No Man's Storm
Chapter 4
"Have you ever asked yourself, do monsters make war, or does war make monsters? Armies need beasts, don't they? Pet beasts, to do their terrible work! "
- Laini Taylor
The gathering of ships in the system was even greater than it had been in the initial muster within the Eye of Terror. The crusade host gathered in a blue starred system of the Maelstrom had been bolstered by small warbands, pirates, human allies of the larger warbands and other groups that had heard of the endeavour on the way from the Eye.
Rukiel saw ships of a hundred different stripes, ships from the age of the Heresy, ships claimed from Imperials along the long millennia, ships constructed in the orbits of hellish worlds of the Dark Mechanicum, and even some rare ships of clear alien origin, all of them showing numerous allegiances and signs of being touched by the Warp.
Some of them had resided inside the Maelstrom and now were flocking to the ever growing armada. Because they saw a new dominant force in that making, because they were drawn in by the chances of plunder such massive actions of war would result in, because they held deep grudges against the Ultramarines becoming more and more prevalent in the storm, or from other myriad reason - it didn't matter in the end.
The newcomers provided valuable intelligence of the current state of the Warpstorm, information that was most useful to Lord Kalron. The locations of the Ultramarine's strongholds and the sizes of the war fleets were valuable currency, and from the knowledge gathered from multitude of sources, great war plans were being forged. The Ultramarines were not an unified force in the Maelstrom, just warbands of varying sizes laying claim to new territories and even feuding with one another, just like was the situation in all the great Warpstorms. There was no traitor's unity in the Long War. But when the Ultramarines realized a new force had entered the storm with the intend of conquest, they would quickly gather the scraps of brotherhood they had left and scram together against a common foe. That was why it was important to strike fast and hard enough so that the XIIIth could not mount a resistance powerful enough to challenge Lord Kalron's claim.
The initial war plans indicated the crusade host would split for a while to strike at a multitude of targets, harrowing and crippling blows that would weaken the truly important strongholds of the Ultramarines by denying resources, reinforcement and information, while at the same time wrecking confusion and disorder among the enemy about the nature and strength of the crusade host. With some fortune it would also discourage the allies of the Ultramarines from offering help once they saw the power of the XIIIth crumble.
So far, it looked like a recipe for victory. The crusade host was massive and there was almost certainly no force in the Maelstom that could equal or eclipse it. But wars in a Warp Storm were never so simple. So many things could go wrong in a realm where even the laws of reality could switch their allegiance. Large forces of this nature were extremely hard to command and even harder to keep together and direct towards a common goal. Some splintering was inevitable and to be expected in increasing numbers the longer the war went on. Part of the reason why they were splitting the crusade host against multiple targets was just that they could find something to fight fast, something to point the most unruly elements of the force towards while they were still directable and useful. Some elements of the crusade host did not give damn about Kalron's goals or what the master of the Crimson Lords had to say, they were after their own benefit or simply slaughter. At least more than compared to most others, for there was hardly anyone who did not seek something for themselves with this war for the Maelstrom, including Rukiel himself. They just had to hope the core of the host would have enough impact when the time came to strike to the decisive blows.
"It seems the Ultramarines are not very popular rulers of the Maelstrom," Kerverax said next to Rukiel as they stood in the hangar bay of the Ars Moriendi, gazing out into the void at the gathering of ships.
"There are hardly rulers in any of the great Warpstorm that could be classified as popular," Rukiel replied.
"We lost some on the way from the Eye, though," Lharkus said as he looked at the ships. He had paid close attention to the internal matters of the crusade host. "At least the warbands of the Helion Scourges and The Hundred Sons were intercepted and destroyed by the Iron Warriors when exiting the Eye. Probably more suffered a similar fate that we do not know of."
Rukiel glanced at Lharkus. The former member of the Dark Blood had proved himself valuable when it came to logistics and he had a good grasp of void operations. He was also not very ambitious. While Kerverax lacked the true sharp wit and drive to be a threat to Rukiel, Lharkus lacked the courage. A perfect combination of lieutenants, Rukiel quite appreciated having them. "There is a warband calling themselves The Hundred Sons?" He asked with a some amusement.
"There was," Lharkus shrugged. "They had ten or so Astartes, in case you were wondering."
One of the tech adepts responsible of the hangar bay approached Rukiel and his company. "Your craft is ready, my lord," The hunched form clad in somehow disturbingly clean robes rasped from the depths of his dark hood, its cleanliness sticking out in the otherwise dirty space of the hangar bay. It was liked the fabric sucked in anything, including some light that dared to touch it.
Rukiel did not acknowledge the adept and simply walked towards a Thunderhawk gunship, followed by the other Purebloods, squad Skaron and the Mortet Guard. Savardin had picked along a very interesting ally, one that Rukiel very much wanted to meet. And he made sure to bring as much of a honor guard along with him as he could, just in case.
Skaron followed behind the Purebloods along the stark corridors of the frigate Infitus, escorting his honored lord into the bowels of the small but significant vessel. There was no Astartes presence to welcome them, only mortal slaves.
Skaron took note of the condition of the slaves. Like onboard Ars Moriendi, they were pale creatures, even more colorless than the Marines they served. They were white, not just their skin, but their hair, nails, gums, even their blood and insides if you cut them open. They gazed at the world with empty orbs of milky white and black expressions, drained of all color except for the rags they wore. It was no even pure white, but a ghoulish tint like a dried bone left under a scorching sun, as if all semblance of life and spirit had been drained from them by their surroundings.
It was a fate of most who were brought on board Raven Guard ships, at least those ones that Skaron had seen. He did not know what it was like onboard the ships of other XIXth Legion warbands, and he did not care to know. Only servitors and those crew members who needed to be more than drained mindless deck drones, like officers and personal serfs, retained their human appearance. But onboard Infitus Skaron could see only these white walkers, emotionless thralls laboring in complete silence.
There was a single blank faced slave that escorted the members of the Obsidian Talons through the gritty corridors of the frigate, leading them deeper and deeper into the depth of the ship. As the time passed, the silence of the dark corridors was disturbed. Skaron could hear whispers. Extremely faint whispers, so frail that it took him a while to actually conclude they existed. They were not constant and intrusive whispering like one might hear during turmoilous Warp transit. They were distant, incomprehensible, elusive, fading away for a long time before returning again.
"Can you hear the whispers, brothers?" Skaron asked on a private squad vox channel. "What are they saying?"
There was moment of quiet and Skaron could sense the unknown brothers of his squad behind him glancing at one another. "What whispers?" came the voice of Oirak-IX. None of the others said a word. Skaron fell silent and tried to ignore the voices.
Before Skaron honored lord Varkhian pulled to a halt before half open doors decorated with white bones of human origin. The honored lord pulled the doors slightly to allow him entry and the rest of the warband followed him in.
Inside was a nightmarish twisted parody of a laboratorium.
The space was filled with countless machines, most connected to transparent pods of all sizes, with vague shapes floating inside of them. One hundred dissection tables of many patterns and modifications were scattered around the space, some of them occupied by many forms of living specimens, or remains of such. The ceiling rained down a thousand chains that hung corpses or slightly moving humanoid shapes above the heads of the Astartes in the chamber. There were open sunken pools in the floor, filled with bumbling lakes of red or black liquids. The air smelled of blood, chemicals, despair and touch of the Warp so strongly it could be tasted. There were other sights of horror in the edges of the room, mostly hidden by the darkness where the light of the bright lumen lights could not reach. There were no visible walls, only darkness in all directions from the illuminated center, small dots of machine lights betraying the existence of even more equipment of mad creation beyond sight.
White humanoid thralls were scurrying around the objects of the chambers, attending to a thousand duties of all natures. They were different from the other pale shades of humans from the rest of the ship. They were also only the color of ghoulish white, but all of them lacked eyes, noses, mouths and ears in addition, making them truly faceless.
And in the center of the chamber, working next to one of the dissection tables and a data screen hanging from a floating servo skull, was an Apothecary.
The master of this ship was an Astartes clad in simple black power armor, framed by a great black mantel falling over his shoulders and hiding hic powerpack from sight. His helmet was a pale gray mask of a avian design, a long sharp beak extending our beneath circular black lenses. Various small tools and weapons were hanging from the armored frame of the XIX legion genelord, mostly hidden by the great cloak. One of his hands was consulting the data screen floating by him, while his other held onto a small sharp pointed stick that looked like it was made from dark glass or ice.
The Apothecary glanced up from his work at the members of the Obsidian Talons by the door of his sanctum, and then lowered his head again. There was no hurry in his moves as he was letting the honored lord wait. Skaron did not like this failure of recognition his lord was receiving.
"The Lord of the Obsidian Talons has business with you, fleshcrafter. Do not let him wait," Skaron said before he could stop himself, surprising even himself by the looseness of his tongue. He knew he might have spoken out of turn, and he did not know why. It must have been the sight of all this work of madness around him that made him restless. He could feel the gaze of the Purebloods on him but they did not say anything.
The Apothecary looked up again, focussing his black retinal lenses to Skaron. Those black, black, eyes. Skaron felt very cold all of a sudden.
The Apothecary left his previous work of interest behind and started walking towards the Obsidian Talons with calm movements, slowly making his way closer. He was short for an Astartes, Skaron observed, much shorter than any other transhuman Skaron had seen, even if still a giant compared to mortals. The Apothecary stopped right before Skaron, looking up to him with slightly tilted head.
"Do you think you are in position to tell me to do anything?" The Apothecary said with a smooth voice that reverberated with strange and disturbing echo. "You think that you can tell me to hurry? Oh, someone like me is not to be hurried by anyone." The Apothecary lifted his transparent stick and waved it slowly in front of Skaron like he was scolding him. He turned his head to look at the honored lord. "You should keep you whelps in check better, Rukiel..." he said as he gently tapped Sakron's right hand with his stick. Skaron's hand felt very cold for a second. The Apothecary turned and walked back towards his dissection table with the same calm movements.
Skaron lifted his right hand and observed it. It felt so cold. Until suddenly it flared hot. The ceramite gauntlet rippled and then splintered apart as the flesh under it bulged and twisted uncontrollably. Skaron watched as his hand, his own hand, suffered from sudden turmoil of structure and spasmed like it had a mind of its own. His fingers grew in length and twisted to point into unreasonable directions, his nails growing into sharp spikes in the ends. The hand trashed around, the fingers looking for purchase from the rest of him like spidery limbs, and then it lunged at his face with unexpected strength. It leaped to hug his face, the spiked digits clawing at his helmet, seeking to tear it apart. Skaron watched in horror as his own flesh rebelled against his right behind his eye lenses.
There was a sound of a flaring power field as the honored lord activated his spear. Shadower spun around in a precise arc, slashing at Skaron. The power spear cut through Skaron's right wrist, separating the wild mutated flesh from the rest of his body, his blood splattering to the metal floor of the laboratorium. The thing clawing at Skaron's face slackened and lost some of its strength, and Skaron took the chance to grab it with his other hand and forcefully cast it down to the floor.
The severed parody of a hand twitched and moved around, turning to face Skaron again. Before it could do anything further, the honored lord stomped down on it with his metallic boot and utterly squashed it. When he lifted his foot, there was only a small splat of torn flesh, powdered bone and blood.
Skaron breathed heavily as he lifted his gaze to look at the honored lord. Lord Varkhian spared a passing gaze over Skaron's stump of an arm that he had just created, the bleeding already being stopped by the Larraman cells.
"Visit the artificer sanctum when we get back and tell Haxxor to get you an augmetic replacement," the honored lord said impassively and then looked away.
Skaron nodded and pulled back while clutching his ruined hand.
It took many minutes of waiting on the part of the Obsidian talons before the Apothecary was finished whatever he had been doing and saw fit to return to his guests. Honored lord moved up to meet him. Skaron made sure to stay in the background for the rest of the meeting.
"I am pleased that Savardin managed to get you to join us in this endeavour," Rukiel said as he curiously looked at one of the bodies lying on a dissection table. It looked like a normal human, except that its skin was ashen gray. He could feel the touch of the Primordial Annihilator upon the thing. "Your talents will be of great help."
"The skills of an Apothecary are always in need," Apothecary Oizys Krios replied, looking at the same gray human that he had obviously shaped in some way not visible to the naked eye. "There are bound to be interesting specimen in the Maelstrom and among the Ultramarines worthy of my time."
"I am sure there will be plenty of resources for you in exchange for your services," Rukiel agreed. "I am ready to make sure you get good picks of deamon worlds and their populations for your experimentations."
"Very generous of you." Krios replied.
It was not. More like it was appropriate. Apothecaries of the XIXth were fully aware of the value of their craft. It was not unusual of the genemasters of the Legion to demand entire worlds' worth of specimen in exchange of their help. A price the lords of the Legions were fully willing to pay.
"Yes. In exchange I would like your assistance with a particular matter."
"I am listening."
Skaron made his way through the corridors of the the Ars Moriendi and entered through the bulkhead guarded by two heavily modified combat servitors. The artificer sanctum was filled with Dark Mechanicum adepts, tech thralls and servitors attending to the equipment reserved for the true legionnaires or working on the machines he did not knew the purpose of.
"Haxxor!" Skaron barked harshly as he looked around for the machine adept in charge. He was in a really sour mood. Losing one's arms apparently caused that.
The centipede like thing of little flesh and a lot of metal crawled forward beyond a corner and approached Skaron. His many legs made an irritating sound as they scratched the floor. The single large green eye focussed on the Legionnaire. "You requested me?" the things said with a mechanical sound of a vox port, not displaying enough respect for Skaron's liking. Haxxor never showed true reverence to anyone but the Purebloods.
"I lost my hand. I need you to give me an augmented one," Skaron grunted, still seething from the loss of his limb.
"You want an augmented hand?" Haxxor said with a questioning tone, making strange clicking sounds from inside his hood.
"Yes, to replace my lost hand!" Skaron growled. "Get on with it!"
Haxxor did not move and looked at Skaron curiously. "What lost hand are you referring to?"
Skaron felt his anger rising. He lifted his right hand. "This bloody stump you wretch! Are you blind?!" Then his gaze fell on the stump. Except it was not a stump. It was a hand. A naked, fully formed and working hand sprouting from inside the ruined ceramite of his wrist armor. A pale, white skinned hand.
I hope you liked this chapter and I will see you next time.