Aggelos' Lament
He hurled himself forward; the battlefield's heavy smoke swirling around him, filling the void in air pressure he left behind him. His helmet had been shattered minutes ago as one of the titanic warped things caught him with a lucky blow; with it gone he had lost all communication with his brothers. His bolt pistol was long empty, shooting at ghosts in the wind, he gripped his power sword with both hands, raised above his head ready to strike down on any who would come for him. He wrinkled his nose at the thick noxious smoke that limited his senses, sounds were muffled and distant, and visibility was at best a handful of meters. He almost envied Russ's dogs for their enhanced sense of smell, it may have helped.
The heavy, warm smoke that hung over the ruins he fought in was glowed with an eerie light. The sun was beating down on the gods' forsaken planet and its powerful rays were dissipated into the acrid haze, causing a dull light to seemingly come from all directions. Here and there he could see fires burning, not close enough to gauge what burnt or the details of the flame, all he could perceive was the orange yellow glow of flames adding to the ethereal light around him. He was meant to be with his company, leading an attack on the western flanks of the Imperials outpost on this desolate world, but the Dark Eldar attack had disrupted all the Warsmith's plans. His men could have been ten meters or ten miles away, it made no difference, he knew he was horribly lost.
He felt rather than heard the attack coming, sounds were deceptive in the smoke, but centuries of fighting the Long War had honed his senses to an acute awareness where even the slightest hint of a breeze on his neck was warning of an attack. Turning instinctively he caught the blow that had been aimed at the back of his skull, a coward's strike. In the blink of an eye he assessed his opponent. Unlike the giant that had taken his helm this one was small, but it shared the pipes and tubes flowing from its back to its skull and neck, some kind of combat enhancing drug distributor no doubt. He had fought alongside the Emperor's Children enough times to recognise that apparatus. Lithe and agile it fought with great speed, a vicious curved blade made of a dark metal that glowed green at the edges. The weapon lashed out at him, all speed and strength, no real skill, no challenge for a Space Marine. Its face was a sheet of blank polished metal, no eyes or ears, nose or mouth, how it even found him was a mystery. Deflecting the curved blade twice he created the half opening he needed. He stepped forward, his sword swinging upwards to the creatures stomach carving the things torso and head in two, the energy field around the blade sizzling as it burned blood and flesh instantaneously.
Through the thick haze he saw others shadows approaching, his senses boosted by the chemicals flowing through his blood stream. His two hearts pumped alternatively ensuring every part of him was primed with stimulants, ready to engage. They did not come one at a time, but surged forward en masse, ill disciplined, uncoordinated and feral. The thing that perturbed him was the total lack of sound they made, faceless ghosts. They were all different sizes shapes and colours, manufactured from slaves stolen from numerous worlds and species. His battle honed instinct took over; he slashed, kicked, punched and stabbed as they came upon him, using all his experienced to stay engaged with as few of them as possible at anyone time. Blows rattled off his armour chipping paint and denting the raised sections as the suit did it's job in protecting him. Through chance more than skill one of the things managed to land a blow with its serrated cleaver across his forehead, cutting the flesh deeply above his right eyebrow. Blood flowed from the wound clogging his vision with the thick genetically enhance fluid. The things came on still, and still he cut them down, block, kill, block, kill, but there were so many, and time which had been meaningless on the smoke shrouded battlefield became endless. The cut on his head should have begun to close within seconds but he could still feel the blood flowing, and a tingling burn began to throb in the wound. Another blow caught him, the flat of a blade clattered off his head causing him to fall to one knee. He lashed out blindly with his blade feeling the satisfaction as the sword tore through flesh and bone.
Using his free hand to clear his eye his awareness dropped for a split second. He surged to his feet and a blow cut into the joint behind his knee, slicing a ligament; he spun painfully forcing himself to stand readying his sword for another attack. Around him were littered over twenty corpses but he could not see the assailant who had landed the blow on his leg. Suddenly he found himself unable to move. Sinuous limbs pinned his arms to his sides raising him off the ground. He felt hot dry breath on his neck. He kicked out, twisted, turned but to no avail, two sets of scrawny arms held him tighter than he would have believed possible. In his ear his assailant was mumbling as if thinking to itself out loud. Then in broken high gothic a lilting alien voice spoke "I think you shall be my greatest creation" pain shook his whole body as a needle plunged through his neck down into his primary heart. Agony burned through him as his implants desperately pumped anti toxins and pain relief into his system, his heart pumping whatever had been injected into him around his body faster than his body could counter it. He shook then when rigid as the mumbling from behind continued. His head drooped and he could feel himself loosing consciousness. Desperation began to take over and he tried to shout in defiance, to stir himself from the oncoming coma. Only a whimper and a train of drool came from his lips. As sentience left him he heard two distinct sounds. One was that of a blade being sharpened, the other the familiar crack of a bolt gun...
Orion allowed his jump pack engines to die and felt the exhilaration as he began to plummet towards the ground, revelling in the sound of the rushing wind. Beneath the faceplate of his helmet he smiled and licked his lips; relishing the sensation of his sharpened teeth cutting into the flesh of his tongue. He'd come when Aggelos' had gone off the comm. He'd come to see if his bitter rival had been slain. What he found was more than he had hoped for.
The haemonculi had Aggelos exactly where he wanted him. He'd waited centuries for such an opportunity. Four gangly pincer like limbs held the captain's arms at his side, another two sharpened a wicked looking needle blade. Standing around eleven feet tall, clearly heavily augmented, the creature held the limp body of his fellow Iron Warrior with contemptuous ease a foot of the ground, utterly defenceless; Aggelos' fabled powersword lying lifeless on the ground. A twist of anger stirred inside him as he realised he was witnessing the murder he had dreamed of enjoying for so long. It was not enough for Aggelos to die, it had to be by his hand.
As he dropped closer his smile turned to a scowl, the read out on his visual display showing his brother Iron Warriors were mere meters away from the immobilised Aggelos. He knew he'd have to act quickly. The power crackled through his claws and he readied himself for the strike. He only had a few seconds and he hissed a silent curse as he realised it would not be enough.
He saw the other Marines aim and fire into the lithe form of the Dark Eldar monstrosity, the bolt gun shells hammering the creature and forcing him to drop his prize. A moment later Orion crashed to the ground seemingly kneeling protectively over the limp body of Aggelos. In the heart beat it had taken to fall his claws had torn through through the contorted muscle, flesh and bone of the haemonculi, carving him into slices. The Iron Warriors on foot joined him; 'Captain, thank you for your assistance, we understood your company were in the north.' began their sergeant.
'My deployment is not for you to question.' snapped Orion, his frustration boiling in his veins. 'Retrieve your captain.'
'As you command.' came the reply, curt and orderly. The Iron Warriors took hold of Aggelos and began to haul him towards the safety of the deployment zone, where no doubt the apothecaries would repair the wounded captain.
Orion swore in frustration. If he couldn't claim Aggelos today then he could wait. He had waited seven thousand years to end his pretentious rival's life, he could wait longer. Once the footsloggers of Aggelos' company were out of sight he bent down and retrieved the blade that the haemonculi had been sharpening and concealed it in the thigh compartment on his left leg. He had a thing for xenos weaponry, and besides, it may be useful yet.
A barrage of needle like shots thumped into his right shoulder guard, without even looking towards who had fired upon him he leapt away, gunning the engines on his jump pack. The sergeant had been right, his company was meant to be on the north.
It'd been a hundred years inside the Eye, several months of which had been spent in the care of the apothecaries. His primary heart still palpitated from time to time but he was strong again, and his physiology had never failed him in combat.
Aggelos, Captain of the Maul, the Champion of the Warsmith, and his most obvious successor, sat in his quarters staring at his disassembled bolt pistol. He'd spent the last few hours cleaning it meticulously, a meditative ritual; it calmed him, focused him and allowed him to balance himself.
The haemonculi who had nearly killed him a century earlier had been torn apart in one motion by his brother captain, Orion. The creature's polished skull had been taken for him from the field and after his recovery his men had presented it to him a trophy of the grand company's victory of that day. Unlike many of his fellows he cared nought for personal trophies, caring only for the victories of his company, the Great Company and the Legions. But he kept it to remind him of his own palpable mortality, a much more powerful symbol. The apothecaries said if the Dark Eldar blade had gone but a centimetre further he would not have survived at all. His men hailed Orion as the hero who had saved him but the assault company Captain had never explained why he was in that quadrant of the battlefield. 'Lucky I guess.' he would reply when asked, the predatory smile always quick upon his scarred lips.
Aggelos had taken many traits from his commander, the Warsmith: Thanatos Ares, but the one he frequently found himself agreeing with was that "suspicion breeds survival". Orion was no friend, a comrade yes, a great fighter true enough but never a friend. The assault marine stylised himself as the lord of his men, ruling his company with all the pretence of a king, arrogant, aloof and utterly ruthless. In the entire Grand Company only Dionysus, a relatively young captain whose battlefield achievements grew with each conflict, thought more of his own value, but it was Orion who was always last to kneel before the Warsmith. He was a snake with delusions of grandeur and Aggelos could not and would not trust him. For all his ability Orion lacked any trace of honour, and "From honour Cometh Iron."
A knock came at his door. He had been in isolation for three weeks, repairing his armour and weapons after a gruelling ship to ship conflict with some child marines of some unworthy chapter. The techmarines of the Legion were often too busy with their own tasks to repair every dent and nick that equipment took on the field, so Aggelos did his own maintenance. The fact that he did not trust anyone else with his equipment also meant that it was down to him to fix it. He had smirked when it had been suggested he take one of the human slaves to be his artificer as others in the Great Company had. No human was worthy of communing with the machine spirit of his armour, one slave had touched it once, and in the six thousand years since that incident no other slave had made the same mistake.
The loyalists had fought well to a point, but their collapse had been as spectacular as it had been inevitable. Four days of constant fighting aboard the battle barge had led to a final confrontation with their captain. Aggelos had taken his head in a short lived duel; he had left it aboard the now captured vessel. It was not a worthy reminder; he had learned no lessons from it.
The knock came again as he pulled his habit on over his massively muscled frame. The rough black cloth was thousands of years old but looked like new. Aggelos had always been proud of his appearance; amongst all the warriors of the Grand Company he most closely resembled the primarch's countenance. A face seemingly made of blocks, a square jaw, and forehead. A wide and straight nose flanked by flat cheeks with deep set eyes. Dark eyes, piercing and hard glinted beneath a straight heavy brow. No one could ever accuse the Iron Warriors of being beautiful or graceful, and no Iron Warrior would ever aspire to be those things.
The door hissed open, two of the Warsmith's Chosen waited for him. He couldn't help the slight swell of pride that their armour glinted in the low light as fine as it had the day they left Olympus, true Iron Warriors. "Captain you are summoned, the Warsmith has ordered a campaign." nodding Aggelos exited his chamber and walkeddown the corridor. The door hissing slowly shut behind him.
Orion raged. The Chosen that had bought him the news lay unconscious before him. His volatile temper had snapped, decorum dictated that he should apologise at a later instance, he snorted as he discounted that notion. Long had he had eyes and ears in the elite of the Warsmith, as he was sure the Warsmith had eyes and ears in his. His fist slammed into the wall of his quarters, denting the ten millennia old metal: his right, his glory, given to the preening fool. Aggelos had been given the last command against the corpse-Emperors mindless minions; it should have been his turn to bask in the glory of victory. He deserved it, it was his and if the old fool would not give it to him then he would simply take it.
His armour stood on its stand in the corner where his thralls had polished and cleaned it to a shine, the wall of his chamber was covered in weapons collected from hundreds of battlefields. One caught his eye, a long thin blade, like a needle of dark metal, with a greening glow to the tip, it had been there for a hundred years. No one would notice him, none would see, Aggelos and his men would be too busy preparing to embark on their mission. He left his chambers and made his way to get his justice, and his command.
He heard the footsteps of the two armoured Chosen and the soft pad of Aggelos' bare feet as they walked away from the captain's quarters, no doubt en route to receive his next commission. Like a cobra he darted through the closing door and climbed into the darkness of the ceiling bracing himself between a darkened corner and a ventilation pipe. There he waited.
One hundred years, he'd regretted the missed opportunity every day. Aggelos' star grew brighter while his was eclipsed. The captain of the seventh company was praised for his traditional methods of warfare while Orion was sent on meaningless missions because his tactics were 'not as the Primarch wills.' Thanatos Ares was a fool, the legion was dying, changing, and the old ways were dead. Yet the Warsmith resisted the temptation to embrace the pantheon, and the majority of his warriors followed his example, looking on Aggelos as the example of what an untainted, pure Iron Warrior could achieve. Perturabo never even fought anymore, he just cowered in the Eye. The Iron Warriors had to learn and evolve or they would end up as empty as the Thousand Sons.
Orion could lead the Grand Company to greatness, he swore allegiance to none of the dark gods, but in the quiet he heard the great four whisper to him. For thousands of years he had fought his way to being captain of a company, and many lesser men who sought to command him had died so that he might achieve it, but Aggelos was now the barrier preventing him from climbing higher. He had missed his chance one hundred years ago, but not now, not this time. With Aggelos out of the way the adulation would finally go to one who deserved and wanted it. Once the Grand Company saw his greatness and recognised his ruthless exploits they would surely embrace him in a challenge of the Warsmith. A few would stay loyal to the old warrior, but the voices in the dark promised him the glory.
Hours passed and still he sat motionless, allowing his body to shut down non essential functions until they were needed, bracing himself with his right hand and his feet, in his other hand he clutched the blade. In the darkness he waited alone with dark thoughts.
The door hissed open and Aggelos entered. The hood of his robes was down and his primarch perfect features were illuminated by the down hanging lamp. For a fraction of a second Orion hesitated, then leapt blade outstretched. No one could have seen it coming and no one could have stopped it. The blade, still keen after one hundred years lanced through Aggelos' neck and into his primary heart, in one fluid motion Orion pulled the blade from his fellow captains neck and rolled out of the room under the closing door where the shadows once more embraced him.
Aggelos stumbled, fell to his knees and crashed face first to the deck. All he had felt was a blur of pain before his mighty astartes physiology gave way to unconsciousness.
Slowly Aggelos raised his head from the pool of bloody vomit it had been resting in. The skin on the right side of his face, where he had been laying, was burned and corroded by his powerful stomach acids. His secondary heart pounded, the first barely registered, he pushed himself up onto his elbows his left hand slipping in his own bile. The world spun and pain ached in his left shoulder. He remembered a sharp pain, and then nothingness. Slowly he fought the nausea as he forced his aching limbs to work. His blood felt on fire. Reaching to his shoulder he ripped the cloth of his precious habit, there was no scar on his body, his phenomenal metabolism had seen to that, but ugly green bruising covered the left hand side of his chest, neck and shoulder.
He staggered backwards; slamming into the door he had entered the room through, the cold metal chilling his inflamed skin momentarily. Turning he smacked his hand on the button to open the door, the motion caused his world to spin and he vomited violently onto the floor, the thick liquids burned his lips, the odour burned his nostrils. Steam rose where the vomit began to eat through the metal floor, the vapour caused his eyes to sting, tears flowed for the first time since the gene seed had been surgically entered into his body.
He lurched forward like a marionette with half its strings cut, smashing into the wall opposite his chambers; before walking, leaning heavily on his right hand side. He staggered painfully, reaching one of his squads' ready rooms, before falling through the door into a heap on the floor. Strong hands gripped him, alarmed voices called for a medic. Aggelos felt himself dying.
The void was dark, hot and dark. He floated in nothingness, he had always been there, he had never been there. He hung suspended on nothing, in nothing. He was naked, he checked himself for the first and thousandth time, sweat coated his body, but that was the heat, there was no pain anywhere, just the unbearable heat. He tried to call out but his throat was closed and sound escaped his lips. He knew he should panic but he felt only peace.
An itch on his shoulder broke the emptiness. He rubbed it, his hands curiously heavy in the void, as he scratched he felt the itch worsen; it began to burn. He tried to cry out, but still no noise, he looked at his shoulder straining to see the source of the itch. Angry green and purple flesh covered it, he scratched harder, dug his nails into the wound tearing at the unclean flesh. Blood and thick black puss flowed from the shredded skin, but the burning increased, slowly he watched in horror as his perfectly formed Astartes physique began to change colour into the rotting pustulent shades of green and purple.
Blood from his shoulder ran down over his stomach, thighs and down his legs. The heat increased...
'He's coming around.'
'Hold him down, you two grab his arms, you two, his legs, I can't work with him thrashing.'
'I need him under, sedate him.'
'What did this?'
'I don't know but it's killing him.'
The darkness crashed in, the heat cooled a fraction, the burning receded to an itch. The void was dark, hot and dark. He floated in nothingness, he had always been there, he had never been there.
The voice was new. It was deep, warm, jovial. It surrounded him like a blanket, wrapped him in it's comforting tones. 'You need help boy.' it said. Aggelos hadn't heard a sound like it in his life, he nodded, unable to speak, but the comfort of his voice bought tears to his eyes. His body felt calm, at peace. 'No boy, you can't sleep, we need to have a talk.'
If he could have spoken Aggelos would have demanded rest, cried out to let the pain take him back to the living world, but the voice comforted him and his pained body allowed it to wash over him, calming is nerves. 'I'm sure you'd realised this, you're dying.'
He didn't respond, his brain screamed from panic but for some reason his body refused to respond. 'I can keep you, I can make you whole. Just show me you want to live. ' Aggelos' mind screamed at him the pain was life he could feel it waiting to crash in on him like a wave held back by the paternal voice. His body however, gently nodded his head, lulled into peace, he felt a hand wrap around him and turn him in the void.
There before him sat a monster, hideous beyond recognition, puss oozed out of ugly rips in it skin, it's bloated belly had maggots crawling from it, rotten teeth the size of a marines skull filled a gaping maw that flies flew in and out of as he breathed.
Now his body responded, he fought and pulled at the fingers holding him but they did not tighten, in fact they loosened, as they did the monster spoke, it's voice full of rich harmonies and joy, so at odds with it's appearance, 'You can fight if you want, I won't force you, but outside my protection you will find only pain, and my brother who would have you relish that has his eyes on another.' Sure enough as the fingers released him the itching became a burning, Aggelos felt like he was on fire...
'He's spiking again; keep him still.'
'Perturabo's blood, he's so hot I can feel it through my armour.'
'How is he still alive?'
Aggelos woke up, his vision blurred and struggling to make sense of the haze of white that hit his retina. Slowly they adapted to the light. He was in the apothecarian, polished steel walls illuminated by hovering globes of blazing white light. Machines beeped and hummed, the lights occasionally flickered, it smelt of clean metal. Tubes ran into his arms and chest, and down his throat. He felt no pain, just weakness.
One of his men stood at attention at the foot of his bed. When he saw Aggelos' eyes open he turned and called an apothecary. The medic came to stand beside the bed. 'I did not expect this to happen. Don't move, you've been here a while. We nearly put you in stasis, only orders from the Warsmith himself kept us from doing so.'
Aggelos blinked at him, the apothecary forced a smile, a very unnatural look on the face of an Iron Warrior, 'Three years captain, that you're awake at all is highly unexpected. Now get some rest.'
The apothecary pushed a needle into his neck, and as the powerful sedatives took effect Aggelos couldn't help but notice that the needle hadn't hurt at all.
Seven years he had been away. The destruction wrought in Perturabo's name had been glorious. Trophies hung from his polished armour, trophies of those who had opposed his strike force, marines, guardsmen, even the famous sisters of battle. He had left with three companies of Iron Warriors and returned with over three quarters of them alive. Each of the seventy three warriors from his own company marched behind him carrying a standard captured of a force loyal to the corpse-Emperor. At the fore of them was the Fifth Company standard of the Astral Claws chapter. Behind it guarded by two hulking tusked terminators followed their captain who had seen all his brothers fall in defence of the shredded banner on some desolate world they had tried to protect. Over ten thousand souls had been captured, and bought back to serve in the mines and manufactorums of the Iron Warriors. Soon he would revel in the glory showered upon him; they would all see his worth. Orion smiled, he had been through the flames and come out refined, stronger and more brutal. None could deny him.
The doors to the Warsmith's great hall swung inwards slowly, their massive hinges making no sound of complaint despite the weight of the emblazoned iron doors they carried. The grand company stood arrayed to receive his return. At the far end of the hall Thanatos stood on a raised dais, his captains next to him.
Pride pounded through Orion's chest, his hearts beat simultaneously, not even in combat had he felt as alive as he did walking the thousand metre aisle to stand before his lord, the eyes of the entire Grand Company upon him. Behind him the captured standards were born aloft. Not a soul stirred. Silence filled the room. Orion grinned, stunned silence at his victories was to be expected.
At the foot of the dais he stopped, and stared up at the Warsmith, bedecked in his ornate ancient armour. Thanatos Ares was a giant of a marine, his servo harness stretched high above him, its massive claw moving in a sinuous dance, so graceful compared to clunky claws of the Imperium's techmarines. His Clawed powerfist flexed, even here, surrounded by his thousands of warriors, it was armed, ready to fight, blue and purple energy flickered over its black and yellow chevroned surface. His other hand held his mighty thunder hammer, it had been a gift from Perturabo before the Heresy, and it was in perfect working order, the only change was the scarring of the Aquilla that decorated the hammers flat side. Even that, Orion thought, must have caused the old warrior to weep, defacing such a weapon must have grieved his sentimental spirit. He was a vision of the primarch, as the primarch had been before his ascension. Orion dropped his head into a bow to hide his sneer.
'Welcome back Orion, your exploits are known to us.' Boomed the Warsmith's voice, the authority of nearly eleven millennia of command soaking every syllable.
'My lord...' he began, raising his head to stare into his commander's face.
'Yet you see fit to parade yourself and your achievements like an Ultramarine.' the insult stung him. A hint of amusement pulled at the corners of Thanatos' mouth . Orion trembled in shock and anger, biting a retort and glaring at his lord. 'A mighty display of worth, why do you feel so inclined? Is it our way to parade our victories? Is it why we fight?'
His temper flared, his fists balled, he had to check that his lightning claws had not unsheathed in his split second of iridescent rage. He stared at the Warsmith feeling the muscles in his face twitch as he fought for control. It took every ounce of his will power not to charge the one humiliating him. Biting his tongue with his sharpened teeth, the taste of his own blood, bought him to focus. He looked at the eyes of his fellow captains. Dionysus looked smug and amused, as was his way, the others showed nothing as if cast in the iron of their armour; he searched their faces and froze. Framed in a suit of hulking terminator armour half a face stared back. The skin on the right hand side was burned and scared, hideous, the other side showed the perfection of the primarch, the good eye showed only sorrow. Thanatos continued his rebuke, but the words washed over him as Orion stared into the ruined face of Aggelos, whilst his own blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
'Get your warp tainted hands off me!' snapped Aggelos, anger laced his voice, anger that he hadn't heard there for decades.
'You need my help to fight it!' he said, calm and cold like the void.
Aggelos spat, the acidic saliva evaporated as it came within an inch of the pink white eye. Pale skin, white almost to the point of being blue showed no expression. All that gave away his frustration was the blue-black veins that writhed under his skin like snakes entranced by a charmer.
'I need nothing from you. I want nothing, get away from me!' the Captain of the Maul bellowed as he stormed away from albino in terminator armour.
The sorcerer's hair ruffled as if in the wind, shades of colour and hue changing from blues to browns, purples to golds. He had long since given up trying to control it. It danced as coral grass in the deeps dances with the flow of the current over it, to the music it heard but no one else, not even he, registered and there was nothing he could do about it.
'Paths can change; things do not have to end as they are...' he spoke calmly, following the raging captain.
'I told you before that you will not meddle with me; I have been meddled with enough, do not make your offer again.' The captain slammed a fist into the wall, the clang echoing down the long empty corridors.
'Then are set on your course? You are destined to become...'
Turning sharply the captain stomped towards the sorcerer, though both clad in tactical dreadnaught armour the captain somehow managed to loom over his battle brother, menace painted on his ruined features. 'Become what? I will not be manipulated by you, liar. You shall never place a cursed hand on my soul.'
With surprising calm the sorcerer laughed and gently pushed the Captain of the Maul away. 'I cannot touch your soul, nor can my Master. You have already sold it. It is saving your flesh and mind that I am interested in.'
'What use am I to you? What bargaining chip?'
Turning and raising his arms in frustration the sorcerer spoke to the heavens 'So short sighted. So blind to the grander scheme.' he looked at Aggelos, 'our mutual master commanded me here; my Master has little interest in you aside from seeing what you may become. It is a curiosity of his.'
'My master Thanatos knows me, and he will not be disappointed in you for having failed to cast your magik upon me. Fear not repercussions this time.' snarled the warrior, pointing to the door. 'Now leave.'
Thinking out loud as he turned away, possibly talking to himself, or some invisible being next to him Chronos Hecate, reviled by all spoke, 'I wonder if he even knows who his Master is?' a pause as if someone was speaking back 'Yes, such loyalty is commendable, but such ignorance is not.'
Like so many places the Iron Warriors had been before this planet had become a wasteland. Seven companies had been discharged from orbit onto the homeworld of the Falcon Guard, some child marines who claimed descent from the eight times cursed Imperial Fists. Their fortress monastery, vast and intimidating sat on a plain; it was several kilometres across with walls that reached over a kilometre high. Massive gun emplacement looked out across plains that were covered in tank traps, automated gun turrets and electrowire fencing. It was an impressive fortress and most forces would have struggled to concoct a plan to cross the four mile wide killing fields let alone breach the twenty meter thick walls. But Thanatos Ares was a siege master with few who could compare to him. Eight millennia of destroying fortified positions had honed his tactical abilities to make this fortress a simple conquest.
Aggelos had been given command of the terminator spearhead that would assault the first breach, Orion had been given command of the support company. It riled him that once again he would have to play second fiddle to Aggelos, but he took some satisfaction in seeing the increasingly dour mood of his rival captain.
It took only a few hours to smash through the walls, and the first wave of the spearhead charged. Across the killing fields they ran, charging through electrowire and demolishing gun turrets as they went. There were hidden minefields littered around the fortress, some of the terminators were hurled skyward by blasts detonating beneath their feet, the vast majority just hauled themselves to their feet and started their charge again.
Once the terminators were into the breach Aggelos issued the command to the assault company. 'Time to come and fight Orion.' There was a moment's silence, before the reply crackled over the vox.
Over the roar of the turbines of a jump pack he heard the slightly unhinged voice of Orion, 'We are in bound.'
First contact with the loyalists was frantic and short, as expected they fought in a highly disciplined withdrawal, covering their retreat with sporadic bursts of overlapping bolt gun fire. In the maze like passageways of the fortress monastery the terminator company was forced to split into smaller and smaller units, until some were exploring the corridors on their own. Aggelos was one of the first to find himself alone, breaking off from his men at the first possible instance and remotely orchestrating the attacks of his warriors as they carved bloody paths through the increasingly determined resistance.
Stepping through a slowly closing bulkhead Aggelos' unsheathed lightning claw crackled into life and his powersword's deep thrum resonated from its power jem as his black carapace activated it through his gene coded armour. Weapons that were already deadly became even more lethal as purple and blue electricity danced across their highly polished surfaces, only the most resolute armour could resist their cut.
A combat squad of the green and orange clad marines rounded the corner at the junction directly ahead of him. They were armed as if attempting to repel boarders in the void, with heavy combat shields locked in a rigid phalanx that filled the corridor. Aggelos appreciated the effort they had made and raised his sword in salute. Fifty meters away the Falcon's grounded their shields. The retinal display in his helmet flashed up weapons, and he smiled as he saw that whilst the waiting marines had acquired the shields which would deflect almost all his attacks, they had not bought the high powered melta or plasma weapons that would normally accompany them. Armed only with standard pattern bolters Aggelos knew they were nearly no threat to him, as so did the marines. Their sergeant shouted at Aggelos through his broadcast vox, 'Stand down heretic, and face the Emperors judgement.'
Laughing in reply the Iron Warrior shouted back as he began to move forward, trying to gain as much speed as could in the closing gap, 'You pups will never know the difference between a heretic and a traitor.' As he roared the last word he dropped his shoulder and lunged into the waiting shield wall, aimed squarely at where two of the interlocking shields met. Where weapons could not carve a path though the shields, his bulk would.
The Falcon Guard braced as best they could, but few things in the galaxy could withstand the force of a charging terminator. At first the shield wall buckled slightly then caved, and Agellos was among them. His blade and claw thrust and cut, the first marine hit was killed instantly; his throat ripped out by the thrumming blade, the second was impaled on two of the four claws on his left hand. The remaining marines had hidden behind their shields and were trying to keep him penned in. He could not gain enough momentum to smash a shield a side and as expertly crafted as his armour was, there was no way it could keep up with the movements of the smaller, more agile marines.
Along with the pounding of his blades on the shields a rattle across the ground caught his ear. Glancing down he a krak grenade roll under his feet. The explosion threw him violently sideways smashing him face first into a wall, while the marines took cover from the shock waves behind their shields. Momentary disorientation was easily overcome as his combat reflexes urged him to turn and face the three smaller warriors, however the servos in his left leg had been damaged and his motion became uncomfortably drunken and sluggish.
A shield smashed into his shoulder turning him back to the wall, another grenade clattered between his legs, throwing him back across the corridor, smashing him into the opposite wall, he fell to one knee. Blood ran from his forehead where he had head-butted the inside of his helmed. His retinal display indicated that his armour was intact, but the servos on his leg were badly damaged. In spite of the red warning runes flashing he grinned, at least now he was facing his enemy. The grin lasted long enough for him to tear the shield from one of the Falcons with his claw and carve him almost in two with a cross body cut from his powersword. Here was some sport.
The smile faded as a volley of bolter fire hammered into his right shoulder. That meant more puppies to drown. Gritting his teeth he forced the protesting machine spirit in his armour to help him turn and face the new threat. Another five of them were advancing, they lacked combat shields but all carried their fire arms raised to their shoulder, firing in unified bursts as they walked in step towards him. Seven marines was a challenge at the best of times, but with a barely functional leg it was likely to get very uncomfortable.
Gritting his teeth he forced himself forward, the gears in his knee joint whining in protest. Courage and confidence were one thing, but foolhardiness was not his normal preserve. 'This is Aggelos, I require support.' Nothing but static answered, he repeated the communication, to the same answer. Bolt shells rhythmically hammered into his armour, causing minor damage, but the minor damage was accumulating to some serious malfunctions.
A voice he recognised but could not identify came in his ear, it was deep and warm and calmed his racing hearts. 'Do you want my help?' the voice rolled over him.
'Damn it I just radioed for assistance.' He snarled as a mass reactive shell detonated on the wrist of his sword arm, forcing him to drop his sword. He raised his hand to shield his eye lenses as round after round hammered into him.
'Do you want my help?'
A shell hammered into his left knee forcing him to stumble, he threw his free arm against the wall to stop himself falling, and his exposed helmet suffered for it, the lense on his right eye piece imploded, bathing his good eye in pain and blood. Whatever remained of his likeness to the great Perturabo was lost in that instant. 'Help me!' he roared collapsing to his knee as the weakened servos finally gave out with a piercing death scream.
Suddenly the barrage stopped and he heard curses from the Falcon Guards. Shouts of outrage from the loyalist marines snapped his head upright. Three bodies shuffled past him, a meandering drunken gait that barely saw their legs leave the ground. The scraping of their armoured boots sounded like fingernails being dragged across wood. They wore green and orange, and one of them was carved nearly in two. As he watched dumbstruck at the fallen warriors assaulting their once brothers he felt fresh strength enter his limbs and the pain ebbed away. Aggelos had fought alongside the tainted of the warp long enough to recognise foul magik at work. He pulled himself upright and lumbered forward, dragging the weight of his left leg through sheer brute force. The horrified marines were so focused on fighting their fallen comrades that the first fell to his claw before they realised the Iron Warrior was upon them.
One of the brothers with a shield moved to block his path, and lightning flared as the energy fields surrounding claw and shield met. Swiping again and again Agellos tried to batter a path through the resolute defender but his failing mobility meant he could not find the weak point he needed. He didn't have to; the marine he had previously cut down rose to its feet and grappled the shield from the horrified warrior. To his credit he didn't scream, or shout, just turned his bolt pistol on his assailant and released shell after shell into his dead brother's torso through one of the bloody holes left by his claw, as Agellos watched the armour dent from the inside out his claw lanced through the shooters neck.
Soon there was no sound aside from his own heavy breathing, six of the fallen marines stood around him, totally immobile, four were irreparably mangled, and no amount of this unknown dark magik would revive them.
Aggelos did not understand what had happened but he knew it was corrupt, dark and wrong. He also knew that he was in no condition to fight any further. He began his slow shuffle back towards the bulk head he had originally come through, the dead followed him. He came within a few metres when the second strangest occurrence of the day happened. Chronos Hecate, the reviled sorcerer stepped through the sealed bulkhead as if it were not there. Before Agellos could say a word the walking dead marines raised their arms and silently moved towards the Chronos. A look of amusement graced his alabaster features, his hair danced and moved through shades of green and brown, the black veins under his skin moved and formed a symbol made of three circles resting so that each touched the other two. His eyes blazed and with a casual flick of his wrist the shambling corpses burst into blue flame, falling to the ground and rapidly becoming thick piles of ash.
'I heard your call for help, and came as swiftly as I could.' The sorcerer said as if he was talking about something as simple as his next meal. He paused for a moment as he contemplated his next words, 'But it would seem that something else answered your request.'
'Help me' Aggelos stammered. As his mouth opened he heard the buzzing of flies.
Chronos laughed as if some great joke had been made. 'You already turned that offer down.' He paused, as if listening to another conversation. Then smiled with a disturbing light glowing in his eyes, 'But we can't have any others finding you like this.' With that the sorcerer placed a hand on his armour, and in a flash they were gone.
'Magician.' shouted an unwelcome voice from behind him, it echoes of the steel corridors.
He turned, his lips curled in distaste. 'Orion.' he replied, polite but unwelcoming.
'Where did you take that pretentious fool? He failed to secure the beach head fast enough, many of my men died.' Orion asked, his sharpened teeth glinting in the light. Blood, his own, as ever lay crusted on his chin. The sorcerer considered how the captain looked more and more like a mythical vampyr of Old Earth every time he saw him. His serrated teeth tore at his gums and lips regularly causing them to bleed, the Blood God may not care from where it flows, but even Khorne must have appreciated the folly of bleeding for no reason.
'Don't pretend you care about your men now, this is your first chance to look down on Aggelos in ten millennia and you wish to take full advantage of it. If you are concerned for his well being perhaps you should go and ask him how he is, though I doubt you'll find him as gracious as he once was.' The sorcerer replied, watching the too dark pupils of the captain to gauge his reaction. 'I believe he is heading for the fourth airlock.'
Orion shrugged but his eyes showed a flash of anxiety, and something else, something all together more unsettling. Another day, another place Chronos may have been tempted to open the captain's mind and find out, but today there had been enough strangeness. Nonchalantly Orion forced a laugh, 'Why would I want to go all that way to see him? The Warsmith will have his hide soon enough.'
The sorcerer leant in to him and spoke quieter than a whisper, his words like ice. 'To see your master stroke complete of course...'
Orion stepped back forcing himself to control the muscles on his face, no one could possibly know what he had done, but his eyes told the albino wizard all he needed to know. The sorcerer knew he could not control his eyes.
Undaunted the sorcerer pressed on, he could feel the skin on his face stretching as the muscle below it contorted and shifted. 'Go on Orion, it won't be long before you cannot recognise your beloved brother anymore. Go and see what you have made him.' The captain didn't quite flee, but he backed away, then turned the corner and was gone.
Chronos Hecate, sorcerer to the Warsmith looked into the polished steel of the wall, the image was distorted but not so badly he couldn't clearly identify the primarch perfect features that had once belonged to Aggelos looking back. He watched, fascinated as his muscles moved, reshaping his face to his own likeness, the Master had a strange sense of humour, and he shared it.
The sorcerer laughed loudly as he walked towards his chambers in the heart of the battle barge. Those he passed averted their gaze, uncomfortable in his presence. He shook his head, if only they could see the beauty of the Endless Plan he knew they would laugh too.
It was a vast space, between the hull and the interior of the ship, a massive empty void with nothing except the giant columns that held the shell in place. It was pitch black and many degrees below freezing; there was no moisture here, no life, only the vaguest hint of atmosphere. Empty.
There were only twelve access points to the shell, tightly guarded airlocks; a breach at any could see the integrity of the ship collapse. Technically none bar the tech adepts were permitted through any of the four chambered air locks that led through the seventeen foot thick steel hull and they had been coming more frequently of late. After ten thousand years of warp travel the integrity of the hull was finally being questioned by pock marks of rust and corrosion.
Orion came here often when his company was stationed guarding the airlocks. We would leap from wall to ceiling, from ceiling to pillar. The an almost total lack of the ships gravity made it a play ground for the self styled Raptor King, his maglocking boots clamping him to the huge sheets of metal. Occasional he saw the work crews and mechadepts who toiled endlessly on maintenance of the shell and he laughed as the whispers in the dark made jokes that only he could hear. Once, one of the voices had encouraged him to kill a work crew, he had enjoyed it for a moment but servitors and tech priests were no real sport, and the trouble it had been to mask his involvements in their deaths was not worth a repeat performance.
He was free here, free to fly, leaping kilometres between the columns nearly completely unrestricted by gravity. But that was not why he loved the shell. The shell gave his most gratifying hunt; a game that he revelled in.
Over fifty years had passed since Aggelos had disappeared. Orion remembered the day with great fondness. The Captain of the Maul, Champion of Thanatos Ares, Icon of the Grand Company had disappeared. Rumours were rife as to where he had gone, but whilst the tales had widely different ideas most had the same conclusion, the captain had killed himself for failure to hold the beach head in the Falcon Guards fortress monastery rather than face the ire of the Warsmith. A few others told that he had been completely incinerated and there was nothing worth retrieving. They were all wrong.
There were rumours of rumours among the mortal crew of malignent corruption among the Dark Adepts who serviced the hull, but the adepts kept their secrets to themselves. Orion chuckled to himself and the whispers in the dark laughed with him, only he knew the truth, and possibly the meddling witch. He had followed the captain that day, his envy and spite had led to curiosity. His encounter with the twisted Chronos had disturbed him, but it had motivated him to complete his petty vengeance. He had laughed as the bloated Aggelos had lunged for him, dancing away with delight as the warrior, who had once been the finest swordsman he had ever seen lumbered with less grace than a burning ork. The look on his corroded face as Orion told of the stabbing, told of how he had planned for centuries to kill the Champion, only to now revel in his eternal corruption. He had smiled through bleeding lips as he joked about the irony of the Iron Warrior who had refused the gods time and time again, only to be delivered to one of the pantheon by his brothers.
Driven away by the shame at what he had become Aggelos had accessed the shell via a poorly guarded hatch near the engines. Even in his cursed, pestilent state he had been so noble. The air lock was guarded by servants of the Dark Mechanicus, not Iron Warriors, and Aggelos had chosen that as the door he used to enter the shell; not having to raise a hand to one of his brothers. Orion had been swift to take credit for the kills, claiming he had been in a fit of rage from their failure on the planet below, if had diverted any attention that may have been drawn to incident. Orion was not famed for his temperament; the punishment had been worth the secret.
So he was here again, here to hunt. Somewhere in the massive area of space, hundreds of square kilometres wide Aggelos still roamed. Sometimes Orion found him, others he didn't. But every time he did he found new meaning to his malicious existence. He would taunt the cursed Aggelos, sometimes he would dart in and score a blow just because it amused him to. The lumbering warrior would lash out to defend himself but the raptor was just too quick.
Aggelos was proof that the so called gods made a mockery of the glory of Astartes. His lumbering form mutated, bloated, pustulent and grotesque, his reactions dulled, slow and groggy, but the joy for Orion was that even though Aggelos' speech was slurred and sounded drunken, his mind was razor sharp still. Throughout the hull space there was increasing evidence of the plague gods corruption, patches of green and brown corrosion were increasingly prevalent, and here and there the bloated and disfigured figures of maintenance workers could be found. The true reason for the corruption was the presence of Aggelos, it would seem that his mere existence would in time destroy a mighty war ship that had fought at Terra and for ten thousand years since. The thought amused Orion.
Orion taunted him; he had told him one hundred times how it was he who had caused Aggelos' fall. He took joy in the spite and malice and laughed at his onetime brother's pain, hate and anguish. Aggelos was his to toy with and that filled him with pleasure, the whispers goaded him on, drove him to new heights of cruelty and venom. Over the years Orion had crippled the terminator several times, left him floating in low gravity of the void space, always he returned to find Aggelos made whole, more grotesque and corrupted than before. Every time the whispers grew louder and harder to resist, and he kept going back.
Sometimes, like this time he just hunted him to watch. Orion sat clamped to one of the columns, his helmets visual arrays zoomed in on the lumbering Nurgle blessed hulk that lurched awkwardly along the outer shell of the battle barge oblivious to his presence. He laughed, the thin air allowing his metallic vox magnified cackle to reach the fallen hero. Orion knew he was all but invisible at this distance, long ago nearly all the systems on Aggelos' armour had corroded; it amazed Orion that he was even alive, but the plague god had given his chosen remarkable resilience. Perched on his eerie Orion laughed again, "Well old friend, it seems you still haven't found a way out." he heard the roar of pain and sorrow and beneath his helm his fanged mouth split into a fierce grin. He had won, so the whispers in the dark told him.