Emperor Chronicler: Instructor Malicia is a character that will be very interesting to have in Avarian's little party. One, she is a teacher of dark magic in Stratholme, which means she will possess many spells that will have an Ordo Malleus Inquisitor frothing with rage. Two, she has not completely thrown off the tendrils of the Lich King, which can be a potential hazard to the group. Redemption for her won't come easy, especially in the eyes of an Astartes. Our Space Marine has already encountered the Scourge in the forms of the ghouls he slaughtered when he was off on his little meditation journey. He'll have to deal with them in much, much larger quantities later on. As for Kel'Thuzad, Avarian will visit Naxxramas , but understandably, that won't be for a while.
Soulless Reader: Thank you! Chaos Sorcerers are the masters of intrigue and laying low, so he won't go around openly declaring his allegiance to the dark gods. The Cult of Forgotten Shadows is lorewise, the religion of the Forsaken. It is based on a bastardization of the Light, and twisted to suit the needs of the Forsaken. Interestedly enough, if the Light can be seen as a form of worship to the Emperor, then so can the Cult of Forgotten Shadows… which means the free undead are also devoted to the Emperor… Avarian is probably close to nine feet in power armor, and eight feet without it.
Okais: Thanks! I believe your question will be answered in this chapter!
InboxPie: Thank you! I have already thought about what the magic/faith system in WoW can affect an Astartes. Suffice to say, it will have an effect on the plot.
Xynth: In regards to females being added to Avarian's retinue, not all of them will have the same attraction to him like Keina, who for the time being, could be described as actually "loving" him. Some will follow Vareesa's line of action, trying to gain his favor for their own benefit. You can imagine the Dark Ranger doing this, attempting to sway our hero towards a pact with the Forsaken. Instructor Malicia is a whole another ball game, as I hope to demonstrate in later chapters. And finally Whitemane. Well… Read on to find out!
Sarge51: Oh you will. I wouldn't mention such things if I didn't plan to use them later!
Arankor: I cannot say if you are right or wrong as that would give away a considerable portion of the plot. But, be satisfied that I have finally revealed the last 40k character… And yes, Lorgar wrote the Lectitio Divinitatus, which would later form the basis of Imperial religion.
Ranger24: I wouldn't say take control… more like forcibly requisitioned.
Peanuckle: Thank you. No speech yet though, maybe next chapter? :P
Knives91: He's a Space Marine. They all know how to make glorious entrances. Flaming drop pods, screaming Thunderhawks, and the likes.
Weapon-VII: Dark Rangers were originally banshees, but were given new, undecayable bodies by Sylvanas using necromancy. So it would stand to reason they would know some of the tenets of how to summon the dead and what not. Instructor Malicia could be considered a warlock, as she teaches members of the Cult of the Damned on how to manipulate dark magics.
RokkitBoyz: The last character has been unveiled in this chapter!
Dusel: Correct, however, Raven Guard Space Marines and their successor chapters are missing the organ that actually produces the acid spit. So, sadly, Avarian's vomit won't be acidic, no matter how cool/disgusting that might sound. He doesn't know about the dreadlord being in command yet. But when he does, there will be general raging…
Lunatic Pandora 1: Oh definitely. What a lot of people forget is that Space Marines are not only very strong and durable, they possess very high intelligence and charisma. The genetic enhancements also affects their brain, not just their bodies. So in later chapters, you'll see Avarian gain loyalty from many factions, lead soldiers into battle, and basically do what Space Marines do best!
GanjaFarmer: Thanks! The character roster is already pretty much set, so I can't really subtract a few from the plotline. However, I plan to make them as interesting as possible, so don't worry about the story floundering! Oh, Avarian will have a few words with Vareesa when the time comes…
GovernorDerekthe2nd: Nah, Forsaken Space Marine isn't where this story is going. If Avarian was to become undead, there would be instant distrust towards him. That pretty much defeats the whole purpose of "uniting the Horde and the Alliance". There will be many fights in the future for the Scarlet Crusade, but they won't be against Avarian. Suffice to say, these red clad warriors of the Light will learn the true meaning of an Imperial Crusade!
Akira Stridder: Not yet… Not yet…
Overdrive1: Addiction is bad. But addiction to this story is good! :P In Dawn of War, I actually liked Sindri. The way he talked was both awesome and funny at the same time. And I don't consider Soulstorm to be a game as much as a parody. Indrick Baldeale… METAL BOXES… and the likes.
Timewatch: This Wednesday actualy! :P
Zanji of clan okami: Every time the fan breaks, I just replace it with a new one!
Chapter 24
I know this prayer… The Litany of Blessed Purpose. It is an archaic benediction, rumored to have been in use from the end of the Horus Heresy. However, its popularity diminished over time with the Imperial masses, and was replaced in favor of more religious mantras by the Ecclesiarchy in the thirty-six millennium. Luckily, we Astartes do not bend our knees to the wishes of these fanatics, nor do we forget the glorious history of our progenitors. Brother Chaplain Targon was a fervent adherent to the latter, and more than once my brothers and I have heard catechisms long in disuse, including this one, in his sermons within the Reclusiam.
These people have misinterpreted some of the words in the litany, the most obvious error being the replacement of the "Emperor" with the "Light". But such a mistake, though to some extents heretical, can be forgiven, especially given the circumstances. The fact that after ten thousand years, such a prayer can remain this unadulterated, is a miracle in itself.
I can only thank the Emperor for the acute hearing he has gifted me. Otherwise, I would have surely missed the incantation by this white haired priestess.
My visor focuses on the person in question. She is clad in red, much like her followers, an elaborately embroidered garment adorning her upper frame. Her thighs are exposed, cream-colored, ending in scarlet leggings and leather boots of the same color. A rather strange way for a preacher of the Emperor to dress, but I am not one to judge a world's fashion development. A cloth chapeau sits regally from her crown, covering, but not fully hiding the locks of pallid hair that drifts down to her shoulders. Her face is heart-shaped, and regards me with both surprise and wonder.
So like a Soritas… So like a certain canoness…
No! NO! I will not remember that place! I will not think of that battle!
Too late.
One after another, the faces of my battle-brothers assail my mind. Dead-eye Darthan. The man who had never wasted a bolt round, no matter how heated the combat raged around him. Wise Ullanxes, who had been my close advisor and friend, who had memorized the Codex Astartes to a word. Brave Hadrabul. The hero who had once flung himself into a mob of frenzied orks to buy time for his fellow brothers. Cunning Ixion, who always found a way to defeat the foe, either through applied blade or a quick thinking mind. Relentless Torval. My heavy weapons trooper, and steadfast follower. Zealous Gharven, whose devotion and dedication to the Emperor have inspired us to greatness many times before. Swift Nartor, whose agility could match that of an Eldar Aspect Warrior. Esteemed Ollan. A Marine six centuries old, and an unwavering rock of discipline to my squad. And finally, my special weapons wielder, Cessius, familiar with every armament in our fortress-monastery's formidable arsenal.
I have failed them. I have failed the trust they have placed in me. I have failed them as a brother sergeant.
Their wrathful countenances surround me, hemming me in and staring at me accusingly. They blame me for their deaths, and rightly so. If I had not been lax in my duties, then they would have still been alive and well.
"My lord?" the voice is curious as it is fearful.
I am startled from my trance, the priestess's tone ringing hollowly in my ears. The apparitions disappear, each giving me a long, baleful glare before vanishing from my conscience.
"I… am fine," I try to hide the grief in my tone, "Tell me, what is your name, cleric?"
"High Inquisitor Sally Whitemane, my lord," the woman answers proudly.
"Inquisitor? I assume that is a rank held in some regard here?" I ask, out of genuine curiosity as well as attempting to drive my thoughts away from the dead.
"Yes, it is," Whitemane puffs out her chest, displaying an ample bosom in the process, "The rank of High Inquisitor is given only to the most faithful adherents to the Light. Any Scarlet Crusaders within Tirisfal is under my direct command."
I frown slightly at these words. The woman has just admitted she is the chief heretic amongst these worshippers of the "Light". If I had not known these humans were of some relation to the Great Crusade, my bolter would already be speaking for me. But, as I have often reminded myself of late, these are not normal circumstances.
"Your faith is to be commended," I state simply, not willing to go as far as to compliment a preacher of an unknown religion.
"Thank you my lord! Our belief in the Light has been sorely tested these past months, but we never lost our purpose!" she beamed, drawing a chorus of cheers from the scarlet-bedecked warriors in front of her as well as behind me.
"And just what is that purpose?" I prod with interest.
The High Inquisitor blinks at me in surprise.
"Surely you would know, Iron Angel! To destroy the Scourge infestation! To retake the lands of Lordaeron! To uphold humanity's rightful place as rulers of Azeroth!"
The cheers that had so recently died down erupted once more, this time more akin to bellowed roars. Whitemane's smile grew wider. So like Canoness Kathrina…
I snarl as the memories threaten to resurface again. My mind tries desperately to shut the recollections from manifesting. I focus stringently on the priestess's words, hoping I will not have to see the specters of my brothers once more.
The Scourge. Vareesa has spoken of these undead creatures before, though her descriptions were generally lacking in substance. She had mentioned the destructive trail these blasphemous beings had wrought wherever they tread, but I needed more information. Troop numbers. Force disposition. Their knowledge and use of tactics. Strengths and weaknesses. The blood elf could not provide these, and so I had forgotten about these undead, focused instead on the looming threat of Chaos. I had not imagined that such a foe would rear its head at this place.
The woman's last two statements brings fierce satisfaction into my hearts. At last! Humans who realize their exalted position as masters of the universe! These people do not kowtow to alien scum, unlike the Stormwind ambassadors at Darnassus, whose deference to the xeno leader had made me want to retch in revulsion. Even if these red clad men and women are ignorant of the Emperor, they can still be lauded for their efforts in regaining their world from the tainted grasp of the alien.
"A fine goal, inquisitor." I reply, my earlier reluctance to praise, gone.
"Thank you, Iron Angel! And now with you here, we can accomplish it!" Whitemane accepts my accolade with gleeful excitement.
"We?" I emphasize the word in bemusement.
This time, it is Arcanist Doan who speaks.
"Yes! We! With you at our head, we will turn back the hordes of the undead! We will retake our rightful lands and cleanse any nonhumans from our realms!"
"And you would be so willing to accept me as your leader?" my question betrays my skepticism.
"Of course, lord! You are an Iron Angel! Sent by the Light to grant us salvation in our most dire time of need! We will follow you to the very ends of Azeroth!"
I turn to the High Inquisitor. She gives an acknowledging nod, fully agreeing with the arcanist's zealous comments.
I know not if I should be respectful of the faith these people display, or horrified at their single-mindedness. Devotion to the Emperor is to be extolled, but not when it is blind and without reason. Faith is a double-edged sword, capable of cutting both friend and foe alike. Had I not been an Astartes of the Death Spectres, but one of the wretched infiltrators of the Alpha Legion, or even worse, one of the accursed apostles of the Word Bearers, these worshippers of the Light would have still prostrated themselves before me.
I shudder at the thought of what could have transpired if my lineage did not descend from that of mighty Corax.
But, despite my misgivings about these people, I could still make use of them. I do not know just how much the corrupt servants of the ruinous powers have entrenched themselves here. There could be a series of small cults like the one I have encountered at Blackfathom Deeps, or there could be a veritable army biding their time to strike. Better that I have an army stalwartly loyal to me when the opposition proves too much to handle. However, the Codex Astartes strictly forbids Space Marines from commandeering personnel from the Imperial Guard and the Imperial Navy. A reason why the Horus Heresy had been so devastating was because the traitor primarchs had thousands of Marines as well as countless regular Imperial Army troopers under their direct command. It was this very reason that the reforms known as the Second Founding were created. No longer would Astartes of the same geneseed be able to march in their tens of thousands on a single world. No longer would Space Marine commanders have entire war hosts of lesser men at their beck and call. No longer would any man be able to wield the power that ignited the galaxy in the flames of civil war.
Yet, these scarlet warriors were not of any Imperial organization. Surely, the Codex Astartes held no sway in this situation? I cannot deny the usefulness of an army, especially not now, when I am surrounded by unfamiliar foes and allies alike.
"I accept then," my affirmation is short and to the point.
A boisterous torrent of ovation greets my declaration. I note the worshipful faces of those around me with a tinge of discomfort. Their joy should be directed to the Emperor, not me. I am merely one of many of His servants, and I am uncomfortable at receiving adulation that should be reserved for the Father of Mankind.
"Excellent!" Doan cries out, carried away by the excitement, "We should start right away! Let us gather our forces and begin immediate assaults on the undead!"
"Not so hasty arcanist," Whitemane admonishes, "we need time to send word to our forces spread throughout Tirisfal. As well as have messengers sent to Hearthglen and Tyr's Hand to relay our discovery of the Iron Angel. There is also the minor matter of the prisoners being held under Vishas, but that should be solved rather qui---"
"Prisoners?" I interrupt her ramblings, incredulous "You would keep a dungeon under a place of worship?"
"Yes. They are plagued, undead scum. We keep them here for interrogation," the priestess replies, oblivious to the sacrilege of such an act as well as my hardening tone.
"If they are diseased, how have you managed to stay free of the contagion?" I growl.
"Well… They aren't undead yet. But they will be," she answers dismissively.
"They will be?" I inquire further, not liking where this was leading to.
"Yes…" she finally senses something is awry, possibly due to my ceramite gauntlets balling into tight fists, "would you like see for yourself?"
"That would be acceptable."
Karduk, like most denizens of Azeroth, held true to the tenet, "if it dies, let it stay dead". The spirit of the deceased deserved peace, no matter what kind of previous life their mortal shells once lived. Even the art of resurrection, known only to the most skilled and accomplished healers, was practiced only after a battle, when the victim in question was still needed by his or her comrades.
The Forsaken were a sad exception to this principle. Forced into an unholy existence of torture and despair by the machinations of the Lich King, these "free" undead were distrusted both for their past allegiance as well as simply being of the same ilk as the Scourge. It was only through Thrall's repeated entreaties on behalf of Sylvanas and her people that finally won them a place in the Horde.
The Kor'kron warrior grunted as he remembered the warchief's impassioned speech in the Valley of Honor. Thrall had spoken of how the New Horde should be honorable and magnanimous to others. That was the only way, he said, to truly cast off the blood curse of their demonic masters and return to their shamanistic roots. And what better way to display their magnanimity than to extend a helping hand to the Forsaken?
In retrospect, had the warchief known just how treasonous these undead would prove to be, even he would have balked at accepting them into the ranks of the Horde.
Karduk shook his head slowly, his snow-white plaits swaying with the motion.
Not all the Forsaken had turned traitor, he reminded himself. Most of them had remained staunchly loyal, and had been almost killed by Putress and Varimathras for their devotion to the Horde. Sadly, not everyone would see it that way.
The orc ignored the wizened husks of the forest around him as he trod past. His gaze was locked on the back of the impromptu leader of their little group, veiled in a tattered cloak of shadowy purple. The Dark Ranger. The supposedly, expert tracker who could take them to the giant. Karduk had been most adamant against her joining them. Even if most of the Forsaken were not involved with the Wrathgate affair, one could never be sure. Who knew where this… Cyndia's… true loyalties lay?
Besides, they already had an accomplished tracker in the form of the night elf. Karduk spared a look at the kaldorei woman. Or not. The sentinel was staring at their surroundings in only what could be described as barely contained horror, a hand gripped tightly around the hilt the exquisite sword she had sheathed in her belt. Her large, round eyes moved rapidly back and forth, grief and fear apparent in the lustrous pupils.
The Kor'kron snorted. Such weakness. How in Doomhammer's name had Garrosh failed to rout these elves in Warsong Gulch?
The Dark Ranger held a pale hand up , signaling for them to stop.
"What?" hissed Vareesa, her tone betraying uneasiness.
The Forsaken didn't answer and instead gestured to the scene in front of her.
Carnage. Utter and absolute carnage. Two dozen ghouls lay motionless before them, their ragged forms sprawled to impossible angles. Each body was thoroughly brutalized, some displaying massive cavernous holes blasted in their wretched frames, others showing the telltale signs of being bludgeoned to death. One corpse had collapsed into a sagging mess, almost unrecognizable. Its spine had been torn out, not from its back, but from its chest. Karduk winced at the thought of how much strength it would take for such a gruesome action to take place.
And only one being so far had demonstrated such potency. It was not hard to put two and two together.
"It's his work alright," the blood elf confirmed, satisfaction creeping into her alluring features.
"The metal man? Avarian?" the Dark Ranger whispered hoarsely.
"Yes. But why do you care? Your job is to only take us to him," answered the kaldorei sentinel grouchily, a hint of trepidation still noticeable in her voice.
"That is only half of the job. The other half is to accompany him. And after seeing the beauty of death he can so elegantly dole out, I must say I am most enthusiastic in fulfilling the latter half."
Both the night elf and the blood elf visibly stiffened at Cyndia's remark. Karduk fought down the urge to chuckle. It was also not hard to realize that the giant was going to have his hands full…
"THIS IS THE WORK OF YOUR FAITH?!? THIS IS YOUR SO-CALLED RELIGION OF LIGHT?!?"
The roar thunders jarringly through the torture chambers, forcing many to cover their ears, including Instructor Malicia.
"THIS IS HOW YOU BASE YOUR WORSHIP?!? THROUGH TORTURE AND TORMENT OF INNOCENTS!?!"
The scarlet clad soldiers cowered before the wrathful angel, weapons discarded and forgotten. Only High Inquisitor Whitemane still stood before the giant, her staff and symbol of authority clutched rebelliously in one hand.
"The Light calls for the extinction of the undead! What you see before you are humans no longer! They are but one step away from becoming Scourge!" she protested.
"Spoken like a true lackey of the Inquisition," the Iron Angel snarled. Whitemane's brows knit in confusion, as did Malicia's. The high elf knew not of any organization called the Inquisition that existed on Azeroth.
"Augment Terrorsight." It was an order, but seemingly directed at no one.
The slit visors of the giant's helm glowed angrily, achieving an even brighter hue of red. His glare encompassed all in its fury, and prisoner and guard alike strove to avoid it. All except one. A man pinned to a torturing rack stared back at the angel, defiance painted on his features. On closer inspection, the quel'dorei caught sight of the tattered remnants of a tabard still affixed to his bloodied chest. The rising sun embellished on a black background. The symbol of the Argent Dawn.
"Nothing. NOTHING!" the bellow broke her attention away from the man, "Nothing suggests these people have been afflicted with any plague!"
"B-B-But my lord, they have secrets to tell and---"
"BE SILENT!!! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SPEAK VISHAS!!! NOT AFTER WHAT YOU HAVE DONE HERE!!!"
The Interrogator scrambled back, whimpering.
The Iron Angel took three long strides towards a wooden table, occupied by a young woman barely out of her teens. A long row of victims bound to similar devices followed, some weakly struggling against their ropes, others having long expired. The stink of human excrement and urine wafted from each wooden frame, threatening to overload the high elf's senses with disgust.
The girl screamed as the giant neared, struggling frantically against the thick iron chains that held her in place.
"No more! No more!" she pleaded, "I admit everything! I am undead! I am undead! Please! No more!"
Her wretched body broke into despairing sobs. Malicia felt her heart fill with pity. Pity? An emotion all but lost to her when she served in the House of Barov.
"See? The filth admits it through her own mouth! She is undead!" Whitemane smiled triumphantly.
"She admits it because you have broken her," grated the giant, malevolence evident in his tone.
"Scarlet bastards! Leave the lass alone! Torture me to your heart's content! But leave her alone!"
All turned to see the source of the new voice. It was the Argent Dawn man, his naked chest heaving up and down with exertion. The giant strode towards him, leaving the girl to her weeping.
"Blasphemers to the Light! Murderers of the innocent! You are not worthy to lick the dirt from Uther's boot!" the man continued to rage, thrashing valiantly against his chains.
The angel halted in front of him.
"And you! You! You would affiliate yourself with these Scarlet scum? You are no better than a common thug! You are no better than a murderer!"
The prisoner spat at the giant. A globule of bloody phlegm splattered onto the Iron Angel's chestplate, further staining the already gore-encrusted armor. The strange teethed weapon leapt from the metal being's belt. A screeching whirr escaped from the blade, the spiked teeth churning in unison. The giant lashed out with the intimidating sword, raising a shower of sparks as it met the rusty links binding the man to the table. The chains dropped to the floor, messily sundered apart.
"Free them."
"Pardon?" both Vishas, Whitemane, and the arcanist, Doan, spoke in unison.
"Free them," the angel gestured with his still sputtering blade to the rows of petrified captives.
"But they're all undead! They're servants to the Scourge!"
"And how did you deduce that?"
Malicia flinched. Cold logic and apoplectic fury were proving to be extremely deadly in the giant's hands.
"Look at the color of their limbs! They're too pale! Only corpses could reach such a pallid color! They must be undead!" Doan reasoned.
The Iron Angel placed a plated hand on his helm and tore it off.
"Then judging by your analysis, arcanist, I am undead as well?"
Every Scarlet Crusader in the chamber gawked. Not the high elf. She was too busy studying the giant's revealed features. The angel was a man. And a handsome one at that. His skin was wrong. Alabaster in color, the pigmentation couldn't have been natural. Yet, as wrong as it was, it was equally attractive. A few scars crisscrossed his otherwise flawless face, adding an air of doughtiness about him. Blue eyes akin to her own were narrowed hatefully towards the Crusaders, promising fierce retribution.
"Do I need to repeat myself a third time?"
Whitemane nodded glumly to Vishas. The Interrogator fumbled with the keys strung at his hip, before moving towards the torture racks.
"I want everyone on the chapel grounds. Everyone," the angel's baritone voice rumbled, "Your faith is deluded. Misplaced. It is a sad and twisted defilement of the Imperial Creed. You say I will lead you to salvation. That is true. I will lead you to the deliverance all of you so desperately seek. But it is deliverance from yourselves."
The amulet that dangled from the giant's neck shone with fierce light.
The Rosarius. Its Rosarius. Active? After so long?
It awoke from a fitful slumber, the complicated workings of its ocular sensors stirring into life through a series of dim blinking lights. Its real eyes were long gone, replaced by bundles of neurotic wires that fed images directly to a mind ten thousand years old. It could see, but its sight was grainy and unfocused, a cruel distortion of its former vision. Lesser men would have been plagued with grief at such a grave loss to a primary sense. It did not care. It was made to do battle. No matter how terrible its sight was now, as long as it still possessed the ability to visualize, it would make use of it to wage war.
Once, eons ago, it had been flesh and blood. Flesh and blood protected by ceramite and driven with the purpose of the Great Crusade, but flesh and blood all the same. A thousand battle fields it had visited, a thousand conflicts won through the sacrifice of its battle-brothers. A thousand victories it had partaken, a thousand glories forever remembered by those who were freed from the shackles of the xeno.
It was still flesh and blood. But it was flesh desiccated and atrophied. Blood clotted and useless.
The sarcophagus that held its tattered frame also kept it alive. Through advanced technology bordering on sorcery, it was rescued from the clutches of death and placed within the admantium casket it now resided in. It had rejoiced then. For it meant continued service to the Emperor and to the primarch. Continued glories through the Great Crusade. Continued protection and guardianship over all mankind. It would not be cheated from its existence as an Astartes.
The dim, winking lights that had replaced its eyes focused on the two limbs flanking its massive torso. One ended in a four digit fist, larger than a man's chest. The other was not so much a limb as a gigantic weapon mount, protruding twin barrels of malevolence. Lascannon. The bane to anything armored, and anything unarmored as well.
A patina of dust covered both weapon arms. A product of centuries of inactivity.
It had tried countless times to move both limbs. To no avail. There was no power coursing through the thick fibre-wires that connected each arm to its frame. It could no longer swing its massive fist to smite the foes of humanity, nor could it loose beams of incandescent death into the enemy ranks. No more war for this corpse machine. No more glory for the lifeless pilot within.
How? How had it failed the primarch? How had it failed the Emperor?
For ten millennia it had wondered. It had pondered. Memory-banks, full of reminiscences of battles won and cheering crowds, were picked through with meticulous care. Each mental image was looked through and thought through. But in the end, it could find no wrong in its actions.
But that would mean the fault was not its. And that would mean treachery. Betrayal. Duplicity.
No! That couldn't be! The error lay with it, not with its brothers, not with the primarch!
The ocular sensors bleeped, each slowly winking out. Its version of shutting the eyes. It would drift back into the comfort of sleep. It would forget about such outrageous thoughts of perfidy among the Legions. It would disregard such whimsical follies that surely could not exist. It would sleep, and it would dream of the days when it had strode alongside the Emperor of Mankind on a hundred worlds.
Behind the thick hide of admantium, behind the life-sustaining sarcophagus, a small smile crept onto a haggard face.