector. For months their Expedition Fleet had attempted to breach the warp, but to no avail. The scale of it, of the Warp Storm blocking off the Sub-Sector from the wider Galaxy, was incomprehensible. Not a ship, not any message or signal, got through, meanwhile all attempts to leave had ended in failure, with significant losses. No news of any kind until now - until a broken vessel of the XIII had arrived in Korengal.

 

And the news brought by that ragged band of Ultramarines were not in any way what they expected, so much so that none believed. It would have been less tragic if it remained at that, but then there were those that did not believe - all the while taking it as a slight against their honour and Primarch. The VII was hardly the sole Legion represented in this long lost expedition, and Antigonos was not the only captain watching the Ultramarine, Hanno was his name, lie - or tell the truth. As all watched Hanno, Antigonos focused instead on his cousins of the XII. Here, a slight twitch; there, a hand moving to a weapon - and he knew what he had to do. As the motor of a chainaxe suddenly burst into activity, Antigonos moved fast, his shield blocking the first blow.

 

PART III

He wiped blood off his mouth, and grunted. The pain was rapidly receding, his body restoring his strength. He grabbed the arm offered to him, and got up. "My mistake, brother", the other said, with an apologetic tone. Indeed, it had been his mistake. The three of them had failed the test because of him. The surviving servitors stopped firing, and a horn sounded. "Again - thirty seconds. Same objective!" repeated a rough voice across the training grounds. Antigonos and his fellow aspirant made their way to the start zone.

 

"You're slowing us down" - said the third aspirant, and not to Antigonos. "I thought the High-Born would be death of us, not you", he added, glancing briefly to Antigonos as he said the words High-Born... High-Born and the One-Eyed, it was all the other aspirants said of Antigonos in mocking, once he was delivered by his family to the VII Legion. Alone among the gangers and criminals, alone as a gift from the noble houses of Makedonia. But it was not meant to be an honour: The houses of Makedonia thought any fate other than becoming a Scion of the Knightly House of Argead to be beneath them. And since Antigonos had failed spectacularly, he was instead disgraced and disowned, sent to a brutal and certain death in the hands of the Legiones Astartes.

 

And he accepted his fate. It was another chance to prove his worth, not to his family - he disowned them as they disowned him - but to himself. And for that, he was glad. In time, the Legion had even replaced his broken left eye with bionics, something his family had refused to do. And he could be part of something bigger, something important. Was that not what was preached by his elders? Was that not the flame burning inside every soul from his homeland? To conquer the stars and see the wonders of the Galaxy, all the while forging unity to last the ages, that was what lied ahead of him.

 

It was just a matter of completing his trials then, and take part in the making of history - or die trying. He liked that simplicity. "Lets stick together, all three of us", Antigonos said to his brothers, and the two nodded, no jests this time, and followed him.

 

PART IV

And they followed her. Three Astartes, three captains, three legions - or whatever was left of them. Imperial Fists, Ultramarines, War Hounds. By now, the civil war in the ranks of her Expeditionary Fleet was over. Spurred by Antigonos, the now-declared War Hounds, together with the 547th Phalanx Warder Company, had humbled those that held tight their denial - so tight that it eventually crept into treason. The survivors would have been executed, if not for Stratonike. Hers was the decision to give them a ship and allowance to leave the Phrygian Sub-Sector, Warp Storm notwithstanding. Their time fighting alongside each other had earned them that much, she thought, and they agreed.

 

Once in their destination, they listened to the full report, and she made her proposal: The Phrygian Sub-Sector abandoned, not a single soul left behind, in one last attempt to breach the suddenly weakened Warp Storm. And they agreed. It had been years since they had let go of attempting to leave. They had stood in Korengal, building defences, preparing the ground, repairing their vessels, recruiting. In other circumstances their actions would have been seen as doing the Emperor's work, conquering and forging an entire Sub-Sector as a neatly-integrated cog within the Imperium's machine. But there was no joy in it. Not this time, not when the Galaxy broke asunder beneath their feet. And now there was a faint beacon of hope in the Warp - and she made up her mind. They had to leave - without ever looking back.

 

PART V

Antigonos relished it, almost giving in to excitement. She could see it. Who knew that an Astartes could enjoy being left behind? Left behind in command of mop-up operations, securing the lines of communications of his Legion and integrating conquered worlds, all the while the VII and their Primarch moved on to the next. There would be no shortage of battles and drama, to be sure. There never was, especially in this campaign. Every conquered world needed almost as much effort spent in subjugating their population - or rather, to make use of the correct term, in making sure they complied to the Imperial Truth - as in destroying their armed forces.

 

For such purposes, brute strength was not always the optimal choice, and there was some nuance to the Imperium's approach. Thus it was a challenge, to achieve compliance in the best possible manner, that Antigonos relished. Stratonike had known him for a while, ever since she took command of her vessel, an Imperial Army cruiser attached to the Imperial Fists. As the Legion moved on in the campaign, Dorn needed at least a shadow of his presence in the rearguard, and so it fell to a handful of his companies to remain with the Imperial Army effecting compliance. Strange odds though, that her vessel was protected by a squad of Phalanx Warders under a Sergeant, a Sergeant that shared her homeworld.

 

It took just their formal introduction in the ship's bridge for them both to realize their common ancestry. A faint similarity in their accents, particular tonal distinctions. "Kubernetes", Antigonos said, and Stratonike understood. Captain, helmsman, pilot. It had been years since she last heard a word in her tongue. In time she grew attached to these Astartes, Antigonos in particular. Their presence was reassuring, and his leadership and strength appreciated - in just a few months, they had defended their ship and herself several times - but they did not talk much, how could you have conversations with a Space Marine, anyway? They were simpletons, she thought - at least initially. But then the remembrancers came, and there was a whole lot of talking. What do you think of this, what do you think of that? What are your feelings regarding this compliance, that battle? And even the Astartes could not escape their inquisitions. Through the remembrancers, then, the human officers got to know their Astartes protectors, and vice-versa. And in time the two spoke, of Makedonia, of the Olympiads, of the body of work of the ancient dramaturgists. They became a symbol of each one's past, one that they did not want to forget, but to comprehend its part in the wider tale. To understand how it had forged them both, and they found common grounds in their aspirations: Empire-builders, the son and daughter of Makedonia.

 

PART VI

But the Empire lies in ruins, burning from within and raided from without. He kept looking outside, his eyes wide open, and he saw. The end of the Imperium, the death of all their ideals, replaced by a never-ending nightmare, Mankind a slave to darkness. That was what he saw. The future? The present? At that moment, in resignation, he hoped for the former, but feared for the latter. Might as well then, to end this suffering, end this now an-

 

The observation ports, suddenly opened, crashed close, and he blinked. The bridge was bursting with noise, alarms and orders. "Antigonos!". He took a deep breath in an attempt to recompose himself. He had gazed dead-center to the Warp, and the Warp gazed back to him. "Antigonos!". A bionic hand touched him, "Antigonos!" - and finally, he turned. Stratonike shouted, not looking at him, firing her weapon across the bridge, defiance in her stance. At that, Antigonos turned, and crashed his shield onto the nearest daemon.

 

An explosion, then a sudden withdraw. They were out. Few within their vessel had survived. But they were out. "We're being hailed!" - said Stratonike, moving across the bridge while dodging the broken bodies of her officers. "Identify Yourself!" came through the vox, and Stratonike glanced to Antigonos for an answer. Antigonos lied still, his thoughts returning to his vision from the Warp. It played just as it had done before. But now he was not in resignation. He would not accept that fate, not while he still drew breath. If the Imperium was in ruins, they would rebuild. If Mankind was a slave, they would liberate - or perish in the attempt. The vision.. the present or the future? To hell with it. It did not matter which - either way he would stand in rebellion with his ideals abreast. But enough of that. They were all waiting for a reply, and he-

 

"I know that voice", someone said, and they turned towards him. Hanno the Ultramarine, a smile of rekindled hope hidden beneath his scars.

 

PART VII

He accepted his fate. A dozen foes lied dead beneath him, but he had not expected that one. One too many, then. He had already done the calculations, thought out all the possibilities, used all his cards. They were not enough. So he accepted his fate. And in that exact instant, less than a second before the projectile fell, he felt sad.... Sad? That surprised him. Why, of all that he could feel, was he... sad? Such a feeling should be below Astartes in moments such as this - Antigonos thought, as if to reassure himself. The projectile was about to fall, but all he could do now was to unravel why he felt sad.

 

An instant later, he realized it. It was all there, always with him. It did not help his odds that he found the reason. The projectile was still coming, and the arm carrying his shield was too slow. He had fallen into a faint, and his death was the outcome. Of course, he was not worried about pain, or what came after - no, not at all. But still, he was sad. Sad that he would not live to behold the Imperium's conquest of the stars, sad that he would not see the time - so close now - when his own kind was not needed any more, when Dorn was a governor more than a commander, when the Phalanx was a monument to heroes of old, rather than a weapon of warriors of today. Such a time felt so close, closer than ever.

 

He had no doubt they would come to pass, no matter the actions of any one individual. That was the gift given by the Emperor to Mankind: Certainty. He was lucky, in a way. Born in the exact time to witness Mankind's unity of the stars, and to be made one of its many agents for that purpose. And even with all that certainty, all that luck, he would not see it, and that saddened him. Sadness brought not by fear of the unknown, or cowardness, but simply by the desire to see these climactic moments unfold, to see history play. Still, it surprised him. This was not the first time he was near death, how could it be, for an Astartes with decades of service? Maybe it had something to do with - ah, yes.. he was sure of it: The upcoming Triumph in Ullanor - it had to be that, he thought. It would mark a new age of the Imperium, and he wanted above all to see it.

 

The projectile struck. There were screams, blood - a lot of blood. Strange, not his own blood - mostly, anyway. And he still stood tall, while his enemy staggered for an instant. He took the chance, and now - gifted the time to bring his own weapon to bare - killed the foe with no theatrics. Then he finally saw her in the ground, bleeding. Her left side was broken, an arm and shoulder gone, and she cough blood. Is that a grin? He thought, and indeed it was, she was grinning, though no doubt seconds away from fainting, so they had to be quick. The enemy assault had been routed, and the ship was being made secure by his brothers. Silence took hold of the bridge, and the wounded were gathered and helped. Antigonos knelt, worried and apologetic eyes looking down on Stratonike as the Apothecary did what he could. He could only think of one thing:

"So this is how it feels".

 

PART VIII

The bridge was ripe with noise, alarms, orders. The near-broken hulk of the ship was shaking from the on-going enemy barrage. Its captain gave the word for all ahead full, and the ship pushed through the void, amidst the greatest battle in the Galaxy. Thousands of vessels surrounded it, and most were titans in comparison. After all, they were on a mere cruiser, shadowed by the Phalanx and other battleships of the VII Legion. Its odds of survival were slim, and no one in that bridge thought otherwise. They were surprised they had even survived this long. They still could not believe that it was Terra... Terra indeed, great, ramsacked Terra, that silently orbited below.

 

"Brace for impact!" someone shouted, and they - humans and mortals all, not an Astartes within the hull - clenched their teeth or shouted aloud. They were not ramming an enemy vessel - what could a mere cruiser do among those titans, anyway? - nor being rammed themselves. But still they knew of their fate, the captain more than the others: The order had come from her voice. But before she even closed her eyes, there was darkness.

 

And then there was brightness. Or at least Antigonos could imagine that something had shined for a moment, and then not any longer. The hulk of the Thunderhawk shaked from an explosion, but the alarms blazing through had gone silent, so that was good. In but a minute, they were deployed inside the enemy hull alongisde many other boarding parties, all coming from the same squadron of Thunderhawks. One ship captured, followed by turning it against their own. In all the stories of that battle, there would be no mention of them, not of the 547th Phalanx Warder Company, not of their capture of that particular enemy vessel: Too small to be accounted for, too close to the Phalanx to be seen as the bringer of doom to the Imperium's enemies, even in the cases where, indeed, it was their vessel that brought down the foe.

 

But that did not matter. At first, what mattered was that they had won. Then, shortly after, what mattered was that they were alive to avenge the catastrophe that they were finally in the known. Fighting for the Emperor and the Imperium, for Sanguinius, for Archamus, Yonnad, and all those that he had known and regarded as leaders, brothers in arms, fathers. But there was another that he would also be fighting for, and it took days for him to be aware of what had befallen her.

That boarding action; That explosion; Those missiles.

 

PART IX

"I am aware", said Rogal Dorn in reply. It was already the tenth expedition ambassador seeking audience in recent days, asking for reinforcements from splinter fleets before the VII Legion made its way towards Terra, answering the Emperor's call. Even so, the last crusade of the VII Legion was in fact a campaign of two near-complete legions, conquering half a thousand star systems, and destroying mighty civilizations. It took months, years, even, and the Phalanx itself was not left unscathed, all the while the other relatively close expeditions dwindled, the lack of legion support slowing their advance. Some were even defeated, broken, routed. Such words could also be used to describe the ambassador's resolve. She knew if her Expedition Fleet did not have reinforcements soon, they would lose their on-going battle.

 

And Dorn was, indeed, aware of their plight. He had already made up his mind, already redistributed several of his forces, slowly shifting the weight of the VII Legion towards Terra, conquering, liberating and assisting in route. This particular Expedition Fleet was significantly away from that general direction, for sure, but it was not an issue. His Astartes would return, be it in a year or a dozen. "I have already sent reinforcements, and they will be arriving in five Terran days", Dorn said while doing several tasks in hand, not looking at the ambassador. The human hesitated, but decided to pry further. She was a captain of a ship, not an ambassador; a soldier, not a messenger. Her bionics made sure she always got that point across. All the more reason she was here, having travelled across the Galaxy, to find the Primarch of the VII and ask for the necessary reinforcements to save her Expedition Fleet, her brethren. "Legiones astartes, Lord?", she asked hopefuly. "Yes, A company has been sent to your Fleet. Phalanx Warders".

On this, her worried expression gave way to a faint smile.

"The 547th Company.. commanded by an old friend, so I'm told".

 

PART X

Antigonos dared to say nothing while Rogal still spoke. "We had dreams once... ages ago, it feels like. What transpired made us anew, but without those dreams we are ghosts, lingering after death in the cold void". Several Imperial Fists lined up in the Temple of Oaths within the Phalanx, with Antigonos ahead of them, and they remained steady, waiting for the scene to unfold. They had been summoned here with no word as to the why, and each one was of a different squad, a handful of companies being represented. "Some of your brothers have been changed this way, a few more than most.. the Templars...", the Primarch said, "and myself", the Primarch added.

 

It did not take long for the Imperial Fists to recognize what sort of summon this was. Each one had been bonded to each other through fire and death and an odyssey to challenge the greatest stories born from the recent tragedies. This was what remained of the 547th Phalanx Warder Company, battered during the Horus Heresy, then splintered during the Second Founding, when its few surviving members were distributed across the Imperial Fist Chapter. And yet, now they were all here again, together, watching their captain of old, Antigonos the One-Eyed, and their Primarch.

 

"But not you, not you few, who have also been through the worst, gazed upon hell and the death of the Galaxy, the death of the Imperium.. and the death of my Father, and yet remained - perhaps not unchanged - but still dreaming of Empire, Unity, Enlightenment". Antigonos could feel the sorrow in Rogal's voice, and he felt instead ashamed. Ashamed that his Primarch recognized that he still dreamt, while other, better sons, Sigismund, Rann, had relinquished their dreams.. if they ever had them in the first place, for the on-going struggle with the enemy - the ARCH-Enemy. Did the fact that Antigonos still dream mean that he did not ever find strength in the Emperor? How could he suffer through those decisive moments, when the Galaxy shattered - the most beloved son of the Emperor, Primarch of the Ninth, dead in the hands of the Arch-Traitor; the Emperor, himself mortally wounded - and still dream of a better future? None did. Not now, not the Imperial Fists, not Rogal Dorn, who worked tirelessly, fighting against the approaching doom, but only as if to forget the past.

 

"I am the one that is ashamed", said Rogal Dorn, as if listening to Antigonos' thoughts. "No matter our tragedies, the Imperium must live, not linger. To grow, and give hope to Mankind, and not just survive... And after what transpired, if it was my sole responsibility, I would fail, and Mankind would perish. Do not be ashamed, my sons. We are the ones that are broken, not any of you".

"And thus I offer my final gift to you all. Preparations have been made for a Third Founding, and you have been chosen. Your mission: To defend and build the Imperium in the old dreams of Unity, lost to me, lost to many others, but not to you. Will you accept?" Antigonos knelt, and every single Astartes present followed him. The moment overwhelmed them, the words of their Primarch touching them deeply, each one contemplating them in their own way, but their response was in union. "Aye".

 

After Dorn said a few more words, and Antigonos swore an oath in the name of the Emperor, his Primarch, and the Last Wall, the newly-made Chapter Master of an yet unnamed Chapter asked a few questions regarding logistics, bureocratics, nothing worthy to be registered or archived. Indeed, the creation of a Chapter was a complex business. But one of his Primarchs' answers changed Antigonos' perspective. "Where shall we be deployed, my Lord?" Antigonos had asked. "A familiar battlefield, my sons", Dorn answered, looking at them.

On this, Antigonos' stoic expression gave way to a faint smile.

"Phrygia".

 

PART XI

 

They had arrived. Skies of blue shined through the bridge of their ship. Later, a lifetime later, he would think of this moment as one of the most pivotal of his life. As the moment that set his path for the rest of the Imperium's days. He would not be mistaken. And yet, at the moment itself, he did not realize or grasp its importance. How could he? They had left the void, just as they had done several times in the past month, and advanced onto a new world to be liberated, annexed, assimilated. The same individuals gathered in the ship's bridge, the same individuals working as one for several years, advancing the Emperor's grasp over humanity's lost civilizations. There was nothing new this time, nothing exceptional to be noted. Stratonike sat at her chair, giving the same orders to her officers that Antigonos had listened a thousand times before, mapping the most important sites to be scouted; settlements to be garrisoned. It was more of the same, dull even.

 

And yet, this dull moment would linger on his mind as a crossroads. And how could it be not? The Expedition Fleet had arrived on Phrygia, and by the time that they had left, Terra-bound once more, the Galaxy had changed. And what remained were the memories of those that he was accompanied with in this Expedition; His stout legionnaires of the 547th Phalanx Warder Company, later joined by brothers of the XII. So many had lost their lives in the following struggle. In the in-fighting once the state of the Galaxy was unravelled beneath their eyes, in attempting to breach the Ruinstorm, in breaking enemy vessels above Terra. And the humans of the fleet, bound to their Astartes' protectors by both necessity and tragedy, a bond that went both ways. Antigonos could not deny it. They were also their brothers and sisters, loyal daughters and sons of the Emperor, fighting for his vision even in these darkest of times. That was what remained. That was the things he remembered. He was both glad that they were not forgotten, and saddened by their remembrance.

 

PART XII

Antigonos sighed, and lowered the chisel and hammer. He was several meters above ground, standing on a wide platform controlled by something, somewhere else, in the room. The platform slowly came to the center. For a moment, Antigonos stared at the words he had carved in the curved surface of the gigantic wall of stone in front of him. His mind raced, and his eyes remained still. Memories came back to the fore, but the years in question were shortened to a few, mesmerizing moments, never to be forgotten, while as if making him forget.

 

He looked up at the words again... "I am a portrait in stone. I was put here by Antigonos the One-Eyed, where I remain forever, the symbol of timeless remembrance", and he allowed them to linger. He thought of Sargeant Alexandros and his courage, the first brother of the chapter to fall in battle, dead in the void even before the Phrygian Knights' founding company had first arrived on Korengal; He remembered the words of farewell from Hanno, as their fleets parted way; He could hear the sounds of battle within the Phalanx during the last moments of the engagement above Terra, when victory was at hand; He thought o-

 

"Are you well, Warder?" Said the Phrygian Knight by his side. Peithon was his name, Silver-Shield of the Fourth Company, a bastion of experience in the newly founded chapter. He had returned to Korengal and to the still unfinished Fortress of Aspetaea, to update the Warder on his company's conquest of the Kilikia System, and report the usefulness of those worlds for the Chapter's growing Phrygian demesne. But now, that could wait. They looked briefly at each other, and Antigonos gave a simple nod. "In time the Stele will be full with the names of our brothers, and our own... brave Alexandros was the first to be lost; The first to be remembered" Peithon said, looking across the Stele as he spoke his thoughts for Antigonos' contemplation, not necessarily waiting for a response.

 

"No". Antigonos replied, and Peithon hesitated, looking back towards his Chapter Master. "Brave Alexandros was not the first", Antigonos added, now looking at the Stele as he laboured, hitting chisel and hammer. Peithon followed Antigonos' writing, reading letter by letter as they were imprinted on the stone with perfection.

As the first word was completed, and Antigonos continued writing, Peithon smiled. He already knew who it was, not in person, not by sight, but by legend.

"Kubernetes"

Edited November 4, 2022 by Wulfburk