The Spite Crusade

[Spite]

 

Part I

 

Feed the Horses

 

One

 

Mundane divinity

The too human familiarity of Angels

Survived by

 

i.

 

“At the beginning, in my younger years, I did not think it possible that man alone could change the way of the stars. 

“I thought it the purview of His great Angels, and those iron behemoths shaped in His image. That only they, in His divine power, could reach out their hands and wring from the stars the yokes of their fortunes and bounties and treasures so that Mankind might prosper.

“It wasn’t until Anchreus that I saw just what Man could do. 

“Men, flesh, blood, of tissue and sinew unchanged and unblessed. By their thousands. By the very tide of their bodies, I saw as they stacked one another up, chewed through by bullet and las, they changed fate.

“A rout made into victory by flesh. An unwinnable battle won, because of the bounty of flesh Man had to offer. Castles unassailable, assailed unto ruination, by Man.

“It tore me to my foundations. The sight quite literally drove me to a sort of personal madness, an affliction of the spirit my liege would say. He is like that, both painfully aloof and vague, but blunt unto the point that it borders on rude, even accusatory. 

“You are welcome here, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. The Spite Crusade welcomes all pilgrims. I cannot take you to the lord Spitewielder now, nor his commanders, but I can take you to his knights.

“My dear, are you well? You look rather, I’m sorry, not pale, but a…mauve?”

Acenya Bhabli caught the shoulder of the older man, steadying herself. Translation fatigue, she thought. She could picture the shipboard medicae advising that her new medication would aggravate the symptoms. 

She offered the older man, the appointed liaison who had been awaiting her arrival at the docking hangars aboard the Astartes battle barge The Flail, flagship of the Spite Crusade, and home to the Black Templars crusaders forming its backbone.

The liaison, an aged man in a cream robe with a black woolen rope around his waist, older in feature if  not gusto, was still staring at her, a look of paternal concern tugging at the folds and wrinkles of his eyes.

“I’m well, sir, thank you. Translation fatigue, I’m told.” She smoothed out the crinkles of her tunic, clearing her throat to make up for the lapse. “His knights, you were saying?”

The liaison, Tyren, turned to stern, his crooked nose preferred over his finger in directing her.

 “Follow me this way, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. There are few on board, him, the Castellan, their squads. The rest are below, completing the last of their preparations before departure.”

He led them away through various corridors, both immense in scale and claustrophobic in its immediacy. She had been led to believe, before her master had sent her on this task, that the Templars were somewhat ostentatious. That the insides of their vessels were gilded bow to stern, and that every panel inside would be lined with a sector’s worth of gold and jewels decorating them. 

Most areas were spartan, left bare, save for the heraldic cross of the Black Templars Chapter and candles left in their loneliness. Almost every archway and door carried the icon. Either acid etched, carved, or embossed, each one was different from the last. Some were deep stones of jet, others dull and uninteresting blackened iron. 

The Flail was old, and she showed her age in the cavities that ran throughout her bones. Ancient prayer scrolls from thousands of years ago, barely tattered moth-scraps left on grisled wax seals that were much more grime than purified wax. She sensed an air of melancholy running through it, which she found both highly perplexing of an Astartes vessel, and profoundly sad. 

She spent many months aboard shift ships, and the last handful aboard the mass transport vessels of civilian ships. Crowded, teeming, so full of life. Certainly cramped, and containing very little privacy. And the noise, so many people corralled together, confined to claustrophobic quarters. 

 She hadn’t seen much on the approach to the docking hangars, but she heard the pilots almost fawning over the sight of the ship. On more than one occasion, she had heard the term “halcyon” used by them before landing. Now that she was inside, she felt something between let down and intrigued.

She came to appreciate quickly that most starships were, in fact, ships and shared a great deal of mundane familiarity amongst each other. Halls were just halls, no matter their grandeur or ornamentation. Scaffolds were just scaffolds, regardless of the intricate, painstakingly hand etched blessings carved into their handrails.

However, there were some places that demanded reverence. Ancient places that floated out amongst the stars, sheathed in the ships they called home. Tyren had brought her near the threshold of such a place.

Black and white checkered tiles led on until her vision could only see where the narrowed walls met. Worn from years of use, yet not a single stain or crack hobbled their surfaces. The walls themselves were brushed brass, with black iron sconces burning at regular intervals, the flames throwing arcs and moors of light, cascading onto forever in the dim glow of millions of trillions of reflections proliferating on and on and on.

Paintings of individual warriors, of the Templar knights, hung from the walls, their features jumping between portrayals of stoicism, pride, and unbridled zeal. Most of these were unhelmed, save for a few wearing the most ancient marks of that sacred attire.

Hauntingly, the far, faded echoes of hymnal chanting reverberated from the depths, beyond where the light reached. It was deep, unceasing, coming from dozens of voices. Without knowing why, she felt that she could tell the chanting was old. Old old, from a time long before that the actual grasping understanding of its length was laughable. 

Banners depicting richly sewn scenes of triumph, loss, somber humility, and righteous victory hung heavy, looming even, as sentries from the ceiling on thick chains. Here was the depiction of a bold knight in black armor, wielding a mace with the very same death’s head the knight wore.

The figure seemed vindictive and righteous, surrounded by knights in uniform black and white checkered armor. The scene was intricately wrought, sewn in the classical Gothic style that dominated most Ecclesiarchal domains and that of nobles. Yet here, it lacked the ostentatious nature. Indeed, all of it held a heavy air of reverence. She looked at the other banners.

There, another this done in fine golden thread, with rich reds and oranges laced throughout its stitching. This knight was hewn into the shape of a giant astride a field of fel corpses, the same mace as before held before him as if in warding.

Her eyes drank more and more in. Each banner detailed a similar skull-faced figure, similar but slightly different from banner to banner, yet all carrying what she believed to be some ancient relic of the Chapter. She craned her neck straight up to look at the closest banner. This one was newer, the fabric still vibrant and fresh.

On its pallid surface, three warriors rested at a respectful kneel, two of their armor trimmed in red, the third in silver. A fourth figure was prone, abasing himself at the feet of yet another warrior whose features were that of a human skull. In its outstretched hands, the skull-headed mace. The scene was surrounded by flames, warriors in crimson armor staked atop black spears. 

She let out a startled gasp as the liaison placed a firm hand onto her shoulder, stopping her from taking the step she was unconsciously making onto the checkered tiles.

“We are not allowed here.” Tyren said. All warmth had left his voice. 

“What is this place?” She asked, entranced now with the mystery of it more than the gaudy nature of the hall.

“It is their temple. Their church is beyond the dark, there. Only they are allowed here, and certainly we mustn’t cross the threshold. Do not step onto those tiles, Historitor Acenya Bhabli.”

“It’s…just Bhabli.”

“They will kill you, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. They will kill you and that will be the end of it. Take nothing else I say to heart but this; go no further.”

She made to respond but was interrupted by the dim shadows.

“He is correct.”

They both startled. The voice came from the blackness beyond the light of the sconces, deep and mechanical. She felt her guts tighten, and a thin sheen of sweat coated her skin.

A slow, steady thump echoed down the hall. The rattling of chains and the teeth aching hum of an active engine crept from the dark. An immense figure of black armor confidently strode into the dull torch light. 

“Castellan Kestian.” The old man offered a deep bow.

“Why are you here, Tyren?” The giant asked, coming to rest just meters from them.

“Mistress Jasper advised me to take Historitor Acenya Bhabli through here to the Solemn Archive to await the lord Spitewielder.” Replied Tyren, not moving from his proffered state.

“This is the Historitor?” The Astartes asked.

“Yes, lord Castellan.” Tyren replied.

“This was to be Jasper’s duty?” 

“Yes, lord Castellan. But she entrusted it to me, citing other pressing matters she needed to attend to.” Said Tyren, wrinkling his nose.

“Serf Jasper is a girl of thirteen, Tyren. You are…what? Fifty-seven now?”

Tyren frowned. “Fifty-eight, lord Castellan.”

As he made his attempt to abase himself to the Castellan, Bhabli took in the full features of the knight before her.

He was without a helmet, allowing her to see the rich ochre skin, like a fine, deep leather. A well kept beard trimmed his features, only giving way to a trio of diagonal scar tissue, reaching from the crest of his bald scalp, carving just near his left eye, catching at the corner of his lip, before finally disappearing into the collar of his gorget.

 Slung over his shoulder was a finely crafted ax that gave a faint reflection of blue in its recesses. It was heavily ornate and finely decorated, but she could make little of its features from the light.

The knight wore a tabard belted at the waist by a chain. The same symbol shown on his chest as she had seen at every entryway of the ship. A chevron adorned his right pauldron, three stylized morning stars the color of sage over a field of white. 

He would have been handsome had his features not been enlarged by the transhuman reshaping that forged him into homo Astarte. 

“The Primarch sent you?” He asked, turning his brown eyes upon her for the first time. 

That direct look shot a bolt of pain into her chest from the terror response. Transhuman dread was still difficult to shake off even for those who were more accustomed to being around them. You weren’t being looked at like another person. You were being meticulously killed a thousand times over as efficiently and brutally as possible in their gaze.

She was held steady, impossibly immobile by the giant’s hand engulfing her shoulder. Without her even seeing it, he had bent to a knee and held her steady. His eyes were now directed to the top of her shawl that hid her face.

“My apologies, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. Too many days spent with those used to marching beside us. Are you well?” The Astartes sounded genuine. 

When the shaking had left her bones, she took in a deep breath and nodded.

“I’m fine, thank you. I’ve a touch of translation fatigue, it’ll pass, and I’m smart enough to admit that, yes, you did terrify me just then, and no, you do not have to apologize again.”

“Lady Historitor! Mind yourself, that is the-” Tyren was cut off from his chastisement by the warrior’s single raised finger.

“You are expected to meet with the lord Spitewielder in the Solemn Archives?” Bhabli nodded as the Templar rose to his feet. 

He turned to Tyren, gave him new orders, accepted the elder man’s bow, and turned.

 One massive gauntlet rested against her back and she was being led further down the hallway, away from the decorated hall they had met.

“I was actually intending to meet with my brothers there. I will take you.”

 

ii. 

 

 

The Solemn Archives were the names given to the vast halls that contained all repositories of information, lore, history, and documents collected since The Flail was a fledgling warship in her birth-anchor. 

The entrance was guarded by a single knight. His armor was largely unadorned save for a single chain of silver hanging from his left pauldron. The charm at the end was a heavily stylized version of their Chapter’s heraldic cross.

Drawing his sword in a left handed grip, the Templar came forward. In his free hand, a beaten lantern of black-iron barely illuminated the hallway. A strong smell of perfumed smoke crept from the bent and tattered corners that met the candle box’s glass surface. Inhaling the smoke made her eyes throb and her pulse became a beating tattoo in her temple.

“Halt ert name thyselves!” The warrior’s voice was strong, assured, almost cocky as it carried away into the blackness they had traversed. 

“Step aside, boy.” Came the Castellan’s reply. The Templar did not waver, though he hesitated before activating the sword.

“That pause would have cost you, Initiate Hunfrid.” Clapping the guardian knight on his pauldron, Kestian pushed past him. “It is a good thing I am not the one seeking admission into the Reclusiam. The Spitewielder would not have found your familiarity with me a virtue.” 

Chastised, the knight saluted, jogged past to open the door, his head dipped in dogged resignation as they left him. 

They were greeted with towering shelves spanning into the hazy dark. Distantly, softly, the sound of a heavy organ rang hauntingly throughout the endless isles of contained knowledge. The space towered above her, yet she felt compressed, consumed by the vastness that stretched forever upwards and forwards.

She could see stretches of finely crafted wooden floors, corralled by beautifully wrought iron banisters creating balconies in which different shadows played host to the lights its occupants inhabited. Corners flickered with candles, robed and isolated figures that were certainly other Templars, poured over books and scrolls and patches of torn cloth.

Pieces of art were displayed in their own cabinets. As they walked past, she would appreciate them, hungry for any details she could glenn for future recording.

In one she saw an intricately detailed landscape in miniature. Small figures of what seemed to be Black Templars amongst a broken city’s garden district fought against armored Astartes in oceanic green, of whom were adorned in spikes. Though the Templars looked odd, their armor etched in black and Imperial gold, icons of thunder bolts and fists as frequent as the heraldic cross. 

A second held what, at initial glance, looked to be battlefield detritus. A rusted piece of barbed wire, a chunk of burned rockrete painted in hazard stripes, and another item that caught her curiosity. A symbol she had spent much of her recent life around. 

Near the corner of the display case, atop a cushion of black velvet, sat a broach in the shape of the Ultima symbol of the Ultramarines Chapter. Though this seemed more archaic, more ornate, indeed, there was a certain air to it that spoke of something both painful and merciful.

They walked for what seemed like an hour before coming to a closed door nestled between two shelves stacked either side with helmets. Each bore some grisly damage, no doubt the killing wound to its former bearer. Some were black, others gold, sprinkled throughout where she could see were a handful of cream and checkered patterns as well. Fewer still were faint suggestions of red helmets further up near the ceiling.

The Lord Castellan opened the door and held it for her. A hiss of escaping air greeted her. Inside were several more Astartes, each tending to their own interests.

“Greetings, brothers. I’ve brought with me Historitor Acenya Bhabli, sent to us from the Primarch himself. She has assured me that our lord is interested in meeting her.” The proclamation was greeted with silence. Every eye turned to look at her, but this time, she turned her gaze to their boots, tucking her eyes further into the recesses of her shawl. 

“He’ll be another hour, says his herald.” One of the warriors spoke, a seated Templar with long, curled hair. He was square jawed and stoically featured, closing the book he had been reading as he addressed them.

“Should you not be with him, brother? Being our Castellan and what not?” Asked another, this one of paler complexion. A thin beard trimmed his chin, with a buzzed mohawk of dirty blonde scything his head. He offered the Historitor a toothy, confident grin.

“He dismissed me.” Replied Kestian, closing the door behind him.

“Dismissed you?” The two asked simultaneously. 

“Did you talk reason to him?” Asked a third Templar, looking over his shoulder from the cogitator he was stationed in front of, his silhouette made more absurd by the many snake-like appendages jutting from his backpack. 

“I did.” Said Kestian with a knowing smile.

“That would do it, then.” The knight turned back to the glowing monitor, the sound of heavy mechanical clicks emanating from his corner, one of the appendages made a machine buzz sound as it turned within its arm housing.

“I’m sorry. May we slow down?” Bhabli finally managed, trying very hard to follow the conversation. Sweat crept down her neck, making the shawl stick to her uncomfortably. Her head hurt and there was a twitch in her eye she didn’t appreciate.

“My apologies, Histo-”

“Just Bhabli, please. Please.” She interrupted, turning fully to emphasize her point.

“Very well. My apologies madam Bhabli. Brother Kybert is inquiring as to my presence. Our lord is particularly choleric as of late, and has dismissed me from the current fleet junction going on.”

 Spoken so plainly, Bhabli balked at the casual nature of the remark. Especially coming from what was a lord Castellan.

“You were not sent to fetch me?” She asked.

“No, madam. I was simply leaving my meditations from the chapel and happened upon you and Tyren.”

“Tyren?” Asked the warrior Kestian had indicated was Kybert. “What was he doing at the chapel?” He looked appalled, the other Templars almost motionless. The Castellan raised a hand to calm them.

“Outside the Hall of Legacy, not the chapel itself. Tyren was escorting her on Jasper’s orders.”

“I have more questions now.” Said Kybert, his face pinched in confusion. 

“Lady Bhabli, could we offer you a seat? I can hear your pulse. You are under immense stress at the moment.” The Astartes who had been sitting in one of the stone benches arrayed in the room rose, gently taking her hand in his silver gauntlet, and gave her his seat.

“You are surprisingly gentle for Space Marines.” Bhabli let the words come freely, feeling from the gathering of warriors that simple plainness of word was welcome, even encouraged, here. She winced as she saw how the three unhelmed warriors’ eyes collectively twitched.

“Our lord has made mortal interaction and etiquette mandatory training within the Crusade.” Replied the warrior as he bent back up from aiding her down.

“How very Macraggian of him.” 

The Castellan laughed, as did Kybert. The warrior helping her let slip the edge of his lip in the flash of a smirk, but nothing more.

“He would probably find that both incredibly humiliating and painfully true.” The warrior turned, the edge of his silver arm catching the light from the other seated Templar’s display. He poured a small amount of wine into a pewter cup made to scale for Astartes. She took it with both hands, lifting the folds of her shawl before taking it up, and drank.

“I am Altus, and this is Malgur of the Forge. He is poor company, but not a displeasure to be around. That is Kybert. Him and I, as well as another of our brothers,  are what remains of our founding of the Spiteful.” 

She blinked. She felt utterly naked without her quill or servo skull. There was an aching pain to write everything she had just heard, to catalog and to push and to question. 

“What-” She began.

There came a knock on the door. All heads turned. The lord Castellan went to the door, pushing it open on silent hinges. 

“The lord Spitewielder comes just before me. Please make ready.” A man of middling age came  through the door, half his face covered by a gorgeously carved mask hewn in the features of fury. He turned and nodded upon seeing her. “Excellent. Please rise, Historitor Acenya Bhabli.”

 She did so. He made for the door, disappearing behind it. A final warrior joined the congregation.

A chorus of rattling chains and the smoke of burning candles filled the room. Adorned in black armor, a different, more profound black from that of his brethren, it was hard edged and cumbersome looking. Atop his backpack were three headstones, each of which hosted a skull fashioned from bronze. Atop these were votive candles, their flames strong and bright. Spikes adorned the vents of the massive generator.

Secured to his shoulder by chains was a human ribcage. She was oblivious to the symbolism of it. But it was a chilling site to see such a grisly trophy displayed on a warrior of the Emperor. This was not the gothic touch the Imperium festooned upon everything. It was simply a butchered man’s rib cage chained to the Templar’s shoulder, the charm’s heraldic pendants shaped into crosses.

Hanging from behind his tasset, set at the waist, hung a black tabard showing the white crest of his Chapter.

His helmet was like the one seen in the banners she had looked at before crossing Kestian. The singular gleaming red eye lens. The black cross branded onto the scowling forehead. The vox caster clamped between grinding teeth. All of this collectively, almost instinctively upon making the connection to the banners, forced her to look at his hip.

Hanging against a loop of brass, a war maul shaped into a grinning skull, a halo of spikes cresting it. A limp chain connected it to his vambrace. An aroma came off of it, deeper and more pungent than the smell of incense or the smoke from the candles. 

It was the smell of centuries of blood. Of slain foes and retribution. It stank of malice and hatred and something very specific, something more personal than resentment, but more meaningful than vengeance. 

There was a palpable scornfulness to its casting. It wasn’t just a lump of steel or iron or ceramite. From its recesses and in the pools where the light didn’t quite catch it was a deeper color still. The weapon was unlike any she had seen in her handful of years documenting the fighting edges of the Imperium, where the Primarch sent the very mightiest of the Emperor’s armies to fight and wage war against the encroaching darkness. 

This here was the man she had been sent to meet with, and to document and make historically accurate texts of, as per the laws of her newly found Order. Here was the curator of an Imperial Crusade Army, and of that, a particular kind of Crusade Army.

This was what the Templars would cite as a True Crusade Army. One commanded by the Black Templars, the scions of Sigismund, and sons of the Primarch Rogal Dorn. Here were warriors who had never left the Great Crusade. These warriors claimed a legacy that dated back ten thousand years.

And she was ignoring him entirely.

“Lady Bhabli, are you well? This is not the first time you have been asked this, I am told.” 

“You are the warrior from the banners I saw.”

The skull faced helmet tilted to the side ever so gently.

“Yes, but no.”

“Yes, see, he has a fancy necklace.” Kestian pointed to the golden cross, studded with rubies and ambers, hanging from yet another chain, though this, too, was gold. “The others were more humble.”

 A chorus of laughs came from the gathered knights.

“It is a long story, and one many Chapters have done since the time of Legions. Armors are passed down from generation to generation, from dead knight to risen squire. The face of a Chaplain will carry on even further than that, thus you recognize me. You see the face of my master, and his master before him.” 

The Spitewielder ran a hand over the skeletal visage of his face.

“This helmet looked upon the face of my father when he still walked amongst us. It has seen the face of the Arch Traitor himself, and the whoresons he sired. It has bled the foe under the skies of Terra. I am the face of the warrior from the banner, yes. But, I am a faint echo of an eternal spite.”

“He also,” Grumbled Kestian, “says a lot of exhaustive like this.”

Bhabli’s hands clenched and unclenched with the ache to begin writing. Seeing this, the masked man who had accompanied the Chaplain, quietly spoke into the hem of his collar before stepping to the door, retrieving a small yellow satchel, and offered it to the Historitor with a servile bow.  

She tore into it, tossing the bag onto the stone bench, fetching her slate and quill. The Templars had already begun talking amongst themselves. 

She made quick and short snippets of dialogue, explanatory and contextual notes, and maddened scribbles. Her head shot up once she had emptied the brewing storm of words in her skull, threatening to burst from her ears and eyes if she did not release them onto screen or parchment.

The knights were departing, the last words she caught mentioning a formal inspection before mass boarding. Castellan Kestian offered her a polite bow of his head, before donning his studded helmet. 

“Well met and best of luck, madam Bhabli.” 

Then the doors shut and she was alone with the man of highest authority in the entire sector. 

“Where shall we begin, Lady Historitor?” 

 

 

iii. 

 

“You are coming from Demeter IV, with the armor reinforcements? That was several months’ travel for you, Lady Bhabli.” 

They had retired into one of the anterooms adjacent to where they had met. Here, several chairs designed to both support an armored Astartes, but also provide some semblance of comfort to an unarmored warrior, it was still laughably too large for her.

The Chaplain was seated, his hands resting against either armrest. Wine was near and available, but he had not removed his helmet. She had not yet mustered up the courage to ask him to.

There was a quality to him that made it somewhat more difficult to be around him. There was a heightened awareness that there was something other about him. Between the transhuman dread, and her bout of translation fatigue, she accepted two things; firstly, she was human, and ultimately susceptible to those mortal limitations. 

Secondly, the warrior before her was a great many things. A Chaplain of an Astartes Chapter, the architect of this Crusade, and a living weapon set before her in an intimate setting. There was much to be unnerved by.

“I am, my lord.” She said, picking up the lapse before it lingered too late. “My master gave me instruction to join your fleet, to embark on your Crusade. Document its goings-on and analogize what can be given back to humanity, when so much knowledge and lore has been lost.”

 Even saying it, she felt a tinge of home-sickness. She perfectly recited what her mentor would quote to her small class at every chance he could when describing the nobility of their cause, and the justness of its execution. 

“Quite so. What is it you know of us?” The Chaplain drummed the fingers of his right hand in a steady rhythm. The knuckles of which were banded with brass spikes, the brutal stumps fat and acid etched with minute scripture. It sounded like a piston hammering into stone.

“Of the Black Templars? Only what the Primarch’s office provided us. Basic organization structure - more so, what your ranks were and how I might address you - but otherwise, nothing much more than the name of your Chapter Master, which legion you hail from, and your progenitor.”

She swiped through her data slate, clearing her throat and read from it.

“It is known that the Black Templars are devout followers of the Imperial Creed, and that you are some of the most sought after and requested warriors of the Era Indomitus. The Imperial Regent, the Primarch Reborn, impressed upon my master, who impressed it upon me, that the Knights of Dorn would do well to raise the hearts of Imperial citizens, and offer hope in these dark times. So, it is my thanks that you accepted this proposal. I have heard tales from my colleagues that many of the other Crusades denied them.” 

She went to sip from her wine, embarrassingly remembered the cup’s size, sat the data slate down, and lifted the cup up slowly with both hands.

“I imagine many, if not most, were denied. We are sons of Dorn. What else is there needed to be known from us?” The Chaplain’s mace sat in his lap respectfully across his knees. 

Occasionally he would run his thumb along its leather handle, fidgeting with some unseen imperfection. 

“Well, first and foremost, my duty is to document the Crusade. My master was particularly enthused by your acceptance to our request. He claimed that it was special in some way.” Bhabli’s fingers held the quill firm to the dataslate, ready to transcribe everything. The Chaplain did not reply for many moments. He simply stared at her, the one eye lens showing with a pinprick of red. 

“Many Crusades exist amongst the Imperium. Mightiest is the Eternal Crusade. The one our sire, the first High Marshal Sigismund, vowed to continue. Amongst some of that mighty number are peculiar beacons of history, myth, and legend.” 

He stood then, taking the maul near the base of the head into his fist and carrying it with him to where a fireplace did its poorest effort of illuminating the room they were in. 

“The Black Templars are an old Chapter. We existed even in the time of the legions, inside the order of the Imperial Fists. Many of our artifacts and heirlooms come from such times, so we are dedicated and watchful stewards of these curios.”

 He turned the mace over in his fist, looking at it, his back partially turned to her. She didn’t move, only her hand making steady, quick traces over the green ambient hue of her screen. The Chaplain continued after a moment’s pause.

“Crusades take on titles and names of the system they are conquering, or the foe they face, or the warrior that leads them. Sometimes the essence of the war entire. But some Crusades bear the Titles of Eternity. Meant to be challenges to our enemy, a boast of what we represent, a promise to those that dare foul His realm.”

“So the Spite Crusade is such a thing?” She asked.

“It is.”

“And so what curio do you house? What myth is carried by the knights of the Spite Crusade?” Bhabli was leaning over her data slate as she wrote, furiously transcribing the Chaplain’s words.

The room was then suddenly filled with a dreadful rasp and a baleful light of stark, unforgiving white. From across the room, the Chaplain had activated, and was pointing, the head of his maul at her. 

“This is the honored crozius arcanum Spite, wielded against the traitor on the walls during the Siege of Terra. We are the 88th founding of the Spiteful, the oathed keepers who continue the saga that would wield Man’s spite in His glory.”

He ran the weapon in an arc across the air, sparks snaking out of its head, encompassing the greater ship around them.

“Similarly, The Flail has been the home of Spite and its host since it was gifted to our Chapter at our founding.” He finished.

“And so now you are the Spitewielder?” Bhabli’s throat was dry, and the active weapon field ate any moisture in the room. It made her gums itch and eyes sting. 

Spite deactivated in an abrupt growl, coming to rest at the Chaplain’s knee.

“As were the wishes of my master, and the blessed Reclusiarch. Everyday, I must be found worthy of it. You come at an auspicious time, Lady Bhabli.”

“Why is that, my lord?”

“I am still young in my years as the Spitewielder. You’ve met my Castellan?” She offered him a wry smile, one he ignored behind the snarl of his helmet’s stylized teeth. 

“Yes, well, in most circumstances he would be in charge. Indeed, he should be a Marshal, but he is also…No, sorry, but forgive me keeping some secrets. There would typically be a Castellan or a Marshal appointed to this role.”

“And not a Chaplain?” She asked, curiously holding her quill away, looking for a physical cue to continue writing on the lore of his Chapter. When he simply did not protest, but continued talking, she did too with her transcription. 

“Chaplains have led Crusades. But these are usually warriors under my circumstance, or due to the death of other officers amongst a Crusade. But yes, as the title of Spitewielder sits upon my mantle, I hold the authority of that office.”

The Templars priest let the mace fall into its holster-loop with a dull thud and walked over to her, nudging the dataslate down to read with his middle finger. 

“Your handwriting reminds me of my own.” He said.

“Thank you.”

“It was a criticism, not a compliment.”

She blinked, read over her notes, and wrote something down and turned the screen to show him.

“Now, certainly that is something you should avoid calling me out loud. Lest it be inappropriate to a man of my station.” 

“I may correct it. In the future.” She set the data slate down. “So you are new to the title? To the office? And this great collection of ships and what looks to be a jumbled mix of cobbled together troops?”

The Chaplain’s head tilted to the side in that curious manner of his.

“How do you mean?” He asked.

“Well you mention my coming here amidst the armored reinforcement.”

“I have made a call to war, sent out a Declaration of Arms to the various worlds and systems surrounding us. We have been docked here for years, waiting, gathering, amassing. The last of those to heed the call are here. Those who would answer have sent what swords they could.” As he spoke, he reached up to the golden medallion dangling from his neck, running armored fingers down it. The word “Spite” was engraved in High Gothic.

“To gather warriors, especially in these times, can be difficult. I am, due to my rank and title, and the very nature of what I am, afforded more luxuries. But supplies, man power, ships…all so valuable, more so with the return of the Primarch Reborn. Those pilgrims that come to me are welcomed, and brought together under my banner. Even still, I’ve lingered and cannot spare any more time. We must be the blade unsheathed. 

“I take any and all who come. Ours, Lady, is the spite, and I can wield it in any fashion it is forged. Come with me, Historitor Bhabli, I will take you to the world below and show you the many manifestations it has come to me in.”

Edited January 26 by Spite

[Spite]

On-going "True to universe/lore" fanfiction.

 

New releases on the 9th of each month.

 

Summary:

 

Join the ranks of the Spite Crusade, a relentless warband of Black Templars led by the enigmatic Spitewielder. As they march into the Pale Spiral, an ancient and forgotten realm at the galaxy's edge, eldritch secrets from ages passed reveal themselves. Witness the tumultuous history of the legendary crozius arcanum, Spite, and those that wield it. 

 

[Spite]

Two

 

Like Churches in the sky

The fetid stench of history

First time

 

i. 

 

“Have you met other Astartes before us, Historitor Bhabli?” The Chaplain asked, taking them across the flagship through outer halls. Cathedral-like windows gave breath catching views of the void beyond, the assembled ships of the Spite Crusade, and the planet below.

“I have, lord. On Demeter IV, no less. The Excoriators were present in the manner of their 5th Company. They’d just put down a Chaos-induced rebellion when we arrived. My master afforded us a view of their departure march. An interesting Chapter, and one I am told, who shares your blood.”

“They do.” Agreed the Chaplain, one hand resting atop his mace, the other casually at his side. He was looking out of the window, the faint reflection of the red ocular lens just a tiny pinprick amongst the sea of black outside.

“Have you met other Astartes, lord? Those outside of your Chapter, of course.” It had taken her several minutes to decide to ask, the very notion seeming childish, and saying it aloud even more so.

“I have not. Brother Altus has, in the manner of the Deathwatch. As has my Castellan, and our Champion.” Turning and tilting his head, he looked down at her as they continued walking. “A curious question.”

“I have been surrounded by Astartes for several years. At first, I was led to believe that you were all machine-stamped copies of something greater. But, with the few I’ve been granted a private audience with, you all seem painfully more rich in character.” She did not make eye contact with him, but managed to look into the cavity of the skull helmet’s “nose”. There, she wouldn’t shake under his seemingly bitter gaze.

“Interesting. No, Historitor Bhabli, I have not met other Astartes of other Chapters and other bloodlines. I’ve only known the Templars, and have fought at the very edge of the Imperium since I was taken as a boy-child.” The words were not expanded on. So she pressed.

“You ask why? The galaxy is a large place, and when duty has you in the fine margins, well, it leaves little in the way of exploring the empire we are fighting for.” 

She made a face.

“That’s a very boring answer, lord Chaplain.”

“Spitewielder.” Came the reply, gentle, but sure.

“As is that, lord Spitewielder.”

“Yes, well, I am Astartes, Lady. My purpose is to be out there, killing, taking, dying if I must. I do not have the luxury of-”

“Not even the Feast of Blades?” She interrupted, looking up at him with a knowing grin.

“You know of our familial tradition?” The Chaplain had stopped, again, his head tilting just so as he looked at the mortal woman whose head barely came above his waist.

“The Excoriators were on their way to the Feast, the 5th Company was to be their Chapter’s representative.” 

“I have not attended personally, nor have the members of my Crusade. I know not if we’ve attended since that same Chapter won against mine own. It is impressive, what you know, Historitor Bhabli, for one who supposedly only knows so much of my Chapter and our ways.”

 The Spitewielder had waited by one of the many viewing windows, watching as another ship lumbered into view. Turrets, gargoyles, castle walls, sword motifs, and much more adornment that Bhabli had expected to see on The Flail, passed by in silence. She drank in the scale of it, in awe at the might of humanity made in the form of floating iron and steel.

“What is that?” She asked quietly, playing witness to the warship anchoring.

“That is the Undaunted. Would you believe me if I said that it is one of the newest ships in the Imperium?” When she offered nothing but a blank expression, he continued. “The Undaunted was a gift from my liege, the High Marshal himself. It was forged upon my ascension, and bequeathed to our Champion as his personal chariot.” 

The name, gilded in pressed bronze and inlaid with millions of millions of etched golden script surrounding it, passed by. As Undaunted drifted past the window, she saw a pillar of silver sculpted in the shape of a rearing wolf. She stared at it until the white-blue heat of its engines became the new sun in the view of the armored window. She looked back to the Chaplain as he began to pace away from her, continuing down the hall.

“And this is an Emperor’s Champion?” Again, the Chaplain looked down at her, nodding in agreement and what might have been approval.

“Aye, you will meet him on the world below. The ship is not delivering him, it is coming to its master’s call. A fine captain, Shipmistress Aneshka Hos, commands it. The Undaunted is a principle line-breaker of my fleet. She has sailed for just under a decade, and has performed admirably in that short time. I have not seen something fight with that kind of tenacity outside of The Flail.” 

They came to a sealed door. Two armored serfs bowed and opened it on hissing hydraulics and released air pressure. Several branching arteries cut off just past the door, but the Chaplain led them straight still. Less than a few meters, another hatch, this one an elevator platform, illuminated and waiting, rested at the floor.

They made no further conversation as they were conveyed to lower parts of the ship. Another hour’s walk, this filled with spritzes of quick and mostly uninformative conversation. She had the sense that the Chaplain only had such a capacity to speak on things, and that she would need to “feel” out the best moments to engage with him.

They were in the bare bones of The Flail, gantries and industrial beams comprising the frame of the ship were more frequent and present here. Parchment with prayers and devout mantras hung from pipes, and candles littered corners and small perches along dozens of different places. Steam collected like fog in some of these areas, as well as pools of moisture.

She had been amongst two different fleets, but had not traversed their ships as extensively as she did now. To see an Astartes vessel like this opened up to her that most ships probably were like this, or worse. She knew The Flail was old, ancient even, but those that were in thrall to her were devoted to her upkeep. She was impressed that there were no stains, no creeping rust, not coughing or gurgling pipes or machinery draped across every meter of the ship.

Her experience so far had been a strange one. So much of what she was told to expect, and what she had built up in her mind, were instead replaced with stark mundanity and an almost utilitarian fashion, peppered with some of the Templar’s more well known devotee practices. 

They were in a main thoroughfare now, a great spacious gang-way that was meant to begin the mass of bodies heading toward the hangar and muster decks. Crew and serfs could be seen attending to duties or jogging to unknown destinations. Every one of them halted in their tasks and, curiously to Bhabli, bowed, but did not make the sign of the Aquila in his presence.

“I wish to remark upon an earlier statement you made. The one about the personalities of Astartes that you’ve engaged with.” He did not look at her, instead committing to turning his death mask to face each soul they passed. 

“Yes, you Space Mar-” 

“Do not call us that.” The Templar priest’s voice cut through the almost solemn air that had formed on their journey here. “At least in my presence. That particular pseudonym rings too poorly. Astartes, preferably. Angels, if you must. But anything sounds more noble and appropriate.”

“Curious, but thank you for that insight. Was that…always your way?”

“Since my dawning of the Visage Eternal, I have learned that titles and names mean a great deal, and carry significant weight.” He replied.

They passed through a great arch, shaped into a mighty gate. Carved into the stone to mimic that of a twin tongued banner, words gilded in gold addressed all those who passed beneath it.

 

 

And still I must give more

 

 

Seven braziers of black iron adorned each side of the portcullis leading to and from its mouth. Along its lip, gun boxes swiveled to track them. Armed and armored serfs stood in sizable numbers amongst it, defending its walls and watching those come and go.

“I can not comment on other Chapters, I have no knowledge nor experience as we’ve discussed, but the Templars are not exempt from fierce egos or mighty personalities.

“To become an Astartes is to suffer and triumph through pain and harm and endurance far beyond what a mere human is capable of. One can only succeed through that with discipline beyond measure, and a fiery spirit beneath. And what good is an Astartes without life in him? Does His empire believe soulless automatons fight for His people?” The oath parchments wax sealed to his legs fluttered in a sudden gust of air that ran through the corridor.

 Bhabli wrote, glancing over at the hovering servo-skull that accompanied her, having been granted to her upon exiting the Solemn Archives. The machine clicked, a red light shining bright to indicate it was recording.

“I confess, lord, that I’ve only ever actually spoken to three other Astartes prior to meeting you.” She pulled her shawl tighter, a current of air pressure had become stronger the further they got from the portcullis and to what she guessed were the Black Templar specific embarkation decks. “Maybe I’d rolled the dice and just happened upon three with some hints of their humanity in them.” 

“There is a lightness about you, Historitor Bhabli, that makes it more appealing to be open with you. Perchance it was that, or maybe you are correct. I, however, would like to believe the Emperor envisioned us to be more than simply a blunt instrument. A good sword has character to it. A ship has its own personality. A lasrifle does not fire the same as its ten thousand similarly stamped cousins. 

“Just look to our founder. He was a man of singular focus, but of great passion, of a great humanity within him. I believe that to have made him the single greatest Astartes in history.” His words were sincere. 

Bhabli made notes, compounding her thoughts that the Chaplain’s words did not come across as a boast, but something more similar to how her master discussed the histories with his fellow colleagues, or debates in one of his lectures. 

“And you’ve modeled yourself in such a fashion?”

“Yes, Historitor Bhabli. And, as commander of this Crusade, I’ve fashioned my knights in such a manner. I prize fury, zeal, passion, intrigue, and above all, spite.”

She grinned, even gave a soft chuckle. 

“You are amused?” The Chaplain asked, again in a very direct, cold lash that reigned in her playfulness.

“Spite, lord. The name of the Crusade, your weapon, and one of the less virtuous qualities of man. But, as you mentioned earlier,” She closed her data slate, recovering from the conversational stumble and focusing her thoughts, “Why this particular trait? How do you even know an aspiring boy has it?”

“Spite, Historitor Bhabli, has a particular flavor to it. It colors your face in a way no other emotion can. All souls can possess hatred, and this we look for too, but it takes a particular kind to have the capacity for spite. It’s all consuming, it is brutal, it brooks no quarter. That is the essence of a Templar manifest.”

They came to a final gate, it stood open, the yawning portal opening up to The Flail’s main embarkation decks. Dozens of war vehicles sat in their cradles, or were arrayed in neat order, gravitically sealed to the deck through the massive plates their tracks sat on. 

Above were docked avian-like gunships. Each of them painted in the color of the Templars, sporting the heraldic cross on their wings and bellies. Servitors and tech adepts of the Machine Cult of Mars were tending to them, or carrying crates to and from, here and there. 

Dozens of menials, ratings, serfs, slaves, servitors, and tech adepts buzzed around the deck. Compared to the practically mournful ambience of the rest of the ship, here, the crew were visible, audibly, and active. 

A lone gunship was sat at the edge of the deck, near the shimmering layer of atmospheric shielding protecting them from the vacuum of hard space beyond. Its ramp was lowered, and arranged before it were the knights she had met within the Archive, and several others she had not.

The Templars were in a loose semi circle, with brother Altus at its center, the pole of a furled banner grasped in the silver fist of his left arm. A stylized “I” was embossed in blood-red stone, bisected with three vertical gold bars. 

These warriors, each of them, had a handwritten word etched in white paint above their left eye lenses. SPITE. These were the Spiteful, the retinue to the lord Spitewielder. The Chaplain’s very own command squad, and those knights entrusted to the safety and protection of a Chapter’s sacred artifact and holy relic. 

Only the Castellan was absent. In the light of the embarkation deck, the Templar known to her as Malgur was clad in far different armor than she made out in the dim lighting of the Archives.

Where the other knights in the circle wore the black of their Chapter, this warrior was clad in Martian Red, four arms, each ending in different heads, jutted from his back. A black hood hid his helmet, and from it, the light of a single red light shown through a horizontal slit across what she guessed was the warrior’s helmet.

In unison the Templar banged their fists to their chests and remained as such until the two came to rest before them.

“Board.” Came the Spitewielder’s reply once he returned the salute.

“Lord Kestian wished for me to convey his apologies.” Altus said, boarding last and taking his place beside the Chaplain. As Bhabli ascended the ramp into the waiting gunship, she had a brief moment of vertigo.

“I’ve not been on an Astartes gunship before, lord Spitewielder.” She stood at the mouth of the gunship, staring at the rows of empty harnesses meant to hold other knights Templar. Brother Kybert came to her, and fastened her near the pilot hatch, where eight human sized seats were bolted into the interior wall. 

“Try not to talk, and keep your tongue curled, that’ll also help with the ear pressure. But more importantly, you won’t bite it off. Ardan is an excellent pilot, chosen personally by our lord himself. But he does have a pension for speed.”

At this, Kybert slammed the restraints onto her and secured himself adjacently. “In the absence of the Spitewielder, I have been honored with your protection, Historitor Bhabli. Indeed, after tonight’s events, I will be the one to escort you through The Flail to your personal quarters.” 

Bhabli nodded but was too caught up in clutching the servo-skull tightly in her lap as the ramp closed shut and a tremendous roar began to build in the cabin. The lights sank into a menacing, rich amber. The Templar’s eye lenses were swallowed, giving their helmets a baleful glow that only seemed to accentuate the recesses in the crooks of their gorgets and faceplates. 

The Chaplain’s helmet turned towards her. His voice boomed from the cabin’s vox emitters.

“Planetfall.”

Her stomach was pulled into her lower gut and then sent slamming into her ribcage as the Thunderhawk burst out of The Flail with its engines flaring. It dove straight into the waiting planet’s atmosphere and became a shooting star in the nighttime sky. 

 

ii. 

 

Rothusberg hung lonely within the gulf spanning the Crucis and Pandora Sectors, at the edge of the Segmentum Tempestus. One of three worlds, and one of the two habitable ones, it became the waypoint between trade of the two sectors. 

Here, toeing the edge of the Galactic Meridian, there hadn’t been so much as a visual sighting of xenos in the area for some two generations. In mortal span, the reality of the xenos took on more of a mythical, folktale fiction. A story to be told to young children to coerce them into proper behavior. 

When the ships of the Black Templars sailed into its sky the people saw their arrival as a blessing. They did not appreciate the ill portent the coming of the Emperor’s Angels of Death really were. In the comparatively short time they had been anchored, the Black Templars had been true to the heritage they came from.

The world was fortified, a monastery keep was built in the lone mountain chains that Rothusberg boasted from her northern cap. A minor simulacrum of a spaceport was erected near the planet’s capital, Roth’ul. Walls were raised, towers and turrets buttressed along them, and the city’s populace trained. A fine PDF regiment raised in its millions, trained by the knights who bade them muster. Two regiments, the 1st and 2nd Roth Janissaries were founded. Each regiment boasted a complement of no less than sixty thousand men, rigorously tutored in war by the black armored knights that accompanied their daily exercises.  

And so, they became burdened by the harshest of the Emperor’s Tithes. Entire generations were given over to the scalpels of the Templar Apothecaries. Young boys were harvested, taken from proud or miserable parents. 

But in return, the world was made strong. Its people made proud, and their legacy forever carved into the annals of the Solemn Archive. More Black Templar would be sired here, and play host to a small skeleton force garrisoning its monastery. 

Trade-skills flourished during this time. The Crusade would need to manufacture its war material, and furnish its newly found soldiers. Under the watchful, and oddly personal, eyes of the Black Templars commander, the Imperial Guard forces were outfitted and armed. 

Not so populated that it would develop into a Hive World, not without substantial reinforcement from the Adeptus Adminstratum, it was still widely inhabited. Its capital city held nearly fifteen percent of the planet’s population alone behind its newly constructed walls. Its people were held in thrall by a pseudo-feudal governance, ruled by a Duke chosen by way of a council vote of several richer, influential Houses. 

Upon his arrival, it is said the Black Templars commander ordered them to show deference to the warriors of the Emperor, and had them retake their oaths of loyalty, service, and duty. To this, he demonstrated how little power they actually held, eviscerating a nobleman too proud to bend the knee. Indeed, his corpse could still be found hanging from the Cathedral of the Emperor and Lesser Saints’s main communion chamber. 

A knight was raised to the rank of Castellan, a sergeant Lykanstirr, and vowed his oath of protection in the ruling nobility’s presence. They then gave similar oaths to the newly raised Castellan, vowing their patronage and support of the Templars monastery and Chapter. 

From the void, the world shown in dark hues of blue and green, rich and almost gloomy. It sported a single desert, in its southern hemisphere, and fair tundra near the north. Its people were hardy, traditional, and largely privileged in the wider Imperium. Their galactic neighbors to the East were the mighty empires of Ultramar. Nearer still were active patrol fleets of the Fleet Segmentum. 

But as was the way of the galaxy, war came to all. Bloodshed and hurt found everyone in their remote corners of the inky blackness that seemed to hate the very notion of life. And so they became people of the Black Templars, and played subservient to the Astartes that had drastically changed the course of their world’s history forever. 

For Bhabli, however, the world was an all consuming, present roar that filled her head fit to burst. The shaking of the gunship rocked her into her harness and the poor excuse for padding that made up the rest of the restraint chair. She simply focused her efforts on not severing her tongue, curled as it was instructed to by the knight Kybert. 

They stayed in void for a little under seven minutes, before the brutal transition between the world’s atmospheres hit. When that came, it felt like an eternity. In the scant moments she opened her eyes, all she could see was the blur of the red tinted cabin, and the knights motionless in their harnesses.

After seemingly forever, the flight smoothed out, but the speed increased. The engines screeched, and she was pushed further into her chair. The cabin light suddenly went to a sickly yellow, flickering incessantly. 

As one, the Templar disengaged their harnesses, stomped into orderly ranks, and waited. Kybert stood, but remained near his harness, one hand gripping her right-most handrail. 

“Three. Two…” A mechanical voice buzzed over the vox-emitters. There was a sickeningly fast, whip like spin, into a teeth crunching, but controlled thump as they came to rest. As the feet touched down, the light inside of the gunship turned green, and the ramp hissed open, letting in the overcast sky. 

She made to release herself, but the Templar placed his hand on the restraint and offered her a respirator. Without waiting, he placed it over her mouth and nose.

“Breathe deeply, Historitor Bhabli. You’ve been on shift ships for several months. This is your first true atmosphere. You don’t know it yet, but your legs are cramped and would fail you if you tried standing.”

 His voice came out of the grills of his helmet in an angry, mechanical snarl. She did not argue, taking in deep lungfuls from the mask. 

The Astartes released her after several minutes. By now, they were alone, save for the pilot above, locked away in the cockpit. She tried standing, finding herself still caught lightheaded. She leaned on the towering Templar. He took her hand steadily, barely a single digit for her entire hand.

“Thank you, knight Kybert.” She said, taking the time to reorient herself, adjust her shawl, and reactivate her servo-skull. The Templar nodded, then led her down the ramp slowly. The world had a gentle chill to it. It was mid-autumn, and the foliage on the trees had already begun to change into a deep red, like that of wine, flecked with orange and goldenrod. 

The smell of rain saturated rockrete was everywhere. Puddles sat rippling in the unseen breeze of the late afternoon, reflecting thick, ugly gray clouds looming above. Hundreds of ships sat in smart, ordered rows along a runway that seemed to stretch beyond her sight’s limits. There were dozens of similar gunships that she had come in on, outnumbered by the hundreds of Imperial Guard Valkyries, Arvus lifters, and personal Aquila fliers.

Fighter engines whirred overhead, guarding, patrolling. Great towers hovered above her, affixed with many barreled guns, cables, dishes, and antennae in equal measures. Guards with lasrifles and sabres at their hips walked the runway grounds in small, vigilant groups.  

“Sir Kybert, why are measures of security in place? I was told there were no active war zones in this sector.” As she asked, another wing of six Imperial Thunderbolts raced overhead, filling the air with a ballistic roar as they did. 

“The lord Spitewielder demands consistency in all things. And more so, we Black Templars are the Crusaders Eternal, we are always in a zone mortalis, Lady.” Kybert pointed to another Black Templars gunship resting near an archway. “That is the Castellan’s Thunderhawk.” 

She looked over, seeing the red-winged profile of the Castellan’s machine. Brutal, ugly, and durable, the gunship had a menacing quality to it in its avian features. The heraldic cross of the Chapter was decorated in red, similar to the Castellan’s pauldron. 

“The colors are significant, no?” 

“Aye. The Castellan was once of the Sword Brethren. A high honor within our ranks. He earned the rights to the Marshal’s Red.” Kybert saluted the gunship as they walked past, his fist hammering to his tabard-covered cuirass. 

They passed through the arch, a uniformed officer jogging over, saluted, and pointed down the roadway to their left.

“Second right, then your first left, sir knight.” 

Bhabli blinked twice at the butchered Gothic. It was nasally, the ‘sir’ mashed in its non-rhotic chirping. 

Kybert nodded, then continued down the path instructed. 

“You come to appreciate the tongue. They’ve a pointed candidness that can be very refreshing, if not humorous.” The Templar said, catching Bhabli’s expression.

They passed by rockrete barracks, prefabricated mess halls, mesh wire gates, and pipes coiling over the ground. The place had a tang of engine smog in the air, and the whispers of techno-mechanical chanting could just be heard. When they’d wound their way into the final left hand turn, they were greeted with a wide promenade. 

At its end was a large keep, built from stone, ferrocrete, and ceramite plating, its three towers stabbing into the sky. Spot lights from the ground were trained upwards, aiming directly along the wallskirt of its closed portcullis. 

Filling the expansive gray slabbed path were tens of thousands of bodies arrayed in orderly ranks, with more still filing in and resting in neat order behind their compatriots. Banners stood in their hundreds amongst the sea of varying uniforms.

Cherubs floated over their heads, their infant hands gripping vox emitters in the form of trumpets, or carrying skulls with their jaws replaced by the boxy amplifiers. 

A narrow path cut through the marshaled forces of the Spite Crusade, enough for a single tank to trundle down. Priests of the Ecclesiarchy, and Chapter serfs sworn to the Templars were carrying incense burners, or splashing blessed water onto the soldiers at rest, walking up and down the path. Others offered small blessings, anointing some, chastising others. 

“Sir Kybert?” Bhabli asked, halting.

“Just Kybert is agreeable, Lady.” He said, stopping as he looked over his shoulder to see her waiting. 

“Can you get me higher up? I wish to detail the events more accurately.” 

The Astartes nodded, pointing to one of the dozens of small, raised observation platforms. Striding unimpeded, climbing the small ladder, Bhabli set her servo skull to passive//wander and pulled out her data slate.

She wrote furiously, ignoring the other occupants sharing the space with her. She gazed across the gathering mass of soldiers. She noted the way the sky sat like slate, and how the atmosphere gave everything in Rothusberg a subtle, navy tinge. 

When she finished her notes, she slowed down to appreciate the scene, and her compatriots whom she’d ignored upon arriving on the observation platform.

A young man was sat in front of his easel, confidently and purposefully smearing paint with the edge of his spatula. He didn’t pay any mind to her. Another man, this one much older, rake thin, and tall, clacked noisily away at the runes of a brass keyed stenograph.

The last occupant, this one a woman of middling years, stood still in the corner, leaning against one of the platform's support columns. The upper part of her face was hidden within a dome of pearl, sealing just above her philtrum. Her fingers were multi-jointed, and ended in six digits as opposed to five. They twitched at her unseen commands.

Bhabli turned back to her own slate, and looked out amongst the crowded palisade. She noted banners, names, sigils, emblems, coats of arms, the stylized words of regiments, and the way their uniforms clashed in the muted colorscape of the city they inhabited. 

A great and terrible electric whine cut through the late afternoon air. She winced as it faded from its peak. Several figures stepped into the light of the illuminated wall top of the portcullis. 

At their arrival, dozens of servo skulls floated amongst the gathered soldiers, and filled the empty space between the parade grounds with miniature images of the looming silhouettes. Others bobbed on idle gravitic pulses, gently hovering above their heads, their vox emitters tuned to full. A snarling voice carried over the promenade.

“Soldiers of the Imperium, warriors of the Spite Crusade, I bid you all welcome, and rejoice at the sight of you.” The Spitewielder stepped forward from the gathering. 

“Patiently, you have waited, and trained, and prayed as we’ve gathered our strengths here. See the heavens and see the unyielding iron that hangs above us. See the many guns and the might of our engines. We are now a mighty host, a sharpened blade ready to be unsheathed and thrust into the stars of the Pale Spiral.”

A great roar of approval greeted his words. She saw troopers, captains, and even the tall peaked caps of the Commissariat punching their balled fists into the air. The other documentists around her picked up their pace, and in embarrassment, she did so too. 

When all settled, the Spitewielder stepped back, allowing for a mortal to replace him. This, a stocky, broad, older gentleman wearing a fine coat of deep plum, white embroidery decorating its shoulders. She couldn’t make out the details of his face from where she stood, but the voice that echoed over the promenade spoke of a well schooled man, his words clear and spoken knowing they would be followed to the letter.

“In two hours we will begin mass boarding. The morning after next, we will have left Rothusberg behind and to begin warp travel. Efficiency and speed are crucial in these coming hours. Commissars, see to the expediency of your commanders’ efforts. Troopers, the word of your leaders is the word of the God Emperor!” The man held his arms to the sky, greeted by a chorus of Ave Imperator!

A final figure stepped forward. As one, the knights situated at the front of the gathering, so much taller than the figures behind them, raised their weapons in salute. The collective synchronicity of their movement sent a brief chill down Bhabli’s spine. A cry was taken up by the Astartes.

“Imperator Vult!”

The figure raised a single hand. Almost like a madness had taken them, several mortal commanders stepped forward, kneeling at the portcullis. Commissars, clearly bristling, came forward with weapons drawn and ready. A single word echoed through every vox speaker, halting the harsh punishment impending on those bending the knee out of order.

“No.” 

Bhabli looked around, unsure, catching the eye of the older, taller man with the stenograph.

“He’s very popular.” He whispered, pointing with his chin to the distant figure.

“Who is he?” She asked, only able to make out that he was an Astartes.

“That is the Crusade’s Champion, lord Wilhelt, affectionately known as “the Wolf”.” The man turned back and added a few more lines to his work. “I understand he’s trained a good portion of this world’s newly founded regiments and-” The Champion’s voice rang across the promenade, drowning the old man out.

“To the death!” 

“TO THE DEATH!” Came the reply of tens of thousands of throats.

 

iii. 

 

In neat order, the representatives of the host comprising the key fighting elements of the Spite Crusade, turned, and began marching away. The dignitaries and documentarians watched, some composing their fine work, others enjoying quiet conversation with their fellows.

Bhabli scribbled, not bothering to look down, and wrote as much about what she could see.

Here, closest to her, were the red-carapaced forms of the 62nd Jovich Grenadiers, their heraldry that of crossed swords and a skull embedded within a knight’s visored helmet.

 Across from them were the 119th Mastian Armored, a simple tunic of beige with cream trim, and a ballistic helmet with the Aquila stamped onto it. Their right arms, however, were decorated in overlapping plates of polished silver.

The 8th Host of Rahm stood behind them, each in black trench coats and sporting half-masks of fire scorched brass sallets, each shaped into glaring eyes. Their standard was that of a flaming Aquila, the inverted body of a man crucified from its neck.

On and on they marched past, none bothering to look up at the observers above them. Bhabli made quick sketches of some of them, noted how individual companies marched, or how their officers addressed or moved them. She looked further back, to where the great gate stood, where the commanders of the Crusade had made their speeches.

The line of Astartes was much smaller than she had originally anticipated. Indeed, there were so few in comparison. The size of the Excoriator Company she had witnessed seemed massive, alongside their fighting vehicles and specialists. Here, she guessed the Black Templar were less than fifty knights in strength. 

“That can’t be right.” She muttered out loud, not meaning to. The artist had left by then, and the older man was already partially down the steps. The dome headed woman looked right at her.

“Pardon, mamzel?” She asked, her voice surprisingly high, sounding almost childlike.

“None needed, miss, I simply said a thought aloud.” Bhabli replied, staring where she thought the woman’s eyes would be. 

“A crown for your thoughts?” When Bhabli raised an eyebrow, the woman giggled. “An old man’s saying. Go on, then, love.  I’m curious.”

She marched very evenly, one foot, literally, in front of the other. 

“Really, mamzel, it’s nothing. Just that I figured there would be more of them.” Her left hand held out to the now vanishing sight of the Black Templars Astartes.

“The Black Templars are here in more strength than they let be seen.”

At this, Bhabli raised her eyebrow. The halls of The Flail seemed barren enough, having witnessed a handful of mostly mortal crew. 

“A curious bunch, the black crusaders. They’ve made quite a harvest of this world, planting their banner in the furthest, darkest, coldest, harshest region. But still, quite effective. Very effective.”

When the pearl-headed woman stopped speaking, Bhabli began her question, then stopped, and followed it up with another instead.

“Who are you?”

“I am Carmine Estella, savant to my lordship, Lady Inquisitor Charlotte Maldese.”