Darkness Descends: Vengeance of Elara

[crimsondave]

Darkness Descends:  Vengeance of Elara

 

On the agri-world of Lycia, the air was thick with smoke and the bitter stench of burning crops. The sun was a sullen red orb in a sky marred by the dark flares of war, casting a pall over the devastated landscape. Amidst the chaos of the Word Bearers’ invasion, Captain Kael Vorn of the Night Lords stood with his arms crossed, anger radiating from his very being.  On this dark side of the Great Rift, he had never encountered this level of frustration.

His pale blue skin was mottled with the scars of countless battles, and the eyes that glinted beneath his helm burned with a fierce, predatory hunger. Yet, here on Lycia, that hunger went unquenched. The Word Bearers had unleashed the full fury of Chaos upon the populace, yet instead of the terror he craved, he found only fervor.

“What’s wrong with you?” he spat, directing his ire at a nearby squad of Word Bearers. Their chants and litanies echoed in the air, a cacophony of blasphemy and fervent zeal that was maddeningly misplaced in his eyes. “These people are not quaking in fear. They’re ready to die for their Corpse Emperor!”

“Fear will come,” one of the Word Bearers replied, his voice dripping with fanaticism. “The Dark Gods have plans for this world. The blood will flow, and the true power of Chaos will be revealed.”

Vorn scoffed. “If you believe that, you’re as deluded as these brainwashed sheep. Look at them! They’ve twisted themselves into living sacrifices, dying with fervent prayers on their lips! It’s disgusting.  There are no gods you buffoon.  Without us, the powers wouldn’t even exist.”

As they spoke, Sergeant Tovid approached his Captain.  “My Captain, nothing positive will come from provoking the Word Bearers.  Perhaps we can take some sport in the corpse worshippers we have captured.”  Tovid’s squad had captured a family—a father, mother, teenage son, and their little daughter—who huddled together in the remnants of their home. They had offered no resistance, merely pleading for the Emperor’s mercy with desperate eyes. But mercy was anathema to the Night Lords.

“Bring them forward,” Vorn commanded, his voice cold and sharp. The family was dragged into the clearing, trembling but defiant.

“Denounce the false emperor and you shall receive a quick death.  Perhaps we may even let you live on as our slave, have you any skills of use.” Vorn demanded, staring down the father, whose face was streaked with soot and fear.

“I am Alaric,” the man replied, his voice firm, “and my family serves the Emperor.”

The Captain could only sneer. “We’ll see how well your faith holds up.”

The Night Lords set upon the family with practiced brutality, torturing them for their beliefs. The father endured each agonizing moment without surrendering, declaring his love for the Emperor even as his body was broken. The mother followed suit, her cries turning to chants of devotion as blood pooled around her. The teenage boy was no different, fighting back tears to scream his allegiance until his throat was silenced forever.

Vorn felt a surge of rage building within him. How could these people endure such suffering without breaking? They were supposed to break, to plead for mercy, to beg for the release of death. Instead, they embraced it.

Finally, they turned their attention to the little girl, no older than ten, who had watched the horrific scene unfold with wide eyes. Vorn removed his helm and knelt before her, his face close enough that she could see the jagged scars that checkered his skin. He could smell her fear, yet it tasted different—more like determination than terror.

“You see what lies before you, child,” he stated, his voice low and sinister. “Will you spare yourself the pain?  Deny your Imperium and your dead god.”

She trembled but did not cry. “I am Elara, daughter of Alaric,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

Vorn felt a spark of interest. “Why should I care what the name of a corpse worshiper like you is?”

“Because,” she said, a flicker of defiance shining in her innocent eyes, “I want you to remember me when the Emperor takes his vengeance upon you.”

Vorn’s blood boiled with rage.  “No more games!  You will know the meaning of fear!”  The Night Lords descended upon her ripping Elara to pieces, each hack offering only a fleeting sense of power as her blood stained the ground.  No amount of hacking or mutilation brought true satisfaction.  Her death, like all the others, brought no satisfaction to the Night Lords.  Angrily, Vorn opened a comms channel.  “Voice of Lorgar, Zone Delta is secure.”

 

Lycia had been transformed into a cauldron of despair. The once peaceful fields of golden crops now burned under the ruinous assault of the Word Bearers. The skies were dark with the thick smoke of blazing farmland and the buzzing swarm of Chaos transports and attack craft. Daemon engines prowled the countryside, while twisted Word Bearers chanted their profane litanies, reveling in the carnage they spread.

On the bridge of the battle barge Voice of Lorgar, the towering form of Daemon Prince Drakthar Volkaroth loomed over his cowering crew. His skin was an ashen grey, twisted and stretched by his transformation. His eyes blazed with a sickly yellow light, and his voice was a guttural snarl, dripping with malice.

“Report,” he growled, staring down at his helmsman, a twisted figure cloaked in tattered robes adorned with the dark symbols of Chaos.

“The planet’s defenses have fallen, my lord,” the helmsman stammered, averting his eyes from his master. “The Imperial Guard regiments have been routed, and resistance is minimal. Lycia shall be consecrated in the name of the Dark Gods by nightfall.”

Drakthar sneered, his fanged maw curling in a mocking smile. “Weak, feeble mortals. They crumble like ash before us.”

Suddenly, a shrill alarm cut through the darkened bridge. The helmsman’s fingers danced over the runic controls, his eyes wide. “My lord,” he whispered, “we’re detecting an incoming fleet… it’s emerging from the warp… close to the planet.”

Drakthar’s laughter echoed through the chamber, a chilling sound that reverberated off the iron walls. “The Imperium lacks the strength, or the audacity, to attempt such a risky translation. This must be some deluded Chaos faction hoping to share in our spoils.”

The helmsman’s face grew pale. His voice trembled as he replied, “My lord… it is no small fleet. There are… hundreds of vessels. No… it’s… over a thousand!”

Drakthar’s mocking grin faltered. A thousand ships was an unprecedented force. Perhaps… no, surely it had to be Abaddon. Only the Warmaster himself would command such an armada.

“Fix auspex and amplify!” Drakthar barked, his confidence wavering as the helmsman’s expression grew more alarmed.

The helmsman’s fingers shook over the control panel. “My lord… they bear… Imperial signatures.”

A shocked silence fell over the bridge. The notion was absurd; no Imperial fleet could assemble in such numbers on this side of the Rift, much less emerge from the warp so close to a planet. Drakthar felt a creeping unease, a feeling alien to his daemonic senses.

The helmsman stammered, “One of the ships… it’s a Gloriana-class!”

“Identify!” Drakthar shouted.

“It’s…………………..The Invincible Reason.”

Drakthar’s eyes widened. His voice, for the first time, held a tremor of fear. “Oh… s**t!”

The helmsman’s scream shattered concentration. “They’re firing lances!”

A blinding white light filled the bridge as the beams tore through the Voice of Lorgar’s shields and punched into its hull. Explosions ripped through the ship, and Drakthar’s roar of rage and fear was silenced in an instant as the bridge was engulfed in fire.

 

In the cavernous assault bay of the Invincible Reason, thousands of Space Marines stood in perfect silence. Different colors and symbols adorned them as they were drawn from the noble ranks of the Dark Angels and their many successor chapters, an assembled force of unbreakable steel and unyielding spirit. At the head of this formidable host stood Lion El’Jonson, towering and indomitable. His black armor glinted under the bay lights, his presence commanding awe and absolute loyalty.

Beside him stood Asmodai, the Chaplain’s face a mask of stoic resolve, his skull helm clutched at his side. The silence of the assembled warriors was not borne of hesitation, but of solemn anticipation.

A comm alert chirped to life at the Lion’s side. Belial’s voice crackled through the speakers, steady and sure. “My lord, the battle barge’s shields are down. The boarding parties stand ready.”

The Lion’s response was as calm and direct as his gaze. “Deploy the Deathwing.”

“Yes, my lord.” There was a pause, then the fierce roar of the Deathwing filled the comms. “For the Lion!”

As silence returned to the assault bay, the Lion’s countenance grew stern.  Like an alpha predator his eyes fixed ahead of him on nothing that could be seen.  Not yet.

The command station crackled again, and Azrael’s voice, full of reverence and fierce determination, came through. “My lord, all drop pods for all chapters are loaded and awaiting launch.”

The Lion’s eyes narrowed, his tone rich with a sense of impending judgment. “Launch, little brother.”

Azrael’s voice was fierce and proud. “For the Lion!” The rallying cry echoed throughout the bay, and the Space Marines in their pods took up the chant, their voices a thunderous answer to their Primarch’s call.

The silent ranks around the Lion stirred, though they held their disciplined silence. With a quick glance from Asmodai, stoicism returned to the bay with an absolute stillness.  Then, almost as if emerging from shadows themselves, three Watchers in the Dark approached the towering figure of the Lion. One bore his winged helm.  Another carried the Lion’s mighty sword, Fealty, the blade gleaming with the promise of retribution. The final Watcher held aloft the Emperor’s shield, a relic that symbolized unyielding faith and the eternal vigilance of the First born son.

The Lion leaned down, taking the helm from the Watcher, and set it firmly upon his head, locking it into place. As the lock clicked the crimson eye lenses lit casting a faint, malevolent glow, with an aura that was both regal and savage. The Lion then took up Fealty, feeling the weight of the blade that had served him in this new, dark time. Lastly, he accepted the Emperor’s shield, its power field humming to life with a faint crackle.  As the other two watchers walked away, the one who had handed the Lion the Emperor’s shield stayed at his side looking up at the Primarch.  The Lion turned his helmed head down, looking at the Watcher who, in a voice only the Lion could hear, said just one word.

“Elara.”

The Lion simply nodded, giving no indication whether or not he knew what the word meant.  Perhaps he thought it didn’t matter.  The Lion knew why the Emperor made him.  He knew his duty.  

In the air before him, a shimmering portal opened. Through the old forest of Caliban, the path to Lycia had been marked, and he would lead his sons once more to battle.

With a swift motion, the Lion ignited Fealty. The blade sparked to life, its edges ablaze with energy. Without hesitation, he stepped into the portal.

At his side, Asmodai raised his voice, screaming so loudly that it seemed to shake the assault bay.  “First Legion, on the Primarch!”